Driving You Crazy

I hear it, I say it: _______ drives me crazy. I suspect if offered that fill-in-the-blank, you could rattle off any number of suspects, or perhaps a particular candidate is now or was recently up your nose. Computers, phones, elected officials, service or lack thereof, children, parents, friends, neighbors—sometimes trivial, sometimes not.

Unfortunately, what really drives me crazy is allowing externals to drive me crazy. Yep, the conclusion is obvious, I make myself crazy. Great.

New mantra—okay, not so new—folks are going to do what folks are going to do. This guidepost is not so simple because expectations are a necessary part of the social compact. We need to know others will perform, will deliver as needed, and yet often, we will be disappointed when our expectations are not met.

Now I am wary of advocating an expect-nothing, never-disappointed outlook. And expectations do shape behavior, for good or ill to be sure.

Perhaps, as I have seen many times, the balance to strike is akin to the parenting process that leads to the moment when a child does the expected unexpectedly. You may have seen that knowing look between parents. Or wildly exuberant high-fives.

The slack we cut, based on understanding the child’s moment in time, may seem unnecessary when counting on adults to be, uh, adults. Don’t count on it. Besides, more significantly, the world bending to your worldview is a fantastical longshot.

You want someone to say X, or you want someone to think X, or you want someone to do X—sure, that’s fine, but know that’s not how it’s going to go a fair amount of the time.

X driving you crazy? Do yourself a favor and keep your own hands on your crazy wheel.

Let me wrap up with a little lagniappe for a certain generation. Sing the title of this post to the song “Having My Baby”. You’re welcome. Have a good day. 

Monumentalism

Cassis is a small town on the French Mediterranean coast that has been to sometimes a greater and sometimes a lesser degree a fishing village since 500 BC, or perhaps earlier. Nearly 500 miles to the north stands the Arc de Triomphe, commissioned by Napoleon to honor his Grande Armee, the nearly invincible force that conquered most of Europe.

Begun in 1806 and completed in 1836, the 164’ arch provided a focal point for victorious armies marching through Paris—including the Germans in 1871 and 1940. Napoleon’s military campaigns led to an estimated 2.5 million military deaths and perhaps more than a million civilians killed.

But back to Cassis. The town, or more significantly the inhabitants, went about their lives for more than 2300 years before Napoleon came to power. Fishing, developing vineyards, trading. Did his reign as emperor rouse the townsfolk to a patriotic frenzy? Were men, young and old, eager to be part of his mighty military machine?

No doubt some, but surely some continued with the daily tasks at hand, mending nets, harvesting grapes, living life as mapped out in homes, the hills, and the sea. No fervor for grand designs to conquer the world, to crush foreign nations—especially the British. No particular reward or suffering came their way for Napoleon’s victories or the ultimate defeat at Waterloo.

In 1982, the second largest triumphal arch in the world at 197’ was built in Pyongyang, capital of North Korea, to commemorate Korean resistance against the Japanese from 1925-1945. In particular, the monument recognized President Kim-Il-sung’s role in liberating what is now North Korea from Japanese rule and his 70^th birthday. According to international sources, he is thought to be accountable for one to two million civilian deaths during his reign.

Nearly 100 miles south of the capital sits Songang-ni, and by zooming in via Google map, fishing boats can be seen tethered together on the tidal flats nearby. Information specific to the town is difficult to come by, but historical evidence suggests the peninsula has been occupied since 300 BC. Most likely—and I am speculating—locals have been fishing this coastline for more than 2200 years.

What, I wonder, what is in the hearts and minds of the fisherman who take those boats out into the Yellow Sea these days? 

Not Judging

But.

I struggle with being judgmental. After all, I’m a human being and so a lean, mean judging machine. Okay, not so lean. And, really, not so mean.

A case can be made for linking judgments to staying alive, Survival 101. Dangerous adversary or welcoming friend? Edible mushroom or poisonous? Spring rain or late season blizzard?

More to the point, I am thinking of less dramatic situations, rather more of the smaller exchanges we have with one another. For example, I tell a friend how much I love raw oysters. My friend makes a face distorted by disgust and spits out “I hate oysters!”

Now I could be playing either role, positive statement made or the negative rebuttal. Here’s what is slowing me down—when I manage to slow myself down. Doesn’t my judgment—my sharing of an opposing opinion—add a little toxicity to the exchange?

Let me stop right here, I know how this can go discussion-wise: Jeez, put your big boy pants on, you might say. People are going to disagree. Got it.

But what if the psychological stakes are higher and what the person shares is more significant than whether rutabaga ought to be considered a food? Am I listening in non-judgmental fashion, or can I hardly wait to wade in, especially with a negative take?

Here’s the kicker for me. Did the person ask for my opinion? Truth: hardly ever.

Besides, how often I plow forward without having any real understanding of another’s situation, the circumstances, the background. I own 64-years of judging, evaluating, opining, pontificating, and as soon as the other person takes a breath, I’m putting on the robe and bringing out the gavel.

Not judging? Oh, yes I am.

Note to self: Shut up, and listen.

Lightning in a Bottle

Grumpy? You betcha’ by golly wow. Today’s version of The Rankler courtesy of Time: A report in the Journal of the American College of Cardiology found that light to moderate drinking (14 or fewer drinks per week for men, and seven or fewer for women) was associated with about a 20% reduced risk of death, compared with no drinking at all, over the 13-year study duration.

So, “a reduced risk of death” is it? Well, dig me a shallow grave, but I thought my risk of death a certitude as in 100%. Now, please, don’t bother to trot out the “you know what they meant”.

I see this type of wording all the time, which may or may not reflect an inclination to sidestep our mortality. Some practice anecdotally or via research suggests slowing down the shuffle off this mortal coil, and the media lets us know that we may decrease our risk of death.

Let me proactively offer another phrase: increases life span (or reduces as the case may be).

More importantly, would that light to moderate drinking be 2 a day, or maybe some variation like a TGIF 3 drinks, perhaps a Hair Down Saturday 4 shots? We talking Michelob Ultra or Wild Turkey 101?

And, keep the “page space was limited” gambit to yourself.  If space (or time for broadcast media) is so limited, then why bother with this information?

By the way, the JACC editorial in the first issue of Volume 69 concludes, “For AF (atrial fibrillation), there is no benefit, only hazard, with risk increasing at the lowest level of alcohol intake.”

Write responsibly. Read responsibly. Drink responsibly. Think responsibly.

Like I said, grumpy.

That was Then, This is Now

As experiences go, the eclipse was pretty cool—temperature drop duly noted. Short-lived, gender-neutral, apolitical, and a relief from a pretty warm summer's day.

I liked the quietness of the moment here where I live. Another respite from the resounding 24/7 yakking that seems to define the current culture. But, onward we move. Through space. Through time. Into our respective nows.

The past has, uh, passed. Glib?  Of course. Nor are we there yet, the future somewhere beyond the blink of our eyes—many blinks even. Elusive, just ahead, foreseeable, and yet unforeseeable.

Sure, for centuries and centuries retailers of living-in-the-moment guides have tutored us in the ways of being in the present, attentively. I do not know how many folks are attentive, but some are, sure as the sun will rise—most likely, chronicling their moments. They instafacesnap like gerbils spinning the wheel.

Look! Here’s a moment and here’s another one and here’s another one. And lest some have some doubt of that now back then, like a bolt from Zeus, from the cloud the evidence will appear.

Okay, a mea culpa. Nope, I am not especially nostalgic, and nope, not so sentimental. I do sometimes peruse the On this Date feature offered by our good friends at Facebook. More often than not, not very affecting. Which could speak more to my lifestyle admittedly. 

I will remember standing in my backyard. I will remember the shadowy pall cast over our slice of this firmament. I will remember the laughing of children nearby. Until I don’t.

But that will be then, this is now.  

To the Dogs!

Me? Yes. I talk to my dog Max. Of course.

No baby talk, mind you. That foolishness is handled by family and friends who treat my 90-pound side of canine beef as if he were a puppy curled up in their laps.

Nothing too serious either. No lectures on the clever insidiousness of Marvell’s seducer. (I can hear former students howl their relief in the distance.) Well, I do bark at him to chew his food when he snorts up the bits like a Dyson set on max. He hacks up the mouthful and I tell him to chew and then he daintily eats up the mess on the floor one nugget at a time. Every meal.

Sure, the basics are in place: sit, wait, in or out—either as a question or as a command. Typically on our morning walk I will several times urge him to “hurry” when I have let him spool out the leash and lag behind.

Sometimes, the one-sided chat is just part of daily sociability. “Are we having a good day?” Or “tell ‘em”, when he barks at the blue heron or the beavers or the neighbors starting up their truck or a golf cart passing by or a motorcycle or a riding mower.

Weather stuff, too. “It’s too hot,” I say. Max hangs his tongue out like a limp dishrag.

We have our understanding about personal space. “Go sit down” he knows to mean that I am tired of him pestering me. Unless there is a storm approaching or on top of us and then my tone changes and “Go sit down” means go to his safe room, the laundry room in human terms.

Sure, like most dogs, Max will dream—doesn’t always seem pleasant by way of his moaning. I bring him out of it with a simple question: Chasing rabbits, Max?

Yesterday was National Dog Day apparently. We always seem to miss the occasion.

So let me throw Max a bone and quote some Shakespeare: Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will…. Max?

“Woof.”

Good boy!

Winner, Whiner, Chicken Diner

I am not a political scientist, nor do I play one on t.v.

But, in my mind--our president's discourse on our newish path forward in Afghanistan strikes me as the perfect executive straddle. To paraphrase, my (his) guts don't want to, but going with my (again, his) expert advisers. 

Brilliant. Under one foot, the supportive base hears the echo of Trump's campaign stance, and under the other, detractors are shown he will listen. 

If the mission shows no significant progress during Trump's tenure, he can whine that he should have listened to his gut. And--on this point I have a severe case of doubt-itis--if the situation should dramatically improve, he can crow about a presidential willingness to be swayed by the opinions of others.

Now is this political two-step shrewdly, cynically choreographed? I cannot say. What I can say serves only as a very obvious reminder. Afghanistan--well, we have slogged down this road for 16 years. 

But, heck, Russia marched out after only 9. 

The Curse of the State

The curse of the State is that the State must exist. Now set aside the brickbats, this post is no anarchist’s diatribe. Nor do I intend to say much about patriotism or nationalism—for now.

In this case, the State in question is the national state. However, much of what I offer here could be applied to many institutions, both public and private. To begin simply, the curse is the tension created between an idea, that of the State, and those who must reach out to the seated that sit in the chairs of power.

Consider this childlike—and you may think childish—question: Can you speak to the State? For example, imagine this phone conversation. Call the president’s office, or Congress, or even the Supreme Court, and ask to speak to the United States. “Office of the President, how may I direct your call?” “I’d like to speak to the United States.” Riff on what follows as you please.

An obvious “Duh” perhaps, but herein the rubbing begins. Of course, you may end up speaking with an individual vested with some authority per whatever power is granted by nature of a title, or statute, or election, etc. Grant for the moment my thought that to believe whomever this person may be speaks for the United States is, to be generous, disingenuous.

Let me free-range a bit. The Convention on Cluster Munitions (cluster bombs) was initiated in 2008, considered in force when 30 States ratified the agreement by 2010, and by last year more than 100 States were signed on. The cluster bomb is designed to release smaller bomblets so that the strike zone may extend much further than a single bomb.

As civil war wears on in Yemen, among the invested States geopolitically are CCM non-signers Yemen, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Russia, and the United States. Numerous reports allege American-made cluster bombs to have been dropped by Saudi warplanes on Yemeni population centers. Cluster bombs manufactured in the UK, an early adopter of the CCM treaty, have also been used by the Saudis in Yemen.

While debate over State security issues and military vs civilian targets continues in the US and the UK, certainly it would be fair for Yemenis to believe that these 2 States sanction Saudi Arabia using cluster bombs.

I would hazard that State policy on cluster bombs here in the US is a byproduct of no more than the consensus of a handful in the government. As for victims in Yemen who wish no ill-will but rather only to get on with their lives in peace—well, who are they going to call?

Comrades, in Sorrow

The Soviet Union’s military incursion into Afghanistan continued for more than 9 years (1979-1989). Estimates suggest 500,000 to 2 million Afghani civilians may have been killed by the invading force. Millions more fled to Iran and Pakistan. When the end of this misadventure came for the Soviet army, they had suffered 14,000 deaths and more than 53,000 wounded.

Communist party leader Leonid Brezhnev, who ordered the 40^th Army into Afghanistan, died in 1982.

What does one say?

Of course, there still must be Russian mothers and fathers who mourn the loss of their sons in that Afghanistan campaign. Weighed down by memories, like favorite meals shared so many times. Perhaps pelmeni. And brothers and sisters going forward with their lives, in sorrow over siblings killed, too, no doubt.

One may easily ask whether they question the value of their sons’ and brothers’ sacrifice. Or whether the country was a united front supporting Russian goals in the war. But, decisions were made from on high by a handful of the leadership. How it went is now a topic for historians to toil over.

Mikhail Gorbachev, final head of the Communist Party and the USSR, ordered the withdrawal of the Soviet forces in 1988 and then oversaw the dismantling of the Soviet Union in 1991.

And, one cannot forget the wives and children left behind who grieve their personal losses from the Soviet-Afghan War. Haunted, they may be, by remembrances, birthdays, a wedding anniversary, or a last picnic, maybe on the bank of the Kasplya River.

But what do fellow citizens say to those who were left behind with their sorrow? What do soldiers who made it back safely say to those families now?

In 2009, the Russian Duma (parliament) recognized the split in opinion over the war, but those divergent views they argued “mustn’t erode the Russian people’s respect for the soldiers who honestly fulfilled their duty in implementing tasks to combat international terrorism and religious extremists”.

Yet, in the final human analysis, what does one say?

Screw You Money

Ah, we are touting the power of reading now.

Of late, a number of references have appeared in the media about the voracious reading habits of the president’s chief strategist who currently appears on the cover of Time. One influential book in Steve Bannon’s universe is The Fourth Turning which reportedly proposes history moves in cycles of 80-100 years—with disastrous global outcomes in the process. My instinct is to be leery of cherry picking historical timelines to forecast events as the world spins on, but I have not read the book and so may be gravely misunderstanding its thesis.

However, another author reported to be a bookshelf favorite of Mr. Bannon has made my reading list. Nassim Taleb’s Fooled by Randomness, The Black Swan (my favorite of the 3), and Antifragile: Things that Gain from Disorder (Bannon’s favorite perhaps) are hardly a 3-pak of escapist weekend reading.

Taleb, an academician and investor and speaker among other pursuits, is by most estimates fabulously wealthy and so can by his own assessment go forward freely in his life on the basis of having amassed screw you money. (This wording is a paraphrase and speaks to my personal sensibility.) Consistently, Taleb has chewed on elites without real skin in the game and has been particularly scornful of the powerful who make policy and laws that will not jeopardize their status. 

Bannon, who is reported to be worth around $10-million—chump change to Taleb and Trump—certainly has roasted elites for their sins as he sees them. The recurring theme for Bannon is disruption, or disorder, and very clearly he sees Trump as a tool for, as he has often said, tearing the system apart.

But, here’s the irony—for me at least—should the system be ripped to shreds, anti-elites Trump, Taleb, and Bannon will not be left behind on the island. Why not? Because they too have screw you money.  

Nerd Alert: As counterweights to Bannon’s apparent thrust moving forward, I would recommend two titles: Barbara Tuchman’s The March of Folly: From Troy to Vietnam and A Peace to End All Peace: The Fall of the Ottoman Empire and the Creation of the Modern Middle East by David Fromkin.

By the way, a former neighbor of mine with 3 children recently was layed off from Boeing in North Charleston. Her weekly unemployment check is $276. Now that is skin in the game. Sans screw you money.

Delete Radical, Insert Violent

The idea that unalienable rights exist is a fiction—useful, of course; necessary, perhaps. I think it reasonable to guess that some readers once past their immediate reaction would allow that such a statement represents a radical idea.

Should a groom chose to wear his tuxedo backward and walk down church aisle backward, after other choice words coming to mind, again fair to expect some in the audience will assess the groom’s actions as radical behavior.

But herein lies the rub with radical as the word du jour: Depends on whom is doing the assessing. For some Islamic thinkers, Sufis are at least a radical sect and to some should not be considered true Muslims.

Dutifully note my hedging with the word some.

Linguistic flourishes have their charms, but I am pushing for accuracy over rhetorical sparklers—yes, yes, such a dreamer. To the point, then, if violence is being done, then let’s use the word violent as our adjective.

Not like we don’t have experience with the word: violent crime, violent demonstrators, violent history, violent tendencies, etc. Consider, then, that radicalism, and so the word radical, may not be the condemnation violent is when applied appropriately.

Play at home, girls and boys, as you read or watch news reports and speeches and analyses. Substitute violence for radical. Better, as in more accurately reflecting the point being made?

As a bit of lagniappe for the Mardi Gras season, think on the following notion. Violence is a radical response to the world. Or is it peace? 

Tinselton Live! with Raskin & Mooch (2)

Mooch: Zippers, R! Goes walking the very Lily de Oh!

Raskin: Say what say?

Mooch: Armed with Mike the Tyke! That lard of a bucket.

Raskin: Ach! Swounds she the beater, Mooch. Churns my bitters to see such flowering a-thistled.

Mooch: Wary, R, for Lily’s angels wandering the fro and through.

Raskin: Goodman Fleck, a sole waterlivet and pour friendly, pour friendly.

Mooch: Band-of-brothers that order, Fleckie, tight we are, pole hawks wired-like wing-to-wing.

Fleck: The Tyke’s too much roughage for that company to keep, R. Odious cabbage boar, excrementally so.

Raskin: Sores my eyes seeing thus.

Mooch: Oh, lawdmercy, see indeed thus, comes KeeKee hither.

Raskin: We’ll be ear-ing the broadside’s weltan-news now, Boyos.

KeeKee: Lookee lookee lookee, the two dogs of the lappeterrarium! Pint of the house darkwater, Mr. Fleck.

Mooch: Woof.

KeeKee: What, Mr. R, nary a-howling, and Lily scribbling in public with the Mighty Tyke.

Mooch: Hush, Kee, lest the house also blue plate a tongue fillet.

KeeKee: Well, such sorrowing sad unbuckles a gent says I. But here’s the nugget-in-hand. Ready? Squire Mike is building 40 two-and-ones at the corner of Old Wash and Grand.

KeeKee: Just G-P-S-ing, R, ain’t but a block there shy from jardinairess Lily.

Raskin: That shoal in the walls mounts never a 40. Bleek’s seatery no more than 30 in the main, and the upstairs was but three of the twos with a one down the hall.

KeeKee: Yass, true not true. The elevatory regs circumcised and lottoed the shebang at 40.

Mooch: Pshaw! Alderman Carrio balderdashed any gentry prance-a-frying herethereabouts and so as duly sworn people’s people.

KeeKee: Tyke’s cousin the builder, other cousin city attorney, other cousin housing inspector, other cousin brick maker, other cousin realtor, and other cousin jailed across the river, soon home to roam during the holidays.

Fleck: Hmmm, may dazzle the ol’ gal with polish and spittoons to the craigs, fernery—waltzing we in the greenery, Gents. Waltzing in the greenery.

Mooch: R, how we fast slippery from slab ribs to Wallet Salads.

Raskin: Likely cattails tucked, we’ll go a-mewing, Brother Mooch.

Tinselton Live! with Raskin & Mooch

Raskin: You hear El Prez, T-Bud?

Mooch: Did. Did. Did did did did.

Raskin: Ol’ Bully Dodger say what he say.

Mooch: Did did did dideo.

Raskin: Keeperman, pour the poor his tap. Full quaff for a working man.

Mooch: Mucho obligato, Mr. R. Ima thirsty too much today.

Raskin: Well here’s to a well never dry running.

Mooch: And the moat swole full.

Together: Bonnie dismal days forever!

Raskin: Ol’ Dodger whirled the wind, did he not?

Mooch: Sounds much like he did—maybe didn’t—dunno.

Raskin: Dunno the whirling or dunno the winding?

Mooch: Can’t say, R. Maybe if Ol’ Bully pigeon himself on a stool—like perching-like, and then we ask him.

Raskin: The Dodger himself here? That is blameworthy nonsense—twirling the twirl a-seat between us? Hoo, stash some foam and close the hatch—you a daft-hatted left-hander, Moochie.

Mooch: See the mug in hand, know the mug at hand, you know so I say how many times, R?

Raskin: Hands in the mayo jar every day before setting his cap I surmise.

Mooch: Sure true, well-oiled The Bigs—we sandpapery shakes down here, uh-huh.

Raskin: Here quicks Doctor Q.

Mooch: Does he have the Book with him or traveling light?

Raskin: Docttore Q, how churns the demise?

Dr. Q: Oh, it churns. It churns like the wintry sea a-thrash the rocks of Nova Scotus, a dun sky and a biter cold.

Raskin: The Moocher wants El Prez to toss a few here in the pewhouse and here here to what ails us. Say you?

Dr. Q: Sic transit moonbeams, Mr. Mooch. From the heights descend to alight—never.  

Mooch: People to people, the broad way now! Or we just go another mauling?

Raskin: A pint of thank-you-very-much-D40 and the tumbleway is greased for the falling.

Dr. Q: Boys, boys! Remember, the gloamy noose in the air hangs now not forever.

Mooch: From the Book of Pears, Doc? That sings!

Dr. Q: From the very book, Monsieur Mooch—for a pint now and the rest shall follow.

Mooch: Let me unpocket the jangles—R, you good for a handful?

Raskin: Full-a-throat so, and so in for a mouthful. Keep keeping, Keeperman. There may follow to be glassed over more and more by and by.

Moving Averages, So Moved

The next time some jackleg says, “Well, it’s just one degree”, please take this post and stick it to him in an email. While no doubt a degree of politicization is in the equation, more often than not I hear the sputtering of a member of the innumerati. And, yes, I just made that word up (I think): See neologism.

Perhaps folks just didn’t spend enough time with batting averages while growing up. First week of the season and a little-known-player goes 6 for 10 and he’s batting .600. Phenom? Next week he goes for 0 for 10 and now his average is .300. Dramatic drop, right? Check back with him after 500 at bats.

He’s batting .200 and is headed down to the minors. On a glorious Saturday afternoon in Wrigley, he goes 4 for 4. Keep him in the Bigs? Uh, no. His average moved—staggered—up to .206. He’s gone.

Here’s another way to think about the way numbers and averages work. Before the weekend he got a hit in 1 out of 5 at bats, and after his last swings, he now gets a hit in 4.85 bats—wanna round up?

Which is why, if I were to bat against a big-leaguer and magically managed to squib some lame duck over second base for a single, I would never bat again, and so forever claim that I batted a thousand (1.000) against professional pitching. And for the sake of the scenario, just imagine I loped out that single. Somehow. Against all odds.

Okay, so a one degree temperature move—same deal with the way the hits and at bats numbers averaged out. One day the high is 80, and the next 50. Average high, then, is 65. Twenty-eight days later, the average high is 62. On the last day of the month, 105 degrees of sweltering awfulness. Month averaged 63 (and, yes, I rounded down).

Now, 364 days into the year, the average high has been 60. On the last day of the year—we’re living down under—115 degrees. Your new average high is—ta dum!—60.15. Better fix the fan.

Finally, 100 years of an average high of 60 degrees, with some leap years in the pile, and on the first day of the new year, 124 degrees—yikes! So, 60.001 is your new average daily high for the 100 years.

With our thinking caps on, what do we surmise? When an average, weighted with over 36,000 data points, moves a degree, up or down, in a short span of time—something might be in the air.

No, I didn’t check my work.

No, I didn’t show my work.

Homework: How many days at 124 degrees would be needed to move the 100-year-average to 61 degrees? Too cataclysmic? How many days at 100?