My Role

Someone, a family member, actually, once patronizingly asked me, “What will you do with all this knowledge, change the world?” While I do not claim to have a huge store of knowledge—Socrates speaks for me: “All I know is that I know nothing”—I have been casually studying my entire adult life. I do have a few original thoughts, but the vast majority of others have been borrowed from more qualified minds. At times, intellectual breakthroughs have come as a great deluge, profound revelations, radical redirections, but far more common have been facts from a variety of sources that have done nothing but confirm my perspective.

So, where do I stand in the information chain? I view myself as the man in the street, handing out pamphlets made by others whose goal is to alter the tide of public opinion. I am a small-time “second-hand dealer in ideas,” as the great Austrian economist, Friedrich A. Von Hayek, put it. I relay information to those who would otherwise not have it.

Through the years, I have lost some friends who did not agree with my views. They chose to cease communication with me, not the converse. I understand that I am liable to lose some more. And while I do value all of my friendships, a reverse in this country’s direction, quite frankly, matters more to me. If I lose ten friends but help to enlighten only one, I count that as a success. I only aim to start a dialogue among curious minds. Most people sense something seriously wrong with the United States, but they simply lack the necessary historical perspective and theory to fully grasp the problem. Greed, Muslims, Republicans, Democrats, bin Laden, “Anti-Americanism”—these are all either symptoms or scapegoats for the real problem.

I have no lofty agenda to provide a comprehensive philosophy with which to solve our present problems. Others have already done that. But I would like to have a discussion on particular issues. While my expectations are modest, I do believe I can offer a fresh perspective for many who are unacquainted with alternative views and who have been trained to see things only through the liberal/conservative, Republican/Democrat paradigm.

As for me, I am still—and always will be—on the road to discovery. I hope many of you offer me points that challenge my conclusions. I welcome all feedback and look forward to a lively and energetic dialogue.

Thank you

I would like to thank everyone who recently took part in the spirited exchanges on my Facebook page. I specifically put out provocative views—views I nonetheless believe in—to incite some feedback. I knew that most of it would be negative. I welcome that. In fact, I prefer the nay-ers to the Amen-ers.

In any case, the back-and-forth gave me the impetus—kick in the butt, really—to write more, something I was always meant for. I hope all of you were equally intrigued by the conversations.

I prefer writing on my own—and long dormant!—blog as it allows for lengthier discussions. I will provide links from my Facebook wall to my blog.

Thanks again.

A Fresh Commute

Yesterday morning I was able to go into work a little later, thanks to a friendly schedule. I had planned on taking the longer and far more scenic route over the usual interstate highway grind. It was a wise choice.

Everything was shaping up for a pleasurable commute. The weather was decent. Time was plentiful. The work day was guaranteed to be gravy. And yesterday, this Thursday, was actually my Friday. Swell conditions, for sure.

My usual route is Interstate-83, which runs clear into the heart of Charm City. Although it’s surely the fastest way, the traffic is sometimes unpredictable. This makes other roads more attractive if one has the time. Too much traffic breeds contempt for one’s fellow man. Another road many are wont to drive is York Rd. It runs roughly parallel to I-83 from the east. Until recently, commuters were assured of little traffic, but due to the nature of the road itself, one would be hard-pressed to ever top more than 50 mph. I say “recently” because Maryland’s ever diligent road planners decided to post traffic lights at two most idiotic places and thus created a glut of traffic. One final alternative is Falls Rd. It runs fairly parallel to I-83 from the west side. However, to get to it from my house, you have to take several winding back roads, which until very recently were unknown to this writer.

Some extra time on my hand, plus the directions to the school I would visit guiding me to Falls Rd., I took this new route for the first time a few days previous. It was still before daybreak, though, and after having five close encounters with deer variously placed, I was a little reticent to take Falls Rd. in the morning. Deer are wonderful creatures, of course, but better on your dinner plate than your windshield.

This morning was set to be different. The sun was higher, and the deer in hiding. No old yankers or Sunday drivers seemed poised to thwart my ambitions for speed, either.

I live in Pennsylvania, but my state of origin and heart is Maryland. Five days a week I cross the state line going down into Baltimore, MD. Five days a week I am reminded of the natural superiority of Maryland to Pennsylvania, no more so than my morning Falls Rd. commute on Thursday.

Everything about Maryland is of a higher strain. This axiom rings even truer after my commute. There was no “Welcome to Maryland. Buckle up. We care and it's our law” sign to be found since with such a pronounced contrast it would have been redundant. When I hit Maryland I knew it. Her sun was brighter. Her smells more pleasant. Her air friendlier. Her leaves crisper and more colorful. Her trees wiser and more majestic. Her roads wider and better paved. Her homes grander. Her landscape more breathtaking. Her yokels wealthier and less vulgar. Her birds chirpier. Her horses handsomer. Her cattle milkier. Her swine plumper.

This isn’t mere biased patriotism, either. All objective observers notice the same thing, my Brazilian mulher, to name one. Maryland is more aesthetically pleasing.

Too, her people are jollier than those of PA, whose gloom and doom is well documented. Everything about PA has a touch of melancholy and meanness to it. Hell, it should come as no surprise that most of my family started on Prozac after their mass exodus to the Keystone State.

Oscar Wilde, in his trip to America, thought PA similar to Switzerland. How he arrived at that conclusion is quite unclear. He must have bypassed Maryland.

By the way does anyone else also find the sight of an extremely gay Wilde, sophisticated European man of letters, chatting it up with the unwashed natives of Altoona and Yocumtown, PA, a hoot?

So, after several miles of gorgeous back roads, I made it to Falls Rd. A few minutes later I passed a large roadside “McCain Palin” sign. A few minutes after that I passed an equally large “McCain Palin- Country First” sign. The first sign was straightforward enough, but that second one sent me a’thinkin’. “Country first,” they say? Off the top of my head, I can think of at least a few thousand things I’d prefer to “country,” just whatever that means, anyway. Me, myself, and I, to name a few. My son also demands a chunk of my heart. And so do you, dear reader. I also prefer Maryland to “country.” Baltimore and Tokyo, too. My book collection, a decent tune, changing seasons, a timely cigarette, regular bowel movements, rainy days, sunny days, a cheerful buzz—these are all things I prefer to “country.”

Why such blasphemy, you ask? Because it’s all a sham, my friend. When politicians speak sweetly of “country” and sacrifice, you’re being taken for a fleecing at the cleaners. Nations are like religions, anyway. Doubt first entertained, later becomes irrepressible. Although, in fairness, the skeptic would sooner return to religion before the state. Even our friend, Wilde, became a devout Catholic on his deathbed. What expatriate would bother professing his love of country, his loyalty to the Department of Education or to the Carter administration, in his fading last few?

Call me an optimist, but I don’t think such a cheap appeal to folks’ misplaced sense of patriotism will work this time. Maybe four years ago, but not now. People are on to the game now. This scam won’t work. It’s about wallets, not flags.

Oh, there’ll be suckers sucked. But not enough. Barring the unforeseen a majority will dive into Obama’s siren song, where they’ll get their “change” minus the change.

If team McCain were smarter, they’d throw the dogs their meat. Change things up a little and ditch the “Country First” nonsense. They should try something like “Babe before Biden.” Or maybe they could have the next VP debate in lingerie only. This would surely tip the scales.

Whatever, I continued my drive into civilization without much event. Good mornings help to make good days, this one no less than any other.

Such were the sights and sounds yesterday morning on the Falls Rd. circuit.

Random Thoughts

If I could give one theme or quality to the past 12 to 18 months, it would be change, and no, silly not that change, but something much broader and less cheap—thoughts of birth and death, youth and decay, grave thoughts for sure. My disposition has gone little beyond that of the quiet observer, and thus resignation is the order of the day.

My son being born has something to do with it. But that is only a part. I’ve been working a lot in the city of my birth and childhood the last six months. The downtown section of the city has probably never looked better, with a new Hilton and Marriot popping up to fill out the skyline. Blocks of new Ritz Carlton condos deck a southern section of the inner harbor. Surely they were a child of the real estate bubble, but who’s counting? A very small cluster of hip little bars even popped up. If you’re ever in town, they’re definitely worth a drop by.

Of course, my work does take me to the outer limits of civilization. I sometimes drive through block after block after block of boarded up houses and empty streets. With the shimmering skyline behind these pitiful has-been abodes, it really is a strange sight. These forgotten places pose a decent contrast to the booming heart of Baltimore. Gloomy nobodies graze the cracked streets on their way to…?

There is also the issue of my friend, an ex-girlfriend, actually. She was the “one that got away,” my “what-if” girl. Everybody has one. To make a long and interesting story short, she died early last year (2007) in a car accident, only I found out this past April. We ended on slightly bad terms, and I hadn’t talked to her in years. So when I saw her grave on that quiet April day, it was, for lack of a better word, strange. I think about F. often. And I wonder…

For whatever reason, I’ve been unable to string together more than a few passing thoughts. This has been going on for well over a year. Like fireflies on a muggy night, my thoughts are tiny flashes of light with no trail and only a faint and fleeting afterglow. Other times they seem to resemble that dumb stray mutt, who starts off on a whiff, follows a noise yonder, chases a smell over there, and has little idea from whence he came. On that note…

The more one age’s, the more he finds pleasure from hitherto unknown places. Where riding roller coasters and stumbling across a secret porn stash once pleased, things like good weather, the quality of a restaurant’s mis-en-scene, and comfortable sleeping positions become new sources of pleasure.

Now, I’ve made my share of bad purchases. For example, the strobe light and disco ball I bought when I got out of the Imperial Navy and moved to Glen Rock. I miscalculated the ethos of the town a bit, I admit. I bought a fax machine two years ago. I used it once to this point. But the recliner I bought earlier this year was clearly one of my better buys. Every man should have a recliner. Recliners are wonderful for their function but also for what they say: “Yup, I’m lazy. But screw you anyway.”

The last several years I’ve dealt with chronic lower back pain. It’s kept in check for the most part, but I cannot remember a morning without some form of awkwardness. So the other day I scooted into my recliner—a recliner, by the way, is God’s way of softening the blows of marriage. It was, shall I say, the G-spot of sitting positions. The G-spot, of course, is a sort of sexual Shangri-La, a fleeting Nirvana of pleasure, wholly mythical in my opinion. And even if it does exist, I am well-nigh certain that is a place I want no part of. It seems scary, and I don’t frighten too easily. In any event, years of small, irksome aching was wiped away in one sitting. I felt nothing. Nothing felt me. I was afraid to move because I knew it wouldn’t return. I was right.

Moral: in such uncertain financial times a recliner is a safe place for your money.

I overheard snippets of the Commander Guy’s presidential address on Friday. His purpose was to calm the fears of Americans and investors. I almost feel bad for the feller, such a laughable caricature of a man, this boy who would be Alexander and Churchill. The one sight that kept coming to mind was a single man on the beach holding his hand outstretched to keep the tsunami at bay. As the Dow took another dive and Asian markets plummeted investors seemed to care little. Worse it will get. Much worse. Where this stops no one knows.

Speaking of tough guys, I flipped on CNN this morning to kill a minute or two. They had a live camera at one of Presidential aspirant, John McCain’s, “town hall” meetings. As far as political speaking goes, he ranks in the bland column. Then again, who is a good speaker nowadays? That fellow citizens esteem someone like Barack Obama as an inspirational speaker goes to show the true state of oratorical arts in the republic. Never once did I get that tingly sensation during any of the Messiah’s speeches. A few lazy chuckles, yes. Anyway, at one point during McCain’s speech in Iowa a feverish gal flashed a “Hawks for McCain” sign from behind McCain. “Hawks” refers to “Hawkeye,” which is the University of Iowa’s mascot. It also is the name of an Iowan city. I am fairly certain, however, that the irony of “Hawks for McCain” escaped the poor dear.

A stop later on the “Straight talk express” brought some quixotic babe in front of the camera with a pro-war sign. She then proceeded to tear it up and flash peace signs. She was roundly booed, presumably because war is good and more war is even better. Senator McCain then informed his “friends” that “there is an example of someone who just doesn’t get it.” Get what, he didn’t explain. He then stumbled on about how Republicans and Democrats need to work together and stop yelling. Innovative, indeed. Raucous cheering ensued. What all this means I am not sure. My place is only to look and laugh.

A coworker detailed to us the other day about her beau returning from his “Operation Iraqi Freedom” tour last week. Someone from the crowd asked if he would be liberating again soon. Not for another six months, she was told. At that point another woman assured us with a confident smile that “When Mr. Obama is elected, they’ll all be coming home.” I’m sure nerves were calmed. And why shouldn’t they be? For since B.O. is black, and America has never had a black Decider, she will get her due. America will get her change; that much is sure. Obama will perhaps withdraw some troops from Iraq…so he can vex the Pakistanis and drop some others in Afghanistan, a much more winnable war, we are told. Just ask the Soviets. Just ask the Brits. Oh wait…

On the economic front he will save us—by the way, do you, dear reader, also see America for what it is: a passion play that keeps knitting…and knitting…and knitting...full of crises and saviors, martyrs and sacrifices, struggles and triumphs? Climb a tree and have a look. Yes, we’ll be saved by being looted to “bailout” those poor hapless Wall Streeters. I mean, we can never have a decrease in butter and bulls. Live within our means? Market adjustments? Why you silly dilly.

Forgive this fuddy-duddy for not joining in on our politicians’ crocodile-teared pity party for Americans catching the foreclosure malaise, those same Personal Finance 101 flunkees who bought $300,000 McMansions on 30k salaries. They had it comin’.

Is there a more fantastical figure in America today than the Great Changer, where perception is so far removed from reality? Antiwar? No. Pro little guy? With the bailout bonanza, an emphatic no.

Final analysis: McCain or Obama, it matters not. Many Americans don’t get this. Because many Americans cannot cope with the fact that the deck is stacked. They should just cash out and head over to the bar.

And for yet further evidence that 90% of my fellow Americanos are jellybeans, look no further than the platitude that equates using less paper with “saving trees.” Tens of thousands surely spout this nonsense everyday with nary a second thought. “Saving trees” is proof positive of the effect of primary schools removing logic from the curriculum. Yesterday, a pretty and annoyingly perky—not to be confused with arousingly perky; there is a fine line after all—coworker was passing out papers when she proclaimed something about “killing less trees.” I am not sure she heard me since no answer was forthcoming when I reminded her that “they’re already dead.” But, hey. Call me crass, but I couldn’t care less about our holocaust of trees. Come to think of it, neither could the trees.

My parents-in-law have been staying with us for the past five days. They will stay for another three weeks. My step mother-in-law has been doing a smashing job of keeping the place organized. Perhaps even too organized. Most who know me will tout my easy going persona. There are precious few things, however, on which I am particular, my books and my coffee mugs, mainly. I have two coffee mugs that I regularly use. They and they alone touch this boca. They are both Japanese. My oldest is named “Shinsengumi Story,” and my youngest goes by “Flattely will get you nowhere.” Shinsengumi is 10 years old, and Flattely is but a wee three. They’ve seen me at my best and my worst. Poor Shinsengumi Story even cracked his handle one day when I slammed him down in disgust. That was six years ago. He’s been healthy ever since. Such are the wonders of crazy glue.

The other day I went for Flattely in his usual spot since it was afternoon caffeine time. He wasn’t there, though. I searched cupboard to cupboard and there was no trace of him. Step Mum-in-law in her zeal, I think, has tucked poor Flattely away in some unused corner. He’ll be found eventually. The important thing is that he understands there is no favoritism between him and Shinsengumi. I like to switch it up in order to avoid such a thing. We’ve been through a lot together, and we hope to make new memories. They show no signs of slowing down, and, God willing, they will outlive me.

And yes, I really do have such thoughts.

More Thoughts on Obombanation

If one good thing has come of the Barack Obama campaign it is the endless stream of comedy. No, not from him, he is sobering enough, but from the sincerity of his true believers. As I've been saying for months, his movement has all the hallmarks of a cult. Today I found a new blog on Obama. It's a riot! Go here for more.

The Puritan Problem

Some of my earliest memories include a pair of Superman underoos and a homemade red cape my mother made. I would wear these two things and nothing else. Jumping over tables and off swing sets, running from room to room guided by my fist, these were my first memories of finding a good pair of underwear.

For this reason I stayed firmly committed to briefs. Boxers were still unknown to this boy of nine. When I began middle school back in ’88 as a boy of 11, I did what all young men do—delved into boxer shorts, deodorant too. Briefs were for sissies and geeks; boxers were for aspiring playas.

Secretly, though, I quickly tired of boxers. No active young man has any business wearing the things, anyway, for no other reason than their scrunching—defined as the gravitational pull toward one’s delicate parts or the thong tendency. Go to gym class, walk the halls, sit up, sit down, and by the end of the day one can model for Frederick’s, so severe is the scrunching, which requires constant picking.

I always saw the whole “freedom” and “need to breathe” arguments for boxers as overrated and easily outweighed by the scrunching factor. Plus, they’re hardly elastic. A funny slide, a long stride, an awkward twist—these things can lead to a crotch tear.

Still, I spent most of my later formative years bouncing back and forth between boxers and briefs. For a time I went through the silk phase—silk sheets, silk robes, and silk boxers. The sheets are overrated, more for show if anything; the boxers, while having fine prints such as an angry Taz bursting from the behind, hearts, or smoking guns for the front, are far from durable. They also lose that smooth silky texture fairly soon.

So I sighed and went back to briefs as the lesser of two evils (Yes, I know that is the very opposite of my non-voting logic. But hey, with voting I have a choice, to vote or not to vote. Underwear is nonnegotiable. No “free-balling” or “commando” here. Heard too many zipper horror stories.).

Then, several years ago—when exactly? I don’t know—my situation took a dramatic turn for the better. The best of both boxers and briefs were combined into the “boxer briefs,” a brilliant invention. Much of the western world has discovered the virtues of the boxer briefs as well. Wikipedia has this to say: “The underwear preference among American, Australian, British, Canadian and French teenagers today is leaning toward boxer briefs, probably because of their proximity to both briefs and boxer shorts.” Well duh. One wonders why it took so long for underwear producers to market such a thing.

I view underwear the same way I view cars: reliability is numero uno. Washing them seasonally and filling them up with gas are important too. Sure, a decent feature now and then is nice—such as a paisley print or a sunroof. But overall, the proverbial “from point A to point B” trumps all. The more reliable a thing, the less thought one gives it. With Hanes or Fruit of the Loom this has been my general experience. And that was that.

Until a couple of months ago when I went to Wal-Mart to buy a few more pair. They were all fairly similar with some modest variations. I chose a set of Puritans. Since I’ve been satisfied with the Puritan dress shirt I’ve had for the past couple years, I considered the underwear brand change a nonissue. Silly idea.

It took no more than a couple days before I noticed a problem. The open groin section in the front had a serious overlap deficiency. Ladies, this may seem a foreign language, but hear me out. Learn a little. Every fellow or whore knows the arrangement. There is first the right side which covers most of the area in question. The left side sits on top, leaving significant overlap and protection of cloth. That should be the end of the matter.

Puritans, however, are very conservative with the overlap; there can’t be more than an inch. Hence the problem—the constant peaking out of one’s parts. Running on my treadmill in Puritans is always interesting. Going to work in them is not. I suppose it could be a size issue as some beasts cannot be tamed. I’m open to suggestions.

Overall, not a good buy. Men, I’d stay away from Puritans. Pervs and male prostitutes, I give you your niche.

Oh, by the way, anyone else find it a little curious that Puritans, of all things, make for easy sin?

Obombanation

Sometime in November 2006 I took a business trip to Arlington, Virginia, for a night. When I got to the hotel I turned on the TV, just to unwind a minute as little good can come from such an exercise. I flipped around until I came across a C-SPAN program that caught my attention. It was about the excitement being generated around some silver-tongued, underdog, Illinois politician named Barack Obama.

The reason why it caught my eye was because the last time some silver-tongued, underdog, Illinois politician rose up from nowhere America suffered its greatest calamity. But there was more. People were smiling and wetting themselves to his words. They were flocking from near and far to hear his sermons. "He's so different," they said. Some unwashed mass even proclaimed, "I haven't felt this excited since Jack Kennedy." It was then that I knew this Obama person was a fraud, a bamboozler. You see, friend, I trust most of my fellow citizens—well, the 1/3 of them who vote, anyway; the smarter majority long ago left the business of voting—to make the tough political decisions. I do. I trust them to make the right idiotic choices and to be the biggest suckers in the room, for they are always ripe for a savior.

I gave little thought about Mr. Obama until I heard he would be running for president. Not long after that I was coming back to Baltimore from another business trip in D.C. On the train was an attractive—liberal minded—20-something girl reading a book called The Audacity of Hope. Pictured along such highfalutin lingua was a grinning Barack Obama. Which was yet further evidence that he was a phony. Because having an American politician offer us commoners thoughts of real hope is like a pious virgin preaching the arts of bestial sodomy.

Months had passed until I'd decided to give the man another chance because there was nothing else on TV. I came across one of his speeches. After about ten minutes I gave up and vowed never to doubt my instincts again. All hands cheered his talk of "change." And they ate up all the reassurances of "yes, we can." How "we can" and what "we can" Obama didn't answer. And who is "we" anyway? He consistently avoided specifics. The crowd didn't care, though. They were gonna get their change because they deserve it and Bush is bad and they've got it coming and Bush is bad, and that is all that mattered. It was ten minutes of sappy ether.

The final piece of evidence against the Great Changer was the acceptance of Obama by the mainstream media, Fixed News excepted. For any politician representing real change would never be given the time of day by the gatekeepers of official opinion. The whole charade would grind to a halt.

Ah, but perhaps you, reader, have fallen for the seductive lure of our Great Changer? If so, you surely know very little about the man. Let me help. I'll save you the work. He is little different from any other clown who's ever resided in the imperial capital. He only looks so good because his would be predecessor looks so bad. Since he has pledged to support the Israeli regime, he will continue the war in Iraq and perhaps wage it against Iran, that's if Bush doesn't do it before he goes to hell; he will maintain the vast web of parasitical bureaucracies; he will maintain the counterfeiting operation known as the Federal Reserve; he will Sovietize medical services; he will crack down on oil speculating which will lead to shortages because he is bedfellows with the ethanol lobby; he will gun grab. Not really my idea of an innovative statesman.

Most comical about the Obama campaign are his devotees, a colorful and zealous bunch. They mainly consist of naive antiwar voters, spiteful liberals, panting socialists, and bandwagon jobs. They are well fortified against the facts. Obama has made threats against Iran and Pakistan; he has pledged to send more troops to Afghanistan; he will maintain the "Green Zone" in Iraq. Of course, he does all these things with a noble air of diplomacy, so say his followers. Others assure us that he will return to his "dovish" ways once he is crowned. Don't hold your breath.

The secret to Barack Obama is that he allows many Americans to convince themselves that change can be gotten on the cheap, like one of those thousands of exciting emails that inform lazy dreamers like myself that they can net $250,000 on a schedule of 20hr/wk…and this is only in the first year. But the American system is so deeply screwed that anything short of a deus ex machina will not suffice. Most Americans understand that they are screwed on some level. They just don't understand the depth of the screwing, which has been ongoing for well over a century. It has only now reached the openly farcical stage, where the highest office in the land is occupied by a roundly reviled, rootin' tootin', cross-eyed half-wit.

One more thing, reader. Lest you go making hasty assumptions, although not a member of the Obama cult, I am no McCain lover. Indeed, all civilized men as well as conservatives must stand against John McCain. The man is clearly insane and hated by even his fellow Republicans. His main qualification for high office is that he got his ass kicked again…and again…and again. There is little mystery and thus little else to say about McCain. His warhawking antics would make Bush seem like a quiet Buddhist monk in comparison.

The two main choices for Sith Lord are atrocious. But I do prefer Obama to McCain, in the same way that I prefer Mark David Chapman to John Wayne Gacy. With McCain, we die by racking; with Obama, firing squad. The choice is therefore obvious. So can I get a light?