[email composed 22 September 2002]
Tuesday morning as I walked up the stairs exiting the train station in Downtown L.A., I encountered a row of director's chairs nearly blocking the stairway completely. Rather than being intrigued and curious, I was slightly irritated; Oh great, another film crew, I thought. I wormed my way around the chairs and the wires on the ground, hoping my path to the office wouldn't be blocked. I turned the corner, relieved I wasn't stopped, and proceeded down the sidewalk. In an alcove, I noticed some people seated in more chairs, presumably actors. I didn't turn to see who they were; I had places to go. A few paces farther down the street I spotted two actors I recognized from the TV show "Alias" (the ones who play Jack Bristow and Arman, the head of SD6), dressed in suits. They were standing around, ostensibly waiting to do a scene. I passed within inches of them as I continued along my usual path to the office. I made no eye contact, I said nothing; I kept walking, just like I do every other day.
As must be evident from my tone I've encountered film crews many times over the past three years I've worked in Downtown--they do shoots there with some frequency. This was one of the few times I'd actually spotted actors--usually I run into the crew during setup--but obviously it didn't phase me. They're just actors, not superheroes. I held no interest in engaging them in a moment's small talk. I didn't give them any obsequious acknowledgement (which they probably crave--you know how actors are). I didn't stop to watch--anyone who has ever witness filming knows how uninteresting it actually is, repetitive as hell. I do watch the show, and when the episode that features that shot airs I will no doubt think to myself, Oh yeah, I remember the day they were doing that, but I am content to wait for the edited version to appear on my television screen. At the corner of the block, a stage hand in Elvis sunglasses made some declaration
that the scene could proceed (I assume). For me, however, the street light turned green and I stepped off the curb without looking back.
Perhaps there's something wrong with me. In America our collective obsession is with fame, or whatever it is that being on television provides. Maybe I'm deluding myself into believing my life isn't so awful that I don't need to bolster my self-esteem by taking pride in coincidental proximity to something that will eventually appear on TV. I'm not so desperate for attention that being close to minor celebrities (notice I couldn't think of the actors' names) becomes the high point of my day. (No, that came later, on the ride home that evening, when a couple of obnoxious teenage girls who were taking up two seats each had to scoot over and shut up because two big guys got on the train and weren't about to stand for the whole trip. It's ever so satisfying when arrogant inconsideration meets its comeuppance.)
This whole incident is only interesting because it involves something that a lot of people have heard of, because my life, as a non-celebrity, bores others, but not because I have some vampiric need to feed off the semi-famous (even though that is what plagues our society).
I don't need to be a celebrity, or near to celebrities, to get a sense of self-worth; that's what writing to you all does for me (or at least my self-delusion affords me the belief that it does).
Besides, if they could not recognize my intrinsic talent as I passed by and see fit to write me into the show, who needs them anyway? (That's Hollywood for you.)
Doug
"The desire for fame is the last infirmity cast off even by the wise."
- Cornelius Tacitus, Roman historian, circa 97 CE
~~~~~~~
Not only is the new TV season here, so is an actual season.
Having noted the astronomical events that mark the passing of our seasons in the past, I have learned that some of you expect me to continue that. So, to appease your the Autumnal Equinox occurs Monday, September 23rd at 4:55 am GMT. However, since most of you aren't in England, in California (if I'm doing my calculations correctly) that's today (Sunday the 22nd) at 8:55 pm--just shortly before I sent this. Fall is here: Enjoy the roughly equal amounts of day and night today, as tomorrow there'll be a little more darkness.
Generally, it's celebrated by those who are/were apt to celebrate it as an end-of-the-harvest festival. In Japan, the 23rd is a national holiday, observing the beginning of autumn. If you get over there and get a job, next year you can get the day off. Maybe you'll see some celebrities.
~~~~~~~
Here's the word "orifice" for no reason other than someone requested I include it. Give the people what they want, that's what I say.
Sunday, September 22, 2002
Thursday, June 13, 2002
Where's Your Messiah Now?
[email composed 13 June 2002]
"Please allow me to introduce my myself / I'm a man of wealth and taste." The wealth is insignificant, however, and the taste is questionable. As you'll see.
There is a line in the Rolling Stones song quoted above that goes: "Made damn sure that Pilate washed his hands and sealed His fate"--referring to the Roman governor of Judaea who was in power when Jesus was crucified. When I was younger--my early years of university, not childhood--I thought the line was: "Made damn sure the pilot washed his hands and sealed his fate." For some reason I thought it referred to the man who flew the Enola Gay, the plane that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima in World War II. Considering that the line in the song that precedes the misheard one alludes to Jesus by name, my interpretation does seem somewhat disjointed (to say the least). Eventually I figured out the error of my thoughts--or at least, of that one in particular--and realized Mick and Keith and company were talking about the how Prince of Darkness played a part when Pontius Pilate gave into the mob's demands for the death of Jesus, washing his hands both literally and figuratively of responsibility for the act. (Yes, I did have to review texts to remind me not only of the details of the event but also how to spell Pilate's name. Eh, that's an American public school education for you.)
I do find some solace in the fact that the misinterpretation my mind concocted was that was historically accurate and could be construed as something awful that could have been influenced by Lucifer. Some people would undoubtedly analyze the "the pilot" interpretation and be offended that I would equate the U.S. bombing of Hiroshima--what many historians view as the decisive event that ultimately convinced the Japanese to surrender and end the war--with the nefarious acts of the Fallen Angel; was I suggesting that this element of the American war effort was spurred by the Lord of the Underworld?
Not consciously, not at the time I don't think, no. If anything it indicates my studies of World War II were deeper than any investigation of Christian history. Even with the justification that the bombing brought about a resolution to the conflict, unleashing the most devastating weapon in the history of mankind doesn't strike me as something to be proud of. I'm not some ban-the-bomb radical, nor am I some America-can-do-no-wrong pseudo-patriot; I'm not much for fanaticism, one way or the other.
And clearly I'm no Christian. (I hold no religious affiliations whatsoever, for the record.) I have no problem with Christianity, as a faith, as a concept; I do have a problem with arrogant hypocrites, but one need not have any particular belief system to be one of those. Still, the fact remains: I was not raised in any modicum of a Christian household. Sometimes I feel cheated, deprived of a religion against which I could rebel, on which I could turn my back some day. There is, admittedly, a Judeo-Christian slant in much of our society--our money does claim "In God We Trust," for Chrissakes--but it wasn't enough to teach me much of the story of their savior, or of who played a role in His death. (It did pass along enough that I learned to capitalize pronouns that refer to the alleged offspring of God--no other belief system enjoys such perks in English of which I'm aware.) No, to learn about Jesus I had to watch movies made from musicals with the word "Superstar" in the title. (Cinema is the true educator of the masses.)
While I have not accepted anyone who met with a terribly unpleasant demise as a "savior" (I can't quite wrap my mind around the concept that somehow I did something horribly wrong by merely being born, and thus am not convinced of a need for salvation), I do not consider myself bereft of spirituality. I admit I'm not sure from where I would draw such feelings, such a need. It would be logical to adopt atheism, but excluding the possibility of any higher powers or other planes of existence seems so... limiting. From a creative standpoint, the more possibilities, the better; what's the fun in pondering the meaning of life if reality is one way and one way only? This strikes me as a delightful conundrum to muddle over, to pursue but never catch.
On top of all that, I'm not convinced that mankind has enough on the ball, generally speaking, as a species, to warrant me having faith in it, so perhaps there's comfort in believing there might be something else out there protecting us from ourselves.
My spirituality lacks a name, is of my own concoction, is intended to apply only to me, and is subject to change without notice whenever a better idea occurs to me. This may sound terribly convenient, but really it's more work than it's probably worth. Sometimes I wish I could bring myself to accept the tenets of one of the organized religions: not only would I have a pithy term for my faith, I wouldn't have to think about what I believed. I'd have recognized holidays. I could be tax-exempt. And best of all, others could hate me for the mere affiliation with the faith without knowing anything about me as an individual! How efficient is that? As it stands now, others need to become acquainted with me before they can hate me.
My spirituality is tolerant of the beliefs of others--it has to be: otherwise it would be hypocritical and then I'd have a problem with it--so long as their beliefs are genuine. Christians, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, Wiccans, atheists, (I suppose in theory even) Scientologists, Satan worshippers, and the rest: as long as their beliefs are profoundly held--not just some crutch when times are bad, not just going along with what's popular, not paying lip service to what they were spoon-fed as children--and as long as they aren't sacrificing animals I know personally, I say live and let live.
By no means do I think my belief system--inasmuch as it's a "system"--is the best and that everyone should believe as I do. Frankly, nothing frightens me more than the thought of that happening. My spirituality may not be much, but it's mine. I'm not looking for converts. Go make up your own.
If you're wondering what would prompt me to compose this and send it to a bunch of people, where I lack any specific knowledge of the religious inclinations of many of them, rife with the potential to offend (touching on the taboo topic of religion as it does, somewhat), I could claim that my spirituality grants me the strength to spread these words without fear. I could tell you that I have faith in my audience and trust them implicitly. However, when we get right down to it, there's only one logical explanation.
The Devil made me do it.
"They told us of a Second Coming / so we look to the sky
It's not a savior that we want / just somebody else to crucify"
- from "Waiting" by New Model Army, 1981
(For those who didn't know, the Rolling Stones song is "Sympathy For the Devil." You really should have known that, however.)
-------
Since I'll be in Vancouver next week on the Summer Solstice (next Friday, the 21st), allow me to send appropriate greetings about that now (just in case I don't get out another general message between now and then). It's the most daylight we'll get in the northern hemisphere this year, folks: enjoy it. Or don't. It's your life. (I don't celebrate it, per se: still, something drives me to acknowledge it, but let's not get into that now.)
Doug
-------
This message was sent to and probably ignored by approximately 150 recipients, from as far away as Australia and Great Britain, and as close as three blocks from Doug's apartment in southern California, including relatives, co-workers, and even people he has never met in person. Thanks to the wonder of BCC, none of them would ever realize that if he didn't point it out here.
While recipients are under no obligation to reply, and while Doug is perfectly comfortable with not receiving responses--it won't dissuade him from writing more in the future--he certainly enjoys hearing from his victims--err, audience. Especially those whom he hasn't spoken to in a while, even if it's a very brief note proving nothing more that the recipient is still breathing; recipients who have kicked the oxygen habit are not expected to reply. All responses will be kept confidential, unless they're really funny. Doug does keep copies of all of these essay/rant/rambling messages, in case you're wondering. He has no website at this time, mostly because he's too lazy and unmotivated.
If anyone receiving this message wishes Doug would just leave him/her the hell alone, he/she should make that known, either by writing back and requesting it or by summoning demons and sicking them on the writer.
Yes, Doug considers approximately 1,150 words "brief."
not really copyright 2002, because, let's face it: who would want to steal this?
"Please allow me to introduce my myself / I'm a man of wealth and taste." The wealth is insignificant, however, and the taste is questionable. As you'll see.
There is a line in the Rolling Stones song quoted above that goes: "Made damn sure that Pilate washed his hands and sealed His fate"--referring to the Roman governor of Judaea who was in power when Jesus was crucified. When I was younger--my early years of university, not childhood--I thought the line was: "Made damn sure the pilot washed his hands and sealed his fate." For some reason I thought it referred to the man who flew the Enola Gay, the plane that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima in World War II. Considering that the line in the song that precedes the misheard one alludes to Jesus by name, my interpretation does seem somewhat disjointed (to say the least). Eventually I figured out the error of my thoughts--or at least, of that one in particular--and realized Mick and Keith and company were talking about the how Prince of Darkness played a part when Pontius Pilate gave into the mob's demands for the death of Jesus, washing his hands both literally and figuratively of responsibility for the act. (Yes, I did have to review texts to remind me not only of the details of the event but also how to spell Pilate's name. Eh, that's an American public school education for you.)
I do find some solace in the fact that the misinterpretation my mind concocted was that was historically accurate and could be construed as something awful that could have been influenced by Lucifer. Some people would undoubtedly analyze the "the pilot" interpretation and be offended that I would equate the U.S. bombing of Hiroshima--what many historians view as the decisive event that ultimately convinced the Japanese to surrender and end the war--with the nefarious acts of the Fallen Angel; was I suggesting that this element of the American war effort was spurred by the Lord of the Underworld?
Not consciously, not at the time I don't think, no. If anything it indicates my studies of World War II were deeper than any investigation of Christian history. Even with the justification that the bombing brought about a resolution to the conflict, unleashing the most devastating weapon in the history of mankind doesn't strike me as something to be proud of. I'm not some ban-the-bomb radical, nor am I some America-can-do-no-wrong pseudo-patriot; I'm not much for fanaticism, one way or the other.
And clearly I'm no Christian. (I hold no religious affiliations whatsoever, for the record.) I have no problem with Christianity, as a faith, as a concept; I do have a problem with arrogant hypocrites, but one need not have any particular belief system to be one of those. Still, the fact remains: I was not raised in any modicum of a Christian household. Sometimes I feel cheated, deprived of a religion against which I could rebel, on which I could turn my back some day. There is, admittedly, a Judeo-Christian slant in much of our society--our money does claim "In God We Trust," for Chrissakes--but it wasn't enough to teach me much of the story of their savior, or of who played a role in His death. (It did pass along enough that I learned to capitalize pronouns that refer to the alleged offspring of God--no other belief system enjoys such perks in English of which I'm aware.) No, to learn about Jesus I had to watch movies made from musicals with the word "Superstar" in the title. (Cinema is the true educator of the masses.)
While I have not accepted anyone who met with a terribly unpleasant demise as a "savior" (I can't quite wrap my mind around the concept that somehow I did something horribly wrong by merely being born, and thus am not convinced of a need for salvation), I do not consider myself bereft of spirituality. I admit I'm not sure from where I would draw such feelings, such a need. It would be logical to adopt atheism, but excluding the possibility of any higher powers or other planes of existence seems so... limiting. From a creative standpoint, the more possibilities, the better; what's the fun in pondering the meaning of life if reality is one way and one way only? This strikes me as a delightful conundrum to muddle over, to pursue but never catch.
On top of all that, I'm not convinced that mankind has enough on the ball, generally speaking, as a species, to warrant me having faith in it, so perhaps there's comfort in believing there might be something else out there protecting us from ourselves.
My spirituality lacks a name, is of my own concoction, is intended to apply only to me, and is subject to change without notice whenever a better idea occurs to me. This may sound terribly convenient, but really it's more work than it's probably worth. Sometimes I wish I could bring myself to accept the tenets of one of the organized religions: not only would I have a pithy term for my faith, I wouldn't have to think about what I believed. I'd have recognized holidays. I could be tax-exempt. And best of all, others could hate me for the mere affiliation with the faith without knowing anything about me as an individual! How efficient is that? As it stands now, others need to become acquainted with me before they can hate me.
My spirituality is tolerant of the beliefs of others--it has to be: otherwise it would be hypocritical and then I'd have a problem with it--so long as their beliefs are genuine. Christians, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, Wiccans, atheists, (I suppose in theory even) Scientologists, Satan worshippers, and the rest: as long as their beliefs are profoundly held--not just some crutch when times are bad, not just going along with what's popular, not paying lip service to what they were spoon-fed as children--and as long as they aren't sacrificing animals I know personally, I say live and let live.
By no means do I think my belief system--inasmuch as it's a "system"--is the best and that everyone should believe as I do. Frankly, nothing frightens me more than the thought of that happening. My spirituality may not be much, but it's mine. I'm not looking for converts. Go make up your own.
If you're wondering what would prompt me to compose this and send it to a bunch of people, where I lack any specific knowledge of the religious inclinations of many of them, rife with the potential to offend (touching on the taboo topic of religion as it does, somewhat), I could claim that my spirituality grants me the strength to spread these words without fear. I could tell you that I have faith in my audience and trust them implicitly. However, when we get right down to it, there's only one logical explanation.
The Devil made me do it.
"They told us of a Second Coming / so we look to the sky
It's not a savior that we want / just somebody else to crucify"
- from "Waiting" by New Model Army, 1981
(For those who didn't know, the Rolling Stones song is "Sympathy For the Devil." You really should have known that, however.)
-------
Since I'll be in Vancouver next week on the Summer Solstice (next Friday, the 21st), allow me to send appropriate greetings about that now (just in case I don't get out another general message between now and then). It's the most daylight we'll get in the northern hemisphere this year, folks: enjoy it. Or don't. It's your life. (I don't celebrate it, per se: still, something drives me to acknowledge it, but let's not get into that now.)
Doug
-------
This message was sent to and probably ignored by approximately 150 recipients, from as far away as Australia and Great Britain, and as close as three blocks from Doug's apartment in southern California, including relatives, co-workers, and even people he has never met in person. Thanks to the wonder of BCC, none of them would ever realize that if he didn't point it out here.
While recipients are under no obligation to reply, and while Doug is perfectly comfortable with not receiving responses--it won't dissuade him from writing more in the future--he certainly enjoys hearing from his victims--err, audience. Especially those whom he hasn't spoken to in a while, even if it's a very brief note proving nothing more that the recipient is still breathing; recipients who have kicked the oxygen habit are not expected to reply. All responses will be kept confidential, unless they're really funny. Doug does keep copies of all of these essay/rant/rambling messages, in case you're wondering. He has no website at this time, mostly because he's too lazy and unmotivated.
If anyone receiving this message wishes Doug would just leave him/her the hell alone, he/she should make that known, either by writing back and requesting it or by summoning demons and sicking them on the writer.
Yes, Doug considers approximately 1,150 words "brief."
not really copyright 2002, because, let's face it: who would want to steal this?
Wednesday, March 20, 2002
it's that time again
[email sent 20 March 2002]
Hello readers,
Happy Vernal Equinox (or Happy Autumnal Equinox to my relatives in Australia)! I hope this message finds you well and not down a well (unless that's where you enjoy being).
As you may recall, I last sent out a general message on the Winter Solstice. And now I send out one on the first day of spring (from my quick research on the 'net, I believe it officially occurs at 11:19 a.m., Pacific Standard Time), which undoubtedly leads some of you to believe I'm on some quarterly schedule for these messages. However, longtime readers (technically, I've been sending out these ramblings for a few years now--I know, I can't believe it either) know that I'm also motivated to compose when I need to vent about something. (This past weekend, in fact, I saw a former dragonboating buddy, and he said something about how he couldn't wait for something to annoy me so he'd get another e-mail diatribe from me.) Now, I wish to get one thing clear: This cat Shaft is a bad mutha--[shut yo' mouth!] But I'm clarifying about Shaft. [Then we can dig it.] Also, there are other events besides the passing of the seasons and something pissing me off that inspire me. (Believe me: if annoyance and frustration were all it took, with much of what's been going on at work lately, you all would be receiving messages from me almost daily.)
Just to thwart the expectations you may have developed since before the last paragraph, I'm not going to prattle on about the scientific ramifications of the sun crossing the ecliptic, or about the Wiccan Sabbat of Ostara (Eostre) that occurs on (or at least around) the equinox, or the concept of rebirth inherent in the pagan and Christian celebrations that happen around this time, for three main reasons:
- I am neither Wiccan, other pagan, or Christian, and anything I said about that topic would be summarizing what information I gleaned from checking out webpages on the topic, not from my own knowledge or experience, and heck, if you're really that interested you could do a search as easily as I could. (Must I do everything for you?) If you don't understand why bunnies are so prevalent now, I urge you to look into it.
- I don't feel the need to pretend to seem smart. Either you like me already or you don't.
- Nobody reads anything longer than about a paragraph or two. I was recently informed of that, and so I figure, why bother?
I will note that I remember from the astronomy class I took my freshman year of college, all those many years ago, that "equinox" is Latin for "equal night". If that impressed you in the slightest, you are obviously not considering that for as much as I spent putting myself through university, I really should remember a lot more, otherwise that tidbit was extraordinarily costly. Especially in light of the fact that I walked into a book store the other day, flipped through a book on Presidential facts that was in the discount section that I did not purchase (on which I spent no money) and can now tell you the following I do remember: if you thought the first names of Presidents Coolidge and Eisenhower were, respectively, Calvin and Dwight, you would be completely wrong. (Both adopted their middle names; their actual first names: John and David.) From something I saw on the History Channel, I could tell you that the name for the popular font Trebuchet comes from a catapult device from the Middle Ages. I could also tell you that the Ramones had two separate songs whose titles began with "Now I Wanna"--"Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue", from their first album in 1976, and "Now I Wanna Be A Good Boy" from their second album in 1977. And for none of this did college play any part.
Yes, I could go off on what a tragedy it is that a song by those punk pioneers was used in a Nissan commercial--the one where the SUV is cutting through the hedges in the middle of a steeple chase--but we're well past the second paragraph now. Besides, anyone who hasn't figured out that those who formerly considered themselves part of the "counter-culture" are now a target demographic for advertisers need not hear it from me. Far be it for me to burst anyone's bubble. Really. Happiness is nothing more than a matter of proper maintenance of your delusions.
And what has this to do with anything? Nothing whatsoever. However, if you choose to believe it does, then it does. See how easy that was?
The other thing that some people have apparently determined about my messages is I usually have some self-deprecating twist at the end, but predictability is the death of art, and I don't particularly have some twist in mind, so you will have to be appeased by...
Talk to you in July!
doug
p.s. Swahili gumbo plaza nook vehement slithy tothes. (You're not reading this far anyway.)
Hello readers,
Happy Vernal Equinox (or Happy Autumnal Equinox to my relatives in Australia)! I hope this message finds you well and not down a well (unless that's where you enjoy being).
As you may recall, I last sent out a general message on the Winter Solstice. And now I send out one on the first day of spring (from my quick research on the 'net, I believe it officially occurs at 11:19 a.m., Pacific Standard Time), which undoubtedly leads some of you to believe I'm on some quarterly schedule for these messages. However, longtime readers (technically, I've been sending out these ramblings for a few years now--I know, I can't believe it either) know that I'm also motivated to compose when I need to vent about something. (This past weekend, in fact, I saw a former dragonboating buddy, and he said something about how he couldn't wait for something to annoy me so he'd get another e-mail diatribe from me.) Now, I wish to get one thing clear: This cat Shaft is a bad mutha--[shut yo' mouth!] But I'm clarifying about Shaft. [Then we can dig it.] Also, there are other events besides the passing of the seasons and something pissing me off that inspire me. (Believe me: if annoyance and frustration were all it took, with much of what's been going on at work lately, you all would be receiving messages from me almost daily.)
Just to thwart the expectations you may have developed since before the last paragraph, I'm not going to prattle on about the scientific ramifications of the sun crossing the ecliptic, or about the Wiccan Sabbat of Ostara (Eostre) that occurs on (or at least around) the equinox, or the concept of rebirth inherent in the pagan and Christian celebrations that happen around this time, for three main reasons:
- I am neither Wiccan, other pagan, or Christian, and anything I said about that topic would be summarizing what information I gleaned from checking out webpages on the topic, not from my own knowledge or experience, and heck, if you're really that interested you could do a search as easily as I could. (Must I do everything for you?) If you don't understand why bunnies are so prevalent now, I urge you to look into it.
- I don't feel the need to pretend to seem smart. Either you like me already or you don't.
- Nobody reads anything longer than about a paragraph or two. I was recently informed of that, and so I figure, why bother?
I will note that I remember from the astronomy class I took my freshman year of college, all those many years ago, that "equinox" is Latin for "equal night". If that impressed you in the slightest, you are obviously not considering that for as much as I spent putting myself through university, I really should remember a lot more, otherwise that tidbit was extraordinarily costly. Especially in light of the fact that I walked into a book store the other day, flipped through a book on Presidential facts that was in the discount section that I did not purchase (on which I spent no money) and can now tell you the following I do remember: if you thought the first names of Presidents Coolidge and Eisenhower were, respectively, Calvin and Dwight, you would be completely wrong. (Both adopted their middle names; their actual first names: John and David.) From something I saw on the History Channel, I could tell you that the name for the popular font Trebuchet comes from a catapult device from the Middle Ages. I could also tell you that the Ramones had two separate songs whose titles began with "Now I Wanna"--"Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue", from their first album in 1976, and "Now I Wanna Be A Good Boy" from their second album in 1977. And for none of this did college play any part.
Yes, I could go off on what a tragedy it is that a song by those punk pioneers was used in a Nissan commercial--the one where the SUV is cutting through the hedges in the middle of a steeple chase--but we're well past the second paragraph now. Besides, anyone who hasn't figured out that those who formerly considered themselves part of the "counter-culture" are now a target demographic for advertisers need not hear it from me. Far be it for me to burst anyone's bubble. Really. Happiness is nothing more than a matter of proper maintenance of your delusions.
And what has this to do with anything? Nothing whatsoever. However, if you choose to believe it does, then it does. See how easy that was?
The other thing that some people have apparently determined about my messages is I usually have some self-deprecating twist at the end, but predictability is the death of art, and I don't particularly have some twist in mind, so you will have to be appeased by...
Talk to you in July!
doug
p.s. Swahili gumbo plaza nook vehement slithy tothes. (You're not reading this far anyway.)
Friday, December 21, 2001
deconstructing this time of year: the winter solstice
[email composed 21 December 2001]
Greetings everyone,
Please pardon the interruption. I'm sending this to everyone in my address book, which includes friends I see regularly, friends I don't see so regularly anymore, friends I'm related to, friends with whom I work or used to work, friends with whom I dragon boat (or used to), friends I've met through our mutual admiration of the Old 97's (although you may be used to a different e-mail address), or anybody else that is for some reason in there.
By now you've probably had one of three reactions:
- Hey, a message from Doug!
- Oh, not another message from Doug!
- Doug? I don't know a Doug.
And if it was second or third one, you've probably stopped reading and deleted the message. I understand.
Okay, I'm only addressing the people who are still reading now. Thanks for sticking with us. On to the real message...
It's the Winter Solstice (in the Northern Hemisphere). Well, technically, today's when the Winter Solstice occurs (at 11:21 am, Pacific Standard Time, if you wish to catch the exact moment). This is it: the shortest amount of daylight all year; starting tomorrow we see a little bit more sun each day until June 21. A number of religions and cultures of the world (those that started in this hemisphere at least) seem to think that this return of the light is cause for celebration, and thus, this time of year is (in these politically correct days) identified as "the holidays."
Lacking any specific religious allegiance, and being a white guy (therefore not having much in the way of worthwhile culture), I can't claim to really have a "holiday" but here in the U.S. that's not a problem: we all celebrate Christmas whether we believe Jesus was the son of God or not; we all have the day off work, we may as well get together. I applaud this opportunity to gather with loved ones. However (those of you who know me saw this coming), there is part of me that cannot help but feel a little guilty co-opting the observation of the birthday of the Christian savior without holding avowed devotion to said savior. That's why I'm spotlighting the astronomical event of the Winter Solstice and not dwelling on any particular ritual that springs from it: I certainly don't wish to tread on anyone's beliefs (or lack thereof, for my atheist readers).
No, I'm not going to bore you with details about the solstice itself. If you wish to find out more, there's a number of worthwhile sites on the web that can fill you in (I reviewed www.candlegrove.com to verify the exact timing of the solstice, but feel free to do your own search). I want to seem clever but not out-and-out dorky. (I realize I come across out-and-out dorky, of course, but that's not my specific aim.)
By now you've probably had a number of people give you some holiday-related greeting, in person, in greeting cards, on TV shows, in magazine ads, on billboards, and in e-mails--both people you know and strangers--and of course, from every clerk in every store where you've shopped to purchase those gifts that are the truly integral element of acknowledging that we're happy about the more-daylight thing. I have. This started me thinking (although, to be fair, just about anything will do that): Do these greetings influence reality? Does wishing someone a "happy holiday" actually cause that person to, in fact, have a happy holiday? And does that clerk really care whether we have a happy holiday or not? Should he/she?
It seems to me that it's entirely possible that these ostensibly altruistic messages uttered at the end of transactions, to strangers on the street, and so on, may not have genuine intent behind them: they are social intercourse, they are what one is expected to say, lest one be viewed as a Scrooge, a Grinch (before the Jim Carrey movie). But if we don't really mean it, what good is it doing? If the wish is to have any positive effect on the recipient, it seems to me, that it must be heart-felt, and call me overly cynical but I cannot believe that the clerk can mean it to every customer he sees for the entire month of December. Is a hollow greeting really any better than none at all?
Sure. It keeps people off your back. And promotes spending.
I'm not suggesting that the clerk secretly wishes ill upon the customer, that the actual desire is for the person to have a rotten holiday. Unless the customer was really rude, of course. Nobody wants that jerk to be happy. Admit or not, but you know what I'm talking about.
I don't wish bad on anyone--unless they cut me off in traffic or something, and only then when I'm in a bad mood, and even then I don't really mean it. But to be perfectly honest, I don't think everyone is destined to be happy during this period--at any given point in time, some people are happy, some people are unhappy, and the rest are somewhere in between; where someone falls on that spectrum is largely a factor of their own choosing, I think. (Yes, I'm using "their" instead of "his or her": deal with it.)
There's only so much for which I can be responsible. I don't mean to sound selfish, but, well, come on.
By this point, most of you are probably thinking I'm completely incapable of experiencing innocent joy. That's not the point. Don't try to distract me now. I may or may not. What I don't necessarily like is the way there's an insincerity to some of what transpires between people masquerading as good will that is taken at face value because we're all too afraid to puncture the fragile spirit of the season. But hey, I get over it. Besides, it's a free country: if you have "the holiday spirit," that's fabulous. I certainly hope that it would be sufficient to allow you to ignore the insipid ramblings of some idiot you find in your e-mail.
The only reason I'm sending this to you is I think you have some redeeming quality that justifies investing the hope that you choose to make yourself happy. I certainly think you should try to be happy during this period if for no other reason than the sun's coming back, but more important, I think you should try to be happy even after "the holidays" are over. There's a new year coming (thanks to Pope Gregory 417 years ago), and while I won't pretend to care about the happiness of every single person on the planet--that's just spreading myself too thin, I'm sorry; surely that task can be dispersed among the rest of the people, with each covering his or her (yeah, I'm back to that) territory of sorts--I shall pretend to care about the happiness of each of you then.
As long as you reply to this message, that is.
I don't care if you say anything, but I would appreciate everyone who wishes to remain in my address book to acknowledge that they've read this far. Even if you're not inclined to comment, just send me back a blank message. Really. I'm serious. And I'm not as desperate for e-mail as this plea would make me out to be (almost, but not quite). Apologies to those who received this in multiple addresses. Thanks.
The deity of your choice--or lack thereof--bless us, one and all, my friends. Or not, if you're not into that sort of thing...
doug
p.s. I reserve the right to continue to care about you choosing to be happy even if you fail to reply to this message, just for the record. You're just a lot less likely to receive more messages from me--and many of them will be more entertaining than this one was--in 2002. Perhaps you'd prefer that, now that I consider it further...
Greetings everyone,
Please pardon the interruption. I'm sending this to everyone in my address book, which includes friends I see regularly, friends I don't see so regularly anymore, friends I'm related to, friends with whom I work or used to work, friends with whom I dragon boat (or used to), friends I've met through our mutual admiration of the Old 97's (although you may be used to a different e-mail address), or anybody else that is for some reason in there.
By now you've probably had one of three reactions:
- Hey, a message from Doug!
- Oh, not another message from Doug!
- Doug? I don't know a Doug.
And if it was second or third one, you've probably stopped reading and deleted the message. I understand.
Okay, I'm only addressing the people who are still reading now. Thanks for sticking with us. On to the real message...
It's the Winter Solstice (in the Northern Hemisphere). Well, technically, today's when the Winter Solstice occurs (at 11:21 am, Pacific Standard Time, if you wish to catch the exact moment). This is it: the shortest amount of daylight all year; starting tomorrow we see a little bit more sun each day until June 21. A number of religions and cultures of the world (those that started in this hemisphere at least) seem to think that this return of the light is cause for celebration, and thus, this time of year is (in these politically correct days) identified as "the holidays."
Lacking any specific religious allegiance, and being a white guy (therefore not having much in the way of worthwhile culture), I can't claim to really have a "holiday" but here in the U.S. that's not a problem: we all celebrate Christmas whether we believe Jesus was the son of God or not; we all have the day off work, we may as well get together. I applaud this opportunity to gather with loved ones. However (those of you who know me saw this coming), there is part of me that cannot help but feel a little guilty co-opting the observation of the birthday of the Christian savior without holding avowed devotion to said savior. That's why I'm spotlighting the astronomical event of the Winter Solstice and not dwelling on any particular ritual that springs from it: I certainly don't wish to tread on anyone's beliefs (or lack thereof, for my atheist readers).
No, I'm not going to bore you with details about the solstice itself. If you wish to find out more, there's a number of worthwhile sites on the web that can fill you in (I reviewed www.candlegrove.com to verify the exact timing of the solstice, but feel free to do your own search). I want to seem clever but not out-and-out dorky. (I realize I come across out-and-out dorky, of course, but that's not my specific aim.)
By now you've probably had a number of people give you some holiday-related greeting, in person, in greeting cards, on TV shows, in magazine ads, on billboards, and in e-mails--both people you know and strangers--and of course, from every clerk in every store where you've shopped to purchase those gifts that are the truly integral element of acknowledging that we're happy about the more-daylight thing. I have. This started me thinking (although, to be fair, just about anything will do that): Do these greetings influence reality? Does wishing someone a "happy holiday" actually cause that person to, in fact, have a happy holiday? And does that clerk really care whether we have a happy holiday or not? Should he/she?
It seems to me that it's entirely possible that these ostensibly altruistic messages uttered at the end of transactions, to strangers on the street, and so on, may not have genuine intent behind them: they are social intercourse, they are what one is expected to say, lest one be viewed as a Scrooge, a Grinch (before the Jim Carrey movie). But if we don't really mean it, what good is it doing? If the wish is to have any positive effect on the recipient, it seems to me, that it must be heart-felt, and call me overly cynical but I cannot believe that the clerk can mean it to every customer he sees for the entire month of December. Is a hollow greeting really any better than none at all?
Sure. It keeps people off your back. And promotes spending.
I'm not suggesting that the clerk secretly wishes ill upon the customer, that the actual desire is for the person to have a rotten holiday. Unless the customer was really rude, of course. Nobody wants that jerk to be happy. Admit or not, but you know what I'm talking about.
I don't wish bad on anyone--unless they cut me off in traffic or something, and only then when I'm in a bad mood, and even then I don't really mean it. But to be perfectly honest, I don't think everyone is destined to be happy during this period--at any given point in time, some people are happy, some people are unhappy, and the rest are somewhere in between; where someone falls on that spectrum is largely a factor of their own choosing, I think. (Yes, I'm using "their" instead of "his or her": deal with it.)
There's only so much for which I can be responsible. I don't mean to sound selfish, but, well, come on.
By this point, most of you are probably thinking I'm completely incapable of experiencing innocent joy. That's not the point. Don't try to distract me now. I may or may not. What I don't necessarily like is the way there's an insincerity to some of what transpires between people masquerading as good will that is taken at face value because we're all too afraid to puncture the fragile spirit of the season. But hey, I get over it. Besides, it's a free country: if you have "the holiday spirit," that's fabulous. I certainly hope that it would be sufficient to allow you to ignore the insipid ramblings of some idiot you find in your e-mail.
The only reason I'm sending this to you is I think you have some redeeming quality that justifies investing the hope that you choose to make yourself happy. I certainly think you should try to be happy during this period if for no other reason than the sun's coming back, but more important, I think you should try to be happy even after "the holidays" are over. There's a new year coming (thanks to Pope Gregory 417 years ago), and while I won't pretend to care about the happiness of every single person on the planet--that's just spreading myself too thin, I'm sorry; surely that task can be dispersed among the rest of the people, with each covering his or her (yeah, I'm back to that) territory of sorts--I shall pretend to care about the happiness of each of you then.
As long as you reply to this message, that is.
I don't care if you say anything, but I would appreciate everyone who wishes to remain in my address book to acknowledge that they've read this far. Even if you're not inclined to comment, just send me back a blank message. Really. I'm serious. And I'm not as desperate for e-mail as this plea would make me out to be (almost, but not quite). Apologies to those who received this in multiple addresses. Thanks.
The deity of your choice--or lack thereof--bless us, one and all, my friends. Or not, if you're not into that sort of thing...
doug
p.s. I reserve the right to continue to care about you choosing to be happy even if you fail to reply to this message, just for the record. You're just a lot less likely to receive more messages from me--and many of them will be more entertaining than this one was--in 2002. Perhaps you'd prefer that, now that I consider it further...
Saturday, December 01, 2001
rant du jour: beware of darkness
[email composed 1 December 2001]
On the walk from the downtown office to the train, the first street I cross is actually a ramp leading from Hope St. down to Figueroa. While there is no traffic signal at this ramp, there is a crosswalk running across it. In over two years of making this trek I have seen many vehicles turn right from Hope onto the ramp without looking to see if there are pedestrians trying to cross; I expect them to not see me when walking. Along the street leading this corner are trees and parked cars, so admittedly it is difficult for drivers to spot individuals on the sidewalk much before they are almost at the curve. The corner could be better lit at night, but is not that dark.
I approach the crosswalk from a side exit of the building, hitting the crosswalk second line at a slight angle. After I've already stepped on the asphalt, I notice a car--one of the new BMW's, silver--on Hope St. clearly slowing for the turn. I continue, knowing that since I'm on the far side of the crosswalk from the car, and by the time it makes the turn I'll already be several steps out, well in the middle and clearly in view. I have dealt with this more times than I can remember; I know how to gage the situation (I have no desire to be struck even if I technically had the right-of-way). As absolutely no surprise to me, the car doesn't slow after beginning the turn, so I jog the last two steps to get out of its way, not the least bit panicked; I know I'll be clear either way, but I prefer to show I'm making an effort to get along with dalliance. As I'm doing this, the car's break squeal for a split second as the driver slows--not stops, but slows--suddenly. By this point I'm already out of the car's path, so even without this tiny skid there was no danger of it hitting me. I hop on to the curb at the other side of the ramp and continue walking. After I'm several steps further, from behind me I hear, "Kind of hard to see you, dude." I turn to see the BMW has stopped, and the driver--a Caucasian male ostensibly in his late 30s--has rolled down his window to give me this message.
I have many times in my travels witnessed cars turn right in front of me as I was about to cross this ramp and wished I could point out their dangerous ignorance to them. However, at this moment no clever retort springs immediately to mind. Sizing up the scenario very quickly, I conclude that the driver would be unreceptive to an explication of what transpired, and I have a train to catch, so I simply shake my head with slight exasperation for a second, then turn and continue walking. I may have considered walking back to point out that I was never in any danger, and that I was in the crosswalk well before he made the turn, and, in spite of the darkness, it was only because he clearly wasn't paying attention that when he did finally notice me he felt compelled to kind of brake hard, were it not for one overriding element to the whole moment.
He called me "dude".
Frankly, had he simply proceeded on his way down the ramp without saying anything--like every other car has--I would have dismissed him as just another downtown driver in a car that just screams, I'm a pretentious weenie with money--like I do with every other car. Since he knows on some unconscious level that he did not look before turning and panicked slightly when there was a pedestrian in the road (not one that he was about to hit, of course), he tries to mitigate his own feeling of guilt by dragging me into his little web with this "helpful" observation of his. He is the epitome of upscale American evil; I recognize this instinctively, and know that further interaction would be a waste of time--no one on foot could possibly convince him of anything (that he would ever admit).
And as I said, he used the term "dude". Apparently his vocabulary never progressed past junior high. This has not impeded his ability to scale the corporate ladder, of course.
I'm not envious in the slightest. You couldn't give me a BMW. I'm sure they're fine cars and all, and I know some of you like them, but it's just that I've never seen someone driving one who didn't drive it with this disdainful arrogance for the rest of us, an arrogance that they mistakenly believe financial success affords them. They may as well all come with license plates that just read ASSHOLE.
This driver, the representative of them in so many way, veils his arrogance with this veneer of concern, still ignorant of the fact I was the only one in any level of control of the situation between us, and I see through him like cheap curtains. He is a lost cause, and no matter what ever happens for the rest of my life, I shall sleep well knowing I'm not one of them, not him.
The pithy comeback that comes to me about 5 minutes later is this: "I'm pretty easy to spot if you pay attention." I'm sure next time, should one occur, my mind will be similarly dim witted. But I remain hopeful for myself nonetheless.
These are moments that move me closer to being convinced we need to step back and allow some other species on the planet to become the dominant one before it's absolutely too late. It won't be hard to find one that is more observant than us, and even amoeba are smart enough not to drive BMWs.
Watch out for yourselves, kids. There's not that many worthwhile souls around, and we can't afford to lose you. Especially to BMW drivers.
~~~~~~~
"So glad you came here, won't be the same now, I'm telling you"
- "Old Brown Shoe", The Beatles (George Harrison), 1969
On the walk from the downtown office to the train, the first street I cross is actually a ramp leading from Hope St. down to Figueroa. While there is no traffic signal at this ramp, there is a crosswalk running across it. In over two years of making this trek I have seen many vehicles turn right from Hope onto the ramp without looking to see if there are pedestrians trying to cross; I expect them to not see me when walking. Along the street leading this corner are trees and parked cars, so admittedly it is difficult for drivers to spot individuals on the sidewalk much before they are almost at the curve. The corner could be better lit at night, but is not that dark.
I approach the crosswalk from a side exit of the building, hitting the crosswalk second line at a slight angle. After I've already stepped on the asphalt, I notice a car--one of the new BMW's, silver--on Hope St. clearly slowing for the turn. I continue, knowing that since I'm on the far side of the crosswalk from the car, and by the time it makes the turn I'll already be several steps out, well in the middle and clearly in view. I have dealt with this more times than I can remember; I know how to gage the situation (I have no desire to be struck even if I technically had the right-of-way). As absolutely no surprise to me, the car doesn't slow after beginning the turn, so I jog the last two steps to get out of its way, not the least bit panicked; I know I'll be clear either way, but I prefer to show I'm making an effort to get along with dalliance. As I'm doing this, the car's break squeal for a split second as the driver slows--not stops, but slows--suddenly. By this point I'm already out of the car's path, so even without this tiny skid there was no danger of it hitting me. I hop on to the curb at the other side of the ramp and continue walking. After I'm several steps further, from behind me I hear, "Kind of hard to see you, dude." I turn to see the BMW has stopped, and the driver--a Caucasian male ostensibly in his late 30s--has rolled down his window to give me this message.
I have many times in my travels witnessed cars turn right in front of me as I was about to cross this ramp and wished I could point out their dangerous ignorance to them. However, at this moment no clever retort springs immediately to mind. Sizing up the scenario very quickly, I conclude that the driver would be unreceptive to an explication of what transpired, and I have a train to catch, so I simply shake my head with slight exasperation for a second, then turn and continue walking. I may have considered walking back to point out that I was never in any danger, and that I was in the crosswalk well before he made the turn, and, in spite of the darkness, it was only because he clearly wasn't paying attention that when he did finally notice me he felt compelled to kind of brake hard, were it not for one overriding element to the whole moment.
He called me "dude".
Frankly, had he simply proceeded on his way down the ramp without saying anything--like every other car has--I would have dismissed him as just another downtown driver in a car that just screams, I'm a pretentious weenie with money--like I do with every other car. Since he knows on some unconscious level that he did not look before turning and panicked slightly when there was a pedestrian in the road (not one that he was about to hit, of course), he tries to mitigate his own feeling of guilt by dragging me into his little web with this "helpful" observation of his. He is the epitome of upscale American evil; I recognize this instinctively, and know that further interaction would be a waste of time--no one on foot could possibly convince him of anything (that he would ever admit).
And as I said, he used the term "dude". Apparently his vocabulary never progressed past junior high. This has not impeded his ability to scale the corporate ladder, of course.
I'm not envious in the slightest. You couldn't give me a BMW. I'm sure they're fine cars and all, and I know some of you like them, but it's just that I've never seen someone driving one who didn't drive it with this disdainful arrogance for the rest of us, an arrogance that they mistakenly believe financial success affords them. They may as well all come with license plates that just read ASSHOLE.
This driver, the representative of them in so many way, veils his arrogance with this veneer of concern, still ignorant of the fact I was the only one in any level of control of the situation between us, and I see through him like cheap curtains. He is a lost cause, and no matter what ever happens for the rest of my life, I shall sleep well knowing I'm not one of them, not him.
The pithy comeback that comes to me about 5 minutes later is this: "I'm pretty easy to spot if you pay attention." I'm sure next time, should one occur, my mind will be similarly dim witted. But I remain hopeful for myself nonetheless.
These are moments that move me closer to being convinced we need to step back and allow some other species on the planet to become the dominant one before it's absolutely too late. It won't be hard to find one that is more observant than us, and even amoeba are smart enough not to drive BMWs.
Watch out for yourselves, kids. There's not that many worthwhile souls around, and we can't afford to lose you. Especially to BMW drivers.
~~~~~~~
"So glad you came here, won't be the same now, I'm telling you"
- "Old Brown Shoe", The Beatles (George Harrison), 1969
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