In Which We Ring Out the Old Not With a Bang But with the End of the World as We Know It

KFOG, a San Francisco rock station, does a regular feature every weekday morning at 10:00 AM, "Ten at ten": "Ten great songs from one great year," as the tagline says.  It's a fun show.  The year is always a surprise, and between the songs, the DJ's play audio clips of significant news events or cultural milestones from the year in question.  Warm fuzzy nostalgia ensues.

In honor of New Year's Eve, today's theme was different: Instead of focusing on just one year, the segment featured one song from each year of the 1980's.  So my short car ride this morning began with "Girls Just Want to Have Fun," segued into "You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)," moved on to "Walk Like an Egyptian," and culminated, as I reached my destination in "I Wanna Dance with Somebody."  Now, I defy you to find a happier, more feel-good medley than that!  Until that moment when you realize that these songs were popular thirty years ago!  And then you feel old.  And then it just goes back to being chilly New Year's Eve 2015.

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Remember 16 years ago when we all braced ourselves for the technopocalypse that was the "Y2K virus"?  How we worried that all our electronic devices would mistakenly believe that it was 1900 and, I don't know, send us back in time to the days of horses and buggies and bubonic plague?  Remember that?  As you will recall, nothing happened.  But that didn't stop any number of fearmongers and fraidy cats from declaring the end was nigh and stocking up on canned goods and ammunition.

I mention this because today a massive solar flare is headed towards earth, and, while the most significant effect is likely to be greater visibility of the aurora borealis, there is at least the possibility--admittedly remote but definitely present--that electronics could be fried and we could, I'm guessing, be plunged into the oft-discussed zombie apocalypse that you just know is coming soon.  And yet, from the major news outlets?  Nary a peep!  All I'm saying, folks, is that you might want to party like it's 1999.   

In Which Boats Suddenly Sound a Lot More Interesting

Everybody's heard of repo men, those guys who snatch back cars from owners who have fallen behind in their loan payments.  Not the most noble profession, perhaps, but arguably a necessary evil.  And back in the 1980's, someone thought the job interesting enough to make an Emilio Estevez movie about it. . . .

That someone might well have been Emilio Estevez, now that I think about it, but still. . . .

Anyway, today I read an article about maritime repo men, people who repossess boats.  At first, I thought, well, who cares?  Boats are boring.  They're basically just floating cars, right?  But then I started reading the article: These aquarepo guys don't just grab up boats from people who've neglected to pay their bank notes; they frequently grab up boats from boat thieves, which adds a nice Omar Little-type wrinkle to the whole enterprise.  To accomplish this, they devise all kinds of ruses and shenanigans to get themselves on board the boats--forging IDs, hiring prostitutes, casting voodoo spells, etc.  Once they manage to get on board, they have to dash for the 12-mile limit of international waters to escape whatever jurisdiction the boats are being held in.

My question: How has George Clooney not optioned this for a screenplay?

In Which I Slipped Myself a Rickey

I was shocked this morning when, browsing through Facebook, I saw a notice that Oakland A's legend Dave Henderson had died at the age of 57. Then I realized that I was mainly shocked because I was confusing Oakland legend Dave Henderson with Oakland legend Rickey Henderson who is, in fact, still alive. So I guess I'm...relieved?

In Which I Set Myself Up for Coal in My Stocking

Driving down I-80 yesterday, I passed a white Fiat with a Florida license plate, "ZERO FUX."  I'm still not sure whether to be horrified that the Florida DMV allowed that license plate or incredibly impressed that the Florida DMV allowed that license plate.

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Why do radio stations, especially rock and roll radio stations, feel compelled to play nothing but Christmas music from, like, 3:00 PM on December 24th through the entirety of the 25th?  Don't get me wrong: Despite my Judaism, I basically like Christmas.  I've spent many a Yule with Christian friends--or wives--and there is undeniably a certain warmth and comfort that comes with the season.  At worst, when on my own, I go to the movies and get Chinese take-out--which has its undeniable pleasures as well.  But Christmas music?  Rock and roll Christmas music?  Springsteen's "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town" is about as good as it gets--and even THAT isn't particularly good.

In Which It Is Another Day Ending in 'y'

Congress passed a $1.8 trillion dollar spending bill yesterday.  $1.8 trillion!  You know how big that is?  It's so big that I have to write out the word "trillion" so as to avoid wearing out the 'zero' key on my laptop.

The spending bill was passed with surprising bi-partisan support, despite the fact that the legislation adds about $2 trillion dollars to the national debt over the next twenty years.  I have no particular opinion about the additional debt, but consider this: In the last few years, we've experienced shutdowns of the federal government due to congressional refusal to raise the debt ceiling.  Those most resistant to raising the debt limit have claimed they were acting out of principled opposition to increased debt--despite the fact that, as every economist and analyst pointed out, raising the debt limit adds not one cent to the nation's debt but simply ensures that the US is able to pay the debts it has already incurred.  Yet now, many of these same politicians have apparently acquiesced to a bill that quite unambiguously does the thing that they swore never to do: increase the national debt!  And I presume much--if not all--of the increased debt will be generated by pork-barrel projects that benefit supporters of various congressmen and senators!

Is it possible--and I know I'm talking crazy talk here--that politicians are somewhat hypocritical?

In Which We've Figured Out Who Supports Trump

I was scrolling through the listings for "on demand" movies. On my service, the guide displays the "Rotten Tomatoes" ranking for each film.  If you're unfamiliar with the rating system, the higher the percentage of "tomatoes," the more positive the general reviews of the movie are. At any rate, I happened to notice that "The Princess Bride" had only a 97% positive rating. Who are these three-percenters who apparently disliked "The Princess Bride"?!? Are they allowed to breed?!?

In Which We Anticipate People Correcting Our Spelling of 'Wompa'

Unless you've spent the last several months hanging upside down in a wompa cave, you know that the latest installment in the "Star Wars" saga, "The Force Awakens," opens galaxy-wide this weekend. Thousands of people have already purchased their tickets, presumably worried the movie will open and close between midnight and 1:00 AM Friday.  I myself am decidedly less enthusiastic.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm certainly going to see the darn thing.  I've already decided that, if nothing else, it will form a lovely portion of my Jewish Christmas--an appetizer for the Chinese food, as it were.  But I find myself substantially less geeked out about the whole thing than I once would have been.  I rationalize my lassitude by claiming general disappointment with the last trilogy: Jar Jar Binks alone justifies any amount of disenchantment.  I also explain to anyone who will listen that I am at heart more Trek than Wars in my enthusiasms.  But if I'm being honest, I have to wonder whether this malaise is just one more sign that I've gotten 'gulp' old!

Then again, it's not like I'm rushing out to see "The Danish Girl," either.

In Which There Is No 'I' in Dannel

"Should being a terrorism suspect prohibit a person from buying firearms?"  According to Connecticut governor Dannel Malloy--and, for that matter, every marginally sane human being on the planet--the answer is, "Is this seriously even a question?"  But the political climate in this country has devolved to the point where, yes, it apparently is.

These days, people who find themselves on terrorist watch lists can freely and easily walk into a store and purchase all the weapons they want.  Gun rights activists explain that they are simply standing up for due process: People on terrorism watch lists and no-fly lists have not been found guilty of anything and thus should not have their constitutional rights infringed upon.  Furthermore, some people end up on watch lists for no clear reason and have difficulty getting their names expunged.  Fair enough: We should certainly make watch lists more transparent.  But the logic of this situation seems to be that some people are too dangerous to hop on an airplane but not dangerous enough to be prevented from amassing an arsenal of high-powered killing machines.  God bless America.

In Which We Take a Break from Outrage to Ponder Something Important

I had dinner at a restaurant the other day.  When I got up to leave, I decided to use the restroom--I'd had a beer, and it was a long walk to my car.  Don't think about that too much. 

Anyway, I went into the men's room and was immediately thrown off-balance.  The restroom was fairly large--at least 10 feet by 10 feet--and contained both toilet and urinal--but no divider between the two. . .receptacles.  That is, the room was more than large enough to accommodate two people but set up for only one.  Or, I guess, two if they're very close.  I've encountered this kind of set-up before, and I'm never sure if it represents an oversight on the part of the proprietors (they forgot to install some sort of partition) or, alternatively, some sort of strange "perk": Whether you're in the mood to stand or sit, you can relieve yourself in comfort in our unusually large facilities!

OK, we'll get back to gun control and Trump, right away.

In Which We Point Out That 100 Years Is a Long Time

Chuck Williams--the "Williams" of "Williams-Sonoma" died yesterday at his home in San Francisco. He was 100 years old. According to the obituary in today's New York Times, "No cause [of death] was given."

Doesn't "being 100 years old" count?

In Which It Is a Day Ending in 'Y'

Law enforcement officials have declared the San Bernardino shootings a "terrorist attack."  Fair enough.  I can't disagree.  But Republican candidates are racing to declare that this designation somehow obviates the need for better gun control laws.  What is needed, they claim, is not stricter laws but a "recognition" that we are at war.  Liberals, they say, won't acknowledge that the Islamic State has declared war on the United States and, indeed, Western Civilization.

OK, Republicans: I acknowledge this.  I acknowledge this mostly because I read the newspapers and am an informed citizen and live in the real world, and I have heard all about how the leaders of the Islamic State have called on their followers to attack and kill "infidels" wherever they may be found.

But because I live in the real world, etc., etc.--and because I acknowledge that there are psychopaths--including here in the United States and including far too many (Robert Dear, Dylann Roof) inspired by things other than "Islamic" beliefs--who subscribe to apocalyptic worldviews mandating death for "undesirables"--because of all this I would like to see some attempt to make it slightly more difficult for these enemy terrorists to legally acquire weapons--as all of those listed above did!

So the GOP would have us do everything in our power to combat terrorists--everything, that is, except actually disarm them.

In Which We Talk about What We Talk about When We Talk about Guns

What really gets me is that, if you slice through the hyperbolic rhetoric--"Obama's a-comin' for yer guns!!!"--the actual proposals that most people talk about when they talk about gun control are things you would think the vast majority of people--Democrat or Republican, black or white, rich or poor--would have very little problem with: Close loopholes that allow people to avoid background checks when buying guns at gun shows.  Require people to undergo training before being licensed to carry a gun.  Maybe require gun owners to carry insurance.

It's not accidental, by the way, that many proposals mirror regulations generally associated with automobile ownership.  A standard (and oh-so-tired) argument put forth by gun enthusiasts is that, if we want to save lives, we should ban cars not guns.  A specious argument, of course, as almost nobody actually talks about banning guns, merely regulating them and making it more difficult for sociopaths to amass arsenals.  But still, if we're going to compare guns to cars, I'm all for that.  If we simply regulated guns as much as we regulate cars, we'd be well on our way to solving the mass shooter problem.

If it will make the enthusiasts happy, I will go on record (as I have before) as a proud liberal and say that I have no desire to see guns confiscated.  If it makes you feel safer to keep a gun in your house, fine.  I will even say that I understand the gun owners' concerns about legislation that would ban a particular type of gun or limit the number of guns a person can own.  I don't agree with those concerns, but I understand them.  To go back to the car metaphor, most people would take issue with the government limiting the number or type of vehicles a person can own.  So in that regard, I understand a person being troubled at the thought of government officials restricting his/her right to own, say, a small army's worth of guns.  Probably not as troubled as I am by wondering why someone would feel the need to own said small army's worth of guns, but troubled nonetheless.  Still, I would point out that different types of vehicle--motorcycle, boat, truck--require different types of licensure.  Maybe a person who wants to own a military-grade semi-automatic weapon should go through greater training requirements than a person who simply wants to pack a derringer.

My point is, I am willing to concede that some of the points made by gun-rights activists have merit.  Now, could the NRA return the favor and concede that some of the points made by those of us who simply want to live our lives without constantly wondering if we will be the next victims of heavily armed sociopaths also have merit.  Can we please find some common ground and do. . . well, something?!?

In Which We Fix the Classics

Holly Wilson always dreamed of the "perfect wedding."  Even as a young girl, she would flip through bridal magazines and clip pictures of her favorite dresses and veils and other wedding accessories.  Throughout high school and college, she would at least partially judge every boy she dated by how she imagined he would look in a tuxedo, standing at the altar, slipping a ring on her finger.  Of course, when the time came to plan her own wedding, she made it into a full-time job (much to the chagrin of her colleagues and supervisor at the dental office where she worked as a receptionist).  Venue, decorations, flowers, bridesmaid dresses, invitations--no detail was too small for Holly to obsess over.  On the big day, Holly looked radiant; her groom seemed sprung from the pages of a men's fashion magazine.  Everything was perfect!  And then midway through the ceremony, the sprinkler system in the church inexplicably went off, drenching the gathered celebrants before they could scramble for cover.  Holly laughed it off as best she could, but deep down she was traumatized--and the marriage itself,  seemingly cursed at the outset, never recovered.  Less than two years later, Holly and her husband went their separate ways.

This isn't a sad story, though.  Holly soon met someone else, someone superior to her first husband in all respects.  They fell in love and quickly decided to get married, and Holly, perhaps chastened by her first experience, vowed not to get too overwhelmed in the planning.  The one thing she did decide immediately, though, was that she would hold this wedding outdoors, in a beautiful spot in a local park, away from any temperamental fire-suppression technology.  On the day itself, her friends and family gathered at the appointed location, under a majestic elm, next to a gently burbling brook.  Birds twittered charmingly, and Holly's Aunt Michelle swore she even saw a deer peeking out from behind a stand of trees not far from the wedding party.  Everything was perfect!  And then, as the priest began the ceremony, the sunny skies suddenly darkened and, despite all meteorological assurances to the contrary, a tremendous rain cascaded down on Holly's wedding party.

There.  You're welcome, Alanis!

In Which We Dream a Little Dream of Someone We Apparently Already Know

Scrolling through Facebook yesterday, I came across a link to "12 Amazing Facts about Sleep." Blatant clickbait to be sure, and so, obviously, I clicked.  The first fact was, indeed, kind of amazing, to wit, that you can only dream of faces you've actually seen--even if you don't consciously remember seeing them.  Fascinating. And then I thought about that statement.  "Wait a second. How could you possibly prove that?" I mean, I can certainly dream of PLACES I've never been. I'm willing to accept that faces differ from places--for one thing, they have an 'f'--but still. If I dream of a person I've never seen, how can anyone prove that I've actually seen that person, but that I just don't remember it? Sounds like something sleep scientists came up with to make themselves look cool at parties.

Interesting ramification:  If I meet ithe girl of my dreams, then I've actually met her before. I just didn't know it.

In Which We Can't Even

Originally published on July 23, 2012, and sadly once-again appropriate today:

Remember that time that a heavily-armed, law-abiding citizen stopped that maniac who was about to open fire on a crowd of helpless people?  And how everybody said, "Thank God for the Second Amendment, or this would have been so much worse!"  Remember that? Yeah, me neither.

Am I being lazy?  Maybe.  Or maybe I'm just expending the same amount of energy as the politicians whose job it actually is to do something about these never-ending atrocities.

In Which Happy Thanksgiving

On the one hand, I find it distasteful that Target will open its doors at 6:00 PM on Thanksgiving, and I think the superstore should be avoided today at all costs.  On the other hand, I really need a 24-pack of paper towels.  What to do, what to do. . .

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Pope Francis arrived in Kenya, and, in an official motorcade comprised of limousines and luxury SUVs, little Lord Humblepants rode along in a "little gray Honda."  The locals were shocked and, frankly, so am I.  When is this guy going to stop shilling for his Japanese corporate masters?!?

In Which We Solve the Refugee Crisis

American pharmaceutical giant Pfizer has agreed to merge with Irish drug company Allergan.  Even though Pfizer is a considerably larger company, under the conditions of the deal Allergan will technically be the "buyer."  The reason?  Corporate inversion!  A fancy term for legal tax evasion.  See, because Pfizer will suddenly, officially, become an "Irish" company--despite the fact that the bulk of Allergan's business, like Pfizer's, is actually conducted in the United States--Pfizer will be subject to Irish corporate tax rates, which are considerably lower than those of the US.  Conservatives will no doubt shriek that this just proves that American taxes are too high, driving venerable corporations like Pfizer to such extremes of financial gamesmanship.  One wonders how much American governmental largesse has found its way into Pfizer's research and development coffers--to say nothing of protections offered by American patent laws and other governmental services that Pfizer is now seeking not to have to pay for.  But never mind that.

As much as one's gorge rises at Pfizer's behavior, there is a silver lining: I think this suggests a solution to the Syrian refugee crisis.  I'm thinking that, if American families take in refugees, the Americans could declare that the refugees are actually "sheltering" them--and that they--the Americans--should therefore be subject to tax rates of the refugees' original homes.  I frankly have no idea what Syria's federal tax rate is, but even if it's considerably higher than the US', I don't see Bashar al-Assad coming over to collect. 

Of course it's a ridiculous proposal: Ludicrous tax dodges are only for multi-billion dollar companies seeking exorbitant profit, not for people displaying exorbitant generosity.

In Which We Seek Appropriate Titles

The person chiefly responsible for the Paris terrorist attacks is presumed to be Abdelhamid Abaaoud, a resident of the Belgian neighborhood Molenbeek.  If you pay attention to news reports, you've seen or heard Abaaoud referred to as such things as "mastermind," "architect," and "ringleader."  What's the right term?  "Mastermind" makes him sound like a James Bond villain, the kind of suavely compelling ne'er-do-well played by Christoph Waltz or Javier Bardem.  That won't do.  "Architect" has a more technical connotation, but still conveys too much respect for Abaaoud's intellectual capacity.  Architects, after all, build things, a far more difficult task than mindless destruction.  "Ringleader" has possibilities, conveying as it does the image of someone at the center of "madness"--the madness of a terrorist cell, though, is a far cry from that of a circus.  Perhaps we need a new term?  Thug-in-chief?  Suggestions?

In Which TERROR! TERROR! TRUMP! and--If You Stick Around to the End--a Nice Palate Cleanser

For the record, the front page, above-the-fold story in today's New York Times chronicled the terrorist attack on a hotel in Mali.  So, progress?

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In other-ish news, members and supporters of Al Qaeda and ISIS are squabbling like Republicans and Democrats over which political party is superior.  ISIS murders dozens in Paris, and Al Qaeda jeers the indiscriminate nature of the attacks; Al Qaeda, showing infinitely more restraint and decorum, attempts to weed out Muslims in its Mali killing spree, and no doubt ISIS rolls its collective eyes at the resulting minimized body count: Only twenty-something killed?  You call that jihad? The bickering has reached such a point that one disgusted supporter tweeted a plaintive, can't-we-all-just-get-along message: “I just wish we could all be brothers again&not argue."

Boys, boys, no need to fight: You're both a bunch of sociopathic barbarians.

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Speaking of sociopaths, Donald Trump is sort of backing off his call to create a national registry for Muslims.  I don't see why.  Sounds perfectly reasonable.  I mean, what could possibly go wrong?  We could keep it simple, too: Maybe just a little yellow crescent moon patch on the sleeve?

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Finally, let's end on a pleasant note.  I just saw this commercial for Campbell's soup.  I guess it's been out for awhile, but this is the first time I'd seen it--such are the perils of DVR'ing everything and fast-forwarding through commercials.  Anyway, in the ad, two men take turns feeding soup to a toddler.  As the first man brings the soup to the child's lips, he does his best Darth Vader interpretation, "Cooper, I AM your father."  Then, the second man, also Vadering, says, "No, Cooper, I am your father."  The image of an attractive gay couple raising an adorable child--and quoting "Star Wars," no less!--has predictably angered right-wing bluenoses, such as the activist "Million Moms" group, who fear the ad "normalizes" such an abhorrent lifestyle.  Relax, Moms!  The ad never explicitly states that the men are a gay couple: For all we know, the baby was conceived during a drunken three-way with the kid's coked out mother.

I'm here to help.

But I personally choose to think the ad does, in fact, "normalize" what to me has been perfectly normal for quite some time: The fact that same-sex couples are just as capable of being loving (if incredibly dorky) parents as their heterosexual counterparts.  And maybe this commercial will help some people reach the same conclusion.  So, progress.


I assume we are meant to conclude that this is a gay couple raising a child, and not that the child is the product of a drunken three-way. 

In Which We Experience 'That Moment When. . . '

People respond to tragedy in various ways.  The Eiffel Tower forms the peace sign's inverted 'V' in countless Facebook profile pictures, while in others the picture remains as it was before the events of November 13, only now superimposed by a ghostly tricolor.  #PrayforParis is a popular hashtag.  Whatever helps.

Less benign, though, are those status updates that chastise people for the apparent hypocrisy in condemning the French attacks while remaining silent about (if not ignorant of) similar attacks in other parts of the world.  They question why people pray for Paris but not Beirut, which suffered a major terrorist attack just one day earlier.  They ascribe to callousness the Western world's lack of sufficient grief at an attack on a university in Kenya--which seems somewhat off-topic, as the event in question happened some six months ago and was, as I recall, covered quite extensively by any number of news outlets.  But these people do certainly have a point: Western media in general devote exponentially more coverage to terrorist attacks against "First World" nations like France than they do to similar carnage in poorer places like Lebanon.  I guess my question is, And so?

Don't get me wrong: Any victims of terrorism deserve outpourings of sympathy; any bloodthirsty zealots spilling innocent blood in the name of delusional causes deserve scorn.  The French don't matter more than the Lebanese (or the Kenyan or the Chinese or the Australian).  But there are any number of reasons why the American news media would focus more on what happens in France than on what happens in Beirut.  Let's be honest: Walk up to a typical American--a good-hearted, caring, American--and say, "A terrorist attack just killed over 100 people in Lebanon," and that good-hearted person says, "Oh my God!  That's horrible!"  Walk up to that same American and say, "A terrorist attack just killed over 100 people in Paris," and that same good-hearted person says, "Oh my God!  That's horrible!  What happened?  Tell me what happened!"

Is that right?  Fair?  Equitable?  Maybe not.  But it is human: We identify with people who are "like" us.  The "typical" American--for better or worse--identifies more with France than with Lebanon or with Kenya.  It doesn't mean we don't care.  And frankly, the time to point out people's supposed "hypocrisy"--if, that is, you want to encourage more openheartedness--is not when those people are feeling understandably traumatized.  "Your buddy just died in a car crash?  Well, sure, that's sad, but what about the two-hundred civilians killed by Syrian airstrikes yesterday?  Why aren't you crying for them?!?"

Back in July, Martin O'Malley, the former governor of Maryland, elicited scorn when, in response to the activist "Black Lives Matter" movement protesting police brutality against African-Americans, he remarked that "All lives matter."  While the comment is undoubtedly right in a literal sense, it reflected a certain tone-deafness to the protesters' concerns.  Of course all lives matter, but that wasn't the point at that moment for that audience: People who were processing traumatic events and expressing their grief and outrage about those events.  I wonder if those expressing dismay at the lack of coverage of terrorism in Beirut, people whose general worldviews most likely mirror those of O'Malley's critics, realize that they just all-lives-mattered Paris.

And that's something I've noticed over the last few days: The way the events of last weekend have led to outbreaks of what can at best be called cognitive dissonance and at worst hypocrisy.  I'm speaking of myself here, too.  When I hear about France sealing its borders, or GOP hardliners calling hysterically for a ban on Syrian--or even Muslim--immigration to the United States, I roll my eyes and think, among other things, of how ridiculous such non-solutions are.  After all, I think, what good will sealing borders do, as anyone bent on infiltrating the US to wreak terrorist havoc will surely find ways around whatever laws we put in place. . . . And then I realize that I am making exactly the same argument used by NRA sympathizers to pooh-pooh attempts to strengthen gun-control laws.

It's been said that hypocrisy is the tribute vice pays to virtue.  Perhaps its also the wage extracted by events too terrible to rationalize.

In Which We Imagine No Religion

Generally, this blog is a funny place (I try), but it's hard to generate that kind of content on a day like today, when the front pages of the world's papers are filled once again with images of senseless slaughter and mayhem, this time in Paris.  We struggle to maintain our sense of proportion, of rationality--to say the right things about not judging all the members of a group based on the actions of a tiny minority, about how responding to violence with more violence leads only into an abyss--all the while longing secretly, guiltily, for some massive, cathartic act of collective vengeance.  But there's the problem, right?  As righteous as our angers feels, the lunatic rage of those who struck Paris yesterday oozes up from the same desire for revenge, the craving to get even for injuries real or perceived. 

The temptation is, first, to blame the seventh-century mindset of fanatical Muslims, as ISIS zealots claim responsibility for the latest carnage.  But then, we really need to blame not Islam, but religion in general, as every faith claims to promote peace while slaughtering its "enemies" in the name of a supposedly all-powerful deity--an all-powerful deity so insecure in its omnipotence that it requires murderous suppression of anyone who dares to so much as raise an eyebrow at its claim to superiority.  Bottom line, of course: Old-time religion's sole purpose is the rationalization of suffering: People suffer, see no reason for suffering, justify suffering as somehow holy--as proof of their actual status as beloved of God--and then release their frustrations on others who are, by definition, unbeloved of God and therefore fair game. 

Imagine no religion?  I'd like that.  I really would.  Still, I despair.  Even without God to blame, we'd still find excuses to kill each other.  A secular prayer, then: That one day we--the collective we, the we that is all humankind--will one day harness the near-unfathomable power we possess in our magnificent brains, and turn our attention to solving the problems we all face, instead of squandering our genius on blame and hate and rage.  I fear this prayer will prove as effective as those uttered by true-believers the world over.  But, hey, I'm only human--groping, too, for some hope in the dark.

In Which We Review the Republican Debate

So, let me get this straight: At last night's Republican debate, Donald Trump argued that no increase in the minimum wage is necessary because wages are "too high."  At the same time, the tide of illegal immigration must be stemmed and some 11 million people deported because, as Ted Cruz claims, these illegal immigrants are "pushing down American wages."  In other words, restricting immigration will raise the wages of American workers, who are already overpaid.  I'm so confused.  Not as confused the masses of red-state blue-collar workers supporting billionaire Donald Trump, who apparently thinks that they--the workers--are paid too much, but confused nonetheless.

Also from the debate, according to Marco Rubio, America needs "more welders and less philosophers.”  As Stannis Baratheon would surely point out, what we need are "fewer" philosophers, but aside from that Rubio is absolutely right.  America must reduce its well-documented glut of philosophers!  Why, one can't swing a dead cat--or, if you're a Schrodingerian, a dead and alive cat--without whacking a philosopher in the face!  And I, for one, am sick and tired of placing ads for welders on Craigslist (none of your business!) and having twenty to thirty philosophy majors show up!

In Which We Wonder about Higher Education Priorities

The President of the University of Missouri's Columbus campus, Timothy M. Wolfe, has tendered his resignation in reaction to wide-ranging protests.  Wolfe first stirred anger when he announced the university would stop paying for graduate students' and teaching assistants' health coverage.  Then the university's medical school severed ties with Planned Parenthood in response to attacks from Republican politicians--only to then be attacked by Democrats who felt the college was kowtowing to political pressure.  But the proverbial last straw for Wolfe came when the football team threatened to boycott its games due to the college leadership's insufficient response to racial incidents on campus.

Good on them for forcing change, but, to put this in perspective: First, they stripped healthcare away from the underpaid and overworked graduate students who presumably shoulder much of the responsibility for actually educating the student body, but nothing happened because those overburdened grad students should be thankful for whatever they get.  Then, they failed to support the medical school's right to cooperate with a non-profit organization that actually provides necessary medical care for countless poor and uninsured women, but nothing happened because all the women who go to Planned Parenthood are abortion-happy slatterns who should be shamed and inconvenienced as much as possible.  And then they angered the football team, and MY GOD THIS MAN MUST RESIGN IMMEDIATELY!!! Because FOOTBALL!!!

'Murica!

In Which We Enlighten the Masses

Fun fact: The first pies were baked by primitive statisticians for the sole purpose of conveying information about the relative quantities of the parts that make up a whole. It was centuries before people realized these "pie charts" could be filled with delicious fillings and eaten.

In Which We Wonder about Various People's Intelligence

The New York State attorney general is investigating Exxon Mobil, claiming the company defrauded investors by minimizing the dangers that climate change posed to the oil company's business.  I am, of course, shocked--shocked!--that an oil company would minimize the dangers of climate change.  I am, however, less than sympathetic to people who may have suffered financially because they took that oil company's word about the relative lack of dangers posed by climate change.  It seems to me that if supposedly savvy investors are so willfully ignorant as to ignore overwhelming scientific evidence, they deserve whatever financial penalties befall them.  That's just Darwinism.  A concept these investors would presumably also deny.

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Ben Carson has released a rap song--guess he felt his campaign hadn't provided enough fodder for ridicule.  In the song, he speaks about picking up the "baton of freedom."  Presumably to fend off the pom-poms of tyranny.

In Which We Offer Potentially Life-Saving Advice

We all know certain topics that are off-limits for civilized debate.  If you ever want to start a fight with a friend, a loved one, or your legions of Facebook followers, all you need to do is offer up the mildest of critiques on their views on religion, politics, abortion, gun control...  But another equally inflammatory topic is missing from this list, one that far too many people bumble heedlessly onto, not realizing the number of friendships, marriages, and international peace treaties destroyed by unwinnable arguments: Coffee.

People defend their coffee habits the way ISIS defends the Koran--with only slightly fewer beheadings.  Some, for example, are if-the-coffee-was-made-more-than-nine-seconds-ago-it's-pig-slop types, while others occupy a position of this-coffee-was-made-during-the-first-Bush-administration-but-I-don't-feel-like-making-a-fresh-pot-so-hand-it-over.  On one ninety-degree day, I overheard a Starbucks barista question a customer's "extra hot" order: Said customer took off one of her earrings and punctured the poor guy's larynx.  Understandably, no charges were filed.  Seriously, people, it's not worth it.

Tea, by the way, is a perfectly acceptable debate topic.  Not that people don't feel strongly about tea, but, let's face it, they're tea drinkers.  What are they going to do?  Crochet you to death?

In Which We Invite COS to Sharpen Her Scalpel

This morning, FOS sent me the following message:

"Watching a video on the NYTimes web site about the appeal of Ben Carson. Their first snippet of him? 'The ark was built by amateurs, the Titanic was built by professionals'."

Oy.

I assume the point (?) being made (?) is that, when you want a job done right, hire an amateur--which would make the amateur into a professional, but never mind that.  Leaving aside for the moment the accuracy of this sentiment--we'll get to that in a moment--I'm trying to figure out what point Carson's trying to make.  That he is an amateur politician and thus more trustworthy than professionals?  That God trusts amateurs more than professionals and therefore amateurs are more favorable in the eyes of God?

Knowing Carson's penchant for fundamentalist rhetoric, I suspect the latter.  But then, God himself kind of stacked the deck against the Titanic professionals by throwing that iceberg at them.  If God plays hardball, I don't think it really matters whether you're a professional or an amateur--an engineering degree from MIT won't prevent a smiting, right?


For that matter, who says Noah was an amateur?  All we know about his professional life is that after the flood, he became a vintner.  We all know that operating wineries is the second career of choice for any number of accomplished professionals in other fields--look at Francis Ford Coppola!  It's completely possible that in his first career, Noah was a highly paid carpenter or a skilled arkwright or even an award-winning member of the pre-Hellenic Nouvelle Vague cineaste community, any of which would invalidate Carson's "amateur" claim.

Ultimately, though, I have to agree with Carson's sentiment: For important jobs, amateurs can often be preferable to professionals.  If, for example, I needed a tumor removed from my brain, and, to perform the operation, I had to select between, on the one hand, internationally renowned neurosurgeon and nutcase Ben Carson and, on the other, say, my cousin who likes to drink wine and jog, recent events would convince me to choose the amateur.

In Which We Mark Our Calendars for Next Year

I really can't be too upset.

If someone had told me in March--or, heck, July--that the Mets would be in contention for a playoff spot in late September, I'd have been pretty happy.  If someone had told me they would win the National League East outright, I'd have been thrilled.  If someone had told me they would play in the World Series. . . well, I would have run as fast and as far as I could because I would clearly have been speaking with a dangerous lunatic, completely out of touch with reality.

Ultimately, the Mets overachieved this year.  While no one can argue with the almost unfathomable excellence of their starting pitchers, the team overall didn't have much going for it: an unpredictable offense, a mediocre defense, and, aside from Jeurys Familia, a shaky bullpen.  And yet the Mets got just hot enough at just the right time to make it all the way to the World Series.  Where, yes, they were hopelessly overmatched.

I must congratulate the Kansas City Royals.  I don't think I've ever seen a team that played so. . . right.  They were relentless, and they made no mistakes.  For Mets fans, watching these games was like the proverbial death by a thousand cuts.  Royals hitters, for the most part, never hit the ball particularly hard, and yet they never seemed to make an out.  It seemed every time I looked up Eric Hosmer was hitting another soft grounder just out of the reach of Wilmer Flores to drive in two more runs.  I'll bet if I turned the TV on now I'd see Mike Moustakas hitting another check-swing liner just over the head of David Wright, somehow driving in six runners, all from first base.

The play last night that tied the game was emblematic of everything the Royals did well:  Hosmer at third, one out.  Familia gets Moustakas to do exactly what Familia wants him to do: hit a little nothing grounder that's easily fielded by David Wright.  Wright grabs the ball, looks Hosmer back at third, and throws to first for the out--and as soon as he throws, Hosmer charges home.  First baseman Lucas Duda throws home, wildly, the ball sails away from the catcher, and Hosmer slides in with the tying run.  People blame Duda, but that's unfair: Even with an absolutely perfect throw, I'm not sure he gets Hosmer.  It was an insane play.  Hosmer should never have attempted it.  And yet it worked.

At any rate, we can look back on an unexpectedly rewarding season with an admittedly disappointing ending.  But with the group of young pitchers and with, hopefully, the addition of some offensive help, the future is bright.  Just wait 'til next year.  Let's go Mets!

In Which We Call Attention to the Fine Print

The other day, I received an unexpected check from Chase Bank for $6.70.  The timing was perfect, since, as it happens, I was exactly $6.70 over my monthly budget.  Were it not for this windfall, I would have lost everything--home, car, ability to buy food. . . . I would at the very least have had to forego my venti pumpkin spice until payday.  I kissed the check on the lips and vowed never again to put myself in such a precarious situation.

And good thing, too, because the class action lawsuit--the source of the above-mentioned corporate largesse--is becoming a thing of the past.  Today, more and more businesses, from banks and credit card companies to restaurants and adultery facilitation websites, slip disclaimers into the fine print of service contracts essentially barring consumers from filing class-action lawsuits.  Instead, potential customers must agree to resolve any disputes through binding arbitration--a fact these customers often discover only after suffering injury and seeking legal redress.

In principle, there is nothing wrong with arbitration--it can be an efficient way to settle disputes.  Problems arise, however, when the amounts at stake are too small to make it worthwhile for individuals to pursue arbitration on their own behalf.  Take my check, for example.  (Please don't literally take my check: Starvation!  Pumpkin spice withdrawal!)  I confess, I have no idea what this check was for: Presumably, Chase engaged in some shenanigans--shocking, I know!--and injured me and any number of other people to the tune of a few dollars each.  Now, even if I knew what Chase had done to me, and even if the actual financial harm done me was several times greater than $6.70--$25, $50, heck, maybe even $100--would I really go to the time (potentially months) and expense (potentially thousands of dollars), to try to recoup the money?  Not unless I was a fanatic or an idiot.

Yeah, shut up.

The point is, while class action suits result in relatively trivial victories for individual consumers, they also serve to punish and, ideally, deter corporate malfeasance.  My tiny check is just a fraction of what must have been a multi-million dollar settlement against Chase.  And maybe the memory of that settlement will dissuade Chase from. . . well, doing whatever they did to merit that punishment.  We can hope.

What is particularly noxious about these "pro-arbitration" (really just anti-class action) clauses is the arrogance of companies in thinking they could impose them in the first place.  What these clauses say, in so many words, is "We reserve the right to do whatever we want--legal or not--and we further declare that you can't do anything about it."  And the Supreme Court, because Scalia, somehow has no problem with this: "The antitrust laws do not guarantee an affordable procedural path to the vindication of every claim."  Or, as Elena Kagan wrote in her dissent, when consumers feel they have been wronged by arbitration clauses, the judicial response is, "Too darn bad."

So what can consumers do?  Not a whole lot.  Many of these fine-print contracts allow consumers to opt out of the arbitration clause, but consumers usually have a limited time in which to assert this right--and, of course, finding that provision requires the consumer to read through the whole eye-straining document.  Stories tell of one man--I think he lives somewhere in Minnesota--who managed to read through the entire Apple service agreement--but these tales are probably apocryphal.  No such man could truly exist.  Consumers can also, of course, opt not to patronize businesses that require arbitration, but with more and more companies employing this tactic, alternatives are limited, to say the least.

In the meantime, I'm debating whether to cash my check or just frame it. It may turn out to be a historical artifact of inordinate worth.  A relic of a time when consumers had some small power against corporate overlords.

In Which We Feel Impending Dread

A small number of American troops will soon be on the ground in Syria.  If you're keeping track--well, good luck.  But as I understand it, the Americans will coordinate with Kurdish forces battling the Islamic State.  The Kurds, though, are also fighting the Assad regime, an ally of Russia.  Russia started dropping bombs on Syria a couple of weeks ago, ostensibly also targeting the Islamic State, yet, strangely, causing major damage primarily in areas controlled not by ISIS but by those battling Assad--in other words, dropping bombs on people who share the goals of the Kurds--whom American forces will be hanging out with.

So, yeah, no way this ends badly.

This decision has accomplished a minor miracle in Washington, uniting Republicans and Democrats, who both think it a bad idea.  Of course, they have different reasons.  Republicans feel that the troop deployment is "too little too late," and Democrats think it risks pushing the US down a "slippery slope into a hopeless war."  Clichés aside, both sides are kind of right.  I tend to side more with the "stay out of it" side, but I also think that these sort of half-measures--designed to show that the US is doing something while not getting hopelessly entangled--are doomed to accomplish pretty much nothing, except maybe get American soldiers killed.  To throw another cliché at the situation, "Go big, or go home."  And if those are the choices, Americans should really just go home.

In Which We Anxiously Anticipate the Chinese Duggars

In an attempt to ward off economic decline, China has officially relaxed its one-child policy.  Couples will now be allowed to have two children.  Slippery slope, people!  How long until Chinese TLC subjects us to "Three Kids and Counting"?!?

In Which We Avoid Republicans, Dare Trump, Question Facebook, and Roll Our Eyes at Overly Creative Reporters.

I confess: I didn't watch the Republican debate last night.  Since I am not a registered Republican, and thus will not directly participate in the selection of the GOP nominee, I declare missing the debate not so much an act of utter civic apathy as an example of instinctual self-preservation: My delicate sensibilities can stand only so much of these carnival barkers pretending to be statesmen--or rather, NOT pretending to be statesmen.  That would be an improvement.  Still, I was struck by this quote from ostensible "safe" candidate, Jeb Bush:

“It troubles me that people are rewarded for tearing down our country. It’s never been that way in American politics before. I just don’t believe that this country’s days are going to be deeply — you know, going down. I think we’re on the verge of the greatest time, and I want to fix the things to let people rise up.”

Huh?

Was this Bush trying out new campaign slogans: "Bush 2016: Fixing the things!"  "Bush 2016: On the Verge of the Greatest Time!"  I guess either of those is better than "Bush 2016: America Doesn't Go Down!"  Not much better, but, y'know, better.

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Did you see this?  In response to Donald Trump's suggestion that the million-dollar loan he received from his father was not a particularly large sum of money--and should do nothing to detract from his delusional self-image as a self-made man--Stephen Colbert challenged Trump to sign a million-dollar check made out to the Harlem Children's Zone.  If Trump is half as smart as he considers himself, he will waste no time in signing the check: That million dollar donation would do more for his image than ten times that amount spent on advertising.  I'm almost mad at Colbert for giving that jackass such a golden opportunity.  But I will cling desperately to the belief that Trump's inherent jackassery will prevent him from doing such an obviously right thing.

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I have 30 people "following" me on Facebook.  I have no idea what this means, especially because I don't actually KNOW any of these people.  Shouldn't it just say I have 30 people "stalking" me?

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From the "Someone at the Times Is Trying Way Too Hard" files:

"Enceladus is only 300 miles across and whiter than a Bing Crosby Christmas, reflecting virtually all the sunlight that hits it, which should make it colder and deader than Scrooge’s heart."
                       --"Cassini Seeks Insights to Life in Plumes of Enceladus, Saturn’s Icy Moon"

Some editor should have gotten rid of that sentence the way the Grinch took away Cindy Lou Who's Christmas tree.

In Which We Gaze in Awe at Congressional Fashion

Yes, Congress and the White House reached a tentative budget agreement that would more-or-less stabilize the country's finances for the next couple of years, but never mind that!  What's up with John Boehner's tie:

You don't normally see that shade of green outside of a box of Lucky Charms.  I'm guessing Boehner looked at his tie rack, filled with all shades and styles of Republican red and just said, "Fuck it!  I'm outta here! I'm gonna be a leprechaun!"

In Which We Question the Logic of Anti-Gambling Laws and Iowa Republicans

Front-page article in today's Times discusses the byzantine world of online sports betting.  Such betting is mostly illegal in the United States, except in Las Vegas, because sports betting is perfectly fine as long as it's conducted in a desert atmosphere.  When people outside of Vegas bet on sports, they are engaging in an illegal activity, and so must navigate the shadowy realms of the internet and, apparently, Fifth Avenue.  It's all rather confusing to me.  Mainly because sports betting--and gambling in general--is one of those mostly victimless crimes like personal marijuana use and, I don't know, arson, that people should be allowed to engage in, free from government interference.  The very fact that sports books are legal in Vegas--and other forms of gambling are legal virtually everywhere across the country--is an indication that maybe the federal government could find better things to do with its time.  In the meantime, though, I will just reiterate that people should be allowed to do whatever they want with their own money.  Except bet on the Knicks--that's a clear sign of a dangerous mental deficiency.

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People are drawn to Ben Carson because he is "calm."  Makes sense.  It's a trait that appeals to classic Republican values.  Like Teddy Roosevelt said, "Speak softly and be an idiot."

In Which We Ask, Is This Really the Guy Who Wrote "Heart of Gold"?

Deep, Insightful Musical Criticism:

Neil Young has had a magnificent career.  His many accomplishments include writing what may well be the worst song I've ever heard.  As you might guess from the title, "Who's Gonna Stand Up (and Save the Earth)" features an environmental message.  As you might also guess from the title, the lyrics have all the subtlety of a beheading.  The melody sounds like rejected "Game of Thrones" theme music.  I can generally get behind environmentalism, but this song makes me want to go out and personally denude a rain forest.

In Which Hurricanes Diminish while Crime Rises

Hurricane Patricia received an unsatisfactory performance review and was downgraded to a tropical storm.  Good news for Mexico.  Same-sex marriage is mostly legal in Mexico, though, so I'm waiting to hear Mike Huckabee explain why the country wasn't wiped off the face of the Earth like it should have been.  Maybe not being America automatically condemns Mexico to hellfire regardless of its misguided tolerance for sodomites.

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FBI Director James Comey attributes a creeping rise in violent crime to the so-called "Ferguson Effect"--a reluctance by police officers to use aggressive and occasionally violent or lethal pre-emptive tactics against would-be perpetrators, lest they be held to account in the court of public opinion ('cause God knows they're unlikely to be held to account in any other court).  It makes a certain statistical sense: Because police now must exercise excessive caution not to harass and occasionally kill people for no particular reason, it just stands to reason that some of those people who would have been arrested--or killed--now go off and commit violent crimes.  I mean, why wouldn't they?  For me, every day I'm not stopped and frisked, is an opportunity to break the law.  I'm not a violent person by nature, so I generally confine myself to petty larceny and occasional wire fraud, but that's just me.  Like Sir William Blackstone said, Better ten innocent men get tazed than one guilty man go free.

In Which We-- Never Mind That! Mets!

I began this blog in late-December 2008.  So, throughout the Solipsist's history, the beloved New York Mets have posted a consistently losing record.

Until this year.

And not only did the Mets manage to post a winning record, they won their division, and their divisional playoff series, and their league championship series, and now they are heading to their first World Series since 2000.

This season has been particularly special because it was completely unexpected.  In previous successful years--1986, 2000--the Mets were, if not always favored to make it to the Series, always regarded as contenders.  This year, though, going into the season, most forecasters expected the Mets to finish, at best, a distant second to the Washington Nationals.  And what's more, as recently as late July, the team looked virtually helpless to score runs.  Somehow, over the last two months, the Mets turned it all around--the 2015 season, the forces of history.

For my money, Terry Collins has got to be the manager of the year.  He managed to hold this team together through four months of anemic hitting and demands to treat his young pitching staff like delftware.  They had no business making it to August with a winning record and even less business being in the World Series.  And yet, here they are.

Happy times in Solipsist Nation.

In Which We Comment on Republican Hypocrisy (i.e., It's a Day Ending in '-y')

Paul Ryan has stated that he will reluctantly accept the mantle of Speaker of the House of Representatives "with the caveat of essentially unconditional acceptance"--in other words, if, essentially, every House Republican endorses his nomination without so much as a hint of dissent.

Mr. Ryan, could you remind me again how the Republicans are committed to freedom and ostensibly defending America against tyranny?

In Which We Ponder the Oratorical Skills of the New Canadian Prime Minister and Reassure Our Readers that We're Not Totally without Feck

Addressing his supporters, the newly elected prime minister of Canada (like that's anything), said, "More than a hundred years ago a great prime minister, Wilfrid Laurier, talked about sunny ways, he knew that politics can be a positive force and that is the message Canadians sent today. . . . . Sunny ways, my friends, sunny ways, this is what positive politics can do.”

I imagine that, behind him, one of his aides insistently whispered, "Days, Sir.  DAYS."

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Just to clarify, I did write something yesterday but really had no idea what to do with it.  It's not exactly a complete, fully formed. . .  thing.  Rather, it's a half-formed paragraph that feels like it belongs in a story--but it's a story, alas, that I don't know--even if I'm the one ostensibly making it up.  So, for now, this piece resides in my draft folder.  Maybe it will be retrieved someday, maybe not.  Perhaps in the event of my hopefully timely demise it can see light in what is sure to be the mammoth blockbuster collection of the unpublished writings of the Solipsist.  The point is, I didn't want you, my loyal followers to think that I had so quickly abandoned my Sunday pledge to get back on the stick and start writing again.  You've been disappointed enough.

In Which We Discuss the Mideast, the VFW, Literary Protests, Refugees, and the Fear of Dying Unnoticed

I have an MPA, a masters in public administration.  When people ask what that means, I (half) joke that an MPA is like an MBA for people who don't like money.  It's not like there's an actual job title, "public administrator."

Or so I thought.  Turns out, "public administrator" is a thing--at least in New York City, where the euphemistic title goes to someone whose job it is to manage the final affairs and distribute the estates of those who die alone, unknown, unnoticed.  Makes me think they need to change the title of the degree.

At any rate, a front-page novella-length story about the final disposition of a virtually anonymous New Yorker did accomplish its no-doubt-intended goal of inspiring your old pal The Solipsist (oh, heck, we've known each other so long--just call me "The") to pick up the laptop again and start tapping away.

My problem of late has been twofold: lack of time combined with lack of inspiration.  Not much I can do about the former.  As an economics professor once explained, time is the scarcest resource, the one thing you cannot get more of no matter how much you try.  Of course, this economics professor seemed to hold the opinion that a functioning economy could be built around guns and butter, so we must take her pronouncements with a grain of salt--unless of course we are talking about rural Iowa where, if the local populace is any indication, guns and butter may, indeed, be the primary commodities.  What was my point?  Ah, yes.

The second deficiency, though, the lack of inspiration, is, I think, more manageable.  After all, if I do nothing more than riff on the day's events as outlined on the front page of the paper of record, I should be able to find enough to talk about, right?  I've been thinking about this for the past couple of weeks.  Each day, as I read through the news of the day, my conscience would prod me to get to it, open a new tab, type in The Solipsist URL, and start writing.  But such prodding was no match for my will power, which held firm in resisting those urgings.  Today, though, reading about the lonely death of George Bell, so detached himself from the world that his passing went unnoticed and largely unmourned, I couldn't help but think, "This is what the Times considers front-page material?!?"  But then I also thought, I can wait 'til I die alone like George Bell to have a trivial impact on the world, or I can get back to solipsizing and have my trivial impact here and now.

Easy choice, really.

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What a surprise: The Middle-East remains violently dysfunctional.  Today's update features aggrieved Palestinians in East Jerusalem, lamenting the crackdowns put in place by Israeli security forces after a series of stabbing attacks by Palestinians on Jews.  Can't blame the innocent for feeling aggrieved; but you can't blame Israel for attempts to suppress the attacks, either.  A no-win situation.... Intractable.... Yadda yadda yadda. 

But that's the thing, really--the thing that's so frustrating: The situation really isn't intractable.  I mean, the solution is simple, right?  Some land for Palestinians, some basic security for Israel.  You would think that the greatest minds in diplomacy would be able to make that happen.  And yet. . .

I don't really have anything funny to say about this, ore even anything particularly interesting to add to the discussion.  All rather depressing, really.

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Not your father's VFW hall.  When I think of VFW halls, I don't.  But if pressed, I would probably describe a dimly lit, wood-paneled rec room-type space.  Folding tables and chairs.  Some flags.  Old men in funny hats drinking beer.  Now, however, in an effort to attract younger members, the Veterans of Foreign Wars has introduced new programs at some lodges.  Yoga, photography classes, child care.  Come to think of it, it all kind of sounds like the Jewish Community Center of San Francisco, only the JCC doesn't mandate yarmulkes, so the funny hats are optional.

Why is the English transliteration of the traditional Jewish skullcap, 'yarmulke'?  I've never heard anyone pronounce it that way.  It's "yahmika."  Like in the joke:

Guy goes up to his friend, "Hey, why the long face?"

"I've had the weirdest day.  This morning, I'm walking down the street, and I see this hat lying on the ground.  I pick it up, and inside I find a ten-dollar bill.  So, y'know, I think this is a sign.  I go to the track, and in the first race, there's this horse--Fedora--hundred-to-one odds.  I figure, what the heck.  I put the ten-dollars down, and sure enough the horse wins!  Well, in the next race, there's ANOTHER horse--Brown Derby--also going off at a hundred-to-one odds.  I bet--and I win!"

"Wow, that's incredible!"

"Yeah, but I should have quit while I was ahead. . . . In the next race, I bet another hundred-to-one shot with a 'hat' name, and he came in dead last!"

"Oh, man.  What was the name?"

"Chateau."

"Idiot!  'Chateau' is a house, not a hat.  You're thinking of 'chapeau.'"

"Damn!  Wish you'd have been there to talk me out of that bet.  I'd have a hundred thousand dollars right now."

"Yeah, too bad.  Say, what horse won the race, anyway?"

"Oh, some Japanese horse named Yahmika."

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In India, to protest the government's responses (or lack thereof) to recent attacks on writers and other citizens by Hindu nationalist groups, several prominent authors have returned literary awards they received from the Indian National Academy.  This, to me, is unimaginable: A country where literature is valued enough to make the returning of literary awards a meaningful protest.

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I'd make a terrible refugee.  Here you have these poor people, displaced by ceaseless violence in Syria, gathering their families and what few belongings they can carry, and undertaking arduous and sometimes life-threatening journeys by rickety boat or treacherous land routes.  They trek through Turkey, through Croatia, hoping to get to Hungary and eventually to Austria and parts West.  They face all manner of obstacles, not least of which is hostility from the authorities in the countries through which they travel.  If they're lucky, they find themselves in a relatively safe country, where they can hope to start rebuilding their shattered lives.

Meantime, I get invited to a birthday party in the city?  I'm spending all afternoon mentally debating whether or not it's worth the drive.  For what it's worth, I'd probably also be all kinds of useless in a zombie apocalypse.

Thoughts on Cecil

As Dr. Walter J. Palmer has surely realized by now, karma's a bitch.  The Minnesota dentist, previously hated only by non-flossers, has over the last couple of days become Internet Enemy Number One.  His crime: killing Cecil, a beloved lion in Zimbabwe's Hwange National Park, who as far as I can tell spent his life napping and posing for tourists' snapshots.  The online backlash against Palmer has been swift and severe.  Palmer has (temporarily?) shuttered his practice as a result of the negative publicity.  How bad is it?  Let's just say that Laurence Olivier's character from "Marathon Man" would have an easier time getting dental referrals.

It's hard to feel sorry for Palmer.  So hard, in fact, that I don't.  I can't help but find something disingenuous about the whole backlash, particularly the number of his current clients who have abandoned him in the wake of Cecilgate.  After all, this was hardly Palmer's first kill: He's an avid hunter--was even profiled in the New York Times a few years back for his proficiency with a crossbow.  I find it difficult to believe that all these patients are only now finding out about his proclivities.

Palmer has "apologized" after a fashion: He apologized, essentially, for killing a lion he wasn't supposed to kill.  I'm willing to take him at his word that he didn't realize that this lion, y'know, had a name and was actually popular with the tourist folk.  At the same time, the apology is somewhat undermined by the fact that Palmer is not apologizing for killing a lion, just for killing this particular lion.

Now some people are saying--not unreasonably--that it's kind of ridiculous that the entire online world is inflamed over the killing of one lion, when every day thousands of people die because of starvation, preventable diseases, religious intolerance, etc.  We should certainly pay attention to these societal ills, as well.  Still, there is something about this story that rankles more than your run-of-the-mill tale of human inhumanity.

I think it comes down to money.  Because even putting the best possible spin on the events, we have one inescapable fact: Palmer paid about $50,000 for the opportunity to kill something.  That's not a typo.  Fifty. Thousand. Dollars.  You could do a lot of good in this world for $50,000.  I look around at the students at my college: $50,000 would pay for associate's degrees for about 20 of them.  It could pay for a lot of meals for hungry people.  Hell, it could pay for Palmer's own kids' educations--or cars!  ("Gee, Dad, if you had just gotten me that Camaro for my graduation like I asked for, you'd still have a dental practice!")

I imagine, even for a formerly successful dentist, $50,000 is not exactly pocket change, either.  So this guy just really, really, REALLY wanted to kill an animal.  He's like a character from "Hostel."  You didn't see it--nobody did.  But this Eli Roth torture-porn flick revolves around a club where one-percenters pay exorbitant sums for the right to torture and kill random strangers.  I guess we should be thankful that Palmer only got a shot at a lion.

A Sincere Question

I have a sincere question for my Republican friends--I'm sure I must have one or two: When you guys think about the 2016 presidential election, what do you think of the Democratic "fringe" candidates?  Or, to put it more simply: Do you guys look at Bernie Sanders the way we look at Donald Trump?

In recent polls, Trump is receiving about 12% of the vote for the Republican presidential nomination, while Bernie Sanders is receiving about 15% of the vote for the Democratic nomination.  In other words, they seem to be roughly equal in their relative "fringeness."  They are both from the Northeast, and they both. . . um. . . well, I guess they both elicit numerous jokes about their hair.  In other words, as of this moment, Bernie Sanders is the Democratic Donald Trump.

But here's the thing: Bernie Sanders is a twice-elected United States Senator, whose "insane" ideas include things like narrowing the wealth gap among Americans and getting big money out of politics.  Donald Trump is a questionably successful businessman and television personality whose platform includes things like building a massive wall along the southern US border and calling Mexicans "rapists."  It says something about the debased state of American politics that both candidates are considered to have about the same chance of being elected president, but let that go for now.

Obviously, as a Democrat, I think Donald Trump is a joke and an embarrassment to our country--and, in fairness, I am sure that the vast majority of Republicans feel much the same way.  But I am truly, truly curious--and I come back to my earlier question: Do Republicans look at Bernie Sanders the same way?  And if so, our politics may be even more debased than I thought.

Here's to Your Health (Cont.)

The Affordable Care Act (or Obamacare, or As You Like It, or What You Will) has once again survived the Supreme Court.  The Court has ruled in favor of the Obama administration in a case that many people (including many supporters of the ACA) felt might prove the undoing of the healthcare act.

At issue was whether people could receive subsidies to purchase insurance from a federal insurance exchange if they lived in states that had decided not to set up their own state-run health insurance exchanges.  The ruling hinged on a single phrase in the ACA, which stated that people could only receive subsidies for buying insurance on “an exchange established by the state.”  Opponents of Obamacare seized on this loophole in their ever-more desperate attempts to find some way--any way--to eliminate a law they found abhorrent, after losing consistently at the ballot box and, overwhelmingly, in the court of public opinion.

Common sense would suggest that the law's intent was always clear.  Common sense would further dictate that, if the offending phrase really DID create confusion, the simplest remedy would be to revise the text of the law to eliminate ambiguity, e.g., "an exchange established by an individual state or the federal government, you nitpicking pedants."  OK, maybe I'm embellishing.  But of course common sense plays little role where politics are concerned, and a Republican-dominated Congress would certainly balk at putting forth even minimal effort to salvage a law that had provided health insurance to hundreds of thousands of previously uninsured and/or uninsurable citizens because. . . Well, because that's how they roll.  Furthermore, if the phrase was, in fact, found to forbid subsidies to people receiving federal health insurance, that would effectively destroy the law, as people in states without exchanges of their own--millions of people--would suddenly find themselves once again unable to afford insurance.  The fate of Obamacare, in other words, rested in the hands of a largely conservative Supreme Court.

Thankfully, the majority of SCOTUS acted conservatively--in the truest sense of the word--and opted not to eviscerate a law that has, overall, helped millions of people and, despite semantics, is functioning pretty much exactly as Congress intended.  In the decision, Chief Justice John Roberts wrote that, “In this instance, the context and structure of the act compel us to depart from what would otherwise be the most natural reading of the pertinent statutory phrase.”  And while I celebrate the ruling, I cannot help but feel that the whole "controversy" over the phrase has been overblown.  Indeed, a close reading of the phrase suggests that, in fact, subsidies for federal exchanges were always kosher.

For what does "the state" refer to in a piece of federal legislation?  Sure, it can refer to any of the 50 states, but it can also clearly refer to the United States of America as a whole, in much the same way that the State Department--the "Department of STATE"--refers to an entity that represents the country as a whole.  Now, if the relevant phrase had said, "an exchange set up by the stateS" or "an exchange set up by A state," the plaintiffs might have had a more plausible case.  But, to this erstwhile English instructor at least, both the law's intent and phrasing were abundantly clear.  Let's be thankful the Supreme Court saw it the same way.

Just Letters, Just Sound

Amidst all the uproar over President Obama's utterance of "the N-word" on Marc Maron's podcast, one extremely salient point seems to be getting lost: As Gayle King pointed out on last night's "Nightly Show," the president did not use the n-word; he said it.  This is a more-than academic difference.  It's the difference, for example, between my calling someone a kike and pointing out that the word "kike" is an anti-Jewish slur, used by Nazis, skinheads, and other troglodytes.  Not only is my use of the word not meant to be offensive--it is not offensive.  Period.  It is a word offered to provide explanation, a word separated from its meaning, a signifier divorced from its signified.

Hearing the word--the k-word, the n-word--may certainly provide a jolt, but so would hearing a car backfire.  And the president's use of the word in that context was exactly as offensive as a backfiring car would be.  Which is to say, not at all.

So Many Unnecessary Deaths

Interesting factoid: The most common proximate cause of workplace violence is, perhaps unsurprisingly, being fired.

The second most common proximate cause of workplace violence, however, is reaching for a paper clip and pulling out an entire daisy chain, put together by someone with far too much time on their hands, who lacked even the minimal consideration or foresight to pause and think that maybe--just maybe--someone might one day need a freakin' paper clip and be in a hurry AND NOT WANT TO DEAL WITH DISENTANGLING ONE FROM A SURPRISE, SERPENTINE, PAPER-CLIP CENTIPEDE!!!!

Just sayin'.

Why Is This News?

I just read this article--front-page, top right corner of The New York Times--reporting that former representative Dennis Hastert (R-Ill), who served as speaker of the house for much of the early 2000's, has been indicted over activities designed to hide past "misconduct"--the word placed in ominous quotation marks right in the headline.

Now, today's title notwithstanding, I understand why this merits press coverage: Hastert is (or at any rate, was) a prominent public figure, apparently the longest-serving Republican speaker ever.  In that sense, any major events in his life merit some public scrutiny--in the same way that a Kardashian wearing a tacky dress apparently merits scrutiny.  But front-page, above-the-fold coverage in the national paper of record?  Even if Hastert is ultimately found guilty, his "crimes" hardly seem worthy of such blaring coverage.

The crimes themselves sound pretty bad: Lying to federal investigators and engaging in shady banking practices.  But the shady practices themselves seem to be that he withdrew money from bank accounts--apparently, his own bank accounts--in amounts that were designed to evade bank-reporting requirements.  He was giving the money to an unspecified person to compensate for unidentified instances of "past misconduct": In other words, it sounds like he was a naughty boy in the past and was now paying someone off to keep his naughtiness quiet.  When his banking patterns did draw the attention of regulators, and Hastert was subsequently questioned by the FBI, he denied paying anybody and claimed that he was just holding onto the cash himself because he had lost faith in the nation's banking system.  (And, heck, the way Congress operates, who wouldn't believe such an excuse?)

So, OK, if he did everything he's being accused of, he did break some laws.  But in the annals of criminal justice, his crimes hardly rise to Dillinger-esque proportions: He used his own money, to pay off someone for something he did, long after he was no longer involved in government, and--presumably out of embarrassment, he tried to hide the fact that he was making these payments.  He should certainly face punishment, but unless there is substantially more to this story than we're hearing so far, I imagine that punishment will probably amount to little more than some fines--and of course the suffering of the shame that he had tried so hard to avoid.

At the risk of sounding like a Fox News enthusiast, though, the "liberal" New York Times' trumpeting of this story from its most-prominent platform, makes me wonder if the editors are engaging in their own inappropriate glee at the downfall of a prominent Republican.  Not that I don't enjoy that as well, but I could wish for the Times to tone down its Schadenfreude.

Can't Believe I'm Doing This

I am now going to do something that I fear imperils my soul: I am going to help the New York Yankees.

Last night, Alex Rodriguez, an admitted steroid user and all-around questionable character, hit the 660th home run of his Major League career.  This ties him with Willie Mays, an indisputably better player and human being, for fourth place on the all-time home-run list.  Whatever.  As Mays himself indicated in a congratulatory message to Rodriguez, records are made to be broken, milestones are made to be passed.

In this story, though, there is an interesting subplot--one that, for a longtime Yankee hater such as YNSHC, is somewhat delicious to observe.  Years ago, when Rodriguez signed his current contract with the Yankees, he was promised large financial bonuses for reaching certain historic numbers.  One of these was, in fact, 660 home runs.  So now, after Rodriguez has served a year's suspension from baseball for violating the league's substance abuse rules, the Yankees have studiously avoided referring to the Mays-tying homer as a milestone--or, as much as they could, referring to it at all.  They will do whatever they can to avoid shelling out a $6-million bonus to Rodriguez.  Rodriguez himself is not really talking about the situation, either.

No one wants to see Rodriguez get this money, but many would also like to see the Yankees fork it over.  Personally, I think if this matter goes to arbitration, the Yankees will lose: They signed a contract, Rodriguez is--like it or not--a player in good standing with the league right now, they have o pay up.  But it seems to me that there's a good, face-saving solution for everyone.

Rodriguez certainly doesn't need the money--his base salary for just this year is something like $25 million.  At the same time, the Yankees can certainly afford to pay: $6-million dollars is couch-cushion money to the Evil Empire from the Bronx.  So both sides should just step up and state that they have reached an agreement to donate the milestone bonus to charity--maybe building little league ballparks or supporting anti-drug programs.  Everybody gets great publicity, a worthwhile cause gets supported, and somebody gets a nice tax write-off to boot.

You're welcome, Yankees.  Now rot in hell.

Smoke Signals, Maybe?

Today I received the following e-mail:

          "Solipsist:

            "I need to find a way to communicate with you that I have completed the following..."

Followed by a list of several tasks that I had asked this person to complete.

So now I just need to find a way to communicate with this person that e-mail is a form of communication.

Well?

Over the last year, seemingly every week has featured a new instance of extreme police brutality, resulting in the death of an unarmed man.  The fact that all the victims were black has only aggravated the underlying outrage, adding a grimy layer of institutional racism to what was at best an ugly situation indicating a need for better training for--and perhaps screening of--those who would serve as police officers in our communities.  But I've been struck by something: In nearly every news article written about these killings--from Michael Brown (Ferguson, MO) to Eric Garner (Staten Island) to Freddie Gray (Baltimore)--we see some variation of the following disclaimer:

"Because no nationwide database of police killings exists, it is impossible to draw definitive conclusions about the actions of the officers in this case."

Fair enough, but doesn't this suggest it might be time to start compiling such a database?

Crack Is Wack

"Trivia Crack" is ridiculously easy. I mean, "Wheel of Fortune" easy--strike that, "Trivia Crack" makes "Wheel of Fortune" look like "Jeopardy!" And it makes "Jeopardy!" look like the Bar exam--if the Bar exam were written in ancient Finno-Ugric. What I'm saying is, it doesn't exactly tax one's mental capacity.

It does, however, kind of restore one's faith in humanity...or at any rate, it restores one's faith in humanity's faith in humanity. Because, think about it: You're playing this trivia game on a mobile device, which, by definition, is web-enabled. So, if you find yourself stumped by questions like, "Who wrote 'The Raven' and 'The Tell-Tale Heart'?" (actual question) or "Which of these is NOT a style of dance? Merengue, Salsa, Tango, Bogota" (actual question), then all you need to do is tap the "Chrome" icon or ask Siri. Yet presumably, people don't do this--or at least people playing the game are trusting that their competitors won't do this; otherwise, they wouldn't play the game, right?

So thank you, "Trivia Crack." You've proven that people will trust other people to allow themselves to look clueless rather than cheat on a meaningless game. Faith in humanity, restored.

Ignorance Is. . . Something.

A recent psychological study suggested a positive correlation between IQ and anxiety: The smarter you are, the more you worry.

This hardly qualifies as earth-shaking news. I've always thought that, if you're not worrying, you're not paying attention. I find myself thinking about this now, though, as I wrestle with vague feelings of non-specific dread. I imagine this is largely a function of it being Sunday: The imminence of a new work-week often engenders a sinking feeling in the pit of the stomach, a leaden fuzziness in the brain, a slight ringing in the ears. . . . Y'know, now that I write this, I hope this is just anxiety; otherwise, I probably have some kind of tumor.

But seriously, folks.

The funny thing is, this dread has occurred throughout my life, regardless of what was going on. I remember during the early '90's, watching "In Living Color" on Sunday nights, laughing but also struggling with an awareness that this was pretty much the last bit of enjoyment I was going to experience before having to drag myself out of bed less than twelve hours later to begin another stressful week of college classes and student-teaching and just, y'know, life.  Back then, I would tell myself that this dread would pass--that once I got through the trials of those days, things would get better.

And they have gotten better. I mean, I basically like my job. I like my co-workers. And some days I even get the opportunity to go home feeling like I've had a positive impact on the world around me.  And yet the dread persists.  Ignorance may be bliss, but isn't it stupid to keep subjecting myself to dread for no particular reason?

Zen and the Art of Successful Auditions

A lot of the actors I know, whatever their relative level of experience or talent, hate auditioning. They find it stressful. Which I suppose it is. I myself, though, have always rather enjoyed the experience. It's fun to get up onstage and do a monologue or some cold reading from a script. I mean, it's acting! And acting is fun! Why else would anyone do it? And I'm convinced that my comparatively successful track record--I tend to get cast in the plays I try out for--has as much to do with the fact that I basically have fun at auditions as it does with whatever relative reserves of talent or experience I possess. The formula is something like this: Auditioning = fun. Fun = relaxed. Relaxed = natural. Natural = cast-able.

I offer this advice not so much to other actors, who I suspect already know this on an intellectual level, even if they might mutter, "Easier said than done." Rather, I offer this to anyone who faces an "audition" of his own, be it in the form of interviewing for a dream job or asking out that cute co-worker: Don't focus on the outcome. Enjoy the process. Worst case scenario: You'll have some fun doing something that could lead to something wonderful. Best case scenario, you have the fun and the wonderful thing, too.

A Modest Proposal

Much has been written about the attempts on the part of Major League Baseball to speed up the pace of play. A countdown clock now looms over the outfield of every ballpark, ticking away the seconds between innings. Pitchers and hitters are also on the clock, as they face fines for wandering around the mound or leaving the batter's box between pitches. No crackdowns on excessive scratching or spitting yet, unless these activities occur during walks around the mound or require leaving the batter's box. Stay tuned.

I would like to make a modest proposal, though, that would speed up the games AND likely increase the number of runs scored--a lack of offense in the post-steroid era being another major concern of MLB. I would like to propose that a manager be allowed a maximum of one pitching change per inning. A starter could be pulled at any time, but, once a reliever is brought in, that reliever MUST finish the inning. If he gets shelled, he gets shelled. This would also get rid of those frankly annoying instances of a manager bringing in a righty to face a right-handed batter, and then pulling that pitcher if the next hitter is a lefty. Obviously, exceptions would have to be made in the case of an injury, but otherwise, this would clearly shave significant minutes off of most games--and/or allow fans to see more runs scored if a fresh arm can't be brought in to bail out someone who just doesn't have it on a given night. And frankly, this would be a better solution than the introduction of timers into a fundamentally timeless sport.