Meanderings

I saw myself reflected in the bottom of my coffee cup this morning, and I got… nothing. No inspiration, no spiritual ding, not a thing. Except these sentences, I guess.

I know I’m not supposed to obsess about spirituality – I know I’m shooting myself in the foot when I do, but it’s hard not to. I want, so badly, to see a sign around every corner. I also know that wanting, so badly, is what’s holding me back. I suffer from spiritual greed I guess.

But that’s okay. I forgive myself for that and, at least today, I will try to continually release that guilt and keep my eyes open. Not every trail leads to water – not every insight leads to awakening.

That being said, I have been thinking about free will lately, and how it relates to fate. If I accept that all the people I see are real and exist just like I do, I have to accept that they have their own free will, just like I do.

The problem is that if they have free will, how can they be karma-puppets in my own little fate play? I mean, if that guy in front of me is going five miles per hour under the limit and I toss off my annoyance as “Oh well, he’s keeping me from getting into that accident up there,” where’s his free will? What is directing him to slow me down? And if nothing is directing him to slow me down, is it really my fate to be behind him, or just bad luck? And how is luck different than fate?

Now I’m pretty sure that if there is a PLAN, it doesn’t care if I’m 30 seconds late for work next Tuesday. It’s a plan for humans after all, and… wait a minute… I was about to give fate a break because I was assuming that humans have free will. Heck, I can’t even say ‘humans’, because if there are intelligent beings in the universe then at some point we will meet them and our fates (or wills) will become intertwined.

My head hurts.

So you tell me. Fate or free will? Or both? Or neither? Have fun.

Okay, Now I'm Mad

This is old news. Very old news. I'm a little annoyed that I am just learning about this now. The rest of you may laugh and point as you wish, but I have to talk about this.

So, let's get in the wayback machine and go back to 1990. Iraq has invaded Kuwait. That's a bad thing, but the people of the United States are split on whether we should declare war and kick the invaders out.

Enter Hill & Knowlton, the world's largest PR firm at the time. Congressman Jimmy Hayes (D-LA) estimated that Kuwait had hired at least 20 PR firms to whip up US opinion and lobby congress in support of war. Hill & Knowlton was the mastermind of this effort (the man that ran the Washington office of H&K was Bush Sr.'s chief of staff when he was Vice-President).

On October 10th, 1990, the Congressional Human Rights Caucus held a hearing on Capitol Hill to present to the American people the atrocities committed by Iraq. A note on the Congressional Human Rights Caucus: though to all appearances this was an actual Congressional committee, it was actually just an association of politicians. It was chaired by Tom Lantos (D-CA) and John Porter (R-IL). These two also co-chaired the Congressional Human Rights Foundation. Guess where the foundation's office space was located... in Hill & Knowlton's Washington, DC office.

So, this congressional front for a PR firm is presenting a list of human rights violations. John McArthur, in his book The Second Front, points out that "The Human Rights Caucus is not a committee of Congress, and therefore it is unencumbered by the legal accouterments that would make a witness hesitate before he or she lied... Lying under oath in front of a Congressional committee is a crime; lying from under the cover of anonymity to a caucus is merely public relations."

The emotional high point of the hearing was the testimony of a 15 year-old Kuwaiti girl known only as "Nayirah". Her full name was kept confidential, according to the caucus, to prevent reprisals against her family in occupied Kuwait. Nayirah stated, with properly spaced sobs, that she volunteered at a Kuwaiti hospital. She said that she witnessed Iraqi soldiers entering the hospital with guns. According to her statement, they "... went into the room where the babies were kept in incubators. They took the babies out of the incubators, took the incubators, and left the babies on the cold floor to die."

Horrible. In the three months between Nayirah's testimony and the start of the war the story travelled far and wide. President Bush told the story. It was recited as fact in Congressional testimony and in front of the UN Security Council.

Here's the rub. What the Human Rights Caucus and Hill & Knowlton failed to reveal was that "Nayirah" was actually a member of the Kuwaiti royal family and the daughter of the Kuwaiti Ambassador to the United States, Saud Nasir al-Sabah, who sat in the hearing room listening to her testimony. It was later confirmed by Kuwaiti investigators that Nayirah had been coached by H&K vice-president Lauri Fitz-Pegado and that the story was false. After the war, even Amnesty International was unable to verify the story and was forced to issue a retraction.

In the end, the vote to go to war succeeded by a five vote margin. Did this outrageous lie turn the tide in war's favor? Almost certainly.

Some of you will say that I'm naive to think it's foul, or even unusual, for politicians to lie to us. Most people will lie to further their cause or gain or retain power, especially when they are convinced that they are acting for the good of all. I guess this all goes back to whether honor is cultural, or whether there are some things that are inherently right or wrong.

I get angry when I feel manipulated. It just seems to me that if the truth wasn't enough to go to war, why should we go to war? I'm also appalled that there are companies out there that make their living on lies. I know, I know. Naive.

But if you really stop and think about the lies that you are told every day, how does it make you feel?

***

The source of this information is http://www.prwatch.org/.

***

Update: See this website for more discussion on Lauri Fitz-Pegado: http://www.gulflink.osd.mil/medsearch/FocusAreas/riegle_report/hearing/hearing_s04.htm

Letigious Idiocy in Texas

I think this sort of thing is going to bring about the collapse of civilization. I think I want to take this opportunity to talk to you, Mary Helen Lachuga.

Mary Helen (may I call you Mary Helen?), I find it difficult to believe that you "... felt pain and didn't know what he [Superintendant Lorenzo Garcia] was going to do next." He was high-fiving all the principals. Did you think he had suddenly decided to give you a beat down right there in front of everybody? No, Mary Helen, what's happening here is obvious. You are angry at him and you decided not to high-five him. Good enough, and maybe you would have some principals on your side (I don't know why you were demoted. I'm giving you the shadow of the doubt here). So Mr. Garcia, left awkwardly hanging, "taps" (I'm quoting the news story, I assume it came from your complaint) you on the forehead and moves on. Undignified, yeah. A bad idea? I suppose.

But you saw your opportunity, didn't you Mary Helen? You could make up for all the embarassment, all the humiliation. Assault! How dare he! A personal attack! I'll make him pay!

But Mary Helen, it backfired. Google your name. Go ahead. See those first forty or fifty results? They are all blogs, headlines and radio shows ridiculing you.

I can't really blame you though, Mary Helen. Our society sees your behavior as normal, as expected. I'm sure you thought this was a very good idea. I'm sure your lawyer told you that EPISD had deep pockets, and you'd be set for life. That's hard to resist, I know. It's like a guaranteed lottery win.

Greed, Mary Helen. It got you, just like it's digging it's claws into the hearts of most Americans. And who is feeding that monster on your chest, that demon with a plasma-screen, lemon-scented, high MPG face? That's right, Mary Helen, it's the corporations that own this country.

Mary Helen, I am going to ask you to do something brave. I'm asking you to call your lawyer and tell him that this thing is over. Then I want you to call the local news station and say "Man, that was a crazy idea. I don't know what I was thinking. Sorry everybody."

If you do that, people will start to respect you again. You can start to respect yourself. I know you must be suffering under some image issues, otherwise why would you start this whole thing?

You need to do some self-discovery, Mary Helen. Maybe yoga or meditation. Let this thing go, Mary Helen. For the good of the country.

Torture

I don't like blogs that do nothing but link to other blogs, but Bernard Chazelle over at A Tiny Revolution so well covered my own feelings on torture that I just had to post a link.

Another Ficton

This is something that has been on the back burner for quite some time... maybe posting it here will bring it back to a boil. It is cleverly titled "A Storm is Coming".

***

The day was hot; “stormin’ hot” the older folks called it. Not a breath of wind stirred the hazy white dust that hung over the parking lot. The sun punished the white canvas of the blue and white striped revival tent like lazy hellfire. Clouds to the northwest promised relief, but carried their own dangerous potential.

The people filed into the tent, ushers in white gloves holding back the flaps. Inside there was a sort of atrium where they had set up a card table carrying pamphlets like “Are You a Sinner?” and “The Rocky Path to Salvation”. The larger pamphlets went first; they made excellent fans.

Only about half the seats were taken when our local minister, Reverend Baker, began his welcome. He said a prayer of thanksgiving for our opportunity to see this up and coming evangelistic star, the Reverend Alvan Keye. As he spoke, my mind settled into a relaxed state, that state between waking and sleep, where thoughts tumble of their own accord. I thought of my mother at home, her gout too painful to allow her to attend the revival. I thought about how long the grass was getting, about my old blue-tick hound Hadley sleeping fitfully on the front porch.

A sudden gust of wind caused the tent to shift, the center pole creaking as it accepted its new burden. I snapped back to wakefulness. There was a slight murmur from the crowd, a shifting of weight and shuffling of feet that indicated I wasn’t the only one drowsing.

I realized with a flush of embarrassment that the Reverend Keye was standing center stage, his hands crossed in front of him, a microphone in his left hand, his head bowed as if in prayer. He stood silently, unmoving, the tension in the crowd increasing. When I started thinking that perhaps he was dozing like the congregation had been, he raised the microphone slowly; so slowly that I could see a bead of sweat run down the side of his hand, reverse itself, then run down his wrist to soak into the sleeve of his cream colored jacket. He held the microphone in front of his thin lips for a further silent moment, then spoke.

“There’s a storm comin’.” He said it quietly, so quietly that only the first couple of rows could have heard it. He waited another moment, and then spoke again, a little louder. “There’s a storm comin’.” The whole congregation heard him this time, and chairs creaked as their occupants settled in for the feature presentation.

“There is a STORM comin’!” He finally raised his eyes and scanned the crowd. His forehead was furrowed. His face was set in a severe scowl. His bushy white eyebrows gathered around the deep vertical line separating them like the frothing waters surrounded Moses’ Red Sea path. He looked like a real Old Testament holy-roller.

“There is a storm COMIN’!” He shouted it this time, the tiny speaker set into the podium distorting the final word.

He raised his right hand, fingers splayed, closing his eyes. “THERE IS A STORM COMIN’!” he yelled. A strong gust of wind suddenly blew the exit flap next to the stage open. Before an usher rushed over to tie it shut I caught a glimpse of the trees across the parking lot. They had a yellowish cast, as if the sun were shining through pale amber. That color, in June, in Kansas, meant only one thing: tornado.

Reverend Keye was now striding back and forth on the stage. He switched the microphone to his right hand and gestured broadly with his left, slashing the humid air with it.

“An’ this ain’t no storm of wind,” he continued. The congregation was now getting into the swing of things, a couple of amens popping up from the back of the tent. The tent darkened as clouds crossed in front of the sun.

“An’ this ain’t no storm of rain.” The first fat drops of rain plopped on the roof of the tent, making a sound like a toad dropped onto a sidewalk.

”An’ this ain’t no storm of hail. This ain’t no storm of thunder an’ lightnin’! No sir!” He strode back and forth on the ramshackle stage like it could barely contain him. “No ma’am!” He stopped and center stage and stared directly into my eyes. I heard an amen, only afterward realizing that I had said it.

“This is a storm of retribution!” He took a step forward. “This is a storm of judgment!” He took another step forward. “This is a storm of holy vengeance!” He stepped forward again, his toes now overhanging the edge of the stage. “This! Is! A! Storm! Of! Divine! Justice!” He raised his hands in the air, a look of sheer exultation on his face. The congregation rose to its feet shouting amens and hallelujahs.

“The Lord God has looked into each of your hearts and found you WANTING!” He backed up, cradling the microphone in both hands. He strode to the side of the stage and placed his hand against the fluttering side of the tent. “There ain’t no bed you can crawl under.”

He pointed at someone in the congregation. “Sinner! There ain’t no basement to hide in.”

He pointed at someone else. “Sinner! There ain’t no storm cellar to close up behind you.”

He pointed again. “Sinner! There ain’t but one shelter from this storm. Stand before the holy Lamb of God, and you will be safe from the wind.”

The storm outside was building. The tent quivered and shook, like an animal pulling at a leash.

“Sinner! There ain’t but one shelter from this storm. Kneel before the Son of God and you will be safe from the rain.”

The wind outside began to howl, thunder rolling across the plain.

“Sinner! There ain’t but one shelter from this storm. Prostrate yourself before your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and he will shelter you from the stinging hail.”
A deluge of rain struck the tent. The weight of it strained the side ropes, the walls puckering at the attachments.

“Sinner! There ain’t but one shelter from this storm. Allow Jesus Christ into your heart, and he will armor you against the storm, though the very fires of Hell assault you!” The back wall of the tent was suddenly torn away in a blinding flash. A sound too loud for sound pressed against my ears, eyes and chest. The congregation fell away from the stage like wheat before a scythe, smoldering scraps of the lightning-blasted tent blowing over us.

I looked up and the Reverend Keye was standing triumphantly, hands raised over his head, a beatific smile on his face. Sinuous traces of St Elmo’s fire crawled over his body.

At that moment I had a vision. I saw my mother start awake, staring dumbfounded at her legs. She stood and walked, tentatively at first, around the bedroom. As she realized the pain was gone, she smiled and danced around the room.

I knew that the Reverend had healed her, and I have followed him to this day.

***

That last line is just kind of tacked on, but it gives an idea of where I was going with this: the whole apocalypse thing, which has always fascinated me in all of its incarnations.

Thanks for reading!

Practice, Practice, Practice

I read somewhere that the first line of a book is what really sells it. I believe "Call me Ishmael" was the classic example. While I've decided that novelling is strictly out of the question for me, I still enjoy the occasional short story.



I try to keep the above advice in mind when I write, and very often it's exercising that first-line muscle that generates a story for me.



So, let's practice.

Here's one: Though Harold was tan and lean, he had the eyes of a fat man.



Hmmm. Okay, let's try another: Basic laws of physics predicted Jimmy's imminent demise, but Jimmy had never studied law.



Ugh. Cliché. Sounds like Roadrunner and the Coyote.



One more: The calculator tape was too short to fall backwards under it's own weight and curled directly in front of the display. I hated that.



Ummm, okay. The adventures of your local neighborhood CPA, I guess.



So, no Hugo Award winners tonight. Maybe tomorrow.


Speaking of writing, it may come as a surprise to the thousands of readers I have that I have done some deep research into Norse runes, as well as Norse heathenry. Now the heathen crowd is a proud group, as a matter of fact their lifestyle demands it, and there are many that claim to be legitimate runesters. There are dozens of websites extolling the magical properties of this or that rune set; the Elder Futhark, the Younger Futhark, Anglo-Saxon Runes, Germanic Runes, blah blah blah.


They all have one thing in common. They claim that the runes carry intrinsic magic; that they are in and of themselves magical things. I find this thinking ridiculous. Runes are representations of vocalized sound, nothing more. They are no more special than any other alphabet, including our own.



Consider the archeological evidence of "rune magic", consisting primarily of brief phrases etched into physical objects, intended to endow these objects with kick-ass power. Most of them say something like "Frank made this sword therefore it will rip you a new one". Now, I do happen to believe that stating something as an absolute truth can help to make it true, as all good propagandists know.



The magic is not in the letters - it's in the claim. Runes have captured the imagination of the world, jump-started primarily by Tolkein. I understand the need of the Norse heathen to feel special, but what they really need to concentrate on is the idea (built directly into the faith via the Havamal) that no religion is more special than any other.



Now get off my lawn.

My Kind of Officer

I read about this over at CDR Salamander. Captain Conner is definitely my kind of officer.

His base newsletter, "The Lighthouse", has a column called "Ask the Captain!". In the January edition Captain Conner was faced with one of the most self-righteous critters out there (with a few notable exceptions), the officer's wife. Here's the question for the captain:

What is the deal with the gate guards not surrendering salutes to officer’s vehicles? I don’t think an admiral’s wife or your wife would appreciate that either. We’ve worked hard to get here and should be recognized. They learned to recognize your vehicles. On every base I’ve been on they have a sign WE RENDER SALUTES PROUDLY. Here they work on trying not to salute the vehicle if the active duty member is not present. Isn’t it by UCMJ code they are supposed to render a salute to an officer? The vehicle has a sticker so why do they not (salute) whether or not the active duty member is present or not? Fill me in!! DO THEY NOT TRAIN THESE PEOPLE ANY MORE?? If not, I see more and more laxness going on in this military. A CWO wife.

If I had been the captain, I'm not sure I would have even attempted a response, maybe gone for something safer, say, like when they were going to get Diet Dr Pepper in the mess hall. But soldier that he his, he took this one on. Here's the beginning of his response:

Wow. That’s quite a sense of entitlement you have. Are you sure a salute is sufficient? Perhaps a curtsy or a genuflect would be more appropriate? We could have one sentry prostrate himself before you while the other fetches some oats for that high horse you’re riding.

First, the irony of addressing what you perceive to be an issue of respect in such a disrespectful tone is not lost. Secondly, since you specifically brought her into the dialogue, my wife thinks your question indicates a regrettably narrow perspective. Third, yes, we have training which encompasses many things for which a post sentry is responsible and accountable, primarily focused on force protection, anti-terrorism, law enforcement, defense of critical assets and infrastructure, and the use of lethal force. But thanks for asking. Fourth, if you consider standing a post 65-70 hours a week as “laxness,” then I invite you to put on your winter coat and go stand on the asphalt in front of your house for four hours holding your vacuum cleaner when the temperature reaches 85 degrees. That will give you some very small sense of what it is like to man a post, without of course the lethal responsibility.

He goes on to correct her - salutes are "rendered", not "surrendered" - and gives a crystal clear thumbnail sketch of the history of the salute.

Like so many things that I am not and never was, this is probably why I was never an officer.

Kepler

The Kepler observatory was launched into space the other day. I can't tell you how awesomely cool I think it's mission is: to find Earth-like planets circling other stars.

What confuses me though, is how it works. I mean, I get the idea - examine stars looking for telltale dimming as planets pass in front of it. But something that no one talks about is the fact that this only works if we are in the same plane as the planets of the observed solar system. Seems like that would be a very rare thing.

What am I missing? Seriously?

The other method of detection is watching for stars to wobble as the star and it's planets revolve around their common center of gravity. Seems to me like this is the way to go... it works no matter where we are in relation to the plane of the observed system.

I'm thinking that this sort of thing is probably why I'm not a scientist.

Fiction

I like to write.

I'm no writer... I know that, but it's fun. I enjoy it.

Anyway, one of the reasons that I'm no writer is that I have no discipline. I wait for inspiration, letting the muse do all the work. As all writers know, inspiration is a fickle bastard, letting us have tiny snippets of ideas then kicking back like a car salesman who just made his quota, expecting us to do all the heavy lifting with plot and exposition and all that boring stuff.

Cruel.

Still, these snippets, these quanta of fiction (fictons, if you will) are fun, and reasonable distractions on an otherwise useless day.

To the point.

Since I don't seem to be all that good at blogging (I find myself woefully unopinionated) I figured I would use this venue to publish my fictons, maybe turn them into something, maybe give somebody else an idea.

So here's my first ficton.

***

Like Weights Around Your Heart

Y’all ain’t heard this story ‘cause, well, hell, there ain’t nobody left to tell it but me, an’ I ain’t told it yet. I figger a feller oughta tell his stories though, otherwise they’ll hang like a weight around your heart, maybe drag you all the way down to hell. Maybe if y’all hear it, well, maybe you can share a little of that weight.

I was runnin’ with the James boys back then. When I say I was runnin’ with ‘em, I mean that if they mighta needed a feller or two ta do a job, they might throw a little work my way. This was towards the end, I dunno, about a year before Jesse got shot by that pissant Bob Ford.

Both Jesse an’ Frank was mighty ticklish them days. Ya didn’t dare ta look at ‘em sideways, else you’d be more likely as not ta get Frank’s pigsticker stuck between your ribs. Still, they was good boys ta work for if ya minded your P’s an’ Q’s. Leastways with me, they was always fair with the split an’ generous with the chow.

***

Well, there's the first one. I'll try to split these up, not post them all at once.

Let 'em simmer a little.

Patriotism

Patriotism is a word that has been much-bandied about in the last eight years, and the last six months or so in particular.

What does it mean to me?

To me, patriotism is the willingness to sacrifice yourself for something greater than yourself.

Patriotism is not wearing a flag pin in your lapel. That's just a way to say "Yeah, I'm patriotic," without actually doing anything.

Patriotism is not blindly following someone because he happens to be in charge. Patriotism requires keeping an eye on the big picture.

(An aside here... soldiers these days are trained to vet every order and if it's illegal or immoral it is their right, their duty, to not carry out that order. If a soldier carries out an illegal or immoral order, the soldier is held responsible for that act. I don't know, but are there consequences that carry back to the officer that issued that order? Doesn't he or she carry responsibility for the act as well? I really don't know... someone let me know.)

But guess what... there is no implicit morality in patriotism. Suicide bombers are about as patriotic as they come, but I think we can all agree that blowing yourself up, along with your innocent neighbors, is an immoral act.

No, we mustn't fall into the trap of thinking that to be patriotic is to love America. Lots of patriots out there hate our guts.

For an American, patriotism is not hating muslims. This country was founded on the principle that religion is a personal choice. Many terrorists are muslim but to hate muslims in general, because of that, is not logical. The nearest this country has ever come to suffering an attack from a WMD was not that long ago. A man in Belfast, Maine had the makings of a dirty bomb (uranium, thorium, highly toxic beryllium powder and various explosive components). These substances were only discovered by the FBI because the man was extremely abusive to his wife, who eventually shot and killed him last December.

Guess what? The guy was not a muslim... he was a neo-nazi. A white supremacist.

There are crazies everywhere, of every religion. America is not served by its citizens hating others based on their religion, race or whatever. It is only harmed.

Patriotism means sacrifice. Sacrifice is not very popular in America these days, but I think it's making a comeback. Greed and commercialism make this country look amoral to the rest of the world (not to mention many of its own citizens). We need to get back to the idea that our country can be greater than any one of us, greater even than the sum of all of us.

What's The Matter With Kansas?

What indeed?



The Kansas legislature has passed a resolution stating that we don't want any of the prisoners from Guantanamo to be housed in Leavenworth or any other prison in the state.



These kryptonite-bearded, titanium-beturbaned super-villains are cleary too dangerous to be housed in the sunflower state. Pat Roberts and Sam Brownback, our distinguished senators, claim that housing the 200 or so prisoners from Gitmo in Leavenworth would:



A) Throw the guards in a tizzy, since the prison might not be prepared for such high-risk prisoners, and



B) Endanger the community, as the constant terror attacks that have been raining down on Gitmo would be transferred to the hapless citizens of Leavenworth.



Not only that, but officers that now attend the Army Command and General Staff College from our friends Egypt, Jordan and Saudi Arabia might not be able to attend, because apparently we'd be, like, holding their cousins.



So, the prison, THE prison, designed to contain prisoners from our very own armed forces, the place where we contain people who not only have committed crimes but are trained to kill, that prison isn't ready to contain Ibn al whoever because someone in the Bush administration decided that they were uber-dangerous.



I just don't get it. Hell, I say bring 'em in and put 'em on display. Leavenworth already banks on prison-tourism (a new brochure has the catchy phrase "Doin' time in Leavenworth"). They could set up Kiddie Torture Land... the Waterboarding Adventure Ride, that kind of thing.



I got nothin' else. It's just friggin' idiocy.

Spiritual Landscapes And My Monkey Mind

Is it possible to experience something mentally without first experiencing it physically?

I was reading this

http://druidjournal.net/2009/02/05/mapping-the-inner-landscape/

and really enjoying his descriptions of various places and beings. He speaks specifically of meeting the Horned God Cernunnos. It occurred to me: if the writer had never heard of Cernunnos, would the being he meets with still be Cernunnos?

If he is still Cernunnos, is this not proof of his existence?

Of course, there is no way to prove that the being that I might call, say, Fred, is actually the same being as the one the writer calls Cernunnos, so like Schroedinger’s cat this entity continues to exist (or not exist) in all his guises, proof be damned.

This is an affront to my scientific side, and is one of the reasons why I have never been successfully spiritual.

I feel like a dose of Buddhism is necessary to remove this need to rationalize and explain everything… but Buddhism would circumvent any access to these spiritual planes to which I desire access.

Yes, I noticed the word “desire” there too.

Is it wrong to want to travel these spiritual landscapes, exploring and discovering?

Well, to be brutally honest, I think these landscapes and beings are crutches, pale imitations of true spiritual concepts. They definitely have their uses, just as an actual crutch has a unique and wonderful purpose, but they are not destinations.

Knowing this, I guess my problem is that I don’t want to use the crutch to get where I need to be, but I don’t think I can get there without the crutch.

And I can’t find the damn crutch!

Perhaps, though, it’s my concept of the crutch that is really holding me back. What is a crutch anyway, but a tool to accomplish a task? In my mind, a crutch implies weakness, but that’s not really right. Or perhaps it is, but there’s nothing wrong with a little weakness now and then.

This is really where I am spiritually… I go around and around, looking in the shop window, trying to make sense of what’s in there, and the whole time trying to look like I’m really not interested.

Man oh man, how screwed up is that…

Service and Tradition

I'm a veteran.

I never served in a war zone... I qualify for the American Legion because I was in the Air Force while the Marines were attacking Grenada, and I just caught the beginning of Desert Shield.

My military service consisted mostly of working in a controlled atmosphere in a very secure area, in a very fun town in the American southwest.

Lots of veterans would laugh, or worse, sneer at my service. But still... but still. I was there. I went through basic training, I stood inspection, I even occasionally got to carry a weapon.

I'm a member of the club.

My family was a military family. Was.... it still is. My son is in the Army, serving overseas. I am so proud of him, and so is the rest of his family.

I don't understand families that hesitate when their kids say they want to join the military. For the last eight years the Commander in Chief was a man that carried very little respect, but that doesn't matter.

It's service. That's what it's about.

Yeah, it's about having a job, it's about college, it's about a lot of things.

But it's really about service.

My great uncle was in the military. When he died, I travelled the 300 miles to be at his funeral. I did this for various reasons, reasons I really wasn't sure about at the time. I travelled alone, without my family, because life goes on.

After the church service I followed along to the cemetary. He was laid to rest there, and I was surprised to see a military honor guard from the local Air Force base.

That was why I went.

That military funeral was real, like many family events are not. I cried... not because of family, but because of the power of tradition. That ceremony connected him and me and my father and every other soldier that served for the last 10,000 years.

I'm a member of that club.

When the service was over everyone walked slowly back to their cars. I stood at my car door, watching the honor guard finish the ceremony. That itself is testament to the tradition: it carried on whether anyone was paying attention or not.

It was a sunny day, and if I remember correctly, very hot. There were no trees in the cemetery and the sun was punishing. I stood and watched and, without thinking about it, came to attention and saluted that casket as it was lowered into the ground.

It was right.

I'm not given to public displays and I was uncomfortable doing it, but I did it anyway. Strangely, if I hadn't done it, it would have been one of those things that I would have always regretted.

I have a relative that served in the Spanish-American War (winning a bronze star) and one that served in the Civil War. My great uncle served. My father served. I served. My son is serving. I have two nephews that are serving. My other son wants to serve. I can understand a lot of points of view, but denegrating anyone because they serve their country? Nope. I won't stand for it.

I'm not saying that every person that serves in the military is a saint, but dammit, they get extra points. That's it.

Geekiness

I just love numbers. Whatever I'm doing, there's always some cipherin' going on.

I am fascinated by units of measure that are based on observerable phenomena, like the month based on the time from one full moon to the next, etc. They connect me to my ancestors and to history in general, and I often try to make up my own. In this I am the very personification of the title of this blog. I am certain that I am coming up with units of measure that have been independently developed a hundred times all around the world.

So, once I was hiking along a trail in New Mexico and wanted to be able to count my steps and figure out how far I had gone. My biggest problem is that counting, say, 2000 steps is hard to do and be able to enjoy the scenery at the same time.

I was walking with a staff (another thing I enjoy, that hunt for a good staff on a trail... that's another post). I noticed that my staff hit the ground every four steps. I have a course that I walk that is exactly 2 miles. I counted my steps on that course and came up with 3980, or 1980 steps per mile. That's close enough to 2000 (within 1%!) for me. I determined that 500 hits with my staff would constitute, to a reasonable degree of accuracy, one mile!

500 Staves (as I immediately dubbed my new unit of measure) are much easier to count than 2000 steps. I only had to count to four repeatedly, and that comes very naturally for me from my musical background (one, two, three, ONE; one, two, three, TWO; one, two, three, THREE; etc). I could even be "aware" of four steps without even having to count them, and soon I got to where counting the Staves was all I had to do. Awesome!

I prefer doing math in my head when I can, and the 500 staves per mile made it very easy to convert any number of steps directly to miles, to whit:

(staves x 2) / 1000 = miles

So, say, 137 staves equals (137 x 2) = 274 / 1000 = .274 miles. How cool is that?

Yes, I know I could just divide by 500, but this formula is easier to do in your head.

Which brings us to... significant digits! Significant digits, in practical use, are a measure of accuracy. The more digits that are significant, the greater the accuracy. This means that 2.00 is more accurate than 2. Zeroes between the last digit and the decimal point don't count, so 4, 40, 400 and 4000 all have one significant digit. That last digit is where the innacuracy lies, so 2.00 really means that you're somewhere between 1.995 and 2.004. 2 means that you're between 1.5 and 2.4. Big difference.

Like I said, I like to do math in my head when I can, which forces me to limit significant digits. Usually one, but sometimes as high as three if I'm feeling particularly hot.

So today I was wondering how fast I was walking. A 20 second count of my steps resulted in 44 steps, so my sun-bright mind immediately determined that I was walking at 2.2 steps per second. To convert to miles per hour I did it in two significant digits and one significant digit, just because I'm that cool.

Two Significant Digits

So, given:

2.2 steps per second, 500 staves per mile, 4.0 steps per stave (or is it staff? I haven't decided yet)

1 step = .25 staves

.25 x 2 / 1000 = .0005 miles

2.2 steps x .0005 = .0011 miles per second

.0011 x 3600 seconds per hour = 3.96 miles per hour

Since we are using two significant digits we must round this to 4.0 mph.

One Significant Digit

2 steps per second, 4 steps per stave

Yeah, 1 step = .25 staves, but we must stay true to the digits, so 1 step = .3 staves

.3 x 2 / 1000 = .0006 miles.

2 steps x .0006 miles = .001 miles per second

again, 3600 seconds per hour, but we must be consistent, so 4000 seconds per hour.

.001 x 4000 = 4 mph!

Now, with two digits we're talking between 3.95 and 4.04 mph, while with one digit we're talking 3.5 to 4.4 mph. A much broader range, but dig this: I have walked at exactly 4 miles an hour on a treadmill, and it's too fast for me. With fewer significant digits, I have, in one sense, been more accurate!

Also, there is another method of rounding where when you round from .5, instead of automatically rounding up, you round to the nearest even number. I would have rounded .25 steps per stave to .2 instead of .3, resulting in an end result of 3 mph instead of 4. So, between 3 and 4 mph is about as close as you can get. Not bad, and good enough for head work.

How cool is that?

I know I lost you a long time ago, but that's cool. It's all part of the fun.

Paganism: Very Serious Silliness

Over at The Wild Hunt they're talking about a witch who is being ridiculed because of her Wiccan practice. There are the comments you would expect: religious persecution, that sort of thing.

Here's the thing though. I have been involved in heathen religion for several years now (though not so much anymore) and have run into equal shares of serious practitioners and utter whackos.

So, the witch on the stand? Her name is (wait for it)...

Vanilla-Clove Moonstone.

Really? You walk into a court of law and expect to be taken seriously with a name like that? I understand all about craft names, and as a general concept I like the idea. But dammit, don't you people read any of the lore from the actual era (if there was one) when your practice was current? I mean, most pagan practices today are reconstructions. I'd get a lot of flack for that if anybody read this blog...

Anyway, craft names are just that. They are used for the craft. They are not public names. Names have power. Tossing them around dilutes that power, and more importantly, lays it out there for anybody to use.

Wise up, witches. You can call yourself Unicorn Horn Peridot around the coven all you want, but in public you are Tom Smith. If you are taken seriously by the world, who knows, they may take some of the woo-woo stuff you do seriously too.

Obama: Just Like Everybody Else

I've spent the last 12 hours straight watching President Barack Obama make history. There's nothing I can say here that so many others have said or will say, so expect no insight.

But I can record my own feelings... for the first time in my life, I have seen a true leader take the office of President. That's what the President is - a leader. There are many leadership styles, true, but I guess for me he's the real deal.

His speech was stirring, as it should have been. I really did expect an "Ask Not..." speech. I am so glad that it wasn't. What it was, was the basic outline of a real program of pulling this country together. There were no great catchlines, but some wonderful ideas.

Hope has been the President's theme from the very beginning, and that is precisely what he has delivered.

I think it's a realistic hope. No reasonable person expects miracles, but it is finally dawning on people all over the country, even all over the world, that change is possible, that things do not have to stay the way they are.

And that family! I guess part of my attraction is that I have been through some things that he hasn't. His little girls are yet to grow up, and I've been there. I understand something on a personal level about the President's life! How cool is that?

I know, I know, they are all human, they all have something in common with me.

I'm gushing a little here. I don't want to finish this post. I keep thinking I'm going to say something profound, but that ain't likely.

So, my Obama post. I am happy, I am hopeful, I am satisfied. So very, very rare.

Nutshell #1

Last Song Heard on mp3 player: Mean Town Blues - Johnny Winter
Currently Reading: Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley

A good friend of mine from pulseHEAD created what he called a "nutshell" post: a post where he doesn't have any one thing to talk about, but a nugget or two that he wants to comment on.

I'll probably be doing that a lot.

So, Christian Nationalism. A dangerous little group.

Let me say here, that, although I really enjoy a good conspiracy, and I am gullible to an astonishing degree, I don't really think that any of the strange things I write about will happen, or will have any great effect on the world.

Christian Nationalism is not Christianity, it is a political movement. Its goals, as stated by George Grant in his book "Changing of the Guard":

"Christians have an obligation, a mandate, a commission, a holy responsibility to reclaim the land for Jesus Christ -- to have dominion in civil structures, just as in every other aspect of life and godliness.

But it is dominion we are after. Not just a voice.

It is dominion we are after. Not just influence.

It is dominion we are after. Not just equal time.

It is dominion we are after.

World conquest. That's what Christ has commissioned us to accomplish."

These people really believe that our forefathers were devout Christians and never intended to create a secular republic. The separation of church and state, in their opinion, is some cruel twisting of history.

I dunno. When religion infiltrates the state, the state becomes the religion. Crazy.

***
The folks over at Crime Scene KC had this one today. Should schools have the right to strip-search students?

How about, uh, no? Are they kidding?

In a case regarding a female student who was accused of possessing prescription-strength ibuprofen, a nefarious drug to be sure, the school district had this to say (from CNN.com):

... requiring a legal standard of "probable cause" to conduct student searches would cast a "roadblock to the kind of swift and effective response that is too often needed to protect the very safety of students, particularly from the threats posed by drugs and weapons."

What can I add to that? Police require search warrants, but not school administrators.

That makes sense. Because they are keeping our children safe.

This goes to our national need to absolutely elliminate all possible dangers before they manifest themselves.

I'm sorry, but in my opinion, in order to maintain the moral high ground sometimes you have to let the other guy strike first. Then you are within your rights to react.

Of course, the false flag operation is a time-honored method of making it look like the other guy struck first...

Good thing I'm not in charge.

***

Let's finish with a nice quote:

"Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened." -- Theodor Geisel, aka Dr. Seuss

Introduction

This is my first post in what I hope will be a long and glorious series of deeply insightful essays.

Not really likely.

No, what this will be is a collection of essays, stories, meanderings, brain-drains, poems, rants, etc.

You know, the usual stuff.

Some of this really will be awkward. I plan on talking about some things that, frankly, I have never talked about with anyone. Anywhere.

Most of it though will simply be my opinions and random thoughts.

I don't, at the moment, plan on using a bunch of links to cite my statements. If you are curious about a source, Google works as well for you as it does for me.

I will try to use public domain pictures, but its not always easy to get what you need. If I use your picture and you want me to remove it, I will.


Let the wandering begin!