Elvis and Presley are two little dogs,
Useless as tits on old boar hogs.
They sleep and they eat and they poop in the yard
Then it’s back to their beds their life is sure hard.
They sleep all night and they sleep all day,
If it was possible they would sleep while they play.
They bark and they growl and they howl at the cats,
If they could fly they’d be chasing the bats!
They dig in the grass, and they never watch the news,
But they’re rightly famous for chewing up shoes.
They cornered a cat that they ran up a tree,
Didn’t know what to do so they let it go free.
They get up in the morning and have a quick snack,
Then it’s pooping and peeing and back in the rack.
They sleep through the day and they sleep through the night,
They can sleep through a storm that should give them a fright.
Their legs are short and their backs are long
They can howl at the moon so it sounds like a song.
They hate the snow and the cold and the ice,
Cuz their bellies hang down and it doesn’t feel nice.
Cute’s what they do and they do do it well,
But cute isn’t something you can easily sell.
The bark at the deer and the squirrels and the rats,
And they bark at the cars but they really hate cats.
Elvis and Presley are two little dogs,
Useless as tits on old boar hogs.
They sleep and they eat and they poop in the yard
Then it’s back to their beds their life is sure hard.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Three Minutes to Start
The clock on the instrument panel glowed red; three minutes until engine start. The wind across the deck seemed to deaden the other sounds – a plane next to mine starting, taxiing forward and being launched into the impenetrable darkness. This is not a normal launch where everyone starts their engines, taxis forward, spreads the wings, and moves onto the catapult in order and quickly. Get them into the air so that the guys in the dog pattern can land.
We will go on the catapult one at a time with a gap that may be several minutes, so the clock is what I watch. The strange staggered launch sequence is necessary because we all have a specific time on target and we are all on our own from the time of take off. The deck is moving slightly, enough to feel, but not the kind of movement that brings a spray of saltwater across the flight deck. It is dark, completely dark, there are no lights on the ocean surface, no stars, nothing. I can see the dim outline of the island, the superstructure of the carrier, but not enough to make out any of the details. There are some red lights in the “ tower.” I can see my plane captain dimly with the fire extinguisher, an outline from the red lighting. He must be able to see me with the cockpit lights glowing, reflecting from the clear visor in my helmet.
There is a blob of stack gasses, a sort of burp that comes out of the boilers. Thick air sooty, greasy and filled with sulfur. Wouldn’t be right to launch without the smell of sulfur in my mouth and throat. When will those new nuke carriers be here?
Two minutes to engine start and I check the box lunch to ensure that it is not going to move during the catapult shot, I check the latch on the navigation board that slides under the instrument panel – the overwater part of my flight is already drawn out – I hope we are close to the position I have entered – I check the canteen, it is still slightly cool, but it will warm up before I finish drinking it. The g-suit is plugged into the system. It’s uncomfortable, tight, zippers in the wrong places – it will be chafing my legs before I return. – It will be used only 5 seconds during the next 11 hours, but those are important seconds. Pay attention to the simple details, it will keep me from thinking too much.
One minute to engine start, the time is passing quickly now, in less than three minutes I’ll be airborne and alone. I check the light switches, the master light switch will tell the Cat Officer I’m ready to launch, and he will touch the deck with his wand. I review the engine start sequence, I go over the process of easing into the catapult and “cleaning up” the airplane after takeoff – and making sure I don’t fly into the water. I check the instruments: basic, simple, old style, lit unevenly by small red lamps– they all seem to be working, but the airspeed indicator won’t come to life until the wings are spread. I check the special control panel that operates the weapon on the centerline.
Thirty seconds, I see the director moving closer to the side of the plane, my pulse speeds up, there is a little jittering in my fingers, tightness in my throat and chest the leather gloves are already damp from sweat and they help hide my anxiety – I have to stay focused and attentive. I think about the sun rise three hours from now, the warmth of the sun, the feeling you get when the adrenalin has done it’s job and the body tries to recover, it wants to sleep, to doze, but I can’t let that happen. But that will be three hours from now – The clock moves to zero and I see the circling wand from the crewman signaling me to start the engine, and I get very busy.
We will go on the catapult one at a time with a gap that may be several minutes, so the clock is what I watch. The strange staggered launch sequence is necessary because we all have a specific time on target and we are all on our own from the time of take off. The deck is moving slightly, enough to feel, but not the kind of movement that brings a spray of saltwater across the flight deck. It is dark, completely dark, there are no lights on the ocean surface, no stars, nothing. I can see the dim outline of the island, the superstructure of the carrier, but not enough to make out any of the details. There are some red lights in the “ tower.” I can see my plane captain dimly with the fire extinguisher, an outline from the red lighting. He must be able to see me with the cockpit lights glowing, reflecting from the clear visor in my helmet.
There is a blob of stack gasses, a sort of burp that comes out of the boilers. Thick air sooty, greasy and filled with sulfur. Wouldn’t be right to launch without the smell of sulfur in my mouth and throat. When will those new nuke carriers be here?
Two minutes to engine start and I check the box lunch to ensure that it is not going to move during the catapult shot, I check the latch on the navigation board that slides under the instrument panel – the overwater part of my flight is already drawn out – I hope we are close to the position I have entered – I check the canteen, it is still slightly cool, but it will warm up before I finish drinking it. The g-suit is plugged into the system. It’s uncomfortable, tight, zippers in the wrong places – it will be chafing my legs before I return. – It will be used only 5 seconds during the next 11 hours, but those are important seconds. Pay attention to the simple details, it will keep me from thinking too much.
One minute to engine start, the time is passing quickly now, in less than three minutes I’ll be airborne and alone. I check the light switches, the master light switch will tell the Cat Officer I’m ready to launch, and he will touch the deck with his wand. I review the engine start sequence, I go over the process of easing into the catapult and “cleaning up” the airplane after takeoff – and making sure I don’t fly into the water. I check the instruments: basic, simple, old style, lit unevenly by small red lamps– they all seem to be working, but the airspeed indicator won’t come to life until the wings are spread. I check the special control panel that operates the weapon on the centerline.
Thirty seconds, I see the director moving closer to the side of the plane, my pulse speeds up, there is a little jittering in my fingers, tightness in my throat and chest the leather gloves are already damp from sweat and they help hide my anxiety – I have to stay focused and attentive. I think about the sun rise three hours from now, the warmth of the sun, the feeling you get when the adrenalin has done it’s job and the body tries to recover, it wants to sleep, to doze, but I can’t let that happen. But that will be three hours from now – The clock moves to zero and I see the circling wand from the crewman signaling me to start the engine, and I get very busy.
Two Faces
We rounded the corner of our street and came to an abrupt stop. We were returning from my grandfather’s small grocery where we had gone to get a cold grape soda. The five block trip was filled with pain – we were barefoot and the temperature was above 115, not unusual here in Phoenix. We could only make the trip by running through the incandescent dust from the narrow shadow of one telephone pole to the shade of the next.
He was walking up the street toward us, shuffling through the gravel and dust. He was wearing a hat, a brown snap brim, that was normal in the brilliant sun and stifling heat, but he was also wearing a woolen scarf, a heavy over coat, and leather gloves – the kind with fur inside. We hurried home and talked among ourselves – we came up with a variety of theories about who he was and what was wrong with him – most of them had a spooky backing nature to them.
Our parents told us that he probably had a circulatory problem. We bought that – not knowing what exactly circulatory meant. Our ten year old lives went on, school would begin in a couple of weeks and we needed to get as much vacation as possible.
I was following the sergeant by a couple of meters, he was pointing out things as we walked along the canal bank that fed the paddies. He handed me an M16 when I got off the helo and gave me a 15 second check out. I brought my own flak vest, and steel pot helmet but it was sweaty and too loose to do much good and still smelled like someone else. The flack vests and helmets were in our rooms and we put them on when there was a rocket attack on our base. We pretty much stopped going into the bunker, we figured the rats were a bigger hazard than the B40s were.
We flew two or three hops everyday and since we were providing direct support to US troops on the ground – most of whom were under attack – it was a really rewarding mission. The pilots were encouraged to spend a day and night with the ground troops – grunts – we were supporting to get a better idea of how we could improve our support. I had tried to avoid this experience, but since I was the XO, I finally got caught and was scheduled for my “boonies experience.”
The troops loved us, they knew our call sign – the Black Ponies – well and thanked us and bought us drinks whenever we met them. So, after being dumped from the helo we got a round of applause and some “hoh raws” when the sergeant told the guys who we were. They told us about several times when we had saved their asses – they loved the 5” zunis that were our bread and butter, and they really liked how quickly we could respond and how close we could shoot to their positions. especially at night.
Okay, I was ready to head back to Benh Thuy, this was all of the emersion I needed. However, we took off for a short patrol through their area. They knew it well and were comfortable – I wasn’t and kept looking over my shoulder and listening for anything that didn’t sound like the insects constant buzz and the ever present rumble of artillery in the distance. I tried to walk bent over, but that became tiring in a hurry. We stopped after a couple of hours for C Rations, and they delighted in showing me how to use C4 (a plastic explosive) to heat the cans of spaghetti or chicken ala king. It doesn’t explode unless it is hit hard – it just burns brightly - but who knew? All I did was put the pipper on the target and push the pickle.
School had been open for a couple of weeks, we were still enjoying the exploration of our route; it was only about a half a mile and soon we would know every pebble and blade weed. We climbed a fence and walked across a pasture – the cows hardly paid any attention and we were pretty sure there were no bulls there. On the other side we hopped the fence and walked along the irrigation canal. Water in the desert was a delight. In the winter there were pieces of ice that we could take out and throw at each other. There were some wide places that held water most of the year, enough to entice frogs to lay their strings of eggs, and for hair snakes to appear.
We were explorers; watching the changes and learning from watching what happened in the clear flowing water. So, we weren’t surprised when we saw something different in one of the small pools. It seemed to be large, but we could only make out the outline at first, so, we took a long branch we had found and started prodding it. Suddenly, the object turned, freed from the weeds that held it and rose almost out of the water. At first we saw the heavy boots, then the woolen pants started to appear and the overcoat, heavy with a mixture of water, and mud and strands of weeds and grass. Then, the scarf emerged and the head with the hat still firmly in place. We could see the white strands of hair swaying back and forth in the flowing water and the pale blue rummy eyes were wide open.
We ran, as fast as we could, we ran to the nearest house and shouted even though we were out of breath. A woman came to the door and we begged her to let us in. She finally figured out what we were talking about and fortunately she had one of the few phones in the area. She called the police and we started to calm down and catch our breath,
None of us slept that night, or for several nights to come. It was our first dead body – corpse - and we would remember it for the rest of our lives.
The mosquitos were thick, and the repellant seemed to attract as much as repel them even during the heat of the afternoon. The sergeant saw something and motioned for me to come up near him. He prodded the object with his jungle boot, he didn’t mind getting wet again they were always wet. The hulk moved slightly, then rolled over and bobbed to the surface. The “flip-flops with one foot still in it came up first, the murky water parted as the body rose. The black “pajamas” were next, and then we could see the head and the face and the flat conical straw hat that was still firmly attached. The face was white from the water and the crabs that had started to do their clean up work.
My head started to feel light, I felt dizzy, and my stomach wanted to expel the remains of the spaghetti with meat sauce. But I fought the reaction; I couldn’t let this destroy my image. The face I was looking at slightly obscured by the paddy water suddenly started to morph, to change into the face of the man in the canal from 25 years ago. Then the two faces merged and flowed back and forth, one became the other and I couldn’t keep them separate. I couldn’t look away. The sergeant called for the ARVN rep, pointed out the corpse and we moved on, thankfully. We had put in a couple of strikes near here a day or two earlier – but no, it was really unlikely.
All night long, mosquitos and hard ground and sleeping bag were not enough to divert my mind – the two faces were there, they played with each other, the merged and separated, they changed in waves and ebbs and flows.
I keep pushing hard the reality that the next night would find me having dinner in the Commodores mess with a glass of wine, a starched table cloth, white napkins delighting in relating the events of today; and that I would sleep between sheets in my air-conditioned room after a hot shower and a clean uniform. But I knew that the faces would find me during that night and for many nights to come.
He was walking up the street toward us, shuffling through the gravel and dust. He was wearing a hat, a brown snap brim, that was normal in the brilliant sun and stifling heat, but he was also wearing a woolen scarf, a heavy over coat, and leather gloves – the kind with fur inside. We hurried home and talked among ourselves – we came up with a variety of theories about who he was and what was wrong with him – most of them had a spooky backing nature to them.
Our parents told us that he probably had a circulatory problem. We bought that – not knowing what exactly circulatory meant. Our ten year old lives went on, school would begin in a couple of weeks and we needed to get as much vacation as possible.
I was following the sergeant by a couple of meters, he was pointing out things as we walked along the canal bank that fed the paddies. He handed me an M16 when I got off the helo and gave me a 15 second check out. I brought my own flak vest, and steel pot helmet but it was sweaty and too loose to do much good and still smelled like someone else. The flack vests and helmets were in our rooms and we put them on when there was a rocket attack on our base. We pretty much stopped going into the bunker, we figured the rats were a bigger hazard than the B40s were.
We flew two or three hops everyday and since we were providing direct support to US troops on the ground – most of whom were under attack – it was a really rewarding mission. The pilots were encouraged to spend a day and night with the ground troops – grunts – we were supporting to get a better idea of how we could improve our support. I had tried to avoid this experience, but since I was the XO, I finally got caught and was scheduled for my “boonies experience.”
The troops loved us, they knew our call sign – the Black Ponies – well and thanked us and bought us drinks whenever we met them. So, after being dumped from the helo we got a round of applause and some “hoh raws” when the sergeant told the guys who we were. They told us about several times when we had saved their asses – they loved the 5” zunis that were our bread and butter, and they really liked how quickly we could respond and how close we could shoot to their positions. especially at night.
Okay, I was ready to head back to Benh Thuy, this was all of the emersion I needed. However, we took off for a short patrol through their area. They knew it well and were comfortable – I wasn’t and kept looking over my shoulder and listening for anything that didn’t sound like the insects constant buzz and the ever present rumble of artillery in the distance. I tried to walk bent over, but that became tiring in a hurry. We stopped after a couple of hours for C Rations, and they delighted in showing me how to use C4 (a plastic explosive) to heat the cans of spaghetti or chicken ala king. It doesn’t explode unless it is hit hard – it just burns brightly - but who knew? All I did was put the pipper on the target and push the pickle.
School had been open for a couple of weeks, we were still enjoying the exploration of our route; it was only about a half a mile and soon we would know every pebble and blade weed. We climbed a fence and walked across a pasture – the cows hardly paid any attention and we were pretty sure there were no bulls there. On the other side we hopped the fence and walked along the irrigation canal. Water in the desert was a delight. In the winter there were pieces of ice that we could take out and throw at each other. There were some wide places that held water most of the year, enough to entice frogs to lay their strings of eggs, and for hair snakes to appear.
We were explorers; watching the changes and learning from watching what happened in the clear flowing water. So, we weren’t surprised when we saw something different in one of the small pools. It seemed to be large, but we could only make out the outline at first, so, we took a long branch we had found and started prodding it. Suddenly, the object turned, freed from the weeds that held it and rose almost out of the water. At first we saw the heavy boots, then the woolen pants started to appear and the overcoat, heavy with a mixture of water, and mud and strands of weeds and grass. Then, the scarf emerged and the head with the hat still firmly in place. We could see the white strands of hair swaying back and forth in the flowing water and the pale blue rummy eyes were wide open.
We ran, as fast as we could, we ran to the nearest house and shouted even though we were out of breath. A woman came to the door and we begged her to let us in. She finally figured out what we were talking about and fortunately she had one of the few phones in the area. She called the police and we started to calm down and catch our breath,
None of us slept that night, or for several nights to come. It was our first dead body – corpse - and we would remember it for the rest of our lives.
The mosquitos were thick, and the repellant seemed to attract as much as repel them even during the heat of the afternoon. The sergeant saw something and motioned for me to come up near him. He prodded the object with his jungle boot, he didn’t mind getting wet again they were always wet. The hulk moved slightly, then rolled over and bobbed to the surface. The “flip-flops with one foot still in it came up first, the murky water parted as the body rose. The black “pajamas” were next, and then we could see the head and the face and the flat conical straw hat that was still firmly attached. The face was white from the water and the crabs that had started to do their clean up work.
My head started to feel light, I felt dizzy, and my stomach wanted to expel the remains of the spaghetti with meat sauce. But I fought the reaction; I couldn’t let this destroy my image. The face I was looking at slightly obscured by the paddy water suddenly started to morph, to change into the face of the man in the canal from 25 years ago. Then the two faces merged and flowed back and forth, one became the other and I couldn’t keep them separate. I couldn’t look away. The sergeant called for the ARVN rep, pointed out the corpse and we moved on, thankfully. We had put in a couple of strikes near here a day or two earlier – but no, it was really unlikely.
All night long, mosquitos and hard ground and sleeping bag were not enough to divert my mind – the two faces were there, they played with each other, the merged and separated, they changed in waves and ebbs and flows.
I keep pushing hard the reality that the next night would find me having dinner in the Commodores mess with a glass of wine, a starched table cloth, white napkins delighting in relating the events of today; and that I would sleep between sheets in my air-conditioned room after a hot shower and a clean uniform. But I knew that the faces would find me during that night and for many nights to come.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Old Faces
Old Faces
I believe that I can tell a lot about people from their faces. No, not young people, but sometimes children wear their personalities on their faces – the quizzical look, the look of anger or sadness, the look of fear and gloom. But for a personality to really burn it’s way into the flesh takes years, no decades. Then there is no escaping it, the face is always with you. So, be careful.
The old people wandered into the room singly and in small groups. They were wealthy, but not rich. The rich are in different places than this, but they are well off. The faces show so many different things, lives that experienced a lot of hard physical work, faces that show grief and anguish, faces that show arrogance and haughtiness, faces that express mistrust and suspicion coming from countless disappointments. Faces with a fear of being taken advantage of even though their lives have been largely free of criminal attacks.
There sits a man with no chin. His face is a straight line from his bottom lip to his neck. I exaggerate, there is a little bump, and his dewlap has filled in the space that might have once helped shape a chin. But the rest of his face has overcompensated for his lacking chin. It has become assertive, a little aggressive, he “projects” more than seems to fit the situation. Hi sits up, leans forward, and is successful in overcoming this unfortunate part of his countenance. I wonder how much he has paid for this minor facial feature, rather lack of a facial feature. “Chinless”jokes must have racked him from a distance, he must have spent hours looking into mirrors with a side view, trying to find ways to push the little chin that he has forward.
There is another man, in this world of retirees, the men have subjugated their wives to replace the staffs they once had, who is glaring –daring anyone to speak to him. Many are reaching out to form some kind of short term relationship; someone to tell about the wondrous things they have done. The wives huddle to the side and speak of grandchildren, clubs, and shopping. But the men are “oneupping” each other with the exploits of modern life. Companies they have worked for, projects they have done, bumptious in their forcefulness of their tales, many covering a strong recollection of inadequacy, fear and luck, luck who should be given most of the credit for their successes. I don’t see any that I want to get to know. My friend is a seriously addicted, extravert. He starts conversations with people at the drop of a spoon. He may specialize in servers, service workers, and other low level staff, perhaps because they are easy targets, and always responsive. He is nearly as likely to begin a conversation with the president of a company – which he does later in the day. He says things that I could not get away with. “Are you an American?” He can say such things, and get away with them because he is genuinely interested in people, and how they respond to being put on the spot – that and the humor that he interjects into the conversation. (One of his frequent comments to wait staff is “You have a great future in the profession”)
I watch as small groups form and disassemble, as pairings or quartets emerge and dissolve, as people turn away from previous connections to try again with someone else. There are tacit agreements – religion, politics and sex are off limits. Although since it is late October, politics may be permitted as a casual, testing topic. Those who really care have loud flags they hoist at the drop of a key word or name. So it becomes quickly a comparison of where you have been, what you did there, and especially, where you have been that no one else has been. (Antarctica used to be a winner, game stopper, but it is too easy to get to now!) So, since these people travel in the same circles, sometimes in different directions, they share a lot of experiences. But it isn’t wasn’t that a great opportunity! A wonderful site, an opportunity to re-experience a great trip. It becomes, “Ah, but did you get to have lunch with the Pope, or work in the kitchen of the Michelin rated restaurant, or ride an unfixed camel. But it is the way we are, and we wouldn’t be here if we were different.
Sometimes I try to listen, reflect, “active listen” but usually that is a weak opening. Countless times I have left conversations thinking ”I know some rather intimate things about that person, much more than I want to, and they would not be able to identify me in a ‘line-up’” The need, the strong unfilled need to be important, or significant makes it easy to feed people a few lines, a nod and an encouragement to talk, and they forget that you probably don’t care a dot about their small, boring, insignificant lives – their grandchildren, their pets, their trips to nowhere. That’s the power of seeming to be interested. Sometimes I think that I could draw them out, nurture the confidence that is building, they scam them – but that’s not me, fortunately for them!
I believe that I can tell a lot about people from their faces. No, not young people, but sometimes children wear their personalities on their faces – the quizzical look, the look of anger or sadness, the look of fear and gloom. But for a personality to really burn it’s way into the flesh takes years, no decades. Then there is no escaping it, the face is always with you. So, be careful.
The old people wandered into the room singly and in small groups. They were wealthy, but not rich. The rich are in different places than this, but they are well off. The faces show so many different things, lives that experienced a lot of hard physical work, faces that show grief and anguish, faces that show arrogance and haughtiness, faces that express mistrust and suspicion coming from countless disappointments. Faces with a fear of being taken advantage of even though their lives have been largely free of criminal attacks.
There sits a man with no chin. His face is a straight line from his bottom lip to his neck. I exaggerate, there is a little bump, and his dewlap has filled in the space that might have once helped shape a chin. But the rest of his face has overcompensated for his lacking chin. It has become assertive, a little aggressive, he “projects” more than seems to fit the situation. Hi sits up, leans forward, and is successful in overcoming this unfortunate part of his countenance. I wonder how much he has paid for this minor facial feature, rather lack of a facial feature. “Chinless”jokes must have racked him from a distance, he must have spent hours looking into mirrors with a side view, trying to find ways to push the little chin that he has forward.
There is another man, in this world of retirees, the men have subjugated their wives to replace the staffs they once had, who is glaring –daring anyone to speak to him. Many are reaching out to form some kind of short term relationship; someone to tell about the wondrous things they have done. The wives huddle to the side and speak of grandchildren, clubs, and shopping. But the men are “oneupping” each other with the exploits of modern life. Companies they have worked for, projects they have done, bumptious in their forcefulness of their tales, many covering a strong recollection of inadequacy, fear and luck, luck who should be given most of the credit for their successes. I don’t see any that I want to get to know. My friend is a seriously addicted, extravert. He starts conversations with people at the drop of a spoon. He may specialize in servers, service workers, and other low level staff, perhaps because they are easy targets, and always responsive. He is nearly as likely to begin a conversation with the president of a company – which he does later in the day. He says things that I could not get away with. “Are you an American?” He can say such things, and get away with them because he is genuinely interested in people, and how they respond to being put on the spot – that and the humor that he interjects into the conversation. (One of his frequent comments to wait staff is “You have a great future in the profession”)
I watch as small groups form and disassemble, as pairings or quartets emerge and dissolve, as people turn away from previous connections to try again with someone else. There are tacit agreements – religion, politics and sex are off limits. Although since it is late October, politics may be permitted as a casual, testing topic. Those who really care have loud flags they hoist at the drop of a key word or name. So it becomes quickly a comparison of where you have been, what you did there, and especially, where you have been that no one else has been. (Antarctica used to be a winner, game stopper, but it is too easy to get to now!) So, since these people travel in the same circles, sometimes in different directions, they share a lot of experiences. But it isn’t wasn’t that a great opportunity! A wonderful site, an opportunity to re-experience a great trip. It becomes, “Ah, but did you get to have lunch with the Pope, or work in the kitchen of the Michelin rated restaurant, or ride an unfixed camel. But it is the way we are, and we wouldn’t be here if we were different.
Sometimes I try to listen, reflect, “active listen” but usually that is a weak opening. Countless times I have left conversations thinking ”I know some rather intimate things about that person, much more than I want to, and they would not be able to identify me in a ‘line-up’” The need, the strong unfilled need to be important, or significant makes it easy to feed people a few lines, a nod and an encouragement to talk, and they forget that you probably don’t care a dot about their small, boring, insignificant lives – their grandchildren, their pets, their trips to nowhere. That’s the power of seeming to be interested. Sometimes I think that I could draw them out, nurture the confidence that is building, they scam them – but that’s not me, fortunately for them!
Blase'
Blasé
We don’t see them very often any more. It was a quite a novelty at first, they were so different from us. Friendly, to a point, but you never felt like they were open and real. To me they always seemed to be guarded and slightly uncomfortable. There weren’t that many of them where we lived, it isn’t the most important place on earth. We do have some schools and research installations here, but nothing of any substantial import.
When they arrived, it was the story of the century. It answered the question about whether we were alone once and for all. We aren’t. But very soon, the novelty wore off and things returned to normal. Steven Hawking was wrong, there really wasn’t any reason to hide our existence – of course we couldn’t any way, the electromagnetic radiation was out there. They were neither hostile nor brilliant. A little ahead of us, but not that much. Oh, we learned a lot, moved our science ahead by a couple of hundred years, answered some stubborn questions, got a better handle on energy, and some medical breakthroughs, but you know how short our attention span is – no one pays any attention to Shuttle launches any more.
So, it’s really no surprise that the excitement wore off. Sure there were press conferences, presidential speeches, banquets, video games, movies and all of the things you would expect. But we are so immune to sustained excitement – novelty wears off so quickly the stimulation so quickly deadened. Now, no one seems to care, at all. Most of them have gone; they seem to be bored with us too. Maybe is they had tentacles, or green scales, or wings it would have been different. But they are so similar to us it’s hard to get excited, it’s hard to really care that much. Almost everyone quickly lost their interest. The news conferences were interfering with regular programs. MNF was actually superseded one time, I mean what kind of values does that represent.
It’s okay with me. Maybe the next group will be more interesting, or their timing will be better. Or they will have better stuff for us. I hope so. Or maybe we won’t be so blasé, not so bored.
We don’t see them very often any more. It was a quite a novelty at first, they were so different from us. Friendly, to a point, but you never felt like they were open and real. To me they always seemed to be guarded and slightly uncomfortable. There weren’t that many of them where we lived, it isn’t the most important place on earth. We do have some schools and research installations here, but nothing of any substantial import.
When they arrived, it was the story of the century. It answered the question about whether we were alone once and for all. We aren’t. But very soon, the novelty wore off and things returned to normal. Steven Hawking was wrong, there really wasn’t any reason to hide our existence – of course we couldn’t any way, the electromagnetic radiation was out there. They were neither hostile nor brilliant. A little ahead of us, but not that much. Oh, we learned a lot, moved our science ahead by a couple of hundred years, answered some stubborn questions, got a better handle on energy, and some medical breakthroughs, but you know how short our attention span is – no one pays any attention to Shuttle launches any more.
So, it’s really no surprise that the excitement wore off. Sure there were press conferences, presidential speeches, banquets, video games, movies and all of the things you would expect. But we are so immune to sustained excitement – novelty wears off so quickly the stimulation so quickly deadened. Now, no one seems to care, at all. Most of them have gone; they seem to be bored with us too. Maybe is they had tentacles, or green scales, or wings it would have been different. But they are so similar to us it’s hard to get excited, it’s hard to really care that much. Almost everyone quickly lost their interest. The news conferences were interfering with regular programs. MNF was actually superseded one time, I mean what kind of values does that represent.
It’s okay with me. Maybe the next group will be more interesting, or their timing will be better. Or they will have better stuff for us. I hope so. Or maybe we won’t be so blasé, not so bored.
Failed Dreams
On a Country Road
Another slides past the window of the car. This was once an antique shop; boarded up now, with weeds growing in the sidewalk and the gravel parking lot. No one wants even the skeleton of the business that is left. At one time, perhaps 20 years ago, this was someone’s dream. This was their way out of a dull and boring existence. They knew about local antiques, and people drove past all the time, big city people who really knew nothing about the local things. They were from “up north” and were looking for something to put in their apartments to tell their friends about over cocktails, something to remind them of their week in the hill country. It seemed like it couldn’t fail.
In the preceding 50 miles, there were a surprising number of failed businesses, just like this but offering something else for sale. Some parts of the country seem to foster them more than others. The deserts have a lot of buildings that once held the highest expectations of someone, their dreams, their egos, and their money. It seemed like a good idea at the time. So much traffic, so many people who really needed what was on offer. In retrospect, it maybe wasn’t the greatest business prospect. But none of the friends were good enough friends to tell the dreamer what they really thought. So, now, the skeleton is still there, no for sale sign is even visible, the last one of those blew away years ago. The most surprising are the stone buildings that must have taken an enormous amount of effort and time and resources to construct. Now derelict and going downhill quickly. The guts, everything but the stone is completely gone.
I’m sad when I see these old businesses, business failures really. But I should be delighted. Think about the excitement, the reality that someone had, the work and money and self they invested. They really thought they could be successful. There are dreams enough for us all still out there.
Another slides past the window of the car. This was once an antique shop; boarded up now, with weeds growing in the sidewalk and the gravel parking lot. No one wants even the skeleton of the business that is left. At one time, perhaps 20 years ago, this was someone’s dream. This was their way out of a dull and boring existence. They knew about local antiques, and people drove past all the time, big city people who really knew nothing about the local things. They were from “up north” and were looking for something to put in their apartments to tell their friends about over cocktails, something to remind them of their week in the hill country. It seemed like it couldn’t fail.
In the preceding 50 miles, there were a surprising number of failed businesses, just like this but offering something else for sale. Some parts of the country seem to foster them more than others. The deserts have a lot of buildings that once held the highest expectations of someone, their dreams, their egos, and their money. It seemed like a good idea at the time. So much traffic, so many people who really needed what was on offer. In retrospect, it maybe wasn’t the greatest business prospect. But none of the friends were good enough friends to tell the dreamer what they really thought. So, now, the skeleton is still there, no for sale sign is even visible, the last one of those blew away years ago. The most surprising are the stone buildings that must have taken an enormous amount of effort and time and resources to construct. Now derelict and going downhill quickly. The guts, everything but the stone is completely gone.
I’m sad when I see these old businesses, business failures really. But I should be delighted. Think about the excitement, the reality that someone had, the work and money and self they invested. They really thought they could be successful. There are dreams enough for us all still out there.
Confirmation bias
There is a special satisfaction when you slay a dragon. It gives a warm feeling in the center of your chest and a lightness in the pit of your stomach. A pleasant tightness at the edge of your eyes, perhaps it is simply a slight smile, emerges. There is a general tingle and glow that is enormously satisfying. Have I slain a dragon lately? Not in the flesh, but the kind of dragon to which I’m referring is the metaphorical kind, they are not in short supply.
This morning in the NYT Digest, a column by Ross Douthat was published entitled The Partisan Mind – The body scanner debate would have played out very differently if it had occurred during the Bush Administration. Douthat is one of two slightly right of center columnists that the Times employes.
His arguments are interesting - depending on what you believe before you read the column! But of greater interest are the comments that are posted by the readers. One was up so quickly that I wonder if the writer had access to the column before it was published. I recommend the article, but I find the comments to be more interesting.
There is a psychological concept called Confirmation Bias. In essence, it says that when our minds are made up, we tend to reject ideas that are counter to our belief and to accept confirmatory information. There has been some interesting research lately that not only confirms this idea, but provides a physiological basis for it. When we dismiss information that goes against our beliefs, we are reinforced by the release of endorphins into the pleasure centers of our brains. Recall my opening paragraph – that’s all the result of endorphins, and the dragon is a position that is different from our own.
Ref: Michael Scherner, Scientific American ?
This morning in the NYT Digest, a column by Ross Douthat was published entitled The Partisan Mind – The body scanner debate would have played out very differently if it had occurred during the Bush Administration. Douthat is one of two slightly right of center columnists that the Times employes.
His arguments are interesting - depending on what you believe before you read the column! But of greater interest are the comments that are posted by the readers. One was up so quickly that I wonder if the writer had access to the column before it was published. I recommend the article, but I find the comments to be more interesting.
There is a psychological concept called Confirmation Bias. In essence, it says that when our minds are made up, we tend to reject ideas that are counter to our belief and to accept confirmatory information. There has been some interesting research lately that not only confirms this idea, but provides a physiological basis for it. When we dismiss information that goes against our beliefs, we are reinforced by the release of endorphins into the pleasure centers of our brains. Recall my opening paragraph – that’s all the result of endorphins, and the dragon is a position that is different from our own.
Ref: Michael Scherner, Scientific American ?
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