Tagged: relationships
Flattery for Women. Like in This Post I Am Complimenting a Woman. Seriously.
Women don’t get “a pass” in my book. People who know me truly, know this about me truly.
The “compliment” that I read in a book and inspired this post is great (still included at the end), but in truth, “Women don’t get ‘a pass’ in my book,” (my hook for the post) is actually about the best compliment I could ever pay y’all.
You’re not weak; you’re not “special” in some “need extra allowances” sort of way. Dishes are dirty after you do them, same as men. You can figure out how to pull into a garage correctly, same as men. Wooden utensils still get ruined when left to soak absentmindedly in the sink for long periods of time. Some ice cream scoops are not dishwasher safe, for me and for you too. Kids don’t learn obedience only from fathers. Neither do they learn strength and steely character only from fathers. You do not get a pass, women. Hear me?
The following comes from Jack London’s short story, “The Wisdom of the Trail.” Sitka Charley is an injun, back when there were those. As for nearly all London tales, the setting is the great white Northlands. The only two words I would add is, “…land…sea…and air!”
****
“Sitka Charley did not know this kind of woman. Five minutes before, he did not even dream of taking charge of the expedi-tion; but when she came to him with her wonderful smile and her straight clean English, and talked to the point, without pleading or persuading, he had incontinently yielded. Had there been a softness and appeal to mercy in the eyes, a tremble to the voice, a taking advantage of sex, he would have stiffened to steel; instead her clear-searching eyes and clear-ringing voice, her utter frankness and tacit assumption of equality, had robbed him of his reason. He felt, then, that this was a new breed of woman; and ere they had been trail mates for many days he knew why the sons of such women mastered the land and the sea, and why the sons of his own womankind could not prevail against them. Tender and soft! Day after day he watched her, muscle-weary, exhausted, indomitable, and the words beat in upon him in a perennial refrain. Tender and soft! He knew her feet had been born to easy paths and sunny lands, strangers to the moccasined pain of the North, unkissed by the chill lips of the frost, and he watched and marveled at them twinkling ever through the weary day.”
Some Days Are Dark
H- hasn’t spoken to me since boldly declaring to me on a random phone call (why don’t kids know how to use the phone?) that she wasn’t coming to Christmas and didn’t understand why I wasn’t “getting it”.
I don’t stop believing in Jesus on dark days. Yet I cannot deny that there is an appeal to giving up on god and all–that is part of the darkness.
But I will unashamedly confess that on dark days, days when I take inventory of my life only to realize more fully that there has been a general lack of support (social, financial, or emotional) from anyone ever remotely falling under the umbrella of “family”, I do conclude god is unknowable.
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.”
Little Hands, Little Burritos, Big Memories
I needed some canisters for flour, sugar, brown sugar, and chocolate chips, and I have such fond memories of such ingredients coming from yellow Tupperware of the 1970s and 80s, that I thought, “Why not search for some ‘vintage’ canisters on Ebay? I bet they’d be in great condition and cheaper than new, flimsy versions to boot.”
I was right.
And like any search, I quickly detoured onto a search for another item—the yellow Tupperware drinking cups we used to have when growing up. All throughout my suburban childhood, one of these cups sat eternally beside the faucet as the “water cup.” All the family drank water from the faucet from this one cup. That seems bizarre and uncouth today (not to mention like the opening scenes of the next deadly pandemic), but the five of us did it for 15+ years.
And I found them, too. And ordered them.
Let me tell you that the experience of holding them again was priceless. Memory is usually faulty, but these cups felt more familiar than old t-shirts and jeans.
To be clear, they make excellent cups for young kids. To start, they are indestructible. The cups I now hold are at least 30 years old and do not have any distinguishing marks on them, nor would anyone guess they were not brand new—let alone 30+ years old. Beyond indestructibility, there are two other features that lead to their appeal for kids’/family use. Firstly, they have a subtle texture which allows for easy gripping. Secondly, while 12 oz cups, they are narrow enough for a 3 year old to confidently grasp with a single hand. Maybe it is only because the previous cups we had my 3 year old on were smooth and wider, but these vintage cups truly seem a godsend.
Abruptly changing items, but not themes, what is not a godsend is the shrinkage of Chipotle burritos. Am I the only one who has always thought these Colorado burritos were huge—essentially too much for one meal? I mean it takes at least two hands, and arms, to raise the things. But we all went back for them again and again, partly because the $10 price seemed like a steal for such an abundant meal.
Skip to the end; the other night I grabbed one after a couple month hiatus and it seemed like my same 3 year old could grasp the thing with one hand. I appreciate an inexpensive dinner as much as anyone, but I would’ve rather been seen switching from debit to credit card by the general public at the unexpectedly higher total than have the other option unfold, which did occur, having arrived home, ate, and still been hungry. Bummer.
Oh, and US military aircraft were shooting Iranian weapons headed for Israel out of the sky.
Defense of My Understanding of AI
And I quote, “In a wide-ranging interview on X Spaces that suffered multiple technology glitches, Musk also told Norway wealth fund CEO Nicolai Tangen that AI was constrained by the availability of electricity and that the next version of Grok, the AI chatoot from his XAl startup, was expected to be trained by May.”
Once more, same article, “But he added that while a shortage of chips were a big constraint for the development of AI, electricity supply will be crucial in the next year or two.”
Recall my definition, “AI is mankind’s ability to sense electricity—and nothing more.”
You can bicker with me, and quibble, but it changes nothing. AI is mankind’s ability to sense electricity—and nothing more.
But be afraid!!! Be very afraid!!! The bogeyman is on his way! AI is coming for your job! It’s coming for your wife! It will fight us in the next war! In fact, the war is already being waged!! Muhaahaha!
On Baptist Preachers Continuing the Invitation
Not because I can’t or wouldn’t or won’t share the gospel—including asking the question, “Have you decided to follow Jesus?” with my kids, but I really want my family to join me in attending a small-ish Baptist church which still sees the preacher invite the congregation to salvation before concluding the service. “Why?” you ask. “Why, Pete? Why go backwards? Everyone knows that denominations are dying/dead, and never to return. They are a failed experiment. It’s non-denominational, one-church-multiple-campuses-small-groups-for-those-interested-and-no-invitation-messages from here on out.”
I’ll tell you why. And this is close to the heart, so please go easy on me. I want my family to join me at the Baptist church because the invitation is my answer to the infamous “how do you know you’re saved?” zinger of a question.
Many, many Sundays of my childhood and youth, and nearly every time I heard the invitation ever since, Sunday after Sunday after Sunday (if I was in a Baptist church), I knew it was directed specifically to me. I knew I was the sinner. I knew I needed salvation. I knew Jesus was the way, the truth, and the life. Moreover, I knew I couldn’t hide behind anyone, nor did I want to hide. I wanted salvation. Who wouldn’t?
For most of my life, I have not treated this response as anything noteworthy or indicative of eternal spiritual matters. I had accepted Jesus Christ as my lord and savior at a young age and was baptized later on and the rest of these times I chalked up the feeling to “powerful preaching.”
As I have gotten older, as fewer people come forward, I have to say that it seems like most people don’t take the invitation as a literal invitation.
But as a father, I take my young daughter (A- this time, H- in times past) and the two of us sit there, and I imagine what H- and my step-son, both 14 and not present—would think during the invitation. Would they think, “My parents are good (believers), so I am too.” Or, “He’s not talking to me. This is just the end of the service.” Or maybe, “My phone, my phone, my phone, my phone…”?
I honestly cannot imagine them saying, “Uh, I am a sinner. I need Jesus. Dad, what do I do?” in any capacity. Mostly, that just seems in line with the more rare emotions, like achieving a lifelong goal, that I can’t imagine what it might look like. But we all talk such nonsense, so much of the time, that it feels fair for a kid to say, “Oh. You were serious about that? I thought that was just part of the ritual.”
Anyhow, we’ll see what the family decides to do. As for me, I am redeemed by the blood of the lamb, no turning back. So I’ll see you at the Baptist church.
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!
The Interesting News I Want to Read About Trump 2024
No news articles, op/eds, or even letters to the editors about Trump 2024 satisfy.
The cycle has been on repeat since before 2016. Nobody has anything new to say. In sum, …just kidding. I wouldn’t be so cruel as to repeat it once again.
Instead, I would like to offer and record my fantasy. Unbelievable as it is, despite all the coverage of Trump since before I was born, I want more. Isn’t that crazy? Crazy, but true.
This fantasy of mine isn’t knowing the outcome of the election ahead of time. It isn’t knowing some more details about Jan 6 that keep exonerating him of any wrongdoing or learning about more indictments which he uniformly evades unscathed or hearing more locker room talk that is fairly tame compared to any group of sporting men I have ever been among.
My fantasy is that some professional writer or journalist will research and write a long-form article about why and how Trump has consistently caused the news itself to resort to lying. Why do they lie?
Whether democracy can recover is boring. Whether Trump becomes worse than Hitler is boring. Whether Trump commits adultery is boring. But, for me, how one man caused every single journalist to lie is endlessly fascinating. Isn’t it?
From his political opponents who maliciously lie, to the mainstream journalists who lie to protect us, to his fan base who inflate every assertion into coming-of-Christ evangelism, the entire industry is unable to report the truth. Why?
I don’t know for sure. But I’m interested to learn.
Euphemism vs. Metaphor, A Joint Review of Collateral by Michael Mann and Parasite by Bong Joon-ho
Parasite is the more timely film, that’s certain. It also is the more biblical film of the two—so much so that it is fairly difficult to understand how it was ever mentioned by a wealthy person, let alone the winner of Best Picture. Albert Schweitzer’s “Men simply don’t think” is probably behind its uncommon success.
I have been putting off re-watching Collateral because with TGM and MI:42, and recent viewings of some easy to watch other TC fav’s, I had to do something in order to stop short of total devotion to the man. But last night I could feel the mood for a movie ebbing my way and I do love Michael Mann. Suddenly, however, a voice from outside myself sounded.
“Can I watch with you?”
It was my 14yo step-son. And it was at his bedtime, the very reason we stopped reading. In other words, I was taken aback at this development. Come to find out, tomorrow was no school.
“Uh. I wasn’t planning to watch a kid’s movie. But I guess we can take a look and see if there’s a compromise on Prime.”
There wasn’t.
“Sorry, man. I just don’t want to sit through a bad movie and I had already set my heart on a rated-R film. We’ll watch something this weekend. So that’ll have to do.”
I was racking my brain to determine just what made villainous TC a film for adults only. The violence was elite, but not gory. And there wasn’t even that much of it. As far as I could recall I wasn’t even sure what I liked about the movie so much. The problem that I have in these situations (deciding whether a movie is appropriate for uninitiated folks ), though, is I have been very wrong in the past. So I trusted my experience over my memory and did not think twice about my decision as I pressed play.
Elite is the word I would use again to describe Collateral. I like the “clean” aspect of that euphemism to “the best”. Then I remembered that’s what I like so much about it. It is no unstable hand at the teller. Whoever made the film had a story to tell and the power to demand it be told with precision. Every scene says as much.
But there is also a depth to the story that elite does not capture. And this is the rated-R part that I am glad I did not share with my step-son.
While Parasite puts wealthy people on blast, that film doesn’t dive below the surface, below macro-level societal questions. Collateral, on the other hand, has a cab driver and an attorney believably find reason to relate about whether they enjoy their work.
“Do you like what you do?”
What a simple question. And what a terrible question.
Terrible because of what you feel as you read this now. Terrible because if you confess that you do not like what you do, you next are forced to admit just what that implies. Maybe you are lying and do like what you do? Maybe you love misery? Maybe you are hiding an addiction that prevents you from doing something you like? Maybe you are lying to yourself about moving on to something you would enjoy someday? We could go on. And that’s the point.
Parasite is a metaphor. But Collateral is a euphemism. Parasite must be kept from the children because of the blood and gore and other adult scenes. Collateral must be kept from the children because Santa Claus is real, because Machiavelli cannot win.
Parasite must have that name to be great. Collateral must have that name to be attempted. But it really should be called, ‘Every Day You Prove You Are Meaningless’.” And since that issue is still up for debate, (unlike, Parasite’s, “Do wealthy people view the rest of us as parasites?” (answer: sure do)), then euphemism and Michael Mann win this battle.
Captain’s Log 