Tagged: life

Two Updates on the Boy Child

First, during my attempt to get more of the cookie for myself, when I told him that the cookie was very big, J- innocently said, “My mouth is big!”

Second, we have this game Poop Tracks which is actually a pretty fantastic board game for little kids (if you care to have them turn into Tom Brown Jr.-like trackers). You spin a spinner and do what it says. The options are, “Draw 1 (or 2), Trade, Swipe, or Skip.” Naturally, I take it upon myself to teach my progeny the proper way to trade and swipe. And, naturally, the proper way to swipe is through distraction. So my kids now look forward to the spinner landing on “swipe” so they can say, “Look at that, Dad!” before proceeding to take one if my cards. Well, just now, as J- and I (A- is now in kindergarten 😦 ) were having a donut, he says, “Look out the window, Day-ad!” Obviously he was priming me for the take, but for what? I played along and then he swiped my napkin. What a guy!

Attention School Teachers and Administrators: The Emails Have To Stop

For fun, this week I copied the text from all school emails over to a MSWord doc in order to learn a word count. (I have two kids in this school. H- is elsewhere and I did not add that school’s emails. I didn’t want to come across as extreme. Time will tell.)

The total—not including a PDF attachment late entry of today—was 1410 words.

For reference, Cat in the Hat is 1600ish and One Fish Two Fish… is 1300ish.

Depending on your speed of reading aloud, those books take somewhere over 10 minutes, but shy of 15 for sure. In your head, maybe 5 minutes.

What were the emails about?

  1. The need to comply with unnecessarily dynamic drop-off and pick-up procedures.
  2. Visit to nurse for complaint of splinter.
  3. Homework completion is required.
  4. A case of head lice was discovered.

29 words. 5.2 seconds. And I wasn’t trying. Trying would be:

  1. Don’t be a knucklehead in the car line.
  2. N/A
  3. N/A
  4. Check your kid for head lice.

14 words. 1.7 seconds.

Please keep in mind none of our parents ever communicated with the school while we were in school. Parents, in the 80s-90s (and I’m sure many ignore everything today), could literally never talk to anyone at school, not just for one week, but for the entire year. And the school didn’t care. And the parents didn’t care.

The emails have to stop.

I am happy to report that in recent reading about Vietnam, I came across the best concluding anecdote I could ever imagine.

From a 1971 NYT article regarding border crossing operations in Laos:

“The sign ‘Warning! No U.S. Personnel Beyond This Point’…On the back, facing Laos, is a faintly scrawled message to the North Vietnamese Army: ‘Warning! No N.V.A. Beyond This Point.’”

In short, there are limitations to what the written word can accomplish. One would like to think the educators would understand this best of all.

Pilots—Hope Embodied

I’m at work today and was chatting with the mechanic. It got me thinking.

Man, this job sure requires me to place a lot of trust in other people.

This led to me wondering What makes someone want to be an aircraft mechanic?

This led to I sure hope the answer is ‘not being as brave or good-looking’ as pilots.

But I backed off that and landed on Flying the aircraft requires more trust in other people than mechanics usually possess.

There are surely other measures of trust or, more broadly, hope. But what I mean to call attention to is the why behind the quality of the trait that pilots necessarily possess.

Once considered, I say one must conclude that it isn’t merely the mode of travel, but the fact of travel that betrays the pilot’s special embodiment of hope. From the functioning of the aircraft, to the people at the (planned or unplanned) destination not killing you upon arrival, the pilot embodies hope.

From another angle, consider that Mark Twain said, “Travel is fatal to prejuidce, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts.”

That’s got all the right words, but it’s backwards. From where I sit, “Prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness are fatal to travel.”

But, of course, by travel I mean more than the movement of the body from one location to another. I count as travel learning—even via books. I count attending different cultures’ events (ie, Chinamen moving to Chinatown is not travel, but one religious Chinaman’s visiting of a different religion’s Chinaman family—all who live in the same apartment building is) as travel. There are probably other meanings I would count.

Or not.

So I only mean three things count as travel. (1) travel, (2) learning, and (3) dually (i) meeting people who look identical to yourself but are, in fact, not you and (ii) meeting people who look nothing like you and finding out they are, in fact, your identical twin. And the connection which binds these three is not travel, but hope.

Do you see?

A Lesson that Requires Pocket Change

My friend, an older, heavyset gentlemen, keeps his story going with, “It’s about listening. You gotta teach the kids how to listen.”

Here he pauses and apologizes as he needs a break. He often needs to take a break, but doesn’t seem too concerned with the underlying medical condition.

The cloudiness disappears and he resumes.

“I teach my grandkids how to listen by placing a penny on the palm of my hand right here-” here he holds out his left hand, palm facing me, and points to the spot where I have always assumed street magicians palm the coin.

He continues, “Then I place a nickel next to it and a quarter next to the nickel. Then I tell the kids, ‘Johnny’s mom had three kids. Penny, Nick, and ??’”

The man turns to me, and I open my eyes larger than normal, while raising my eyebrows. I mean to merely indicate that I am not ready for an interactive moment, but I also admit that I don’t yet understand anything from this listening lesson.

“It requires the coins. Who has some coins?”

I follow him to the table where some other men are sitting and my friend asks the leader and most responsible of us, “Jim, do you have any coins? I need a penny, a nickel and a quarter.”

Surprisingly, and as predicted, Jim pulls a 1986-sized fistful of pocket change out of his shorts’ pocket and finds the required coinage.

My friend then places the coins in his palm, penny, nickel, quarter. Jim is paying attention, but the previous conversation he was apart of continues to unfold as well.

“Johnny’s mom had three kids. Penny, Nick, and ??”

Wishing to show my language prowess, I forget about the spelling of ‘quarter’ and begin to contemplate every name that starts with the ‘kwart’ sound.

“Kwart? Kurt?” I guess.

Shaking his head in shame, my friend repeats, “Johnny’s-”

“JOHNNY!” I exclaim, joyfully. “Johnny,” I then repeat, with a pronounced note and loud look of playful disgust.

Jim knowingly smiles.

My friend says to him, “You’ve heard this one before, huh?”

A slow nod from Jim answers.

“You see, Pete, someone has to teach them how to listen.”

****

Here’s the catch, faithful reader. Anyone who gets the right answer already knows how to listen. The all important and usually lacking skill in the human, imho, that my friend taught his grandkids (and I) is humility.

One Friday Lunch Thought

Did anyone else notice how fast Crumbl pivoted? They storm into the nicest parts of town (or sides of the street) with some of the best cookies ever—but it turns out you have to take a lunch break while eating them. So now they have mini-cookies.

And these are cookie-sized.

New questions which are fascinating to consider include:

  1. How did they not know about the size issue?
  2. Did they have any data that suggested they would have been unsuccessful starting with normal size cookie?
  3. Would they change their initial strategy if they had to do it all over again?

Whatever the answers, I need to say: “Please don’t ever pivot on flavor! They’re wonderful!”

When I Think Of Russia and Ukraine, I Think of My Mom

My brother “blocked” me over a year ago. When there are in-person events we are cordial, and even able to have conversations. But he won’t accept texts or calls.

Naturally, he still chats with our mom.

Naturally, I still chat with our mom.

But my mom will not play the middle man. She has never had interest in playing the middle man—between anyone. That is just her prerogative.

This is why I think of my mom, when I think of Russia and Ukraine.

America (meaning “Americans”) does not want to play the middle man. I believe this is the fullest truth that can be asserted regarding the situation.

The Answer to, “What ‘Gender’ means?” A Question Posed by My PhD Candidate Friend

For posterity.

I have to tell a story because I cannot see how the plain didactic situation will help given that you haven’t seen it yet. 

I had a friend who was a math professor and he was adamant about Free Market economics. Once he gave me a link to his “behind paywall”guru—a link to one of those YouTube clips that can only be viewed if you have the link, which follows the overall belief he held that humans should pay for valuable things/ideas. 

In the clip, the guru/astrophysicist-teacher-dude said, “Every word should have one and only one meaning.” That caught my attention because it is so asinine. The idea that words should be like numbers or math symbols is just ludicrous. To set that as a goal is ludicrous. Immediately questions like, “Which language would these ‘one meaning only’ words be in?” came to mind.

With me?

This relates to gender because language is where gender starts. There are languages (Hebrew and Greek among myriad others) which, when spoken, seem to add or subtract little suffix sounds (like ee or ish) to what we would call pretty much any non-verbs—so nouns, adjectives, prepositions etc. If I were to do this in English, it might sound like, “Hey, Matt! Throw her the ball-ee. And then, Jill, throw Matt the ball. Then, Matt, when you get the ball back, see those girls over there? Throw the ball-eeish to them.” (In this example, ee is female and ish is plural).

Why did these sounds develop? Who knows.

But anyone, including you, who would have been looking at or listening to the language(s) would be inclined to recognize (or be taught) that the “ball” part of the sound is the same concrete item and word, but the suffix sound (or lack thereof) changes depending on whether a female is involved. 

The catch, of course, is that the method isn’t 1-to-1; in other words, there are exceptions to the rule. But the rule still comes to our minds. So words (aloud and written—many of earliest languages were merely copying the sounds, no such thing as proper spelling existed) became known as the idea…drumrollGENDER!!

What should humans have done? Is the idea/object behind the word “ball” and “ball-ee” the same thing? Or not? I suppose you could argue that they are two different things. But that seems overly complex. In the end, there is one ball. But for some reason, when it is thrown to a human with boobs and a va-jay-jay, it is called “ball-ee” (in my example).

Next, fast forward through history until the last century and (I am very earnest and serious here; I have come across other folks who admit the following too) we come to the point where this concept of math symbols (think x and y and π), with their one and only one meaning, are thought of as superior to all the often unclear complications of ordinary language. In short, instead of written language copying sounds, people wanted language to represent ideas and with exactness. 

HERE IS THE JUMP/CONNECTION: One day someone suggests the idea that biological sex (penis vs vagina) is irrelevant. But they immediately confuse everyone listening because the honest response is, “How can I not be a woman/man?” So these people borrow the grammar category (abstract label) “gender” and apply it to their (NEW) idea. (The idea being that the concrete reality of your biological sex is ultimately irrelevant.) 

I offer for your consideration, that even you, friend, must be able to use the word gender when you communicate, both to show you understand grammar, AND to show you understand what time you are living in. There is an idea, however incorrect, called gender now. This is no different than, say, how the ideas psychology and communism are relatively new to the passing scene.

Put in dictionary style, gender (in the context of “ethnicity, class, and gender”) is the IDEA that biological sex is ultimately irrelevant. 

Rapid Fire Movie Reviews, The Order, 65, 28 Weeks Later

The Order with Jude Law, on Hulu, is pretty fantastic. But turn it off before you start seeing the black screen “wrap up facts”. Trust me.

65, with the new Star Wars bad guy, is not about only him on a violent planet. I hate when they mess up the previews. I’m talking from the opening scene you‘re struck by the fact that the movie is not what the previews made it out to be. On the whole, the very idea of people marooned on killer, dinosaur infested planet Earth while the dinosaur-killing asteroid is visibly on its way is kinda a cool story. Add in some language barrier stuff and other family interest moments and it really isn’t a bad sci-fi flick. Just very poorly marketed.

28 Weeks Later is old, but it is still fantastic. The best part—and now I am really looking forward to the newest one—is the speed which the virus infects the new zombie. It is nearly instantaneous. This got me thinking though.

Is the novel speed concept an analogy for the times we live in? I’m not saying the writers intentionally meant to make an analogy. I mean more like in the sense that it was inescapable. Like how 80s movies had muscular military men instead of breathy and broken women saving the day.

I am talking about politics and education.

We seem to be living in a time when everyone makes up their mind instantly, and then attacks incessantly. And no one ever changes their mind.

TDS strikes and BOOM! You won’t talk to your parents.

MAGA hits and BAM! No more chatting with your brother.

Follow me?

Compare this rage virus zombie tale to, say, any movie which portrays leprosy, or other old and slow moving diseases and what is the difference? The time period. No rapid rage virus zombie conversions in the dark ages or period pieces. And no slow leper death scenes in air conditioned rooms with laptops and Twinkies.

Just something for your consideration as the winter and family meals approach.

In the end, there are three lessons to be learned from these movies.

Number 1. Do not read The Turner Diaries.

Number 2. Do not become a pilot if the reason you are doing so is to save your daughter’s life.

Number 3. Do not make out with your long lost wife whom you thought you saw die from a zombie attack—at least not until the military doctors clear her.

I Have No Friends with Whom to Lament Ozzy’s Passing

My pizza place boss, Joe, was the man who introduced me to Ozzy. I was 16. I knew of Metallica, but was scared of Ozzy still. Then I heard his music and had the epiphany that we all did—all of us Baptist kids who were taught (why?) that he was singing satanic songs. Satanic or not, all I knew was his songs and his voice were epic.

Joe had a funny story from his younger days of pissing in the landscaped bushes while in line for Ozzy’s autograph so as to not lose his place. And whether it was the same event or not, when he handed Ozzy the CD, Ozzy signed it and then passed it to the next band member, but not before Joe ripped it out of his hands and declared he only wanted Ozzy’s signature! (Naturally, Joe was drunk, and this accounts for both parts of the story.)

I remember going to Ozzfest at Sandstone Amphitheater in 1998. Over two weeks I saw Van Halen, Ozzy (Limp Bizkit, Megadeth, Tool, too), and Metallica. Talk about a phenomenal two weeks of live music. Life changing.

I remember this same Joe called in to the pizza place when he was in Chicago at a Black Sabbath concert. This would’ve been around the turn of the millennium too. He was, oddly, again in the bathroom. Why he ever thought to check in with us “kids from work” is beyond me.

I think, but can’t say for sure, that I saw another Ozzfest, but whatever the concert was billed as, Black Sabbath was the headliner. That was also a powerful experience. Toni Iommi standing in all black with that cross chain he always wears was just an incredible sight to see. Metallica is the definitive “band”, but Toni is the definitive lead guitarist. So cool.

I remember that all these concerts were years after the farewell tour “Live and Loud” two CD concert set I listened to all the time—my only solo Ozzy CDs. I also had Paranoid. But that was it. At some point I borrowed for an extended period of time Ozzmosis and fell in love with Perry Mason and I Just Want You.

Think of it. The superhuman man writes “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired” and suburbanite kids like me feel like he knew exactly what we were going through. Ha.

Some fun trivia. Limp Bizkit just opened for Metallica. And Zakk Wylde, of solo Ozzy days (whom I saw—I think) and is definitely on the double CD album, was there with Pantera too. And if you haven’t watched any of the (fairly abysmal) final performance from July 5th, Zakk has a truly heartwarming moment where he, playing for Ozzy, understands that Ozzy is not going to sound as good as the old days and so starts to sing with him, but like, in an all cool-like and as if it was planned etc way. But there was no plan. See 20 sec mark and how Zakk “covered down”, as the Army pukes say. I think he’ll be welcomed into rockstar heaven for that one move alone.

I want to end by reminding the reader that I have often thought and implied and directly spoken the desire that Metallica NOT take the stage when they are too old to do it justice. I still pray fervently that they honor my wish. But as we are almost 30 days after the pair of Metallica shows and I still feel like my voice isn’t fully recovered, the thought, purely speculative, that Ozzy essentially gave everything to that last (admittedly pitiful) stage show gives me great peace.

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

You did it, Ozzy. You embodied rock’n’roll, not just for a season, but with your entire life. Rest in peace.

On The Virality of Being Caught

Like many, many of you, I too watched more than one video of the recent Coldplay Kiss Cam Catch.

Why?

Firstly, because it already was “viral” and so I deemed it worthy of the peek.

Secondly, because the very idea of “getting caught” requires that generally suppressed emotion “shame”.

“Shame”, then, is what caught my attention. Is anyone ashamed anymore? Apparently, the answer is “yes”.

Maybe not the Parents who are castrating their children. Maybe not the Doctors who are overlooking every single problematic behavior in favor of chemical treatments. Maybe not the blue, green, or pink-haired faggots. Maybe not the Marxists. Maybe not the Politicians in general. Maybe not Celebrities. Maybe not Professors. Maybe not MegaChurch Pastors and Boards. Maybe not Blacks. Maybe not Illegal Immigrants. Maybe not Gang Bangers. Maybe not New Yorkers or Californians.

But that couple at the Coldplay concert did. And we all recognized it immediately.

They were living some kind of bliss, some kind of pure illicit fantasy—forbidden love—right up until the moment they were not. Just an amazing thing to consider. Where exactly were they until that moment?

The song in Romeo and Juliet comes to mind. “A Rose will Bloom/It then will Fade”.