« September 2004 | Main | November 2004 »
October 31, 2004
violence vs. abortion
In yesterday's post The Post-Abortion Era, I hoped that I had made clear my position regarding violent opposition to abortion. One of my readers has demurred, so perhaps I did not make my point clear enough. Let me state this clearly: I do not advocate the use of violence as a means to oppose abortion. I did bring up Hitler and the holocaust for apparent comparison. I believe the comparison is worth contemplating, for when is a murder not a murder? When is mass murder less monstrous?
But I also made a point of saying the American abortion issue is different. In yesterday's post I didn't go into those differences in detail, so here are some reasons not to use violence when opposing abortion:
1. We are not under the rule of a totalitarian government. As a people we are very conflicted on this matter. The left seems to support abortion with great solidarity, but the right has always been divided, with many uncertain what to think about it. This struggle is not a matter of resistance against an oligarchical minority. In fact, this struggle is more daunting than that. It is difficult to assume the moral high ground over the "ruling class" which enforces our abortion laws, because in our democracy, "them" is us!
2. Violence in service of the cause of pro-life would be counter productive. The people who resisted Nazism or the Vichy government of France did so in the knowledge that the allies were massing forces for an invasion of Europe. This provided a distinct endpoint (i.e. the defeat of Hitler) toward which the resistance movements in various Nazi-occupied countries could strive. With America's abortion conflict there is no such allied army riding to the rescue. The distinct point in history toward which we must work is the point at which our people arrive at the concensus that abortion is wrong, and should be done away with. Violence confounds persuasion, creating a situation tailor made for the moral equivelance practiced on the left.
3. If we were to take up violence in support of the pro-life movement, we would have to consider how much violence would be required to finish the job with that method. One does not engage in lethal violence half-heartedly, or to attenuate or enhance one's arguments, for that is terrorism. When the path of violence is taken, it must be followed to its completion. To bring violence into the abortion debate would ultimately entail civil war, or at least the wholesale slaughter of millions of poeple. It is horrific to contemplate following through with the methods of violence, and so, for any thinking person, it must also be horrific to contemplate dabbling in violence by fire bombing a few clinics or assassinating a few doctors.
None of this was the point of yesterday's post. My point was that leftist causes frequently fall out of fashion. In a post-abortion America, I would imagine that the vast majority of us would look back on the abortion era with sad and quiet dignity, with the humility of a people chastened by history, much as we are by our history of slavery and eugenics. But I do believe the extreme left will not hesitate, in those days, to raise the issue from the campaign stump or the lecture hall as it suits their immediate purposes. They already do it with racism, they do it with eugenics, and they do it with the ugly aftermath of Europe's experiments in socialism. They have no sense of history.
Posted by joel at 12:01 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
October 30, 2004
the post-abortion era
Dawn Eden has an interesting post about a pro-life woman who went to an abortion clinic to offer a general apology for Christians who had behaved badly in the name of the pro-life cause. Of course, the idea of reconciliation assumes the end of this ideological conflict. I believe the pro-life cause will prevail. But it's intriguing to think about what that will mean for our culture.
The harsh judges of the abortion era of American history will quite likely be the liberal left. They have never shown a sense of history in the causes they embrace or reject. Regard how they championed slavery and later segregation; today they are styled the party of racial tolerance to the point of legislating quotas and affirmative action. Regard how they were the progressive proponents of eugenics; today they want nothing to do with that lingering stigma on our past. Today, despite the left's legacy of appeasement toward Hitler, they now reject their socialist brother and his campaign of genocide. They incorrectly make him out as a rightist, and turn his stink upon the very people who now resist the culture of death in our society.
Hitler went down, and he went down hard. Consequently, the tide of history shifted quickly, and it's instructive for us today to look at what that was like. Hitler is a pariah today as he well should be. I read the stories of the French citizens who resisted him, and I want to feel it was one of France's finest hours. The Resistance was dedicated, efficient and ruthless. They often used gangland-style assassinations, perfecting the American rolling hit, spraying with machine gun fire the lunchtime cafeteria full of relaxing Nazis. After the war there was an old man who, with a twinkle in his eye, invited allied soldiers to his garden to show them the graves of sixteen Nazi officers whom he had quietly killed and secreted away. After the war was over, as a people, the French rose up against all things Vichy, executing public officials and shaving the heads of prostitutes who had consorted with their late oppressors.
Today, hatred of Nazism is nearly universal, both on the right and on the left. Do we not hold a special place in our hearts for those who used violence against the Nazi death machine? If we were to discover a story of a person who planted explosives in the administrative offices of Auschwitz and detonated them in the dead of night, would we say that he misrepresented the Allied forces and brought shame upon our just cause?
Please do not assume I endorse the use of violence against our fellow citizens who labor in the abortion industry, for I do not. Despite the millions who have been aborted, this is a different struggle. I agree with those who say we must win a war of ideas. But I also fully expect that one day we will win that war, prevailing ideology will shift, and fashion will follow. When that happens, be prepared for the liberal left, in pursuit of their latest cause celeb, to paint the party of Lincoln as life-haters, baby killers. Don't be surprised when, without a trace of irony, they will smear us as recidivists who want to turn the clock back and restore the awful specter of abortion.
Posted by joel at 01:29 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
October 29, 2004
why can't we all just get along?
A liberal is a person who believes that somewhere in the stack of cards which is this world's ideologies, philosophies, governments and individuals there lies the formula for perfect government. A conservative is a person who believes the perfect formula just isn't there.
The conservative may be a realist, with a pessimistic view of human nature. Or he may be Christian, and might believe that Christ will return to establish perfect government on the earth someday, but that's not a solution that exists on the earth right now. In either case, perfect government is not currently in the cards.
This fundamental difference in premise is the cause of much of what those on the right would consider the "lunacy" of the left. It also explains why the left misunderstands and mistrusts the right with such vehemence. The left claims America's government is a horrible government, rife with injustices. The right observes that there is not another system of government on the planet doing a better overall job of preserving the civil liberties of individuals. The leftist is comparing American government with something that doesn't exist, and therefore America doesn't pass the grade. The kicker is that the precise parameters of perfect government, against which our government is being judged, varies from group to group, even from individual to individual. They focus on details like Canada's and Europe's healthcare systems, believing that the perfect government will provide free healthcare. Therefore, those governments are exhibiting a trait of perfect government, and ought to be emulated.
The debate regarding taxation is driven by this same difference in premise. If perfect government is here somewhere in the mix, if it can be attained by tweaking or re-shuffling what we've already got, then why wouldn't good citizens want to sacrifice in order to achieve such a goal? If the solution is somewhere right in front of us, we'd be crazy not to do whatever is necessary to find it.
Conservatives believe the solution the left seeks is simply not there. Hence, money spent in the pursuit of perfect government is wasted money. Furthermore, they believe that the extra funds given to existing (imperfect) governments only exacerbate the problems that already do exist, and even introduce more problems.
Imagine how we on the right must appear to those on the left. We seem to adhere to the status quo, tacking toward a vision of our government that was defined in the past, by male chauvinist slave owners! What possible motives could we have for fighting to preserve such an outdated, obviously imperfect system when utopia beckons ahead? This suggests to them an extreme cynicism on the right; a bunch of rich old white guys trying to consolidate and preserve their power over a dysfunctional system which should be relatively easy to fix. As they see it, the rich old white guys care about their power more than they care about old people, foreigners, the environment, gays or freedom of expression.
The right, while generally believing that improvement is always possible, doesn't believe that utopia is possible. Conservatives are people who believe that liberty is the birthright of individuals, and that it is exceedingly fragile. They see that the social and sexual liberation trumpeted by the left is a pipe-dream which has drawn all the kooks, perverts and anarchists out to follow them. The pedophiles have been sucked into the left's slipstream, but it would be a mistake to conclude that the left is nothing more than a bunch of post-hippie academic goombahs who just want to do drugs in peace (that would be a libertarian!). All the talk about civil liberties on the left come not from a belief in the rights of the individual, but in the steadfast faith that utopia, in the form of perfect government, is possible. That, my dear liberal and conservative friends, is why we can't all just get along.
For a much more indepth (and in my opinion more insightful) look at liberal motivations, check out The Motivations of Political Leftists by John J. Ray of the University of New South Wales, Australia. In this monograph, Ray attempts "to analyse most aspects of Leftist political thinking and display the psychological and sociological roots of such thinking in an historical context." Fascinating stuff.
Posted by joel at 01:38 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
October 28, 2004
she is cool
How cool would you say she is?
She is cooler than a low rider that scrapes the road all the time.
She is cooler than all the city's lights going out at once.
She is cooler than the loud cracking noises your chiropractor can make with your neck.
She is cooler than chrome on a Harley.
She is cooler than satin on a rock star.
She is cooler than that moment after you pull your chute's ripcord, but before it opens.
She is cooler than sand in Maui.
She is cooler than television.
She is cooler than the mournful sound of trains, when they call out in search of you on a summer night.
She is cooler than taking steps three at a time.
She is cooler than 40 wild horses running through shallow water in slow motion.
She is cooler than cigarettes in the face of peril.
She is cooler than rock videos look like fun to make.
She is cooler than having your teeth stuck together with jolly ranchers.
She is cooler than vampires.
She is cooler than teeth on a prehistoric bird.
She is cooler than the gleam of new hardware in a brand-new toolbox.
She is cooler than nuclear submarines.
She is cooler than vigilantes wearing mirrored sunglasses.
Yes, but how cool is she?
She is so cool, that someday other things' coolness will be measured against hers. But they'll only be almost as cool as her.
Posted by joel at 04:02 AM | Comments (5) | TrackBack
a short poem
are there enough songs in this life
to occupy my mind
to guide me through a tangle of resonant images
snapping back to childhood, and forward to the abyss
{color saturation frying my eyes
shading my shoulders with doubt
the spring in my step grinds like salt beneath my heel}
i need to forgive myself, but what if i do it too soon?
Posted by joel at 03:44 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
October 27, 2004
cancer
There were six of us sitting there with a shot glass in front of each of us. We had two bottles of whisky on hand, one of Crown Royal (to be consumed first) and one of Jim Beam (to be consumed after). We starting doing rounds, and we went fairly fast. I had six shots inside my stomach, and was just remarking how not very drunk I felt, when those six shots must've finished whatever pow-wow they were holding, and stuck their fists in the middle and yelled "break!" Before you know it, I knew it: this was the most drunk I'd ever been in twenty-seven years of life.
Next thing I knew, I'm sitting on the floor because it was handy, and that's where my friends were. Things were hilariously funny. Things were incredibly sad. I felt disconnected, I felt I was part of a pack. People who never cried were crying, telling me to hang in there. I could beat this thing, I was told. I was the greatest guy, it just wasn't fair. That's life, I told them. I was reeling, swimming, drifting. I pulled myself up onto an ottoman and sat like an emperor, surveying my empire. Grimacing and groping on the floor, like children looking for contact lenses, my friends and my wife were hugging each other. Some of them smoked and didn't act very drunk, but sat on the floor like amiable adults interacting with the kids.
Why had I never done this before? Why would I never do it again? I had to go home. I had to get up in the morning, make a presentation, shake hands, seal a deal. I made a show of standing up, and found that I could manage if I stood still. I took a step, and crumpled, catching my fall with my left hand. There was a vague pain in my wrist, nothing serious. But the serious little voice which was prepping me to get home to sleep, to get up for the presentation knew it was serious. I finally staggered out into the cool night air, across the overgrown grass of the backyard, into the alley. I stood swaying for a moment, like a man about to relieve himself, and stared up into the crystalline sky. The stars danced with me, streaking from right to left, moving as I moved, but opposite. My eyes began to fill, and I moved my mouth to speak some thanks to heaven. Then I stuck my finger into the back of my mouth, bent double, and wretched out my dinner.
The six shots (or what was left of them) came out the way they went in, but with no shot glass. I was on my knees I don't know how long. My head began to clear, and I saw my left hand was now clutching a vomit covered tuft of grass. My mouth tasted like acid, but the stink was gradually yielding to the smell of cigarette smoke. I looked up at my friend who was standing quietly, looking up at the sky, his long-ashed cigarette dangling from his lips. I stuggled up, and he offered me his pack of cigarettes without looking at me. I hastily wiped my left hand on my jacket, took a cigarette with my right hand, spit a couple times into the grass, and lit up.
"You're going to fight this thing, man."
"Yeah." I said. I inhaled shakily and stared back up at the sky. This time the stars were melting together. "I'm going to fight this thing."
Posted by joel at 01:58 AM | Comments (5) | TrackBack
October 23, 2004
medical records dilemma - a modest proposal
Dawn Eden reports a bizarre story in which a Planned Parenthood lawyer claims the physical remains of an aborted fetus constitute a part of the mother's medical records. Not just the fact of the abortion, or any specific information about the procedure, but the the actual "product of conception" him/herself.
This is incredible. Not content to kill the unborn, Planned Parenthood is waging war on the language as well. But if abortion victims' remains are considered part of the mothers' medical records, wouldn't that mean that PP and other abortion clinics are engaged in systematic destruction and/or discarding of patients' medical records? Is it legal, I wonder, to simply destroy or discard a portion of a patient's medical records?
By the same token, isn't there a good argument that the remains are also a part of the father's medical records as well? After all, the fetus carries DNA which could prove his paternity (or should we say, "his complicity in generating products of conception?"). And then, when the mother and the father later see different doctors, and their respective doctors request all their medical records, is there a Solomonic division of the remains? Call your brokers, folks, and buy formaldehyde futures.
Suddenly a simple death certificate seems like a modest proposal.
Posted by joel at 03:27 PM | Comments (5) | TrackBack
October 22, 2004
the importance of being earnest
HOW TO TALK TERRORIST
Conservatives are often criticized for taking a "shoot first, talk later" attitude toward terrorism, and although I am a conservative, I must concede that the left is absolutely right (er, correct) on this point. For it is true that we need a better understanding of the people who are trying to kill us. If we can understand the underlying causes of their need to kill us, perhaps we'll also be able to communicate to them the causes of our motivation to remain alive, safe and free.
Liberals advocate understanding; summits, dialog, and sympathy. I agree with all of that, but frankly I think even liberals do not take that line of thinking far enough. For it is not sufficient to show concern and sympathy to Islamist terrorists in our own western-centric idioms. This only demonstrates our insular cultural bigotism. We must be willing to shed our western modes of communication, and adopt their ways of speaking. Doing so ensures we will be understood, and it demonstrates respect for their values and code of ethics.
I will now lay out several basic methods for how to talk terrorist. These techniques may not come naturally to the western, democratic way of thinking at first, but with plenty of practice we'll all get the hang of it. Opportunities to practice abound; it's really not difficult to find a terrorist with whom you can practice cross cultural communication.
1. INITIAL GREETING
It is customary, in terrorist circles, to open a dialog with a massive explosion, preferably set off in a public place so that it will draw innocent civilians into the conversation. This may seem barbaric to us, but it actually demonstrates the terrorist's populist sentiments; to a terrorist it is simply too elitist to speak directly to our armed forces. But once the dialog has been initiated, it is our notions of western-style compassion and understanding which cause us to offend. For the expected, nay required response is an answering explosion or series of explosions from the party who has been hailed.
Of course, we democratic westerners must find a happy medium between their values and our values, and I think most terrorists understand this. We are more particular about replies which affect innocent civilians. By directing our answering explosions to the terrorists themselves, instead of to their innocent civilian compatriots, we are not necessarily committing a faux pas. The terrorist realizes that while he has magnanimously included bystanders in the conversation, our style is often more direct, more personal.
The important thing is to answer the greeting. If we fail to acknowledge the terrorist's initial salute, the terrorist is first baffled, and then perhaps concludes we did not hear or understand. Terrorists are generally patient and accommodating fellows, and will gently but insistently repeat the initial greeting several times until the other conversant is ready to join the conversation. If you have been addressed repeatedly, don't be overly concerned, simply reply as quickly as possible, and then the conversation will take its proper course.
2. SMALL TALK
Do not underestimate the importance of small talk. The period of seemingly meaningless rhetoric which follows the terrorist's greeting serves the important purpose of establishing how much credibility each party can expect of the other, and of solidifying the terrorist's trust that we will be able to carry on the conversation until it is finished.
Small talk from the terrorist takes many forms, ranging from taking responsibility for the initial bombings, to outright gloating, to issuing fatwahs, to making ridiculous, impossible demands. Some of the things terrorists say in the course of small talk may seem offensive to us, but we shouldn't take umbrage. Seemingly inflammatory phrases such as "infidel dogs," "Great Satan" or "drive them into the sea" are, in fact, compliments. The more respect they have for you, the stronger will be their rhetoric. This is difficult for liberals to understand; generally liberals love peace, and don't like to offend anybody but conservatives. It's difficult for them to get used to a terrorist's back-handed courtesy. Just bear in mind that the terrorist doesn't really hate you, he just despises you and wants you and all your seed obliterated from the face of the earth. Taking the terrorist's rhetoric in stride shows we're mature enough to participate in the dialog, which is always an exciting thing for a terrorist who's starved for conversation.
In contrast to the initial greeting, it is not important for us respond in kind to the terrorist's small talk. Rather, our words should be directed toward the terrorist's civilian compatriots. I know this seems counter intuitive, but you must try to get over your backward, western modes of conversation. When making small talk, you should keep your voice low, speaking softly. It is also useful to have a big stick on hand as a visual aid. Our verbal small talk takes the form of encouragement of democratic processes in their countries, or sometimes of solemn promises to topple their governments if they don't take our side over the terrorists'. From this point in the conversation, our words should be directed at the societies who may be harboring terrorists, and never directed at the terrorists themselves. Above all, never break a promise. If, for example, you say you will depose a bloodthirsty, megalomaniac dictator, then depose him you must. This does not mean we don't continue to speak to the terrorists --we must indeed continue to speak to them-- but only in the terms they initially set, i.e. direct violence.
This kind of small talk dialog gradually (or sometimes immediately) increases to more substantive terms. The terrorist may attempt further violence, or he may attempt to vanish into the woodwork of his society. Do not mistake such evasions as a desire on the part of the terrorist to end the conversation. There are only two possible outcomes to this sort of conversation. Of those two possible outcomes, only one of them is acceptable to our western values. Again, in the spirit of compromise, a happy medium between our culture and terrorist culture must take the day. We accommodate the terrorist's mode of conversation at the beginning, but in the end, the terrorist must compromise, and accommodate our mode of conversation. If the terrorist believes that the wrong outcome may actually prevail, we must gently but firmly disabuse him of that idea.
3. BENEDICTION
What is that only acceptable outcome? If we have conversed well up to this point, we will eventually arrive at the best possible conclusion to a dialog with a terrorist: complete silence on the part of the terrorist. Not just a lack of words or violence, but real silence, like the silence of the tomb. If we really impress the terrorist, he will be speechless, even breathless; unable to converse with either small talk or with bombs. No more nattering fatwahs, no more claiming of responsibility (without taking responsibility), no more ridiculous demands. Silence. Golden silence. If you reach this point in the conversation, you have truly received the only genuine compliment that a terrorist can give; acknowledgement that you have prevailed. Terrorists understand prevailing. They relate strongly to prevailing with violence. And if we conclude the conversation by prevailing, then we have responded to the terrorist's culture of extortion, violence and death in a way that does not deny our own values.
We westerners tend to feel bad when we prevail in a conversation this way, but again, that is our own cultural bias. The terrorist loves, above life itself, to be a martyr. When we prevail, we're helping him to his goal. We get to live in liberty, and the terrorist gets to kick back with 72 virgins. Conservative thinkers, listen up and take notes, for the liberals are right on this point: when true dialog occurs in an environment of mutual respect and understanding, everybody wins.
Posted by joel at 09:29 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
kerry is "open"
Kerry adviser Mike McCurry said it's important in the final days of the
campaign that voters "get a better sense of John Kerry, the guy." That means the Democratic senator is spending some of the dwindling time before Election Day hunting, talking about his faith and watching his beloved Boston Red Sox. --AP 
Apparently Kerry's handlers have decided Kerry needs more "guy" time. Which is great for the Bush campaign, since "guy" time has worked so poorly for Kerry thus far. Kerry talked up Ohio State football while in Michigan. He referred to Green Bay Packer's Lambeau Field as "the hallowed ground where the Packers play --Lambert Field." He skipped the ball short of home plate when he threw out the first pitch at Fenway field (later claiming to reporters he didn't want to hurt the catcher). He's a big fan of a Red Sox player that doesn't exist: Manny Ortez (what do you get when you cross Manny Ramirez with David Ortiz?). A few years before that he claimed his favorite Red Sox player of all time was Eddie Yost, who never played for the Red Sox. And there is plenty of documented evidence that he throws like a...well, not like a man.
Kerry, why this disguise? You speak french. You write sappy poetry about deer. You're an avid windserfer, for cryin' out loud. You're a metrosexual. Why not just talk about things you know?
Source:
local6.com
jskelly.squarespace.com
footballfansfortruth.us
Posted by joel at 01:47 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
October 21, 2004
yes she did
Teresa Heinz Kerry apologized to Mrs. Bush for her coments on Tuesday: "I had forgotten that Mrs. Bush had worked as a schoolteacher and librarian, and there couldn't be a more important job than teaching our children." Good enough. Or is it?
Mrs. Heinz Kerry hasn't quite completely pulled her foot out of her mouth. If there is a more important job than teaching our children, it'd have to be the job of bearing them, nurturing them and rearing them. Karen Hughes, the phenominally effective Bush campaign advisor said: "I think it's very nice that she apologized, but the apology almost made the comment worse because she seems to have forgotten that being a mother is a real job. I think it's just unfortunate to try to disparage women who have made the choice of making their families a priority." What's with Heinz Kerry? Why couldn't she have just added a nod to motherhood to her apology? Who's advising Teresa?
Maybe she could take some advice from Mrs. Bush. Gordon Johndroe, a spokesman for Mrs. Bush said, "Mrs. Bush knows it's not always easy when your husband runs for president. She knows that some days there's lots of interviews where lots of things are said." Mrs. Bush herself also told reporters, "She apologized but she didn't even really need to apologize. I know how tough it is and actually I know those trick questions." How gracious for Laura to assume that ABC's The View was hell bent for leather to trip up Kerry's wife.
Sources:
CNN.com
michnews.com
cnsnews.com
Posted by joel at 02:56 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
October 20, 2004
no she didn't
|
Pablo Martinez Monsivais, AP: You'd be different from Laura Bush?
Teh-rey-zah Heinz-Kerry: Well, you know, I don't know Laura Bush. But she seems to be calm, and she has a sparkle in her eye, which is good. But I don't know that she's ever had a real job — I mean, since she's been grown up. So her experience and her validation comes from important things, but different things. And I'm older, and my validation of what I do and what I believe and my experience is a little bit bigger — because I'm older, and I've had different experiences. And it's not a criticism of her. It's just, you know, what life is about. |
Dear Teh-rey-zah Heinz-Kerry,
I know I'm not the first to make this observation, but I'm really seeing it now: Teh-rey-zah, you are a complete buffoon. Last week we saw Kedwards and wives dishing it out on Cheney's daughter. Now we have you, Mrs. Heinz-Kerry, taking a kick at the first lady with your other foot (the one that isn't in your mouth).
The baffling thing about this interview is that there isn't anything to be gained by painting Mrs. Bush as a naive, stay-at-home ditzco midwestern housewife-girl. Fer cryin' out loud, Teh-rey-zah, you described her as if she were some 17-year-old who married a doofus because she was pregnant. Please allow me to break down the bitch-slapping you attempted in this interview.
"...she seems to be calm..."
Ah, yes, the left-wing nutjob fantasy: Mrs. Bush is a psycho! The fact that she doesn't show the strain means that she's constantly on the verge of snapping, and biting the heads off her secret service detail. C'mon Teresa, not every first lady can be Hillary. Is the first lady calm, or isn't she? Do the American people have the slightest reason to doubt that Laura Bush is in fact calm?
"...she has a sparkle in her eye, which is good."
This little dab of a patronizing compliment is the 1/8th teaspoon of saccharine that's supposed to make us swallow whatever you shove over next. Fair warning, I'm also keeping the salt shaker handy.
"But I don't know that she's ever had a real job — I mean, since she's been grown up."
Teresa, why is what you don't know, of any interest to us? Did you research this question? (Get Elizabeth Edwards to show you how to use the Internet. It's really easy.) If you did research it, and you really do want to throw down with Laura, why don't you tell us what you know? Better yet, just say what you mean. Why don't you just come out and say what you think of homemaking wives? The facts, Teresa, if you'll allow them into your 66-year old head, are that Laura has a degree in library science, and worked as a librarian and elementary school teacher from 1968 through 1977. By your count, Teresa, she was a teenager at the time.
"...her experience and her validation comes from important things, but different things..."
You are really working that pat-on-the-head schtick, aren't you.
"...I'm older..."
Yes. Yes you are. So what?
 |
Oh gosh. I'll say this for Mrs. Bush, Teresa. At least she doesn't talk like a phallus obsessed frat boy. Your "little bit bigger" experience includes marrying into wealth, and then in turn marrying a guy who was marrying into wealth. And this experience is important to John Kerry, but different from the experience of most Americans.
"...because I'm older..."
Yes, you mentioned that. I think we're all getting older, and we're doing it together! Even people with experiences in different things are getting older. Some of us aren't getting wiser, however.
"...it's not a criticism of her."
Well, I concede that point. It's really more of a snarky dig, the kind that catty nouveau-riche matrons make at high-society cocktail parties. It says more about you than it does about Laura Bush.
"It's just, you know, what life is about."
That is, like, so deep.
So what would be Laura Bush's response to this cat-fight callout? I'm guessing there won't be one. Laura's too busy being calm, promoting literacy, working for breast cancer awareness, planning the white house decor for the next four years, and taking care of her husband, their dog Spot, and their two cats, India and Ernie. Important, but not so different from regular Americans.
Very Sincerely,
Joel of ChezJoel.com
Posted by joel at 01:32 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
harvest time
The grist of labor turns;
Love's hope burns
An arc around the mill.
Some wheat may spill
From time to time
And tragic rhyme
Is dusted on the floor.
Pay no heed, for at the door
Are workmen and a wagon.
They pause to drink the harvest flagon.
They laugh, and stack their wain with flour
And pay us in an hour
The travail of a fortnight;
And joy will set our aches aright.
What we shall make is greater than our loss;
What we shall reap is greater than the cost.
© 1994, Joel Helbling. All rights reserved.
Now see "The Making of 'Harvest Time'" in my Pictures of Everything photo blog.
Posted by joel at 11:34 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
October 16, 2004
2
Two fevers,
two minutes,
two helix' hopes,
two choices,
too many promises
too quickly broken,
two tragic heroes
too many (et
tu Brute?)
to taste my own bitter tongue,
to trust you
to begin again.
Two years later,
two saner heads with
two more strands of gray hair are
too sad to speak, with
two point two billion seconds
to spare.
© 2002, Joel Helbling. All rights reserved
Posted by joel at 08:25 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
October 12, 2004
i think that's mine
I was on the phone, waiting for my sister to finish her sentence so I could pause the conversation and tell my guest there was some grub on the stove. It was simple fare: whole wheat spaghetti with some concoction by Paul Newman for sauce.
"Hang on, sis, I got some hospitality duties...hey Dude? There's some spaghetti on in the kitchen if you're hungry." And then I resumed talking to my sister.
Now it's four hours later, and I'm sitting here cataloging the jittery physiological afterplay of embarrassment, of mortification, of chastisement. Apparently something was not so good about my week.
First off, I gotta say, I feel for the guy. He's hooked to transient buddies these days, and they're all dragging around, sounding out their new pond, looking for a place to land. It's stress city in three movements, and this weekend two of the movers were tuning their tympany in my pit.
And I do mean pit. A few days ago I woke up to discover my guest was cleaning house. Mortified and grateful, what could I do but pitch in? My house was abysmal. Some people say that when their housecleaning is a trifle off. My housecleaning is a trifle off a Filipino dump. Housing chickens in such conditions is flat out disrespectful. Housing guests in this mess is staggeringly inconsiderate. I know that.
I didn't know those fellers were coming, but that's not the point. For my dearest friends I don't need to know. For a brother in need I resolve to set aside my hermetic embarrassment, open my door, and vacate my sofa or my couch.
But I don't know that it was my mason d'mess which etched the umbrage. Did I say something unkind? Was I consistently brutish? Am I a Republican?
If there's a point to your lesson I hope I get it. And if I get it, I hope that's not the end of the story. If that's the end of the story, then you really did leave with something of mine, something I'll be missing. I am a manifestly poor host in many ways. But what I give, I always give from the heart. If Bush wins this election like I think he will, you may certainly crash on my couch. But if you're coming, come back as a friend, and bring back my fucking dignity.
Posted by joel at 10:56 PM | Comments (8) | TrackBack
October 09, 2004
coming back from wichita
I recorded and mixed a rendition of k-sra's Wichita, performed by John of Belfry, The. The recording seemed to go ok, but I think when I mixed it I stirred it the wrong way.
Posted by joel at 05:57 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
October 07, 2004
the love life of joel hoagland (page 8)
That Sinking Feeling
I look back, down my outstretched arm, at the pale, cold and delicate hand of The Girl, and feel an ache inside. She clutches closed her black wool overcoat with her other hand, haphazardly concealing the satin nightgown underneath. Her winter boots beat their own otherworldly un-rhythm on this field of rutted, frozen muck; at eight months pregnant, she moves laboriously through a curtain of oversized, cumulus snowflakes.
I lift my eyes momentarily, contemptuously to the SUV fading into the snowfall some 50 yards back. It's front tires are sunken into the mire up to the axles. The muck which lay warm and hidden beneath a thin layer of frozen ground has laid claim to my mother-in-law's brand-new silver Chevy Blazer. The soggy embrace of Indiana mud does not care for our four wheel drive's astonishing capabilities. This fine vehicle, which could traverse steep, boulder strewn mountain trails is confounded by a farmer's fallow field.
The Girl is angry, which increases my unease. She usually does everything she can to be angry at anything but me. She usually excuses my foibles and mistakes, but stumbling through a frozen field in a night gown while great with child is not part of the Deal. Her anger is justified; I can't blame her. This is my fault. It was I who mounted the stairs two and three at a time, rapt with the beauty of the approaching snow storm, and eager to share with my pretty young wife the splendor of a country afternoon washed grey with falling snow. We had spent several minutes parked on the earthen dam at the end of the new pond, before she reluctantly admitted that it was time for her to return home to use the little ladies room. On our way back, I turned into an open area of low-lying ground, and we were stuck.
When we finally crossed the field, and crossed the road, and crossed the snowy yard and arrived home, I set about the task of recruiting help. My prospective helpers were a bevy of men whom I didn't consider my friends. These were men from our church. It was the church of The Girl's youth, and we didn't like the church of her youth. We didn't really like those men. But I had no other men, no other friends, and I desperately wanted to retrieve my mother-in-law's SUV before she and my father-in-law flew back home in a couple days.
I called around and got various excuses. First off, nobody wanted to help me unless everybody else was going to help me. I cranked up the plaintiveness in my voice, explaining I really wanted to attempt to pull the truck out before nightfall. The SUV had turned up the mud around it, removing the insulating blanket of snow, so the cooling night air would have it's way with the exposed muck. I thought of wooly mammoths, found buried in the permafrost, with undigested flowers in their stomachs. I thought of mammoth steaks served in Anchorage restaurants. I didn't want to wait. But the men said they were busy, and would come help me later that evening.
I joined them in the darkened field at around 6:30pm. The sun was down, and they were in a jovial, wreckless mood. One fellow careened his truck around behind the SUV, skidding and fishtailing in the snow, and then promptly got his pickup stuck in the same muck. A few moments later a second heedless friend enmired his vehicle also. I had hitched a ride with this second driver, and he got stuck despite my cautions about where not to drive. He just didn't listen.
It was my wife's brother-in-law who began to turn the tide. I will always consider this man a true friend. But this miserable field was actually his property. It was his new pond which lay just a couple hundred yards away. This was his muck, and he drove his 4x4 pickup carefully, slowly around it. He first set about freeing the first two trucks. He succeeded with one, the other would have to wait until morning. Despite his caution, his expertise, and his powerful truck, he was not able to remove my mother-in-law's SUV from the muck.
Another of the other lot of "friends indeed" was an employee of the biggest Chevy dealer from the nearby town. He was a great believer in the company product. He decided that since this was a four wheel drive vehicle, and since the muck had frozen solid, the SUV should be able to remove itself. He hopped behind the wheel, threw it into reverse, and gunned the engine. Someone pointed out it was in rear-wheel only mode. He shifted to 4x4-low, and gunned it again. I stood outside the SUV, a few feet from the left-front fender. As he gunned the engine again, I noticed that the front tires were not rotating at all. He gunned it even harder as I raised a shout and gave a throat cutting motion. Suddenly there was a loud crack, followed by a ratchet sound. The engine no longer sounded like it was straining. The front torque coupling had broken, and the SUV was a rear-wheel only vehicle again.
The next day the city backhoe arrived and very nearly got stuck. Eventually this mighty backhoe hauled the towing chain hard enough to pull the SUV out of the earth's death grip, pulling a massive 10 foot diameter disk of frozen mud with it, still securely attached to the axle and undercarriage of the SUV. The backhoe operator hauled the Blazer to higher ground, and we set about hacking off the frozen muck, until the truck was finally able move under its own power. The backhoe then hauled out the remaining bogged pickup, and we retired the field in late afternoon. The guy who broke the front torque coupling took the SUV to the Chevy dealer's car wash bay, and donning dirty coveralls, crawled under the SUV with a pressure washer. It was a filthy, lengthy job, but eventually he had the whole vehicle spotless again. He then arranged to have the SUV sent to the dealership's garage, and verified the repair would be covered by the vehicle's warranty.
In the end it was clear that my new friends were trying very hard to give me the luxury of never telling my mother-in-law what happened. But the vehicle wasn't back from the dealership by the time she returned, so she had to know. I was out of the house when she got back, and so it was my sister-in-law (wife of the competent guy who owned the property) who told her the whole story. I always felt I was robbed of a confession. By the time I got home, my mother-in-law knew the story, and didn't seem to want to talk about it. It must have been upsetting to learn of the abuse of her new Blazer. But she hastened to assure me it was no problem, at least everything turned out ok. Beyond that, she didn't seem to want to hear me talk about it.
Y'all know the drill. Or do you? If you're new to the Joel Hoagland series, the idea is to pick "G" and make up some stuff.
A) Tamara says, "Whoa, wait a sec, you're married?"
B) Joel says, "I know that was a wierd story, but I figured it would help get us on the same page."
C) Fid says, "I think you mispelled 'weird'."
D) Joel mutters, "Wierd. Weird. Wierd. Weird...hey, Fid, you're right. I did mispell weird. Thanks!"
E) The waitress, who was apparently hovering nearby and listening, pipes in and says, "not a bad story, but it needs more action."
F) The only other patron (who is an oversized praying mantis) says, "Yeah, that was sappy. Where's the violence? Where's the bloodspray?"
Posted by joel at 08:15 PM | Comments (12) | TrackBack