I have seen a grand total of three statements that offer a “Good game, nice win for Obama, wish we could have won, but he’ll be our President soon” statements that seem to offer a gracious concession. I’d go into a manual recount of these statements, but ever since 2000 the term “recount” has the ability to send me into toxic shock.

On the other side, a significant majority of statements, stories, texts, videos, and anecdotal account, have upped my heartburn levels. These haven’t even been conciliatory. They haven’t been well-worded or intelligent. Hell, they haven’t even nice. I’ve seen predictions that come January 20th we’ll all be working in gulags, I’ve heard rumors about Muslims taking over this country, I’ve seen photoshopped images showing Obama up in front of a hammer and sickle, I’ve heard stories of the far right-wing wanting to move. I’ve heard people saying that now the blacks will enslave white people. Yes, you read that right.

Oh, and the racist jokes, too. I’ve seen countless racist jokes.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury of the court of public opinion, I submit to you that this is just plain ignorant,  and the prosecution rests.

I jest, of course, as most people know I never rest when I have the opportunity to ramble.

But this brings me to my point. Obama, sadly, seems to have been correct during his acceptance speech when he said that the only other time we were more divided was the last time a young, upstart senator from Illinois was running to be the President (for you people who failed American History, that would be Lincoln).

I remember in 2004, when I voted for Not-Bush (what was his name again? I forget…). After the results were in, anybody who supported Not-Bush had to admit defeat, and worse, admit to four more years of Not-Not-Bush. I was saddened, but I accepted it. The electorate had spoken, and majority rules in this country (to an extent). I wasn’t happy about that fact, but I accepted it, because, after all, he was my President (and still is for a few more months). Despite my not liking him or his policies, he is the President of this country, and I accept that fact. Yes, I can make fun, have a laugh at his expense, but at the end of election day in 2004, I had to admit that it was over and we would move on. Somehow, we would move on, and most importantly, we would move on together, as one unified country. Maybe not in the direction I had hoped for (and Katrina, Gitmo, Housing bubble, Credit Crunch & Bailout, and other failures sure made it clear to me that this ship of State was was being captained startlingly close to a freakin’ waterfall).

I remember reading in 2004 a long-winded open-letter style joke, written from the Blue States to the Red. Basically, the joke was “We’re seceding, and we get most of the money, industry, most of the food production, you get Alabama.” Here’s the link, if you’d like to take a look.

It was amusing when I first read it, but the joke worried me. As an example to the “red states” that the Blue states are still part of “Real America”, I think this joke made it’s point, that the Blue states have a great deal to offer this country and while they may not have “small-town values” (which I’m convinced is completely meaningless considering how many small-towns I’ve been to that don’t adhere to their values), they are centers of culture and prosperity of our country. And what of the Red? It’s certainly not all bad, even though I live in Oklahoma. Some of the most beautiful parts of our country are smack-dab in the middle, and there is still a significant amount of culture, history, and yes, even some small-town values and down-to-earth people to be had in middle America.

But my problem was that this joke made light of our divisiveness. It basically said “Fine, let’s be two countries, and you can suck it.” This, obviously, is not the right option. We are the United States of America, and that first word in our name should be the thing we remind ourselves every time we want to turn our words against ourselves.

Obama spent a great deal of time during his acceptance speech talking about the rift between blue states and red states in this country. I’m with Scott McClellan (former Press Secretary to the Bush White House) on this one, and that of the two candidates, Obama has the greatest chance of changing the tone in Washington, and it’s one of the key reasons Obama got my vote. This may even be, at this point in history, more important than policy, though I’m not necessarily convinced this is true. He played a relatively fair, clean campaign (at least compared to some others throughout history, and yes, I do admit that Obama had his dirty tricks and jabs), and his speech as President-elect was a clear attempt to unite. That’s a good sign to me.

Now, I’m no Obama acolyte. I don’t think he’s the Messiah, or the One, or even Superman. He’s a fallable, inexperienced human who is certainly capable of mistakes, and worse yet, capable of allowing himself to be absorbed and assimilated by Washington, only to become that which us libertarians hate. I refused to trust him, inherently, because he is a politician, and he must do a lot of work to prove to me, and I would imagine many others, that he is not just talk, not just pretty words, but is actual action, and a force for positive change in the tone of our government and our country. Had McCain been elected, I would be saying this exact same statement.

I don’t even care about policy right now (except maybe economics and a balanced budget), I care not about terrorism or war, I only care about doing the one thing that will allow us to fix all these problems in the next term, possibly two terms, and subsequent administrations. We have to change the tone, we have to stop treating our own people as enemies, and we have to start acting like we are actually the United States of America, because the Divided States of America will fall like a house of cards. Obama stands a slim chance, but I think a better one than McCain, of making this one change happen.

The Rush Limbaughs and Ron P. Reagans of the world need to turn off their transmitters. The Anne Coulters and Al Frankens need to lay down their pens. The Evan Coyne Maloneys and Michael Moores need to put away their cameras. (But for the love of God, Steven Colbert and Jon Stewart, please don’t stop, you’ve been the only things keeping me laughing all of these years). Every single one of you are doing your part to hurt America, you’re killing this country, and you are causing us to further divide. As a country, we should be willing to celebrate our differences, but not at the expense of reveling in our Unity.

Moderates make up the majority of this country. Those registered “Independent” or without party affiliation make up almost one third. We are not who you think we are anymore. This country is not, and I would argue probably never has been, a politically divided ideological battleground. Please, for the love of god, stop trying to turn it into one. Quit trying to push us to one side or the other, because I don’t believe it can possibly end well.

I for one, am cautiously optimistic, that Obama can lead us to this… and you’ll pardon my use of the abused word… “change”. Here’s to four years of hope for that change.

7:00 P.M: Oklahoma polls close. I’ve been on the edge of my seat about which way Oklahoma would go (spoiler: McCain). Pouring a sip of my drink out for my Democratic homies who wasted a vote in this godforsaken state.

7:01 P.M. CNN calls Maine for Obama, less than 30 seconds after Maine’s polls close. Obama called with 67% of the vote. Interesting, seeing as the total number of votes so far is 3 (for you mathophobes, that means Obama got 2). Why even wait until the polls close, dipshits? As an aside, I had heard Maine wasn’t that highly populated, but that’s ridiculous. They have a precinct with… THREE?!?

7:25 P.M. Fuck you, Virginia. Tally that shit already.

7:26 P.M.: CNN calls Massachusettes for Kerry! Oh… wait, Senate race. Right. Alcohol wins my vote, once again, apparently.

7:28 P.M.: CNN is showing advertisements for beer during election coverage. I’m convinced that while their reporters are idiots, their advertising people are freakin’ geniuses.

7:30 P.M.I have every TV on in the house. If I get drunk enough, maybe I can start to hallucinate that the MSNBC TV will start fighting the TV tuned to Fox News. Meanwhile, the CNN TV vomits all over itself and begins running into walls.

7:32 P.M. CNN early results. Obama: 77 EV, McCain: 34 EV. Kevin: .03 BAC.

7:34 P.M. Nope, not looking good for the Republicans. Of course, CNN keeps saying “we’re not calling anything yet, we’re PROJECTING”. Yeah, well, project this.

7:38 P.M. It’s sad when you think of all the similarities between political reporters and sports reporters. Seriously, this is like watching a game. A sad, depressing game. I think I’ll try to find a game or curling on somewhere, because it’ll be more uplifiting.

7:42 P.M. Why does CNN find it necessary to show throngs of cheering crowds in the middle of wherever-the-fuck who are watching a CNN screen? Why do I care that people are watching themselves watch themselves?

7:45 P.M. Early results from Palo Alto, CA. Stanford University student exit polls indicate Obama leads with Pi votes, versus McCain’s e.

8:35 P.M. 40 minutes of discussing politics with friends keeps me away from CNN. 40 blissful, Wolf Blitzer free minutes. Oh, and Ohio kinda sorta maybe possibly projected to kinda go Obama by CNN, as they say “Obama has won Ohio”. Thanks for that CNN, I was worried that you were being, you know… cautious with only 15% precincts reporting.

8:37 P.M. Dewey defeats McCain!

8:43 P.M. CNN starts playing paint by numbers with a map as they try to figure out how McCain might have a chance of winning. In short, he doesn’t.

8:45 P.M. I want a finger paintable big screen TV.

8:50 P.M. Seriously, the 3D cpaitol building? While extrardinarily cool for your average geek, it is completely and totally pointless. And the camera operator is making me want to vomit.

8:52 P.M. fivethirtyeight.com just called the election for Obama. Et tu, Nate?

8:54 P.M. Seriously, how can you project states with less than 5% of the precincts reporting? You guys are just throwing darts and flipping coins, you fucks.

8:55 P.M. Several rinky-dink states closing in 5 minutes. Insta-polls indicate 7% of people paying close attention to this race actually care.

9:00 P.M. Switching over to Comedy Central. I say we replace all the reporters of the 24 hour snooze networks with Jon Stewart clones.

9:15 P.M. Soberness is making a surprise comback in the precincts of Kevin. Time to start stumping with Bourbon.

9:05 P.M. Quick check of state and local stuff. Doesn’t look good for the people I voted for (those would be the not-incumbents).

9:30 P.M. Okay, I’m officially bored now. What happened to our horse-race elections? This one is way too easy for them to call, and I’m not heavily drunk yet. Where the hell is the entertainment and theater from 2000 and 2004? You know, as an amateur political junky, I’m disappointed, but as a citizen, I rejoice we don’t have to go through that shit again.

9:49 P.M. CNN has holographic interviews. Elections are the Superbowls to the 24 hour snooze networks.

9:50 P.M. HOlographic interviews. HOLOGRAPHIC INTERVIEWS. WHAT… THE… FUCK. IT’s a TV screen. I can’t see them in 3D. It doesn’t do the audience any good!

10:00 P.M. Well, it’s over. Much sooner than I expected it to be. I thought that was going to be much more complicated.

10:25 P.M. It sounds like the McCain concession speech crowd is about ready to start foaming at the mouth. I think if Obama were there, they would eat him.

10:35 P.M. Bush called Obama to congratulate him?!? I would absolutely love to have been a CIA operative listening to that tapped phone call.

10:45 P.M. CNN gushes about the winner. Take a drink. CNN does post-analysis that has no ties to reality, take two drinks. CNN introduces new technology to show you crap you didn’t care about in the first place in ways the old technology showed you perfectly clearly, drown yourself in a bathtub.

10:47 P.M. Okay guys, seriously. Enough kissing Obama’s ass, get back to your baseless prattling and infighting.

10:53 P.M. Only a few more hours until the 2012 campign begins!

11:37 P.M. “Yes we can” is the new Earth equivalent of Battlestar Galactica’s “So Say We All”.

11:47 P.M. Good speech by Obama, more on that later. As an aside, I think the shot of Jessie Jackson in tears is because he will now have the secret service to contend with if he wants to follow through on his plans to cut Obama’s nuts off.

12:00 A.M. GOVERNMENT TO CITIZENS: We now resume our regularly scheduled ass-reaming of America, already in progress.

And so, onward…

Introduction

On February 17th, 2008, Andrew John Sesock III, my father, passed away due to complications from adult-onset cystic fibrosis and other illnesses he battled over the past several years. He was 61.

End of an Epoch

On April 10th, 2007, I submitted my formal resignation to Oklahoma State University and began the two-month long process of documenting the last five years of building a robust series of mature systems from almost scratch. On June 11th, 2007, I started my tenure as an Identical Blue Man at another three-letter firm in another city, with different job responsibilities doing something I had never done before. It was… daunting to say the least. I graduated from OSU, personally (as in, only with the help of friends and not professional movers, a mistake I did not repeat and intend to not repeat ever again) packed all of my belongings and relocated them 80 miles away, and wiped my slate clean for the first time in almost eight years. I moved into a clean, beautiful, and upscale townhouse and took on the arduous task of getting my belongings, home, friends, career, relationships, finances, and other components of this long-running unscripted sub-Shakespearean comedy I call a life which are too numerous to mention, in some semblance of order.

I almost finished.

The scattering of souls

I had not moved in six years, and I had not relocated towns in just shy of eight.  For all intents and purposes, I was the one achieving escape velocity for a change, doing the leaving instead of being the leavee (for lack of a less harmonic sounding term), an experience I had grown thoroughly weary of. I thought this was a good thing. I had thought the thrill of a new town, replete with new places, new friends, new excitements and a new home, would bring with it just the change of scenery I had been yearning for (and at least in this forum, whining about) for quite some time. But it brought more of the same, and one might argue, less of the same. I knew practically no one in Tulsa, compared to my old home in Stillwater, save for two old Stillwater friends and a few new work acquaintances who seemed like they could develop into better, closer friends with time. Granted, there seemed to be significantly less drama and a great deal more maturity that permeated this town, but, in hindsight, I was lonely. I hadn’t felt that for any duration or any great quantity since I had left my childhood home, 8 years hence.

The one thing Stillwater had provided me with, at least when I originally moved there to start college, was a few friends I already knew, and of course, the college experience with which to rapidly gain more. Tulsa offered only two old friends, who were just as busy as I, geographically located on the other side of the metro, and married to each other with the time investment such a coupling entails, meaning that I could not just pop by for a quick chat about any of our usual topics, be it politics, relationships, or for all intents and purposes, stuff I put in my blog when I think everyone else is tired of listening. I was also not finding anyone else rapidly that seemed to operate on this wavelength with me. While phone and computers are our new communications friends, there’s something significantly more satiating with being next to a friend, instead of just hearing their voice or reading their words, and of course, there was no one I was to that level with that was nearby. Anybody that knew me well enough to be my sounding board, was hundreds, if not thousands of miles away and involved in their own day-to-days. Once again, I had experienced a scattering of souls, but worse yet, I myself had been scattered to the wind, and this time I didn’t even have the solace of a recognizable comfort-zone where I knew the likelihood was high I could discover more kindred spirits.

Castaway

I began to adjust, slowly but surely, to my new life in this strange place. I obviously still clung, telecommunicatively, to those whom had shared the path with me for so long, but I began to find my own footing. It was a longer, harder journey then that which I had experienced when coming to college, and not just for the logistical reasons I have explained, but because I was a stranger, and if you’ll pardon the cliche/book-title reference, in a strange land. In hindsight, I never had a comfort level in Tulsa. My first night in my new apartment, I completely overlooked a disquieting disconnected dysphoria that churned invisible beneath the roiling soup of emotions I was experiencing: anxiety, excitement, freedom, determination, and glee, among others. I never had that in my Stillwater home of six years; it just felt right, from day one.

What I didn’t realize is that this dysphoria would present itself more strongly in the coming months, that I would start to get a very fuzzy picture that there was something not quite right. It’s difficult to put my finger on, and even more difficult to explain, but it is as though I wasn’t part of this world, almost imperceptibly out of frame and out of touch, but still enough to create this nagging itch buried deep in my brain. In short, I didn’t belong in Tulsa, in this apartment, surrounded by these people, and I knew it. Just barely.

To clarify, the job itself was, is, and I remain confident, will continue to be for some time, great. The work is interesting, (though I still, to this day, don’t know as much as I’d like to), my coworkers are brilliant, my bosses are superb managers, and the corporate culture is a sublime mix between being light and informal, and professional and reserved.  It was merely the geographical, residential and relational places I was in that caused me this quiet, stewing disharmony.

Voyage home

My residency in Tulsa came to an end, after only six brief months, so that I could move back down to Oklahoma City and help my father around the house. He had been fighting off an opportunistic infection he contracted during chemotherapy and radiation therapy from his colon cancer several years ago, and in tandem with cystic fibrosis and other health problems, needed a helping hand if he was to move back into his home, alone. My new employer has a large and well-established Work-From-Home (WFH) program, and my boss allowed me to go on temporary WFH status, so I mulled, stewed, and finally decided to pack my things once again on extremely short notice, and relocate my hind-end back down in the town of my birth and subsequent childhood, Oklahoma City.

Once I had made the decision, I came to terms with how it affected me, and what I must do to make it happen. It just seemed… natural. Perhaps that disharmonious discord was pushing me just hard enough to give me the courage to make this drastic and sudden change, and the drive to make it happen quickly and efficiently. I had a very good reason to move down to Oklahoma City, to take care of my father. Of course, when making the decision, I didn’t realize I would only get a few months. I thought, and I’m guessing my father did as well, that he had several more years left in him, and that there would be more time. I didn’t feel the pressure to make such a sweeping change in my life due to the immediate necessity, as I wasn’t sure there was any immediate necessity. I knew that helping my father out was a noble goal and that he could certainly use it, but I didn’t realize it would be so temporary. The last necessary push was from this weak discordian force, strong enough to overcome the inertia and drag, present primarily in my excuses and arguments with myself, that I constantly and continuously use to keep myself from taking drastic, sweeping, and frightening risks. That little, minuscule discord added to my sense of duty to help my father just enough to do something I had never done before: Take a major risk, uproot myself, and do something I knew I should do.

But even with my resolve, as I made my way back to Oklahoma City in early December, coming full circle back to the city of my childhood, a single thought was lurking through the darker corners of my mind and occassionally surfacing like the Loch Ness Monster in the cool calm waters of an otherwise resolute psyche:”2008 is going to be a rough year.”

To recap, 2007 was a year of change for me, a new city, a new job, but for all intents and purposes, this was positive change. Frightening, different, maybe even way too rapid of change, but for the most part, all positive changes, and certainly something I could have gotten used to. It’s possible, and I have to admit this, that over time my disharmonious feelings may have diminished and even dissipated. However, I watched a multitude of my friends suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune in 2007, and I wept for them, but I awaited my hard times as well. When would the other shoe drop? When would I need the same support I had offered all those that had called or come by in frustration, in tears, or in just pure, dead-on-their-feet stumbling exhaustion from simply too much life to keep walking on their own? I knew, consciously and subconsciously, that what goes up must come down, and I was bracing myself for my own fall.

Rapid Maturation

Since February 17th, my life has been filled with lessons. In the University of Life, College of Practical Education, Department of Compoundingly Difficult Metaphorical Blows (also known colloquially to the faculty as the School of Hard Knocks), I’ve had a few a few pop quizzes come my way I knew that in all eventuality I would be forced to take, and hopefully pass.

I wish I had studied.

The lessons, or rather exams, have been numerous, and have included such mundane learning experiences as “How to go through the process of probate without losing what’s left of your hair”, followed by “How to become a homeowner in the span of a week when you weren’t really ready.” Some of the more complex topics have been “How to tell who your real friends are and how to get rid of the ones that aren’t,” “How to support and be supported by family, and thus grow closer to them in a time of tragedy,” and “How to fall in love again in a time of turmoil and still make it work somehow.”

To top it off, I count myself as extremely fortunate. Because of the way circumstances neatly wrapped up together, I was able to spend almost three great months with my father.

All Good Things…

It occurs to me that what I have gone through, millions of others have gone through before me. Granted, my father was very young, and having never really had to do deal with the loss of a family member before, this is an extra shock. However, in the span of a matter of weeks, I truly came to understand, and not just know, that part of life is its ending, and all good things, including my time with my father, must come to an end.

Post-realization, I have had a torrent of thoughts rush through my head, some excellent lessons in a silver-lining sense, some emotionally devastating, and some that have passed me by with a nod and a regard, and nothing more. One of the more positive thoughts that has come into slow focus over the last 7 months is that if my life were one giant moving sidewalk, in this case all I did was jump on at the right time and let the path itself take me to my next stop. In the philosophical sense, I have been a leaf on the wind, and merely by letting go, and letting myself be moved instead of moving myself, I have ended up perfectly… and without having to force my life into perfect harmony… exactly where I need to be.

Mississippi House Bill 282, which has been introduced for this year’s legislative session, proposes to prevent anyone who is obsese, as defined by the Mississippi State Dept. of Health, from entering a commercial restuarant that is required to obtain a permit from the State Department of Health (that would pretty much mean all of them).

I predict that in 2009, whatever asshat proposed this legislation will scribble on a cocktail napkin while half drunk a piece of legislation that makes it illegal for drowning victims to get near water fountains.

Since for some reason, we’re still not clear on this whole “freedom” thing, let’s try this again: We all, every single one of us (and yes, for you Republicans out there, this includes more than just rich white land owners, but also Muslims, African Americans, Latinos, and others that you may classify as “unsavories”) has an inalienable right to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness, unless it infringes on another’s right to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. As part of our freedoms, we are allowed to define what the Pursuit of the Happiness means for us individually.

Let’s talk about what this freedom means for a moment. Dan Carlin of the podcast Common Sense talked about recently that the right to swing my fist ends where my neighbor’s nose begins. In other words, my freedom is limited when there is direct, substantial harm to another. This is the old yelling “Fire” in a crowded theater argument. Let’s make sure that we all understand that this is a fine, unmoving line, that must be clearly understood, because both the “I can do or say anything I want” crowds, and the “You can’t say anything if it has any negative impact ever” crowds use these arguments to their whims, with those of us espousing responsible personal freedom are stuck in the middle wondering what happened to sanity.

For a moment, let’s talk about what a causal relationship means in the realm of criminal justice. I always had a problem with the series finale of Seinfeld. As a refresher course, the four friends we’ve come to know and love are in Massachusetts where they witness an obese man being carjacked. Being from New York City, a carjacking is a frequent (if not hourly spectator event), and so this is not anything special. In fact, being New Yorkers, their civic duty is pretty much to stand around and watch. And point. And laugh. A lot.

This apparently violated the Massachusetts “Good Samaritan” law, which supposedly requires people to intervene and help those in need. This never sat right with me. This had to be made up.

Turns out that Massachusetts (and pretty much everywhere else) has a “Good Samaritan” law, but it doesn’t quite work like that. It protects those who intervene from the consequences of their actions. Another counter example would be in the CG animated movie “The Incredibles” where Mr. Incredible is sued by a man who was committing suicide, the lawsuit against the superhero would have been laughed out of the courtroom, and the “Supers” would have gotten to keep going about their superpowered ways, and all thanks to the fact that the U.S. Common Law protects the “Good Samaritan” against superfluous torts like that.

The only case where a “duty to rescue” is required by law is parents of minor children (duh), paid, on-the-clock rescue workers (also duh), and a few other cases that can be summed up under the broad category of “duh”.

Now, to be fair, according to the Wikipedia article on Good Samaritan laws, Massachusetts does have a law on the books requiring individuals witnessing a crime to report it to authorities, and failure to comply is a misdemeanor which carries with a maximum fine of $2500 and no jail time. But there is no law anywhere which requires someone to step in and stop a crime in progress, or save anyone from anything, for a multitude of reasons, the first being that as a free society, we don’t have to step in and expose ourselves to a danger, real or perceived, in order to protect someone else from danger. In fact, we are completely free as a society to simply ignore someone else’s immediate danger.

And what about not-so-immediate danger, from obesity, or lung cancer, or cirrhosis? Is it our responsibility to force someone to put down a cheeseburger if they have a bit of a gut? What about knocking a cigarette out of someone’s mouth if we hear them cough a bit? Maybe take someone’s drink if we think we see a liver spot?

You do this in any restaurant or bar, and you’ll be kicked out. Why? Because you infringed on their rights. Of course, I hear you say “what about drugs?” Of course, my personal mentality when it comes to drugs is that in a country so dedicated to personal freedoms, it should be wholly wrong for the government to tell us what we can and cannot put in our bodies, and that the government’s responsibility ends at educating us on how to maintain our health and how to make an educated decision. Of course, there are plenty of arguments against cooking meth in your kitchen, such as, oh, you know, all of your neighbors faces are melting and you’re slowly contaminating the nearby groundwater. In this case, it’s pretty easy to see that you’re infringing on others rights. But if you were to smoke pot in your bedroom and go to sleep? Whose rights are you infringing? If you were to get behind the wheel of a car and endanger someone else’s life while driving under the influence of mind altering drugs, that’s infringing, but otherwise, there’s no direct, causal effect on anyone else.

And there’s the rub. The Seinfeld 4, as we might call them, weren’t the ones who carjacked that fat guy, and while it would have been nice if they had stepped in and stopped the guy, if he had a gun, or a lethal weapon, what would they have been able to do? Besides, are they police officers? Do they have the training and understanding of how to handle the situation? And what exactly were they supposed to do, say “Stop! Or I’ll say stop again more loudly this time and with a bit more oomph!”

That’s the causal relationship. They didn’t cause the crime, and it’s quite possible that the outcome would have remained the same, or possibly worse, had they intervened. Instead of going after four people who, admittedly, laughed at another’s plight and were for all intents and purposes acting like complete dicks, they should have gone after the actual dick who infringed another’s rights. If being an asshole were illegal, we’d all be in prison.

You can start to see how the law goes the other direction. My right to inaction is also your right to inaction. I am under no obligation to protect you from a carjacker, and in fact, in a free society, there are plenty of reasons why I shouldn’t stop you, but let the proper authorities take the case. Likewise, your doctor can recommend you go on a strict no-cheeseburger diet, but the moment he jabs you with a dose of Haldol, straps you down to the table, and forces a liposuction needle in your abs without you first signing a consent that says something along the lines of “You know, doc, I’d like you to vacuum the fat out of me,” he’s going to jail and losing his license. He cannot stop you from eating that next cheeseburger, nor should he physically prevent you. He can only recommend and educate, and choose what goes into his body.

But sadly, too many on both the Left and the Right have forgotten this personal freedom thing, because they believe that if their taxes go up because I grab a cheeseburger, I have infringed on their rights. In a free society that works towards the greater good, though, this is not infringement. My chances for heart disease and diabetes go up with every cheeseburger I eat, but that’s chance, not certainty, and in a society that has largely decreed that maintaining the overall health of its population is a good thing, are we really willing to sacrifice the pursuit of happiness just so we can save a few pennies per person on Medicare costs? And to top it off, where does this Slippery Slope lead? Nobody would deny that children are expensive, and no matter how wealthy you are, adding a child into the system technically would increase others’ tax costs. For example, if I have a bunch of kids and then send them to public school, I have just increased others’ taxes. For someone who has no children, their taxes go up, through no fault of their own. Say my religion or personal beliefs espouse having lots of children, you know, really taking that whole “go forth, be fruitful, and multiply” clause to heart. Is it really the government’s place to limit how many children I can have “for the greater good?” Should our government go all “China” on us?

The argument, of course, is “what if everyone had 14 children? And what if they all have way to many as well? Think of the population explosion!” Then, we have a situation that has to be addressed at a societal level, through proper planning and redistribution of government benefits (get your mind out of the gutter, welfare detractors, I’m talking about public services). And if you look at it in a certain way, each one of those kiddos can be a contributing taxpaying citizen soon anyway, thus putting back into the system.

I’ll be you dollars to donuts that you have never heard anyone else say those words. Even the phrase “I love you,” three words seemingly despised by today’s macho and emotionless society, are easier to say in the matter-of-fact manner of a declarative statement, and we would rather die than plead and beg with someone to admit it in the bare nakedness of true honesty that only the innocent can show.

We are “higher” beings, and because of that, we are incapable of honesty because we are so guarded. We fear being open, of being so vulnerable.

We have those moments too, when we look at our loved ones, our friends, family members, even our significant others, but unlike a creature that truly knows innocence, no words pass, nothing even emanates from our eyes, and meanwhile, deep inside, we’re waiting for the dam to break.

In comparison to someone who is interminably happy, this would be the type of person who can occasionally be found brooding, engaged in deep introspection, their eyes turned inward, searching for answers. The ones who put up the thick, false veneer of interminable happiness, are the ones with nothing to show for it. They are the ones to misunderstand, mis-characterize, ignore, or even attack another’s pain because they fear it. They think that looking inwards is a weakness, and they fear what they may find.

Which is not to say that I look for those who are always so brooding that they never crack a smile, or laugh at a joke. I am not intending to imply that I am emo, or that I am attracted to emos. I merely strive for, as in all things, balance between the emo and the Valley-girl.

Some would say that I’m searching for someone who is damaged. My response is that if you’re going to buy a house, wouldn’t you rather see the cracks, find the little places that need to be fixed, and understand from the outset that this is a fixer-upper with character, that is just as broken and damaged as every other aged and experienced house? Or would you rather the cracks be painted over, the dry-rot hidden, and the settling and broken foundation be beautifully landscaped over so that only when the problems exacerbate do you find out they were there all along?

Those of us who show that we occasionally turn a deeper eye inward are engaging in a form of honesty that those who show nothing but a facade, either good or bad, do not understand. There is something to be said for letting the false walls come down and letting the cracks, the age, and the damage show through from time to time.

Caz’s, a bar in Tulsa, and my new hang out, has a beers of the World club, which after 100 beers imbibed, inscribes your name on a plaque in celebration of your worldly enjoyment of damn fine beer.

I so far have 3 marked off the list. It’s going to be tasty, if somewhat hazy journey.

And for once, I care less about the destination than I do the journey.

“Every single day,” I replied, knowing full well that I was giving too much of myself in that very conversation. I was pouring my heart out, watching it glug-glug and swirl down the drain. These words I spoke wouldn’t necessarily fall on deaf ears, just a deaf soul.

One soul that had grown so inward in recent days that it could not feel anything beyond its own borders. It had become autistic, closed off from the outside world, squelched by the static of roiling emotional turmoil surrounding it.

And I’m the only one who can reach in, blow through the barriers, and wake it the hell up.

Why is that, exactly? Because of some connection we’ve shared? Even considering the distance between us, and such a slender thread of wires and fiber-optics connecting us, that connection cannot be broken.

But when my own soul needs the same, when it needs to be shocked back to life with some psychological equivalent of those electrocuting heart paddles, where do I turn?

Dead to the world, running on autopilot, seeking desperately for some way to reconnect, I wait for some little event, person, or thing that will shock me awake and resuscitate me, mentally, until suddenly I can feel again, positive or negative, desperate depression or unbelievable high, I long for anything that is not neutral, I long for sinus rhythm in my mood…

And not just a flatline.

But Bill Nye, the man who made nerdiness cool and hip, still has a special place in my heart.

So imagine my surprise, when I found out that Bill Nye, comedian, engineer, science educator, and wins the Coolest and Decidedly Least Stodgiest or Bureaucratic Person with a Top Secret Clearance in the DOD Award, was booed and hissed by a bunch of right-wing ultra-religious bigots who are, I might add, also complete and total idiots.

Here’s the story, a supposed reprint from the Waco Tribune (it’s from a while ago and I can’t corroborate it as apparently the Waco Tribune has removed it from their website, or it could be false, I’ll admit).

Just like not talking about Fight Club, you don’t fuck with Bill Nye. Them’s the rules. I think it was number 9 or 10, or maybe an addendum to one of the lower-number rules, but I swear it’s in there (maybe in the Yddish mistranslation or something, but I swear!).

For those of you that are still figuring out that mouse/link clicking thing, I’ll summarize: Bill Nye, the frickin’ science guy, angered some audience members when he criticized literal interpreters of Genesis who disbelieve that the moon does not produce it’s own light and that the sun is actually a fairly uninteresting star in a galaxy full of cooler, bigger, and “greater” ones. The Bible verse in question is Genesis 1:16, which reads “God made two great lights — the greater light to govern the day and the lesser light to govern the night. He also made the stars.”

At Bill’s insistence that the Universe isn’t actually like that in what most people consider “reality”, the article explains that “A number of audience members left the room at that point, visibly angered by what some perceived as irreverence.” Apparently, a woman even went so far as to shout “We believe in a God!” as she got her and her three children the Religious-Whack-Job-Friendly-Euphemism-For-Hell out of there.

I want to make one thing clear. I’m not talking about theory, even in the scientific definition of theory. I’m talking about fact. As much as I would love to go 9 rounds with a few nutbars about the difference between what everyone else thinks a theory is, and what science defines a theory to be (I’m talking to you, Intelligent Designers), we’re not even getting that granular. This has nothing with theory versus hypothesis, and it’s not even as funny as the Theory of Gravity versus “Intelligent Falling” joke that is apparently on the verge of Internet meme status. Is the light perceived to be emanating from the moon actually reflected sunlight? Yes. Can this be proven factually? Yes. Are we actually still having this inane conversation? You better believe it.

Apparently, a number of individuals would rather pour out their faith into two sentences that A) can be interpreted to jive with modern day science if you take a deep breath and don’t take it too literally, B) is contradicted in the very same document a few sentences later in the completely rewritten and revised creation story that is included apparently to confuse people, and C) when literally taken, is completely and totally impossible by any margin of error whatsoever and cannot possibly have ever been the truth ever.

There was a story quite some time ago, which I have since lost my link to, that talked about one-fifth of all Adult Americans believe the sun revolves around the Earth. Read that sentence again and make sure that you’re not one of those 20% of Americans.

I’ve heard that statistic before, and couldn’t find the study or the research to disprove that number. I desperately wanted it to be a fabrication. I wanted, oh-so-hard, for it to be a falsified statistic, or at least one taken grossly out of context. You know, one of those things where the original study actually said that it was 20% of all Adult Americans living in Texas and even then not in any major metropolitan areas who never made it past the third grade and are probably legally retarded anyway because they’re their own grandpas.

But I’m beginning to believe this statistic might actually be true. Hell, a couple more stories like this, and I might just start believing that this number is a little low.

And it wouldn’t be so bad, because in a country of freedom, you certainly have the right to be a complete ignoramous. But I’m going to pull yet another statistic out of my ass, one that I just made up on the spot, but could possibly be accurate, and let you get frightened:

These people probably voted for George W. Bush.

That’s right, these people heard George W. Bush proclaim that if we failed to re-elect him, the terrorists would strike again, Iraq would be a quagmire, our freedoms would slowly dissolve, and don’t forget social security would collapse, gays would be allowed to marry, and our country would crumble from the inside out. Never mind that all of those things he promised to keep from happening are happening (don’t get me wrong, I’m okay with gays having the right to marry, decidedly less okay with everything else).

When people who have the scientific knowledge of a Dark Ages peasant with traumatic brain injury actively start helping to decide policy in this country, and are not just wrong, but loudly wrong, especially when so many of our problems require at least a basic scientific understanding (say, for example, the teaching of evolution or global climate change) that’s when I start looking for the Oxygen Masks and the inflatable seat cushion on this Air-ship of state that seems to be heading directly for the ground.

Faith requires humanity. But to have faith in two sentences that are completely irrelevant, is directly contradicted by scientific fact, and is, for lack of a clearer, more effective word (despite its ability to offend), completely and totally retarded, well, that my friends, requires an American Christian.

Here’s to the bitter, spiteful irony I feel every time I hear the phrase “intelligent design.”

Simply put, it seems significantly more difficult to get a room full of people to agree on pizza toppings. While one person appreciates pineapple and Canadian Bacon, someone else likes Chicken and Barbecue Sauce. Still another enjoys Pepperoni and Mushrooms, but the woman in the back likes Supreme, hold the onions.

And, of course, that doofus in the back that nobody can remember inviting to the party simply insists, without rationale, that he must take his pizza with anchovies.

Of course, as the number of individual pizza-orderers increases, the probability that two or more will share a common standard pizza-topping load-out will increase, Obviously, as we increase the sample size of individuals under scrutiny to encompass every potential pizza-eater on Earth (every human being, over 6 Billion people), there will obviously be many large groups of preferred pizza styles, probably one of the largest of which will be “pepperoni”. However, the exercise here is not to categorize, but to show to all that even though our uniqueness in pizza toppings follows similar lines, we are still incredibly diverse. Therefore, we should also postulate that increasing the number of minimum toppings per individual pizza style will eventually once again ensure that no single human being on the planet desires the same X number of pizza toppings. In other words, forcing individuals to choose a certain number of toppings, as a minimum, will ensure that each preferred pizza “load-out” corresponds to each individual human being on the planet with no duplicates, and will eventually lead to a sort of unique identifier by way of pizza toppings. One can even further ensure the uniqueness of pizza topping load-outs by forcing an ordered prioritization to the list, meaning that the first topping listed by a person is the most preferred topping. It could further be extrapolated that this unique identifier, tied to each individual, and existing with little to no chance of duplication, could replace social security numbers or other systems of unique identification.

This system, for lack of a better term, is called Six Degrees of Canadian Bacon.

As the variety of pizza toppings at your average pizzeria grows, and as individual human beings learn to celebrate, and tolerate, diversity amongst others of different creeds, classes, races, orientations, ages and ethnicities, this one difference remains and threatens to divide us as a species, to shatter hundreds of years of progress towards our hard-won equality that only the celebration of our joyous uniqueness has lead us to.

This is the site that jack built.
This is the content that resides in the site that jack built.
This is the tag that expressed the content that resides in the site that jack built.
This is the Nuke that houses the tag that expressed the content that resides in the site that Jack built.
This is the admin that checks the Nuke, that houses the tag that expressed the content that resides in the site that Jack built.
This is the corp that always rebukes, that hired the admin that checks the Nuke, that houses the tag that expressed the content that resides in the site that Jack built.
This is the comment with no forethought, that is read by the corp that always rebukes, that hired the admin that checks the Nuke, that houses the tag that expressed the content that resides in the site that Jack built.
This is the lawyer, upset with his lot, who forwards a comment with no forethought, that is read by the corp that always rebukes, that hired the admin that checks the Nuke, that houses the tag that expressed the content that resides in the site that Jack built.
This is the user, a terrible creep, who sends a lawyer a letter, upset with his lot, who forwards a comment with no forethought, that is read by the corp that always rebukes, that hired the admin that checks the Nuke, that houses the tag that expressed the content that resides in the site that Jack built.

This is the button that starts to beep
That angers a user, aka, creep,
Who writes a letter about said flaw,
To a man associated with practicing law,
who forwards the comment with no forethought,
That the company reads, and fearing they’re caught,
Yells at the admin with a hearty rebuke,
Who swears as he rm -rf’s the Nuke,
removing the tag
deleting the content
and demolishing the site that jack built.

By the way, that’s “Nuke”, as in the family of web Content Management Solutions, not Nuke as in warhead.

A summer without an August, or at least the harrangue of stress that August brings, is something I haven’t had in more than 7 years.

But this year, this August, I have time to… Well, watch as my sad excuse for a sounding board is reborn like a Pheonix from the funeral pyre of Behind the Times.

Life has given me some interesting turns recently, many of which have been positive, and that is one reason my sounding board has remained unrung for so long. Instead, I am now forced to play catch-up with all of the inanity that roams about in my brain. And to do this, I must do something I haven’t done for enjoyment in months: write.

And so, like someone who hasn’t spoken in quite some time, I feel as though I’m doing the equivalent of stretching my jaw and trying to remember how to sound out words, the jaw muscles creaky and atrophied, the vocal chords raspy and dry. I feel as though I’m doing the manual equivalent of remembering how to sound out words, having not spoken in years, the Hooked-On-Phonics-esque concentration of language as I stretch my muscles, both mental and physical (in this case, the ol’ digits).

The muscle memory is there, it’s just a question of getting everything working again.

For example, if I weren’t writing atrophied, I would have noticed while writing this, and not after, that I have yet again solidified my place as the undisputed Master of the Mixed Metaphor.

At least I still have my preferred skill in the category of inane word-play: alliteration. At this rate, that’s never going away.

But for now, I’m through running and hiding.

So far, I have some content saved up that I’ve worked on, my usual inanity, and if I’m lucky I’ll make it five days into this thing and finally give up for another few months.

No, wait a minute, positive attitudes; I must remember that the glass is half full (frighteningly similar to my mind, it seems).

So, welcome back to Behind the Times for those of you who wander back here. Those of you who have my online journal on your RSS feeds, I know, this is kind of scary isn’t it? Amazing that this sad excuse for a blog even still works.

But, join me, won’t you? In ringing in National Writer’s Month with some good ol’ fashioned tripe and inanity, replete with asinine word play, cheap jokes, and pithy philosophy.

Ahhh, it’s good to be back.

To hear most of these pundits go at it, we’d have to believe that while the Union and Confederacy were lighting up the canons at each other, some stuffed shirt sitting behind a typesetter was blustering on at length about the “United States Internal Border Resolution Conflict.”

Since our society is rarely not in the mood to soften language into a massive, gummy pulp of arcane words to describe what takes far less breath, energy, and thought to describe a concept (for an excellent example, see George Carlin’s rant on the de-evolution of the phrase “Shell Shock” into “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder”), we need to come up with an appropriate dysphemism (the more pessimistic form of a euphemism) to describe this situation.

Just on Monday, Matt Lauer, informed us that NBC has stepped forward and officially rechristened the Iraqi conflict into an unofficial Civil War.

Since only NBC, the L.A. times, the New York Times, the Christian Science Monitor, Newsweek International, and a few other minor, rarely observed media outlets are apparently referring to this as a “Civil War”, perhaps we need something one-step behind the situation, but still bold enough to suggest that the Iraqi citizens are just plain boned.

Tony Snow, apparently one of the few people in the country with a death-grip on the ability to “officially” rechristen the conflict into an official civil war, attempted to steer our misguided media into the appropriate euphemistic quagmire by stating that this situation is not a civil war, but that it “…is sectarian violence that seems to be less aimed at gaining full control over an area than expressing differences.”

By his logic, the 9/11 attacks were Al Qaeda’s way of “expressing differences” against the U.S. Last time I checked, expressing differences is what a Kindergarten teacher calls two kids fighting over a toy, not two groups of religiously diverse people blowing each other to their own respective Kingdoms come.

Obviously, we need to find something somewhere in the middle, a term that everyone can get behind. To explore a few of the current popular ones, a brief search on the internet turns up “Iraqi Sectarian War”, currently used by Wikipedia. British Lt. General Robert Fry coined in August “Civil War in Miniature”, but that is obviously too close to the situation, and quite a bit less fun to say. I’m rather partial to John Stewart’s newly coined “Catastrof***”, which of course, is not fully printable here, but we need a phrase that truly captures the gravity of the situation while still being repeatable in civil, err… “polite” company.

So, in an effort to find the right words, I’ve come up with three criteria: One, the new term must be easy to remember by pundits and populace alike. Two, the term must be printable or repeatable, in at least one form or popular usage, by respected print and broadcast entity standards. Three, the term must convey, with no uncertainty or misrepresentation, the gravity of the situation without euphemizing or dysphemizing, unless it manages to accomplish both simultaneously.

To meet these criteria, I have come up with a term that will satisfy everyone. Not only does the term have an easily repeatable acronym (and, as a computer nerd, acronyms are my personal best friend), but is also stoic, detached, and surgical enough to placate those suffering from euphemistic tendencies, and yet, still conveys just how utterly screwed up the situation is.

So, if it may please the Court of public opinion, here is my suggestion to describe what some refuse and others demand to call a Civil War: Sectarian Hatred in Iraqi Territory Causing Annihilation and Necrosis. I’ll let the rest of you figure out the acronym from the capitalized words yourselves.

There, it’s done, the semantic civil war is over with. Now we can stop arguing about the name of the problem, and start arguing about the problem.

Here’s to the end of the war of the words and the hopeful beginning of the end of the war itself.

Originally printed in the Daily O’Collegian in redacted form, November 30th, 2006

Sorry, for a moment there, I contracted Conservative Rationalization And Partisanship (CRAP), a systemic neurological disorder, a newly discovered illness that threatens the very fabric of our society. We face a pandemic of CRAP that makes the level of infections of an imminent outbreak of H5N1 Avian Flu look like a group of school kids passing on the common cold to each other.

Fortunately, Procerevate (Progressive Cerebral Advocacy Tablets, 10 mg) was just approved Tuesday by the Federal Election Commission for over-the-counter use in individuals with slight to moderate cases of CRAP. Double-blind studies show that Procerevate, taken in concert with a regiment of self-education, open-mindedness, and a willingness to think for oneself are successful in causing one’s CRAP to go into remission. In fact, it is believed that reported cases of CRAP are on the down-turn, as evidenced by a nation-wide poll conducted on November 7th, 2006, partially thanks to the availability of Procerevate in limited amounts in some areas.

Procerevate is not for everyone. Talk to your politician first if you have ever been diagnosed with Stockholm Syndrome or Cognitive Dissonance Resistance, as these may be signs that immediate enrollment in a School of Hard Knocks program is necessary, or that you may be at risk for Holistic Observational Limitation of Existence, also known as CRAP/HOLE, a condition which limits one’s ability to recognize the existence of reality.

George W. Bush, believed by many to be Patient Zero of CRAP, stated yesterday that the reason why he told reporters last week that Donald Rumsfeld would be staying was to placate the reporters and get them on another question. Apparently, in every world but the one that exists in George’s CRAP-addled mind, this is called “lying,” and the inability to own up to one’s own fibs is a key symptom of CRAP.

Symptoms of CRAP include lead political figures lying about ousting Defense Secretaries, arguing with themselves visibly in front of cameras or other recording equipment, political and ideological back-peddling, and amnesia when it comes to statements made about opponents even days earlier.

In severe cases, equating an entire group of ideologues with terrorists, then retracting the statement less than a week later after a massive failure to prove one’s point has been linked to CRAP.

For situations where a patient is calling someone else a flip-flopper or “waffler”, while oneself is reneging on promises, statements, or other concrete ideologies, a condition known as hypocrisy, please immediately call your Spin Doctor.

Places like Oklahoma, Texas, and Kansas will be CRAP hotspots long into this new millennium, regardless of the availability of Procerevate; similar to how some diseases are on an international decline, but still have centers of high-infection rates in less-developed nations of the world.

With hard work and effort, you too can fight CRAP. Please, talk to your politician if you or a loved one suffer from Republican-induced CRAP.

After six years of the Republican’s crap, here’s to finally finding a cure.

Originally printed in the Daily O’Collegian, November 9th, 2006

Now, for Christmas, I’d like to ask Santa for Virginia and Montana to offer up their Democratic Senators? I’ve been a good boy this year…