HinesSight

Air America hangs up on Lars Larson

What a moment it was, 6:55 pm today, when I heard arch-conservative talk show host Lars Larson call in to Randi Rhodes’ arch-liberal Air America radio program. Lars and Randi are two of the most irritating people on radio, proving that pomposity, big egos, impoliteness, and ill-informed opinions can be found equally on both the left and right sides of the dial.

Lars phoned to tease Randi about being “punked” by her guest the preceding hour, Patti Smith (the singer). I didn’t hear all of the interview, but got in on the end of it. They were talking about Ralph Nader, who Patti said was a friend of hers. Patti was miffed that Randi said, “Ralph Nader doesn’t care about anything except himself.” (All quotes just my best recollections, of course).

Patti didn’t want to talk more about Nader, but Randi kept pressing her about why he hadn’t formed a political party during the past four years, if he was so concerned about changing America. Patti kept defending Nader in a calm and collected fashion, while Randi did her usual high-pitched, sarcastic, talk-over-anyone-who-doesn’t-agree-with-you thing.

Then a “thunk” was heard, and Randi said, “Oh, Patti is pissed at me. She just threw down her headphones.”

Soon Patti came back on the radio and spoke about how emotional Randi was about Nader, and how much that bothered her when she expected to be treated better as a guest. Randi then proceeded to rant and rave about how she wasn’t being emotional at all, that she was just expressing her rational, factual opinion, and that Patti was the emotional one because she was Nader’s friend.

That led to another “thunk,” which apparently was the studio door slamming as Patti left in a huff. Can’t blame her. After listening to Randi Rhodes, an ardent Kerry supporter, I almost felt like voting for Nader myself.

Just before the 7:00 pm break Lars Larson made his call. I can’t imagine why Air America put him on the air, because Randi Rhodes didn’t come off very well in the interchange. Lars’ opening words were, “I just wanted to call in about Patti Smith punking you on the air.” (“Punk’d” is a MTV show that sets up celebrities in embarrassing situations and then films them as they react).

He added, “And why do you have such a thing about my gun?” (Larson is a notorious concealed weapon carrier and must have had a previous run-in with Randi about this). Randi said, “As a girl I like men to have their gun in front, not in back.” Larson replied, “I’ve got a gun in both places.” Sweet! I wanted this catty interchange to go on forever. Sadly, Randi started talking over Lars, just as Lars does so often with those who call in to his show, and soon she hung up on him.

With the airwaves all to her own massive ego, she ended the hour with a pathetic, self-absorbed monologue directed at the person she didn’t have the guts to talk to directly: “Lars, I’m beating you in your time slot in Portland. You’re toast. You’re history. Conservative talk radio is dead. It’s a dinosaur. It’s over, Lars, admit it.” And so on. And so on. Until, blessedly, the hourly news.

At that moment I said to myself, “A pox on both your houses.” Randi Rhodes and Lars Larson, along with Michael Savage, represent the worst in American talk radio: divisive, shrill, uninformed. I listen to Randi a lot more than Lars, because I generally agree with Air America’s liberal positions. But when I heard Randi rail on one day about how there was more torture in the Abu Ghraib prison than in Saddam Hussein’s regime, I was convinced that this woman was as half-blind with her left eye as Larson and Savage are with their right eyes.

Laurel and I have been getting to the point where we can barely stand to listen to Randi Rhodes. After I heard her trash and insult Patti Smith this evening, I’m over that point—at least until, as a good liberal, I decide to give Randi another chance. At the least, I’m going to write Air America and plead that she be given another time slot, like 2:00 am to 5:00 am.

If I were an undecided voter and tuned in to Air America to learn more about how a Kerry supporter sees the world, a few minutes with Randi Rhodes would make me want to turn to the right side of the dial. When you preach solely to the choir, you’re not going to be persuading new singers to join up. Especially not Patti Smith, that’s for sure.

Two blondes at one time

Last night my dream became reality. Two beautiful blondes were all over me on the sofa. Yes, prayers do come true.

The only problem is that I wasn’t specific enough in my plea to the cosmos to fulfill my fantasy. One of the blondes, who happens to be my wife, was absolutely perfect. The other blonde, however, left a lot to be desired.

Not that Serena isn’t also perfect in her own right. But certain sorts of intimacy flow much better when everyone involved is a member of the same species. Nonetheless, Laurel and I had just watched a PBS special on puppies that emphasized how close is the bond between people and dogs.

We learned that dogs are the most social of all animals, and are highly adept at adjusting to life in a human “pack.” Dogs like to be a part of whatever is going on with their human companions, a fact I can confidently testify to after forgetting to put Serena out at the appropriate moment.

That moment wasn’t the moment I felt a leg on my chest and a large nose (not Laurel’s) burying itself in the side of my neck. There is a time when it would be great to be pawed by a blonde who just doesn’t want to leave you alone. The paw, though, shouldn’t have claws. And it should be the right time.

Note to self: remember to put the dog out. You’ll know when.

“If America were Iraq, What would it be Like?”

This is a great question, ably answered by Juan Cole in a posting with the same name on his web site, Informed Comment: Thoughts on the Middle East, History, and Religion. Cole is a history professor at the University of Michigan.

Noting that the population of the United States is over eleven times that of Iraq, he starts his essay by multiplying statistics from Iraq by that number.

“Thus violence killed 300 Iraqis last week, the equivalent proportionately of 3,300 Americans. What if 3,300 Americans had died in car bombings, grenade and mortar attacks, machine gun spray, and aerial bombardment in the last week. That is a number greater than the deaths on September 11, and if America were Iraq, it would be an ongoing, weekly, or monthly toll.”

He continues in this vein, bringing home the madness of simplistically characterizing the Iraqi resistance as “evildoers” or “bad guys.” I liked this observation:

“What if entire platoons of the Christian Soldiers militia holed up in Arlington National Cemetery, and were bombarded by US Air Force warplanes daily, destroying thousands of graves and even pulverizing the Vietnam Memorial over on the Mall? What if the National Council of Churches had to call for a popular march of thousands of believers to converge on the National Cathedral to stop the US Army from demolishing it to get at a rogue band of the Timothy McVeigh Memorial Brigades?”

I also want to recommend a wonderfully written essay by James Poniewozik, “The Age of iPod Politics,” that appeared in TIME magazine recently. Here’s his thesis: “Through niche media, niche foods and niche hobbies, we fashion niche lives. We are the America of the iPod ads—stark, black silhouettes tethered by our brilliant white earbuds, rocking out passionately and alone. You make your choices, and I make mine. Yours, of course, are wrong. But what do I care?”

He then goes on to say, “It’s not surprising that we would try to apply the same principles to politics and political news….I can go to my favorite political sites and follow the blogrolls, link after link, discovering how vast is the universe of people who realize that I am entirely right about everything.”

After reading this essay I’ve been trying more often to grit my teeth and stab my finger at the car radio preset button that brings on whatever arch-conservative ideologue KXL is broadcasting at the moment. I know that I likely won’t agree with Larson, Ingraham, Savage, or whoever, but at least I’ve broken out of my isolated personal iPod political world for a few minutes. Ditto with tuning into Fox News instead of CNN.

So many people applauded Barack Obama’s speech at the Democratic Convention where he said, “Yet even as we speak, there are those who are preparing to divide us, the spin masters and negative ad peddlers who embrace the politics of anything goes. Well, I say to them tonight, there’s not a liberal America and a conservative America—there’s the United States of America.”

Nice words. But where’s the reality? So long as most of us live in an iPod world, jiving solely to the political music unheard by half the population, how are we ever going to dance together harmoniously as one people?

We buy really expensive blackberries

Here’s a look at some of the blackberries that we just agreed to buy for more money than you'd believe, along with impressive quantities of poison oak. We couldn’t pass up an opportunity to purchase the five-acre lot next to us when Mary, the owner, offered to sell it. We had a nice visit with Mary and her sister this afternoon and worked out an amicable deal that was sealed with a handshake.

Crafty real estate wheeler-dealers that we are, naturally we had never walked over quite a bit of the property that we agreed to buy. And we only had a rough idea of where the lot lines are. Details, details.

As soon as Mary and her sister had left, and Laurel and I got over the initial “Oh my god what have we done??!!” tremors, we put on our trusty blackberry-tough boots and long-sleeved poison-oak protecting shirts and set out to survey what hopefully soon will be our five acre addition.

Here’s Laurel standing on what would have been the most likely homesite. Pretty flat and open, and a nice view if the gorgeous stand of fir trees in the background was cut down. Which it will never be so long as we own the property, for we’ll be leaving it natural.

There is much that is emotional about buying real estate. Maybe because it is so, well, real. You can do all the comparative sales analyzing you want, but eventually the decision to make that handshake or not comes down to gut feelings.

I love this part of Spring Creek that is just off our current lot, especially when the creek is running strongly in May and wildflowers are blooming. How do you put a price on something priceless?

You can, however, put a price on something that isn’t priceless. So we’ll be entertaining offers from blackberry and poison oak fanciers. You won’t find any healthier stock in the mid-Willamette Valley than we have right next door. So make plans to come on over and do some transplanting for an exceedingly fair price.

No reasonable offer refused. Who knows? We’re so eager to deal that we might even pay you to take our blackberries and poison oak away.

Bikers for Aristotle…Why Not?

I love those passing moments that stick in your mind. Hardly any moments do. Most moments are, by nature, momentary. But once in a while an instant in time seems to reflect a lasting truth, something to be grokked for its wisdom potential. For example…

Last night, sitting around after my martial arts class, I hear someone say the word “curry” while I’m putting my sandals on. Instantly I have an uncontrollable urge for Indian food. Conveniently, there is an Indian restaurant just a few doors down from the Pacific Martial Arts dojo.

I order a couple of dishes plus some chapattis and am told, “It’ll be ready in 10 to 15 minutes.” Great. A warm night. Fifteen minutes. The Book Bin on the next block. My destiny is clear. A fall moon draws me across the street to my addiction.

And to my grokking moment. After glancing at the new book display, I head to the Philosophy section in the used books area. There I find that I have some company in my shelves of interest. At the end of the section a tough-looking thirty-something guy is looking up at some titles.

My mind instantly categorizes him: “biker dude.” Sleeveless T-shirt. Ponytail. Scruffy beard. Boots. Black jeans. Thick studded belt with a wallet chain attached. (At least, this is my recollection from a quick look; Biker Dude, if you’re a weblog reader and come across this, forgive me for any descriptive errors.)

I’m thinking, “Funny that the Book Bin would put the Harley-Davidson maintenance manuals over here with such serious books.” I stroll by behind the guy on my way to Metaphysics and steal a glance at what he’s been so intently perusing on the top shelf.

I catch him pulling down a book from the Aristotle section.

I walk around the corner and feel like I should turn myself in to the Thought Police. “Guilty as charged. Stereotyping. Biblio-profiling. Whatever you want to call it, I just did it. Take me away to Liberal Reform School.”

I briefly toyed with the idea of asking permission from the guy to take a photo of him holding the Aristotle book—that’d be solid evidence against me at the trial—but a cautionary voice inside my head said, “Hey, maybe he is both a fan of Aristotle and a tough biker dude with no sense of humor.” I continued on to consider some Taoism tomes and, later, why the image of this guy reaching out for the Aristotle book wouldn’t leave me.

Moments like this one feel like Reality is giving me a good, well-deserved shake, along with a scream in the ear: “You don’t know shit about what really is going on, Brian! But don’t feel bad. Hardly anybody else does either.” Thanks for the wakeup call, Reality. Unfortunately I’m prone to go right back to sleep after each of your “You don’t know shit!” reminders.

One guy. One glance. One misconception. No big deal. Just a mistaken moment.

Except…how many moments are there in the day? How many opportunities for what is to be obscured by my erroneous preconceptions of what I think is? Countless. Pretty depressing. Worst of all, I don’t even know the difference between the two most of the time. I don’t have the will or the way to walk behind what I think is and get a close look at what is.

It’s almost like there is No Exit. But I’ve got to believe there is. Especially with leftovers from India Palace waiting for me in the refrigerator. There’s nothing fake about eating deliciously spicy Indian food. It is what it is, just like life itself. The trick, I’m convinced, is in really tasting, instead of thinking about tasting. That’s the message of my Book Bin moment, but I’m not going to think too much more about it.

Cougar sighting/land use win

Two news items for south Salem’s Spring Lake Estates residents: a cougar has been sighted nearby, and Marion County Planning affirmed the denial of the lot line adjustment that Laurel and I have been fighting on behalf of our neighborhood. and the environment.

On the cougar front: I just got a call from Carolyn Davidson, who heard from her neighbor Jenny Bennett, who was told by some guys painting her house that they saw a cougar roaming the farmland next to Spring Lake Estates. So I agreed to pass on this word to other people in the area, both directly and through the blogosphere.

When I told Laurel about the cougar, her reaction was “Darn! I walked by there yesterday and talked to the painters. I wish I’d seen the cougar.” My reaction to her reaction was that, based on the experience of people who have encountered cougars close-up, it sounds like more fun when you’re in your living room than when you are on a lonely trail.

Still, I hope our neighbors don’t get all excited and try to kill the cougar. The Oregonian had an article recently on urban encounters with wildlife such as coyotes and cougars. If people would use common sense (such as not leaving food outside, and keeping pets in at night), most predator problems would vanish. I don’t mind having a cougar wandering around our neighborhood—this was cougar territory before it was ours—but I admit that I’ll be more vigilant during my evening walks with our dog, Serena.

On the land use front: yesterday Laurel walked in with the mail and I heard an excited, “We won!” The Marion County Hearings Officer agreed with us that Janis Rieder’s application to adjust property lines on a 3.78 acre parcel and a 1.64 acre parcel to create a 4.0 acre parcel and a 1.42 acre parcel didn’t conform to County zoning codes.

This was obvious to us from the beginning, since the minimum lot size for rural residential lots is 2.0 acres. So this was a proposal to take an already non-conforming lot and make it even more non-conforming, which self-evidently was against both state and county law. When I say “self-evidently,” I mean that non-attorneys and non-land use consultants like Laurel and me could read the rules and tell that Ms. Rieder had almost zero chance of succeeding with her application.

So the question is, why did attorney Elizabeth Howard and land use consultant Frank Walker proceed with the appeal? I’d be asking them this question if they had advised me to proceed with a quixotic and expensive action that had such little chance of success. Laurel and I, plus our neighbors, the Tileys, had to expend quite a bit of time and money ourselves to stop what never should have been started, but Ms. Rieder ended up losing the most.

We feel for her, though we certainly are glad that our neighborhood will be spared the extra development that would have been attempted if the lot line adjustment had succeeded. The only people who are assured of winning in situations like this one are the attorneys, land use consultants, and other hired guns who get paid no matter if they win or lose.

The advice we want to pass on to other people thinking about partitioning their property to make more money off on an Earth that already is being strangled by human greed is this: Think carefully about what you might gain or lose; don’t believe everything you’re told by those you consult for advice; get second and third opinions from other professionals.

And most importantly: remember the Golden Rule. If you were living next door to someone who wants to do with their land what you’re planning for your own property, would you be happy about it?

West Hollywood condo for sale

OK, it’s unlikely that I’m going to find any buyers for a West Hollywood condo via my Oregon weblog, but I figured I’d take a stab at helping out my daughter and her husband. Theirs is the 950 Kings Road, #244 listing at $429,000 under "current listings." I figure that a percent or two should flow my way if I broker a deal, which would get me started nicely on a Mini Cooper S purchase.

Celeste and Patrick, if you’re interested in moving from L.A. to Sisters (Oregon), I found a nice home for you at the same price. Doesn’t it make you sick? Just had to taunt you with what you could buy in Oregon instead of staying in crowded, smoggy southern California. Of course, you’d have to get new jobs, probably, unless Gucci and Oliver Peoples wanted to open some stores in Sisters. That’s a small detail to be worked out.

Laurel and I would visit you whenever we went to our cabin in Camp Sherman. We’d even baby sit my grandchild, when there is a grandchild. Think about it. I still can’t believe that my Portland-born daughter has embraced the L.A. lifestyle. And Patrick, you’re from rural Wisconsin, so you don’t have any excuse either. Move to Sisters and you’ll feel right at home: cold (for a good part of the year).

Ms. Kerry staffer and Miss America

Last night I got to enjoy two sides of female twenty-something accomplishment and attractiveness. First we went to a Kerry house party at Bill and Pat Dixon’s home in south Salem, the highlight of which was a spirited “Carry Oregon!” presentation by Kelsey.

Kelsey is a paid staffer for the Democratic Party in the mid-Willamette valley. She explained that because of campaign finance laws, their slogan says “Carry” rather than “Kerry.” So you don’t need to call in about the misspelling, though Kelsey said that many people do.

If she’s a typical Kerry/Democratic Party staffer, Bush and the Republicans have their work cut out for them. I was hugely impressed with Kelsey’s poise, intelligence, political savvy, energy, and enthusiasm. She enjoys a certain in-group honor, being one of not very many who got on board with the Kerry campaign early, before he won in Iowa.

At one point she commented that, compared to conservatives, liberals seem to be better able to see both sides of an issue. In the course of conversing with house party attendees I argued that this is both a good and a bad thing (guess I must be a liberal). It’s great to be open-minded and sensitive to nuances, but unfortunately most voters aren’t swayed by subtle arguments. As I’ve observed before, a bumper sticker sort of slogan is what persuades, and Kerry is notoriously poor at speaking so plainly.

I feel better about Kerry’s chances after listening to Kelsey. Still, it was rather disturbing to hear her answer to someone who asked what undecided voters can be told about Kerry’s Senate accomplishments. Good trooper that she is, Kelsey came up with three areas that I think were patient rights, environmental protection, and aid to small business. No “Wow. Kerry did that!” stuff here.

Another person admitted to what so many feel: “I’m down on Bush more than I’m up on Kerry.” My sentiments exactly. I see John Kerry as akin to a Un-Bush presidential puppet, something that walks and talks and you can vote for instead of the Evil One. Almost any other Democrat would have filled the role just as well. I don’t have any great admiration for Kerry. I’m not even sure he would be a good president. But I’m 100% confident that he is better for our country and the world than Bush, so my vote is solidly in Kerry’s corner.

I don’t know how people like Kelsey live and breathe politics for most of the day, every day. She said that on her day off from Democratic Party work she went to hear John Edwards speak in Oregon. That’s dedication. After a couple of hours of political conversation I was more than ready to get home and digital-video-recorder my way through the Miss American pageant. This is one of those traditional bits of Americana that I consider to be a patriotic duty to watch every year.

Especially since I had read that this year the swimsuit competition was going to be more revealing. Which it certainly was.

Undeniably the United States of America is headed in many wrong directions under the inept leadership of George W. Bush. It was reassuring, though, to see that 4-inch heels and bikinis have become the standard for the Miss America swimsuit competition. I’m still in recovery from the trauma of the year when the contestants walked barefoot in one-piece suits. This 2004 pageant has helped me heal.

“Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring”

If your fantasy is to live an exceedingly simple Buddhist life on a floating temple in the middle of a beautiful lake, this movie is for you. Set in Korea and spoken in Korean (with English subtitles), it was reviewed in Spirituality and Health magazine, which demonstrates its uplifting credentials.

However, Laurel was disappointed that the SSFWS DVD we rented didn’t match her expectations. She thought that the movie would be non-stop Buddhist inspiration, languorous images of water lilies, meditative chanting, strolls through unspoiled nature, that sort of thing.

Yes, SSFWS has much of this, but the central theme is the relationship between an adult Buddhist monk and his protégé, who experiences some rough lessons during his passage through life’s seasons (the movie is divided into five parts, each set during one of the seasons in the title, but many years pass as the young monk grows to take the place of his master—not just fifteen months).

Here’s some impressions “Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring” left with me:

(1) I liked how, at the end of the movie, the young monk practiced martial art exercises so assiduously without having any intent to use his skills in any martial way. Rather, he was building up strength and will for a karma-cleansing trek up a tall mountain, dragging a heavy stone behind him all the way. During my traditional Shotokan karate training years we students would be asked by the sensei, “What is the purpose of karate?!” And we would reply, “Perfection of character!!” Exactly.

(2) The next time I get bored because I can’t find a movie on the six channels of HBO that we get via our DISH receiver, I’ll picture myself living on the floating temple. No TV. No newspapers except what food occasionally comes wrapped in. No books in evidence. Very few visitors. Barely any contact with the outside world. “What do you want to do today?” the old monk asks at the beginning of the movie. “I want to go pick herbs!” says the boy monk. That’s the day’s big excitement.

Things perk up when the monk gets older (and testosterone-fueled) and a sick girl stays at the temple for healing purposes. Plus other purposes, it turns out. On the whole, though, SSFWS shows the True Simple Life. Who of us addicted to modern 24/7 media—TV, radio, Internet—could live happily this way? I wish I could, but I’m pretty certain I’d be running screaming to Seoul for a big screen television and high-speed broadband after a few days of herb picking.

(3) Nonetheless, I’d like to fashion a floating temple in the middle of my own pool of consciousness. A place I could retire to whenever I wanted. When the world would become too much with him, the young monk would sit before a stone Buddha and rapidly strike a piece of wood with a stick. Clap, clap, clap, clap. A percussive mantra. Listen to the sound of one stick clapping and all else fades away.

I’ve practiced mantra meditation for more years than I’d like to admit, given how disturbingly slowly I’ve been able to improve my practice. The scenes in the movie of both the old and young monk holding the piece of wood next to an ear and striking it rhythmically gave me a fresh image of what repeating a mantra is all about. Hard to put into words though—that’s why it’s an image.

Yesterday we got a flat tire on the Volvo when we got back to Salem, after driving all the way from central Oregon. Today I was exercising at the athletic club, watching the news while stepping away on a machine, and a news flash came on: “Florida Supreme Court allows Nader on the ballot.” Both events threatened to produce a mini-tidal wave in my previously mostly calm consciousness.

Then…clap, clap, clap, clap. I was able to get my consciousness back to a semblance of a still center in the eye of the worldly hurricane. Those winds outside of us never stop blowing. I’ll be driven crazy if I let myself drift wherever the current of a nail on Commercial Street or a headline on Fox News takes me. Clap, clap, clap, clap. A mantra returns me to the center. Bull’s-eye. Everything moves around that, and I can enjoy the motion without being caught up in it.

There’s an interview with Garry Shandling in the September 20 issue of TIME magazine. Who knew the star of HBO’s “The Larry Sanders Show” had such Buddhist depths? Here’s an excerpt:

“You do a lot of meditating?”
“I’ve been meditating for about 20 years—a kind of Zen Buddhist meditation—and never talked about it because no one understood. And now of course it’s become part of our culture and we see Buddhas in storefront windows. It’s weird to me that I do that and happen to be funny. I still can’t figure that part out. It’s feeling the deep impermanence of life and yet seeing the funny, impermanent side of life. Because it’s all a joke.”

Yes. Clap, clap, clap, clap. That helps us hear the punch line. Nails in the tire. Nader on the ballot. From one point of view, the real point of view, it’s all funny. All a joke. I look forward to being able to smile through the entire day no matter what happens.

Clap, clap, clap, clap. What a great show!

The clouds speak to me

During a Metolius River walk with Serena this afternoon I paused to lay on my back in the grass and see what the passing clouds had to say to me.

Right away it was evident they could read my mind. Yes, I do have a question. Might as well ask the Big One: What is the meaning of life?

And the next cloud that came by had the answer: “I” Hmmmm. Quite profound. Hindus say, “Atman (soul) is Brahman (God). Moses was told by God, “I am that I am.” I am God, the clouds tell me. I like it!

Then, a wrinkle appears in my so-easy-god-realization. A hole. Emptiness. Must rid myself of ego to become the divine. OK. Whatever you say, sky. You’re doing the talking today, not me.

I started walking again, so happy that the clouds had given me such an unambiguous message. Henceforth I would pursue my meditation with more vigor and more humility. The heavens had spoken!

But suddenly I looked up and saw…Larry, of the Three Stooges. Clearly. Without a doubt. Is a cosmic joke at the heart of reality? Were the cloud gods telling me to laugh at how I had taken them so seriously?

Then the Id made its appearance in the Central Oregon sky. Elemental phallus pointing me toward…what? Are we born only to lust, to screw, to have children, to die? Could the meaning of life just be the urge of DNA to reproduce itself? Am I that base, that crude, that physical?

Perhaps. For the last image I saw before putting Serena in the car to drive back to the cabin was, unmistakably, very large breasts. Nice.

I happily envisioned spending eternity with the Sky Goddess.

But then I looked in another direction and realized that I had been missing the most obvious truth in the heavens. Still, it was a fun ride sitting still and seeing the clouds go by. Sort of like watching thoughts pass in my stream of consciousness.

Which, of course, was what all this was.

Bumper sticker wisdom

Here’s some bumper sticker/wooden sign wisdom that I picked up in several artsy-crafty Sisters stores yesterday:

“My greatest fear is that there is no PMS, and this is my personality.”

“If life were logical, men would ride side-saddle.”

“Isn’t a smoking area in a restaurant like a peeing area in a swimming pool?”

“My wife keeps saying I never listen to her…or something like that.”

“If I want to hear the pitter-patter of little feet, I’ll put shoes on my dog.”

I started paying more attention to this pithy literary genre because I was looking for a way to entertain myself while Laurel pawed through seemingly endless bins of prints, searching for some artwork that we needed in our house for some reason that never quite registered on me (guess I should have bought #4 above.)

So I’d get out my always-handy notepad and pen and jot down sayings that struck me, figuring that this was more courteous and less likely to result in annoyed looks from the store owner than taking a flash photo of the bumper sticker or wooden sign whose message I wanted to remember but didn’t want to buy.

Now I have a shopping purpose in life, somewhat comparable but much less intense than Laurel’s quest for the ultimate pair of dichroic glass earrings. I shall continue accumulating the best short sayings I see until I have several hundred. Then I will publish them in a Best Bumper Stickers book, sit back, and wait for several hundred copyright infringement complaints to flow in, the cost of which to settle will suck up all of my royalties.

Better think of another book idea. Like the wonderful “Walter the Farting Dog” that Laurel bought yesterday. This is a great book and appears to be a best-seller, which isn’t surprising given the title. “Farting” is a guaranteed attention-getter, whether the word is spoken or written, and even more so when the action is enthusiastically indulged in.

A bit more about George W. Bush and bumper sticker wisdom: in the September 13 issue of “The New Yorker” there is an article on “Bush Speak—the President’s vernacular style.” The author, Philip Gourevitch, concludes what I have always thought myself. Namely, “He is grossly underestimated as an orator by those who presume that good grammar, rigorous logic, and a solid command of the facts are the essential ingredients of political persuasion, and that the absence of these skills indicates a lack of intelligence.”

Actually, says Gourevitch, Bush’s intelligence “is—if not especially literate—acutely verbal.” Bush clearly is a better speaker than Kerry, and I’m afraid he is going to clean the floor with Kerry in the presidential debates. One reason is that Bush knows how to put his points across as if he was reading from a series of bumper stickers. His words are simple, understandable, and strong. In contrast, Gourevitch observes, “John Kerry can speak rousingly for whole paragraphs without saying anything precise or concrete.”

Kerry would do well to spend some time as I did yesterday: reading bumper stickers and being exposed to writing that says a lot in a few words. I’m no one to talk, of course, as I love to spend a page saying what could be said in a couple of lines. But I’m not running for president. Kerry is, and we desperately need him to learn how to speak effectively. Now!

Junkyard dog, No! Samurai canine, Hai!

“Hai,” that’s “yes” in Japanese. And that’s just what I’ll say if you ask whether my new best friend, Hero, is a genuine Samurai canine. Yes, he is. So no, don’t call him a junkyard dog, even though this is what a sadly mistaken Internet site terms him. Plus, Laurel told me that even the box he came in had his pedigree mislabeled.

I didn’t notice this when the good folks at Sisters Cascade of Gifts (where we adopted him today) brought out the original carrier that he came from China in. It was too large for us to take back home to Salem, so I cradled a bubble-wrapped Hero in my arms as we visited more Sisters stores during a cool, wet central Oregon afternoon that drove us out of our Camp Sherman cabin for some shopping excitement.

Poor Hero. Laurel didn’t tell me about his Junkyard Dog label until we were driving back to the cabin with Hero nestled in the back seat, enjoying his first ride in a Volvo. She said that the salesladies at the gift store whispered to her, “Don’t tell your husband what’s on the box.” This is because I instantly and volubly recognized Hero for what it is: a Samurai.

Well, at first glance I had him as a Chinese warrior. This is how he got his name (see posting below). And I wasn’t shy about telling everybody in the store about his obvious true heritage. Just look at his headgear! And his armor!

I could tell that mine was a minority opinion, however (with “minority” meaning “just me”). Other customers with whom I shared my insight were a lot more focused on Hero’s nuts, as in nut and bolt, not the other kind, and didn’t seem to recognize his perfectly evident Oriental martial heritage.

Carrying Hero into another artsy store, I unwrapped him and decided to see if someone more attuned to his bloodline could see my Samurai for who he really is. “Yes,” the cute little Westy, Mariah, said to me in dog language that only the two of us could understand, “Hero is Samurai. I know, for this was my canine karma also in a past life.”

Nonetheless, I realize that there still will be doubters. So I fired up Google Images and did some “samurai + armor” research. Look at this and tell me that Hero isn’t Samurai. Case closed, Hai!

"Hero"

If you haven’t seen “Hero,” the marvelous Chinese martial arts movie, you should do it while it is still viewable on a big screen. Last night Laurel and I marveled at the cinematography of “Hero.” You’ll see things that you’ve never seen in a movie before, and probably never will again—unless Zhang Yimou directs a sequel.

If you have an aversion to sub-titles, quash your qualms and buy a ticket anyway. Ditto if you usually stay away from martial arts flicks, because “Hero” is to the typical martial arts movie as “The Godfather” is to the typical gangster movie: in another category all together.

“Hero” is set in a time thousands of years ago before there was a unified China, just warring kingdoms. An opening subtitle reminds us that “there always are heroes on both sides,” a sentiment that is anathema to the Bush administration, but which is unarguable. Our angle of vision determines whether we see a valiant warrior or a despicable evildoer. One person can appear as many personas.

This is part of what makes “Hero” such a fascinating movie, how we never are quite sure who the heroes are. Or what their motivations are. Naturally I won’t give away the ending. I will say, though, that at the climax of the confrontation between the King of Qin and Nameless (Jet Li), an assassin of royal assassins who may or may not be who he claims to be, I was utterly ready to accept that a sword could either find or miss its target.

Rarely is the denouement of a movie so perfectly poised on a knife-edge that the viewer is not only unable to predict on which side the plotline will fall, but also is emotionally ready to embrace either of two diametrically opposed outcomes.

And then there is the magic of “Hero.” For me it wasn’t so much the “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” sort of flying-slowmotion-swordplay-somersaults that was so magical (though these special effects were beautifully done), but rather the Zen focus on simple sights and sounds. Raindrops. Leaves falling. Shimmering surface of a lake.

In the movie these elements of nature share the stage with martial arts daring-do, swords slicing through raindrops, leaves, shimmering surfaces. “Hero” never fails to blend the martial and the arts. Calligraphy places a large role in the film, with Nameless studying a swordsman’s artistic style for clues about his martial prowess.

For the 96 minutes of “Hero” I was transported into a world where nature and man are magical because nothing is overlooked. Everything is just what it is, which is really magic. Not adding on complex thoughts, fantasies, imaginations, ideas, about what could be in addition to what is. A single raindrop falling on a piece of slate is magical. But only when it is just that: raindrop falling on slate.

When I’m watching the news on TV, pissed at the latest political outrage being reported, listening with much less than half an ear to the shower passing by, how can I ever hear the sound of nature’s magic? This evening I did something I should do much more often: just sit on our deck. Not sit and read the newspaper. Not sit and pat the dog. Not sit and drink a bottle of China Cola. Just sit. And see. And listen.

I was amazed. It was as if the cinematographer of “Hero” was inside my head. I was viewing the world through a magical lens. Oak branches swaying in the wind against a darkening gray sky. Water splashing in our pond. Ropes of the hanging chair I was sitting in creaking with my swaying. Every little thing was simply every little thing, no more, no less.

For a few minutes I had a glimpse of how magical the world is when I don’t try to make it magical…or anything else. When I just let the world be what it is. Not adding on anything to it. Not taking away anything from it. In that moment, magic.

Until I began to wonder how the Oregon Ducks could possibly have lost to Indiana. And at Autzen Stadium! Geez, OSU and U of O are now 0-3. I know a couple of football teams that could use some magic. Me too, now that I’ve started thinking about them.

Who the Hell is “Undecided”?

The incomparable Mark Morford of SFGate.com has an interesting take on election polls in his column today. He asks, who the hell could be undecided between Bush and Kerry, given the stark differences between them? And, whoever they are, how the hell could they be swayed so easily after a superficial slick slogan-filled convention (whether Democratic or Republican)?

Morford gets it just right when he says, “These polls are designed solely to mangle your head and confound your synapses and elate you and titillate you and then plunge you into instant despair and then yank you back out at the last second like some sort of ‘Fear Factor’ death-plunge moronism.”

Political roller-coasters. We’re up! We’re down! We’re dying! We’re going to survive! He reminds us that it’s who gets off first at the end of the ride that counts, not all the twists and turns along the way. Since the thrills of Election2004 are going to continue for seven weeks more, it’s wise to not get all hoarse from screaming so early.

My afternoon delight

Yeah, baby! I may be fifty-five years old, but most days I still take to heart the rockin’ message of “Afternoon Delight” (click here if you’re too young to know the tune of this classic song):

My motto’s always been ‘when it’s right, it’s right!
Why wait until the middle of a cold dark night?...
Looking forward to a little afternoon delight.

Absolutely. If something feels good at midnight, it’s going to feel just as good at three in the afternoon. That’s why I’m an inveterate napper, and why I’m not ashamed to call the pillow in our extra bedroom “Baby.”

Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight
Gonna grab some afternoon delight

Everyone has guilty pleasures. They are “guilty,” I guess, because we feel that other people would convict us if they knew that we indulged in them. But convict us of what? Where’s the crime in doing what you like?

I’ve decided that we inveterate American nappers need to come out of the closet. Other countries embrace the siesta. Why not the good old USA? For years I’ve been doing my part to raise this nation up to the standard of sleeping enjoyed by so much of the rest of the world. When I worked for State Health Planning here in Salem in the late 1970s I had a couch in my office. I’d close the door at noon, eat my sandwich, and lie down for a delightful half-hour nap.

I wasn’t trying to be more productive. I just liked to doze off and do nothing. If I could have done nothing for the whole rest of the day too, that would have been even better, but state government demanded at least a semblance of productivity before they gave me a paycheck.

I am the devotee of a pure form of Napping Philosophy, formulated over many, many years of diligent unconscious study. To wit, naps are not a means to an end; they are the end: self-indulgence, hedonism, unadulterated unproductiveness.

Thus I find it disturbing that naps are being recommended as a tool for accomplishing more. This is absurd. It’s akin to watching the Playboy Channel in order to better understand the cultural role of women in post-modern Western society. Anyone who takes a nap with a productive motivation in mind is a faux napper. I beg of you: Please, don’t sully the purity of this noble nonactivity. Have a cup of coffee instead.

I only consider myself a napping semi-pro, though, for I have a ways to go before I overcome the flaws that are keeping me from true napping greatness. For example, I haven’t been able to ditch remnants of a Protestant Ethic that speaks inside my head halfway through a Sunday afternoon: “You don’t deserve to take a nap until you’ve mowed the grass.”

Deserve? Where did that napping notion come from? In truth, a nap is undiluted grace. The Gods of Napping want us to enjoy their bounty guilt free and without reservation, for sleepiness is next to godliness.

So sayeth the teachings of Sri Ramana Maharshi, who deserves to be the patron saint of napping:

“All beings desire happiness always, happiness without a tinge of sorrow. At the same time everybody loves himself best. The cause for love is only happiness. So, that happiness must lie in one. Further that happiness is daily experienced by everyone in sleep, when there is no mind.”

No mind in sleep. My napping is making me a Buddha. All praise to the nap! Om, Om, Om. Or better, Yawn, Yawn, Yawn.

Four reasons to smile today

It was nice to enter cyberspace today and find four reasons to smile.

(1) Bush’s Convention Bounce. Could be just a modest two percentage points, according to a CNN/USA Today/Gallup poll. Factor in the margin of error and it could be nothing. I believe a few other post-convention polls found a bigger bounce. Given that most people already seem to have a firm idea about who to vote for, two points sounds more likely to me. Anyway, this is good news for recently down in the dumps Kerry supporters.

(2) Lion Tops Tiger. You have to love it when Vijay Singh, whose last name means “lion,” finally tops Tiger Woods and becomes the #1 golfer in the world. Yesterday I watched the lion and tiger duel on the last holes of the Deutsche Bank Championship and was pleased when Vijay won comfortably. Five years is plenty long for someone to be #1 in anything. After that, its time for a change. When it comes to the current #1 leader in the quasi-free world, I’ll make that four years.

(3) I’m Not in North Carolina. I was supposed to speak at a “Science of the Soul” get-together in Fayetteville, North Carolina over the Labor Day weekend. The meeting was cancelled last Wednesday because of Hurricane Frances. When Frances stalled and weakened, I began to wonder if maybe it would have been OK to head off to North Carolina. But watching the weather channel this morning made me happy to be home in warm, sunny Oregon. Lots of rain/thunderstorms and some tornados in the Carolinas today. I was scheduled to fly out of Raleigh this afternoon. Probably would still be sitting in the airport waiting for the skies to clear.

(4) New James Wolcott Weblog. A friend, Randy Smith, sent me an email provocatively titled: “Nominee: best new blog.” I couldn’t resist clicking on the link and was pleased to be led to James Wolcott’s freshly minted weblog. Wolcott is a Vanity Fair writer with a keen eye and appealing style. I particularly liked his “Squeamers” posting about how liberals have become such political hypochondriacs, and his “Angry White Man Wigs Out” posting about (who else?) Zell Miller. Wolcott aptly asks: “When did it become customary for speakers to give a speech and then make the rounds to be first responders to what they just said?”

My own most embarrassing moment in sports

Like everyone else (except maybe some heartless Louisiana State fans), I’ve got a lot of empathy for the OSU placekicker, Alexis Serna, whose three missed extra points kept Oregon State from a stupendous college football upset yesterday over third ranked LSU. Oh, man, 22-21 in overtime. It was a great game that merits use of the overused cliche, “Neither team deserved to lose.”

Alexis, I’ve been there with you, along with an awful lot of other guys and gals. When you threw down your helmet after the final missed kick and screamed in frustration, I screamed inside my head along with you. Actually, I’m still screaming. For your evident agony, as marvelously pictured on the front page of the Sunday “Oregonian” sports section, has brought back memories of my personal Most Embarassing Moment in Sports (or MEMS).

Of course, my own MEMS didn’t occur on a national ESPN telecast in front of some 92,000 rabid fans. But with these sorts of experiences, it is the inner mortification that matters, not how many people observe your crushing downfall. My 1966 pain may not match your 2004 pain, Alexis. It isn’t possible to quantify or compare between two or more MEMS’. Yet I can say this: I survived, and so will you.

Here I am, my Woodlake Union High School tennis team photo having been taken a few weeks after my season-ending collapse on a Lindsay High School court. We Woodlake tennis Tigers had shared the league championship with Lindsay my sophomore year. Next year we tanked, and another championship was dearly on my mind my senior year, as I had expected to enjoy a “three-peat.”

It all came down to our final match with Lindsay. Notwithstanding the “second singles” moniker on the yearbook photo, I had jostled back and forth with a teammate, Brian Whitten, for the first singles spot. My possibly biased recollection is that I had beaten the other Brian just before the Lindsay match. But Coach Boccone, in his sly wisdom, had me playing second singles, figuring that I’d be much stronger than the supposedly weak second Lindsay guy.

We were playing at Lindsay. My match was the last to finish. If I won, we’d tie for the league championship. If I lost, Lindsay would win the championship outright. I cruised through the first set, no problem, something like 6-1. Then I somehow lost the second set in a squeaker, 7-5 maybe. All the other players gathered around the court to watch. Even the Lindsay baseball team came over after their practice was over, having heard that the championship was on the line.

Alexis, a missed extra point takes just a few seconds. Losing the third set of a crucial tennis match can feel like it takes forever. Time slows down in some sort of horrible Einsteinian joke. I screwed up shots that normally I could make in my sleep. The worse I played, the better the other guy played. I couldn’t believe what was happening to me. I couldn’t stop what was happening to me. The more I tried to improve my game, the more it deteriorated.

How often do you miss a chip shot extra point in practice, Alexis? You understand—it isn’t a physical thing, it’s a mental thing. You had 180,000 eyes on you. I had less than a hundred. No matter. It was my eye that was messing me up, the eye I was turning on myself that couldn’t believe what a totally f___ked-up mess I was making of my game.

I hardly remember how the match ended. But I distinctly remember getting on the team bus last, after everyone else was on. My teammates of both sexes were deathly silent (we had Boys and Girls teams). I stalked down the bus corridor. I threw my racquet with perfect accuracy straight down the middle of the bus until it clattered off the rear window and fell to the bench seat. Best shot I had all day.

And here I am, thirty-eight years later, almost able to smile at how ridiculously seriously I took my loss that day. Almost. It still hurts, but only mildly now. Alexis, I bet you’re going to win some games for Oregon State over your career. Yet maybe I’ll lose that bet. Whatever. You might be a complete college football failure, Alexis, and still be a huge winner at life. Obviously that’s what really counts. Here’s some sage advice from Marcus Aurelius, the Stoic Roman Emperor:

“Be like the headland against which the waves break and break: it stands firm, until presently the watery tumult around it subsides once more to rest. ‘How unlucky I am, that this should have happened to me!’ By no means; say rather, ‘How lucky I am, that it has left me with no bitterness; unshaken by the present, and undismayed by the future.’ The thing could have happened to anyone, but not everyone would have emerged unembittered….So here is a rule to remember in future, when anything tempts you to feel bitter: not, ‘This is a misfortune,’ but ‘To bear this worthily is good fortune.’”

Got a good fried cat recipe?

Here it is, Labor Day weekend coming up, nice Oregon weather forecast, outdoor eating time! And I can’t find a good recipe for fried cat. Damn. Been trying to figure out why Google, for once, has failed me. Best I could do was a song parody, and a warning that if you’re selling fried catfish, a partially burnt out neon sign isn’t good for business. I’m beginning to think that fried cat isn’t a very popular dish.

But fried chicken…over a million search results, and plenty of recipes. Funny. Aren’t cats and chickens both animals? Aren’t both non-human? Don’t both lack the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness that American Homo sapiens citizens enjoy? So why do so many people eat chickens and apparently nobody eats cats?

Having been a vegetarian for nigh on twenty-five years now, and having written a non-commercial book (“Life is Fair”) that was published in India about the spiritual rationale for vegetarianism, I’ve given a lot of thought over the years to such questions. Yet it never ceases to amaze me how people dearly love to care for some animals, and dearly love to eat other animals.

For a few days this week we were the quasi-owners of Kitty, the non-creative yet utterly apt name I called this gentle sweet soul who was sitting in our carport when we returned from Indiana. Kitty was hugely happy to see us, even though Kitty and we had never met before. A few pats turned on the purring, and we were instant good friends.

With the dog coming home from the kennel the next day, we didn’t want to encourage Kitty to stay around. So, reluctantly, I didn’t feed her/him. Laurel phoned many of our neighbors to see if Kitty belonged to them. No luck, but we learned that a similar-looking cat had turned up at the house next door about a month ago.

Seemed that someone had dumped a couple of unwanted cats out in the country, as so often happens. Hopefully there is a special (hot) place in hell reserved for these folks. With all the coyotes around here, a tame house cat with no place to spend the night indoors isn’t going to last very long.

When Serena came home, we soon learned that Kitty was disturbingly unafraid of dogs, even a dog lunging at the end of its leash, eager to have some fun with a new cat toy. So Laurel eventually had to spray Kitty with a hose to get her/him out of our yard and Serena-snapping range. As luck would have it, the phone rang not long after a soggy Kitty had darted into the brush.

One of the neighbors Laurel had called was interested in adopting Kitty. They recently had lost a cat to old age, had seen Kitty briefly hanging around their house, and thought she//he would be a good feline replacement. A cat carrier was brought over to our house in hopes that Kitty would make a re-appearance.

That evening, no sign of Kitty. I called and called, using the best name I knew: “Here, Kitty, Kitty.” Bowls of dog food, cat food, milk, and water were put out. Still no Kitty. I felt terrible. After a month roaming the countryside Kitty finally had a lock on a good home, and I visualized the cat now being run over by a car or eaten by a coyote, all because we chased Kitty away with a hose.

Fortunately, Kitty showed up the next morning. The dog food was a big hit, and even the organic non-fat milk was palatable after some finicky sniffing. I fixed her up in the garage and Laurel phoned the adopting family. A half hour later Kitty was bundled up in the cat carrier on her way to a new home. Nice to have a happy ending to an abandoned cat tale.

But there are so many other unhappy endings for other animals, the animals dog and cat lovers unthinkingly eat every day. Do you know how pigs, cattle, chickens, and the like are raised? Do you know how they are killed? Before you go to KFC, or fill up your shopping cart with some fryers, take a look at this Kentucky Fried Cruelty web site.

We’re not vegetarian zealots. I just feel that people who claim to be animal lovers should consider whether they really are, if they eat meat. Meat comes from animals, you know. And animals don’t like to be killed. If you think they do, take out a butcher knife and start to slit the throat of your dog or cat. If you can’t bring yourself to do that, spend a little time pondering the consistency of your philosophical position.

“I love some animals. I have other animals killed for me so I can eat them.” Doesn’t make sense to me. Does it to you, really?

Kerry needs to get cracking

Having CNN on while paying some bills has been a depressing experience. I probably should have been watching the Cartoon Channel, though the talking conservative heads at the Republican Convention certainly are equally amusing. I missed Zell Miller’s speech, but saw enough clips to realize how utterly mean-spirited and misleading he was. One commentator on CNN had a nice line: “With that speech he put ‘zealot’ back in ‘Zell.’”

Laurel likes to believe that American voters will be influenced much more by facts than by rhetoric. I disagree. The hard-core voters on each end of the political spectrum clearly already have made their minds up. The independents and undecideds in the middle are the ones being fought for. And I think lots of them are looking for a candidate they intuitively feel comfortable with, who they trust, whose words are commensurate with their actions.

This is why Kerry had better get cracking. Heads. Republican heads. Bush/Cheney heads. Kerry and other figurehead Democrats have been so passive lately, it’s pitiful. What happened to the war hero who heads right toward the enemy firing at him, beaches his boat, and shoots the guy dead? The way Kerry has been acting, I can’t blame those who believe his war exploits have been much exaggerated. If Kerry is so brave, why is he so reluctant to fight back against the Republican attacks?

Joe Conahan of the New York Observer made some comments last night on CNN that echoed thoughts I’ve been having. “If Kerry can’t defend himself,” Conahan said, “then people aren’t going to believe that he can defend the country.” Right on. After the Democratic Convention, Kerry had a chance to build on his snappy salute, “John Kerry reporting for duty,” and the whole band of brothers “I will be a strong commander-in-chief” thing.

But what happened? Kerry gets hit with a vicious, lying, under-handed attack by the so-called Swift Boat Veterans for Truth. He doesn’t respond. And then he doesn’t respond some more. While Kerry is ragging on Bush for sitting dumb-founded for seven minutes after being told the country is under attack, Kerry does the same thing—but not just for a few minutes, for days.

Consciously or unconsciously, swing voters are thinking: “Would Kerry react equally slowly if our country is attacked again? Is he waiting for an international coalition to form before he hits back against the Swift Boat Veterans?”

When he does respond, the Kerry campaign sends Max Cleland down to Texas in his wheelchair to try to deliver a letter to the Western White House. Whoopee. Wow. Get attacked and send a letter. Now, that’s how a sensitive war is waged. Maybe Bin Laden will surrender if a “Please turn yourself in” email is sent to Al Qaeda web sites.

Kerry still has a chance to turn things around. But a marked change of direction has to begin tomorrow, right after Bush’s acceptance speech (and Hurricane Frances) hit the nation’s front pages. As a strong Kerry supporter I want to support a strong candidate. Kerry shouldn’t get angry. He should simply get even: set the record straight, expose the lies.

Watch a few episodes of the “Sopranos” tonight, John. Then go out and hit ‘em with your best Tony S. imitation. A baseball bat to the knees or the cranium is a wonderful way of changing minds. Show the country that you know how to swing the hardwood. Metaphorically speaking, of course. But not too metaphorically.