Still Crazy?
I'm hearing some concern that the last post suggests/indicates/confirms that I have lost it.
Nope. It's all about phonetics and memory. We remember sounds better than thoughts. It's why tunes stick in your head but slogans don't. The post was a tribute to a phonetically-based memory that is some 50 years old.
Another example - I think this is all part of the same mental mechanics - as I leave the parking lot I nearly always wonder if I've locked the car. If I did so with a beep or a honk I am certain that I did - I remember the sound. If not, less certain. I think it's harder to remember an action than a noise. Definitely in the short term, and who knows, maybe for 50 years.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Old But Risky
We each will approach this aging stuff differently. Lately I've been deeply into the 60-is-the-new-40 meme, which of course is a type of denial, but also a type of defiance. Defiance in the face of aging seems like a good thing, something that keeps you alive, and that has to be the point.
But the raging desire* to stay alive translates itself in some strange ways. The codgers who are fearful of everything - falling, children, strangers - for them, staying alive seems to mean cutting off risk. And living, in my view, a pretty boring life.
Old people should be the ones bungee jumping, but they don't. It's the young who take risks with abandon, maybe because they don't fear death or injury. Or because they know that just marking time is a great evil, and when we come to fear death we forget that.
I think my answers will be to look for unpredictability and to take risks that mean something more than an adrenaline rush. 60 really isn't the new 40. It's the new eternal, throwing yourself into the flow, replacing fear with a sense of humor.
* Yeah, OK, my now-favorite poem:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas, o'course.
We each will approach this aging stuff differently. Lately I've been deeply into the 60-is-the-new-40 meme, which of course is a type of denial, but also a type of defiance. Defiance in the face of aging seems like a good thing, something that keeps you alive, and that has to be the point.
But the raging desire* to stay alive translates itself in some strange ways. The codgers who are fearful of everything - falling, children, strangers - for them, staying alive seems to mean cutting off risk. And living, in my view, a pretty boring life.
Old people should be the ones bungee jumping, but they don't. It's the young who take risks with abandon, maybe because they don't fear death or injury. Or because they know that just marking time is a great evil, and when we come to fear death we forget that.
I think my answers will be to look for unpredictability and to take risks that mean something more than an adrenaline rush. 60 really isn't the new 40. It's the new eternal, throwing yourself into the flow, replacing fear with a sense of humor.
* Yeah, OK, my now-favorite poem:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas, o'course.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Jack
I and some friends for years have gone to a local diner every Wednesday morning. Over breakfast we debate St. Louis, women, politics, and the merits of corned beef hash.
The guy who served us, faithfully, sometimes grouchily, always skillfully, was Jack. A fiftyish, heavily tatooed biker who became, over the years, a friend and my principal reason for meals at that diner.
Jack and I developed a separate bond between us these last two years, as we discussed our battles, mine with cancer and his with heart disease. We both became gladder with each week that we were both still there.
Now it's just me. Jack died this week.
It's a big world and I guess Jack was just a little person in that world, but damn, not to me. He had style, he took pride in his work, he suffered impatient dining patrons not at all. His ability to remember what each of us wanted was simply uncanny. For each it was the "usual" or, because one guy's usual became very popular, "the Ted."
His recall ability, in addition to being just plain cool, gave us each a sense of belonging. But despite this, I drifted away from the usual for breakfast during the months that Jack and I faced our challenges. To me, every Wednesday became a brand new Wednesday and I wanted to celebrate it. He got it.
This is hard, this dying. The world shrinks. But the hope for a reunion grows, and if it's possible, Jack, I will sure see you on the other side. And this time, my friend, I will pour your coffee.
I and some friends for years have gone to a local diner every Wednesday morning. Over breakfast we debate St. Louis, women, politics, and the merits of corned beef hash.
The guy who served us, faithfully, sometimes grouchily, always skillfully, was Jack. A fiftyish, heavily tatooed biker who became, over the years, a friend and my principal reason for meals at that diner.
Jack and I developed a separate bond between us these last two years, as we discussed our battles, mine with cancer and his with heart disease. We both became gladder with each week that we were both still there.
Now it's just me. Jack died this week.
It's a big world and I guess Jack was just a little person in that world, but damn, not to me. He had style, he took pride in his work, he suffered impatient dining patrons not at all. His ability to remember what each of us wanted was simply uncanny. For each it was the "usual" or, because one guy's usual became very popular, "the Ted."
His recall ability, in addition to being just plain cool, gave us each a sense of belonging. But despite this, I drifted away from the usual for breakfast during the months that Jack and I faced our challenges. To me, every Wednesday became a brand new Wednesday and I wanted to celebrate it. He got it.
This is hard, this dying. The world shrinks. But the hope for a reunion grows, and if it's possible, Jack, I will sure see you on the other side. And this time, my friend, I will pour your coffee.
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
Fortress America
I've always been a pro-defense, strong military, if-you-fight-a-war-you-fight-to-win kind of guy. Which means support for most of what our military does, since it seems like the most honorable and effective governmental agency we've got.
But there's a disconnect. Militaries do what the civilian authority decides they should do. Our military happens to execute as well as one could expect; but that doesn't mean that what they are asked to do is the thing that makes us safest and most free.
Like garrisoning the world, for example. If you can make a compelling case that that's how we are safest and most free, great. But how about an alternative that brings home the garrisons:
A big tough navy that can project force and has subs that can blow up any enemy; a kick-ass Marine Corps, stationed here; missile and drone offense and defense that give us other ways to blow up any enemy and keep incomings to a minimum; and 50 tough, well-equipped state militias that would make any invader of our land very sorry indeed. Some soldiers stationed in our embassies, but otherwise no troops overseas.
Are we less safe with this? I'm not sure. I don't think anyone would invade Philadelphia knowing there are lots of armed Phillies fans ready to fight back. Not to mention Houston. OK, it wouldn't be taking the battle to the bad guys in the Middle East. But I just don't know that that's worked.
And wouldn't this be a lot cheaper? I think so - tens of billions cheaper, in fact, once the transition is made. Savings like that should make us safer and more free.
And no standing national army, but rather militias where the officers are guys from our neighborhoods? I'm sure that's more free. That's almost a definition of freedom.
So, hawkish I am, but for a reason. Because the purpose of government is to make us safe. Keeping our infantries here, under relatively local control, seems to me to keep us (including the lads and lassies in the infantries, who are also us) as safe as we can hope.
I've always been a pro-defense, strong military, if-you-fight-a-war-you-fight-to-win kind of guy. Which means support for most of what our military does, since it seems like the most honorable and effective governmental agency we've got.
But there's a disconnect. Militaries do what the civilian authority decides they should do. Our military happens to execute as well as one could expect; but that doesn't mean that what they are asked to do is the thing that makes us safest and most free.
Like garrisoning the world, for example. If you can make a compelling case that that's how we are safest and most free, great. But how about an alternative that brings home the garrisons:
A big tough navy that can project force and has subs that can blow up any enemy; a kick-ass Marine Corps, stationed here; missile and drone offense and defense that give us other ways to blow up any enemy and keep incomings to a minimum; and 50 tough, well-equipped state militias that would make any invader of our land very sorry indeed. Some soldiers stationed in our embassies, but otherwise no troops overseas.
Are we less safe with this? I'm not sure. I don't think anyone would invade Philadelphia knowing there are lots of armed Phillies fans ready to fight back. Not to mention Houston. OK, it wouldn't be taking the battle to the bad guys in the Middle East. But I just don't know that that's worked.
And wouldn't this be a lot cheaper? I think so - tens of billions cheaper, in fact, once the transition is made. Savings like that should make us safer and more free.
And no standing national army, but rather militias where the officers are guys from our neighborhoods? I'm sure that's more free. That's almost a definition of freedom.
So, hawkish I am, but for a reason. Because the purpose of government is to make us safe. Keeping our infantries here, under relatively local control, seems to me to keep us (including the lads and lassies in the infantries, who are also us) as safe as we can hope.
Sunday, January 02, 2011
Saturday, January 01, 2011
Back
From another hiatus, another great turn of the wheel. The details probably don't matter. We're all fine here at Strays, me, family, friends. The latest turn does remind me, though, of a conversation I have packed and unpacked for years.
The conversation is with strangers and I have it all the time. It goes: What do you do? And I answer: I'm a lawyer.
What do you do really means, of course, what do you do for a living.
And the proper answer, in my case, should be that I practice law for a living.
But the question and the answer come out much closer to what to you do in life - almost who are you.
And the answer, literally, is that I am lawyer. That's who I am.
But it isn't. I quit journalism and went to law school, which I regarded as a trade school, a place to go learn stuff and get credentialed so I could earn a good living, still do a lot of writing, be an advocate, in a world where hard work and merit play a greater role than luck. But it didn't make me someone I wasn't before. It was not a metamorphosis. It was learning a trade.
And in this way I'm not a father or a husband or a musician either, even though I love and treasure fathering and husbanding and playing music.
I'm a guy trying to lead an interesting life. Looking forward to an astounding 2011. Happy New Year, and bring it on.
From another hiatus, another great turn of the wheel. The details probably don't matter. We're all fine here at Strays, me, family, friends. The latest turn does remind me, though, of a conversation I have packed and unpacked for years.
The conversation is with strangers and I have it all the time. It goes: What do you do? And I answer: I'm a lawyer.
What do you do really means, of course, what do you do for a living.
And the proper answer, in my case, should be that I practice law for a living.
But the question and the answer come out much closer to what to you do in life - almost who are you.
And the answer, literally, is that I am lawyer. That's who I am.
But it isn't. I quit journalism and went to law school, which I regarded as a trade school, a place to go learn stuff and get credentialed so I could earn a good living, still do a lot of writing, be an advocate, in a world where hard work and merit play a greater role than luck. But it didn't make me someone I wasn't before. It was not a metamorphosis. It was learning a trade.
And in this way I'm not a father or a husband or a musician either, even though I love and treasure fathering and husbanding and playing music.
I'm a guy trying to lead an interesting life. Looking forward to an astounding 2011. Happy New Year, and bring it on.
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