Philosophy For Humans II:

Why can't we all just get along?

Today's Track: Peace Train--Cat Stevens

I've recently undertaken something of a minor sociological experiment, partly out of curiosity and partly due to the alarming amount of free time I seem to have these days. Originally, the experimental parameters called for me to randomly accost members of carefully analyzed demographics and pose them a certain question, whose answers I would carefully observe and note for later study. The question, incidentally, was this:

If you were somehow to be granted three wishes, entirely at your discretion, for what would you wish?

Notice I say that these were the original parameters. Very early on, I realized that there were a number of flawed assumptions in my experimental premise, the most significant one being that I would, in fact, have the patience and motivation to follow my own program. So I've since made a few minor modifications. The "carefully analyzed demographics" have, more recently, consisted entirely of any semi-conscious individuals within earshot when my question happened to occur to me. Second, I decided that my initial question was much to difficult to be answered within a reasonable amount of time. On average, people get through the first two wishes easily enough. But by the third, they either seize up entirely or are inexplicably reminded of some indecipherable anecdote--which no doubt absolutely slayed all listeners no more than three decades ago--which must be told immediately, lest the heavens crash down about our very heads. Therefore, rather than subject myself to another rendition of the Jimmy Carter/swimming rabbit story, I elected to limit the proposal to one wish only. Lastly, my precise and diligent note-taking and data analysis has given way to a slightly more laid back process, by which I sit quietly and nod while my subject answers the question, all the while scribbling humorous and/or obscene stick-figure cartoons on my notepad. Or, assuming I’ve forgotten my notepad (which is frequently the case), I merely intensify the thoughtful nodding to reassure the subject of my interest, and then make up something later.
What I've discovered through this investigation is this: people are filthy, lying scum. Alright, perhaps this isn't entirely accurate. To be totally fair, I should note that there are a significant number of people who are simply frighteningly deluded. Why do I say this? You see, not once, not one single time did I ask anyone--man, woman, or child--this question and receive a completely honest or sane answer. Take, for instance, a friend of mine. We'll just call him "Bob", since that's the name he always gives the cops. Now, I know a great deal about "Bob", and so I felt fairly comfortable, upon posing my query to him, that I had correctly anticipated his answer. But I was completely taken aback. For the dear fellon...er, that is, fellow, responded that his first and greatest wish would be for--get this--world peace. He was not, I'm afraid, alone in this. On average, and discounting a scant few (obviously mutant) persons, both men and women seem invariably to ask for peace on earth, in lieu of what most humans actually want: booze, sex, and piles of currency large enough to be mistaken for furniture. As to why this is the case, see above.
And so we come to what I wanted to talk about tonight. Namely, that elusive utopian notion we lump under the heading "world peace". Man has striven for this obviously ludicrous ideal with nearly the same fervor with which he has sought the true purpose of that oddly-shaped bit of metal which sits perpetually buried in the drawer beside the refrigerator and a way to prevent the formation of that perplexing substance--technically known as "gunk"--that forms around the openings of toothpaste tubes. And, as the results of my rigorous investigation indicate, it's an issue which rests heavily on the minds of all those people who occasionally need a convenient falsehood to make themselves appear more enlightened than they really are upon being asked a stupid philosophical question in a bar. This is quite a problem for mankind, having constantly to search for that which seems so far beyond hope of acquisition. As always, I feel powerfully compelled to bend all my efforts to aide my fellow man in any way that I may. Also, I feel powerfully compelled not to go clean out the gutters. This being the case, I've sequestered myself away and done a great deal of extremely intensive pondering on the subject, much of which would appear, to the untrained observer, to bear a striking resemblance to watching televised sporting events. So far, here's what I've come up with (please bear with me):
Give everyone--every last man, woman, child, and perhaps dog--a gun. Instruct them to consider their state of mind, and their feelings for the world as a whole. If the verdict is anything other than totally positive, command them to begin shooting and don't stop until they're satisfied. After some period of time, there will be only one left standing. He/she will have all the peace they could ever ask for.
Or, if this approach seems a bit too drastic, then construct a massive space vessel. Issue a boarding invitation to everyone, but bearing the stipulation that they only join the company if they feel that they are in some way critical to mankind as a whole. Obviously, this will attract the entire human population. Randomly select one to leave behind. After a time of adjustment, that person will realize true peace.
Assuming that you're still reading, you have now, no doubt, decided that my views are obstructively cynical and not a little bit antisocial. In my defense, I say: Nuts to you. But seriously, you can't have total peace as long as there are lots of people roaming freely about. It's just not possible. Not only is it not within the scope of human nature, it's not even within the scope of nature, period. Any time there are a group of organisms within an environment, there must necessarily be contention of some sort. It's not even important how large the number. Take a note, this is the important bit:

So long as there are just two creatures of any kind in an ecosystem, one of the two will, without fail, attempt to eat/mate with/sell insurance to the other one.

So there you have it. World peace is not possible unless you propose to eliminate all the other people on the earth. There's a moral to be learned here. Namely, that you should always avoid anyone conduting surveys in bars.

It's All In Your Head

Today's Track: Mind Games--John Lennon

I pass this on to you, a gift from my friend Lord Cynicus. I wish it to be known that I do not advocate his views--or indeed any of a great number of other aspects of his personality--in any way whatsoever. Read at your own hazard, and make of it what you will...

Just for the sake of sheer bloody randomness, and the fact that I thought some of this stuff highly unusual and/or amusing, I present you with this list of nifty psychological factoids which I have gone to the trouble of culling and compiling personally from a much longer list of what I am afraid are completely legitimate and clinically recognized mental dysfunctions.
Also, incidentally, how's that for an impressive run-on sentence?


First, the disorders involving geography and culture. I'm betting none of these people are cartographers.

• Francophobia- Fear of France, French culture.
  (Fear of France? Apparently this disease has never affected any of the world's military leaders.)
  
• Anglophobia- Fear of England, English culture, etc.
  (I think this is common to anyone who's had to sit through a cricket match.)
  
• Germanophobia- Fear of Germany, German culture, etc.
  (Nazi joke, anyone?)
  
• Dutchphobia- Fear of the Dutch.
  (I don't have any idea. Windmills and paying separately...)
  
• Japanophobia- Fear of Japanese.
  (Pokemon are enough to strike fear into anyone)
  
• Sinophobia- Fear of Chinese, Chinese culture.
  (I've seen enough Bruce Lee movies to think this one might not be such a bad idea)
  
• Russophobia- Fear of Russians.
  (A few bad Vodka hangovers will do that to you...)
  
• Judeophobia- Fear of Jews.
  (Ritual semi-public circumcision, plastic-covered sofas, overbearing mothers, and Jerry Seinfeld. No further questions.)

Some phobias are just obvious, once you think about it.

• Atomosophobia - Fear of atomic explosions.
  (Phobia, my ass.)
  
• Poinephobia- Fear of punishment.
  (Duh.)
  
• Politicophobia- Fear of politicians.
  (Always a good policy.)
  
• Satanophobia- Fear of Satan.
  (I thought that one was called Christianity?)
  
• Stygiophobia or Stigiophobia- Fear of hell.
  (What more can I possibly say?)
  
• Nucleomituphobia- Fear of nuclear weapons.
  (Seriously, now...)
  
• Soceraphobia- Fear of parents-in-law.
  (Occurs frequently in males, especially those who have been unexpectedly interrupted in the process of making love to the daughters of former Army Rangers and Mafia buttonmen)

Some irrational fears are more common than others. Many are easily avoidable, and a few may even be beneficial.

• Galiophobia)Ergophobia- Fear of work.
  (That one's just too easy.)
  
• Epistemophobia- Fear of knowledge.
  (This must be a widespread illness. I know of a few potential undiagnosed cases in my family alone...)
  
• Dikephobia- Fear of justice.
  (No problem. Just become a lawyer. No worries.)
  
• Cherophobia- Fear of gaiety.
  (Very simply dealt with. Just become a cricket fan. Or, alternately, campaign with Al Gore.)
  
• Allodoxaphobia- Fear of opinions.
  (Followers of talk radio throughout the world know the trick to this one. You may still be exposed to the occasional opinion, but you sure as hell won't have to form any of your own.)
  
• Ideophobia- Fear of ideas.
  (Politics is the only way to go, here.)
  
• Kleptophobia- Fear of stealing.
  (Under no circumstances should you venture into politics.)
  
• Oenophobia- Fear of wines.
  (We know for certain that, whatever be his problems, Ted Kennedy never suffered from this one.)
  
• Ouranophobia- Fear of heaven.
  (Probably not a big concern for the general populace... But, you could always follow in the footsteps of Jim Baker. That should take care of the problem.)
  
• Peniaphobia- Fear of poverty.
  (Lawyer, politician, televangelist, take your pick.)
  
• Phronemophobia- Fear of thinking.
  (Who ordered the politician joke?)
  
• Prosophobia- Fear of progress.
  (See above.)
  
• Sophophobia- Fear of learning.
  (The public school system is a goldmine for researchers in this field...)

Some mental disorders, despite the fact that they sound funny, are really quite serious.

• Ithyphallophobia- Fear of seeing, thinking about or having an erect penis.
  ("Viagra? I wonder what this stuff is good for?" ... "AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!")
  
• Macrophobia- Fear of long waits.
  (Stay the hell out of amusement parks, and don't even attempt to phone Microsoft tech support.)
  
• Medomalacuphobia- Fear of losing an erection.
  (I hate to be the one to tell you, guys, but...)
  
• Mnemophobia- Fear of memories.
  (I always hated that song, too.)
  ("Hey! Cool! A castle! Wait a minute... I don't remember any ca-- AAARRRGGHH!")
  
• Syngenesophobia- Fear of relatives.
  (Any frequent attendees of my family reunions will vouch for this one.)
  
• Tremophobia- Fear of trembling.
  (This is really a vicious cycle, isn't it? Think about it...)

Some phobias are just totally beyond description.

• Geniophobia- Fear of chins.
  ("Oh, God!!! Is that Jay Leno over there?!!)
  
• Alliumphobia- Fear of garlic.
  (Insert six billion vampire jokes here.)
  
• Homilophobia- Fear of sermons.
  (Anybody out there remember Jonathan Edwards?)
  
• Lachanophobia- Fear of vegetables.
  (Anybody out there remember Gerald Ford?)
  
• Metrophobia- Fear or hatred of poetry.
  (If you lived through high school English, you ain't laughing. Oh, the Vogonity...)
  
• Nomatophobia- Fear of names.
  (That must have been the deal with that horse, huh?)
  
• Philosophobia- Fear of philosophy.
  (...got savagely attacked by Confucianists as a child, no doubt.)
  
• Sitophobia or Sitiophobia- Fear of food or eating. (Cibophobia)
  (Say what you want. But at least these people aren't all full of shit...)

Despite the fact that all of these psychological dysfunctions are quite legitimate, some of them sound as thought they just HAVE to be jokes.

• Hellenologophobia- Fear of Greek terms or complex scientific terminology.
  (Irony, anyone?)
  
• Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia- Fear of long words.
  (Now, that's just cruel)
  
• Bolshephobia- Fear of Bolsheviks.
  (It's either the totalitarianism or the hats, I'm just not sure which...)
  
• Aulophobia- Fear of flutes.
  (The film American Pie must have had a greater impact on the world than was anticipated.)
  
• Arachibutyrophobia- Fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of the mouth.
  (AAWUUNH BUUHHH!!!!!!)
  
• Linonophobia- Fear of string.
  (This disease has cost the lives of several unsuspecting tourists in the American southwest.)
  (My ball of twine is bigger than yours!!)
  
• Oneirogmophobia- Fear of wet dreams.
  (Isn't adolescence tough enough?)
  
• Symbolophobia- Fear of symbolism.
  ("I wonder what this all really means?" ... "AAARRRGGGHHH!!!")
  
• Phobophobia- Fear of phobias.
  (...for the uncreative basket case...)

And, in the grand tradition of reserving something confusing and vaguely disappointing for last, I present you with...

Zemmiphobia- Fear of the great mole rat.


In deference to the magnitude of this, I will withhold comment. Feel free to generate your own witty remarks.

I hope you have enjoyed this guided journey through the heart of bizarre scientific gibberish. Tonight, we've all learned a great lesson.
Namely, boredom is a powerful thing.
Happy hunting, but remember: I am a trained professional jackass. You should never attempt any of this at home without the appropriate medical and/or military supervision.

Christmas Spirit, No Charge

Today's Track: It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas--Bing Crosby

It's finally autumn again. And you can always tell, can't you? Maybe it's the chill in the air, or maybe its the blaze of color that erupts in the trees. Or maybe it's the first ludicrously overpriced ceramic Jesus of the year.
I ran into this fabled harbinger of the approaching holiday season this morning. My mother had suffered a minor automotive malfunction in the parking lot of a small store near her home. Accordingly, I had gone round to offer what assistance I could, mostly in the form of standing around with my hands in my pockets, staring at various nondescript engine bits and exercising my Frowny Knowledgeable Face. One of us arrived at the conclusion, after about half an hour, that, obviously beneficial though this technique was, the results left a great deal to be desired. Following the age-old mechanic's creed--"When in doubt, use jumper cables"--I arrived at the conclusion that what was required was a simple electrical augmentation. The route by which I arrived at this conclusion is in and of itself quite an adventure, encompassing such far-flung logical vagaries as the make and model of the vehicle, my own stockpile of mechanical diagnostic data, atmospheric conditions, and the fact that had absolutely no idea what I was doing. Accordingly, I set off in search of a pair of said cables. Those of you who have had some experience in this procedure will of course know that no fewer than three major laws of science forbid the existence of a pair of jumper cables inside any given vehicle unless it can be mathematically proven that there is no chance of their being needed. So of course the first place I thought to look was inside the small store, thinking that some of the patrons might be in possession of something which would, if not help, at least allow me to appear more helpful myself. I attracted the attention of some of the customers, though as soon as I appraised them I lost any real hope of acquiring assistance. To my eye, they appeared, to a one, to be older women of the Bible-thumping, bingo-playing variety. Such specimens, while quite passable as human beings, are notoriously unprepared for mechanical malfunctions. And, no, the irony of that is not at all lost on me, thank you very much. One of their number insisted that I wait about while she wrapped up some pressing bit of business involving, as near as I could determine, several minutes of mindless nattering about an upcoming garage sale or something like. In the meantime, I decided to examine some of the wares. This was, I now believe, rather a mistake. Among the items I saw in my perfunctory inventory of the place were:

• A five-foot "Christmas tree" which consisted of a hunk of pine timber to which several plastic pseudo-spruce boughs had been stapled.
  
• A profusion of what I can only assume were candles, which seemed, inexplicably, to have had evergreen needles incorporated in their construction. As to whether or not this constituted a fire hazard, I know not.
• Piles upon piles of semi-microscopic Christmas tree ornaments, which I assume were meant to be deployed by means of a set of tweezers.
  
• A mound of small, frilly ribbon-like objects, whose true purpose I was afraid to guess; And of course:
  
• A six-inch ceramic replica of Jesus Christ, complete with what appeared to be imitation rouge highlights on His cheeks.

Nothing really says 'pious, holy reverence' like imported Taiwanese figurines, eh? Almost puts me in the mood to sing Christmas carols...
Anyway, I finally decided that no help was forthcoming. I made my way toward the door, and had almost made my escape when I was accosted by the same insistently helpful woman who I was certain had long since forgotten me. Neither she nor any of the store's other three occupants had any jumper cables, naturally. So I was, at length, directed to the token hardware section of the store, which occupied approximately thirteen cubic inches, and--again, quite naturally--contained no jumper cables. After offering my thanks for her help, I extricated myself from the presence of the woman, and not a moment too soon, as I reckon it. She had, during the last few moments, she'd begun to exude the unmistakable aura of an impending "grandchildren" story. I wet back to the parking lot and broke the news to my Mother. Eventually we went back to my house and found my own personal set of jumper cables, which, when properly applied, immediately failed to function.
She made it back home safely, and I am certain my Father has since attended to the problem, relying on his uncanny skill for ignoring a problem so intently that it literally ceases to exist, and thus getting the vehicle back into something approaching normal service. I've now determined that my jumper cables are, to put it politely, approximately as useful as the Vice President. But I'll keep them handy in any case, because you never want to be caught without a pair.
And now I think I need to go commune with the Son of God. Looks as though he needs dusting again...

Reflections In The Dark

Today's Track: The Sound of Silence--Simon and Garfunkel

I found myself staring at the ceiling at about 02:00 this morning, listening to nothing and wishing it were louder, so that it might drown out the dull roar of my thoughts. For any of you unfamiliar with this particular pastime, let me assure you that your luck has been with you. For starters, you have hours of uninterrupted time in which to commune with your thoughts, whether you want to or not. When you were a child, loneliness and darkness bred monsters, which would then lurk about in your closet or underneath your bed, occasionally going "Bump" by way of companionable conversation. For some, this continues to be the case well on into later life. The monsters grow and change, even as you yourself do. But they're always there; quieter, maybe more insidious, but there. It's been some time since I've kept company with the shades and goblins of my childhood, though I do often look back fondly on our late-night discourses, especially on a night like this one. Although I think that, had Ralph--theoretical name of one of the more fearsome of my closet-beasts--skulked and creaked from the closet at that moment, he'd very quickly have leapt back inside and slammed the door behind him.
I was, in short, not highly pleasant.
As is so often the case in these lonely watches, I asked myself a great many questions. I pretended not to know any of the answers, but I'm afraid I didn't buy it.
Escapism is all fine and good when you're ten years old and planning to take to the big river on a bucksawn raft. But, honestly, aren't you supposed to outgrow that eventually? I couldn't help but think, as I lay there those perpetual pre-dawn hours, that that would be the simplest answer to what I've decided is malaise and all-pervasive disillusionment with life. Well, not necessarily the raft particularly. I don't think my anti-drowning phobia would tolerate such flouting. Perhaps something more pedestrian, say, a lengthy South American junket, or better yet a few years playing Hemmingway in the Caribbean. Maybe it was the lateness (earliness?), or the fact that I'd been staring at a pitch-dark ceiling trying to count the little holes--there are none--for what seemed like at least a Congressional term, but it began to seem like a very good idea. I mean, who wouldn't like the chance to uproot and simply recreate themselves, to fashion a new existence as if the old had never existed? Oh, certainly there are innumerable logistical obstacles, the least of which would be money. But the more I pondered, the more I came to believe that it could be done. Linguistically, I'm a quick study, and could make my way with no great difficulty until I caught up. I have relatively few connections and "roots" in my present life, so that wouldn't be so difficult as it might. As for finances, assuming I stayed out of Britain, I could rely on the strength of my currency to make up at least a part of what it lacks in quantity. Besides all that, I'm not yet so old that I'm unable or unwilling to change, to adapt. And, most importantly, I think it might be great fun. Of course, after a little sleep, I remembered that I hate tropical climates and cigars. Oh, well...
After that, I spent some time mentally ambling over the concept of theology. I considered a meaningful conversation with God, but he didn't want to talk. I don't blame him. So I went on to an impromptu personal inventory. Or, that is. I tried. I soon found that I hadn't the courage. I settled, in the end, for sidling around my psyche and prodding nervously at the things I found.
Then I sang a few lines of some old songs, which always sounds better when done in my head than aloud.
All these considerations, however, only amounted to a passing distraction. For the most part, I had Sarah on my mind. (You remember her, right? Good.) Of course, saying this is much like a drowning man saying that his shoes have gotten a bit wet. Well, that in itself warrants entire sheaves of electronic paper, and frankly I don't think I have the strength to redress it all at the moment, though I really do want to, and will, eventually. But I do feel that I should say something. Try as I might, though, it's hard to reduce such feelings as I have to words. Beyond friendship--for she is truly the dearest friend I have ever known--I feel connected to her. More than simple devotion, I feel a bond with her. Love is the only word that even comes close, inadequate as it is. Some people complain of never getting what they deserve. And sometimes, you get much more than you deserve, if only for a little while.

When you read this, sweetheart--for I know you will, sooner or later--just remember this:
I love you, always.
You know much that I don't say here, and can guess things I may never say, I doubt not, but that's the most important.

Between all this and the weird creaking coming from the closet, it's no wonder I can't sleep.

Incoming

Today's Track: Soundtrack: Monty Python and the Holy Grail

Call me a geek if you want, but PBS is great television.
No, really. Not only is it educational, but, at times, it can be downright inspirational.
Case in point: On a recent episode of long-running series This Old House, the crew was engaged in remodeling a house in one of Florida's more hurricane-intensive regions. The show's host/commentator/irritating bore was questioning the project's architect/designer on camera. The subject of windows was addressed, being highly crucial in the sense that the house had, at that point, very few of them. According to the interviewee, the house's new windows would represent the highest and finest state of the modern window-design art. They would have to be of significantly higher quality than average to stand the abuse of potential hurricanes. They would in fact need to be--and here I really, really wish I'd been paying enough attention to have gotten the exact quote--capable of sustaining the impact of a coconut traveling at 100 miles per hour. (And that's only in it's paraphrased form. To hear the man himself deliver the original line, utterly deadpan, was much better.)
Now I know what you're thinking.
You're thinking: How much do I have to pay to get to see that?
As a responsible human being, I feel as though I should state that hurricanes are terrible, destructive things, often laying waste to life and property for miles in every direction as they pass. With the added danger and demolition potential of airborne coconuts, it's a real nightmare.
That having been said, think about it. How would you feel if you looked on helplessly as a bunch of coconuts--dense, heavy, hair-covered projectile vegetation from Hell--thundered into a building at almost three times the municipal speed limit?
You'd laugh until you fell face first in the mud, probably. I know I would.
I realize that natural disasters are no laughing matter, as we are so often reminded by stern-faced media spokescreatures. But--due in large part to the efforts of the Fox Network--it is now almost impossible to view any catastrophe less devastating than the Crimean War without mentally adding a cartoon soundtrack and amusing voices.
Besides that... I mean, it's a coconut!
I personally know of several people who would wait in line for tickets to see that. The only problem is getting the things in flight on demand.
--Swallows?--
Hurricanes, as a rule, are not generally available at command. But I'm sure someone somewhere has already come up with an idea that would do the trick--if so, please let me know.
I'm frankly surprised the U.S. military has not looked into coconuts as a practical and humorous waste of taxpayer defense dollars.
(Unfortunately, I don't have a link to any of the documents relating the Air Force/Navy project which involved the aerial release of incendiary device-equipped bats, which would really have gone over well at this point. I urge you to look into it, though.)
In any case, I bet you'll never look at a palm tree in quite the same way again.

By the way, for those of you who want to know, yes, I think I would laugh if it happened to my house.

Untitled

Today's Track: Monday, Monday--The Mamas and The Papas

After the other day, I almost feel like pouring myself a Guinness or three and singing "Feelings" to a coat-rack. The poor thing would probably skitter away in fear.
Somewhere along the way, this thing has undergone some sort of spontaneous format shift, becoming less a lighthearted poke at humanity and more a sort of ongoing digitized mawkish rambling. Needless to say, this is not at all what I had in mind. For what it's worth, I hope that it doesn't turn out to be permanent. But then what's the use of maintaining this exercise in typographical futility if I can't occasionally indulge in a little maudlin gibberish? And really, I doubt that the earth will suffer a significant decrease in angular momentum for want of a few cynical sociological mini-treatises, nor will mankind seize up and jump the evolutionary rails due to a lack of flippant pseudo-philosophy or another Pat Robertson/Al Gore jokes (I forget the precise wording, but the punch line involved a monkey, a vacuum cleaner, and a roll of duct tape). All the same, I don't think I have it in me to be overly deep at this particular moment. I think instead that I will aim somewhere near the middle ground, and talk about my day.
It rained.
Not much, but I assure you that's the most entertaining bit.
Ok, new tack. My week:
Hmm, not much there, either. Which is not really all that surprising, considering there have been only two days of it thus far. Despite the fact that some would have you believe that today is Thursday, it is, in fact, only just Monday. Thus, Sunday being the first day... You get the idea. Returning readers--I assume there are a couple of you--are now, more than ever, unshakably assured in your conviction that I am a Pat Buchanan-caliber lunatic. But I can provide an explanation which is, if not thoroughly satisfying, at least satisfyingly confusing. You see, I've listened for years to people endlessly complaining about having committed acts of which they are ashamed, or of making terrible and/or simply stupid mistakes, or having spotted, at a later time, some simple thing which should have been done but wasn't. The upshot of all this is that these people fervently wish for the ability to retrace their chronological steps and relive their past days, purportedly for the purpose of righting things. After many, many of these rants, and having explained the concept of causality until the concept sickened me, something finally occurred to me: I need to find some less irritating friends.
No, while that also might be true, what I realized as a result of these numerous holdings forth was that, like so many other things, the obvious solution to this problem--that of being unable to correct an unsatisfactory past--was stupefying in its simplicity. You can’t travel back in time to fix things to your liking. There are simply too many paradoxes, many of which might conceivably involve you being shot by your grandfather. So the obvious thing to do would be simply not to submit a day as having been completed until you are completely satisfied with its disposition. In other words, don’t move on to a new day until you’re happy with the last one.
Well, the last few days, beginning late Sunday, have been somewhat...unpleasant. I don’t yet have a firm grasp on exactly what I might do to rectify this, but I refuse to undergo another day until these are sorted out. Accordingly, I’ve been diligently struggling with Monday for a while now, and fully plan to be ready to tackle Tuesday by the beginning of next week. As to why this is, well, maybe I’ll attempt that at another time. For the moment, I have something else that I wish to talk about.
Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten what that is.
So I’ll just take this opportunity to ramble on about a few random things that I do recall presently.
I have yet to extricate my beloved--and rather blackened--lawnmower from the hands of the helpful citizens who insist that it absolutely will not be completely repaired until the day after I am forced to declare bankruptcy. Yes, apparently that "minor fire" I wrote about earlier this month is only going to cost a few hundred dollars to repair. And I narrowly avoided getting a new dog out of the deal, too. As it is, I have yet to see the first trace of dog or strange man again. Of course, it's been quite a while since I last saw my mower, too. I'm not entirely sure I miss either of the three of them. Meanwhile, the lawn is doing nicely sans mower, and I've finally established peaceful relations with the members of the small proto-civilization that has sprung up in one of the more heavily vegetated regions of the property.
I've recently decided to curtail my pretty much nonexistent campaign against public education. As I've often pointed out, the only thing the modern school system has managed, after years of experimentation, to get right is the practice of suspending children who break the rules. Not only does this get the troublemakers out of the classroom--allowing the dedicated students to concentrate on such crucial scholastic matters as discerning the effects of chalk dust on the human digestive system or testing the physiological responses of frogs with pushpins--but it also assures that said disobedient youngsters are sequestered for a few days at a time with their parents, which guarantees that the parents learn the value of raising children who are not intolerable hellions. But I digress. To recount, this practice is the only aspect of public education which is not, at best, an ironic joke. I used to worry about this a great deal. Not so any longer. I've just realized that modern videogame technology is now more than sufficient to counter any of the negative effects--such as actual education--that the public school system might be having on America's children. Plus, videogame consoles don't drink coffee, thus limiting their potential exposure to surreptitiously introduced chalk dust.
And lastly, I'd just like to take this opportunity to point out that the comment-posting gadget on this page need not necessarily be restricted to registering comments about the actual blog. I'd be afraid to comment on most of this stuff. So if you happen to be reading and think of something you think the Masked Logician, or his other three readers, should hear, leave a note behind. It doesn't matter if it doesn't seem important, or even rational. I don't hold myself to such unreasonable standards, so why should I expect it of you?
Think on.

P.S.: Chickens can't vote, why can idiots?

Just Thought You Should Know

Today's Track: Wrote a Song For Everyone--Creedence Clearwater Revival


First, yes, I do in fact realize that it's been a while since my last post. For the last few days, I've been a bit under the weather. Well, alright, to be perfectly honest, my real problem was a sudden shortage of inspiration. I considered filling the blank space with some half-hearted commentary on the latest media drivelling, or perhaps chronicling mindless “day-in-the-life”-type stuff. But, to begin with, nothing terribly interesting had been happening in my life, and other people always seem to get angry when I try to follow them around and write down stuff about their lives. And it is my firm conviction that there are already far too many bloggers out there playing at being underground journalistic juggernauts. I couldnt possibly compete with the good ones, and I won’t imitate the leser ones. Therefore I had very little to say.
Sometime yesterday, I got a notion for another snarky “Philosophy For Humans” piece. I got sidetracked, however, and it was really late before I got a chance to deal with it. Then, before I got it posted, I got involved in some personal things, and my blog quickly paled to insignificance. I had planned on putting up the post this morning, maybe throwing in a few really good Richard Nixon jokes just for variety. But I’ll tell the truth. It just suddenly doesn’t seem worthwhile at this point. As I have been informed, my writing falls far short of actual cultural/social significance, and I’m fine with that. But some of the things I talk about are of more importance, at least to me, than others. And of all the things I have to say, all the things I feel like I should say, even if only for myself, “World Peace in Three Easy Steps” (the other bit’s title) just didn’t seem to carry all that much weight.
I have something I want to share.
Whether or not it’s of any worth I leave to you to decide. In either case, I ask your leave to wax profound for a while.

At one time or another, everyone has had this experience, in one form or another.
Search your memories, you’ll know what I’m talking about.
Maybe it was a childhood crush on the little boy down the block. Or perhaps a starry-eyed infatuation with the golden-haired Venus in blue jeans in your homeroom class. Could be there was some very special person close to you that you always thought about, or it might even have been some cute stranger you met once or twice. Maybe all you feel is that quiet little tingle at the back of your heart. Or maybe it’s a great, all-consuming fire which fills your every waking moment. It matters not whether you’re twelve or 112. Oh, it works on us in different ways at different times. When you’re young, you’re convinced that it’s the great Shakespearean romance, passion for the ages. As you age, and, supposedly, grow wiser, you may not feel quite like floating barefoot above the clover anymore. Or, then again, maybe you do. Whatever it is, you’re in love. So, you think to yourself, do something about it. Be it a passed note, flowers from a secret admirer, or, more simply, just walking up and asking him/her out, just do something. But you don’t. You assure yourself that you have good reasons. Or you tell yourself that you have no chance, so there’s no point in bothering. Possibly you’re just scared: scared of denial, scared of exposing your feelings, scared of your feelings themselves. For whichever of these reasons, or so many more, you say nothing. You just go on wringing your hands, writing poems no one will ever read, and languishing in your rose-petal dreams.
But life never hesitates, does it?
The days just keep right on going, and one day you look up and realize that nothing is the same anymore. Things change, people move on, and chances get missed. And you spend the rest of your life wondering: “What if?” Maybe you forget, mostly, or maybe it’s with you every day. But from time to time it comes back. If I’d done this... If I’d said that... If...
It’s not pleasant, is it? To take a line--woefully out of context, but valid nonetheless--from Christopher Stasheff:

Hell is not knowing.

Life is all what you make of it, I’ve always heard. I can’t speak to that, for I don’t really know what that’s meant to mean. But what I do know, or at least what I believe, is that whatever life is, it’s all about the choices we make. And it’s the missed--or ignored--choices that hurt the most. Sure, it hurts to have your heart broken, to embarrass yourself, whatever. But how much worse it is, years later, to have that little helpful voice at the back of your mind which reminds you that it might have been different?
Yes, it’s happened to me.
More than once I’ve held words inside which might well have brought me happiness if but invested. I know, that’s difficult to believe. Yet it is true. I, the Thousand-Word Wonder, Lord High Potentate of Verbosity, have found my words to fail when they were most important. How many of you can say the same?
And now I’ve come to the end, almost. But I just want to leave you with a few simple words.
If you have something to say, say it. Now. There will be no better time.
What you’ll regret most are the chances you never took, and all the times you have to ask yourself: “What if?”
And last:
If you love someone, tell them so. There’s too much bad in the world to shy away from one of the good things. And if you think they know, tell them again; no one ever got tired of hearing that they were loved.

Go and live life, friends.
Pax vibiscum

For you who have not heard the song I noted above, there’s a simple reason it was chosen to accompany this post. In it, John Fogerty, songwriting genius, says this:

“Wrote a song for everyone; wrote a song for truth. Wrote a song for everyone, and I couldn’t even talk to you.”

I’m sure some of you, having once listened to the song, might be tempted to debate the relevance of the rest of the song, but that line was worth the price of admission.