Category: universe

politics, sports, pop, fashion, science with a sprinkling of thinkings

Framing or Taming Fears

A frightening site. A post coitus demon sitting in a blown out building overlooking the East Side. For those of you who don't know, this is from Ghostbusters.

Why did she do it? Why did she step outside her frilly cravat and black robes for poli-talk. Inappropriate for a sitting Supreme Court Justice. Inappropriate.

First, I know that plenty disagree with me on that last word. But for those of you of the leftward lean, imagine if Justice Scalia had said the same about candidate Obama. There were calls for Justice Alito’s head when he publicly reacted to the President’s State of the Union by reflexively shaking his head no and mouthing, “Not true.” That’s nothing like calling a major party candidate a faker and saying he’ll bring America to ruin. Let’s be intellectually honest here and call the game fairly.

Back to the why. Why did she step so far out? She hasn’t crossed the line this directly into politics before.

Some say it’s because in her eighth decade, she will just say whatever she likes. Others wonder if she is feeling her moniker as The Notorious R.G.B. and was lost in her own importance. Was she careless? It’s hard to think that her remarks were casual, especially because she repeated them before she walked them back and apologized.

I think she was deliberate in her statements. She was in a sit down with the New York Times. It’s as if she sought an opportunity to be on the record. I think it’s because she is afraid. She as much as said so.

I imagine a scenario where she’s feeling that this cycle is very different. That established rules of behavior and decorum of the presidential election process are being flaunted. That even as personal and ugly as elections have become, that there is a new level of debasement. And it is frightening.

I have a hunch that she thinks this is the worst, and most dangerous, election in modern American history. That our democracy, that America, is seriously at risk. I imagine that she felt compelled to do something. She felt remaining silent was an abdication of her oath “to support and defend the Constitution of the United States.” That, if she could, she must use her influence.

I bet she didn’t map out about the true political ramifications of her comments. She played directly into the narrative that scares her. She immediately became the lighting rod for judicial overreach, for confusing the roles in our Constitution, for the out of touch establishment and as the worst of liberals trying to protect their liberalness. By taking the unprecedented steps of directly commenting on an active election, she likely expected to have an impact. But she wasn’t going to have much impact on her own choir, and she riled up the other team.

Justice Ginsburg is a brave person both on the bench and personally. But she blew this because she played outside of her strength. It’s recklessness borne of a growing alarm.

Writing a note to self: Do not act out of fear. Act from the strength of convictions. Yours, not someone else’s.

Posted on by docthink 0

You Don’t Really Care For Music

I like music. Sometimes I sing along. Sometimes I listen. Sometimes I think. Sometimes I escape. Frequently it’s a combo box.

I like pop music. I like hip hop. I like many jazz styles. I like rock, gospel and classical (including opera). There’s even metal I like. I like zydeco, Irish, polka and other traditional music. I like Bollywood tracks and Broadway musicals. I like rhyme and rhythm and stories.

I don’t like all of it. But I like a lot of it.

I like it because it has a crazy hook that I am programmed to sing along. I like it because it tells me about someone’s life. I like it because I can relate to that life, or because I can’t. I like it because it makes me dance. I like it because it makes me feel something–joy, loss, sadness, hope. And, like I said, not all of these likes at the same time.

I know that there is an industry built around music. That folks make money off my likes. This doesn’t mean that it’s not art. It also doesn’t mean that it is. This doesn’t mean it is worthy. Or unworthy. You decide.

There are pieces that make up music. There are the lyrics, the melody, the instruments, the beat, the vocal, the backup vocal, and effects. Effects that make echos, that cut the music to drive it, that make some instruments louder and others recede.

Leonard Cohen wrote a beautiful song, Hallelujah. It is such a beautiful song that even when I sing it it sounds alright. From the lips of Jeff Buckley, though, especially as accompanied by his weeping electric guitar, it is the human experience. It is full of spirituality, of sadness and despair and, somehow, of hope. From the first intake and exhale of breath to the final sweet ooooh and guitar chord, it is art. It is Buckley adding his art to the art of the composer. It is good.

There are 240 words in the song. I didn’t count every hallelujah for this exercise, although each one is important and right for the piece. But for the purpose today, it wouldn’t be fair.

“What purpose is that?” you ask.

There is another song, one that is not as moving but is a better than decent club song. This Is What You Came For is a producer’s song. It’s the beat, the tempo the mix. The vocals are used as an instrument, so the lyrics are a tool for the singer to perform. There are sixty words to this song, not including all the You, oh, oh, you, oh, oh‘s of which there may be dozens.

The lyrics aren’t awful, just not interesting. I mean, if you want awful, try and make it through Juicy J— but I gotta give it to that rapper, he spits over some great beats.

My point? In some tunes, the vocals recede like a rhythm guitar or the sound of a beeper in Where It’s At. The words are not what makes the music. They are a part of the whole that the producer weaves into a mix designed, in this case, to get you to the dance floor for some writhing. This Is What You Came For does that, propelled by the vocals of Rihanna looping again and again over the electronic house beat. It’s made for dancing. Any singing along is more akin to dancing with your mouth. It’s dance music.

My real point? Shut up Taylor Swift. You’re 60 word contribution was noted. You are no Leonard Cohen in this instance. So just shut up. And cash your check.

Posted on by docthink 0

Maslow’s Hammer

Here is the head of a standard, worn hammer. It's broken away from it's handle.

The silver bullet. The single solution to an intractable problem.

Like the problem of the werewolf. You know, the man who under a full moon goes full monster? When knives and regular bullets have no effect? Enter the mythical silver bullet. The one weapon that can bring the reign of terror to an end.

People like silver bullets. They bring the comfort of certainty. If only we knew the cause, we could fix it. Because there is one, and only one, cause. And once that is known, we can focus on what needs to be done. It’s a straight line from cause to effect. Kill the cause, kill the effect.

Except that’s not how the world works. The monster lives in an ecosystem that supports her. There is a system that creates the monster and that sustains the monster. There are incentives that allow, nay, that encourage the monster.

That’s why after the hero kills the werewolf in the movie, there is always a sequel. [This is only half facetious. As far as systems go, there are reasons why we retell stories, too. But, back to the monster.]

The bullet takes care of the current manifestation of the problem, but does nothing to adjust the underlying structure that spawned it. To be truthful, the removal of the beast is also part of the system. The killed wolf informs back, a feedback loop, and has an impact in the system. The act of killing the werewolf is advanced by other incentives that are connected to the werewolf itself. When those incentives align, the wolf is toast.

This might look like a fatalistic argument, but it is not. It is an argument that begs for a review of the interconnectivity and complexity of the environs. It begs, too, to see solutions as hypotheses that can be tested and modified based on observed results.

There will be unintended consequences. Period. We need to do the best we can to avoid over-investing  in a wrong approach. And a single approach is inherently wrong. Because our world is a complex system. And there is no silver bullet.

 

Posted on by docthink 0

No Safe Harbor

A selection of crayons that show a spectrum of color, all called flesh.

When I was a much younger Doc, AM and BC (after marriage and before kids), I worked with Lynn.

Lynn was older than me–in the way that when you are young everyone seems older, but looking back she hardly was. She was the backbone of the organization. She suffered fools not at all, and everyone respected her. Frankly, most of us wanted to be her friend. She was the friend that would tell you TRUTH and the friend that would have your back. Okay, we wanted her to be our friend. I don’t know that most people knew how to be her friend.

She was the commensurate professional as the new guard took on a leadership role. Others were unsure and insecure. Lynn? She rolled with it. She knew she was good. She ran the member database like a boss, negotiated hotel and AV contracts like a shark and charmed the board like a bartender who makes everyone believe they are friends–but they really aren’t. They have a business relationship.

Over time, Lynn decided that I was okay. That I could be trusted. That she could talk to me. That we could share lunch. And it was one day over lunch she told me that she was relieved that her son could get his non-driver’s ID. He was thirteen.

I was like, “What’s that about? He’s not learning to drive, is he?” I knew her delightfully goofy, barely teen son. What was the point of an officially laminated card for a middle-schooler?

“Oh, Doc,” she said, “My son is only thirteen, but he is already 6’2″, so to the cops he is a black man. I want, that when they roll up to him because someone a few blocks away was robbed or the gas station was burgled or a drug bust went down, he can prove-by showing an official government document–that he is NOT a man. That he is a thirteen year old boy. So they can run his name to see he doesn’t have a record. And for them to know it wasn’t him.”

I am sure I looked at her like a confused puppy. With my head cocked to one side and the opposite brow raised in a question.

“Doc, let me tell you what I told him. If a police car pulls next to you, STOP. Do not move. Always show your hands. Never run. NEVER never run. Do not mouth off. Do not challenge. Keep your eyes down. If they tell you to get on the ground, do it. I’ve got on the floor to show him how. Because they are looking for someone, and it’s easy if it’s my son if he’s in front of them. And they would not hesitate before they shot him.”

I heard her. I didn’t know. My eyes were likely like saucers. I know that my mouth was dry. I had heard love in her voice when she spoke of her son. I had heard pride in her voice when she shared his successes. I had heard joy in her voice when she told of their exploits.

But this day? I felt fear in her voice. And she was never afraid. Of anything. She shared something with me that white people miss. That we are ignorant of. That is foreign to our existence. And I was afraid for her son. She spoke a truth that I didn’t know, but she taught me.

So, White People who don’t know, let me explain white privilege to you.

You who don’t worry about your children having an encounter with the police. You who had the cops call you when your kid got pulled over for drinking because boys will be boys. You whose kids have cursed out cops. You whose kids come home safe after cursing out said cops. You who tell your kids that if they’re in trouble to call the police.

You who haven’t had “that talk.” No, not that one.

The talk where you tell your kid to be polite, to defer, to acquiesce, to say “Sir” and “Ma’am,” to take the insults, to keep their hands out of their pockets, to not run, to swallow their anger at being falsely accused and harassed. Because when they have an encounter with the police they just might end up in the hospital or…or…or….

I can’t bring myself to type the next word. I can’t imagine telling my sons that they have to walk an arbitrary and capricious line, a line that may shift, a line that holds their life in the balance. Because of anything and, in this case, because of their skin color.

That, friends, is white privilege.

I have extra sons. Sons that are brothers with my sons but from different mothers. Sons who have brown skin. I tell these young men–young men who were scouts together, who ate my waffles, who walk my dog when I’m lazy, who call me mom–to put my number in his phone. And always, no matter what, call if he needs me. I hope he never needs me.

Posted on by docthink 0

Wisdom Doesn’t Help

Help us Athena, you're our only hope. More details The Athena Giustiniani, a Roman copy of a Greek statue of Pallas Athena (Vatican Museums)

You can have the milk that has just soured or the milk that’s curdled.

You can choose between the phone with the broken screen and a slow network or the new phone with a data plan you can’t afford.

You can walk in the torrential rain without an umbrella or wait under shelter and abandon your child at daycare.

You can live in a community that disallows any deviation from a very narrow set of norms or you can live where it is unsafe.

You can select either the partner who ignores you or the partner who beats you.

You can opt for an uncertain future in a zombie apocalypse or the certain and immediate death of an asteroid hitting the earth.

Being poisoned or shot in the head?

You can choose someone who thinks that the ends–like protecting the least among us–justifies the means–lying and hiding and evading–or you can chose a bullying, racist demagogue.

What good is the wisdom of Solomon? There isn’t a good choice. But someone is going to win.

Posted on by docthink 0

Inside The Lines

Harold takes his purple crayon and draws himself a balloon so he doesn't tumble to his death.

I’m not doing it, but I know people who are. They say it’s relaxing. They find it a creative outlet. Some find it mindful. Some are obsessed, as people are when they embrace a new activity.

Adult coloring.

When I first heard the term, I thought it had to do with a type of sex play. I didn’t read those shades of gray “books,” but the popularity of adult coloring and safe S&M porn for the bookclub set were overlapping if not simultaneous.

If it wasn’t sex play, maybe it was adult themed coloring. You know, NSFW stuff. Don’t look at me that way. It’s a reasonable thought. I mean why else would they modify the action of coloring with “adult?”

I was wrong. There really isn’t much difference between adult coloring and just coloring. You get a piece of paper with a line drawing and you take your crayons or special pencils or even paints, I guess, and you color.

Remember all of those affirmations about it being cool to color outside of the lines? That we won’t be constrained by the rules imposed by our mean first grade teachers? That we will push beyond prescribed limits and put our pens wherever the hell we want to? No more. It’s all about playing within the lines. Au revoir, adios and adieu freedom.

It’s about the constraints. The comfort of knowing where you are supposed to be. The certainty of limits. Success via conforming. A new coloring order.

Folks can go online and download coloring sheets to print out and color. For ten bucks, you can go to Target and buy a Crayola™ branded book of “folk art” for your coloring pleasure. “Folk art” is a euphemism for cartoons that are easy for people to color. Big blocks of spaces to fill in with your favorite colors. Here’s how they sell it:

Lose yourself in a complex-but-relaxing coloring art activity with these captivating, bold, and colorful images. Includes 80 detailed art patterns on high-quality paper. Perforated for easy tear out and framing.

My favorite part? “Perforated for easy tear out AND FRAMING.” Emphasis, of course, mine. I would love to see that person’s bill from Michaels. Eighty from one book. All framed! Their hallways are covered in framed coloring pages of primitive cartoon chickens.  Or even worse, imagine being on their Christmas list.

Here’s the thank you card:

Thanks, Friend, for the thoughtful, framed coloring page of that rooster and the pig in the farmyard! You really are making me think about roosters differently. And is that Crayola™ crayon shade Barn Red? Thanks again, but next year, please don’t go through all that trouble for me. Love, Doc

Seriously, I love that people are enjoying simple, mindful or even mindless activity. I bet that people who are coloring see their breathing and heartbeat slow down, their brain waves relax and tension levels drop exponentially.

It’s cool that you color. I mean I write this stupid blog. Go on now. You do you.

Posted on by docthink 0

No Comment

salmon niçoise
arugula pine nuts golden raisins with shaved Parmesan
basque inspired clams and rice
zucchini ricotta lemon with prosciutto
shrimp on bed of fresh greens with chickpeas and farro
peaches

I love to cook. I love to cook different things. I love to learn how to cook different things. The Internet helps me. See my handiwork above.

I am so happy to look at my mostly barren between-shopping-trips kitchen, type the words [squash], [capers] and [mint] and find something to make for dinner. And many, many times, the results taste good. Even better, I might have added to my cook’s knowledge for next time.

Another terrific thing about cooking is that you can use your learnings to make changes or substitutions to reflect what you have on hand or your taste preferences or both.  Sometimes I’ll scroll through a bunch and take parts of two–or maybe on occasion six–and concoct something. Sometimes I look for a recipe just to get a technique or a cooking approximation. The internet is a treasure trove for cooks and cook wannabes.

Yet another terrific thing about using recipes online is looking at the reviews of the other cooks. You can get an idea if people thought that there was too much salt or too much oil or if the prep-time is onerous or if it feeds an army rather than two or if you should double the sauce. If many commenters said that the results stunk, you take that caution and move on.

A non-terrific thing about cooking and the internet are people who comment and rate a totally different recipe.

Like this one for a corn and tomato salad,

I didn’t use tomato.

What the what? It’s a corn and TOMATO salad. Rule 1: You can’t review a recipe that you didn’t use.

Or this one for old fashioned spaghetti and meatballs,

I thought this was a great, old school recipe. Like somebody’s grandma. I pretty much followed the recipe exactly, except for making the following changes: I substituted salmon for the ground beef and veal because I had some leftover. I don’t really care for Italian seasonings so I used ginger and scallions. I bound the salmon together with some breadcrumbs and egg and the sauce was more soy and mirin. We served over rice with sesame bok choy. I would give the recipe 3.5 stars if I could, but will leave it at 3 since I made a few changes.

What recipe did you make? How could you review this recipe. And, most importantly, why do we care about your version of what is definitely not Mama’s Pasta? Rule 2: You can’t review a recipe that you didn’t follow, like at all. Shut up, please.

And the final one is the person who takes offense and feels compelled to share said offense because that is NOT how his family makes it. And his grammy knows! This is most entertaining when they include their own version of the recipe so that you don’t make the mistake and prepare the food wrong.

From a vegetarian recipe for healthy “fried” green tomatoes with red pepper vinaigrette,

I am from the South and no self-respecting Southerner would make their fried green tomatoes with goat cheese. My grandma would take the can of lard or bacon fat out from behind the pantry and she’d fry them up. Also, we don’t put any fancy salad dressing on them. Just eat them sitting on the back porch waiting for the catfish to cook. This recipe is an insult to my heritage. No stars!

Seriously? Your childhood is sullied because someone is making a different version of a vegetable? Rule 3: Recipe comments are not a space for your personal therapy. Find a professional.

I know that this recipe commenting thing is a part of the broader issue of internet commenting and trolling. You know, where people comment on things that they didn’t read, comment on something that they reinterpret for their own purposes or comment so they can get something, maybe peripherally related, off their chest. [As an aside, if you want to be entertained by some of the best recipe trolling ever, go here.] 

Come to think of it, I think that I just might prefer reading recipe comments over any other internet comments.*  At least there’s a chance I’ll learn something.

 

* except when I see your Facebook comments that say I look good. Never enough of those.

Posted on by docthink 0

Suck Less

Scrolling through Twitter today I was catching up on Brexit, Benghazi, SCOTUS, Pat Summit and the regular random cat pictures, movie memes and (unfathomable to me) GoT references. Full stop when I saw this video.

I have not been able to stop thinking about it all day.

tl;dr a six year old child actor plays two roles. One, a street urchin. The other a middle or upper middle class child. People react very differently to her, ignoring her when she has a dirty face and stopping to help her when she is clean.

I watch this and wonder not just about how much people suck, but–since I’m a people, too–how much do I suck? Do I see and connect? Or am I blind and indifferent?  What does my pigeon brain see that stops me from being kind?

I’m thinking about the suburban neighbors calling the police to report unaccompanied kids, six and ten, walking down a street to the park–free range. The strangers thought those children should be protected. Then I think about police shooting a twelve year old boy who was playing, just seconds after they rolled up. They couldn’t even be bothered with administering first aid to a little boy, a sixth grader, named Tamir Rice. He had been playing with an airsoft gun. [Baby Bear had an airsoft gun in middle school.]

I’m thinking about the mother with the sleeping babe in the stroller asking downtown office workers for diaper money. People don’t even look at her. We brush past. We wonder why she’s begging. We think that she may buy drugs and not Pampers. We judge her.

Then I remember telling my parents that everyone in D.C., would be happy to help them with the subway. Just ask. I know that those same office workers who can’t see the woman with the stroller would offer my midwestern retiree folks money for subway fare. People would judge them as nice old people.

They had to stop filming the video because the little girl was so hurt. People were mean to her. Truly mean. Just because she had dirty clothes and a sooty face. But when she was clean, they were loving and kind.

She knew she was the same person. She couldn’t endure the contrast, the unfairness, the disparity, the despair. She cried. I cried, too. Not just for the mean, but because her budding soul felt the mean.

I have been thinking about this video all day. I know I am not the good guy in the video. There’s work I need to do to transcend my own bias, my antipathy and my apathy. Baby Bear says we should do things from love. Maybe I wouldn’t have stopped and helped that child. Tomorrow, and the next day and the next and the next and the next next, though, I can.

Nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world. –Anne Frank

Posted on by docthink 1

Touché Opaque Couché

My new tank. In the world's ugliest color. Who knew? Who knew?

My fomo curse combined with my insatiable attraction to the mundane drew me to a story about the world’s ugliest color. Thanks clickbait.

The color has a name. It’s opaque couché.

This lowly cousin of olive drab may be the only color that’s designed to repulse consumers, rather than entice them. After extensive research and focus grouping, the UK government determined it is the ugliest color in the world—and they’re putting it on every cigarette pack. “It’s used to deter you, to make you feel sick.” — From Good.

This color is also known as  Pantone 448C. But the Pantone people are not happy with the repellent categorization. They do not think one color is uglier than another. Colors are just colors.

But, there’s a language around color. Color makes us feel.

White can be pure or sterile. Blue is sometimes serene and sometimes cold. Red equals power or anger. Brown can conjure coffee and chocolate or dirty mud. So it’s also the presentation.

Sounds like colors can be complex. Like the color orange.

Orange is hot. It’s not the new black, mind you, but it is top of mind. Orange and all the words that imply orange have become political fodder. Words that make you think orange like pumpkin. Or a greek god that just took a bath in a pumpkin-spice latte. Or a talking yam. Or Code Orange alert. Or an orangutan. Or a tangerine-tinted trashcan. Or  jack-o’-lantern. Or a tangelo fruit-rolloup sweet potato deli meat buffalo wing. Or a Cheeto.

Makes me glad that I didn’t buy that orange leather jacket last winter. It was very very soft. Very classy. It was a winner, it was so much of winning. It was a good deal, and I only make good deals. It only makes common sense. And it only makes common sense with that buttery feel and a hidden zipper (sliver, classy!).  

But I have so many jackets. I  have jackets all over the place by designers. You know their names. They are terrific by the way. All of them, you won’t believe how great they are. They are phenomenal. Tremendous. But some people. Well, many people, are saying that it’s not good. I’m not saying it. But other people are. So, you decide. Orange jacket. Maybe not.

I did buy a new tank. It was a good deal. Linen. Good price. Terrific craftsmanship. Very classy.  The color some people don’t like so much. It’s that putrid Pantone 448C. Frankly, I didn’t think it was the most repulsive color. Who are these researchers? What do they know. I know good colors. I ask myself. I know better because I have a good brain. I’m very very smart. 

While it’s not a “beautiful” color, it looks like a color from nature. Or like spices. Very exotic. Terifically classy. So I heard someone say, someone who’s not very nice, say people will avoid me when I wear it. That’s just nasty. Maybe I’ll wear it on days I don’t want company. So, maybe it’s not a mistake that I bought it. Of course it’s not a mistake. It’s the greatest. But you knew that.

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Eff Your Guns (where Eff is the f-word)

We can do BETTER [sign, I almost typed "sigh"]

I can’t do this. I was writing a post about people leaving, but I just couldn’t.

I couldn’t write another sentence about missing someone who is physically away, because it is selfish since he’s still alive.

I couldn’t think about the loss in my heart as my child grows up, because he has the chance to continue his journey.

Others have none of that. Parents will not see their children again. Friends will not see their friends again. Brothers and sisters will not see their sibs again. In Orlando. In San Bernardino. In Sandy Hook. In Aurora. In too many places.

My feelings of loss are still real, and I’ll finish that post another day–maybe even tomorrow, but today I am stuck on one thing.

I don’t care about your fucking guns. I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR FUCKING GUNS.

I am not safer because you have guns. My children are not safer because you have guns. Nobody that I love is safer because you have guns. My neighborhood is not safer because you have guns. And my city, which is the capital of our country, is obviously not safer for your gun fetish.

I’m at a breaking point.

I’m broken.

I don’t personally give a rat’s ass about guns. But I respect my friends, colleagues, some cool hunters and whoever get a kick out of guns. I give such little rat’s ass that I don’t care that people have them for their reasons. Like they hunt. Or collect. Or are sportsman. Or whatevs.

But today, I have to tell you, with all due respect, fuck your guns. Really. I’ve had it.

I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOUR GUNS.

Let me say it again.

WITH ALL DUE RESPECT, FUCK YOUR GUNS.

Really. Don’t tell me how powerful they make us. Because there is no data that convinces me–and I really really loves me some data. Because those constitutional arguments as validated by a Supreme Court intellectual black hole make absolutely no sense vis-à-vis any discussion of any other bill o’ rights issues. And I gotta say, I really really really loves me some U S of A constitutions. Like sickly in love.

Until we can include guns, and any rational role they have in a modern society, in our discussion of solutions to issues of religious extremism, homophobia, hate and intolerance that are expressed in mass murder, I am totally through. There is not a single silver bullet–pardon the gun reference–to stop terrorism and hate crimes. If we don’t put everything on the table, we just keep talking in circles. Like we have. Dizzy. And 50 more dead.

I am very sorry, Loyal Reader, to rant in an incoherent fashion. But this was all I could write today.

And I am sorry. So, so, sorry.  Yes. I am sorry.

Except for saying, fuck your guns. They are not more important than people.

 

Posted on by docthink 2