caveat emptor

UNTITLED ENTRY NUMBER 610

When life hands you lemons throw lemons at life. When life hands you three lemons, juggle. When life hands your gators, make Gatorade. When life hands you a pamphlet about some issue or a deaf mute card asking for money or a religious tract, just smile and hand it back to life and get the hell away. If life tries to hand you an envelope, don't take it. It's probably a subpoena. Why the hell is life always handing things to people? "You've got to hand it to these people," life says. Ah well. That's life.

Yesterday, while browsing news articles and watching the crap these candidates have to put up with — the petty, snippy stupidity — I just felt sorry for them. I think Obama, for example, should just drop out of the race. I would were I him. I'd just day, "Fuck all you people," and go somewhere and be happy with my family for the rest of my life. I couldn't handle the process. I'd go ballistic. I'd have to hurt some people up in here. Seriously, dude. Just walk away. We're not worth it. Let Hillary be president. Who cares? Yes you can, but why would you want to.

But, you know, that's just me. I'm silly and pointless like that.

Hello, friends. What's up with you?

Love.

StatCounter Always Asks If I Want to Increase My Log Size

Once again the media shows its bias. According to these four emails I just finished reading in detail, there are some really astonishing breakthroughs being made in the science of making your penis bigger. As ubiquitous as this story is in the grassroots medium of email (I've gotten almost 500 emails about it this month alone!), I can't find a single thing about these breakthroughs on any of the major news websites. I wonder why? Why won't you talk about this, Wolf Blitzer? I'm sure, with a name like Wolf or Stone, you guys are already touting around giant, impressive man-rods, but there are millions of men in your target demographic who could probably benefit from this information. And the talk shows? I mean, it's obvious why this impacts Ellen very little, but I would expect Oprah and Dr. Phil to be excited about increasing the average American meat heft (especially Dr. Phil.) Don't snicker like a school boy! Don't be Victorian and bashful! Dick size matters! Do your job, Bill O'Reilly and the liberal media machine!

I apologize for that previous paragraph. Please don't read anything into it.

Hello, friends. How (big) are you today?

Love.

Afternoon Haunts

It's an old, abandoned graveyard — tombstones cracked and mildewed, statues with black, lichen tears molder and decay — on a sunny spring afternoon. Butterflies and dragonflies in the warm afternoon breeze light on sepulchers and crypts. There is a different quiet than you might imagine among the graves, the soft buzzing and chirping quiet of the daytime meadow. It's a setting out place. All the ghosts have blown away across the field and are caught, flapping, in the highest limbs of the line of trees along the road. The reaper has shed his robes and is taking a dip in the nearby stream. It's a zombie picnic scene in the dreamy afternoon.

Paul sits at the end of the otherwise empty bar drooping like excess out of steam. More dust than you can imagine swims in the bright contrast of sun pouring midday through the small, high window beside the liquor shelves. A song you've never heard and won't remember when you hear it again plays reluctantly from the crooked speaker on the back wall, stiff wire snaking awkwardly from behind it to an unfinished hole poked through the cheap wallboard two feet below and slightly to the left. Paul is not in a noticing frame of mind but his blinking eye watches the slow journey of a single drop of condensation crawling down his glass to join its brothers and sisters in the sloppy pool below. Low self-esteem, I suppose, brings him here out of season when the place is lowly and sad. He's never felt adequate for evening, when nighttime raises the bar.

When the sun shines on my grave it warms my soul. The Greeks share one word, pneuma, for spirit and wind and air, haunted softly by the sweet scent of wildflowers on this waltzing afternoon breeze.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

What We Don't Know and What We Know

For the entire first year of his acquaintance with her he spent eight hours each day for five days each week working within twenty feet of her. Were one to add these numbers together or multiply them in seemingly obvious ways, one might come to a conclusion about the two of them, but that conclusion would be wrong. One should not feel embarrassed by this misfiguring. The calculus of human interaction is complicated and many of the variables are unknown. In truth, for that entire year he didn't even know her name. He thought he knew her name, but he had misheard it. Her name was actually something else. He worked mechanically among the machines to fulfill customer orders and then handed her binders and folders and books and stacks of warm, smelly printouts. She took them from his hand dozens of times each day. He didn't even know her name.

Dave once suggested to me that psychiatrists, psychologists and counselors are actually always just trying to figure out themselves. In saying this Dave demonstrated a common error, in my opinion. A truth, Dave, is not always a universal truth. Replace "always" with "sometimes" and get rid of "just" and I think you have a nice little truth there. It does not follow, however, that your truth is always applicable. It's not an absolute truth. It's subjective. There is only one absolute in the world, and this sentence is it. (The previous sentence is a formula I've created to replace the tired interchange in which one person says, "There are no absolutes" and another person replies, "Oh really? Are there absolutely no absolutes?" and then turns to high-five his frat buddies.)

Later in life he never felt comfortable when talking about how he met her, working in that little printing shop so many years ago. He always felt strange because, as far as he was concerned, that odd, backwards kid who met her wasn't him. That kid met her and then, together with her, began building the him that stood here today. "I never met her," he wanted to say. "He met her. I, on the other hand, have always known her."

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Love.

Not Much to Say. Must Be Picture Day.

Not much to say today. I forced River to drive a couple of times this weekend. It made him nervous, but he did okay (not well, but okay.) I let my nephew, Josh, borrow my car to take a date to a high school dance on Saturday night. He brought it back in one piece. You know, life stuff. It happens.

Instead of a lot of talking, I thought I'd post some picture today. My sister-in-law, Katie, took them (she's Susan's twin sister.) Here they are.

		Here are River (16 now) and his girlfriend, Jennifer. They're an adorable couple.
Rayn (12 now) eats cake.
		Robyn (14 now) makes a face.
This is a great picture of Holly (my niece) and Rayn. The were the world's first conjoined cousins. This is just before the surgery.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

P. S. - A while back Karindira sent me an email suggesting that I submit something to Einstein's Tongue, a new online journal that was seeking submissions. I did, and they included a few of my things in their first issue. Cool! Thanks, Karindira. Thanks for stopping by, everyone.

My Literati Does 185

If you wake up one day and find that you are a character in a Dostoevsky novel, it might occur to you to wonder whether you are a major character who will feature in the foreground of the book or a minor character who may be much discussed but stays in the background. Here is how you can know: Are people calling you by a single name or by your full name? If people are calling you by a single name, especially by a nickname for your complicated Russian first name, then you are a main character. If people are calling you by your first and last name together, and if your full name is being used in places where people would commonly use pronouns, then you are a minor character. Not only that, but you may not survive for the duration of the novel. Sorry about that, Ilopetryona Ivaskovnavitchnakov.

This reminds me of a question that's been plaguing me. Maybe you've been wondering about it too. Here it is: If there were an Olympics of Pathology — a contest in which the most pathological person wins — would a Dostoevsky protagonist beat an Edgar Allan Poe protagonist? Would it be a tie? Which one would fall apart on the gold medal platform and which one would collapse into a trembling meltdown on the silver medal platform? I've been wondering this. You?

As you can undoubtedly tell from this post, the writers' strike is over.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Bread Metaphor Day. Breadaphor Day.

Some people live life like baking bread. Don't you love bread? Really good bread? I do. I have no idea how to bake really good bread. It seems mysterious and magical to me. The impression that I get is that most people throw dice when they bake bread. They do the same things they did last time and just hope. Sometimes the bread is good and sometimes it's not good. There are some people, however, who can actually consistently bake really good bread. Some people live life like this. They just know how. It just works for them. Not me. Some days are too hard and flat. Some are too doughy and raw. Some days are burnt. Really good bread days, the kind you slice when they're still hot and slather with butter that melts in like nirvana, these are few and far between for me. It's okay, though. I have low standards. I don't mind gnawing on the stale or overcooked days of my daily bread.

I marvel, sometimes, at effective people. Are you like that? When you have something you need to do and all the time and resources you need to get it done, do you actually get it done? I don't. I always scramble. Sometimes I just don't do things. I get away with it by being obviously brilliant and talented in other ways. The crap I throw together at the last minute (or later) is often quite good, though rough and obviously disorganized. This is just enough to keep me in good graces. Once in a blue moon I will actually get an assigned task, plan for it, execute it and accomplish it on time like a good boy. I'm always quite elated when I do this, my tail wagging as I drop the paper at your feet, but I cannot make a pattern of it. I just sit and think too much and I really enjoy doing so. Some people seem to think you can just choose to be whomever you wish to be. Either they're wrong or this is, when it's all said and done, just the way I want to be.

Some people have those machines that bake bread for you. These are the same sorts of people who would never want to be unplugged from The Matrix. These are android people and their bread, though tasty, implants little nanobots into your blood that slowly turn you into a piece of furniture or an appliance or a lamp. It's true. Damn square robot bread.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Love.

Pulling Out Early

I'm withdrawing from the race for president. I can see at this point that it's pointless. (Can it be pointless at a point? Hmmm...) I take full blame for the failure of this campaign, I haven't run the thing very well. I can see that now. Not only have I failed to secure a sufficient delegate lead to cement the nomination, I haven't gotten a single! delegate vote today, mortal nor super. Why? Well, I failed to get on the ballots in every state so far. I just missed the deadlines and didn't get the papers in. I've been extremely busy and distracted. I'm pretty sure, in fact, that the paperwork to even apply to be a candidate is crumpled under the passenger seat in my car. I haven't filed a single document, I haven't written a single speech, I haven't stumped, I haven't opened a single regional field office. This campaign has been, quite literally, a joke.

At least I never went negative.

Now that I've withdrawn, will I accept, if offered, the vice-presidency? Hmmm... is it a hard job? What do you actually have to do? I'm not really good at "duties" and all of that. I'm not turning down the job, I just need a little clarification.

Oh well. I've got about 25,000 "Let's Put the White Back in White House!" bumper stickers if you want one. I don't recommend you put them on your car, though. People misunderstand them. "No. White is just my last name," I try to tell people, but they still get pissed. I think I'm going to take mine off my car.

Hello, friends. Remember my "Yes We Can!" speech? Well, apparently we can't. Sorry. What's happening in your world?

Love.

Jyburysh

The following is gibberish: Science has proven that we all actually know and remember the same things. Psychologists and experts are convinced that we have all experienced the same things. Mathematicians and statisticians have come to the conclusion that we are all the same person. Thought leaders are sleeping in our bed, wearing your clothes, being intimate with your lover. Everything is the one thing we have in common. Some people accept this conclusion and some people don't.

For my birthday Susan bought the family tickets, at my request, to see Ladysmith Black Mambazo at the Bass Hall. She got a private box at stage level, the closest box to the stage. We went last night. The seats were amazing. I really enjoyed the music, and Susan and the kids were all good sports about it, though I suspect they were mostly bored. It was a lovely evening.

	Bass Hall is an amazing theatre.
See the bottom box near the stage over there? We were sitting in an identical box across from it.
	Here's a terrible camera-phone picture of the group.

I rarely listen to experts in non-technical fields. I'm not sure you can be an expert in humanities or the social sciences. Where humanity is concerned, both the object is too subjective and the subject has questionable objectives. We lack the proper instruments to measure and the proper metrics to express the findings. Interpretation of the data is impossible. The preceding was gibberish.

Hello, friends. I have nothing to say today. I hope you are well. Are you?

Love.

The Providence or the Coincidence of Just Enough

Winter is the cold of the universe creeping in where the sun does not exert its will. Winter is a glimpse of what will happen if this rock is still around when the sun winks out. It's not foreshadowing, however. Shadow is the contrast created by potential light. Pure darkness, the lack of light, is what winter foretells.

It's easy to moralize, to make ethical implications from, these metaphors. The sun and the light and the warmth are good because we need them. We are creatures with a narrow band of environmental tolerance. We personify forces destructive to us as evil. How could we do otherwise?

There is no spite in the death of a star. The universe is not driven by passions. The indifference of the universe is not an indictment of your personal value. The universe does not begrudge you the right to build a fire, to huddle close, to eat and drink and live. The universe just spins and spins and spins and spins. You are welcome to ride along.

Then there is, if there is, god. Does she reach in to re-spark the sun? Does he warm you with his breath? Will they cup you in their hands? Will you wake up in a better place? The universe will let it happen. The universe does not begrudge you escape. Perhaps the universe worships as well. In the end I guess we'll know.

For now we bask, if we can, in the providence or the coincidence of just enough sun, just enough water, just enough food. It's enough to make you feel grateful, or at least lucky.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Simple. Real.

When I was a music minister in a Pentecostal church I had some of these same thoughts. I was, in many ways, a very different person, but I'm realizing more and more that I was still me, even then. Here is an example.

A big part of the Pentecostal religious experience is the open expression of emotion. This is not a bad thing, though, like all things, it can become detrimental when carried to excess. Despite the reputation of Pentecostal churches, they do not always carry emotion to excess. It happens more often than it should, no doubt, but it doesn't always happen.

Music plays a major role in the emotional expression of these churches. Music – fast or slow, aggressive or ethereal – can seriously stimulate emotion, even manipulate it. In Pentecostal churches it is not uncommon, after an effective, compelling presentation by a preacher, to have an altar call. The altar is what Pentecostals call the area at the front of the church, between the pews and the pulpit. There are often benches or rails around which people can kneel and pray. An altar call is an invitation to come to the altar area to pray or repent or worship or be saved. In churches like these most people, out of some combination of personal conviction, habit or peer pressure, are compelled to respond and make their way to the altar.

During altar calls, the musicians typically play. Depending on the desired mood, the music might be raucous and energetic or it might be rousing and inspirational. The music shapes the experience. It might be touching and sentimental or it might incite a frenzy. If it doesn't get out of hand – and it typically didn't in the types of churches I attended – it can be like an emotional purging. It can be healthy, though it isn't always.

When I was the music leader during these altar calls, every now and then I would feel a nagging discomfort with what was happening. Sometimes I would be overcome with the feeling that the whole thing was too engineered, too calculated, too fake. On more than one occasion, in fact, I asked the musicians to stop. The effect of the silence was like the pulling of a plug. "This is the sound of the world," I said. "There is no mood music in real life." For the most part, I don't think people appreciated it when I did that. It just seemed right to me at the time, however. It was, and is, a part of who I am.

These days I am not really a religious person. This morning, however, I am having that same feeling. This morning I have the music off. This morning I am listening to the simple sounds of the world around me. This morning I feel as though we might have too many special occasions in life and not enough appreciation for how special any given occasion can be. This morning I feel as though we celebrate celebrities too much, as though they are something more than any given person at hand. This morning I do not feel worried or depressed or critical of the world. Instead, I feel aware of the reality of the world all around me.

I feel pretty good today about simple life and simple people and the simple sound of my fingers tapping out these last few words.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

P. S. - This is my 600th post on this blog. Wow. That seems like a lot, especially since I ran out of interesting things to say after post number 13 or so. Thanks for stopping by.

Love Day. Love.

Little boy and little girl love, casual love that just met yesterday, you might be able to contain these in the shallow marketing vehicle that is Valentine's Day. Commercial actors, advertising executives and advertiser-funded commentators on media "human interest" segments can all go straight to hell for the audacity to assume they can tell a real person how they should express real love for another real person. My love is not your business opportunity.

Susan, I love you with the full force of everything we are and everything we've done and everything we've had. I love you with seventeen years of my life and all of my money and lots of the money I've not even earned yet and all of the life I have left. I love you with three whole new people that didn't even exist when we met, three people we built together. I love you with three apartments, two rent houses and two owned houses. I love you with eight dogs, seven hamsters and thirteen cars. No card and no flower and no candy and no jewelry could possibly express how much I love you.

Of course, I'll be getting you a little bit of that kind of stuff too from time to time, just for kicks. Happy Valentine's Day.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Words in Places

I'm not sure who's in charge of putting up all the signs in the world, but I don't find them very useful. We could do a lot better. I'd like to see a road sign that says, "A cop usually hides right over this hill." I'd like to see a sign on a men's restroom that says, "You should probably go somewhere else." There should be neon arrows in bars that point at various people and flash words like "douchebag" or "will rape you" or "she's a man."

I want a bumper sticker that says, "My Other Bumper Sticker Isn't Funny Either" and another one that says, "See? I Told You." This is my new business plan, paired bumper stickers. I'm not going to actually follow the business plan, though, so feel free to steal the idea from me. If you get rich, send me a couple of bumper stickers.

Have you ever thought about how much fun you could have as an ironic sky-writer? Here are some of the things I'd write:

• DON'T MOVE! THIS IS A STICKUP!
• I CAN SEE DOWN YOUR SHIRT
• HONK IF YOU'RE BLIND!
• DOES ANYONE KNOW HOW TO SPELL ARMAGEDIN?
• WORSHIP ME OR DIE!
• MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS
• I CAN FLYS AIRPLN?
• PILOT UNCONSCIOUS! SEND HELP!
• DON'T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU READ
• CLICK HERE TO BEGIN

Hello, friends. What would you write?

Love.

pheemail

People often ask me, "Do you find it difficult, in your stories, to write female characters?" I have to be honest, it can be a struggle. I am, after all, a man. I've always been a man, except when I was a boy. I've never been a girl nor a woman. I've never been a chick, broad, skirt, lady or dame. I've always been a dude, guy, hombre, gentleman or fellow. So, how do I write women characters? Well, I have one key secret. I find it works for me. Here it is: Whenever you're writing about a protagonist who is a woman, always substitute the pronouns "she", "her" and "hers" for "he", "him" and "his" when referring to himher. Good luck with that.

All things considered, I think women characters have come a long way in literature. There was a day when women characters were only allowed to feel regret, compassion, longing or jealousy. Editors would actually go through books and label female dialogue with R, C, L or J. Anything that couldn't be labeled was struck. Nowadays^*, women characters are allowed to feel the full range of human emotion, though many writers do not have the mastery of basic humanity required to take full advantage of this new freedom. It's not uncommon, these days, to see women characters angry, outraged, randy, precocious, melancholy, coy or even amused. It makes for a more well-rounded body of available reading, and I think it's a good thing.

People often ask me, "Which women writers have had the greatest influence on you?" At this point I have often had enough.

"Why are all of your questions about women?" I'll ask. "I hardly know anything about women. I don't even write about them that often."

"Oh," the interrogator will say, "I didn't realize you were sensitive about the topic of women."

"I'm not," I'll say, involuntarily raising my voice a little. "I just don't understand why all of the questions are about women."

"I think you're exaggerating," they'll respond condescendingly. "We've asked you many questions about many different topics. If you're uncomfortable, however, we'll..."

"Emily Dickinson and Harper Lee," I'll blurt suddenly. "Anything else?"

They'll stare at me blankly for just a second, and then, packing away their things, they'll say "No, that's probably enough."

Hello, friends. Was I just imagining it? Was it just me?

Love.

^* It might be ironic, though I can never quite tell these days, that the expression "nowadays" is a way people used in days past to describe days present.

Game and Test and Joke (In That Order)

It's a little game: Count, using the fingers of each hand, the fingers on the other hand. Count the left hand backwards with the right hand. Count the right hand forwards with the left hand. Do this aloud, alternating back and forth from right to left. Clap once after every prime number and once before every composite number. (Remember that one is not considered prime by most modern mathematicians.) When you get to the end and have counted each finger, and this is the hard part, do a triple-backflip in the air and nail the landing. I call the game "Flippo!" Have fun!

[scene]

After much analysis and refactoring, I have finally reduced the multiple choice test down to it's essential form. Here it is:

1. Which of the choices below is the answer?

A. This one is the answer.
B. No, this one is the answer.

What do you think? Some say I've ignored the a few basic and distinct concepts by omitting things like "None of the above", "All of the above", and "Both A and B." (which would, of course, necessitate the inclusion of at least one more answer in order to differentiate it from "All of the above"). I don't know. To me, those are still just answers. They only differ in the fact that they refer to other answers, but that is not, in my opinion, a difference of essence, just content. I've thought about it so much, however, that I can't think clearly about it anymore. I'm getting testy.

[scene]

Did you hear that the DNC has given Hillary a supergrammy?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

P. S. - I wish so badly that I were cool enough to have a band, because I've thought of the perfect band name of all time. It's the name of the band in my soul, the greatest band of all time. Ready? Here it is: The Supermans. Isn't it awesome! It is, trust me. Thanks for stopping by.

The Ultimate! (So Far)

I for one use Roman numerals, and Roman numerals use I for one. It's a concept palindrome.

I'm trying to get into shape for my boxing match. I'm running around this economically depressed 1970's neighborhood in flannel and sweats. You can see my breath because it's cold out here in the grey morning. I have indomitable spirit. I'm running faster and faster. I start to lift cars and hold them over my head while I run. I'm looking for stairs to climb or a mountain, piling more cars and buses on top of my load. I'm haunted by a dismal past, by broken dreams. I'm a broken man, but there's still fight in me. I'm punching buildings over. Someone should write a book about me. When I reach the top, I roar.

In some of the lesser known writings of Sigmund Freud, the one's I'm just making up right now, he talked at length about being all you can be. "You can be anything you want, if you believe it hard enough!" he said, smiling encouragingly. "I believe in you! You're a can do kid!"

The beginning flip flopped. The middle was rocky. The end wasn't true at all. Maybe it's just me, but I think this is the best thing Scott has ever written.

Hello, friends. Tell me what you're thinking RIGHT NOW!

Love.

People. Skills.

I've been doing a lot of serious thinking about a particular topic, and I've come to an important decision: I'm not going to post about it.

Instead, here's this:

Emily is never sure how to break the ice, though, being a four-year-old girl, she doesn't think of the issue in quite those terms. There is a playground, a really nice, new one in the park a few blocks down, in the nicer neighborhood beside Emily's. Her mother takes her there pretty often these days, since the autumn weather has been so pleasant. Emily is more interested, being the sort of person she is, in the other children at the park than in the expensive and well-crafted play equipment. She wants to get to know one of them, but she is never sure what to say. Mostly she just approaches within a few paces and waits for something to happen, staring unabashedly at the boy or girl for whom she has intentions of acquaintance. Sometimes she will say, "My name is Emily," but it never occurs to her to ask the other's name. She just assumes the other will answer, but they often don't.

The art of approaching strangers, Emily, is nuanced and complicated. You must avoid seeming threatening or judgmental. You mustn't seem as though you want anything. You should always say something about them first, not something about yourself. You can, in the right situation, remark on a third party. No stranger wants to hear about you, however, not at first. If you become acquaintances or friends they may deign to listen to something about you from time to time, but not too much. Eventually you will learn the signs and signals that will allow you to divide strangers into "sorts of people". Then you will develop approaches specific to those sorts. This will come in time for a person like you, I guarantee it. You'll be good at it, but it will take a while. I'd tell you to be patient, but you're a four-year-old girl. You shouldn't be expected to be patient yet.

"Let me do it," says Emily, stumbling forward to grab the stick from a little boy's hand. She wants to play, but she's coming on too strong. He furrows his brow and, taking the stick, walks away. Emily stands and blinks after him.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

How to Tree

The hardest part about climbing trees is often finding a tree. There are no trees in the middle of the ocean. There are no trees in the middle of the dessert. At the very top of the tallest mountains? No trees. In the great plains? Not many. Antarctica? Nope. There are hardly any trees anywhere. Have you ever seen a tree? Do you believe in trees? Okay, I'm getting a little carried away. This is how it happens. It's not that there is not a valid point there, it's just that we carry it too far.

Once you find a tree, make sure it's not too small. You'll snap it. It should be at least as tall as you are, and almost as big around, if not bigger. Do not attempt to climb Bonsai trees. I also do not recommend climbing trees that are too big, like Giant Redwood trees. They are too daunting and hard to get your arms around. They have no low branches to help you out. The vibrations of the cars driving through the tunnels carved into them will shake loose your grip and you'll fall all those miles down to the ground. Also the Ewoks that live in the upper canopy will capture you and eat you unless C3P0 is with you.

Let me take this break from talking about climbing trees to apologize for my unabashed politics in yesterday's post. I'll try to be more abashed in the future, or, to be more precise, in the present that is to come. (Is that more or less precise? More or less, I guess.)

When you get to the top of the tree build a treehouse with your gang of friends. Don't put up signs to keep people out. Spend the night in there as often as possible when you're a kid. Be careful on the ladder. String a zipline from the treehouse to your upstairs bedroom window. Make sure the floor is level and the walls are plumb. Use environmentally conscientious materials. Give your club a cool name. Don't ever let anyone from the Home & Garden Network redecorate the place. Try not to be too cliche.

That last paragraph got away from me a bit. Sorry.

To get out of the tree, jump from a low-hanging limb into the pond. It could be the pond from What's Eating Gilbert Grape or the pond from My Girl. The choice is yours.

Hello, friends. What are you doing up in that tree?

Love.

Did You Hear? Ponytails are Back!

Undecided? Here let me help: Vote for Obama. You're welcome.

Actually, I think it's important that everyone vote according to their conscience and values. I also think it's important that everyone's conscience and values lead them to vote for Obama.

Enough of that.

Obama.

Okay. Enough.

Did you know that every other candidate except Obama eats babies for breakfast? I have no basis for this belief, but I believe it with all of my heart. Gives you something to think about when you're in that voting booth, doesn't it? And puppies for lunch (in case you don't like babies.) And kittens for dinner (in case you're a cat lover/blogger.)

Alright, alright. I know you don't come here to hear me talk about politics. You come here to admire my ponytail.

Again, you're welcome.

Hello, friends. Have you voted for Obama today? (And don't give me that tired, old, "I'm a Canadian/felon and therefore not allowed to vote" excuse.)

Love.

Bonds. Loose, But Bonds Nonetheless.

There is an entire world out there, billions of individuals with free wills, resources, agendas and plans. Whoever you are, some of these people hate you intensely. Some of these people have cold indifference toward you, not caring any more for your happiness or safety than they care for a fly or a spec of dust. Some of these people are desperate and see your resources as the key to their survival. What are you going to do about this? What can you do? If you just ignore them, they will not go away.

I have bad news and good news. The bad news is this: You cannot control the world. The good news is this: The world doesn't expect you to control it. All the world asks from you is that you not be one of the people who hate or one of the people who, through gross indifference, commit atrocity casually. The world only expects you to control yourself a little. How do I know this? Well, I guess I don't know this. It's just my opinion.

Almost everyone in the world does not hate you. It's true, I think. Then there is indifference. It's a fact, I fear, that most of us have a pretty high capacity for ignoring the suffering of others. This is just pragmatism and economics. There is a level of hardship we expect people to bear on their own, and this is highly subjective. It changes with our perception of the person, their social group, their age, their sex. We expect a grown man, for the most part, to take care of himself and face alone the consequences of his own situation. A grown woman? Our threshold for the suffering of grown women is a little lower, but it varies wildly. Does she have some history, some habit, some iniquity that makes us think she deserves what she gets? Our threshold for the suffering of children is pretty low, unless they are so distant and so mired in a broken culture of despair that we feel there is nothing material we can do. A band-Aid. A meal. A stuffed toy. We cannot bring them all into our home, and we're not sure we could handle it if we brought even one. We're not saints, not all of us.

There is a threshold, I think, beyond which almost all people say, "This goes too far. This I cannot abide." Then the solitary stranger in terrible trouble finds, suddenly, that he is surrounded by others, that he is not standing alone. We are not the closest-knit of communities, humanity, but we are, in the end, a community after all.

Some will say it's too pessimistic, and they are probably right. Some will say it's too optimistic, and they, also, are probably right. I don't know, it's just the way I see it. I think it's pretty good. I think it's good enough, though it could always bear improvement. It's not everything, but it's something.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.