Secret Collation

Whenever a movie or television show dealing with the intelligence community shows a room wherein secret discussions are being held, there are always professional looking binders containing pertinent information laying around.  Who prepares these?

Only one of the following scenarios can be true:

A man walks into an austere office at Langley.

"Have a seat Bob.  I've got good news and bad news."

"Oh?"

"We are moving to sponsor your top secret clearance."

"That's great.  What's the bad news?"

"Well, the trouble is, at this level, our briefings and documents are obviously more sensitive-"

"-Of course - "

"- but still require the same level of professional production value."

"...Okay..."

"Do you see where this is going, Bob?"

"No."

"Well, we can't exactly have this kind of information getting jammed in a copier somewhere down the hall.  All of our best secretarial talent tops out at "secret" level stuff.  In other words, Bob, you'll be making your own reports and binders from here on out."

"No."

"I'm afraid so.  Look, it happens to all of us.  Look at me; I'm 65, when i got my clearance, I had to pump that poisonous ink into a mimeograph machine.  It is what it is buddy.  Otherwise, we'd have a pile of dead temps at the end of every week."

[both men cackle whitely.]

Or...

An older woman walks into an austere office at Langley.

"Thanks for getting these briefings together so quickly, Rose.  I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Your welcome."

"Say, Rose?  Can I ask you something?

"Yes?"

"Ever read any of this?"  (Holds up briefing)

"What?"

"This.  The briefings."

"I don't think so.  No."

"But...you'd have to?  Right?  I mean, to check for typos, grammar, content.  That sort of thing."

"Oh, I don't think so."

"Rose."

"Yes."

"Part of what we do here, is determine when a lie is being told.  You know that right?  A large part."

"Where are we?"

"Rose."

"Suddenly, I don't know where I am - "

"- Rose - "

" - I should go and lie down.  (Hurriedly leaving)  At my house.  Right now - "

"- Rose - "

" - Or see my sister.  Who's been ill - in Venezuela - " (Running now)

"Rose!  Who has a gun?  Anyone?  Damn.  Someone shoot her."

hair

For the second time in my life, I am finding hair growing on new parts of my body.  Only now its my ears and shoulders.  Both times I consulted my father; the first time to get advice, the second time to get an apology.

Arts Education

In even the best of times, Arts education in the public school system is always in jeopardy of suffering in the face of budgetary concerns.  And now, when the economy is strained, we hear stories daily of school districts all over the country slashing funding for music, theater, and art departments.  In order to save these programs many advocates are forced to inject new feeling into the same arguments, hoping that the school boards to whom they are presenting their cases will be somehow be moved to spare the axe and find some hidden funding to keep these necessary projects afloat.  Unfortunately, these arguments are as compelling as they are predictable.  Having just seen Werner Herzog's amazing Cave of Forgotten Dreams, it occurred to me that there is a novel argument to make in defense of the arts.

Imagine us, 40,000 years ago.  For reference sake, the Sumerians set up shop 8,500 years ago, and the early dynastic Egyptians began knocking around about 8,000 years ago.  So, consider the circumstances.  No farming, clothing made from hides, basic tools, a rudimentary language, and definitely no writing.  Basic hunting and gathering.  And lots of hiding in caves.  Dawn to dusk, the primary focus would have been finding something to eat and somewhere safe to sleep.

And yet, for no reason, at least none that would aid in either of the above listed preoccupations, we drew.  On the walls.  Of a cave.  Not handprints, which are a remarkable step in their own right.  Drawing.

A charred torch is scraped on a wall to be relit.  It makes a mark.  And then something happened.  There was a moment, before which we were one way.  After, another.  Someone, who other than being terribly dirty looked a lot like us, in an idle hour, decided they wouldn't spend their evening picking bugs out of someone's hair or staring at the fire.  Decided.  To take a charred stick and DRAW ON THE WALL.  To have some idea of the wonder of this moment, watch any 2 year old learn to scribble.  And then name their scribbles.  And then at around 3 years-old, to try to make a shape that they have seen.  At some point around 40,000 years ago, this didn't happen.  And then it did.

What did we draw and why?  Not plans for a hunt.  Or even each other.  With nothing to be gained other than the primal pleasure of itself, we drew pictures of animals.  And not a catalog of what to be wary of. Just what we had seen.  Over an over again.  Different animals, some running, some fighting.  Horses neighing.  Imagine the moment when other duties waited.  When others in the tribe would watch the person at the cave wall, rapt in a shaky fire's light.  Waiting to see what would appear from the end of a stick.  From memory, an image would appear, then another, the faces of the witnesses slowly betraying a recognition of something outside, from before, glimpsed once.  Perhaps run from.  Or towards.  Or being clubbed to death.  Or torn apart and skinned and placed on a stick and held in a fire until it tasted...different.  Or just lying dead on the ground.  But definitely, and most importantly, not present.  At that moment, a conversation occurred, before conversation ever occurred, between a person making an image and those recognizing what that image was meant to convey.

this was the beginning of us.  US.  An idle hour spent creating.  Creating something with no intrinsic value.  Those images didn't make the cave warmer, our fire brighter, our tools sharper, our prey slower.  They made us more interested in our world, and more interesting for it.  How different our world must have seemed now that we could recreate it when removed from it.  Now imagine the teaching of that skill.  To give to a child their first charred stick, their first piece of ochre.  Seeing another learn to create.  To then see the advantages gained with that enhanced vision.  That all things are such that you may know them through their representation by virtue of your trained and patient hand.  Or that failing your ability, you may know them on the walls of your home, in all its safety, through the efforts of another.

This made us different.  Better.  Pensive.  Keener.  Smarter.  Artistic.  This is the gift of not just drawing, but of all the arts.  We could do it, the neanderthals couldn't.  And they were quickly left behind.  Musical instruments and sculpture were quick to follow.  But they were first.  Before agriculture, before commerce, before language even.  And most importantly, don't ever forget, especially the next time you find yourself at a school board hearing where someone threatens to cancel the marching band, shutter the dark room, unplug the kiln, or fire the theater director;  all of the wonder and majesty of our first strokes across the walls of cave took place 39,649 years before the first organized sports were ever played.

Cats vs Dogs

You cannot talk of having children without someone recommending a pet as a first step, apparently as training.  Several flaws are immediately apparent with this logic, not least of which is you cannot leave your children at home alone all day, nor is it kosher to simply pour cheerios into a bowl on the floor while you fold laundry.  Should we consent to this "first step," I find myself leaning towards something more exotic:  flying squirrel, galopagos tortoise, robot monkey.  All roundly dismissed by my wife as non-options.  Fair enough.  Then dog or cat it must be.  Which got me thinking...

Pluses for cats are a short list and are as follows:  

Eat less, shit in a box, and, if up to it, chase mice.

The end.

This may seem dismissive, but when compared to dogs, the drawbacks become obvious and quite lengthy.

First, there is the issue of loyalty.  If something is to live in my home, it should be part of the family, part of the team.  Should you cat lovers already be inhaling quickly with intent to argue,  I would like to offer a quick test:  tomorrow, leave your cat's food bowl empty and open a window with access to a fire escape or the side yard.  No?  Enough said.  Let me also point out that in spite of having been originally domesticated by the egyptians over 5000 years ago, pet cats remain in the 10-20 lb range, occasionally reaching 30 lbs when food isn't stored high enough.  Do not delude yourself that this is an accident.  Who wouldn't want a giant cat for a pet?  Rest assured, this has been tried and has obviously ended tragically every time, resulting in a size we can handle.  Or more accurately that we can trust.  The same energy has surely been spent breeding cats as has been for dogs.  And yet it is not uncommon to see a 200 lb St. Bernard curled up in living room filled with children, while the tiniest of cats are still being de-clawed.  

Secondly, protection.  How many "Beware of Cat" signs can you recall seeing?  Start with guests.  When entering a home with cats, the owner generally issues two warnings.  If they are house cats, the warning is to not let them out.  This is curious, as the cat is fed, watered, loved, and has its shit removed by that owner. Why then worry about escape?*  The second warning is usually about which cat is "unfriendly."  This usually means the cat is not interested in strangers, expressing its disdain with a distinct lack of presence.  Never a wariness of what a stranger might do to its owner, mind you.  Just a penchant for hiding.  Or alternatively, a willingness to be petted until an arbitrary "over-petting" line has been unknowingly crossed, at which point the "unfriendly" animal will close like a bear trap on the offender's hand, then proceed to scratch and bite until thrown across the room.  

Now imagine an actual intruder.  Any dog, even those subject to periodic beatings and an irregular feeding schedule, will bark unto madness at even a hint of a burglar.  Your average cat on the other hand will blithely watch someone rifle through your belongings, with the only thought in its head, presumably, "I wonder what kind of food this guy would buy?"  Not a meow or scratch in protest.  And were you to be harmed by that same intruder, I will brook no argument as to which of the two animals would prove the greatest benefit.  "Hey,  I think that mewling cat wants us to follow it!  Something must be wrong!  Let's hurry!"  

Aside from the above, the boxed poop argument does hold a great deal of sway with me.  I have, at least once, walked someone else's dog.  And because I respect the social covenant, I took a bag with me.  I realized about myself that day that I cannot abide any two of my senses experiencing animal shit without an uncontrollable urge to vomit.  Grabbing while seeing, smelling whilst grabbing, etc = [gagging].

As an addendum, let me say that I am more in favor of skipping the pet part and heading straight into parenthood.  At least with children, the presumption is that in return for your part in getting them somehow to adulthood, you might one day expect that they will arrange payment for the giant West Indian woman that lifts you out of the tub, or at least a decent cremation and a column in the local paper. With dogs and cats, not only are you on the hook for food and ridiculous halloween costumes, but you've also got to sort out the ultimate trip to the vet.  Like cooking for someone who can't stay to do dishes.  

*side note on escaped or runaway pets.  I have found what i thought were two such animals in my life, one dog and one cat.  On principle, I remained silent.  Whatever circumstances existed at their respective homes, they had clearly made a choice, which i chose to respect.  Having no idea what kind of home life they had, and failing a Pet Welfare Department to adjudicate the matter, i nodded in their direction respectfully and continued minding my own business.

Pest control

Are mice cute?  Is it charming that they live under your fridge or in your oven?  Do you imagine little beds made out matchboxes?  Spent spools as furniture?  Do you think of the one in the chef's hat?  Or the one with the big ears that sounds like michael j. fox?  Allow me to propose a few simple exercises to disabuse you of this notion.  First, pull out your fridge.  My fridge? you say.  But that's...it's a fridge.  Trust me, it got into your home somehow.  You can do it.  I'll wait.  Yeah, how about that.  Pretty disgusting.  Mice and rats literally cannot control their bodily functions.  And yet, you've probably never seen an episode of Tom and Jerry with the little guy on the run, grunting out tiny raisins as he ran across the Thanksgiving table.  Nonstop pissing and shitting.  That's how that pile behind your fridge got there.  Nonstop.  They do not "hold it" while they delicately nibble on your dinner dishes.  Or your sponges, pots, pans, utensils.  While your in the kitchen and feeling chuffed at having moved a large appliance for the first time, get some help and slide out your stove.  Make sure the gas is turned off and don't break the line.  I'll wait.  Even worse, right?  If you're tempted to see the excrement as quaint, take a knee and have a wiff.  Yup, that's still shit and piss, even if its adorably dainty.

First order of business, clean it up.  You have to, because you're not a savage.  Now, how do you get rid of them?  You don't.  Even the most conservative estimates say that there's at least one mouse or rat for each of us.  the good news is, you only have to be cleaner than your neighbors.  think of it like an arms race, only with bleach.  They will always be in your building, you just have to make sure that your apartment is the last option when its time to eat.  Like Hardee's.  "Let's go to 4b." "Hell, no. I'm sick of eating carbonized pasta sauce off the burners." "Well, where then?" "Dude, 3b.  It's just through the ceiling." "Oh yeah?" "Mos def.  They just throw their dishes in the sink.  They don't even scrape them." "serious?" "I'm telling you, man.  Like we can't just climb in and out off the same fucking dishes." "Lead the way.  And, dude, you've got some shit hanging off your tail."  "Leave off, you've dropped like, 5 turds while we're deciding."

For added measure, leave out some traps.  I couldn't, you say.  Why?  Because they're precious?  Remember; nonstop shitting.  And pissing.  On your utensils.  But I just caaan't.  You can and you must. You live in the city.  Based on this conversation, you're probably some kind of hippy as well.  Abandon your irrational fidelity to them based, presumably on some feeling of kinship on account of the mammal thing.  This is your chance to go hunting.  Well, trapping anyway.  which is kind of like hunting, only for smart people.  There's nothing smart about trapping innocent creatures, you say.  Well then set some out and see how you do.  There's a science.  Whatever modicum of intelligence they may possess, a large portion of it is dedicated to not dying.  There is nothing more satisfying than waking up and finding  several dead mice in your traps.  It's primal.  We've been doing it for 4000 years.  And while you can't make a coat, trade for tobacco or blankets, or clothe your children with your catch, you'll definitely be able to entertain guests without having to make excuses when they go to set the table with silverware when you're not looking.

Advice for Newly Married Men - Part 2

NEVER, EVER tidy up after your wife.  Clean around her things.  Scrub the floors, the windows, the bathroom.  Pick up your belongings.  But don't ever touch anything belonging to your wife.  There is no greater feeling than when something of hers goes missing and your help is appreciated instead of required.  I once transferred a pile of shoes and clothing from the living room to her side of the bed.  Oy.  I couldn't resist.  they were everywhere, since apparently she molts like a reptile when she gets home from work, using the living room furniture as a python would an abrasive rock or tree stump.  the image was akin to the old tin-types of civil war battlefields.  flats, boots, purses, sweaters, and kitten-heel Mary Jane 1-inch pumps strewn like casualties in some Accessories Antietum.  Problem is, once something from that pile went missing, even a month later, i was liable just for having laid hands on it.  Forced to search it out, for some imagined culpability, although, admittedly, I didn't put much into it.  My efforts could best be described as when everyone in a town is forced through communal obligation to search for some missing teenager that no one really liked anyway.  Imagine someone wantonly wandering through a field checking their messages with one hand while aimlessly poking a stick into stalks of dried sorghum.  Nevertheless, due to a mis-guided attempt to make our home more presentable, I found myself searching the countryside.  Touch nothing.

Advice for Newly Married Men - Part 1

Resist the urge to ever tell your wife she looks like she lost weight.  conventional wisdom (and countless comedians) will tell you that this is a viable tactic for extricating yourself from any level of mistake.  Forgotten birthday, unwashed dishes, a wandering eye.  This would be a mistake.  The most invaluable pretense that any man can maintain is a total ignorance of his wife's physical shape.  This is not to say that you shouldn't take every opportunity to tell your wife you know she's beautiful.  She is (or, you should say so), and you should tell her that often.  However, if you profess to have some ability to discern her weight loss, you automatically qualify yourself as an expert, thereby opening yourself to being subpeonaed to testify when she feels she gains weight.  Avoid this conversation at all costs.  "You always looks the same to me; beautiful.  I just don't notice your weight."  This is most conveniently cultivated when she has in fact lost weight.  RESIST  the urge to tell her.  Instead, summon the strength to avoid the simple route and tell her she always looks the same to you.  Trust me.

Crowded Subway

I was on a crowded train.  Crowded.  I've got an arm through someone else's bookbag strap, my phone is in someone else's pocket crowded.  A baby is breastfeeding in my lap, i'm turning the pages of a man's book crowded.  Forced to breathe in turns crowded.  no need to hold a strap crowded.  Which is good, since maybe the worst part of a crowded train is that all of the metal stabilizer bars are warm.  98.6 degrees warm.  Nothing worse than bracing yourself with a palm-greasy pole the same temperature as a stranger's armpit.  but the worst part of a crowded train are the people who prefer to keep their stop a secret.  No looks, no preemptive standing. no gathering of belongings.  Just a panicked rush for the door at the exact moment the doors open.  Like Rod Roddy just called their name for the Showcase Showdown.  And with an expectation of all others to just part, disappear, or what, lift them and pass them out the door?

Laundry

I do my wife's laundry.  She works, i don't.  Fair enough.  However, the negotiations, once the deal was broached, were more...complicated.  My portion of the washings can be divided into only two categories; things that take a while to dry and things that don't.  I also try to keep the socks and underwear separate.  Mixing socks in with towels and sweatshirts is just asking for an escape attempt.  They hide in the sleeves or the fitted sheets with, i'm positive, the intention of either remaining wadded and wet in an effort to avoid drying, thus requiring isolation from its twin and making it harder to track.  Or sneaking out during a folding effort of the larger article in which it has stowed away.  I have no "lights" or "darks" per se.  Everything piece of clothing i own is in the greenish, brownish, grayish color scheme and is old enough to have been washed so many times that bleeding is hardly an issue. *side note: most of my clothes are purchased or kept with an eye towards the future.  That is to say that i don't own anything that would indicate a susceptibility to current trends when viewed on whatever means exist for my children and grandchildren to gawk at and make fun of in the future.  A gray-green-brown colored sweater with no fancy collars or cuffs will the same in a laser-generated personal retinal projection as it does now on plain digital photography.  They will have to content themselves with confining their jests to whatever grist they can make from my hairstyle.
My wife's sorting and classifications for her clothes are somewhat more complex.  Not having had enough time (or inclination) to memorize each article of clothing, i am left with a series of taxonomic distinctions based on percentages of natural vs. man-made fibers.  sample: "anything with elastic should be line-dried.  Unless it is more than 60% cotton in which case it should be tumble-dried on low heat, gentle cycle.  Unless that remaining 40% is lycra or wool.  Then it should be line-dried.  But not these pants, which have semi-elastic cuffs, which can be tumble-dried on medium heat, gentle cycle, but only for 20 minutes, at which point, they should be turned inside out and then line-dried.  I don't have the energy to explain the vagaries used to identify distinctions between articles of exercise clothing, an entirely separate species, with their own special drying needs.  And never mind the care required for individually bagging and treating the "delicates," which necessitate their placement in zippered mesh washing bags.  Should i succeed in proper separation, which is rare, with mistakes in technique met with the dreaded comment, "oh.  that should have been line-dried" when seen in a folded stack next to the drying rack.  Placing the articles on the drying rack is not a short endeavor, and has the feel of decorating for a very sad and lonely holiday only i "celebrate."  the time spent festooning the rack is only superseded by the time spent folding her tiny doll clothes.  my wife is a petite woman with matching clothes which means folding them takes on the feel of some task from some obscure tale of ancient mythology.  Its such a tiny pile of dried goods; how can i still be folding halter tops, pants and leggings an hour later?  And the matching of an endless supply of tiny socks?  [harrumph, harrumph].  When i do convince my wife to re-evaluate her clothes with an eye toward reduction of line-dried items, i do feel somewhat bad for those pieces that are "cut" and moved down the from the peerage of hanging items to machine drying.  As if they're now seen as inferior by those items still privileged enough to enjoy the benefits of gentle drying as a treasured, display article.  I will continue to handle this for my wife until such time as i may claim to have been to tired from work to be able to continue, but with this caveat; while i never stop loving her, i do find room in my heart for other feelings at least while i'm hanging the certain percent wool-cotton-lycra-spandex-rayon stockings with care.

4 Lions

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gvo27XU-ooE

Grand track from an amazing group, during the credits of an amazing film.

Personal Style

I fret about the future every time i choose what to buy or what to wear.  In case a photo is taken, i try to portray a timeless image.  Not timeless, like a chanel suit; rather as in the least amount of explaining to my children or grandchildren.  It was a green sweater now (then), it still appears to be just a green sweater then (now).  No ridiculous collars or boot-cut, slim fit pants.

Around the House

When my wife wears her running outfits around the house, I feel as if we're running an historic house in the future and only I have chosen to wear period clothes.

Inaugural Blaug

I've seen something funny.  Or interesting.  Or both.  This is where I keep track of it.