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.
*************
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.
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Thursday, October 22, 2015
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
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?
Mr. Ryan, could you remind me again how the Republicans are committed to freedom and ostensibly defending America against tyranny?
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
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."
*************
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.
I imagine that, behind him, one of his aides insistently whispered, "Days, Sir. DAYS."
*************
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.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
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.
*************
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.
*************
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."
*************
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.
*************
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.
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.
*************
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.
*************
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."
*************
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.
*************
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.
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