Am I the only one who is worried about Sarah Palin? On the campaign trail, she has been attacking the Presidential candidate from the other party (which apparently is the job of the V.P. candidate), trying to tie him to terrorists and asking, “Who is this guy who does not think like us? Who does not share our values?”
Huh?
That “guy” has been on the campaign trail for almost two years now. That “guy” has gone through a highly competitive primary election process to win the nomination of his party. He has been screened and vetted and has weathered scandal (i.e., Reverend Wright among others). He has written two books and numerous books have been written about him.
I’ve got a better question the American people should be asking. Who the heck is Sarah Palin?
Is she a hockey mom who happened to have the grit, charisma and intelligence to hold the highest office in the State of Alaska as she appeared to be at the Republican Convention? Or is she the fumbling, seemingly clueless and in-over-her-head neophyte as she appeared in her interviews with Charlie Gibson and Katie Couric? Or perhaps she is a one-issue (energy) Republican automaton spouting canned answers to unrelated questions and a bit snarky when feeling defensive, as she appeared in the V.P. debate with Joe Biden.
Will the real Sarah Palin please stand up? Please stand up! (My humble apologies to Eminiem). A bit ironic as McCain is currently getting flak for not securing permission by the Foo Fighters and other artists to use their songs in his campaign.
And if permitted, a follow-up question. Why is it that when transparency through media access is being courted by everyone else involved in this election, Ms. Palin has been tucked away? Her media and public appearances carefully vetted? Inaccessible when everyone else is begging for media attention? (At this point, I picture The Rock with his signature well-groomed eyebrow raised in askance.)
Then there is the conclusion of the recent investigation by the Alaskan bi-partisan commission that began before McCain announced Palin as his V.P. pick. They determined Palin violated an Alaska’s ethics law by abusing her Executive power by firing a State official for personal (familial) reasons, although there were no recommendations for sanctions or criminal prosecution. There are also the stories coming out of Alaska about how Palin’s modus operandi when stepping into a new position seems to be getting rid of those she perceives (accurately or not) as threats and hiring people loyal and grateful to her, although they may not have been as qualified.
I am also concerned about her naked ambition. I think her nickname is “Sarah Barracuda” for a good reason (as I am SweetlyDemure for a good reason). It was pointed out to me that all politicians are ambitious. But, I hope most people go into politics because they want to make a difference, to make changes to improve the lives of their constituents; and their aspiration for higher office is to be in a better position to affect those changes. This may seem naïve, but I am hoping they at least start out this way.
Here’s something I wrote in a “comment” section about Palin after watching the V.P. debate:
It was sooooo irritating and frustrating watching that VP debate! Palin could have been in a room talking to herself and it would have looked exactly the same. They could have just spliced Biden and Ifill in later. Ugh. Let’s talk about economics and the candidates’ plan in this time of crisis…then we get Palin’s canned lecture on energy. Whaaat? It was literally painful.
And the response of the American people? A higher percentage of them think she’s ready to lead. Huh? Were they listening to the same debate? I think people heard her tone of voice, a few folksy platitudes and her canned, rehearsed rhetoric and did not realize that she was not answering the questions put to her.
The worry for the Dems was that Biden would come across too bulldog-ish and if anything, he was too soft. He should have put a little more pressure on her, it might have rattled her a bit. In fact, Palin came across as confrontational and kind of snarky when she made the “white flag” comment in response to Biden’s call for a timetable to get the troops out of Iraq. (One of the few times she actually responded to something!) And also when she corrected Biden on the mantra “Drill Baby, Drill” or whatever. Hello, she couldn’t even get the name of the General leading our troops in Afghanistan correct and Biden didn’t rub her face in it…he didn’t even mention it. I think she called him “McClennan” when it’s “McKiernan.” Bleh. And after some fact checking, he (McKiernan) did say that the surge tactics used in Iraq would not work in Afghanistan (like Biden pointed out and Palin contradicted).
Another telling moment occurred when the candidates answered the question about the (Constitutional) role of the V.P. I seriously wonder (I’m not being facetious) if Sarah Palin has read the Constitution in its entirety. Cheney’s attempt to “expand” the VP position to the Legislative Branch and still maintain Executive Branch privileges is ridiculous and clearly contrary to the whole idea of separation/balance of powers. Ugh. (For those who didn’t see the debate, Palin was for Cheney’s unconstitutional and self-aggrandizing illogic and Biden answered quite correctly that the VP role in the Senate is clearly drawn in the Constitution and that the role of VP is firmly situated in the Executive Branch).
A final thing worth noting was Palin’s answer to Katie Couric about what VP she admires the most. She said George HW Bush because he learned as VP and “moved on up” (or something like that). No matter what happens in this election, she’s in it for 2012, I’m sure. That woman is ambitious. Ambitious and inexperienced and (perhaps?) too ignorant to know she doesn’t know enough. Either that or her ambition far outweighs any concern about that. No matter which way it is, it’s scary for us, the American people. (FYI, Biden’s answer was Lyndon Johnson).
Sarah Palin concerns me. I think Matt Damon likened her nomination as a Disney movie gone absurdly bad. Let’s keep the movies in Hollywood (and Alaska) where they belong and out of Washington, D.C. There is enough absurdity going on there already.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
Writing Woes
What is it about writing that makes it so personal even when the content itself is not remotely personal?
I understand the feelings of ownership and protectiveness when writing something that involves some kind of intimate insight, experience or feeling, like poetry or a story, or the authorship of anything that took a lot of time, resources and creative effort. But what about writing something as impersonal and mundane as committee minutes, an audit report or policies and procedures?
I like to think of myself as an open-minded person, who welcomes, nay embraces, constructive criticism, and uses it to grow and improve. I do not like to think of myself as the kind of person who becomes protective when challenged, and automatically (i.e., unthinkingly) becomes defensive upon any hint of others correcting my writing.
Notice I said this is the way I would like to think of myself, rather than this is the way I actually am. Just when I am buying into the delusion that I am sincerely open to critical suggestions, something happens to remind me that I have yet to reach that pinnacle of self-actualization.
One example is a script I wrote for a church cantata. Some kind of narration was needed to tie the seven or eight chosen songs together and I was asked to do it. I spent some time writing a script to make the flow of songs cohesive and meaningful. While I did generate effort to write this script, it was not like this was my life’s work and that I sweat blood and poured all my artistic juices into crafting it. I probably wrote two or three hurried drafts before handing it over.
In most cases, I realize that once a script is “handed over,” the writer ceases to have even a modicum of control over it. Various people can change your words, your stage directions and your meaning without your consent, much less consulting you. I thought I was okay with that. I thought I would be fine even if there were massive changes to the script. I was fooling myself. When I actually saw the performance, I mentally noted every change. Some characters were lumped together; lines were deleted, modified or added; blocking, stage direction and other nuances were altered. I realized that for the most part, I did not like these changes.
Then, I realized I liked it even less when one of the people in charge of the cantata mentioned offhandedly to me, “I hope you don’t mind, but the Director made some changes to improve the flow of the skit.”
“Oh no,” I replied gritting my mental teeth, “as long as it makes a better performance.” What a big faker I am. I desperately wanted to mean those words as I felt them leave my mouth. Alas! Alack! I hope wishing to be a better person counts for something.
More recently, I was the lead writer for a Report at work. My co-workers contributed, but I did a significant amount of the writing. Today my boss wants one of my co-workers to “tighten up the language;” and the way he made it sound (and from his expression), I do not think these will be minute changes. I said that was fine, but I preferred the changes be made on the side (as comments) rather than to just change the text, so I would know what parts did not work for them. I may be paranoid, but from their furtive glances to one another, I think they want to do some major over-hauling.
The professional in me wants to be fine with all this, but rather I feel annoyed, irritated, somewhat insulted, and frankly, petty for feeling this way. Despite my best efforts to feel and be otherwise, I am taking this personally.
But why? Why am I taking this so personally? Maybe because this was the third draft and I really felt it was ready to go (albeit with some minor tweaking). I mean, if they wanted some major changes, then why did they not bring this up earlier? Or did they mention it and I failed to appropriately address it in the report?
Perhaps the root of this comes from my core belief that I am a good writer. I am self-aware enough to realize that I am a bad, even horrible speller, as well as a poor grammartarian and punctuationalist (I know they are not words, but I am taking some creative license here), but despite these handicaps, still a good writer. And when I say good writer, I know I am not great, but good, as in better than over half the population (which would be “average.”)
Now, an uncharitable (e.g., discriminating) reader may think at this point, “nothing I have read thus far convinces me that this person is as good a writer as she thinks she is.” Ahhh, therein lies the problem. Maybe that is where I have gone wrong. I have an inflated view of my abilities.
Well, some time has passed and the Report for work was finalized and distributed. The overhaul was as minor as an overhaul can be. I mean, by its very nature, an overhaul means to change much. All in all, it was not as bad as I had envisioned. To be honest, it still chafes a bit, though. Like thick thighs encased in corduroy. It chafes.
I understand the feelings of ownership and protectiveness when writing something that involves some kind of intimate insight, experience or feeling, like poetry or a story, or the authorship of anything that took a lot of time, resources and creative effort. But what about writing something as impersonal and mundane as committee minutes, an audit report or policies and procedures?
I like to think of myself as an open-minded person, who welcomes, nay embraces, constructive criticism, and uses it to grow and improve. I do not like to think of myself as the kind of person who becomes protective when challenged, and automatically (i.e., unthinkingly) becomes defensive upon any hint of others correcting my writing.
Notice I said this is the way I would like to think of myself, rather than this is the way I actually am. Just when I am buying into the delusion that I am sincerely open to critical suggestions, something happens to remind me that I have yet to reach that pinnacle of self-actualization.
One example is a script I wrote for a church cantata. Some kind of narration was needed to tie the seven or eight chosen songs together and I was asked to do it. I spent some time writing a script to make the flow of songs cohesive and meaningful. While I did generate effort to write this script, it was not like this was my life’s work and that I sweat blood and poured all my artistic juices into crafting it. I probably wrote two or three hurried drafts before handing it over.
In most cases, I realize that once a script is “handed over,” the writer ceases to have even a modicum of control over it. Various people can change your words, your stage directions and your meaning without your consent, much less consulting you. I thought I was okay with that. I thought I would be fine even if there were massive changes to the script. I was fooling myself. When I actually saw the performance, I mentally noted every change. Some characters were lumped together; lines were deleted, modified or added; blocking, stage direction and other nuances were altered. I realized that for the most part, I did not like these changes.
Then, I realized I liked it even less when one of the people in charge of the cantata mentioned offhandedly to me, “I hope you don’t mind, but the Director made some changes to improve the flow of the skit.”
“Oh no,” I replied gritting my mental teeth, “as long as it makes a better performance.” What a big faker I am. I desperately wanted to mean those words as I felt them leave my mouth. Alas! Alack! I hope wishing to be a better person counts for something.
More recently, I was the lead writer for a Report at work. My co-workers contributed, but I did a significant amount of the writing. Today my boss wants one of my co-workers to “tighten up the language;” and the way he made it sound (and from his expression), I do not think these will be minute changes. I said that was fine, but I preferred the changes be made on the side (as comments) rather than to just change the text, so I would know what parts did not work for them. I may be paranoid, but from their furtive glances to one another, I think they want to do some major over-hauling.
The professional in me wants to be fine with all this, but rather I feel annoyed, irritated, somewhat insulted, and frankly, petty for feeling this way. Despite my best efforts to feel and be otherwise, I am taking this personally.
But why? Why am I taking this so personally? Maybe because this was the third draft and I really felt it was ready to go (albeit with some minor tweaking). I mean, if they wanted some major changes, then why did they not bring this up earlier? Or did they mention it and I failed to appropriately address it in the report?
Perhaps the root of this comes from my core belief that I am a good writer. I am self-aware enough to realize that I am a bad, even horrible speller, as well as a poor grammartarian and punctuationalist (I know they are not words, but I am taking some creative license here), but despite these handicaps, still a good writer. And when I say good writer, I know I am not great, but good, as in better than over half the population (which would be “average.”)
Now, an uncharitable (e.g., discriminating) reader may think at this point, “nothing I have read thus far convinces me that this person is as good a writer as she thinks she is.” Ahhh, therein lies the problem. Maybe that is where I have gone wrong. I have an inflated view of my abilities.
Well, some time has passed and the Report for work was finalized and distributed. The overhaul was as minor as an overhaul can be. I mean, by its very nature, an overhaul means to change much. All in all, it was not as bad as I had envisioned. To be honest, it still chafes a bit, though. Like thick thighs encased in corduroy. It chafes.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Day of (Almost In)Action
Who knew it would be so difficult to find an opportunity to do some good?
Saturday, September 27, 2008 was the national Day of Action. It is a day to highlight community service and volunteerism as change agents in our nation (legislatively as well as on the community level). A friend mentioned that his church helps paint over graffiti in the Kalihi area. I thought this would be a great project for a few friends – get together in the morning and paint over graffiti.
Well, we arrive somewhat bright-eyed and quasi bushy-tailed, ready to paint our little hearts out. But what do we find? Actually it is what we did not find that was the problem. No graffiti! It would have taken longer to open the paint than to cover the small patch of graffiti. Now please, do not get me wrong. It is wonderful that there was very little graffiti there. It’s just that now we had to think of something else to do.
As we stood around and forced our brains to find another idea, it was suggested that we go deep into Kalihi Valley (Kokua Kalihi Valley) where they plant and care for native species. We drove up there and I must say, I had an attack of the girly-girl attitude and winced at the ankle-deep mud and plethora of thirsty mosquitoes that were immediately attracted to me. My friend looked at me, one eyebrow raised in silent question. I wrinkled my nose and answered, “I think they have enough people to help here. Let’s do something else.”
But what would that something else be?
Then, two other friends unexpectedly join us and we prove that four brains are better than one as we finally decide to pick up rubbish at a nearby park. We drive there only to find a bustling Farmer’s Market, no parking and a clean park. At this point, I am beginning to feel a bit thwarted and my earlier enthusiasm begins to flag after facing no graffiti, mud, mosquitoes and a clean park. My friend half-jokingly suggests we shop at the Farmer’s market to support our local growers. I think that’s a great idea, but we determinedly trudge on (as well as one can “determinedly trudge” while in a car) to find another park that may need our services.
We drive to Lanakila Park . . . and there is a softball game being played. I am about to cry to the Heavens when my friend says there is a park above the softball field and a school. The four of us grab our industrial-sized trash bags and set off in search of unsightly garbage. At first there is very little garbage, which gives us an opportunity to talk and catch up with one another. Then, as we get to the elementary school, there is a fence. The stopper and catcher of all blowing garbage. At last, some real work to be done!
As we fill our trash bags, I tell myself that I should have brought some gloves (because rubbish can be icky) and I definitely should have tied my hair back, as it kept blowing in my face, impeding my ability to spot more garbage as well as holes in the ground I tried to avoid stepping in. I begin to notice how the gentle warmth of the sun has slowly become a laser beam of intense heat as my brow literally sweats. I am a bit ashamed to realize that I would not have survived a generation ago in the plantation fields, as the repetitive bending to pick up rubbish causes some twinges in my back. I am a weak, soft product of the couch potato generation. Yet, my compatriots seem fine and I realize that it is just me who is having difficulty.
We cross the street to the Lanakila Health Center where free TB tests and other services are provided by the Department of Health. The parking lot and surrounding area is a cornucopia of garbage. Our trash bags runneth over. Well, not quite. But they did get quite heavy.
There is immediate satisfaction in picking up rubbish. An area that looked disheveled, messy and neglected is suddenly “clean” and free of debris. Just looking at the expanse of grass or parking lot clear of garbage lets you know that you accomplished something.
In addition, a nice woman walking by thanked us for picking up rubbish in her neighborhood. She said that sometimes the area looks terrible and that she appreciated our efforts. I looked up, wiped the sweat falling into my eyes, and smiled at her in thanks. We did not do this for acknowledgement, but it was nice just the same.
So, was it really so difficult to find something good to do? Not really. If we actively look for opportunities, they will “suddenly appear.” If we pay attention to the needs around us…the needs of our environment, the needs of our family and friends, the needs of our neighbors…there are so many opportunities for us to serve. In small ways and large ways and in-between ways. We just need to open our eyes and see with our hearts. I realize I am channeling a little Dr. Seuss here, but who better to illustrate that child-like wonder and experience those warm, fuzzy feelings?
Day of Action. I like that. Not only realizing that there is a need and that we may have the resources to address (at least a part) of that need, but taking the next step. Action. To recognize a need is insufficient in itself. It’s a first step, and first steps are important. But we need to go beyond that. To act. In love, in humility and wholeheartedly. I have a modest proposal: how about a Life of Action? How truly transforming and wonderful that would be!
“Of course, this means I would have to start with me,” she thought warily and not without some apprehension. *Sigh* “I guess my couch potato days are numbered.”
Saturday, September 27, 2008 was the national Day of Action. It is a day to highlight community service and volunteerism as change agents in our nation (legislatively as well as on the community level). A friend mentioned that his church helps paint over graffiti in the Kalihi area. I thought this would be a great project for a few friends – get together in the morning and paint over graffiti.
Well, we arrive somewhat bright-eyed and quasi bushy-tailed, ready to paint our little hearts out. But what do we find? Actually it is what we did not find that was the problem. No graffiti! It would have taken longer to open the paint than to cover the small patch of graffiti. Now please, do not get me wrong. It is wonderful that there was very little graffiti there. It’s just that now we had to think of something else to do.
As we stood around and forced our brains to find another idea, it was suggested that we go deep into Kalihi Valley (Kokua Kalihi Valley) where they plant and care for native species. We drove up there and I must say, I had an attack of the girly-girl attitude and winced at the ankle-deep mud and plethora of thirsty mosquitoes that were immediately attracted to me. My friend looked at me, one eyebrow raised in silent question. I wrinkled my nose and answered, “I think they have enough people to help here. Let’s do something else.”
But what would that something else be?
Then, two other friends unexpectedly join us and we prove that four brains are better than one as we finally decide to pick up rubbish at a nearby park. We drive there only to find a bustling Farmer’s Market, no parking and a clean park. At this point, I am beginning to feel a bit thwarted and my earlier enthusiasm begins to flag after facing no graffiti, mud, mosquitoes and a clean park. My friend half-jokingly suggests we shop at the Farmer’s market to support our local growers. I think that’s a great idea, but we determinedly trudge on (as well as one can “determinedly trudge” while in a car) to find another park that may need our services.
We drive to Lanakila Park . . . and there is a softball game being played. I am about to cry to the Heavens when my friend says there is a park above the softball field and a school. The four of us grab our industrial-sized trash bags and set off in search of unsightly garbage. At first there is very little garbage, which gives us an opportunity to talk and catch up with one another. Then, as we get to the elementary school, there is a fence. The stopper and catcher of all blowing garbage. At last, some real work to be done!
As we fill our trash bags, I tell myself that I should have brought some gloves (because rubbish can be icky) and I definitely should have tied my hair back, as it kept blowing in my face, impeding my ability to spot more garbage as well as holes in the ground I tried to avoid stepping in. I begin to notice how the gentle warmth of the sun has slowly become a laser beam of intense heat as my brow literally sweats. I am a bit ashamed to realize that I would not have survived a generation ago in the plantation fields, as the repetitive bending to pick up rubbish causes some twinges in my back. I am a weak, soft product of the couch potato generation. Yet, my compatriots seem fine and I realize that it is just me who is having difficulty.
We cross the street to the Lanakila Health Center where free TB tests and other services are provided by the Department of Health. The parking lot and surrounding area is a cornucopia of garbage. Our trash bags runneth over. Well, not quite. But they did get quite heavy.
There is immediate satisfaction in picking up rubbish. An area that looked disheveled, messy and neglected is suddenly “clean” and free of debris. Just looking at the expanse of grass or parking lot clear of garbage lets you know that you accomplished something.
In addition, a nice woman walking by thanked us for picking up rubbish in her neighborhood. She said that sometimes the area looks terrible and that she appreciated our efforts. I looked up, wiped the sweat falling into my eyes, and smiled at her in thanks. We did not do this for acknowledgement, but it was nice just the same.
So, was it really so difficult to find something good to do? Not really. If we actively look for opportunities, they will “suddenly appear.” If we pay attention to the needs around us…the needs of our environment, the needs of our family and friends, the needs of our neighbors…there are so many opportunities for us to serve. In small ways and large ways and in-between ways. We just need to open our eyes and see with our hearts. I realize I am channeling a little Dr. Seuss here, but who better to illustrate that child-like wonder and experience those warm, fuzzy feelings?
Day of Action. I like that. Not only realizing that there is a need and that we may have the resources to address (at least a part) of that need, but taking the next step. Action. To recognize a need is insufficient in itself. It’s a first step, and first steps are important. But we need to go beyond that. To act. In love, in humility and wholeheartedly. I have a modest proposal: how about a Life of Action? How truly transforming and wonderful that would be!
“Of course, this means I would have to start with me,” she thought warily and not without some apprehension. *Sigh* “I guess my couch potato days are numbered.”
Friday, September 12, 2008
Enslaved by Blackberry (with apologies to Bob Tarte)
I just finished a great book by freelance writer and author Bob Tarte. “Enslaved by Ducks” documents Tarte’s adventurous journey into pet ownership, which winds up in his pets owning him. He was a city dude. Footloose and fancy-free. No pets. Then he got married and moved to the country. And what seminal event caused him to begin down this astonishingly slippery slope? Binky the bunny.
My downfall began similarly with Blackberry, the bunny of my co-worker’s daughter. You see, I once was Queen of my Universe…Mistress of all I surveyed. My apartment was my personal queendom and my sanctuary. I lived my life beholden to no one and I liked it. Then one day, one I would look back upon as dark and ominous although I had no idea at the time, somehow, through some kind of Jedi mind trick on my co-worker’s part combined with my own naiveté, she convinced me that a bunny would be a wonderful addition to my household.
That was the day my life changed…forever.
I have this half-baked theory about people generally being comfortable with animals or comfortable with babies. Since my siblings are sooooooo much older than I, I did a lot of free babysitting of my nieces and nephews growing up. Holding a newborn, changing dirty diapers, getting thrown-up or peed upon are all par for the course as far as I am concerned. But picking up and holding an animal? How does one do that? Correction: how does one do that without getting bitten? Or without hurting the animal. At least babies wear diapers and they don’t have teeth…the worst they could do to you is try to “gum” you to death. They won’t break skin and make you bleed. They won’t scratch you and leave huge welts on your tender skin.
Anyway, if it is not already obvious, I am much more comfortable around babies than animals, because I did not really grow up amongst animals (a dog I was too young to take care of and fish when I was older do not really count). And as mentioned above, I, much like the intrepid author, “fell into” pet ownership…with a bunny.
It always starts with the bunny. Cherchez le lapin.
A cute, adorable, furry, continuously pooping, ever digging and chewer-without-ceasing-of-everything-you-do-not-want-him-to-chew bunny. What those people (and by those people I mean the ones that encourage the unsuspecting to become bunny owners) fail to tell you is that bunnies are more like Bugs Bunny…sly, naughty and destructive.
Even in my novice fog, I knew it was important to set the tone early. I am the owner. I’m the human. I’m in charge. One way bunnies “mark” their territory is by rubbing their chins on things (males also spray, which is that funny scent you smell when you enter my apartment). Apparently there is some kind of gland there that leaves a scent, declaring: “Property of Blackberry the Bunny.” So what do I do? In order to establish my dominance in this relationship, I rub my gland-less chin on him, look deeply into his eyes and seriously and authoritatively intone, “I am the alpha bunny. I am the alpha bunny. I AM the alpha bunny!”
This has made as much difference as a lone raindrop in the Pacific, which is to say none. Blackberry still has run of the apartment, and if I do not pay attention he will: chew electrical cords down to the copper wire, hop onto my dining room table and eat whatever is on there or knock it off the table (one particularly bad incident starred a vase of flowers and some stagnant water I kept forgetting to freshen), or will dig and chew his way through my carpet or through the couch. When I use the preposition “through” I mean it literally. Blackberry can run in one end of my couch and out the other due to his toothy biting and incomparable scratching.
All this being said (as well as being true), I cannot imagine my life without the little bugger. I love him. Even though when he deigns to let me pet and quasi-cuddle him on the floor (he hates to be picked up and will start kicking and wiggling to leave the warm comfort of my hug), he will ruin the almost-tender moment by running away into a corner and grooming himself. I try to console myself that he just has OCD, but he always seems to suspiciously be licking only the places where I touched him. As if I had cooties or something. Very disheartening.
This is the mystery of pet ownership. Even when the animal shows little or no affection (and sometimes aggression…I’m only sticking my hand in your precious cage to get your bowl out to feed you. So stop growling and charging and pawing me with those wicked nails that I’ve let grow overlong because I am too scared of cutting them and hurting you and because you won’t sit still long enough for me to cut them anyway…oops, sorry, just a tiny tangential rant).
What was I saying? Something about the joys of pet ownership?
Seriously, though, even when the animal shows little or no affection for you, the provider of food, shelter and unrequited love, there is some (one-way) bond there. Those weird quirks like running away from you become endearing. The chewed up books on the bookcase are marks of affection. I think owning a pet does something mushy to your brain. It’s the only way I can explain an intelligent, independent individual who did not want to be a pet owner in the first place (me, in case it was not already obvious), continuing to make loving overtures to an arrogant, naughty, disdainful, rebuffing bunny.
Wanna snuggle, Blackberry?
My downfall began similarly with Blackberry, the bunny of my co-worker’s daughter. You see, I once was Queen of my Universe…Mistress of all I surveyed. My apartment was my personal queendom and my sanctuary. I lived my life beholden to no one and I liked it. Then one day, one I would look back upon as dark and ominous although I had no idea at the time, somehow, through some kind of Jedi mind trick on my co-worker’s part combined with my own naiveté, she convinced me that a bunny would be a wonderful addition to my household.
That was the day my life changed…forever.
I have this half-baked theory about people generally being comfortable with animals or comfortable with babies. Since my siblings are sooooooo much older than I, I did a lot of free babysitting of my nieces and nephews growing up. Holding a newborn, changing dirty diapers, getting thrown-up or peed upon are all par for the course as far as I am concerned. But picking up and holding an animal? How does one do that? Correction: how does one do that without getting bitten? Or without hurting the animal. At least babies wear diapers and they don’t have teeth…the worst they could do to you is try to “gum” you to death. They won’t break skin and make you bleed. They won’t scratch you and leave huge welts on your tender skin.
Anyway, if it is not already obvious, I am much more comfortable around babies than animals, because I did not really grow up amongst animals (a dog I was too young to take care of and fish when I was older do not really count). And as mentioned above, I, much like the intrepid author, “fell into” pet ownership…with a bunny.
It always starts with the bunny. Cherchez le lapin.
A cute, adorable, furry, continuously pooping, ever digging and chewer-without-ceasing-of-everything-you-do-not-want-him-to-chew bunny. What those people (and by those people I mean the ones that encourage the unsuspecting to become bunny owners) fail to tell you is that bunnies are more like Bugs Bunny…sly, naughty and destructive.
Even in my novice fog, I knew it was important to set the tone early. I am the owner. I’m the human. I’m in charge. One way bunnies “mark” their territory is by rubbing their chins on things (males also spray, which is that funny scent you smell when you enter my apartment). Apparently there is some kind of gland there that leaves a scent, declaring: “Property of Blackberry the Bunny.” So what do I do? In order to establish my dominance in this relationship, I rub my gland-less chin on him, look deeply into his eyes and seriously and authoritatively intone, “I am the alpha bunny. I am the alpha bunny. I AM the alpha bunny!”
This has made as much difference as a lone raindrop in the Pacific, which is to say none. Blackberry still has run of the apartment, and if I do not pay attention he will: chew electrical cords down to the copper wire, hop onto my dining room table and eat whatever is on there or knock it off the table (one particularly bad incident starred a vase of flowers and some stagnant water I kept forgetting to freshen), or will dig and chew his way through my carpet or through the couch. When I use the preposition “through” I mean it literally. Blackberry can run in one end of my couch and out the other due to his toothy biting and incomparable scratching.
All this being said (as well as being true), I cannot imagine my life without the little bugger. I love him. Even though when he deigns to let me pet and quasi-cuddle him on the floor (he hates to be picked up and will start kicking and wiggling to leave the warm comfort of my hug), he will ruin the almost-tender moment by running away into a corner and grooming himself. I try to console myself that he just has OCD, but he always seems to suspiciously be licking only the places where I touched him. As if I had cooties or something. Very disheartening.
This is the mystery of pet ownership. Even when the animal shows little or no affection (and sometimes aggression…I’m only sticking my hand in your precious cage to get your bowl out to feed you. So stop growling and charging and pawing me with those wicked nails that I’ve let grow overlong because I am too scared of cutting them and hurting you and because you won’t sit still long enough for me to cut them anyway…oops, sorry, just a tiny tangential rant).
What was I saying? Something about the joys of pet ownership?
Seriously, though, even when the animal shows little or no affection for you, the provider of food, shelter and unrequited love, there is some (one-way) bond there. Those weird quirks like running away from you become endearing. The chewed up books on the bookcase are marks of affection. I think owning a pet does something mushy to your brain. It’s the only way I can explain an intelligent, independent individual who did not want to be a pet owner in the first place (me, in case it was not already obvious), continuing to make loving overtures to an arrogant, naughty, disdainful, rebuffing bunny.
Wanna snuggle, Blackberry?
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Gen X: Dare to Do Urban Acupuncture
I recently read “X Saves the World: How Generation X Got the Shaft but Can Still Keep Everything from Sucking,” by Jeff Gordinier.
This is not a book for everyone, and obviously it will probably help if you are an Xer, as I am. We are a bit of a niche market in that according to Gordinier, the Baby Boomers and Generation Y "both swell past the 70 million mark, whereas Generation X is usually pegged at around 46 million." We are the forgotten step-child of the generations by marketers as well as historians. We're cynical, ironic and fringe. Slackers, low-key and the opposite of whatever self-aggrandizement may be. Gordinier created what he calls the GXAT (Generation X Aptitude Test) to determine if you belong to Generation X.
Question #1: Do you want to change the world?
A. Yes, and I'm proud to say we did it, man. We changed the world. Just look around you.
B. Yes, absolutely, and I promise I will get back to doing that just as soon as interest rates return to where they're supposed to be.
C. Omigod, omigod, changing the world and helping people is, like totally important to me! I worked in a soup kitchen once and it was so sad but the poor people there had so much dignity!
D. The way you phrase that question is so f***ing cheesy and absurd that I am not even sure I want to continue with this pointless exercise.
Question #1 is the only question on the GXAT. Guess which answer means you're the Xer?
Things coalesced for me reading this book. Snippets and scraps that were floating around in my head arranged themselves and formed a quilt. Something with a shape and purpose. A-ha! That’s me!
While reading this book I saw some old episodes of MadTV. They had a sketch called X News. It was like Gordinier wrote those scenes – same language, flavor and attitude. Not unlike The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and The Colbert Report. When interviewed, both Stewart and Stephen Colbert insist they are comedians, not subversive leaders daring to undermine the repressive social-political environment suffocating free thought. They do fake news. This is Generation X. No illusions of grandeur.
Gordinier discusses how Barak Obama is one of the first Generation Xers to break-out in the political arena. It is one of the reasons Obama seems so free of the old political discord of Republican vs. Democrat, feminist vs. traditionalist, white vs. black, etc. And so it is believable when he talks about change. His language, his perspective is different from the Boomers who have been running the country these past decades. Gordinier writes, “Scan his [Obama’s] first book, Dreams from My Father, and you’ll see that Obama’s way of thinking developed amid the backwash of skepticism that followed the grand march of the sixties and seventies. He’s allergic to anything that smacks of movementism.”
One of the things I liked most about this book is that Gordinier shares what Xers are doing around the planet...and it is amazing. Majora Carter organized Sustainable South Bronx in order to lobby and fight to “green the ghetto.” There is Fritz Haeg teaching others how to create edible gardens and opening his home to conversation and the sharing of ideas. Dave Eggers opened a non-profit writing center for students housed in a pirate supply store (and similar centers have opened around the country). Cameron Sinclair and Kate Stohr created “Architecture for Humanity” an organization that creates homes and buildings of beauty and function for those who may have lost theirs in a natural disaster, or where a building is needed. One of their projects is building an HIV/AIDS clinic in Mozambique. Their philosophy is that if you create something beautiful, people will take care and value it.
Sinclair calls it “urban acupuncture.” A small-batch solution that can be spread around like a virus (a la You Tube style), hopefully creating a ripple effect beyond the small act itself. Where the underlying belief is that there are a hundred million solutions, not one solution to the problems we face. This is one of the cores of the Xer mentality. No grandiose “greatest generation,” no worshipping of consumerism or emo ego-centrism and no rose-colored glasses…even when viewing our own reflection. Feeling that uniformity is toxic and that just doing a small thing…your thing is enough. Change comes from the fringe; we are in the margins, so who better than us to instigate such change? We have always been on the outside looking in.
It is not unlike what Kanu Hawaii is trying to do. When I think about it, it is very Generation X. Not surprising, since it is a bunch of Xers who created it. Embrace tradition without being sappy or idealistic about it, but look forward in a dynamic way. Not searching for THE answer (in fact not even believing there is only one answer), but utilizing community to discover the many answers. “Join” groups if you wish, but maintain your individual ideas, ideals and commitments.
The last chapter of the book is entitled “I Will Dare.” This is the way Generation X will keep everything from sucking…we dare. Dare to dream, dare to fail, dare to do.
This is not a book for everyone, and obviously it will probably help if you are an Xer, as I am. We are a bit of a niche market in that according to Gordinier, the Baby Boomers and Generation Y "both swell past the 70 million mark, whereas Generation X is usually pegged at around 46 million." We are the forgotten step-child of the generations by marketers as well as historians. We're cynical, ironic and fringe. Slackers, low-key and the opposite of whatever self-aggrandizement may be. Gordinier created what he calls the GXAT (Generation X Aptitude Test) to determine if you belong to Generation X.
Question #1: Do you want to change the world?
A. Yes, and I'm proud to say we did it, man. We changed the world. Just look around you.
B. Yes, absolutely, and I promise I will get back to doing that just as soon as interest rates return to where they're supposed to be.
C. Omigod, omigod, changing the world and helping people is, like totally important to me! I worked in a soup kitchen once and it was so sad but the poor people there had so much dignity!
D. The way you phrase that question is so f***ing cheesy and absurd that I am not even sure I want to continue with this pointless exercise.
Question #1 is the only question on the GXAT. Guess which answer means you're the Xer?
Things coalesced for me reading this book. Snippets and scraps that were floating around in my head arranged themselves and formed a quilt. Something with a shape and purpose. A-ha! That’s me!
While reading this book I saw some old episodes of MadTV. They had a sketch called X News. It was like Gordinier wrote those scenes – same language, flavor and attitude. Not unlike The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and The Colbert Report. When interviewed, both Stewart and Stephen Colbert insist they are comedians, not subversive leaders daring to undermine the repressive social-political environment suffocating free thought. They do fake news. This is Generation X. No illusions of grandeur.
Gordinier discusses how Barak Obama is one of the first Generation Xers to break-out in the political arena. It is one of the reasons Obama seems so free of the old political discord of Republican vs. Democrat, feminist vs. traditionalist, white vs. black, etc. And so it is believable when he talks about change. His language, his perspective is different from the Boomers who have been running the country these past decades. Gordinier writes, “Scan his [Obama’s] first book, Dreams from My Father, and you’ll see that Obama’s way of thinking developed amid the backwash of skepticism that followed the grand march of the sixties and seventies. He’s allergic to anything that smacks of movementism.”
One of the things I liked most about this book is that Gordinier shares what Xers are doing around the planet...and it is amazing. Majora Carter organized Sustainable South Bronx in order to lobby and fight to “green the ghetto.” There is Fritz Haeg teaching others how to create edible gardens and opening his home to conversation and the sharing of ideas. Dave Eggers opened a non-profit writing center for students housed in a pirate supply store (and similar centers have opened around the country). Cameron Sinclair and Kate Stohr created “Architecture for Humanity” an organization that creates homes and buildings of beauty and function for those who may have lost theirs in a natural disaster, or where a building is needed. One of their projects is building an HIV/AIDS clinic in Mozambique. Their philosophy is that if you create something beautiful, people will take care and value it.
Sinclair calls it “urban acupuncture.” A small-batch solution that can be spread around like a virus (a la You Tube style), hopefully creating a ripple effect beyond the small act itself. Where the underlying belief is that there are a hundred million solutions, not one solution to the problems we face. This is one of the cores of the Xer mentality. No grandiose “greatest generation,” no worshipping of consumerism or emo ego-centrism and no rose-colored glasses…even when viewing our own reflection. Feeling that uniformity is toxic and that just doing a small thing…your thing is enough. Change comes from the fringe; we are in the margins, so who better than us to instigate such change? We have always been on the outside looking in.
It is not unlike what Kanu Hawaii is trying to do. When I think about it, it is very Generation X. Not surprising, since it is a bunch of Xers who created it. Embrace tradition without being sappy or idealistic about it, but look forward in a dynamic way. Not searching for THE answer (in fact not even believing there is only one answer), but utilizing community to discover the many answers. “Join” groups if you wish, but maintain your individual ideas, ideals and commitments.
The last chapter of the book is entitled “I Will Dare.” This is the way Generation X will keep everything from sucking…we dare. Dare to dream, dare to fail, dare to do.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Friendship Stew
Making friends.
How does one go about making friends? And I’m talking about real people, not the imaginary, inflatable or cyber types.
I guess the first step would be to put yourself in a position where you would encounter people. But this alone is insufficient. You can be friendly with many, many people, but still not consider them your “friends.”
I remember not knowing anyone in Kindergarten. The friends I had made in pre-school were in other classes or at different schools. I remember being out on the playground during recess and taking my turn on the sliding board. Once I slid down a few times, I stood at the bottom of the slide and watched other kids slide down. I saw a girl with a smiling round face and two pigtails on either side of her head that were braided and tied at the bottom with ribbons that matched her blouse. She looked nice. Once she slid down the slide, I said, “Hi! My name is SweetlyDemure. Do you want to be my friend?” She smiled and said, “Okay!” and we were best friends until 5th grade when she and her family moved away.
I guess that technique could still work today…in Kindergarten, but what about something that will work amongst adults?
Looking at my current pool of friends, I notice that with many of them are long-time friendships. I still occasionally hang out with people I went to elementary school with. I had a tight group of friends in high school, but we drifted apart in college. Funnily, friends that I keep in touch with today from my high school years belonged to a different clique. Also, I still see a couple of people from college and a handful from law school, tennis (I have played adult7 league tennis since college) and church (until recently I attended the same church since elementary school).
Another group of friends actually started out as friends-in-law. A friend-in-law is a friend of your friend. Somewhere down the road we all went out together and eventually the relationships morphed and I ended up seeing the friend of my friend more than my original friend. Then at some unknown point a little farther along, my friends-in-law have become my friends.
A few friendships were built out of the workplace, but the core of my social circle has never emerged from the people with whom I work. We do lunches or dinners and go over to each other’s homes every once in awhile, but while I would consider some of them good friends, they are good friends on my periphery, as I am on their periphery. It would not be strange to call them for a favor, but they are not even buddies I see once every two months.
Friendships develop in different ways. Perhaps my way is the crockpot method, whereby for whatever reason we find we are in each other’s vicinity and realize at some later point that hey, we meld pretty well together. A friendship stew, if you will. I’d like to think of myself as more of a potato, being able to get along with almost any meat or veggie, no matter how exotic. This, as many things in my life has come back to food. Introspection makes me hungry. Well, truth be told, almost everything makes me hungry. Beef stew, anyone?
How does one go about making friends? And I’m talking about real people, not the imaginary, inflatable or cyber types.
I guess the first step would be to put yourself in a position where you would encounter people. But this alone is insufficient. You can be friendly with many, many people, but still not consider them your “friends.”
I remember not knowing anyone in Kindergarten. The friends I had made in pre-school were in other classes or at different schools. I remember being out on the playground during recess and taking my turn on the sliding board. Once I slid down a few times, I stood at the bottom of the slide and watched other kids slide down. I saw a girl with a smiling round face and two pigtails on either side of her head that were braided and tied at the bottom with ribbons that matched her blouse. She looked nice. Once she slid down the slide, I said, “Hi! My name is SweetlyDemure. Do you want to be my friend?” She smiled and said, “Okay!” and we were best friends until 5th grade when she and her family moved away.
I guess that technique could still work today…in Kindergarten, but what about something that will work amongst adults?
Looking at my current pool of friends, I notice that with many of them are long-time friendships. I still occasionally hang out with people I went to elementary school with. I had a tight group of friends in high school, but we drifted apart in college. Funnily, friends that I keep in touch with today from my high school years belonged to a different clique. Also, I still see a couple of people from college and a handful from law school, tennis (I have played adult7 league tennis since college) and church (until recently I attended the same church since elementary school).
Another group of friends actually started out as friends-in-law. A friend-in-law is a friend of your friend. Somewhere down the road we all went out together and eventually the relationships morphed and I ended up seeing the friend of my friend more than my original friend. Then at some unknown point a little farther along, my friends-in-law have become my friends.
A few friendships were built out of the workplace, but the core of my social circle has never emerged from the people with whom I work. We do lunches or dinners and go over to each other’s homes every once in awhile, but while I would consider some of them good friends, they are good friends on my periphery, as I am on their periphery. It would not be strange to call them for a favor, but they are not even buddies I see once every two months.
Friendships develop in different ways. Perhaps my way is the crockpot method, whereby for whatever reason we find we are in each other’s vicinity and realize at some later point that hey, we meld pretty well together. A friendship stew, if you will. I’d like to think of myself as more of a potato, being able to get along with almost any meat or veggie, no matter how exotic. This, as many things in my life has come back to food. Introspection makes me hungry. Well, truth be told, almost everything makes me hungry. Beef stew, anyone?
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
It's Alive!
There is just something about a live performance. Whether it be music, a play, or a poetry slam, there is something about seeing it live. And it is not the “tightrope” feeling that something may go wrong at any moment. That’s unsettling to me. Rather, I think it may be the palpable energy, the interaction between performer(s) and audience and the audience with each other that raises the bar.
This weekend I saw Carlos Barbosa-Lima in concert at the Honolulu Art Academy. He was amazing. He has an interesting style that I would not have known about if I had just heard a recording of his work. His right hand looks stubby, because he really curls his fingers in when he strums and picks. You can only see up to the middle knuckle. Yet his left hand looks like a long-legged spider traveling up and down a fret board web. Sometimes dancing joyously and unfettered, other times picking its way daintily.
The last number he performed (not including several encores) was called “One Note Samba.” There was such a pure innocence and vitality about they way he interpreted the music. A joyful, unselfconscious exuberance that immediately had me picturing children playing, running across a meadow, laughing with faces shining. Another song he played was called “Conchichando.” In my program, I just made a one-word notation next to the title: “Wow!”
Something happens when art is performed live in front of me. It could be the result of hundreds of rehearsal hours or an impromptu session. Either way, why does it seem so good for my well-being? Why do I miss it . . . feel that something is lacking? Why does my “creative side” (whatever may be clinging to life there) get fired up when someone shares their art with me?
Part of the reason I love live music is it gets me to think abstractly . . . in colors, scents and movement, something that does not convey itself as easily when I’m listening to a CD. It’s like my creativity suffers from narcolepsy, and once it goes to sleep, it can slip into hibernation for long periods if nothing wakes it up and I end up sort of just drifting along. I’m afraid one day it will just never wake up. Definitely time to wakey, wakey!
This weekend I saw Carlos Barbosa-Lima in concert at the Honolulu Art Academy. He was amazing. He has an interesting style that I would not have known about if I had just heard a recording of his work. His right hand looks stubby, because he really curls his fingers in when he strums and picks. You can only see up to the middle knuckle. Yet his left hand looks like a long-legged spider traveling up and down a fret board web. Sometimes dancing joyously and unfettered, other times picking its way daintily.
The last number he performed (not including several encores) was called “One Note Samba.” There was such a pure innocence and vitality about they way he interpreted the music. A joyful, unselfconscious exuberance that immediately had me picturing children playing, running across a meadow, laughing with faces shining. Another song he played was called “Conchichando.” In my program, I just made a one-word notation next to the title: “Wow!”
Something happens when art is performed live in front of me. It could be the result of hundreds of rehearsal hours or an impromptu session. Either way, why does it seem so good for my well-being? Why do I miss it . . . feel that something is lacking? Why does my “creative side” (whatever may be clinging to life there) get fired up when someone shares their art with me?
Part of the reason I love live music is it gets me to think abstractly . . . in colors, scents and movement, something that does not convey itself as easily when I’m listening to a CD. It’s like my creativity suffers from narcolepsy, and once it goes to sleep, it can slip into hibernation for long periods if nothing wakes it up and I end up sort of just drifting along. I’m afraid one day it will just never wake up. Definitely time to wakey, wakey!
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