Tagged: poetry

Analysis of the Golfer’s Parent’s Note

The note:

“We have so many questions that have no answers. But one. Was Grayson loved? The answer is yes. By us, his brother Cameron, his sister Erica, all of his extended family, by his friends, by his fellow players and – it seems – by many of you who are reading this. He was loved and he will be missed. Life wasn’t always easy for Grayson, and although he took his own life, we know he rests peacefully now.”

My analysis:

What’s the rush? I have been saying for years now that nearly all post-death comments are ridiculous and unsatisfactory and insufficient. And yet(!) everyone always feels the heat and thinks that they need to say something—and quick!

So he committed suicide. Share that, no problem. But share only that.

But if you are going to be poetic, then commit.

“…that have no answers.” Oooo. So well-written.

“…but one…” Oooo. So provocative.

Are you dying to know what that one question is? Isn’t their rhetorical tool-bag just brimming? And don’t you know that they could’ve used other devices here too? Eh, eh, eh?

Umm, no. Fail on both accounts.

I would’ve never thought, “Was Grayson loved?” was the one question that we can know the answer to. Never. His eternal resting place is more provable and tenable and defensible than whether he was loved.

The remaining words before the second thing they “know” (I forget; was it one or two answerable questions?) are so self-serving I will roll over in my grave when I get there, in support of poor Grayson.

Using the spotlight to rattle off the names of everyone who couldn’t possibly have had a hand in creating the darkness? It’s sickening.

Maybe I am wrong. Maybe that wasn’t their point. Maybe they just wanted to use the occasion to introduce themselves to the world. (Wwwwwhich would be worse, of course.)

Then the second (if unnumbered) known. “He rests peacefully.”

Hmm. Sure. Tell yourself that. And then repeat it to us. And then use our well-bred social tact, which prevents us from arguing the point, to confirm its truth. In fact, I think that is the exact recipe for knowing a lie about the afterlife from a truth about the afterlife. Or at least Paul of Tarsus indicates as much, doesn’t he?

Or not.

For me, I had a sociology class in high school which required us to write our own obituary. That was probably my first introduction to the concept. Second was flight training. Third was combat. Fourth was reading the Columbine things. Fifth and most impactful was when the University of Utah student was murdered during the #MeToo heyday and her professor parents described her in the most embarrassing manner available to people with such enormous vocabularies.

After that one I wrote what I wanted any note about me to say and sent it to my mom. (Probably should send to others as well. She’s no spring chicken these days.)

Do I expect her to actually use the words? Hell, yes! If she knows what is good for her she will.

But even if she doesn’t, it has led to some good conversations and I like conversations.

As someone who has worked around death for most of his adult life, I want to share a little secret with you, dear reader. Death is no accident. It is not a mistake. It is not correctable. It is not a glitch in the matrix. We die. All of us. One by one by one by one.

What is an accident, what is a mistake, what is correctable, and what is a glitch is lying. Furthermore, I would go so far as to say “not speaking from the heart” in the time of death counts as lying too.

Was Grayson loved? Hard to say. We seem to think love is stronger than everything, and is the very light that keeps the darkness away. But of course no one would admit they don’t participate in love. Why didn’t the light work, then?

Is Grayson at peace? Well, that depends on many variables—even if we have direct evidence of his belief in Jesus Christ as the Son of the Living God. While not en vogue, I still put my money on the idea that most people think the after-effects of suicide on the soul are not pleasant. But maybe that’s just me.

To be clear: if you’re a parent or spouse or child of someone who dies, and if you want to say something, take your time. There is no rush. But know that you can screw it up. And you should want to avoid screwing it up. You pretty much only get one chance at it.

For all you naysayers out there, after a mere three more days than his parents had, here is what I came up.

****

Grayson killed himself. No one knows what that feels like—don’t be fooled.

We are sad. And we are confused.

I Present the Latest Sham Holiday: Mother’s Day

Christmas, especially in its commercial sense, is at least pure and focused. Mother’s Day, on the other hand, has become a sham entirely. Worse than Kwanza. Worse than Juneteenth. Worse than whatever the heck Easter is supposed to be.

At church today a very old “Dr.” lady gave the sermon. She talked about how hard the job of “mother” is. That is to say, she talked about how hard the job of “mother” used to be.

If you send your kids to daycare so you can go to work to pay for daycare, is that noble?

If you are so tired from this unnecessary job that you feed your kids processed food, junk food, and fast food on the regular, is that noble?

If you spend any leftover income from your job on TJ Maxx and Ross for yourself instead of, I don’t know, saving for future expenses, is that noble?

This poor old lady, dignified and noble as she was, was so out of touch that she described my mom, who finished up 20 years ago. But today’s “modern” moms? They look and sound nothing like my mom.

It’s disturbing. And it’s another example available for use when instructing children to not be slaves to the sound of words but to consider concrete context too.

Having a baby doesn’t making you a mother anymore than being female makes you a woman.

Funny thing is, I, one of the last men raised by a mother (and father), didn’t get my mom anything on this holiday. But I did buy some over-complimentary cards (from me and the kids) and pointless gifts for my wife. What a sham.

There is nothing outside the man which can defile him if it goes into him; but the things which proceed out of the man are what defile the man.
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We Must Stop the Hype!!

I have a rule. Each day, I won’t read anything until I have read from the Bible.

On night shifts, I sometimes break this rule, but only in its relative sense. The calendar day might have changed, but if the morning is the end of my shift, then I think I can justify perusing whatever strikes my fancy without incurring divine wrath.

The calendar day, then, today started with one of my favorite things to read: eulogies. And not just any eulogies opened the day, this April 20th of 2024, but the ones about the victims of the Columbine school massacre. If you have never read them, you owe it to yourself to find them and read them. They are terrible. The parents, or writers or whoever, should be ashamed. Did these people even know they were parents before their kids were murdered? You wouldn’t think so if you only read the eulogies. Nearly every sentence, and the sentiments behind them, vie unceasingly for the award of “Worst Ever Written”, but one stands out. “Her mother, Dawn Anna, helped coach the team.” What? I’m so confused. Your kid has been murdered and you want the world to know something about you? Lady: you had maybe 8 sentences with which to pay tribute to your daughter and you used one to highlight that showed up to a couple cheer practices? What is wrong with you?

Anyhow.

That was the first thing I read. The next was the Bible, Exodus chapter 35. Exodus should really be called “Building Yahweh’s Tabernacle”, if books should be entitled with words that indicate the general content. But what do I know? This particular section is not exactly riveting material, but the idea of taking a contribution only from people who possess a willing heart is certainly a good balance and teacher to how local churches should talk about tithes and offerings. And I can happily report that the Black Baptists are of a mind with scripture, in their words at least. “…A cheerful giver…” is almost always the only encouragement/exhortation when the weekly collection is taken up. Don’t believe me? Then head to a service tomorrow and see for yourself. (“cheerful giver”)

Next, I read “1.3 Volume forces and surface forces acting on a fluid” or, rather, part of that section of G.K. Batchelor’s An Introduction to Fluid Dynamics. I picked this book up to investigate if it may contain information useful to my quest to more fully understand the area of my professional operation—the sky. Today’s reading had another benefit, being this part of a sentence, “…is of course –S(n,x,t)dA, and since this is also the force represented by S(-n,x,t)dA, we see that S must be an odd function of n.” (S = Sigma, which character my keyboard here doesn’t easily offer for use.) My step-son is working through algebra and here was a perfect example of the truth of the assertion, “Math is the language of science.” So I called him to tell him so. You can imagine for yourself how excited he was to be shown this.

Next on the reading list for today was Sir Isaac Newton’s Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, the section called “Scholium”. And it was amazing. I’ll just add here that the biggest lie you’ve ever believed is that science is hard. The actual inventors, Newton being King Inventor, necessarily make it easy to understand. Pick it up the next chance you have.

Then it was onto the essay The Art of Biography by Virginia Woolf. In it, she essentially announces that “biography” is neither fact, nor fiction, but something else entirely—and maybe the best thing.

Why do I share my readings of today with the blogosphere? Because I remember where I was as Columbine unfolded (at school myself, excitedly awaiting the final bell so I could go to work and then go see some new sci-fi movie, The Matrix, that was getting rave reviews) and I remember that people wanted me to believe the shooting was momentous and carried great import. And 25 years later, I know through and through with a certainty that is rarely found—they were wrong. No one cared then. No one cares now. The massacre should hardly have made the news. The eulogies should never make the news. It was a tragic, senseless crime. It was nothing more or less. Move on.

We must stop the hype!!

Why I Can’t Adopt MLK’s “Content of Character” Line

“Is that okay to say these days?”

“Probably not. To be sure, ‘No.’ But they’re my kids, and I like mulatto best. Haha.”

****

Mulatto has a certain clarity of meaning beyond just the fact that they are the product of me and their mom. Don’t you agree? Yes, it means white and black parents. But it also conveys, in 2024, “You’re kinda barking up the wrong tree already, stupid.”

Sure, I admit this is a bit harsh. And as such, I have not been using it exclusively. But my wife and I’s two kids garner enough attention, or I should say, my wife and I’s two kids’ hair garners enough attention that I needed something “full Pete” to say in response to all comers. In other words, I needed a line. But mulatto wasn’t cuttin’ it.

Naturally, MLK’s “not by the color of their skin” line is accurate, but as everyone has seen, it is also terribly ineffective. At the least, it is tired.

In having and using a “line”, I also am arming the two kids with their own “line”. Cuz, despite my general optimism in life and even my new line’s particular contribution to that hope, the problem ain’t going away. So I have been wanting to come up with something worthy of my progeny, for my progeny. And I have.

Again, they’re mulattos. Through and through. That is a fact. But while that word is funny to me and folks who know me well, it is unintelligible to Ethiopians and taboo to Yankees.

Here’s my solution. It starts with the fact that “mixed” is kinda en vogue. So, picture with me, say, a Home Depot parking lot. On a Sunday. Got it? Heavy foot and vehicle traffic. Sunny blue sky. Wind that negates low-talk.

I have J- in the cart, An- is at the car, and Ag- is about to help An- into her door when a dude, older, and a mix between homeless and Colorado Native, says to his partner—wife or fellow bum—and loud enough for all to hear, “Oh those are two beautiful babies.”

I smiled and thanked him politely.

Then he randomly re-appeared and continued as if never having left the area—but he and his companion had left—“I have some mixed grand-babies and they are just the most beautiful kids. You are lucky to have them grand-babies.”

I informed him, good-heartedly, that they were my own children, to his shock, and then he doted some more before leaving.

Mixed? Hmm. Mixed.

Eureka!

Next time, here’s my response.

“Mixed? Oh, look kids! A purebred! In the flesh! It is a pleasure to know you. Good day, Sir.”

****

That is my new Full Pete “line” and I believe it accomplishes everything I want it too and probably a teensy bit more at no additional charge. It has bite, but is not record-stopping like mulatto. It is at least as memorable as “content of character”, if not more so. And most importantly, it can carry the fire of truth forward into future generations.

Mixed?

We have to stop the nonsense, folks! Who’s with me?

“Mixed? Oh, look kids! A purebred! In the flesh! It is a pleasure to know you. Good day, Sir.”

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.

The White Devil

Now the serpent was more crafty than any beast of the field which Yahweh God had made…And the serpent said to the woman, “You surely will not die! For God knows that in the day you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”

“Come on!” he smiled mischievously, “Come on, just tell me. It’s not like we don’t know the nickname. I just want to know it in your language.”

“Oh, no,” the brown mohammedan said, head-shaking, embarrassed and uncomfortable. “It is not right.”

“Seriously, just tell me. How much have we shared with each other so far? I only want to know it to make people laugh. It’s not like I mean any harm to anyone. It would make me betam yetek’eburu if I could whip out that phrase when appropriate. Ehbakahin? Please?”

The mooslims are different in this respect. They are Old Testament in their belief in the power of utterances. The man wouldn’t budge.

“Oh well. Here comes another,” he said to himself. “Hey!” Pointing back down the hall towards the man he just left, the same smile still on his face, he said, “Abdi there won’t tell me how to say White Devil. How about you? I need it for purely social reasons. Please?”

Stonewalled again, and this time by a Christian no less.

That was six years ago.

Today, he knows the real meaning of White Devil. He had always assumed it had to do with brown people being more “spiritual” on the whole and white people being less “spiritual” on the whole. There also was the ever present, at least in recent centuries, technological advantages inherent to the (renowned as white) West that surely must have bedazzled outsiders into believing them to be derived from the dark arts.

Wrong on both points.

His own culture lauds literacy and learning. The greatest shame is an unexpected and unavoidable public display of illiteracy. If one can’t read, they hide that fact from everyone—and if it happens that they come to a moment when they decide to learn, upon taking that step, the choirs of the West rejoice more joyfully than the heavenly hosts when a new believer is baptized. Who, then, wouldn’t want to learn how to read?

But that is the White Devil describing itself, the White Devil marveling at its reflection in precious stones. As described by illiterate cultures, the ones who are lauded today for having “oral histories”, the White Devil is the absolutely ignorant and unfounded fear of what these cultures do not yet understand.

The truly ignorant are not the West’s unwanted newborns put outside to die by exposure like our own illiterate, no. He now sees that the truly ignorant are Adam and Eve, shortly after getting the boot from the garden. They know something is different. They know there is another power. They know they don’t have the power. And like Adam and Eve, they conclude those that do possess the power must be the enemy, the adversary, ha-satan. Or, plainly, the White Devil. And the only idea that populates the uninhabited landscape of their brain is to tell their children the story of the crafty serpent.

A Woman in 1899, Another in 1920, and One from 2024

Self-satisfaction begins with reading a variety of books. This morning, already, I have read from F Scott Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise and Jack London’s short story “The White Silence.”

The necessary vital stats of these two giants for this post include London’s work preceding Fitzgerald’s by about 30 years; oh, and London wrote about life in the wild, whereas Fitzgerald wrote about life in, what later would be called, the concrete jungle—the city, specifically high society.

In writing about “life”, they also wrote about women. Women are everywhere, it seems. And not to be avoided.

In order of my reading today, here is a blurb from F Scott on women.

“I’ve got an adjective that just fits you.” This was one of his favorite starts—he seldom had a word in mind, but it was a curiosity provoker, and he could always produce something complimentary if he got in a tight corner.

“Oh—what?” Isabelle’s face was a study in enraptured curiosity.

And, now for the real test, from 30 years earlier and a world away, Jack London’s entry on women.

“Yes, Ruth,” continued her husband, having recourse to the macaronic jargon in which it was alone possible for them to understand each other; “wait until we clean up and pull for the Outside. We’ll take the White Man’s canoe and go to the Salt Water. Yes, bad water, rough water—great mountains dance up and down all the time. And so big, so far, so far away—you travel ten sleep, twenty sleep, forty sleep”—he graphically enumerated the days on his fingers—“all the time water, bad water. Then you come to great village, plenty people, just the same mosquitoes next summer. Wigwams oh, so high—ten, twenty pines. Hi-yu skookum!”

He paused impotently, cast an appealing glance at Malemute Kid, then laboriously placed twenty pines, end on end, by sign language. Malemute Kid smiled with cheery cynicism; but Ruth’s eyes were wide with wonder, and with pleasure; for she half believed he was joking, and such condescension pleased her poor woman’s heart.

“And then you step into a—a box, and pouf! up you go.” He tossed his empty cup in the air by way of illustration and. As he deftly caught it, cried: “And biff! down you come. Oh, great medicine men! You go Fort Yukon, I go Arctic City—twenty five sleep—big string, all the time—I catch him string—I say, ‘Hello, Ruth! How are ye?’—and you say, ‘Is that my good husband?’—and I say, ‘Yes’—and you say, ‘No can bake good bread, no more soda’—then I say, ‘Look in cache, under flour; good-by.’ You look and catch plenty soda. All the time you Fort Yukon, me Arctic City. Hi-yu medicine man!”

Ruth smiled so ingenuously at the fairy story that both men burst into laughter. A row among the dogs cut short the wonders of the Outside, and by the time the snarling combatants were separated, she had lashed the sleds and all was ready for the trail.

I know, I know. Way more from London. But it’s to serve a point, my point.

The earlier-dated passage from London required more words as the task before him included also announcing the different cultures.

But they both offer the same comment—and oh, how detestable the situation!

They both convey a man telling a fairy tale to their woman, and they both convey that women are beholden to men.

We are now one hundred years from F Scott and this question is, by my thinking, the pre-eminent question of our time. My generation has no other issue of more importance on the docket.

And for my part, I have determined resolution of the question. This will not shock regular readers.

I can put the matter in one of two ways, a kind of “glass is half-full” version and a kind of “glass is half-empty” version.

Half-empty: Women are no longer beholden to men. And without men, women are actively disintegrating civilization.

Half-full: Wise women would do well to choose to live as if beholden to men, regardless the true nature of their plight.

****

For the record, Ruth is infinitely more attractive to me. According to the text, she displays taking “pleasure” and “ smiles ingenuously.” (Look it up, if you don’t know. I had to.) She also lashed the sleds.

What did Isabelle do? Nothing that an animal in heat couldn’t.

USAFA Hoops vs. All Socks

I surprised the family and took them to the Air Force Academy Men’s Basketball game the other night. The Academy puts on a good show in all the ways they can plan and perfect (sound and lights etc.), and then everyone knows that the basketball skill just isn’t going to be there because it is a military academy. But the game was fun to be at and I have to admit this was my first time back on an Air Force base/installation since I separated over 11 years ago and it felt kinda awesome to be around like-minded folks. The highlight of that like-mindedness was when the grandpa-type guy behind us saw A- light up when she saw his popcorn and he just offered her some straight out of the red pin-striped box. It was more than wonderful moment.

Also the other day, I did the toddlers’ laundry and when I folded their clothes, I found that all the socks still had their pair. That too was a moment covered with awesomeness.

Which moment felt better? Hard to say. But it’s been a good week, that’s for sure.

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.

Saving the Planet

“I’m kinda particular about these things. It’s really just that I have a rule. It’s only one rule, but it means that I don’t have many friends. I like alignment. The car is about travel, not about the environment. Get it? Buy whatever you want. Build whatever you want. But when you build a vehicle and tell me that you’re using it to help save the environment, I can only say, ‘That is too complex and too complicated (there is a difference) a goal for me to believe in. And if I can’t believe in it, then you can’t either because I am certain I have read more about it than you. And if you can’t, then you really haven’t even thought about the meaning of the words and are instead doing some sort of unthinking parroting or propaganda.”

Okay, I didn’t say that last bit. I didn’t attack. I ended my thought on the complex line. But I wanted to continue it here. For fun. Because I’m serious.

Life is weird as I get older. As a boy, a knife was sharp or dull. It was big or small. The basketball was inflated or needed air. The Bible was heavy. The pizza was good. The soda, too good.

Cars were fast. Motorcycles, faster. F-14’s even faster and the SR-71 fastest.

Now people drive a car alongside me on the road and act like they are, besides traveling, saving the planet. And, get this, they believe that I—little ol’ insignificant spec of a flesh on a forgettable rock floating through the universe—am destroying the planet.

There is a better way, folks. I am not destroying the planet. I am driving to work. Same as you.

So don’t tell me that your Tesla is somehow doing something more than carry you from A to B quicker than horses could. Don’t tell me that 20% (or is it 40%?) of all bad gases are caused by automobiles alone. Don’t tell me that America needs to act. Don’t tell me these things, not because they’re wrong, but because you don’t even know if they’re right.

You have no sources. Any sources available have no credibility. And there ultimately is no authority to judge the matter anyhow! We don’t live under the Pope. We don’t act by leave of a King. Musk does not need to be persuaded in order for the Sun’s insolation to reach Earth.

You, yes, you, neo-Copernicus, have only yourself to persuade and pat on the back. And you’ve done a bang-up job of it. Way to go!

Is that what you need to hear?

I’d rather talk about something interesting. There are so many interesting things to spend time considering. And not-a-one of them is your Tesla’s ability to save the world.

Boring.

More interesting already is a path of discovery on the topic of what you think you need to overcompensate for.

It’s okay. You can be an expert at your job, a good parent, and not save the planet. It’s okay.