Tagged: life

One One-Liner Heard Inside Mardel’s and Why Seminary Costs Money—and Should

Here in Colorado Springs, the “Sierra” store is in the same spot as a “Mardel Christian and Education” store. I needed Mother’s Day gear, so after perusing Sierra to price compare “Expert Voice” “deals”, I took the kids across the lot to Mardel. (Sierra seems to be winning on every level, if curious.)

While perusing the Bibles (specifically interested to learn the LSB has made it to retailers yet), I passed by a couple of ladies (the types which strike everyone as just as permanently affixed to the spot as the bookshelves behind them) who were putting on a show of “enjoying” some restful repose inside a great store.

I made eye-contact with the elder and listener as I heard the other one say, “I am done reading theology. I tried for a while but, honestly, just give me Jesus.”

It’s a fairly trite and common assertion among under-achieving wives and over-achieving baptist ministers, so I cannot say for sure whether she was the echo chamber or in earnest. But it called to mind a conversation I had with my mom the other day about church.

Sunday School was the topic, or the setting of the topic. The real topic was the morons who lob terribly uninformed opinions about terribly vague and uninteresting parts of scripture at all comers.

I told my mom, “Remember when Charlie Sheen was in all that drama and his show fell apart? At one point he said, ‘You don’t pay prostitutes for sex, you pay them to leave.’”

“Oh, yeah. I remember. Ugh.”

“Well, with that nature of flip-sided perspective in mind, as I get farther and farther from my time at Seminary, I believe that is how the money part works. If churches aren’t doing it for ya, you finally decide to pay money to try to find meaning in silence. The nicest way of putting this perspective being that seminary students want to be around other people as serious as themselves (calling or no), but the truth (and cynical perspective) is that seminary students want to be around people who are able to keep their mouth shut when they don’t know what they are talking about. And the money has something to do with segregating those two groups.”

I Am SOAD Toxicity, A Review of Toxicity (Full Album), by System of a Down.

Wired (not “wide”) were the eyes of a horse on a jet pilot, one that smiled when he flew over a bay

My voice can sound most like Serj’s out of all Rock front men, if I do say so myself. Even at the age of 42. What can I say?

In seminary I used to put music on while writing and editing my papers, but I have recently fell away from the habit. Yesterday, however, I was feeling good (been lifting weights again for the first time in 5 years) and while the post-workout euphoria was in effect, I decided to put on music as I resumed some editing. I hadn’t heard Toxicity in a while, but I remembered loving that album and so searched it up.

One thing that I will never forget about the album is how seamless the entire thing is. One song flows right into the next. Whatever the actual production process felt like to the band, the Muse was clearly running the show. With my adult brain, I am very aware that these things are completely controllable, but in my child brain, I am to this day awestruck by how even the changing track on a CD, on every CD and every player, can happen at the right moment and in the correct and desired tempo. If you haven’t listened in a while, take the required 11 minutes to feel the special delight from the effect of the transitions from “Needles” to “Deer Dance” to “Jet Pilot” to “X”. Is it really four songs, guys? Be honest.

Whatever it is, it is perfectly sublime rock.

I remember being so enraptured by this album when I first heard it that I tried to have my dad listen to part of the album on our cool Bose speakers (like how I said “our”?) as a college kid, still living at home between semesters. But as is normal with spontaneous listening parties, he was not immediately impressed.

Over two decades later, the impression I gladly couldn’t shake at the completion of the album was how formative that album was for my current perspectives. One example should suffice.

In “Prison Song”, one lyric states, “All research and successful drug policy show that treatment should be increased/And law enforcement decreased while abolishing mandatory minimum sentences.”

Now, I can imagine that some folks might want to take this as a prescription. IE, some folks might say that, “the band is using its platform to call attention to the need for prison reform” blah, blah, blah.

No! I say again, H to the E-L-L’s No!

What they are saying is, “Burn it all!!”

The fact that the lyrics seem to make an argument is not to be interpreted as the band’s own intent to make that argument, no! The correct interpretation is to add the music and voice and realize they are calling out the entire system’s evident incongruence. Put another, less effective way, they could have sung, “You know it’s broken. You, yes you, know it’s broken! And you still are impotent. Even your supposed self-correcting design doesn’t work. It’s time to go!”

In a word, they “rock.”

And by giving us definitive boundaries to the meaning of Rock music, they help us fans understand that life doesn’t have to be a dog, which we train to stop eating our shoes by replacing them with a chew toy—no. Life can just simply be messed up. And the proper response sometimes is to call it out for what it is—period. Those in charge of the prisons, most immediately, and the rest of us in the society eventually, are forced by SOAD’s work (among others) to be uncomfortable at the least. And at the most, we find our calling and do something with our indignation. (Admittedly, this hasn’t yet happened for me, but after yesterday, I feel like it could any day now.)

In a glass-is-half-empty way, SOAD manifests the adage, “misery loves company,” but only if you also think any agent who forces you to consider that you are not almighty god does.

For the rest of us, SOAD’s contribution Toxicity extends life. Well done.

Passing Tests: A Primer On Purpose

Certain unpleasant circumstances (whose ultimate superficiality are yet to be determined) have led to me taking back full control of my step-son’s education. Long story short, I had it once, lost it in hopes of marital bliss, and have now taken it back. The long game is back in view—marriage be damned.

He’s newly 14. And he does not think. “But I repeat myself,” by Twain applies here.

Pilots take many, many tests. Merely to become a pilot requires passing many tests. It stands to reason, then, that as a group, we pilots know a thing or two about passing tests. Relatedly, we know a thing or two about the skill of memorizing information. One example, before returning to the step-son bit, of these test-taking skills conveniently aligned to memory skills is when taking a multiple choice test, there is a general rule, “too long to be wrong.” Get it? If three of the four answers are tremendously shorter than the other, it is more than likely (but don’t blindly skip reading the long one—always read in full the answer you select) that the test creator did not suddenly choose to waste their time by typing out an unnecessarily long wrong answer. Take away from this tip that we pilots (among other test taking masters) put to use other factors than content when viewing a test. Think of it like the self-defense advice to not forget about all available ways to use your surroundings during attacks etc.

One task that I have my step-son accomplishing each day, then, is reading from the classics (currently on The Apology of Socrates) one paragraph at a time and writing as brief as possible an abstract of the paragraph. This is not easy—and that’s the point.

We skipped chatting about Tuesday’s and so yesterday we had to cover two paragraph’s worth. Both attempts were unsatisfactory (he seemed to have skipped reading in favor of using some commentary I had previously provided to accomplish the summaries—which I take as evidence that his culture’s ignorant and unfortunate reliance on oral tradition still outweighs his reading level). This was disappointing, but that’s okay—the process is half the point.

But then there was one of those moments which make ya lose all hope. As I tried to grease the wheels a bit for the next day (I had read ahead), I said something like, “So as you do tomorrow’s paragraph, keep in mind that yesterday’s had Socrates dealing with politicians, then today’s had him dealing with poets-” I was suddenly interrupted by a boastful, “-Yeah, tomorrow’s is a short paragraph.”

Hmm.

At least he knows what a paragraph is?

As evidenced in “too long to be wrong” and throwing office chairs at gunmen, he’s not wrong in hoping to draw a connection between paragraph length and difficulty of meaning. But he clearly stopped listening at “tomorrow’s paragraph”.

In the end, this whole experience of family and children seems to be an experiment on “purpose”. My revised hypothesis today is, “If there is no purpose, then there can be no test.” This updates what I now see as the laudable—but I’m suspecting will prove to be merely laughable—claim to “teach kids to think”.

Where does purpose originate? Easy: the living god. But who knows his ways?

Onward!

Report Cards in 2024: Grandparents Don’t Know—But Now You Do

I want to homeschool my step-son. His mother wants him to go to school. Naturally, she wins.

Here’s the rub. I actually do care about the boy. I actually do know that he has a bright future ahead of him—economically and in the ability to become fully man. I actually do want him to have a good life—something totally within his grasp as both an American and as my step-son. But especially as my step-son.

The image above is from his first report card (of course it not called that anymore—one up-vote for truth) at this new school.

I speak and read (and write) English very well. In fact, my communication abilities are excellent, as you can surely tell. Furthermore, I believe that I understand and can explain to you what this image states about my step-son.

Because of that, I know with certainty that it does not tell me anything about how my step-son is performing. According to this document, there is no standard. There is no benchmark. There is no measure.

This document is worse than a teacher grading on a curve to pass the class rather than admitting failure and reteaching the concept. It is also worse than just failing the students and dealing with whatever consequence is already designated in the rulebooks.

As an American, and former military officer, what really pisses me off though is how the document seems to indicate some amount of success to folks that cannot read English—vis-à-vis his mother.

The catalyst for this post is that the human bloggers who sometimes read my posts likely have not seen this type of performance document. They hear about climate change, CRT, book banning, soft standards, social justice, and all the other hot button cable news cycle topics which fall under the “education” umbrella. But they do not see or hear that the real problem is actually much worse. They do not see that there is actually no measure of performance anymore. None. Zero. Zilch. Nada.

Keep in mind, to be clear, I am not claiming that this is a case of “the blind leading the blind”. Or “stupid is as stupid does”. I am pointedly claiming that this is knowingly wrong. It would be better if the school did what “developing” countries (third world) do and just gives “A’s” to everyone, regardless of performance, with the reasoning that an A is the best grade, so it must be desirable.

The American Black Church has a proverb you can hear from the pulpit almost every Sunday: “People who know better, do better.”

The American Education system resoundingly proves that that proverb is merely trite, wishful thinking. In fact, the schools prove it is a stupid saying. The teachers’ proverb is, “People who know better, submit without resistance.”

That’s Not Exactly How I’d Put It

So my mother-in-law is back with us for a short time before her return to Ethiopia. I believe I have mentioned to someone, maybe not as a post, that her stay with us is not as bad as I had imagined it could be. In truth, it gives my wife someone to talk to, and Ethiopians (or “abasha” if you want to appear “in the know” to them) seem to need people to be happy, far more than I do at least.

At dinner the other night sat my wife, her mother, my step-son, A-, and the two toddlers and I. Whatever caused the moment to develop, the toddlers were declaring that A- was the source of the problem. To hear this gives me great pleasure and my laughter indicated as much.

My mother-in-law asked her daughter, my wife, what was so funny and my wife tried to explain, but even a dummy like me knows this “joke” is very hard to translate. I gave my wife the tip, “Tell your mom that I have trained the two younger ones to always blame A-.”

My wife, generally one to laugh thoughtlessly when anyone laughs, stopped smiling as she realized that her mom might not like to know this fact. Her mom, point of fact, raised A- in the homeland from 1-8 until his father allowed him to join his mom (now my wife) back in 2018. Sensing this, I added, “Tell her that it’s because A- had it so easy for his first 8 years.”

A- surprisingly, and unsurprisingly, clarified, “9 years,” I think because he didn’t officially move in with me until 2019.

The mother-in-law didn’t appear to think it was as funny as I did and to boot she told my wife that, “A- did not have it very easy and he was a very good boy.”

This of course made me laugh even harder because it is patently untrue as measured by his habits/character etc. and the fact that it was now clear to me that “easy” and “hard” were not being translated accurately.

As you know, dear furinj (that’s the name for white folks), by “easy” I meant things like “A-went through life unmolested to the point of living a perfectly terrible balance of getting everything he desired, having no understandable cause-and-effect relationship to his life choices, and being emotionally and mentally neglected.”

My mother-in-law, of course, meant, “He was beaten, with implements sometimes, and while I regret that, he is clearly better for it.”

The next day, he and I had to get some of his grandma’s stuff out of our shed and you can imagine the picture. I would climb over things, begin to lift them or push them and expect that the boy would take note of his necessary role and “put in his oar” as it were. Instead, he moved out of the way every time, as if he was just there to watch. (Bear in mind, it has been four years of this. This includes when I get in the car and hand the pizza boxes to him in the passenger seat only to watch as he squishes back into the seat thinking that the boxes are going to accidentally bump him otherwise.)

We find everything; the grandma’s bags are now in the house. Now they need to be carried to upstairs. He grabs two of them as she watches. I know their language enough to count to ten and hear the number “hulet” which is “two”. So I put together that ol’ grandma is suggesting that he doesn’t need to carry two at a time—and I can attest that they were heavy. A- boldly insists that he can do it—a fact to be decided in real time.

I can’t help but chide him and comment, “Oh, I see. When grandma’s watching you turn into a strongman. Nice.”

A- responds in kind, “I was a good boy for nine years…”

That’s not exactly how I’d put it.

To “Anyone Who Would Listen”

I’m so fucking strong. That’s why Life can’t ever get to me. But as I drove home—daughterless—from the court-ordered, though in the main respect unsuccessful, transfer of child for Christmas (odd years are mine), I couldn’t help but think, “Man. I can handle these things because I’m so strong. But imagine if every, or even just a few, of these other schmucks behind the wheel were dealing with this blow. Surely it would destroy them.”

Good thing I’m strong. That’s all I have to say.

My ex actually answered the door. That was a surprise. I think it’s been over 5 years since I have seen her. I wasn’t sure if her father would make the protective trip like he did last time when she first revealed her desire to kidnap my daughter. H- was still innocent those few years ago and believed the lies they told her about his visit. Ah, the good ol’ days.

Let me just say, for the record, my ex looked terrible. She looked like she had lost her entire sense of humor. The years have not been good to her.

I, if I do say so myself, looked as good as I can get. I had a suit on. Blue, with brown belt and shoes. Grey polo underneath. My nice gold-colored watch. I was going for the “I choose the wrench” look. You know the one, right? End of “Good Will Hunting”? Matt Damon is explaining how his step-dad used to layout the tools from which he, as the step-son, could choose to get beat with? A hose, a stick, a wrench (or similar). Good ol’ loveable Will says, “No, I chose the wrench. ‘Cuz, ‘Fuck him.’” Yup, I want my gold-digging ex to see that she has more to take from me, that is, if she was only smart enough to figure out how.

Which brings me to why I even continue to breathe in air. It’s for moments of pure clarity that the clear mountain air brings to us on mornings like this one. Moments like I had on the drive home.

The Deputy I spoke to when I called in this “incident” told me she (lady cop) didn’t have to come out if I didn’t want her to. I told her I wanted as little drama as possible, but I did want a formal record of the non-transfer-event. The deputy continued to explain that the incident is recorded and she can text me an “incident number” that I can use should I file a motion for contempt of court etc.

Hahahahahaha. Ah, bliss.

If you missed it, that was the moment of pure clarity.

Imagine it. Me, a divorced dad, American citizen, filing a motion of contempt of court against my ex. Hahahahaha. Like that would do anything.

I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. While being terrifically strong, sometimes I think I am not that smart.

There is no enforcement! What is the judge, the Court, going to do? Slap her wrist? Lecture her? Make her pay a fine? I should be a freakin’ attorney for women. “Ahem… Pardon me. Here’s all you need to do. Nothing. You just do nothing. Don’t do a thing. Just think ‘rock on a flatland’ anytime you begin to stress. Don’t move. Not one inch. Got it? Good. Total for today’s chat will be $12,786.42–but don’t worry. He’ll happily pay.”

Now here is the interesting, truly fascinating, part. I used to know this! I did. In fact, I distinctly recall writing, and could probably search for, a blog post about the complete impotence of divorced dads in America. It was like 3 years ago, I think.

But then something odd happened. Hope was kindled. But apparently my iceberg of penguins is so full, that when Hope appeared, the Facts of Life had to drop off the edge, if there was to be room.

That, and the fact that, as a strong mother-effer, I have to say that I love proving it. I love flaunting it. Right next to “pure being”, I live to flex. And I love—I think this is why I married two weak women—I love getting punched in the face by puny little children. I feel like Tyler Durden must have when persuading Lou in “Fight Club”. I love it.

So I drove the hour to visit my longest-standing ward. Again, she looked terrible. But me? I drove home unruffled—unlike all the other folks on the road. God help them this Christmas.

Foucault’s Pendulum and Spheres and Earth and Friends and More!

Careful readers noticed yesterday that I used the words “pope” and “Copernicus” when dismantling Tesla-lovers’ desire to save the planet while they commute alongside me. I did this because my guided reading through the Great Books of the Western World has landed me in Ptolemy and Copernicus (and now Kepler).

I told a co-worker that I feel like I’m reading sacred scripture when I read these guys’ words. I mean they are it. These are the ones who tackled the big problems and won (and lost). I cannot emphasize enough how interesting and provocative the writings are—especially the ones that have been disproved. Just fascinating. For example, did you know that folks knew Earth was a sphere over 2000 years ago? They knew. And they knew through easy methods that even you and I can understand, the most simple being that during lunar eclipses, the shadow on the moon is always circular. And only a sphere object can do that.

Anyhow, in short, (because I know you aren’t going to rush out and get the set) Ptolemy (and many in his day, circa 100-200AD) thought the Earth was an unmoving sphere inside a larger rotating sphere which was lined with the stars and the other lights of the sky. To be clear, this is a ball within a ball scenario. Like if we go to a planetarium and lay back in the dome structure to “ooh and ahh” the night sky as projected digitally, that’s pretty much what they thought. I mean to emphasize that they did not see the night sky (or day sky for that matter) as “deep”. Had they thought to travel out to the lights, they apparently thought they would hit a wall/boundary. (Keep in mind, they didn’t conceive of traveling off earth.) This, of course, stands against everything we moderns believe, which includes that we can and will journey further and further and further away from the Sun/Earth or really anything out there.

With me?

Next, it was Copernicus who went through the Pope (and had to in 1543–life is so different today—so very different) to correct Ptolemy’s errant belief that Earth was the center of the larger sphere. The Sun was the center—and, put simply, for the reason that it makes the math simpler. Note here that Copernicus still did not believe that space went out and out and out. (He also showed other things, such as the Earth itself moves and this what makes the stars appears to move, not the other way around.)

In the guided reader, they make mention of the types of proofs that Ptolemy and Copernicus were concerned with and this is where it is mentioned that the Foucault Pendulum was finally invented and put to use in 1851. You can look it up yourself; I still don’t fully understand how it works. Maybe you will. But when you look it up, you’ll discover that these pendulums are all over the globe now at various science museums, and they report in to each other. It is this comparison of observations that is truly the mechanical proof of the rotational movement of the sphere earth.

This was a “Eureka!” moment for me.

To rehearse and summarize some of this trivia, Ptolemy really made his mark because he took into account past astronomical observations and added to them an extensive new amount of data. Then Copernicus did the same. (See the methodological trend?) By the time we get to Foucault’s Pendulum, we already have an established pattern of humans using other humans’ information, so the idea of sharing the results from these pendulums that are swinging all over the world is not entirely new.

Are you tracking yet?

(I enjoy leading folks to the conclusion rather than just bluntly stating it, but I’ll be blunt after one more clue.)

Put another way, Ptolemy alone didn’t suggest the Earth was the center and a sphere. Copernicus alone didn’t suggest the Sun was the center and the Earth rotated. Foucault alone didn’t prove that the Earth was a rotating sphere.

People need people! Get it?

We all have encountered Flat Earthers of late. Or most of us have. Guess what? They are alone. They have no friends. Even the others at the conventions aren’t friends. They don’t compare notes and use each others’ new and unique and accurate and confirmable measurable data to develop and defend their idea. They just bleat. Bah bah baaaa.

I am impassioned by this topic because a very good former friend of mine that I met at the seminary revealed his insanity when he one day decided to lob a joke about the earth being round into the fray. When I didn’t buy into his BS, he wouldn’t allow for any other topic of conversation to pass.

Keep in mind I told him, “I don’t care which mental construction of the universe you hold in your mind. I just think we should be able to talk about something else too.”

Nope. He wouldn’t move past it until I agreed with him.

I had invited him in for lunch in my seminary, Steinway-housing apartment. His wife and him (and baby) hosted H- and I for an afternoon meal and relaxing stroll at his place. We were at the seminary together. Man. It was/is frustrating. But it also proves my “newly learned” point. These folks have no friends. (Did I mention he was a green beret? Yeah. Unrelenting persistency does not always pay off.)

Anyhow. Crazy times we live in. The good part, as I have said and wrote time and time again, is we have books. I’m still with TJ, “I cannot live without books.”

Name Change Coming Soon

I’ve been thinking it’s time to more accurately entitle this blog of mine. So a name change (just superficial—website will stay the same) from Captain’s Log to something else is coming soon.

The point of this post is to say, “Don’t be alarmed. It is still me. I just feel like I need to admit that I’m hijacking the mood when I drop the lure of being an interesting pilot/Captain who can also write well and has a unique perspective, but, really, I am just a blogger who blogs fearlessly—which means writes well.”

More to follow.

Free Vacuums

Mindlessly, perhaps distractedly, I sat at a stop light, patiently waiting my turn on this December evening. My eyes fell upon a sign over to the right on a building that said, “Free Vacuums”.

Now at work, the vacuum we have is terrible. It is one of those canister kinds that lets you see the dust swirling as evidence that it is working—that is, until it isn’t working and the dust just sits and now the volume seems to loud and you wonder if it always was this loud or has it just gotten louder when it stopped working correctly? I hate the canister kind. I’ve always preferred Oreck and bagged vacuums, myself. Just keep it simple.

Back to the sign, I thought, “How could they possibly have enough vacuums for any and all comers?” I wish, for your sake, you could have seen what I imagined the inside of this store looked like. Just a smorgasbord of refurbished (that’s surely the only type that could be free) vacuums. The old chrome ones, and maybe an Oreck a day was set out for a lucky shopper.

It didn’t seem real, but then who does like vacuuming? And I have been trying to give away a washer and dryer and am resolved that it will simply cost money to have someone pick them up. Maybe the vacuum market is similar? And maybe there is a government program to help encourage clean houses? Who knows?

Let me be clear, I almost re-routed in the direction of the sign.

Then it hit me. I almost couldn’t look again for shame and embarrassment. And I have barely been able to stop laughing long enough to type this out—of which the only reason I type is because the two people I called to share a good laugh with didn’t answer.

It was a car wash! Ha. Free vacuums!

As if someone would just give away vacuums.

Hahahahahahahahaha.