Fencing This Nation Makes Us Liars and Cowards

My post on April 12 concerned illegal immigration, and in that post was my opinion that a fence to deter such illegal entry was absurd. I continue to hold that opinion, even though by separate e-mail others, who shared my rationale on all other points within that post, strongly disagreed, arguing that such a fence would be specifically to keep people out.

Because of that sentiment, I decided to be more specific in my reasoning for being adamantly anti fence.

First, we are and have always professed to be a nation of laws. Granted, we are too often blasé about our enforcement of certain laws, but they are there – on the books, so to speak. My argument against amnesty or guest worker privileges or any other form of ill considered ‘forgiveness’ is because we are speaking of illegal entry into this country. Illegal. That is the key point.

A fence – any fence – by its very existence and purpose establishes boundaries and seeks to exclude. Certainly the desire to fence the United States (impractical at the very least) would be establishing solid and visible boundary markers, but to say the fence would end illegal entry is merely to establish a new illusion. As any gardener, neighbor, or small business owner knows, a fence will not keep out a dog determined to dig under, or a rabbit determined to hop over in search of fresh lettuce, or keep out a thief determined to rip you off. A fence creates a false sense of security.

Even if a fence would deter people wanting to ‘come in,’ is also deters people inside the boundary from thinking in anything but negative terms about what is on the other side. In such a situation, it limits those inside the fence – limits freedom of movement and freedom of thought, relegating them to existence inside a box and reinforcing a thought process that always requires an enemy, a ‘we’ versus ‘them’ scenario.

So, by installing a fence, this nation built upon the rule of law, which has always thought of itself as an open society, a diverse country whose heritage and/or wealth was originally and continues to be derived from legal immigrants to its shores who seek the opportunities and choices promised by its Constitution, suddenly tells itself and the rest of the world that we are liars. It says we don’t believe our own history. It says we do not believe in the values we claim. It says strangers are unwelcome.

A fence around our nation says we are afraid to confront the criminality of those who enter illegally by enforcing our own laws. All by itself, that fence gives the lie to our belief in the rule of law. That fence weakens us…it does not make us stronger or safer or smarter. It turns us into a gated community and announces that we are cowards.

Canoe leaking. Paddles missing. Any breaks on this basket?

There has been much discussion over the past several years about the decline of America. The Internet has been filled with chatter on the topic, both in agreement and in denial; several noted authors have published books on the topic, and it has been debated in public forums, sponsored discussions, city pubs and urban saloons. The word ‘superpower’ doesn’t creep into the language anymore, but is shouted bravely while banners are waved by strong if belligerent arms, as though the condition of the world merely mirrors a game on a gridiron or a melee on a street corner.

There is something that feeds on the collective human psyche, encouraging it to reach for power with grasping hands, that stimulates thoughts of superiority, that provides the delusion and chimera of power destined to define a singularity, the ‘one,’ the authority, control, dictator, and judge of all existence. Somehow, it seems to dig more deeply into the masculine mind than the feminine, but the infection can run rampant in both, like a deadly virus that might mutate when required for the myth to survive but that never deviates from it’s core purpose – inflammation of emotions and total blindness of spirit.

America seems to be badly infected. Like overworked leukocytes, those less tainted attempt to turn the tide, to debate and dissent, to suggest alternatives that while not curing the disease, might stop it’s speed on the road to destruction, but they are often overcome by more ravenous and diseased cells.

There is an essay by Paul Craig Roberts making its way through the Internet called “American is No Superpower,” and his rationale for such a declaration is very telling. By whatever name, we are losing our world status because of the major decline in our financial position, dependent now upon other countries as our ‘bankers’ and thus driving up a massive debt. Tied to that financial decline is our dependency on imports because we have eased outsourcing in manufacturing and technology, leaving ourselves with the inability to create jobs for a citizenry not only burdened by the country’s massive debt, but falling deeper into personal debt in order to survive.

According to Roberts, we like to believe that our military might contributes to our superpower status, yet at the same time, we have grown to fear much smaller countries and rebellious religious movements, thus tying our military down in confrontations not only destructive to them, but further destructive to our economic situation. We have even begun to threaten the use of nuclear weapons in the hope of cowering others we seem unable to influence in any other fashion, a threat that would be anathema to us in wiser, more settled times. The desire to flex our military muscle without regard to countries which have historically allied with us or to countries much smaller but with natural resources we covet has almost united the entire world against us, which all by itself negates any claim we might have to an epithet as a super ‘power.’

In my opinion, we are presently at a cross road halfway down a steep hill, and our further slide will be determined by not only our desire to return to an existence based less on illusion and more on integrity, and the willingness of other countries to allow us to slide further while they build an illusion for us. We have been so good at providing them with a larger than life enemy, they would be at a loss for someone to blame should we completely fall. They would also lose their benchmark for measuring themselves against, and might lose their own ability to increase the knowledge and expertise of their own inhabitants should our higher centers of learning lose their distinction, and thus, their appeal.

For some peculiar reason, Americans seem loathe to seek inside themselves and their ingrained mythology to separate truth from fictional exaggeration. Because of that preference for self-delusion, it would not be difficult for more self aware nations to prop up our wounded carcass for their own purposes. There is much truth to the axiom ‘better the devil you know,’ but they are wise enough to understand that weakened devils are far easier to control and manipulate.

In the meantime, our ship of state continues leaking. A few of us are attempting to bail, but others are trying to steer without paddles and only managing to dip their hands fruitlessly in the murky waters, sloshing us back and forth at cross purposes. Other nations stand quietly on the shores watching while we flail in an almost useless effort to avoid the eddying whirlpool, steep waterfall, and rock strewn rapids in our path. Few of those watchers are concerned with throwing us a life line and even fewer of us can hope to swim to safety.

What is Our True Name and How Many Lives Do We Have?

We humans like to think that cats have nine lives. Do we ever wonder how many lives we have?

We humans also like to think that cats have three names; the one we give them, the one they give themselves, and their real name. How many names do we have, and which of them is real?

There is an old adage that says ‘home is where the heart is,’ but if humans have at least as many lives as cats, does that also mean we have nine lives and, thus, nine hearts? How then do we ever recognize our real home?

During the twentieth century, people seemed more willing than ever before to move away from their place of birth and re-root themselves elsewhere. The seemingly innate necessity to explain everything caused sociologists, psychologists, futurists, and average people to enumerate reasons for what appeared to be a new phenomena. New roadways, new mechanical methods of travel, new economic realities, and a smaller world seemed to satisfy most questions of ‘why’ the sudden mobility, but what if that was the wrong answer?

What if people began moving more frequently because they were seeking their real home, seeking that place where the heart, the mind, and the very soul felt comfortable, felt secure, felt held in an atmosphere of warmth? Or perhaps that place offered encouragement to explore – the self, the possibilities, the opportunities previously missing?

As I sit at this keyboard musing on these questions, a low flying military jet just went over my home, its engine noise screaming and reverberating against the windows, that low and threatening sound drowning all other natural sound from nearby wildlife and my own cat companions who crouch quickly and scan the ceiling with leery eyes. It is that, an entire spring afternoon that will be disrupted by the sounds of war machines past and present which started me on this quest about lives, homes and hearts. Unfortunately, Saturdays like this one are an annual event, a massive air show including ‘performances’ from the Navy’s Blue Angels followed by a massively loud, heartbreakingly long and ostentatious fireworks display and sound show that opens festivities for the Kentucky Derby. We quietly suffer through three weeks of gluttony, childish games, inflated prices, and drunken revelry as a prelude to a three minute historic and traditional horse race.

This is only one of the reasons I know that this is not the home of my heart. My real home, that place where I feel great affinity and complete freedom to do and dream is elsewhere, yet I am here, doggedly trying to carve a satisfactory life instead of back in Manhattan, the cradle of my soul. This place, that place, and the place I was born and various places in between, confirm that I have experienced at least five lives. It makes me wonder about my real, undisclosed name.

What is it about some places that immediately reach out to us with welcoming hands? What is it about them that allows us to open those closed places inside us and to expand, not only our lungs, but our personalities, our emotions, and our intellect? Something in that previously unfamiliar landscape stimulates new growth, opens our eyes to alternatives and choices undiscovered or unknown in our last environment.

I was fortunate in one of my previous lives to travel extensively and to live for differing periods of time in those new and different locations. In only three of those many instances have I immediately experienced a sense of coming home, the internal knowledge that it was a place in which I belonged, in a way that I had never belonged in my home town. (I used to fantasize that the stork carrying the tiny bundle that was me was navigationally impaired, and having no sense of direction, becoming hopelessly lost, confused, and exhausted simply threw in the proverbial towel and dropped me near a house in a convenient open field.)

When we discover a ‘heart place,’ there are elements of that geography that we recognize as ‘ours,’ as though we’ve been there before and been satisfied and content. Although it comes as a surprise, it also seems ‘right.’ Perhaps this same form of recognition is why we are often encourage to let our ‘pets’ choose us, to be aware as we seek an animal companion that they will ‘tell’ us they’re ready to go home. It is instinctual, an inbred ability that humans prefer to ignore, often at their peril if the amount of unhappiness is our mechanized world is any indication.

Another jet is screaming past, heading toward the river over which it will fly and perform awesome stunts for the slavering, wide-eyed crowd along the river bank. Somehow, it all seems even more inappropriate this year as we continue to sacrifice the lives of fellow countrymen in a poorly conceived war far away. Do any of those spectators react like me, empathizing with fearful people who have had war forced upon them, who have been subjected to the sounds and the huge shadows of impersonal man-made machines circling overhead like cold birds of prey and wondering if one of their sudden strikes will tear them or those they love limb from limb or incinerate them where they sit? How many lives were those people allowed? Were they in the home of their hearts, or were they being driven from it by strangers who didn’t have to look upon the fear in their faces?

Again, it makes me wonder how many names human beings have. We know the name our parents gave us, and we know the names our nationality gives us. Do we know our real name – that bestowed by the cosmos to best describe our hearts, our minds, and our souls, and that will be recognized when cosmic judgment sends us to a new phase of existence?

Anger Causes Wide Ripples on the Pond

Catching part of the movie "Crash" last week started me thinking about a phenomenon too many people seem to be experiencing. Anger. Most of us try to mask it, just as most of us probably aren't sure why we're feeling such negative emotion, but it is there all the same, permeating every aspect of our lives.

We also seem to be weighed down by something else, just as debilitating, just as volatile, and just as dangerous. Excess. It is not only possible but highly probably that this excess fuels our anger. In this crass commercial world we’re too willing to indulge, few of us are immune to a subliminal urge to acquire. We now equate acquiring with success, allowing advertisers to carefully persuade us that shopping - acquiring - is a form of entertainment, a mark of stature, a measure of worthiness within the elite of humanity. We’ve learned to ignore the suspicion that a life of excess only compensates for a life of emptiness.

We are that clear, deep and natural pool. Excess is the rock our collective hand tosses into the middle of that pool, and the expanding ripples are the degrees of anger we experience.

In the early days of the ‘women’s movement’ there was a phrase “scratch a woman, find a rage.” Today, that phrase seems to apply to almost everyone. It might be hidden under multiple layers of societal taboos, but many people seem to be angry these days although few could articulate why they’re overcome with such an emotion. Certainly, there are valid reasons for anger in today’s world, but they are elusive and sneaky, wearing us down, causing us to lash out, often in inappropriate ways and at the wrong people or situations.

We’re suffering from a form of endemic helplessness. We’re overstressed from the simple rigors of living. We’re assailed by noise overload from all the electronic gadgets that were supposed to help streamline or simplify our lives. We’re tense in jobs we don’t like but have no where else to go. We’ve found that the mythology we grew up with was either an overt exaggeration or a lie. We have too many extraneous calls on our time - cell phones, fax machines, things beeping, too much traffic, too many people, too little sleep, too much news and not enough information, too many lines to wait in, too little time to seek nutritious food, demands from kids, their schools, their practices, from society, from the tax collector, from bosses, from friends, from having to work harder but not smarter just to make ends meet or keep up appearances.

Our determination and craze to acquire the newest and latest has put us into positions where we are controlled by our appetites rather than controlling them. We do not own our acquisitions, they own us. But – and this is the crux of the problem – we can’t admit that we’ve been had. We can’t admit that all the assurances of being all we can be were nonsense. We can’t admit that the things we believed would bring us happiness have only brought us more turmoil. We’ve accepted that we can’t fight city hall, but we refuse to admit that we aren’t able to fight ourselves.

All that adrenaline, a natural outgrowth of anger, is causing most of us to run away rather than standing to fight, because society, with it’s often absurd and unhealthy strictures, has drummed into us that negative behavior is unacceptable. The conflict is sending us mixed messages, and our response is to ignore it all because trying to figure it all out (when many of us don’t have the tools – intellect, reflection, discipline, desire) would only add another burden and we can’t handle another burden. It’s the old rock and a hard place, damned if you do and damned if you don’t, and simply holding still and really looking inside ourselves is too hard.

Since we either can’t or won’t do anything for ourselves, we look for surrogates or unsatisfactory alternatives or stand-ins just to pretend we’re getting a breather. From a political standpoint, this doesn’t work at all anymore simply because the two main political parties no longer offer a true difference and neither listen to our demands. So why bother? And that stimulates more anger.

Most of us believe we’re already paid our dues many times over, so why should we have to adjust our behavior in any fashion. That may be simply childish belligerence, but it’s also anger talking, too. Now, add all that pent up anger to the ‘isolation’ factor. Who do we talk to about it? What kinds of valves do we have to let off the steam of our discontent? None. Building pressure to conform, to achieve, to acquire, to maintain convinces us we don’t have time to search for an outlet, and that merely causes even more resentment and anger.

Naturally, all this seething turmoil occurs in different people at different points in time which can make previously worthwhile relationships feel stifling or maddening. Since each of us have different choices but most of our choices seem to just get us in more trouble, we grasp at anything that even remotely resembles a way out. We believe a promise from a political party or the current administration that a tax cut will give us more money, or that by invading another country we’ll be safer, or that by sacrificing something today we’ll have a different, ‘happier’ job tomorrow, or by involving ourselves with a different ideology or religion or group or cult or organization we’ll have more fun more often. Something tells us it’s all fairy tales, but we enjoyed fairy tales during childhood, so we try them again, trying not to realize that we’ve merely added another dollop of anger to what is already a toxic mix.

What ultimately happens is that by lowering our head, by plowing on at top speed, by tuning out the sounds and signals on the periphery of our existence, we run headlong into a brick wall. We crash. We will either allow a false assurance of progress to destroy us or we’ll end up in a bloody and ugly revolution that we don’t want but can’t avoid. Even a small hint of the pending outcome makes us even angrier, and we begin to realize we can’t hope to win.

Eventually, we’re not only angry but we’re depressed, as well. And the ripples on the pond just keep growing.

Quota Overload

Most of us have internalized personal quota systems, but few of us are willing to acknowledge it, perhaps because the word quota left such a negative impression when applied to the civil rights movement or to entry rules for immigrant acceptance into this country. I can’t speak for any one else, but when I reach my saturation point, it’s imperative that I concentrate on the potential for explosion, because my quota limit is only about two steps away from my invisible ‘line in the sand.’ We all have those, too, although most ‘civilized’ and/or phony people prefer to ignore them.

Although my quota numbers are slightly nebulous, there are different quantities allocated to different problems. The one most often encountered is my low tolerance quota for jerks and assholes. I recently discovered that I may be forced to increase that quota, too, because we seem to be manufacturing more jerks and more assholes every day. My limit is 3 per day, 7 in a four day period, and 10 for an entire week. Pity the poor dunce whose reactions, actions, verbal response or inattention makes him or her number eleven.

Although humor is a wonderful and fun thing, I also admit to having a quota for self-taught comics – those generally intelligent idiots who think everything should be drenched in their version of amusing dreck. They prefer not to recognize that everything is not funny, or that others do not share their egotistically oriented sense of humor. My tolerance level for these individuals is very low when serious topics, problems or commentaries are introduced and they are too busy making up a joke about it to realize they’ve missed the point of the entire exercise. I’ve also notice that this is a condition that worsens over time, making massive leaps in frequency when their stupidity is quietly tolerated or indulged.

My ultra low quota categories also includes rotten attitudes, bad manners, poor behavior among workers in the service industries, dangerous drivers, cell phone users, offensively loud people or things, people who go through revolving doors on my push, political corruption, corporate malfeasance, George W. Bush and all his cronies, war mongers, illiterate or ignorant right wingers, religious fundamentalists, and television evangelists, the repetitive cant of 24/7 cable news, the creators and disseminators of propaganda, and abusers in every form. Perhaps this sounds like a grudge against current culture, but let’s be realistic – a gal has to have some standards.

It’s only fair to mention my own reactions and behavior whenever my quota limits are reached. First, I am a relative patient person, usually slow to anger, who does not immediately react, preferring to hang back quietly and seethe silently in the hope that the offenders will adjust their own behavior. In addition, I am not particularly fond of confrontation, although not in the least adverse to standing firm and forcefully expressing my ire, and those who are most observant and familiar with me realize there is a storm brewing as soon as I go into silent mode. When possible and appropriate, I will also physically withdraw from the ‘situation,’ primarily because my Krakatoa imitation can, like the volcano mentioned, be extensively destructive to innocent bystanders.

Generally, once an explosion has occurred, the horizon clears immediately. In most instances, the episode is forgiven if not totally forgotten, but…and there is always a but. Should it become obvious that I’m dealing with a frequently repeating offender, I pull out my short list of “those who no longer exist,” and add a new name. My rule of thumb is that everyone gets a second chance, but rarely does anyone get a third.

Calling my ultimate solution ‘harsh’, others have tried to intercede on behalf of the banished on occasion. It doesn’t work, simply because they do not realize that I also habitually and closely analyze my own reaction when these things happen, believing firmly that no one is responsible for my own behavior but me. After all these years, I well know what is forgivable and what isn’t, at least as it relates to my standards. It’s unfortunate that others don’t choose the same form of self-awareness.

Granted, I may not view the ‘world’ in the same manner as ‘normal’ people, but in my opinion, there is a great difference between self-discipline and self-control. Self-discipline is an ongoing, daily and internalized action. Self-control is a singular incident. It is my self-discipline that makes me analyze each instance or blow up, but it is self-control that keeps me from immediately reaching out with both hands to visit physical violence on jerks and assholes or plot some other form of long term vengeance to incapacitate their determination to BE jerks or assholes, especially when they have proven their inability to learn from experience.

Perpetual jerks and assholes, and particularly those who constantly practice to improve their technique, should take note. Krakatoa might be silent for the moment, but it can erupt without warning.

The immigration word is illegal. What's so hard to understand?

There is something deplorable about political labels. Rarely do they fit. For example, I’ve yet to hear a reasonable definition for neo-conservative, the idea of a centrist merely sounds like a fence sitter, and when people are not pure in anything else, how could they be pure Democrats or pure Republicans. None of us fall neatly into any pigeon hole without a great deal of overlap. It all depends on the issue under scrutiny.

So, for those who have told me in the past that I don’t have a conservative bone in my very liberal body, perhaps this will rock your tiny world. I am very conservative in my thinking on the issue of illegal immigration. And don’t give me any politically correct nonsense about ‘illegal’ as opposed to the more explicitly friendly ‘undocumented.’

Although we seem to have slipped many times under our current administration, ours is still a nation built upon and functioning under the rule of law. When a law is broken, the act is considered illegal. So, anyone who stealthily enters the United States by slipping across a border, jumping off a ship, or parachuting into a field is in this country illegally. Period.

Whether there are currently eleven million or twelve million illegal immigrates living and/or working here is not the point. Whether the bulk of them are of one nationality over another is not the point. The point is that they chose to come here illegally…and if any person is here illegally, regardless of nationally, they should be hounded, caught, and shipped back home in the cheapest manner possible. Fill a convoy of school busses and dump them out at the Mexican or Canadian border. Sign them onto merchant vessels as the lowest of laborers, and let them work off the cost to put them off at their home port in the Middle East or Asia or wherever.

If former illegals enter illegally a second time, they should be hounded, caught, and immediately incarcerated for a minimum of ten years where they can work on road gangs or make license plates, or grow prison food for two or three cents a day. Under no circumstances should amnesty or ‘guest’ privileges be offered anyone who immediately sets out to break our laws. We may behave like fools when under the thrall of our politicians or celebrities, but under no circumstances should we allow a non-citizen who snuck in ‘under the fence’ to feed off our national teat make bigger fools of us.

We have always been a nation of immigrants and most of us have taken great pride in that fact. We like to think of this as being a melting pot, of containing representation of almost every nation on earth, all living under the same promises from a constitution enacted more than 250 years ago that promises opportunity to seek happiness. Formally ask to come here, learn new skills or develop new talents to do so, wait patiently for the proper paperwork to create a new and different life, selflessly merge your talents with ours and we are happy to welcome you and make you one of us so that you will always enjoy the same freedom of choice as we do. But don’t sneak in and expect to be handed everything we have free of cost, because your first choice – sneaking in – was the wrong one and has defined you.

Don’t attempt to convince me that you’re here because you deserve a better life. And definitely don’t tell me that you want it now. Everyone deserves something better, even those of us who were born here, spilled our blood here, and continuously pay our dues for citizenship. Simply thinking you deserve something you don’t have doesn’t cut it with me. What did you do to deserve more in your own home land? What did you do to change conditions if necessary to be able to achieve what you wanted there?

Don’t tell me you came here because you wanted to be an American. If that were so, you would have come here legally. You would already have knowledge of our laws and be willing to abide by them – the first being that you would not come clandestinely, knowing you were breaking those laws. And – if you want to be an American so badly why are you waving your own country’s flag in my face?

Don’t ell me you came here because our medical profession is more advanced and you need that help. People here need that help as well, yet they aren’t given assistance without charge. Why should you be? Why should you be allowed something that our children or our elderly are denied?

Don’t tell me you’ll be loyal and upright now that you’re here. You’ve already shown that your loyalty is questionable by sneaking out of your country and into this one. You expect us to be like the third wife of a twice before philandering husband thinking he’ll be true to her when she knows he’s cheated before? Think again.

Don’t tell me you’ll work hard at the jobs Americans don’t want. What makes you think Americans don’t want those jobs because that is a blatant lie perpetrated by unscrupulous business owners who want to pay you nothing because you’re here illegally and they can legitimately deny employment to Americans who would cost them more in legal safeguards, benefits, and taxes. Using that as a reason tells me you either know nothing of this country, are gullible, or are simply a liar.

And don’t attempt to rally your religious leaders to speak up on your behalf. There is a definite difference between offering a little charity when people are in trouble and simply adopting 850,000 people a year…each told by some religious order that it’s their duty to constantly procreate. Any attempt by an organized faith-based group to lay a guilt trip on me for wanting to think of the needy in this country first is in for a very rude awakening. It will not work. It might be nice to think we are all a ‘brotherhood of mankind,’ but the legitimate citizens of this country are my family, and family comes first.

And don’t, if you’re of Mexican descent, tell me you have a right to be here because so much of this country belonged to Mexico first anyway. That was hundreds of years ago, and Mexico lost that land in battle. If they weren’t strong enough to hold it then, don’t think you can simply reclaim it with squatter’s rights or because your political leaders back home suggested you try such a thing. You’d be better served to clean up your own economic and political mess back there than attempt to worsen ours here. That tactic does not sit well with us.

As for those companies and business that break the law of their own country to help you get here illegally, or keep you here, or press relentlessly for you to be granted amnesty so they can continue to seek other illegals and continue their shifty ways of doing business – they need to be heavily penalized for every single illegal or undocumented worker they employ. It must be made more costly to them to hire such workers than it is to hire citizens or even to mechanize where they can.

Now, about that fence around our country's borders, whether made of stones, or electronics or barbed wire or a huge trench filled with alligators….that is totally absurd. There is no need for a fence. There is, however, a very strong need for upgrading and properly funding our Immigration and Naturalization Service and for enforcing those laws – immediately and strongly.

Oh, yes….and there is the question of dual citizenship. No. You’re either an American, or you aren’t. There is no halfway point unless you are a legal guest or visitor, and if you are that, we’ll expect you to leave - on time.

So – if you’re here illegally, go home and try again the correct and lawful way to enter here, because if you don’t, and I catch you, I’ll ship you out any way I can.

Fed up, f--ked over, and furious

This is going to be a rant….so prepare yourself. If you’re uninterested in a middle aged female’s Krakatoah imitation, bite me or sign off.

I happen to be a bright, well educated woman. I happen to have a feline’s curiosity. I have never been afraid of hard word or deep thinking. Why then should my brain feel like a stagnant pond when trying to ferret out the meaning of techy-talk? It’s not quantum mechanics after all. It’s just massive quantities of B.S., illustrating why geeks, nerds and assorted assholes have so much trouble interfacing with normal humans. It ain’t cute to talk in code, folks! This might be the age of war on twits, but you’re not windwalkers. It doesn’t make you look smart. It makes you look childish. And it pisses me off.

There is no good reason for this world to be so damned complicated. There is no good reason for every slightly progressive thing – like computers – to have their own pseudo-esoteric jargon that requires specialized training to understand and marbles in the mouth to say.

….go to your root system document. WTF does that mean? Sounds like an especially masochistic form of dentistry. It’s not magnetic fields or a conflux of high tension wires that cause our minds to misfire or our bodies to spontaneously combust. It’s all the utter nonsense masquerading as ‘special’ talent for talking the lingo of electronic miscommunication. What are we? A bunch of robotic sheep hung up on electronic barbed wire?

And messages from Microsoft? Wafting down from on high like The Word from a demented god? Error #205, they say. Is that like Excedrine headache 564? So, what the hell is error #205 you type in the help box…and the system tells you to reframe your question, or goes blank, or even worse, refers you to more reams of gobbledegook in textbook form. Why not just say go screw yourself?

If this is just a new fad in self flagellation, here’s a suggestion. Shove it where the sun don’t shine and the smell will kill you.

From Solid Reporting to Souffles

Say Goodbye to Solid News and Analyses

If we didn't already realize it, it must now be obvious to even the most dense 'average' American that the legacy of Edward R. Murrow has been trampled and disfigured by the rush for feel good celebrity entertainment over the reality of sharp journalism. This means that the section of the First Amendment to our Constitution which addresses the need of a free and skeptical press to help keep politics honest and the public informed is also vanishing into the mist of the past.

The excellent and timely movie, "Good Night and Good Luck" which concentrated on a team of solid newsmen throwing a pointed, well articulated and vastly knowledgeable wrench into the workings of Joseph McCarthy's witch hunt in the name of his ego and drummed up public fear was an obvious reminder of what the elements of good news reporting, interview techniques, and presentation used to be. It is, therefore, especially distasteful that CBS, the network that brought Murrow's ethics and tenacity to the public view should chose to make it doubly plain that celebrity faces and feel good entertainment are more important than quality reporting or substantive news.

After much press speculation on potential salary over appropriate qualifications, Katie Couric is leaving a touchy feely morning show on a different network to suddenly metamorphose into CBS News' evening talking head. Instead of a somber, short-haired masculine anchor, an adoring public can watch a middle aged woman who still accepts cute and perky as appropriate adjectives and adverbs describing her style. How droll.

There is nothing inappropriate in seeking a qualified female for this particular position, especially when there are solid journalists out there like Christina Amanpour at CNN, although we are probably better served as a discerning public in having reporters of her credentials out in the field reporting the news of the day instead of trying to personally make it. It is, however, short changing us by substituting a talk show hostess for a sharp, experienced intellect.

How strange that we'll have a lugubrious and glib aging pixie with a massive ego and a hidden mean streak being chipper and upbeat while gushing out positive messages as the country slides further into Hell. When cute and perky relates world wide events, political problems, and disasters, we can all think serenely of puppies and baby ducks (cute) and react like the characters in a Gilbert and Sullivan musicale (perky). What a pathetic epitaph for the tradition and attention to detail of Edward R. Murrow. Perhaps he'll mumble the libretto to H.M.S. Pinafore as he spins in his grave.

Spring is sprung ... fie on daylight savings time

I'm beginning to despise Spring, that time of year that poets praise for its freshness, clergymen worship for its resurrection of life, the fashion industry extols for its new vision, the IRS enjoys because of the mayhem they promise, and the drug industry loves because of all the various allergy medications that swell eyes, noses, and their bottom lines. My negative view of the season starts in April because it simultaneously introduces tornado season and daylight savings time...not to mention the violets that bloom in my lawn.

I already have a screwed up sense of time...the kind caused by daily repetition of the mundane and boring with a tiny kick from aging. Not only does the week seem to have only two days in it, but January turns into the Ides of March, leaving February a vanishing species. And it's not just turning the clock one hour ahead. That loss of a single hour is not a biggy. It's the week or more of trying to adjust to my body clock telling me one thing and the rest of the world telling me something else. Believe me, I trust my body clock about 500 times more than I could ever trust the rest of the world.

Last Friday, there were tornados in Michigan and Illinois. Last night, Sunday, there were tornados and straight line winds in six states, mine among them, and they were severe enough that over 35 people died. We were in watch or warning mode for about six hours, just waiting to lose electricity, hear the sirens or have a tree hit the house. And naturally, since the entire scenario was accompanied by heavy rain, I have gallons of water in my basement again. That is a rite of spring for me and my house, and I still haven't been able to discover where that water gets in. I can brush up on my sidestroke at the "Y" but I think I'd rather invest in a pontoon vest that let any shyster assure himself a vacation in the Bahamas by jackhammering my basement.

Spring, glorious spring....it brings water, weeds, flying insects, tree pollen, mold, wind and downed limbs, my mother's birthday, income taxes, poison ivy, even higher gas prices as a preview of summer travel time, spring break for school kids and teachers, rising sap (as though there aren't enough human saps in the world already), itchy eyes, and the time when the iron in my body slowly turns to lead in my behind.

I'm learning to hate Spring.

That scream you hear is me!!!!!!!!

Finally, a post. But you'll notice the screwed up title? That dumb half sentence in orange? I didn't do that.....that was done to me...again!!! Arrrggggah.

I havent posted much

The eBlogger Shredding Machine and Me

I haven’t posted much recently, but it is not from lack of trying. For some reason, the cyber-mechanics of eBlogger keeps eating my deathless prose. To say this has led to my being way over my quota of frustration at this sudden medieval midden of bullshit, is to seriously understate the case.

I have little enough time to write for pleasure or personal edification as it is, but to have the perverse gremlins of blogdom join forces with the fickle muses of poetry and prose to sabotage my meager efforts has made me begin thinking about simply killing off all vestiges of ‘you didn’t ask, but…’ and returning to the primitivism of paper and pencil.

I had a lovely half-rant, half-analysis of immigration reform near completion that eBlogger not only shredded and ate once – but twice. Compared to some of the pure dreck and poorly thought out commentary I’ve read on that subject lately, am I supposed to believe that the small stature gods of the blog would prefer no one made sense on the topic? Certainly the even smaller stature gods of political pundits and mediocre journalism would not want to compete with an average person whose viewpoint and thought mechanisms are totally different and possibly more enlightened than their own. Ergo, is it a conspiracy of cyber bytes?

So, this annoyance, this frustration, this maddening battle with the inner workings of an inanimate creature with a demented robots brain leaves me as exhausted and pissed off as a calico cat getting drenched in a downpour. I make no guarantees for the future of this blog or for my love-hate relationship to it. Posting should be the luxury it once was and not the chore it has turned into. If any regular reader is interested, I suppose you’ll simply have to tune in occasionally to see if I’m still casting a reflection … the same way I do.