Batteries Not Included

Today tastes like london broil, chives, and ink, with a side of tinsel.

I can really feel the turn in the economy and the presidency, as well as the mood of the nation. It's not so much the news stories (if I hear ONE MORE fluff piece on how bleak everything is, I'll scream) but in the way the holiday is proceeding.

First, a confession. This year, Gareth and I are doing Christmas the way you're supposed to do it. Make a list of everyone you gift to and a tentative list of what you're doing for them. Decide on your budget, scale back, and as you spend, track what you laid out. (Before, Gareth would say, "Try to keep it under a grand.")

We have three overlapping circles of folks we gift to. One set is the Grimm's Christmas people (with whom we sit down and swap horror stories every mid-December, as a palate cleansing skeleton at the saccharine feast), one is a group that meets at another couple's house (amusingly, it's the same people year after year. We've joined Gwydion and Callidasia for Xmas Eve for something like FIFTEEN YEARS RUNNING; it's practically a family reunion at this point), and then there's blood kin.

With the second group, it's easy to figure out what the gift is--Christmas ornaments. We've been doing that for several years.

Ornaments are easy to come by, sentimental, and require very little space. Bonus: They're fragile and seasonal. If you can't stand what I bought you, a simple nudge while dismantling the tree will take care of THAT issue. And I won't expect to see you wear it, or see it prominently displayed in your home when I visit.

So out we went this weekend to shop ornaments for group 2. (Group 1 is getting embroidered T-shirts like souveniers . . . from a place that only exists in a handful of my stories.) We'd learned our lesson last year--while you can get deep discounts on ornaments the weekend before Xmas, the crowds and noise are all but unbearable.

This year . . . you could hear the crickets chirping in the aisles. And we were able to scoop up armloads at 15-50 percent off the ticketed price. The malls were about as busy as they are in mid-July, maybe even a little slower.

And tellingly, there've been no catalogues in the mailbox for hyper-priced, super luxy goods and nonsense. Hence, no holiday rant.

I suppose that's a tradition I wouldn't mind discarding . . .

The Mills Grind Fine . . .

Today tastes like cinnamon and bosc pears, turkey and tourmaline, cardamom and snail caviar.

Gareth and I were talking about getting what you need, and going about getting what you need, and who to ask, and what to ask for. He had spent the afternoon holding his boss's hand in small claims court (boss plaintiff, victorious) and had been impressed that the officer of the court was a volunteer with some legal background--but not a lawyer. In Arizona, that's how it works--the only position where you don't have to be an attorney to preside over a courtroom.

Gareth spent a few minutes after the hearing talking with the judge. He's torn about serving his own self as a small claims judge a couple of time a month. On the one hand, it's a great service to the community. Very few intrapersonal disputes ever need to see the inside of the Justice Courts, never mind Superior Court.

On the other, he's not sure he could restrain himself when people stand up and yatter on about it not being the money, but the principal of the thing. The only recourse we have in this society for civil losses is monetary. If you wrong me by killing my pet, I can't have your dog taken out and shot in front of you. The judge will order you to pay me some money.

So the only thing you have any hope of receiving from the court is a money judgment, which it is then up to you to collect. Rule number one: Be clear about what you want. If kneecapping that jackass is the only thing that will make you whole, you need to talk to Guido on the corner, not file suit.

Now, last week, Gareth and I were in a supermarket parking lot, picking up some groceries on the way home, and a fella stopped us, clutching a gas can. Could we spare a buck or two for gas?

Uhm. On the one hand, I've been in a tight spot myself a time or three. On the other, I don't like to hand out money, because money buys all kinds of things and supports all sorts of habits. Carrying a gas can does not mean you'll use the gas can.

So we turned him down, saying we had no cash on hand. Which was indeed true. We find it easier to manage the budget on plastic, and pay in full at the end of the month.

Funny thing though--I was hit up last month by a guy asking for a hand filling a gas can, and I chose to help him out. This other fella approached me at a gas station, can in hand, and explained he just needed a couple bucks' worth to get where he was going. Could I help?

Absolutely. I filled my tank, and then ran a couple of gallons into his can for him. Rule number two: Ask in a place that makes it easy to get what you want. Ask for gas at the gas station. Ask for an item off the dollar menu in front of the McDonald's.

So then we come to tonight. Walking home from the gym, Gareth was in a surly mood. Tonight's workout of the day was a beast--45 pullups and 45 thrusters for time. Good time is under five minutes, ideal time is under three. It only sounds easy.

My best time for this workout was 4:45--hey, that's under 5:00! Tonight I hit 3:31. Gareth took . . . longer than 5:00. So I got the lecture on "Can you see why it pisses me off when you say you're not making progress?"

Let's get this straight--I an athletically DECLINED. (Go for a run? No thanks.) I do the workouts because I have to. However, there is no force in this world that will ever make me like sit-ups, and I hate pull-ups only slightly less. And frankly, instantaneous gratification takes too long.

However, I have to work out, and this program has given me better and faster results than anything else I have tried, so I keep at it, even though a lot of the time I feel like I'm flailing weakly about; a fish in the last hypoxic ecstacies.

And in the course of our discussion, I realized that what I really mean when I say I'm not getting anywhere with this is that I feel like I should be able to do this much better than I am, and the body just isn't co-operating and falling into line.

Rule number three: say what you mean.

Which Chinaman Did I Just P*ss Off?

Todays tastes like chop suey with pencil shavings, sweet and sour lamb, and pine needle dumplings. Interesting, but not something I would have chosen intentionally.

Work is . . . interesting. SideKick, the associate, just gave notice; Boo's health is questionable; and Hopalong is debating striking out on his own. I am tap-dancing.

Hopalong just came to feel me out about my future plans. If he leaves to form "Hopalong, P.C." would I come with? More work, more money. If he stays with "Boo and Hopalong, P.C." am I interested in staying and moving up a rung in what I do for the firm while they hire Jennifer to come in and do what I do? And on the third hand, what if we do something totally different?

The only real answer to that is, "I'm always interested in discussing options."

Jeez, I feel like a politician. This language is not natural to me.

So I'll just sit down and knit. Knitting is soothing. Hey, I just started something on MmarionKknits about Clark's Southwestern shawl--someone asked if there were cows, and I suggested an O'Keefian motif of clouds, orchids and cow skulls--and eight people said they'd add something like THAT to the queue. And I see in my head a ruana-like garment with a semi-circular back, and neck shaping, and rectangular panels down the fronts. A big cow skull (right) and a big saguaro cactus (left) and then clouds at the top of the back, orchids in the middle, and smaller cow skulls at the base, edged with three-four vertical repeats of horseshoe lace blocked to points.

Oh, and I wanna knit Irtfa'a for the Tour de France KAL, and maybe get to my Spade shawl for the Olympics, and I have one Linus all but finished--what's this? Mmario has a Pi R Square variant up? I have GOT to knit that! Oh, and I have Veil of Isis OTN, my first beaded shawl, and I need to knit up the Mystery Stole with the swan's wing for Lyhr 2009, and I have these great cool knitting project bags that I NEED to start using and . . .

Uhm, knitting? Not so soothing. Interesting, but not soothing.

Sewing! Sewing is fun and Zen. Dollmaking is sculpting with a needle, where you take the fabric and then cut away everything that does not look like a Hideous Fairy cum Dweller of the Deep.



And then if you're really lucky, you know a group of dollmakers to trade with, and there's all kinds of cool projects like a beaded bag. Which I have cut, and am ready to quilt as soon as I get the batting and get started and it's only due in a month . . . oh.

Sewing. Interesting. Not calming.

So who set this curse on my head? And how do I get it off?

I Hate Being the Grown-Up

I haven’t given up on this space, it’s just that my hands have been full of paper and paste.

I spent the weekend working on the Hellmouth. It’s given me a new appreciation for what it must be like to be a dentist and see nothing of people except this gaping maw, forty hours a week. I now understand why they want to get chatty just as your gob is full of metal; it’s an attempt to connect with the human on the other side instead of a faceful of teeth.

I had been thinking of how to do the teeth. Since the Hellmouth is the arch you pass through on your way to the Hell section of the Afterlife party, I’m going to have to tweak the perspective a little. Molars are most recognizable biting surface on, but if I keep the canines and incisors in true anatomical position, all you’d see would be edges. I think I need to go viddy some art where the mouth is a gate (like Bosch, or some other medivalists, or at least that flavor) to see if putting the canines and incisors face-on (like when someone smiles at you) works in terms of what you perceive as opposed to what you see. After all, I don’t expect too many people to stand in front of this thing analyzing and picking it to death. That’s more my gig.

So anyway, I figured out how to sculpt the molars, and spent Saturday evening doing that (and trying to impress upon Vinnie that a little bit each night goes further than a whole honkin’ lot one weekend. Sigh.) Sunday I whipped up some paper mache pulp and coated molars. Got a little more than half done in a couple of hours, so now I’m hopeful that I can finish off the rest this week—a little at a time! They’re going to need as much time as possible to dry before we try to set them in place next Sunday.

I also want to whip up the canines in 3-d and put together some snaggly pointed incisors in 2-d—kind of rotating the teeth into their recognizable positions so the shift isn’t so abrupt. The eyes are more or less complete (tho’ I’d like to pulp the lids to make them “pop” more) and the nose is basically done (tho’ it needs pulping to smooth out the bulbiness some. Using masses of itty bitty balloons has its drawbacks.) Then, of course, everything needs to get good and dry before painting. Which in this miserable monsoon weather means three times longer than you’d think.

And that’s really the rub. If work progressed in bits and bites on this thing, then we could have it done and painted before the actual party. However, it feels like I’m the only one who wants to see it all come together and be done because the other two have chronic startitis. (I suffer form the condition, too, obviously.) And I’m really annoyed because I have stuff I’d rather be doing, too. I have projects that are important to me and to others in my life, and I don’t get the time I’ve invested in this thing back.

So all I can realistically do is keep slogging and keep saying, “Hey, could you give me a hand here? Could you do this one simple, specific task?” But I still really hate to have to be the grown-up.

Orthodontia From Hell

So, Spike--where ya been lately? Haevn't heard from you in over a week.

You're usually good for a couple posts a week about the minutia that make up a life examined. But you've not commented about this year's crop of kittens ("meeps" in these y'ere parts) hiding from the oncoming storms in the grass that badly needs cutting; nor told the old jokes about the relationship between a circus and a sorority and the girls you work with (a circus is a cunning array of stunts . . .); or even griped about how summer is great for yoga, but miserable for the paper arts you enjoy (it's finally hot enough to get a good stretch going--but now it's too hot to work in the garage!).

So glad you asked. I've been leading the merry crew in building the mouth from Hell.

Or rather, the mouth TO Hell.

A dear pal turns forty this year. Yes indeedy, he is officially OLD. (We won't say how very very soon I'll be officially old.) So we're throwing him a big party.

Or rather, a Big Honkin' Party. We throw big parties a couple times a year, with 200 through the gates in an evening's time, but this time we wannado a Big Honkin' Party for the old guy so when it comes our turns, we can say, "Oh, la, that's been done already--I think I'll just put in a reservation for a paired tasting. In Vegas. For five." (Crazy like a fox, indeed.)

So there's three families in the old dude's neighborhood who all know each other from way back when. (Actually, there's more. The gang is taking that square mile over.) The three homes though, all back onto a park, so you can open house A's back gate, walk through a greenbelt for a few yards, then tap on house B's back gate. This means three houses to throw a Big Honkin' Party in, and no one will call the cops.

Rather than doing a "you're OLD now, ha ha ha" theme, we decided to go with the afterlife, and do Heaven, Purgatory, and Hell. A LARP grew up around this theme (yah, we're a bunch of unreconstructed geeks) and then we started thinking food (barbecue in Hell, alcoholic milkshakes in Heaven, a nice cheese and veggie tray for Purgatory?) and decorations. We'd need to have icons at the gates and doors so you could tell where you were, right?

So Vincenza volunteered to build the Hellmaw. An eight foot tall mouth sculpture. Yeah. Gonna be great. And then she realized she didn't know how.

So then I opened my eight-foot mouth and suggested we build it out of paper mache. Use chiken wire for the basic sculpture, then coat it in strips, then coat that with a nice layer of pulp, and Bob's your uncle.

Oy. Next time, someone just shoot me, 'k?

I forget between one time and the next how HARD it is to communicate vision, and explain sculpting, and work as a team with people who are creative but inexperienced at the medium. I'm banging away on the monster's three-lobed eyes, dipping and rolling to make the sockets more . . . sockety, with hard rims around the edges where the eyes peer out, thinking it's obvious that the first layer (or three) suck because edges stick up and curl as they dry, but that it gets better as you go, and that you have to sculpt and pull and push and manipulate to get the form you want at each stage--it doesn't magically all come together at the addition of one tiny strip. And then behind me, I hear the sounds of a team falling apart because the arch isn't PERFECT.

I do well on my own--but please, someone explain to me that I can't teach what I know. I don't have the patience to explain it three times--and then go in and put my hands on the person's hands to show what to do and how to do it. I tend to take it over, and that's not what I want.

But hey, it's coming together, and will be just fine for its function.

The Ongoing Soap Opera

So--finally feeling like I've come back to myself after the stress and angst (und Sturm und Drang) of the last month. Perhaps starting a new month has something to do with that.

Perhaps a new job creeping into being has something to do with that also, but I'm reluctant to call the gods' jealous attention to something good coming that has not reached fruition, so -- more on that later.

Tying up some loose ends that were interrupted (Blog, Interrupted?) by the necessary finale of seem and the aftermath thereafter, this will be a series of written gesture poses about posts that I alluded to wishing I could write; but that weren't there then. (And if you followed that last sentence, you probably didn't need an explanation for what follows. If I lost you, sorry. Come back in a week or two; I'm still getting my head back together.)

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Right before Grandfather died--or rather, right after I got the sad news, but before I left to go to the funeral--Mischief, Vincenza and I went to the opening day of an exhibition dedicated to Surrealist Art. Vincenza asked, when we met for breakfast that morning and she noted I was a little distant, if I was still up for a museum crawl. We had made plans Saturday evening, the night before, and then I got the news at o'dark forty-five Sunday morning (one of the pitfalls of answering machines. Evil news hangs on the tape like a poison fog, waiting to blow into your ears without so much as a warning ring.) I told her that life was for the living, and that there was no way I was going to miss this.

It's a lesson I learned some time ago, and I'm glad I got it young enough to do some good. Appreciate the strawberries when there's nothing you can do about the tigers and the cliff.

It was a great time, even though most of the art was flat. I don't like paintings because I always want to turn the frame over and see the back side. You'll find me off to the side, craning and peering at one that really catches me, because I'm trying to see the SIDE view. I know, it doesn't work. Perhaps I should write a short story about what happens when it does. Hmmm.

But they had enough sculpture to be fun. A shame they didn't have Dali's winged snail--that's one of my favorites. And perhaps it's my wimpy little ego (and my logophilia), but I find it rewarding when I find the name of a technique I use when I play ATC's used in "real" art--the kind of art that gets lumped into a movement, and then displayed in museums.

It was fun to meander and look at stuff that you weren't being sold, and thus didn't feel like you ought to covet it. That's the part I don't like about artisan markets/craft shows--the mere fact that there are price tags on the stuff means that someone thought you ought to want it enough to pay for it; and most of the time, I don't. I just want to look, and find inspiration where I can--ooooh, shiny!
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For the first time in 600 years, the full moon fell on the summer solstice. And Lynchpin and I sat down to hash things out.

I wish I could say that this was all planned, that we had chosen the date and to meet outside under the stars knowing that this was an occasion of special magnitude. But actually, it was Mischief's doing. And we all just happened to have that day free.

As you may know, Lynchpin and I have not been friendly. Frankly, I've been staying away--as far away as I can. I have real issues when it comes to fixing people--I've walked away from relationships where it was clear that "he'd be perfect if only." Honey, he ain't perfect. Deal with it, or walk--but fixing is not an option. If he wanted to be fixed, there are plenty of women who have already told him about his pending imperfection, and the fact that he's chosen not to fix it means that he ain't gonna.

And besides, that opens up the whole can of worms where the Other says to you--"You're great, but you know . . . If only . . ."

So Mischief has been the middlewoman in this mess, really enjoying both of us, but walking on eggshells for fear of pissing one of us off by mentioning the other. And here's the thing--I don't and have never hated Lynchpin, just found her behavior hard to be around because so many of the aspects I dislike are ones that I've rooted out of my own self.

It's like finally getting off the needle, and then, as a condition of parole, being required to minister and witness--in a shooting gallery. All around you, you smell the matches and heating opium, the rubber of the tubing; you see the match flames and the junkies on the nod, and while you try very hard to listen to the angel on the one shoulder and remember the climb out of suffering and the work you did to retrain yourself to new choices . . . well . . . just a little taste . . . urg. I have choices, so for a long time, I chose not to be around that kind of energy. I work forty hours a week in a pissing contest; I don't want to spend my free time in hip waders.

Ah, but Mischief was getting the role of the frosting in this Oreo, and not happy about it. So she set up a meeting and offered to mediate (probably because she knew Lynchpin and I are both sufficiently avoiders to duck out of actually sitting down face to face without someone to lose face in front of). I was braced for an hour of yuckitude, cos I'm like a guy when it comes to "working on a relationship." Lay out your position, why you feel that way, tell me without dramatics where you're coming from, and I'll do my best to understand your world. "This is obviously true for you; so what kind of world is this true in?" But please, please, please don't give me this soft squishy querying "I don't know, but . . ." (Honey, if you don't know, who does? And why aren't they here?)

And instead . . . well, we figured out what we saw in each other all those years ago when we first met, and when we began becoming friends. In about fifteen minutes.

And then we spent the next four hours hanging out and drinking lattes. Under the full moon, with the year slowly tipping into winter. (And yes, come December 22, the year will tip back into summer again. Time is ponderous, viscous, and elastic. The seasons catch up slowly.)

This Friday, for the first time in almost a year, we'll be joining our friends again. I think I'm looking forward to it.

The Quality of Friendship

Today tastes like those jelly nougat candies with the fruity pectin pebbles buried opalescent in the matrix of vanilla bland chewy.

A number of things came together for me; and while I know I promised progress pics of the latest tank, if you're very good and patient I'll be able to complete the thing this weekend and show you a finished foto right off.

It's Hallowthankmas, after all, and one of the traditional topics of conversation is about the celebrations of the triumvirate/trinity/hydra-headed holiday. How many little SpongeBobs showed up on your doorstep this year? What did you eat for the feast--we had turkey, green bean casserole, and sweet potatoes topped with marshmallows, pineapple, walnuts and brown sugar.

So in keeping with that, may of the lists I'm on are chattering about the final celebration, when presents are opened, lights are strung, and families reunite one last time (we only do this twice a year, after all, for the last two blow-outs of Hallowthankmas). Why only twice a year? Why, because we can't stand each other, that's why.

That's been a recurring theme, and finally someone took up the gauntlet and asked why. Why, if you can't stand each other and are miserable sitting there while Aunt Ethyl slugs down martinis (Ethyl's real name is Katrina, you see) and picks everyone to shreds; while Uncle Bob waxes lyrical about his latest surgeries and big plans if only an inimical universe will stop punishing him for daring to dream big; while Cousin Audry whines and wrings her hands and wet-blankets any sincere suggestion that might help her pull herself out of the pit she insists she's trapped in--why on earth do you feel obligated to put yourselves through that? Would the world truly end if you sat this year out and spent Hallowthankmas with people who nourish your spirit? Who eat with you instead of feeding off you?

And this discussion really strikes a nerve, because earlier this year, I had to ask myself the same question regarding the people I hung out with in real life--my meat friends. The meme and paradigm have been shifting slowly over the past few years. I'd seen it going on and put my shoulder to it a couple of times to try getting it out of the rut I saw coming. But come the fall (yes, before election time--August of so)I had a really powerul insight, and once something is seen, I can't unsee it.

Hanging with one bud one on one (a rare and marvellous thing with this bunch. It's gotten so a party of ten is an intimate gathering. It sounds like the height of cool to throw a party and get 300 through the door in a night--without property damage or theft, mind you. This is a gang that polices itself in the main, and everybody knows everybody else.) So anyway, hanging with Samwise and she happens to mention something she and Lynchpin were doing.

Lynchpin is the one everyone knows, her and her husband Hub. They organize a lot of group activites, they founded the Moveable Feast, they're respected and liked by many in the gang. Everyone wants to be close to or very much like Lynchpin and Hub. Which is not necessarily a bad thing . . . in some respects.

So as Samwise was talking (and it was about bookbinding; not meant to be a show of status, "I'm close to Lynchpin and you're not. I'm higher in the pack than you are." It was in relation to the SCA, though, and I am not a member and do not wish to be. Not at this time, thanks.) she happened to mention something about how Lynchpin was balked by someone at the latest event, and how Lynchpin flew into one of her infamous temper fits, and how everyone had to tiptoe around her while she sulked. And Lynchpin will be the first to tell you that she can't lose gracefully, and likes to win more than anything else--tho' she's not too good at doing that gracefully either. Whst's the point of winning if you can't crow and gloat, after all?

And unfortunately, I realized that I knew a set of people Just Like That. Three-year olds. Prone to unbridled little egos, temper tantrums when things didn't go their way, and in need of constant validation--"Look me, mama! Look me, look me!" Just like Lynchpin.

And that made me wonder if I wanted to be a part of a group where the person most admirable was basically a very tall three-year-old. Yes, building castles of blocks is cool and fun, and hearing the stories of white unicorns with purple manes who stole the cookies is amusing--but when you get to be the endless giver of support and validation and don't get anything back ('cos a three-year-old doesn't yet grok that other people are just as real as they are) and have to be careful to allow them to ALWAYS win to avoid the inevitable tantrum afterwards . . . well, there's a reason I don't have kids and don't have a job where I can work with them for the majority of my waking hours.

So. Holiday parties are upon us. I've made a point of not attending Great Pumpkin Night, nor TaleSpinners Night. I'll be going to the Three Days Past Solstice Celebration because I have goodies to pass out to some of the other friends. But the annual Tolkein celebration is upon us.

We're such fantasy geeks, this gang of mine. When they released Return of the King on the big screen, we were there in the line party for the screening where they were running the whole trilogy back to back to back. Every geek's dream, to see them all that way. My butt was numb for a week!

And being foodies, directly after Fellowship a small contingent of us were endlessly repeating that line about "What about second breakfast? And elevenses? And nuncheon?" "I don't think he knows about second breakfast, Pip." And daydreaming about how cool it would be to watch the movies and have second breakfast. And elevenses. And nuncheon. And tea. And dinner.

So when they announced the release of Two Towers to DVD, we planned a Tolkein celebration. It's not hard if you pace yourself, and have a bunch of couples so each pair makes one dish. No one has a lot of work to do.

But you see, it's held at Lynchpin and Hub's house. First Consort Gareth really wants to go--he loves to cook, and has an idea for gingerbread with cream and dried apricot butter. Not too sweet, but spicy, fruity, and interestingly textured. And he's not happy going if I don't go. He'll stay home, and he's good about not doing the passive-aggressive thing where he hisses and glares while claiming nothing's wrong (that's my game, thenk yew) but at the same time, he won't be the playful merry otter-boi he is.

Sigh. So I'm sitting here on the one hand, clamoring along wondering why anyone would go to a celebration when there's nothing festive for them there. When it's going to be sitting there feeding the psychic vampires a drop at a time. I'll have my knitting with me, but I've trained this group not to treat it as a shield. More like a nervous twitch; so I can't really get away with, "Just a moment please; I'm counting and I really do want to hear what you have to say."

And at the same time, I want to answer along with the chorus of, "It's just not that simple." Nothing is.

A More Personal View

“In Flander's Fields"
By John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.


My grandfather, who turned 98 years old this July, is a WWII vet, the last of his division. Those of you counting on your fingers, with a grasp of history, are probably shaking their heads about now.

“Pearl Harbor – the incident that caused America to involve itself in World War II—was December 17, 1941. Your grandfather would have been in his forties by the time America began drafting! Didn’t he have a family started by then? He should have been able to back out honorably due to age and familial obligations.”

Well, yes, but instead he chose to accept the responsibilities that accrue to adult males in America, and answered his draft summons. My mother, the youngest of his five children, was old enough to remember her father before he left for war.

And of course, she was old enough to remember when he came home, suffering from what would later be called “shell shock” and then “post-traumatic stress disorder.” He literally was not her father any more, and for some time, my grandparents lived apart in order to preserve the marriage.

Now, as mentioned, he is a 98 year old widower, and time has assumed a particular plasticity for him. Someone will say something that sparks a memory, and for the moment he’s back in whatever time it was, and relates to the speaker as if they were someone back there with him. Now, if you float along beside him, he’ll tell the stories that hurt too much when they had to go through conscious filters.

My father was lucky, he served time in the Navy just after Korea, and just before Viet Nam.

However, neither my husband nor brother have put in their hitch. Neither has children. Neither is over 35.

Do I worry? Yes.

Insert Country Joe and the Fish Chant Here

While surfing blogs yesterday, I came across one by a young Canadian (today is Remembrance Day up north) and he was commenting that although he made an especial point to pick up and wear the poppy in his lapel, he wasn’t able to support the current war.

I’m in touch with that. I’ve had exceedingly mixed feelings about the war. Kerry asked during the debates “How can you ask someone to be the last man to die?” Well, Senator, the same way you ask someone to be the first. With a clear and steady voice that belies the writhing knot in the pit of your stomach.

As I recall, we were in a hell of a bind at the time. Schroedinger’s Cat was chairing the foreign policy committees. Hussein might and might not have had WMD or the facilities to create them. He was certainly posturing as if he did. He had committed atrocities against his own people. His sons were just as bad. And we were certainly not on his Duhl Hijja card list. Go, or no go?

It costs big bucks to maintain military alertness. For one person in the field, there are ten people at desks making sure stuff goes where it needs to be when it needs to get there. And ramping up and rattling sabers does not achieve permanent results. (Libya is a glorious exception—and even then, Qdaffi did not shut down until we actually mobilized into Afghanistan.) Go, or no go?

Now, the point has been made, and I will reiterate, that Afghanistan came to us. We chose to go to Iraq. It will not surprise me when the memoirs come out if there is something mentioned about taking care of unfinished business from back in the daze of Desert Storm. I only and sincerely hope that leaving Bin Laden in Afghanistan does not come back to bite us the same way that leaving Hussein in Iraq did ten years ago.

Iggy Pop Said It Best

I’ve noticed something in the past year, and will undoubtedly keep noticing for the next four.

Liberals tend to talk, conservatives tend to act.

After the results of this last election, surfing the blogosphere, I find the Kerry supporters issuing statements of shock, awe, and dismay, blogging about how they haven’t stopped crying since November 3 at 1:00 p.m. EST, moaning about how they can’t understand why people didn’t vote for Kerry; promulgating stiff upper lips in the very best self-help feel good style (or whispering about picking up and moving to Canada).

Blah blah blah. What are you DOING about it?

What is knitting in the dark movie theater so no one can see you cry DOING about making the social/political changes you see as necessary? What is talking about it on your electronic public diary DOING to move your agenda forward?

What is printing T-shits that proclaim “52% of Ohio SUCKS” doing to convince the people who voted Bush into office that your point of view is correct, reasonable, and respectful? How are you winning friends for the Democratic party with “Moving to Canada/New Zealand/Russia” parties?

The contingent where Kerry had the most votes was the 18-29 year old demographic. These are your grassroots. These are the people already on your side. This is where the focus needs to go, and needs to go now, while you actually have some passion. However, approximately 20 percent of the eligible (registered) voters in this group got off their butts and cast ballots this last November 2. Why aren’t you mobilizing them? They’re already sold on the Democrat platform.

But no, blah blah blah is easier and less risky than determining where your market is and taking proactive action. Parody is easier than creation. Putting time and effort and energy into moving the wheel and getting momentum rolling with an eye on 2008 is hard work, and detracts from time spent looking ever so clever and punditry.

And, of course, it makes you look like a conservative, since you’re actually doing instead of talking.