Obama's now president, a major success for the Democratic Party, along with their majority in both House and Senate leading to a Democrat-controlled US Government (that true to modern Democratic form has failed to make any serious changes to the policies in place since Bush). But, it is sometimes a good idea to look back at what went before. In this case, what went on before was John Kerry.
I'd like to think that the reason John Kerry was nominated to as the Dems' candidate in 2004 was all part of a cunning plan to ensure the election of Barack Obama. I mean, it was either that, or a very large practical joke. Because I refuse to believe that as Democrats, the party of FDR and Kennedy, and Clinton, men who had so much charisma they were getting some on the side even during their presidencies,would be able to nominate a man like John Kerry, who had all the charisma of an old gym sock. I mean, sure, we nominated Al Gore in 2000, but to be fair, we also thought that George Bush was an inbred hick and that America could see right through his "I'm a political outsider, yeehah" routine. We were stupid in 2000, we were cocky. We'd gotten Clinton through impeachment precedings, and yet they'd be totally unable to remove him from office. We thought we ruled the roost. So we gave Al Gore the nod, against a field of Republican loonies, who promptly nominated the looniest and least qualified of them all, George W. Bush. Who surprised us all by running a close enough election in Florida to have his Dad's Supreme Court nominees choose him for President (FACT: The Supreme Court Justices in 2000 represent only the second time in the history of the country that people were legally allowed to vote more than once in one election and have their vote counted twice. The first time was the 1824 election, wherein the US House of Reps elected another son of a President, John Q. Adams. FACT: He also sucked at his job).
So we learned in 2000 that having someone who inspired confidence would probably help us defeat Bush.
I mean, when you think about, there's no way we could have lost in 2004, even if we hadn't been trying. The economy was in the dumpster (although it got worse four years later), we were engaged in two wars, one of which was highly unpopular and the other one of which no one gave a damn about after we won, Bush had a historically low approval rating. The country was ready for change.
But, somehow, we nominated John Kerry, who promptly shot himself in the foot, then cut that foot off and beat himself with it until he passed out. The man was a war hero, yet they painted him as a traitor. Bush was just as highly educated as Kerry was, and in fact, Bush was even more of an aristocrat, being the son of a President and the grandson of a Senator who had been on Eisenhower's shortlist for possible GOP Presidential nomination in 1960 (Read more about Prescott Bush's shady past here), but somehow, it was Bush who was the man of the people, and Kerry who got labeled as a rich, eggheaded elitist from the Northeast.
It's almost like we were trying to lose.
Actually, there's no doubt in my mind that that's exactly what was occurring. See, the nomination of John Kerry was, in fact, a long-term strategy, to get Barack Obama elected president. The DNC knew that America looked to be at rock bottom. But, like the stock market, where you're betting on the stock that does the best in the long run, the DNC is was betting that Bush could do worse. And they were right.
By running Kerry, the Democrats knew that Bush would win reelection, and screw the country for another four years. If the Dems won in 2004 there would be no guarantee they'd get anything but the Presidency. Congress and the Supreme Court would still stay red. In fact, just that happened. In two years, America was so hopping mad that in my state of Rhode Island, we got to choose between the incumbent, a pro-choice, pro-gay rights, pro-green, and pro-tax, anti-war Republican, and the challenger, a pro-choice, pro-gay rights, pro-green, and pro-tax, anti-war Democrat. The candiates were exactly the same. And we chose the Democrat, merely to stick it in Bush's (read: Cheney's) eye.
After four years of this, the Democrats got to run anyone they damn well pleased. In fact, the old tradition of a white guy for president, a streak that had gone unbroken for 43 out of 43 of the past Presidencies, got thrown completely out the window. "We can't really decide whether we want to run this black guy, or this woman" the Dems said. The black guy won, because the Dems have been a party of the minority, ever since the Republicans started screwing the minorities over by also being the party of big business, back around Harding.
I mean, if Kerry had been President from 2005-9, literally anything could've happened. The Republicans could've found some Eisenhower-esque guy to run. The Democrats could have disintegrated into a million pieces as they seemed about to do immediately prior to and after the 2004 election. It would've been really hard running a candidate that broke any sort of barrier in the years following 2004 if Kerry had run. As The Onion said, Barack Obama's election proved the nation had fallen so far, that it was finally willing to social progress and elect a black president.
So really, Kerry represents a cunningly crafted and executed plan by the DNC to blindside the Republicans in 2008. It worked perfectly. After all, they got so worried and nervous they started making even more mistakes: McCain suspended his campaign briefly, they chose Palin as a Vice-Presidential candidate. They basically screwed the pooch until they were charged with bestiality.
I mean, the DNC's plan was so ingenious, it even involved the sabotage of Howard Dean's campaign in the primary in order to later make him DNC Chairman and completely change the leadership of the DNC. That takes some serious cunning to pull off.
I'd hate to consider what it would mean if it didn't happen this way.
24.6.09
Private College Is Still Racist
I'm crackerjack white. Let's get that one straight. I'm a product of the comfortably white middle class. Not the $100K+ a year middle class, the middle class that is actually among the highest earners in the United States, but the actual upper middle class, the one that makes under $100,000 a year and lives in single family housing in primarily white neighborhoods and works white collar jobs and sends their kids to private college (albeit on academic scholarships with part of tuition).
But, I attended inner city public school in Providence for all twelve years of my government mandated lower education. And no, Rhode Island isn't a giant haven for blacks. It's a state that's 50% Catholic, which means, if you're not Italian or Irish, you're probably Dominican. But nonetheless, I managed to never once attend a school that had a majority white population grade 1 through 12. A plurality white population, sure. Majority, no.
And you know what? I count myself lucky.
Because then I went to private college.
Most of the time, when people talk about college, they talk about how you get a new perspective on things, how your eyes are opened and you begin to understand differences between yourself and other people.
Well, they're right. But somehow, I wish I'd kept my eyes closed.
Because when I had my eyes opened, it wasn't to see that we were all unique and diverse. It was to see the persistent cycle at work, one that guarantees oppression of non-whites. The students at private college were 85% white. 85%. And my college considered itself diverse for comparable small private liberal arts schools. And it was. Whites compromise 60% of the United States. A majority, but not ridiculously so. My high school was ~40% white. I'd somehow wandered into a bizarre new world, one where everyone was exactly the same.
But the most bizarre thing about whiteness at private college was that it was reinforced by racism that permeated the campus. Not out in the open, not for the professors or deans or anyone else to see, but the personal life. The jokes. I heard n----r used more often in my first and second years of higher education than I had in 12 years of inner city public schooling. That's a joke. It ain't a funny joke, it ought to be funny, 'cause it's true, but it's a joke all the same. They imitated rappers, mocked the way non-whites spoke, used epithets freely and then laughed afterwards at the mere usuage. They honestly believed that they were in the right, that as long as they only propogated these ideas behind closed doors, that was perfectly all right.
And the scary thing was: These are the kids who will run this country in 20 years.
Yah, they'd been raised in totally white neighborhoods, the suburbs, and the few that had attended public school had gone to public schools out in those suburbs, where there hadn't been black kids for miles around, and they'd used the same racist slang words then as they did now. Unlike me, they'd had no one to say "Hey, you fucking cracker, use that word again and there will be consequences." Worse than that, they're liable to keep doing it forever. They're the sons and daughters of rich folks. They'll get a great deal of support to do whatever they want, to become the movers and shakers, because in the United States, wealth begets only wealth. And in ten years, in twenty, they'll be in charge and they'll say: "We're sick of feeling guilty for slavery, feeling guilty for continuing those same practices after the Civil War, the ones that made blacks second class citizens, the ones that people had to fight in the 1960s just to get noticed. So, we're gonna stop feeling guilty. We're not gonna stop being racist, or believing that non-whites are somehow specifically inferior, but we're simply going to absolve ourselves of the guilt."
These are people who have no idea how to discuss race, because how can you have a discussion on race if you're all white? In one class, race in America was a unit of the course. And we're sitting around talking about passing, and Henry Louis Gates, Jr.'s piece on Anatole Broyard, and this one girl's talking about how when a whole bunch of black city kids showed up in her white suburb school due to district changes her "black friend" was asked why he wasn't sitting with them. Nevermind that the question itself has the subtext "Why aren't you sitting with the people of your own race when you clearly don't belong with whites?" but what she said. Her "black friend." She might have even prefaced it with her "one" black friend. I can't recall. Certainly, he was the only one she discussed. Anyway, she says this and in my head it was like someone firing a gun in bank. Everything that the class was talking about disappeared and I got lost in the silence of my mind, this one thought that had been nagging me leaping to the forefront: Who in this class isn't white? I looked around. Not a single person. I was suddenly struck by this. And the futility of this class. The class was about non-traditional perspectives on America: Immigrant, black, homosexual, etc. Basically, it was a class about difference. But there wasn't anyone different in this class. Everyone had to preface their own ideas by speaking through an intermediary authority. This student's one black friend. The truth is they couldn't talk about it from their own perspective because they had no perspective to offer.
And I'm not saying that there wasn't something worthy in teaching a class on difference. But frankly, in a country like the United States, a country with a solid immigrant identity, those students ought to never have been in a position where difference needed to be taught in college. College shouldn't be a place where you're exposed to such fundamentals as "not everyone in the world is 'normal' and white." That should be something that is reinforced by daily life.
But, I attended inner city public school in Providence for all twelve years of my government mandated lower education. And no, Rhode Island isn't a giant haven for blacks. It's a state that's 50% Catholic, which means, if you're not Italian or Irish, you're probably Dominican. But nonetheless, I managed to never once attend a school that had a majority white population grade 1 through 12. A plurality white population, sure. Majority, no.
And you know what? I count myself lucky.
Because then I went to private college.
Most of the time, when people talk about college, they talk about how you get a new perspective on things, how your eyes are opened and you begin to understand differences between yourself and other people.
Well, they're right. But somehow, I wish I'd kept my eyes closed.
Because when I had my eyes opened, it wasn't to see that we were all unique and diverse. It was to see the persistent cycle at work, one that guarantees oppression of non-whites. The students at private college were 85% white. 85%. And my college considered itself diverse for comparable small private liberal arts schools. And it was. Whites compromise 60% of the United States. A majority, but not ridiculously so. My high school was ~40% white. I'd somehow wandered into a bizarre new world, one where everyone was exactly the same.
But the most bizarre thing about whiteness at private college was that it was reinforced by racism that permeated the campus. Not out in the open, not for the professors or deans or anyone else to see, but the personal life. The jokes. I heard n----r used more often in my first and second years of higher education than I had in 12 years of inner city public schooling. That's a joke. It ain't a funny joke, it ought to be funny, 'cause it's true, but it's a joke all the same. They imitated rappers, mocked the way non-whites spoke, used epithets freely and then laughed afterwards at the mere usuage. They honestly believed that they were in the right, that as long as they only propogated these ideas behind closed doors, that was perfectly all right.
And the scary thing was: These are the kids who will run this country in 20 years.
Yah, they'd been raised in totally white neighborhoods, the suburbs, and the few that had attended public school had gone to public schools out in those suburbs, where there hadn't been black kids for miles around, and they'd used the same racist slang words then as they did now. Unlike me, they'd had no one to say "Hey, you fucking cracker, use that word again and there will be consequences." Worse than that, they're liable to keep doing it forever. They're the sons and daughters of rich folks. They'll get a great deal of support to do whatever they want, to become the movers and shakers, because in the United States, wealth begets only wealth. And in ten years, in twenty, they'll be in charge and they'll say: "We're sick of feeling guilty for slavery, feeling guilty for continuing those same practices after the Civil War, the ones that made blacks second class citizens, the ones that people had to fight in the 1960s just to get noticed. So, we're gonna stop feeling guilty. We're not gonna stop being racist, or believing that non-whites are somehow specifically inferior, but we're simply going to absolve ourselves of the guilt."
These are people who have no idea how to discuss race, because how can you have a discussion on race if you're all white? In one class, race in America was a unit of the course. And we're sitting around talking about passing, and Henry Louis Gates, Jr.'s piece on Anatole Broyard, and this one girl's talking about how when a whole bunch of black city kids showed up in her white suburb school due to district changes her "black friend" was asked why he wasn't sitting with them. Nevermind that the question itself has the subtext "Why aren't you sitting with the people of your own race when you clearly don't belong with whites?" but what she said. Her "black friend." She might have even prefaced it with her "one" black friend. I can't recall. Certainly, he was the only one she discussed. Anyway, she says this and in my head it was like someone firing a gun in bank. Everything that the class was talking about disappeared and I got lost in the silence of my mind, this one thought that had been nagging me leaping to the forefront: Who in this class isn't white? I looked around. Not a single person. I was suddenly struck by this. And the futility of this class. The class was about non-traditional perspectives on America: Immigrant, black, homosexual, etc. Basically, it was a class about difference. But there wasn't anyone different in this class. Everyone had to preface their own ideas by speaking through an intermediary authority. This student's one black friend. The truth is they couldn't talk about it from their own perspective because they had no perspective to offer.
And I'm not saying that there wasn't something worthy in teaching a class on difference. But frankly, in a country like the United States, a country with a solid immigrant identity, those students ought to never have been in a position where difference needed to be taught in college. College shouldn't be a place where you're exposed to such fundamentals as "not everyone in the world is 'normal' and white." That should be something that is reinforced by daily life.
26.5.09
Tour or Tour?
Now, I know that the word "tour" as in "I once was on tour through the human body a la The Fantastic Voyage" is pronounced "too-er." But once upon a time, a bunch of idiots that I barely know (as in, lived in close proximity to for 2 years) were convinced that it was pronounced "tore." Which is the French pronunciation of it, as in "The Battle of Tours took place in the first millennium A.D." Which is what I told them at the time, but those idiots, you know, they're really stubborn and they outnumbered me three to one (well, 2.5 to 1, cause one was really short. I won't name names here, Mike), so I just kept silent on it, because I had no outside evidence, just my word for it.
At the time, I suspected that they had been taught to say it frog-style by their parents as some sort of cruel joke that parents invent. I now know that I was right.
I was listening to Death Cab for Cutie (iTunes DJ. It's not like I scour my library for instances of the word "tour" appearing in song. I mean, I have a separate playlist for that.) when suddenly I heard the word "tourists" pronounced "too-rists" not "tore-ists." That's right, the lead singer of Death Cab for Cutie pronounces it the same way that I say it. The song is "Why You'd Want to Live Here." You can listen to it for yourself to see that I'm right.
At the time, I suspected that they had been taught to say it frog-style by their parents as some sort of cruel joke that parents invent. I now know that I was right.
I was listening to Death Cab for Cutie (iTunes DJ. It's not like I scour my library for instances of the word "tour" appearing in song. I mean, I have a separate playlist for that.) when suddenly I heard the word "tourists" pronounced "too-rists" not "tore-ists." That's right, the lead singer of Death Cab for Cutie pronounces it the same way that I say it. The song is "Why You'd Want to Live Here." You can listen to it for yourself to see that I'm right.
22.5.09
My Two Cents on Three Movies From the Winter (now out on DVD)
I recently watched The Spirit, Defiance and Valkyrie. I feel moved to speak on them, as people sometimes watch movies they didn't (or shouldn't) when they're new on DVD.
The Spirit
In a word: a cartoon. It's odd, but Frank Miller writes gritty and bloody comics where bones get crunched and people die off left and right. But his movie seems less bloody than Watchmen was. Heck, it was less graphic than Defiance. In the first five minutes, a man's head is torn off his body (ironically, Frank Miller in a cameo role) but we see only glimpses of it, enough for the viewer to understand that the head has vacated the shoulders, but not really enough to be "Oh my god! That guy lost his head!" And it seems pretty bloodless. This is followed by a prolonged fight between Samuel L. Jackon's character (the Octopus, never really explained) and Gabriel Macht's character (the Spirit, explained) in which they inflict grievous bodily harm upon each other without being hurt. Accompanied by cartoon sound effects.
Actually, that's how I'd describe the movie, bloodless. Another good description would be "Gabriel Macht and a Number of Attractive Hollywood Actresses (ft. Samuel L. Jackson)." Because, really, like the comic characters they're meant to portray, they're pretty two dimensional. Don't get me wrong, I love Will Eisner, but The Spirit was a Sunday insert that ran from 1940-52 and enjoyed the "privileges" that the era afforded to comics of the time (i.e. racist caricatures). So there's actually no characters at all, but characterizations. They're centered around their eccentricities.
One final note; Frank Miller has an absurdist streak. Especially with the Octopus. You'll see Samuel L. Jackson wearing a kimono and later an SS uniform. If you just go with it, and don't search for a deeper meaning, you'll be fine.
Defiance
I'll admit, sometimes the lines are pretty blunt with the moral lessons. There's a point (note that it comes after he's killed a bunch of collaborators) where Daniel Craig's character states that they should not become animals just because they're being hunted like animals. Nonetheless, they resort to some pretty savage actions, including fighting over food and bludgeoning a captured German to death. Of course, they are facing extermination, so... Interestingly enough, the film often doesn't comment afterwards on these moments, especially since there are a number of poignant points to make (revenge isn't fulfilling/revenge is fulfilling; armed conflict has it's purpose/armed conflict serves no purpose). Instead, it saves moral judgement for the character's lines.
This helps illustrate the issue with this movie. It wants to be an objective reporter, simply relaying events and letting us feel empathy for the characters on the strength of their portrayals. But then they writers have gone and played with facts. The eager eyed teenage brother was actually the second eldest (33), but instead they went for a stereotypical "even in war, the young find love" story. Oh, and they fight a whole platoon of Germans along with a Panther tank and then it ends. Worth your time? Sure, if there's nothing better on TV.
Valkyrie
I agree with the German critics who said that Tom Cruise wasn't charismatic enough as Von Stauffenberg. Apparently, in the real German Resistance, he was an electrifying force that inspired his comrades into action. Throughout most of Valkyrie though, he's just bumming them out. Every time another person orders him to do something, he refuses to do it unless they do it his way, or he states that it can't be done. Kenneth Brannagh is in it, and Brannagh is generally solid in all his work, so I would've liked to see more of him. Instead, he's in it for an early attempt to kill Hitler and later for his suicide (I'd say spoiler alert, but hey, it's HISTORY). Otherwise, he probably didn't deserve second billing.
You can tell that this is the product of the writers' intent conflicting with the director's intent. The writers wanted a talkie. Singer wanted a thriller. They created a hybrid beast that isn't surprising or action-oriented enough to be a thriller, likely because the viewer knows (or at least, I hope they do) that the plot is doomed to fail, yet isn't cerebral enough to be the talkie the writers wanted. What you get instead is the main characters in buildings with cutscenes to places where stuff is going on. Oh, and the accents are ridiculous. Characters (apparently due to country of origin of the actor) talk in a variety. British, American, German, they're all in there. And it's just distracting. Really, just make them all speak the same. Or at least write in a line like "He's Bavarian" or something to explain it away.
You could manage to watch this movie once in your life. You won't be moved, or impressed, but hey, you won't feel let down. It's not a masterpiece, but it's not bad.
The Spirit
In a word: a cartoon. It's odd, but Frank Miller writes gritty and bloody comics where bones get crunched and people die off left and right. But his movie seems less bloody than Watchmen was. Heck, it was less graphic than Defiance. In the first five minutes, a man's head is torn off his body (ironically, Frank Miller in a cameo role) but we see only glimpses of it, enough for the viewer to understand that the head has vacated the shoulders, but not really enough to be "Oh my god! That guy lost his head!" And it seems pretty bloodless. This is followed by a prolonged fight between Samuel L. Jackon's character (the Octopus, never really explained) and Gabriel Macht's character (the Spirit, explained) in which they inflict grievous bodily harm upon each other without being hurt. Accompanied by cartoon sound effects.
Actually, that's how I'd describe the movie, bloodless. Another good description would be "Gabriel Macht and a Number of Attractive Hollywood Actresses (ft. Samuel L. Jackson)." Because, really, like the comic characters they're meant to portray, they're pretty two dimensional. Don't get me wrong, I love Will Eisner, but The Spirit was a Sunday insert that ran from 1940-52 and enjoyed the "privileges" that the era afforded to comics of the time (i.e. racist caricatures). So there's actually no characters at all, but characterizations. They're centered around their eccentricities.
One final note; Frank Miller has an absurdist streak. Especially with the Octopus. You'll see Samuel L. Jackson wearing a kimono and later an SS uniform. If you just go with it, and don't search for a deeper meaning, you'll be fine.
Defiance
I'll admit, sometimes the lines are pretty blunt with the moral lessons. There's a point (note that it comes after he's killed a bunch of collaborators) where Daniel Craig's character states that they should not become animals just because they're being hunted like animals. Nonetheless, they resort to some pretty savage actions, including fighting over food and bludgeoning a captured German to death. Of course, they are facing extermination, so... Interestingly enough, the film often doesn't comment afterwards on these moments, especially since there are a number of poignant points to make (revenge isn't fulfilling/revenge is fulfilling; armed conflict has it's purpose/armed conflict serves no purpose). Instead, it saves moral judgement for the character's lines.
This helps illustrate the issue with this movie. It wants to be an objective reporter, simply relaying events and letting us feel empathy for the characters on the strength of their portrayals. But then they writers have gone and played with facts. The eager eyed teenage brother was actually the second eldest (33), but instead they went for a stereotypical "even in war, the young find love" story. Oh, and they fight a whole platoon of Germans along with a Panther tank and then it ends. Worth your time? Sure, if there's nothing better on TV.
Valkyrie
I agree with the German critics who said that Tom Cruise wasn't charismatic enough as Von Stauffenberg. Apparently, in the real German Resistance, he was an electrifying force that inspired his comrades into action. Throughout most of Valkyrie though, he's just bumming them out. Every time another person orders him to do something, he refuses to do it unless they do it his way, or he states that it can't be done. Kenneth Brannagh is in it, and Brannagh is generally solid in all his work, so I would've liked to see more of him. Instead, he's in it for an early attempt to kill Hitler and later for his suicide (I'd say spoiler alert, but hey, it's HISTORY). Otherwise, he probably didn't deserve second billing.
You can tell that this is the product of the writers' intent conflicting with the director's intent. The writers wanted a talkie. Singer wanted a thriller. They created a hybrid beast that isn't surprising or action-oriented enough to be a thriller, likely because the viewer knows (or at least, I hope they do) that the plot is doomed to fail, yet isn't cerebral enough to be the talkie the writers wanted. What you get instead is the main characters in buildings with cutscenes to places where stuff is going on. Oh, and the accents are ridiculous. Characters (apparently due to country of origin of the actor) talk in a variety. British, American, German, they're all in there. And it's just distracting. Really, just make them all speak the same. Or at least write in a line like "He's Bavarian" or something to explain it away.
You could manage to watch this movie once in your life. You won't be moved, or impressed, but hey, you won't feel let down. It's not a masterpiece, but it's not bad.
4.2.09
Storytime
Old stories are the best stories. It's said that there are no new stories to tell, that all stories are old stories. So all heroes are Christ, and Christ is Dionysus and Dionysus is Osiris or Horus. I love old stories, especially the folklore and myths of cultures. I love tricksters as well. Odysseus, Loki, Anansi, Coyote, they're all my favorites. In modern writing, tricksters are complicated rogues weaving complicated puzzles for complicated villains. But in those old stories, they were simple people who were clever for their simplicity.
There are also stories told about the world of history that possess this element of simplicity. Here are two of my favorites (both probably apocraphyl).
In Gordium, which was then called Phrygia, there was no king. So the people consulted the Oracle, who told them that the next man driving an ox-cart into the city would become their legitimate king. And, because it was a city, this is just what happened. In recognition of the event, a complicated, twisted, intricate knot was tied between a post and the ox-cart and was left there to commemorate the new king. Whoever could untie this knot, it was later said, would rule Asia. But, of course, there was no loose end to force through loops, and even if one could had existed, the knot was tight and unworkable. After a time, Phrygia gave way to the Persian Empire, and the Persians gave way to the Greeks.
In the 4th century BC, Alexander the Great entered the city. Here he encountered the knot, and was informed by the priests of Gordium of the nature of the prophecy surrounding it.
Alexander, when faced with this puzzle, simply drew his sword and cut the knot in two.
In the mid-20th Century, NASA and the Soviet Space Program were engaged in what we know now as the famous Space Race, which has since fallen from public favor. Both programs encountered a peculiar problem: zero-gravity rendered their pens totally unworkable, as there was no force to move the ink in it's tube in the conventional pen. Naturally, the importance of being able to record data by hand was not lost on either of the programs, and both the US and the USSR set out to solve the problem.
The United States engaged in extensive research and design, spending perhaps millions in taxpayer dollars, designing the pen that wrote upside-down and in zero-gravity. This is the Agency which created Tang and freeze-dried ice cream, so it is not unbelievable that they could and would design such a pen. Naturally, as in any case where American drive and ingenuity is applied, the pen was a success, achieving it's goal and becoming a knick-knack for people to buy for nephews and distant relations and so forth and so on.
The Soviets decided to go with the pencil.
Alexander's story illustrates an excellent example in thinking outside the box. Just because someone creates a boundary does not mean that boundary does in fact exist. Sometimes, just tackling the problem is the way to go. I also find it humorous because the fact is, Alexander cheated.
The Space-Pen Program story is, of course, a total lie. An independent businessman created the space pen for just $1 million because the pencil was a potential hazard both for fire and towards equipment (basically, think of all those pointy nubs you break off your pencils, mechanical or otherwise. Now imagine them flying undetected through the air and lodging in machines or your eye). And both NASA and the Soviets used the same model pen. But the basic point the story is trying to make remains a valid one: sometimes, the best solution to a complicated problem is a simple answer.
There are also stories told about the world of history that possess this element of simplicity. Here are two of my favorites (both probably apocraphyl).
In Gordium, which was then called Phrygia, there was no king. So the people consulted the Oracle, who told them that the next man driving an ox-cart into the city would become their legitimate king. And, because it was a city, this is just what happened. In recognition of the event, a complicated, twisted, intricate knot was tied between a post and the ox-cart and was left there to commemorate the new king. Whoever could untie this knot, it was later said, would rule Asia. But, of course, there was no loose end to force through loops, and even if one could had existed, the knot was tight and unworkable. After a time, Phrygia gave way to the Persian Empire, and the Persians gave way to the Greeks.
In the 4th century BC, Alexander the Great entered the city. Here he encountered the knot, and was informed by the priests of Gordium of the nature of the prophecy surrounding it.
Alexander, when faced with this puzzle, simply drew his sword and cut the knot in two.
In the mid-20th Century, NASA and the Soviet Space Program were engaged in what we know now as the famous Space Race, which has since fallen from public favor. Both programs encountered a peculiar problem: zero-gravity rendered their pens totally unworkable, as there was no force to move the ink in it's tube in the conventional pen. Naturally, the importance of being able to record data by hand was not lost on either of the programs, and both the US and the USSR set out to solve the problem.
The United States engaged in extensive research and design, spending perhaps millions in taxpayer dollars, designing the pen that wrote upside-down and in zero-gravity. This is the Agency which created Tang and freeze-dried ice cream, so it is not unbelievable that they could and would design such a pen. Naturally, as in any case where American drive and ingenuity is applied, the pen was a success, achieving it's goal and becoming a knick-knack for people to buy for nephews and distant relations and so forth and so on.
The Soviets decided to go with the pencil.
Alexander's story illustrates an excellent example in thinking outside the box. Just because someone creates a boundary does not mean that boundary does in fact exist. Sometimes, just tackling the problem is the way to go. I also find it humorous because the fact is, Alexander cheated.
The Space-Pen Program story is, of course, a total lie. An independent businessman created the space pen for just $1 million because the pencil was a potential hazard both for fire and towards equipment (basically, think of all those pointy nubs you break off your pencils, mechanical or otherwise. Now imagine them flying undetected through the air and lodging in machines or your eye). And both NASA and the Soviets used the same model pen. But the basic point the story is trying to make remains a valid one: sometimes, the best solution to a complicated problem is a simple answer.
7.1.09
Deranged (pt 1)
Carl was eating a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich he had fixed for himself, extra bacon, and was staring at the carpet he had just bought and laid out in the family room. It was a good carpet. It was red, but there were alternating blue and green geometrical designs on it. Carl traced them with his eyes. It was the sort of thing that could lose him for hours.
Agnes came up behind him, silent as a cat and tapped him on the shoulder. “What the fuck is that?” she demanded.
“A bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich,” answered Carl.
“No,” said Agnes. “What the fuck is that?” She pointed to the carpet.
“It's our new carpet,” explained Carl.
“Didn't I tell you not to buy a carpet?”
“Well, I bought one anyways.”
Agnes threw up her hands in disgust. “Carl, Jill is gonna give us a carpet. For free.”
“Well,” said Carl, flecks of sandwich spraying from his lips. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I don't want some goddamned fucking gift carpet from your sister? Maybe I want my own carpet, that I bought with my own money, to go in my own house?”
Agnes looked at Carl with a mixture of loathing and pleading. “Do you love me?” she demanded.
Carl paused for a moment.
“Of course I fucking love you,” he said, as if the question were a no-brainer. “What kinda fucking stupid question is that?”
Agnes was still put out. “Why?” she pressed.
“Well, this is just the wrong time to ask that,” said Carl. “I couldn't tell you why just now. I don't know why at a time like this. Ask me after we've had sex, that's a great time. I know why then.”
“Goddammit, Carl! Sometimes, sometimes I just feel like...” Agnes turned and stomped out of the room.
Carl turned back to his sandwich. He could never figure Agnes out. That wild unpredictability had initially drawn him to her, but now... well, it was a fucking chore handling her sometimes.
Agnes stormed back into the room, carrying something. She marched into the middle of the carpet and spun about to face him. Carl could see what she was carrying now. It was her snub nosed Smith and Wesson revolver. She affectionately called it her “rape gun.”
Oooohhhh shit, thought Carl. The BLT dropped out of his hand and onto the table. A strip of half-eaten bacon fell out.
“Carl, sometimes you.... well, you make me feel like I should take the rape gun and just blow my brains out.” Agnes put the gun to her temple, in order to better demonstrate her point.
“Baby,” said Carl. “Honey, baby, sweetie, ba-by.” He started to stand up.
“You're not gonna blow your brains out,” he declared.
“Yes, yes I will, Carl. I'm gonna blow my brains out all over your goddamned fucking carpet!” said Agnes.
“No, you're not. And do you know why?” asked Carl.
“Why?” asked Agnes.
“Because,” said Carl. “You've got too much to live for.”
The funeral for Agnes was held on an overcast and dreary day, as she would've wanted. It was closed casket, which was possibly not the way she would've wanted it, but was a necessity all the same. It was awful for Carl. The whole time Agnes' mother and her sister Jill had gone on and on about how he should have taken Jill's carpet. Still, he made it through the viewing, and then through the burial and then through the reception. Afterwards, he stood in his kitchen, eating a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, and stared out at the carpet, which was rolled up, one end bent over forlornly, sitting in the trash barrel.
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