HinesSight

When the wife’s away…

When the wife’s away, the husband will play. Naturally. That’s why Laurel left me this note prominently displayed above the sink, where she knew I’ve have to go periodically to marvel at how high the dirty dish pile had grown, before she left for her nephew’s wedding celebration in Indiana.

The note only contains reminders regarding care of the (wild) birds, (tame) dog, and (deck) plants. This auxiliary note was taped above the dog’s water bowl in case I needed a clue as to why Serena’s tongue was hanging out and she was spending all of her time staring longingly at a closed toilet bowl lid. Getting no other instructions, apparently I was judged competent enough to take care of myself.

Oh yes, I certainly was. Soon after Laurel’s car had left our driveway on its way to the Portland airport I fired up the Volvo station wagon and headed to Hollywood Video. I was driven there by a pent-up hunger for movie violence, since Laurel eschews blood and gore.

One of my enduring memories is of her turning to me as the final credits of “The Last Samurai” began to roll, saying “I didn’t know the movie was going to be violent!” as if it were my fault. I testily replied, “What the heck do you think a movie with ‘Samurai’ in the title is going to be about, flower arranging?” (Actually it could be, but there’d also be violence in-between the floral scenes.)

I do have some minimal quality standards of my own when it comes to violent movies, however, so I passed up the most obvious teen slasher flicks. I came home with a known winner, “Collateral,” and an unknown shot-in-the-dark, “Suspect Zero.” Each had something to recommend about it, though “Collateral” is by far the superior movie.

Tom Cruise was terrific. I enjoyed seeing Cruise with gray hair and beard, for obvious self-reflective reasons (I’ll like him even better when he looks genuinely old and gray). As a professional assassin Cruise was believable both psychologically and physically. I loved the nightclub scene where he’s shooting at his intended victim, runs out of bullets, releases the clip of his automatic, slips in a fresh clip before the old one has hit the floor (or so I recall), and puts a couple of slugs into the guy’s head.

Way cool, a lot like Antonio Banderas’ unforgettable gunplay in “Desperado” (Salma Hayek also is unforgettable in that movie, for a completely different reason). There was nothing as memorable in “Suspect Zero,” a movie that had a lot of unrealized potential.

I mean, the idea of a serial murderer escaping detection because he has absolutely zero pattern to his modus operandi is a terrific Black Zen concept. And matching him up against a telepathic agent should have made for a riveting story line. Instead, I was more paper-clipped to the screen, not riveted.

My next “the wife’s away” move was to purchase a DVD recorder at Best Buy. A weekend filled with cinematic violence and new technology: that’s pure joy. After spending more time researching potential DVD recorder alternatives on the Internet than a $299 purchase merits, I ended up with a Panasonic DVD/VCR combo.

It was a good choice. I felt a techno-chill up my spine when I slipped a VCR tape in one slot and a blank DVD disk in another, then held down a single button for three seconds and watched the recording process start to flow from archaic to modern media. The Panasonic even makes neat “alive” thumbnails on the DVD’s index, such that you see a snippet of what has been recorded.

When it came to hooking up the Panasonic to a DISH Network digital video recorder and our TV, however, I had a much tougher time. I always wonder in such situations, faced with a maze of cables and wires filling the space behind the television cabinet, how the proverbial Grandma who just bought a DVD recorder to go with her satellite system manages. I was on the verge of tearing out the hair that I have left, until I realized that an connection might work better if I pushed some plug gizmos in all the way so they actually connected to something.

Bingo. After I successfully transferred a “taped” program from the digital video recorder to a DVD in the Panasonic machine, I could hear the Mission Impossible theme playing in my head with a voiceover: “Excellent work, Brian. Mission accomplished. You’re Top Gun now” (I like to mix and match Tom Cruise movie-metaphors).

I successfully took care of the birds, deck plants, and Serena also, finding time to fill the feeders, water, spray the dog’s fungus foot, and de-burr her in-between my violent movie watching and DVD recorder deciphering.

By the way, if you’ve been following the ups and more ups of Serena’s weight—and if you haven’t, shame on you—I’m proud to report that the Hines’ pet companion has attained her proper poundage: 69.7 as of her June 22 Pet Health Report Card.

We were told by the vet: “Your dog is bright and friendly.” Well, of course. And “It has good body conformation with normal weight and muscle mass for age and breed.” Hmmmm. Why not just say beautiful instead of “good body conformation”? And what’s the deal with “It”? Serena is a she. A normal weight she now, thanks in large part, no doubt, to the parmesan cheese diet I put her on after the vet criticized my practice of putting chunks of regular cheese in her dinner.

I could have wimped out and done exactly what the vet wanted, but that’s not my style. No sir. Live life to the fullest, that’s me. Going all out with DVD recorder buying, violent movie renting, parmesan cheese in the dog bowl-ing, oh yeah. Still wild and crazy after all these years.

Why are conservatives afraid of conservatives?

A Reuters article about Iran’s newly-elected “ultra-conservative” President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, got me to thinking about why conservatives are so afraid of other conservatives.

The Bush administration is ultra-conservative. Iran’s leader is ultra-conservative. Sharing a similar position on the political spectrum, shouldn’t they get along wonderfully? Imagine (oh God, yes, imagine) that the United States had an ultra-liberal President and Iran had elected an equally liberal head of state. Would there be the same clash between like and like?

No. Bush and his cronies can’t stand Ahmadinejad because he is religiously fundamentalist and politically nationalistic. Thus he’s just like them. Except, Bush and Ahmadinejad are of different religions and different nations. And conservatives are afraid of differences while liberals are much more prone to accept them.

So two liberals of different political or religious persuasions likely will get alone nicely, while two conservatives won’t. This could be predicted from the dictionary definitions:

Liberal: 1a. Not limited to or by established, traditional, orthodox, or authoritarian attitudes, views, or dogmas; free from bigotry. b. Favoring proposals for reform, open to new ideas for progress, and tolerant of the ideas and behavior of others; broad-minded.

Conservative: 1. Favoring traditional views and values; tending to oppose change. 2. Traditional or restrained in style.

I like to picture one of Bush’s daughters telling him, “Dad. I’ve fallen in love and am going to get married to Mahmoud. He’s Muslim, but that won’t be a problem for us.” Bush asks, “Well, that’s wonderful. I have to ask, though: is Mahmoud a traditional conservative Muslim or a modern liberal Muslim?” “Oh, you’ll be so happy with Mahmoud, Dad. He’s really conservative, just like you!”

I’d like to see the expression on President Bush’s face. Republicans love conservatism so long as it is conserving their own values. When conservatism escapes from the narrow confines where they want to see it kept—into Islamic fundamentalism, for example—then it becomes the enemy, not a kindred political philosophy.

Liberal blogger Paul Siegal’s tagline puts it nicely: “We don’t agree, but let’s compete and I will win [or, I’d say, one of us will win]; let’s cooperate and we’ll both win.” Now, a lot of conservatives would view this as a typical wimpy, Pollyannaish, impractical liberal sentiment. “How do you cooperate with someone who wants to kill you or destroy your way of life?” they’d ask.

Well, maybe you can’t. But maybe you can. There are many levels of cooperation, some of them decidedly non-pacifistic. Aikido, Judo, and Tai Chi are marital arts which utilize a cooperative strategy to neutralize the opponent. Instead of meeting force with force head-on, an attack is accepted, embraced, and redirected in a more or less gentle fashion.

Siegal writes on “Why I am a liberal,” saying, “I believe the fundamental difference between conservatives and liberals is this: Conservatives are motivated by fear which makes them highly competitive. Liberals are motivated by hope, which makes them highly cooperative.”

It’s a persuasive thesis. Why else would conservatives be afraid of conservatives?

Rejection letter humor

There's a lot of rejection letter humor on the Internet. The best of it is put there by people who reject the rejection letters rather than letting the letters drag them down into drunken despair, which is just what the bastards who sent them want.

I came across this classic today. It's probably been circulating in cyberspace for a long time, but I hadn't seen it before.

And I like this rejected writer's sardonic reply style.

I'm still waiting to hear back from Beacon Press about my query concerning my own ultimate rejection letter. I'll keep checking the mailbox.

Images of 2005 Salem World Beat Festival

Laurel is in Indiana for a nephew’s wedding celebration, so I was on my own yesterday at Salem’s riverfront World Beat Festival. There are lots of things not to like about Salem, but the June World Beat Festival and July Art Fair temporarily liven up this excessively laid back town.

Right away my karma drew me to some Tibetan booths. I soon became the owner of two “Made in Nepal” yin-yang T-shirts, perfect for wearing to my tai-chi class (what I lack in tai chi skills I try to make up for with Taoist attire).

Then, appropriately enough, I trekked over to the Kathmandu Café for a veggie noodles dish and lemonade.

Sustenance in hand, and soon in mouth, I headed to the amphitheatre for the Eugene Taiko Drummers performance. I love the sound of Taiko. It’s deeply moving. Cosmic, like those deep Tibetan horns and droning Buddhist monk chants. The rhythms almost moved me to tears, really.

I decided to take a self-portrait of myself almost moved to tears by Taiko drumming. But by the time I’d figured out the correct camera setting the mood had passed and I just ended up looking like a Waikiki beach wino who had found a Hilo Hattie shirt, Maui Jim sunglasses, and Pacific Whale Foundation cap in a dumpster.

I encountered a woman teaching kids how to walk like a duck. Very cute.

Lars Larson and his fellow right-wing talk show hosts wouldn’t approve of these posters, but I liked them. I recently heard Lars railing on about a proposal that “cultural competency” should be taught in Oregon schools. If that means celebrating diversity, the World Beat Festival theme, I’m all for it.

Some youthful drummers appeared to be on their way to Taiko mastery.

I watched this rabbit that belonged to a woman weaver for quite a while. It was amazingly calm given all the commotion and patting hands. It hopped onto the woman’s lap for a bit, then went back to looking like a serene bunny Buddha.

It wouldn’t be downtown Salem without a train passing by the industrial chic riverfront at an inconvenient moment. People were trying to get to the festival and people were trying to leave the festival, but this long train was right on track nonetheless. Moodily waiting for it to pass I tried to celebrate diversity. The train still seemed all wrong. Someday Salem will learn how to connect its people with its river without letting boxcars come in-between.

Free kittens with purchase

I am so happy that our dog neither (1) knows how to read, nor (2) has a credit card. If both of these things were true, Serena’s account would be maxed out to the limit with buys from this Salem establishment.

Salem escapees head for Portland’s Sellwood area

Sellwood neighborhood residents: notwithstanding the title of this post, you don’t need to lock your doors and keep a baseball bat near at hand. The Salem escapees I’m referring to are utterly gentle souls, Mark and Lynda. They’re friends of ours who recently bought a Sellwood condo on the Willamette River.

I ran into Mark yesterday at Salem’s one and only decent natural food store, LifeSource. Mark said that they had started moving into the condo on Saturday and should be finished this coming weekend. So they’re short-timers. Just a few days left on their Salem sentence.

That’s the way Salemites tend to talk when a fellow captive succeeds in escaping our sleepy, boring, moribund capital city. “You’re getting out! That’s great. I’m happy for you. You’re going to enjoy _____ [name of new location] so much more.”

It reminds me of an old-fashioned gang movie where a bunch of losers are sitting on some tenement steps in a rundown urban wasteland. They’ve got nowhere to go, nothing to do. Drink some beer, raise some hell, get in a fight with another gang. That’s it. There’s no hope, no jobs, no future for them.

Mario walks down the sidewalk and stops to talk. “Hey, guys, I got the scholarship. I’m going to college, man. I’m getting out of this hellhole. And I’m not looking back.” His soon-to-be forgotten comrades say, “Way to go, Mario. You gotta make it for all of us. We’ll still be here shooting the same shit when you graduate. Come back and tell us what it’s like in the real world.”

I’m happy for Mark and Linda. They’re going to have to commute to their jobs in Salem, but when they get home to Sellwood they’ll be in a city that’s alive, not dead. Mark shamelessly poured it on during our chat by the deli food. By the end of our conversation I felt like shooting myself (a familiar feeling if you live in Salem).

“Our condo looks right out on the river. We see boats, wildlife, paddlers. I can get on my bike and ride the Eastbank Esplanade all the way to the Pearl District. There’s a Starbucks within walking distance. We’re close to the New Seasons Market.”

On and on Mark went, contrasting his upcoming Portland rebirth with my continuing Salem zombie existence, but I couldn’t blame him. He’d just about finished serving his time and was looking forward to life on the outside, where people walk briskly because they’ve got somewhere to go.

As I’ve observed before, “Salem is a boring town. I like to say that Salem is the amorphous undistinguished center between four interesting one-hour-away compass points. North is Portland. South is Eugene. West is the Pacific Ocean. East is the Cascades. And in between all these wonders? Blahville USA.”

I wish I could come up with another way to put it than how I said it before, but I don’t have the energy. Might as well repeat myself. I live in Salem, Groundhog Day capital of the world.

Trail rides turn tame

It’s Laurel’s birthday today. She’s not too old to go on a Black Butte Stables trail ride with her cowboy, and that’s all I’ll say about her age.

Except, Laurel looks a lot younger than her XX years. Also, those XX years haven’t brought her hugely proficient arithmetic skills, because up until a few weeks ago she thought that today she was going to be XX + 1. When I pointed out her math error, Laurel was greatly relieved. “All year I thought I was going to be XX + 1,” she said. “Wow! You’ve taken a year off of my life—but in a good way.”

I’m happy that I could give her the gift of a year-younger birthday. Otherwise, Laurel’s main material gift was something she picked out herself: the afore-blogged wolf painting. The trail ride counts as a day-before-birthday present, sort of. By “sort of,” I mean that the birthday cowgirl was in sort of a fussy mood when the photo above was taken.

Our trail guide, Rachel, a.k.a. “Iceman,” (we were told that the guides have given each other Top Gun-inspired nicknames) was nice enough to take the photo. And she kept up a smooth conversation with me and the two girls who rode the first two horses in our group. Laurel brought up the rear and was distantly involved in the conversing. But that wasn’t the reason she was fussy, notwithstanding the central Oregon dust kicked up by four preceding horses that left her in a cloud much of the way.

No, Laurel was fuming because of the increasingly tame “Hole in the Wall Gang” two-hour trail ride we had paid our $55 each for. We are longtime Black Butte Stables customers. We’ve gone out on this ride many times. So many times, that for a few years the Stables was letting us go out on our own without a guide. Ah, the good old days.

That was before Black Butte Stables was bought by an attorney. Now, there’s nothing inherently bad about attorneys. Nothing, that is, which couldn’t be fixed by erasing all memory of law school from their minds and taking away their licenses. For attorneys necessarily have legal minds. And legal minds worry about lawsuits. Combine this attribute with ownership of a stable and you have the recipe for a boring trail ride.

Many years ago we used to be able to gallop on this Hole in the Wall Gang ride. Some years ago we used to enjoy extended canters. A few years ago the policy changed to short canters. Then, extended trots. And now, short trots. Whoopee. What a wild gang the five of us were yesterday. Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk, walk, walk (add about a dozen more “walks” for the proper walk/trot balance). Brief trot. Walk, walk, walk, walk…Well, you get the picture.

When we got back to our cabin we legalistically parsed the current description of the Hole in the Wall Gang ride on the Black Butte Stables brochure. “An exciting and challenging ride.” Your honor, a false and misleading statement! The ride was neither exciting nor challenging. “Riders…must have intermediate to advanced horsemanship skills.” No, your honor. If you could sit on a rocking horse, you’re qualified to go on this ride.

Lest I sound unduly critical of Black Butte Stables, I need to stress that we like the staff there; we like their horses; and we especially like the scenic trails surrounding the Black Butte development. And we understand the need for caution in these litigious times. Reportedly the Stables’ liability policy has some sort of “trot-only” clause in it.

That said, after our canterless and barely-trotted ride Laurel and I talked about the sorry state of affairs this country has gotten itself into when a fear of lawsuits leads to pony rides being eliminated by Black Butte Stables. Pony rides! Laurel fondly remembers how much she loved pony rides when she was a little girl, and how they were the first step to her loving horse rides as a big girl.

When virtually all risk is taken out of riding, it really isn’t riding. Especially when those paying their $55 for a two-hour ride are experienced riders who could be safely galloping rather than briefly trotting. Life isn’t risk-free, nor should it be. When lawyers and insurance companies took the fun out of an “advanced” trail ride, that’s when Laurel and I became convinced the legal liability system needs major reform.

Before, liability reform was pretty much an abstraction for us. Walking our horses on a two-hour trail ride for about 119 minutes brought the issue close to hand (and hoof).

The way things are going, next year the Hole in the Wall Gang ride will be entirely walking. The year after that, each horse will be accompanied by two stable staffers with air mattresses in hand, ready to break a fall if a rider falls asleep from boredom.

We’re looking for other riding options in the Camp Sherman/Sisters area. If anyone would like to look into the possibility of sharing the cost of owning and boarding a couple of horses in this area, send me an email. We only want to ride a week or less a month in central Oregon. If we could share ownership of some horses boarded near BLM/National Forest land with one or more other families, we’d be happy riders.

Salem friend second in National Senior Spelling Bee

Congratulations to Bill Long, a friend and fellow Salemite, for placing second—once again—in the 2005 National Senior Spelling Bee. As Bill notes in his “Speller’s Diary,” the national winner, David Riddle, also won the 2005 Oregon Spelling Bee.

Hey, what is a California attorney doing in an Oregon spelling bee? Isn’t there a state law against such a thing? If not, there should be. But Riddle does seem like a deserving champion. Anyone who can spell “mulligatawny” (a soup) correctly gets a bow from me.

Well, Bill can take heart in being the poster boy for the 2005 National Senior Spelling Bee. He might even be called a senior speller heartthrob. That furrowed brow and concentrated expression almost sends a chill up my own thoroughly heterosexual spine (Note: I said almost). And he got some nice coverage in a pre-bee national story.

Bill is single, so I expect he’ll be attracting some Senior Spelling groupies. If you want to know more about Bill, his bio and contact info are here.

I’m pleased to be one of Bill’s friends. He’s a member of a monthly “Salon” discussion group that Laurel organized and almost always comes up with creative, well-reasoned, highly intelligent observations. Except when I disagree with him, then, naturally, he’s a freaking idiot.

Better luck next year, Bill.

Belly-dancing and fast food in Sisters

In the course of meandering along the Sisters Art Stroll this afternoon we encountered belly dancers entertaining passers-by—most of whom stopped passing, as did we, to watch this contrarian bit of cowboy town culture.

Sisters is special. It’s sort of central Oregon’s Cannon Beach—a town with character, wise business signage and design rules, and artistic flair—while Bend is growing uncomfortably akin to Lincoln City, a minimally planned sprawl of malls, dense slow-moving traffic, and garish fast-food restaurants.

Picking up a copy of Sister’s weekly newspaper, The Nugget, we saw that the city council voted 3-2 to reject a proposed ordinance that would have limited “formula food” to the four existing operations (McDonalds, Subway, Figaro’s Pizza, and Bad Ass Coffee Company).

That’s too bad. Apparently lots of local citizens wanted additional chain fast-food outlets to stay out of quaint, quirky Sisters, while lots of the business and real estate community wanted to allow them. As so often happens, quantity of dollars won out over quality of life. Pro-formula food councilors said they were afraid of being slapped with a Measure 37 claim, though I suspect this wasn’t their main motivation for voting “no.”

Growth always is good in some people’s minds, even if they live in Sisters because they like its old-fashioned small town atmosphere. They seem to think that the character of Sisters won’t change with rapid growth. But one of the proponents of the Formula Restaurants Ordinance, Elayne Clark, wrote a letter to the Nugget editor that warned of what happened to Van Nuys, California in just a few years: “A veritable sea of fast foods restaurants, all neon lighted. It was heartbreaking to me.”

I’d be heartbroken myself if Sisters turns into another copycat corporate America town. Today we bought some art at the Soda Creek Gallery, a charming family-run business where last month Laurel had spotted a painting of two wolves peering through birch trees. Since her birthday is coming up in a few days, I figured that this would be a nice present—especially since I wouldn’t have to go to any trouble to pick it out.

Our art tastes aren’t sophisticated. Hanging in the bedroom of our co-owned Camp Sherman cabin is the last piece of art that we bought in Sisters, this “Good Morning!” print. We like the animals stretching.

We had a tough time deciding whether we should buy a canvas or print replication of the wolf painting. The gallery owners patiently answered our questions and then, after I had made an executive, man of the house, its-your-birthday-so-don’t-worry-about-the-price decision to go with canvas, worked with us on choosing a frame and whatever it is you call the stuff that goes between the canvas and the frame (since we had never bought anything other than a print, we were in new territory with this art purchase).

Finally the framing choice was decided upon. I got out my VISA card to pay for the wolf canvas. My name and address was written down in a notebook. Nothing else. “My husband, who does the framing, will remember what sort of frame you want,” we were told by his wife. “I’ll make sure he does.” I trusted her.

Walking back to our car I realized that we didn’t have a receipt for our purchase other than the VISA slip. We didn’t have any record of what piece of art we had bought or what sort of frame was going to be put on it. “Do you think we should go back and get a receipt?” Laurel asked. “No, I said. “This is Sisters. Deals get done with a handshake here.”

It takes longer to shop in Sisters than other places. While we were talking to the gallery owners, friends of theirs kept walking in the door who needed to be greeted with a hug. They’d say, “Sorry for the interruption.” I’d think, “Don’t be sorry for feeling that making human contact is more important than making a quick business deal.”

Don’t change, Sisters. If formula fast-food and other corporate chains are going to keep coming to town, you need to change those businesses to match your small-town character; don’t let them change you.

My satori is near at hand

Clearly my final enlightenment—satori!—is near at hand, for I have bought a book that will lead me there: D.T. Suzuki’s “The Zen Koan as a means of Attaining Enlightenment.”

The clerk at Salem’s Book Bin was suitably impressed with my purchase, telling me “We hope you’ll come back after your enlightenment and share your realization.” I said, “Absolutely. I plan to charge $8 for this dispensation of wisdom, which will enable me to realize a 50 cent profit from buying this $7.50 book.”

Obviously my spiritual motives are pure. So pure that a humble part of me continually whispers, “Brian, you are already enlightened.” I like that voice. I want to trust it. But I don’t want to take any chances with my satori. Though I may already have become one with Buddha nature, I figure it won’t hurt to add to my oneness.

Hence, my purchase of the book. Now, I don’t have a Zen Master, nor do I want one. My Zen transcends spiritual discipline and organized practice, which makes it so easy for me to follow. And also easy for me to confirm my satori, since I don’t have to go through the unappealing process of getting my enlightenment confirmed by someone else.

I’ll decide when my Buddha nature is fully Buddhaized, thank you. And I don’t need a Zen Master to give me a koan either. I’ve got plenty of koans lying right around the house that should work fine to top off my satori tank. Here are some examples of homey koans that defy rational explication.

If our dog has Buddha nature, then why does she always ask to go out just when I have settled down comfortably on the couch?

When my wife’s closet is filled to capacity, how is it possible that she can keep shopping and coming home with more clothes?

After a man has washed the cutting board and returned it to its place still wet, so the board can drip-dry onto the counter, if he does not hear the sound of a woman chastising him, is he still wrong?

And lastly, my favorite koan of all:

If a sentient being already has acquired countless books describing a myriad of spiritual practices, only a few of which are shown here, and each claims in its own unique fashion to convey the truth about ultimate reality, what are the chances of another book making any difference?

Blogging retrospective

I’m in a look-back mood today…

The position I took in “Religious zealots run amok in Terri Schiavo case” has been proven to be absolutely correct, now that the results of Schiavo’s autopsy have been released. Schiavo was brain-dead and blind when Frist and other Christian fundamentalists were claiming that she could recognize people and follow a moving balloon with her eyes. Memo from God to Earth: Science, including neurology, is how you learn about creation—faith is a crock of shit when it comes to knowing reality. (When She speaks through me, God likes to use earthy language to get Her Point across).

I appreciated the comments I got on “Corporation Compliance Recorder scam” from people who found my post via Google and had their suspicion confirmed that sending $95 off to these rip-off artists would be a complete waste of money. Now the Oregon Department of Justice has launched a probe to determine whether the mailings violate the Unlawful Trade Practices Act. Way to go, you 280 people who complained to the Department about this scam (I was one of them).

It’s still outrageous that “Oregon’s climatologist denies global warming,” and I haven’t backed away from my view that George Taylor has fringe views on global warming that are at odds with the consensus of the scientific community. But I will admit that Taylor was right on the money with his prediction of a wet spring. His short-term forecast was good; it’s his long-range outlook on the world’s weather that continues to bother me.

Watching TV last night I saw a report about a machine that may be the solution to the anxieties I expressed in my “Oh, God, I’m shrinking!” post. In China “stretching machines” are being advertised that claim to increase a person’s height. I just noted that the claim is that it can “boost young people’s height,” but I’m willing to, um, stretch the definition of young to include 56 years old. I had been thinking about building a medieval rack torture machine similar to what Mel Gibson found himself on at the end of “Braveheart” (I’d be screaming “taller!” instead of “freedom!”), but this machine looks to be slightly less tortuous.

We’ve learned that the nearby Measure 37 claim that I wrote about in “Measure 37 hits close to our home” has been denied by a Marion County hearings officer, Ann Gasser. Gasser concluded that “It is not clear who the current owners of the subject property are and who should or should not sign the measure 37 compensation claim application form. Under current zoning regulations the subject property cannot be subdivided.” That’s good news. However, the Oregon legislature is considering Measure 37 “reform” bills such as HB 3120 that would make the state’s land use problems worse rather than better. Laurel has testified against HB 3120 and, along with 1000 Friends of Oregon, we urge others to express their opposition.

Lastly, I’ve still got my broadband hopes pinned on “WildBlue satellite internet, my backup to Lucy Liu.” It’s becoming apparent that not even a crazed band of samurai sword-wielding Yakuza would be able to convince the S.O.B.s at Qwest to extend DSL service to our area. So I’m patiently waiting for WildBlue to rescue me from my deathly slow dialup connection. WildBlue installed its first customer early this month, who unfortunately wasn’t me. They keep saying that a Salem-area dealer will be announced in June or July. Before it was the “second quarter.” They’d better not keep slipping on the date or I’ll have to sic Lucy Liu on them.

Political blogger bumper sticker quiz

Here’s a can’t-miss quiz for you. Match this blogger’s car with the political weblog that he or she contributes to. Is it (A) The Oregon Republican Party’s Journal, or (B) BlueOregon? (enlarge the photo by clicking on it to read the bumper stickers).

Answer is here.

Yes, this car belongs to Trey Smith, BlueOregon contributor who was the Socialist Party candidate for Governor in 1998 (I like Trey’s statement in the election guide under “Prior Governmental Experience: none”—to my mind that’s an excellent qualification.) Trey is someone who definitely doesn’t need to go to a How to feel free to publicly express your views workshop.

Laurel and I met Trey and his wife, Della, yesterday afternoon for some tea/lattes at a Salem coffeehouse. I’ve come to know Trey through his The Rambling Taoist weblog, but previously we’d only met in the blogosphere, not in three dimensional reality. We had a good time talking about all sorts of progressive and philosophical subjects.

When I saw “The right-wing blogger aristocracy” post on Daily Kos this morning, I recalled that Trey talked about the fact that the conservative blogs he frequents don’t allow him to post truly independent opinions. He said that they’ll let him agree with a right-wing viewpoint, or mildly disagree, but if he marshals forceful progressive arguments—especially if combined with links that support his conclusion—then his comments get deleted.

That’s precisely the point of Chris Bowers’ political blog analysis, “Aristocratic Right Wing Blogosphere Stagnating,” that was summarized in the Daily Kos post. Bowers says, “The anti-community nature of right-wing blogs has resulted in a stagnant aristocracy within the conservative blogosphere that prevents the emergence of new voices and, as a result, new reasons for people to visit conservative blogs.”

I don’t regularly visit right-wing blogs like Trey does, but recently I came across a mention of a post on the Benton County Republicans blog about the outrageous attempt by House Republicans to defy the will of Oregonians and allow counties to authorize hunting cougars with dogs and bears with bait (of course, the Benton County folks' take was that Democrats were “blocking local management of bear and cougar populations.”

I’d written about this subject myself and wanted to comment on the Benton County Republicans post. However, I found that you have to prove that you’re a registered Republican who lives in Benton County before you can leave a comment. This assures that few dissenting views will be expressed. It also assures that I won’t return to the Benton County Republicans weblog, just as Chris Bowers said, since they only are interested in preaching to the right-wing choir and don’t want to hear any other voices.

The moribund state of conservative blogging in Oregon is reflected in the above-mentioned Oregon Republican Party’s Journal, whose most-recent post is dated April 19. As several people commented on a Blue Oregon post about the site, this blog is horribly designed.

I guess they figured that since President Bush gives most of his speeches in front of a backdrop festooned with the theme of the day—such as “Making America Stronger”—having a conservative blog wallpapered with rows and rows of Oregon Republican Party symbols would be really cool.

It really gives me a headache, as appears to be the case with right-wingers also, given the blog’s death-bed status. R.I.P., Oregon Republican Party’s Journal. You won’t be missed.

Baby robin and headless dog

Laurel is a published photographer—with help from me. At Laurel's request I sent her “Feed Me!” photo of a begging baby robin off to the Salem Statesman-Journal and it was printed today in the Click! section where interesting reader photos are featured (no online access, I'm sorry to say).

It doesn’t look as good in black and white as it does in color, and I wish the newspaper had taken my advice and cropped it as it appeared on my weblog posting. Still, it’s a great shot that required some stealthy sneaking to capture. Congratulations to Laurel.

I’m envious, of course. I’ll probably send off my recent “Headless Dog at Dusk in Daisy Field” photo for consideration by the Statesman-Journal. It shows Serena engaged in one of her absolutely favorite activities: scaring the bejeebers out of field mice, who likely are just about to sit down for field mouse supper when one of the family screams (or, rather, squeaks), “What the _____ is that coming down our mouse hole!”

A gigantic dog nose, that’s what. I’m thinking that “Headless Dog at Dusk in Daisy Field” also is a great title for a collection of my poetry, the only minor glitch in this book plan being that I’ve never written any poetry.

MTV Movie Awards

We watched every minute of the two-hour MTV Movie Awards show last night (except the commercials, naturally). This is a yearly cultural duty for me. At the age of 56, and growing older by the second, I don’t want to become a old fogy who is out-of-touch with what’s happening (though my very use of that archaic term indicates that I probably am).

Nonetheless, rap performances usually make me hit my digital video recorder’s “forward 30 seconds” button repeatedly until the rapper is off the screen. However, I managed to watch all of Eminem’s “song,” or whatever it is you call it, this year. I didn’t understand a word of what he said, but that’s typical.

I grew up listening to Bob Dylan’s 60’s version of rap, such as the great “Maggie’s Farm.” So I’m cool with minimal-melody talking music. The difference is that I could understand what Dylan was saying even though I couldn’t really understand what he meant.

I ain't gonna work for Maggie's pa no more.
No, I ain't gonna work for Maggie's pa no more.
Well, he puts his cigar
Out in your face just for kicks.
His bedroom window
It is made out of bricks.
The National Guard stands around his door.
Ah, I ain't gonna work for Maggie's pa no more.

With Eminem and other rappers, I’m pretty sure I’d get their meaning if I could get their words. I don’t sense a lot of subtlety with rap. Eminem seemed to be saying something about his mother and childhood, judging from the photos flashing on the screen behind him, so his incessant crotch-grabbing seemed incongruous—except perhaps as a reminder of the act that resulted in his birth.

Usually I can find answers to anything on the Internet. Searching for “rap crotch grabbing meaning” is a mostly dry hole on Google, aside from a reference to a promising scholarly article that I’d have to either pay $12 or join the American Anthropology Association to be able to read. I did come across a theory that “rappers spend entire shows with their hands glued to their balls, fearing the intense bass vibrations will shake them out of the sack.” Could be.

I also learned that ex-Sen. Zell Miller, the Democratic turncoat who gave an insane speech at last year’s Republican national convention, is really down on rap and crotch grabbing. Now I’m feeling better about the practice, since if Zell Miller hates it there must a good reason to like it.

On the positive side of the MTV Movie Awards, child actress Dakota Fanning was too adorable for words. Which means I should shut up, but that’s not my style. Fanning has amazing poise and presence. Not just for an 11 year old—for anybody. She was our favorite winner, along with Dustin Hoffman. Hoffman did a nice riff on Eminem’s crotch-grabbing. He thanked several people associated with “Meet the Fockers” with a crotch grab, including his wife. I hope Eminem was watching and now realizes how ridiculous he looks (fat chance).

All in all I came away pleased that I’d seen a good share of the movies that won awards. The MTV Movie Awards are determined by MTV viewers, so I must still have some psychic connections with youth culture. Of movies that won an award I had seen Napoleon Dynamite, Mean Girls, Meet the Fockers, and Kill Bill Vol. 2. Hey, that’s four out of ten, not too bad for an old fogey.

And I should get extra credit for having seen a comparatively obscure nominated film, “Harold & Kumar Go To White Castle.” A Christian Science Monitor review said, “The multicultural cast gives a shred of substance to what's otherwise a standard adolescent gross-out flick.”

Dude! Standard adolescent gross-out flick—that’s my sort of movie, though I have to admit that “Harold & Kumar” can’t compare to Cheech and Chong’s body of work in the “stoner cinema” category.

Humor and facts demolish homophobia

Humor is a great way of revealing the idiocy of bigotry. The next time somebody says to you, “If gays are able to marry, it will destroy the institution of marriage,” respond with “How true. That’s just the point a woman made in ‘How my Marriage was Destroyed by the Homosexual Agenda.’ You should read this revealing essay.”

It’s a great piece of satire. Here’s a sample:

Constance turned on the radio in the kitchen to the Christian AM station we always listen to, and that's when our family's fate was finally sealed. The Lord's news update was saying that gay people in San Francisco were being allowed to get married right then and there!

Constance turned around suddenly, with a strange look on her face that I had never seen before. All of a sudden, she started running towards the front door, ripping off her clothes. The last I saw of her, she was skipping down the street, wearing nothing but a flower in her hair, screaming, "I'm sexually promiscuous now! Does anyone want to have some casual sex so that I can get a sexually transmitted disease and then have an abortion?

The Oregon Senate is about to vote on a civil unions bill. A Salem Statesman-Journal article reveals that facts never stand in the way of right-wing attitudes towards homosexuality. At a hearing on the bill Sen. Charles Starr, R-Hillsboro, said:

(1) “Civil unions aren’t good for the people who would be in them.” Um, why don’t you ask the people who would form civil unions whether they think civil unions are good for them?

(2) “The record shows homosexual activity is not normal.” The record? What record? Do you mean this 768 page book, “Biological Exuberance: Animal Homosexuality and Natural Diversity,” that (quoting from a Publishers Weekly review) shows that “450 species engage in both sustained and occasional ‘gay,’ ‘lesbian’ and transgendered pairing, parenting and play”?

(3) “Neither the mouth nor the anus were intended for sexual intercourse.” Well, a lot of people are, let’s say, missing the point. From the Kinsey Institute FAQ on Sex Practices: “27% of men and 19% of women have had oral sex in the past year…and 10% of men and 9% of women have had anal sex in the past year.”[Note: this oral sex figure seems low to me. Are we that much different from Czechs, who report a 70% frequency?”]

The bonobo, an African ape closely related genetically to humans, is a notoriously diverse in its sexual practices. According to the National Geographic, “Studies suggest 75 percent of bonobo sex is nonreproductive and that nearly all bonobos are bisexual.” No one is saying that humans should act like animals, but here’s a fact for Sen. Starr and his fellow homophobes: we are animals.

The National Geographic article goes on to say, “So how far can we go in using animals to help us understand human homosexuality? Robin Dunbar is a professor of evolutionary psychology at the University of Liverpool, England. ‘The bottom line is that anything that happens in other primates, and particularly other apes, is likely to have strong evolutionary continuity with what happens in humans,’ he said.”

Homosexuality is normal. That’s a fact. Civil unions, and ideally marriages, for homosexuals should be part of normal human culture. Facts can be denied by those with fundamentalist blinders on. But they’re still facts.

Is killing cougars a wildlife service?

“Wildlife Services.” The name of this USDA (U.S. Department of Agriculture) agency has such a nice ring to it. It conjures up a picture of distressed animals being tended to by kindly government employees. “How may I serve you today?” a needy deer or bear is asked when it gets to the front of the Wildlife Services clinic waiting line.

The home page of the agency’s website tries to convey this sort of benign image. The reality is much different, as Laurel and I described on a “Coyotes don’t need killing by USDA Wildlife Services” page that we put up when a neighbor tried to get the agency to come into our neighborhood and protect unnatural feral cats by killing natural coyotes. The agency should be named “Wildlife Needless Destruction Services,” because that’s what they do.

An article in yesterday’s Oregonian about killing cougars reminded us of how useless and ill-informed Wildlife Services is. About two and a half years ago the agency’s director in Oregon, Dave Williams, and a local employee, Brian Thomas, became adept at not returning Laurel’s phone calls. She merely wanted to know why a federal agency was willing to trap, poison, or shoot coyotes because they were killing feral cats.

Figuring that Wildlife Services would be happy to get some publicity about the “valuable” services they provide, Laurel told Williams and Thomas that a newspaper reporter was prepared to cover their coyote killing/feral cat protecting. I guess Wildlife Services is publicity-shy, because they never came out to our neighborhood.

But Wildlife Services is killing lots of wildlife elsewhere. In 2003 this report says that about 76,000 coyotes, 2,500 bobcats, 4,800 foxes, 500 badgers, 460 cougars, 330 bears, and 190 wolves were killed. What a marvelous waste of taxpayer money.

It’s estimated that 2.7% of cattle and calf losses are due to predation and 97.3% to other causes. Plus, shouldn’t ranchers be protecting their own livestock? Why is a government agency killing coyotes on a ranch for free when there isn’t enough money for Medicaid to protect children against diseases?

And killing coyotes just results in more coyotes. As I wrote about before, some people have the anthropomorphic attitude that coyotes go up to the body of Joe Coyote, shot by an angry sheep owner, and say, “Ooops. We've got to get out of this neighborhood. Look at what happened to good ol' Joe.” Actually, research suggests that the more likely inner dialogue is, “Oh boy, Joe is finally out of the way. Now we can all move up a level toward the Alpha Coyote status we've been hankering for.” At least, this is the male attitude. The females think, “Oh my, I've got to have more coyote babies now to keep our numbers up. Better get breeding.”

Similarly, a chart accompanying the Oregonian article shows that the number of cougars killed in Oregon has risen from 229 in 1992 to 408 in 2005. Yet, “State wildlife managers say Oregon is home to 5,000 to 6,000 cougars, nearly twice as many as a decade ago, despite increased hunting in that time.”

Where’s the problem? There hasn’t been a single cougar attack on a human in Oregon. Yet, strangely, the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife is advising people not to hike alone. People attack other people in Oregon infinitely more often than cougars attack people (in my admittedly mathematically-challenged mind, the ratio of 0 to any other number is infinite). So why aren’t we being advised to never walk along the sidewalk alone, or never be in a parking lot alone?

Expanding on my earlier thesis that humans are irrationally afraid of cougars because these animals are tougher than us in a fair fight, I’d add that what has been called the “Fuck it or kill it (FIKI)” hormone (namely, testosterone) almost certainly is at play here also. Today Laurel and I were appalled, but not surprised, to see a photo of a man with a recently-killed 31 point buck on the back page of the Statesman-Journal’s sports section.

The man called the killing a “once in a lifetime deal.” If he thinks that this is one of his great accomplishments in life, that’s pathetic. I understand the pressure of primal “FIKI” urges, but being a human animal means something more than merely being an animal. We should be able to look upon a noble fellow creature, such as a 31 point buck, without feeling the urge to do anything else.

Just look. If it's a danger, then deal with it. If it isn't, and such will almost always be the case, then leave it alone.

Those who look upon other animals like cougars and coyotes simply as a life that deserves to be snuffed out are falling prey to their own atavistic FIKI selves. They should be worrying about what’s killing their own humanity.

Oh God, I’m shrinking!

Today I was pleased to find HinesSight listed on BlueOregon’s “Blogwire” of progressive Oregon blogs. However, I’m feeling really regressive at the moment, having discovered that I’m shrinking.

In my baby book I found a chart, prepared by yours truly, of how I progressed to a height of 6 feet 1 ½ inches by June, 1967 when I was 19 years old. Now, at the age of 56, I’ve regressed to 6 feet ½ inch. I’m back to where I was at 17 years old.

When I made this chart I never figured that I’d be adding declining entries. It’s a good thing that I’ve got a dozen blank lines left.

It’s my wife’s fault, of course. Not that I’m shrinking, but that I know I’m shrinking. Laurel came back from a doctor’s visit recently saying, “The nurse measured me and I’ve lost about half an inch.” She wasn’t happy about it. “I’ve always been 5 feet 7 inches,” Laurel said. “Now I’m not.”

I suggested that we measure her again. “Maybe the nurse made a mistake.” Tape measure in hand I backed her up against the wall that separates our kitchen and pantry. I noticed some writing on the wood.

“Look,” I said. “We measured ourselves before, in 12/98.” With a yard stick I carefully calibrated a new level measuring mark as Laurel strained to stretch out her height, just as I remember kids doing in elementary school. I penciled in a new mark on the wall. We both rushed to inspect it.

“Yes, you’ve lost a half inch,” I said, striving to convey as much husbandly compassion as I could muster. “But you’re still taller than the average woman. Don’t worry, everybody shrinks as they get older.”

Oops. What had I just said? Everybody. Could I be part of “everybody”? Nah, not me. I’m healthy; I’m fit; I’m unique. “Let’s measure you,” I heard Laurel saying, as if from a far distance. “Why? I’m sure I’m the same height.” “OK, but let’s check anyway.”

I reluctantly backed up to the wall. I visualized my legs, spine, and neck elongating, stretching to the heavens. I breathed in vital chi. I mentally chanted “Om” to attune my height vibrations with the ever-expanding cosmos. And then I nervously stepped back to look at the new mark Laurel had made.

“Goddamn it! I’ve lost a half inch! I’m f____ing shrinking!” I screamed. “Don’t be so upset,” Laurel said. “I’ve lost a half inch too.” “But…but…you’re you; this is me.”

At moments like these, when my life is falling down around me, I need reassurance from a trusted friend who never lets me down: the Internet. I ran downstairs to my office and logged on.

A WashingtonPost.com article, “Downsizing,” reassured me somewhat. Shrinking is a normal aging process, I read. “A large, long-term study in Baltimore found that between the ages of 30 and 70, men lost an average of 1 ¼ inches and women two inches. By age 80, the loss had increased to two inches for the men and three inches for the women.”

OK. I’m 56 and I’ve already lost an inch from my maximum height. That only leaves me a quarter inch to lose in the next 14 years if I want to be average. And who wants to be average? I want to be better than average. Of course, I started out quite a bit taller than average, so maybe it makes sense that I’ll lose more inches than the average.

I wasn’t feeling much better after reading the article. When my daughter, Celeste, came to visit a few days later I decided to share my feelings with her. “I’m shrinking, Celeste.” “That’s because you’re going downhill, Dad. You’re going to die one day. Face it.”

She may also have said something more positive, but these are the words that stick in my mind: “You’re going to die. Why are you so afraid of death?” “Gee. Celeste, I don’t know. Um, maybe because there’s a really good chance that I’m not going to exist any more. Why, yes. That might be the reason.”

It’s hard for me to face the prospect of my bodily non-existence. I suppose I should feel grateful that nature gradually is easing me into that inevitability by steadily shrinking my body. When I measured my 1998 height mark I found that seven years ago I was 6 feet 1 inch. I’d already lost half an inch by the age of 50. Seven years later, I’ve lost another half inch.

At this rate, if I live to be 100 I’ll be about five feet tall. And Laurel will be about four and a half feet. We’ll be two wizened midgets.

One of Laurel’s favorite sayings is “I don’t like growing old!” Me neither. But the alternative sure isn’t appealing. I guess I’ll just have to try to shrink gracefully.

See you around. Look down for me.

Sweating and crying through the National Spelling Bee

There was quite a bit of sweating and crying going on during the National Spelling Bee finals today. Not so much among the contestants—they mostly were calm and composed. I was the one with jangling nerves and teary eyes during the competition.

I’d never watched the National Spelling Bee before. I needed some mindless TV entertainment to pay bills by, so I channel-surfed my way to ESPN. It took me a long time to write the checks once I got hooked on the highly mindful spelling competition. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the children who strode one by one up to the front of the stage and confidently tackled words that I had never even heard of, much less spelled.

You need to know your Latin, Greek, and French roots to be a champion speller, that’s for sure. Otherwise, the finalists had diverse spelling styles. Some would scribble out the word on a placard hanging around their neck before saying their final answer. Others would simply look into the distance and spell a word letter by letter, visualizing it mentally rather than physically.

The top three spellers apparently were all ethnic Indians, at least in part: Anurag Kashyap spelled “appoggiatura” correctly to become the champion (it means “an embellishing note or tone”). Samir Sudhir Patel missed a letter in “roscian” (“skilled in acting”) and earned second place. A girl, Aliya Robin Deri, flamed out on “trouvaille” (“a lucky find”), one of the few champion-level words that I actually knew how to spell myself.

The CNN article above has a “test your spelling skills” link where you can get a mild taste for the competition. Mild, because you’re presented with four alternative spellings for a word that you’re given the phonetic pronunciation and definition for, and merely have to choose the correct one. I got nine out of ten correct, uttering a coarse expletive when I missed #10 and my chance to “rule the hive.”

By contrast, Anurag, Samir, and Aliya were perfectly courteous whether in victory or defeat. These are three hugely impressive children, as were the rest of the contestants. And again, all Indian.

I mention their ethnicity not because it has anything to do with being a champion speller (though perhaps it does), but to contrast what I saw on the stage of the National Spelling Bee with the America that I earlier saw William Simon (a conservative who ran for governor of California in 2002) expounding on C-Span.

Simon was giving some sort of Heritage Foundation talk, judging by the banner hanging behind his podium. He was blathering on, as is his wont, about how the United States is a Christian nation, with 90% of our citizens believing in Jesus. Simon said that religion (Christianity, obviously) should be taught in schools because it is so obviously part of our culture.

A Pakistani audience member rose and told Simon that he couldn’t believe in Christ, but that the Koran contained many references to Jesus and Mary. He wondered what sort of place he had in America, given Simon’s remarks.

It was interesting to see how William Simon changed his tune when faced with a real live non-Christian standing before him, rather than with merely his own abstract political/theological notions. Here he was, having to answer an obviously intelligent, concerned, caring person who didn’t believe how he did.

Simon said that everybody had a right to their own faith or lack of faith, but that 90% of Americans believed in a higher power. A few minutes before it was “in Jesus;” now it was “in a higher power.” Such is the slipperiness of politicians confronted with their own bigotry and desiring to appear more broad-minded than they really are.

I didn’t see any religion displayed on the stage of the National Spelling Bee. Why would I? It didn’t have any place there. Nor does it in our public schools, except in an educational sense. Children should learn about religions in the classroom; but they shouldn’t practice religion in the classroom.

About 74% of the people of India are Hindu; 12% are Muslim; 6% are Christian. Probably the breakdown of Indians living in the United States is around the same, which means that it is highly unlikely that the three spelling champions I watched on ESPN today all believe in Jesus. Yet William Simon and other Christian-right zealots want to have Christianity become the state religion and be practiced openly in the classroom.

Observing the intelligence, poise, and character of Anurag, Samir, and Aliya today, what I want taught in the classroom is what they have learned. It doesn’t have anything to do with religion; it has everything to do with realizing the full potential of being human.

William Simon has much to learn in this regard. Those three children could teach him a lot.