Where the beejesus

I was sipping my coffee in the break room this morning, trying to have a sensible conversation with Abigail Greene, this hippy type who listens to Charlie Parker and writes poetry when she’s supposed to be debugging software. She always has earphone wires dangling from her head, and when you want to ask her a question you’re better off emailing her than trying to get her attention in real time. She’s annoying, I’ll tell you. Anyway, this morning she did me the favor of removing the earphones so she could listen to what I was saying over coffee. But when I think about what she said to me I’m a little offended because, well, I don’t think I’m “controlling”. Yes, that’s what she told me. I mean right out of the blue she interrupted me and said: “You know, Armond, you’re very controlling.” Just like that. I can tell you it knocked me back a couple of steps. I mean maybe I did go on longer than I should have about pet ownership saving the world, but I don‘t think I was being controlling, for God’s sake. Maybe I talked over her once or twice when she tried to butt in, but I certainly wasn’t dictatorial or anything.

Although now that I’ve has a chance to sit back and think about it, maybe I do tend to be slightly overbearing—no, that’s too strong—maybe I tend to be a little overly enthusiastic sometimes when I’m trying to make a point.  I mean when I think I’m right about something, really right, right in a moral or ethical sense (or both), where there really should be no question, no argument to the contrary, well then sometimes I may be a little more forceful—well, not forceful—that’s a slight overstatement. What I mean to say is that you have to have an opinion, right? And you have to support your opinion, right? And sometimes you have to defend your opinion, especially when someone challenges it or makes light of it or implies that you’re wrong. That’s what Abigail was doing, now that I think about it. Of course she really didn’t say much, maybe four or five words the whole time we were talking, but I definitely got the vibe that she disagreed with me. You can feel it when someone disagrees with you; you can read it in their body language and their facial distortions, the way their eyes shift and their upper lip quivers and that tell-tale twitch of the nostril. I sensed all that going on with Abigail while I was holding forth—no not “holding forth”—that’s too strong; I was simply making my point to her in no uncertain terms—no, that’s not true either; it sounds like I was refusing to consider both sides of the argument (not that we were arguing), which I was perfectly willing to do and am always perfectly willing to do—except of course when I know for sure that there’s no possibility that my viewpoint is wrong. Well, then I’ll go to the wall to defend myself—no, “go to the wall” is too extreme for what I’m trying to say. You see, I’m very committed to my ideas, which doesn’t mean I wouldn’t change my mind if someone came up with a good argument against them. It doesn’t mean I wouldn’t reevaluate and reconsider and even go the extra mile to see the other person’s point of view. It’s true. I’m a fair and objective person.

So, now, thinking about myself in that light—as someone willing to compromise when presented with incontrovertible proof that his ideas are wrong--I have to wonder where the beejesus Abigail was coming from this morning when she said I was “controlling”.

The one who woke up

 

It was quite something. I am reluctant to describe it as life-changing, as out of body experiences real and imagined tend to lend themselves to hyperbole, wishful thinking and exaggerated memories, especially in the near term. Best to wait till the luster wears off. In any case I can tell you it was an amazing journey, from beginning to end, each experiential component building on the realizations and self-knowledge gained from preceding components, until the lines between episodes blurred and became one (yeah, very Buddhist). Up there it is huge, just huge, and you couldn't help but see the absolute insignificance of your self and your overblown self-perception. Unlike down here where we've built vast systems of interference between who we are and the real, up there there's nothing to block it out. It's right there in front of you all the time you're passing through it, and, at least in my case, it became fully manifest that the world I perceive is not the world that is, and neither am I the person I take myself to be.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/10/14/opinion/sunday/the-self-destruction-of-the-1-percent.html?smid=pl-share

Crotchwood

Cyberattacks on Banks Threaten 1st World Security :-)

By NICOLE PERLROTH, 
 New York Times 9/30/12

Six major American banks were hit in a wave of computer attacks last week, by a group claiming Middle Eastern ties, that caused Internet blackouts and delays in online banking.
The group said it had attacked the banks in retaliation for an anti-Islam video that mocks the Prophet Muhammad. It also pledged to continue to attack American credit and financial institutions daily, and possibly institutions in France, Israel and Britain, until the video is taken offline. The New York Stock Exchange and Nasdaq were also targeted.

Security researchers said the attack methods were too basic to have taken so many American bank sites offline. The hackers appeared to be enlisting volunteers for the attacks with messages on various sites. On one blog, they called on people to visit two Web addresses that would cause their computers to flood banks with hundreds of data requests a second. They asked volunteers to attack banks according to a timetable: Wells Fargo on Tuesday, U.S. Bancorp on Wednesday and PNC on Thursday.

But experts said it seemed implausible that this method would create an attack of this scale. “The number of users you need to break those targets is very high,” said Jaime Blasco, a security researcher at AlienVault who has been investigating the attacks. “They must have had help from other sources.”

Those sources, Mr. Blasco said, would have to be a group with money, like a nation, or botnets — networks of infected computers that do the bidding of criminals. Botnets can be rented through black market schemes that are common in the Internet underground, or lent out by criminals or governments.

Information is power

Tillich’s War

Pine Cone

Ich war on the mountain top waitin fer nirvanha

Along appear a girl all dress in whyte

To me she says whats you worry bout dady

I says nothing cep my bodys outta sight

wat? yer bodys turning loose yer me-my funkie

It wanna wrestle down you donkey kong

But tommy u as dervish as a monkey

Everthing u thought was right was wrong 

I aint nuts so dryup greasy momma

Aint no more nuts than all that perple blood

If some of us is nuts its cuz all greasy sluts
an wristy cutdogs bunck n chewin mud

Yep an den did I ponder areolas

Areolas dicks n ladies eggs

An the karkers march and rose all agin me

An drug me down with all the written regs

So what the gist o this ol fubble funsong

Where the meat in everthing we say

In trufe there be no uberfatal meaning

but ta blow the myth of meanin allaway

The Irrelevance of Fidel Castro

By Rob Sequin | Havana Journal

Heard from Fidel Castro lately?
Read any news articles about him lately?
Do you care?
If you answered no, you are not alone. 
Seems that no one cares about Fidel Castro anymore.

ingredients

Rains Flood Manila, Thousands Fleeing

MANILA —At least a third of this overpopulated capital and its suburbs were submerged on Tuesday as torrential rains battered the city and floodwaters poured in from almost all sides.

670 million people affected by the largest electrical blackout in history

As nighttime arrived, Kirti Shrivastava, 49, a housewife in the eastern city of Patna, said power had not been restored in her neighborhood. “There is no water, no idea when electricity will return,” she said. “We are really tense. Even the shops have now closed. Now we hope it is not an invitation to the criminals!”

 Ramachandra Guha, an Indian historian, said that the blackout was only the latest evidence of government dysfunction in India. “India needs to stop strutting on the world stage like it’s a great power,” Mr. Guha said, “and focus on its deep problems within.” 

http://nyti.ms/Pn3gNb

300 Million Without Power in North India, Water May Be Next

Tens of millions of people in North India were without power and early morning commutes in Delhi were thrown into chaos Monday after a massive electrical grid failure. Water supplies may be seriously disrupted this evening, because of the power problems, officials said.

The Gun Rights Tilt---NYT

The Gun Rights Tilt

The same trends that have buoyed public support for gay marriage and marijuana legalization have also encouraged a more expansive reading of the Second Amendment.

The Harmonica Lewinskies, released their first album today. Listen to it here for free, or buy it if you've a mind to. Here's a coupla cuts:

Olympic Fists of Freedom: 1968

"As the stars and stripes ran up the flagpole and the national anthem played, Smith and Carlos bowed their heads and raised their fists in what was described across the globe as a "Black Power salute," creating a moment that would define the rest of their lives. But there was far more to their actions on the medal stand than just the gloves. The two men wore no shoes to protest black poverty, as well as beads and scarves to protest lynching."

Zuhori

Spain 1967 (On the road agin)

it’s still crystal clear

España that year

I was out and as free

as I’d ever be

no family no things
the wind in my wings

untethered untied

alone on a ride

that took me inside

for the very first time

a pilgrim a rambler

a dreamer a gambler

a drunkard a liar

a lover of fire

free of god free of sin

without and within
oh jesus my friend
put me on the road again

Note to Charlie Rose (re tonight's JPMorgan show)

So, Charlie Rose,

When you purport to examine a real “problem” by putting “unbiased” “friends” of your own and the “accused” on your show, how the heck do you sleep at night? 

Maybe you don't.

More importantly, how can you expect us proles to believe what you beautiful people say?

Oh, and can’t you please get away from Harvard Business School? Is there not a better, more ethical oracle?

Thanks.

Word order: The internet as the toy with a tin ear By Lewis Lapham

I speak Spanish to God, Italian to women, French to men, and German to my horse - Emperor Charles V

But in which language does one speak to a machine, and what can be expected by way of response? The questions arise from the accelerating data-streams out of which we've learned to draw the breath of life, posed in consultation with the equipment that scans the flesh and tracks the spirit, cues the ATM, the GPS, and the EKG, arranges the assignations on Match.com and the high-frequency trades at Goldman Sachs, catalogues the pornography and drives the car, tells us how and when and where to connect the dots and thus recognise ourselves as human beings.
Why then does it come to pass that the more data we collect - from Google, YouTube, and Facebook - the less likely we are to know what it means?

Homophobic? Maybe You’re Gay

WHY are political and religious figures who campaign against gay rights so often implicated in sexual encounters with same-sex partners?

The Human Cost of Animal Suffering

http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/03/13/the-human-cost-of-animal-suffering/

How Apple Sidesteps Billions in Global Taxes

"'Still, some, including De Anza College’s president, Mr. Murphy, say the philanthropy and job creation do not offset Apple’s and other companies’ decisions to circumvent taxes. Within 20 minutes of the financially ailing school are the global headquarters of Google, Facebook, Intel, Hewlett-Packard and Cisco.

“When it comes time for all these companies — Google and Apple and Facebook and the rest — to pay their fair share, there’s a knee-jerk resistance,” Mr. Murphy said. “They’re philosophically antitax, and it’s decimating the state.”

“But I’m not complaining,” he added. “We can’t afford to upset these guys. We need every dollar we can get.'”

Here's the article...

Sesame Noodles with Tofu

This then was tonight's dinner. 
Next time, I'll use half the oil.

May the the minority prevail

Beyond its undeniable didactic function, it would seem that writing has questionable value, other than to advertise one’s self, or to publicize one’s personal experience or opinion. Since the accuracy of one’s opinion is inherently dubious, what good is it in the true air? Of course I understand that such an idea obviates the institution of art in its entirety—a in feat itself—but do you see where I’m going? Think of it this way: everyone has personal ideas about life and how to live it; unfortunately, these ideas tend to coalesce in political terms. "Honey, for you own good, think what I think." So, whither truth? When the majority successfully asserts its ideas over minority views, it’s erroneously called democracy; the voice of opposition is contained, and ultimately defeated. And as always, the status quo squeaks by. It’s nuance, propaganda, obstructionism and ego. Jesu! Up with true democracy! May the the minority forever prevail.

Shapeshifter

Fuck the Bach

Corrine was less than forthcoming about her extramarital activities, and who could blame her? 
Doing it was one thing, talking about it with her husband quite another. Which is why Larry was forever loath to inquire after his wife’s nocturnal outings. He knew he risked a shot to the mouth or a slap across the face just for asking.

Like for instance the rain-soaked morning she arrived home, panties in one hand, flip-flops in the other.

“You must be freezing,” he said, having risen from a fitful slumber to answer the bell. “And where’s your key?”

“Mind yer own freakin’ beeswax. Laaarry.” She’d said, sauntering to the shower, tracking mud down the hall behind her. 
Had she rolled her eyes when she said his name? Larry couldn’t decide.

As always, he was cordial and obedient. In all his life he’d never known a woman like this. She was paradise run amok, a wild, untamable mystery, and in the thrall of that mystery he was lily-livered, yellow-bellied, gutless—putty in her hands his father liked to say. 
Larry could no more protest her infidelities than he could defend his own pathetic groveling. He simply adored every inch of this woman and had long ago decided that he would tolerate any abuse she might see fit to rain down upon him, so long as he could daily inhale her divine scent, so long as he could snooze an occasional night away at her blessed side.

He smoked a cigarette and tidied the magazines on the nightstand while he waited for her to return from the bathroom. He looked out the window. There were people in the street. It had stopped raining. Maybe they could go for a walk.

Finally he heard her coming. She was whistling “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring”, a favorite of his.

“Oh, I love the Bach,” he chirped as she entered the room.

“Fuck the Bach,” she said. “I need a nap.”

Top Sergeant Vernon Williams

I should mention Top Sergeant Vernon Williams here. Williams was a 40-year old African-American, a Spec 8 with twenty-three years in the service. He'd done time in Korea and other hotspots, and had recently returned from a third tour of Vietnam, where he'd been wounded and commended for bravery under fire. He was a soldier's soldier: ramrod straight, uniform always immaculate and sharply pressed. His boots shone brighter than any I ever saw in a world where shiny boots are the undisputed badge of the fully actualized fighting man.

Top had his shit together. He had developed the Williams Method, a technique for shining boots that had no equal: It started out with the tried and true spit shine, a method of applying a mixture of boot polish and saliva with a soft cotton rag.  A tight circular polishing motion was employed to work the mixture into the leather. Practiced for hours at a time, spit-shining eventually yielded up a startlingly bright finish, but the diligent Sergeant had taken the process to new heights. He had determined that by alternately polishing the boots and baking them for ten minutes in a slow oven at 175 degrees, mere brightness became eye-blinding brilliance. Boot polishing amateurs were warned to wear sunglasses when staring directly at his boots. I remember us toiling for hours to raise a dull luster on our own footware; when Sgt. Williams arrived, no eye could ignore the blazing mirrors that adorned his toes. We begged him for the secret and sat adoringly at his knee as he revealed it.

Of all the men I met in the military, Top Sgt. Vernon Williams was the ablest, most effective leader I encountered. He won admiration and loyalty simply by being direct, kind and fair. Whether you were a conscientious objector or a Green Beret, he viewed you as a human being and he treated you with the respect he held for any soldier that might one day fight by his side. It was that simple. He was the first of several men I met during those years who showed me that even in that vast sea of inhumanity and ineptitude, there were fine people who maintained their personal dignity and, within the limits of the social order, their individuality and independence.

Anthem

I wouldn’t call drinking so much a problem as I would a habit. And once you get into a habit, why then it becomes a problem. So how is one to drum on such a conundrum? Well, probably let it go. Live with it, let it eat away on certain parts of you, and die with it; the rest is history. Oh c’mon you progeny of the middle class, the greatest generation since the greatest generation. Bunch of stooges, electors of Bush and Bumsquat. Non-thinkers. No. We know what’s up and we know what’s down. For we have pocket TV sets and twitter accts. Long may we drink, long may we wave.

Up and tap-tap-tapping

Not sleeping too good tonight, hell, I never have slept too good, so I’m up and tap-tap-tapping, trying to make some sense out of this life of mine, of this world of ours. I’m not sure there’s any sense to be made of it, but at my age you delude yourself. I can compare it to a book I’m reading, A Universe Of Consciousness: How Matter Becomes Imagination by Gerald Edelman and Giulio Tononi: a couple of brain scientists hypothesizing about how consciousness happens, how we generate thought. A tall order, no? While they succeed in giving the reader a new and deeper respect for the complexities of our brains, they shed little new light on how the process happens, no more than say William James did a hundred years ago in his masterpiece Principles of Psychology. WelI, OK, maybe that’s unfair, but you get the feeling of two perplexed scientists fumbling around trying to be the first on their block to come up with an acceptable explanation of something that is essentially unexplainable—at least at this point in our development—because they’re using the brain to explain itself. Brain-generated language doesn’t suffice. Can thought fathom thought? Can language reveal its source? More to the point, can thinking extricate itself from the thought process in order to understand the thought process? Quien sabe, Kemo Sabe? But these dudes have the cred, bravado, and intellectual self-assurance to give it a shot. Unfortunately it comes out mostly as wishful thinking. Close, but no banana. Which, to return to where I started, is pretty much where I’m at at 2:00 in the morning trying to make sense out of life and the world: wishful thinking. I suppose this is what happens when you get to your mid-sixties and start looking across whatever number of years you have remaining and suddenly realize you don’t know shit and never did, and there’s this long lonely gulf where you fall away from life as you’ve known it and you’re faced with an image of a tiny pea rolling around in a vast, dark, unfathomable cosmos, unanchored, untethered, unprepared for what’s to come, so you start telling yourself stories that are guaranteed to keep you awake at night. Eventually you get out of bed, throw a log on the fire, eat some peanut butter toast and, like I said up top, try to make some sense of it all. I suspect I’ll have about as much success with this as Edelman and Tononi did with their self-consciously twisted image of the mind all doubling back on itself in the throes of thought-birth, or re-entrance, as the process is known to brain explorers: the idea that consciousness is a roaring flow of energy coursing through our neural nooks and crannies at the speed of thought, incessantly recirculated to new compartments of the brain for nourishment and inspiration, over, under, around and through the neural mass, until the un-thought thought train hits all required neuronic stations, is tinkered with, touched and retouched, adjusted and readjusted, until each of billions of participating nerves and sparking synapses has made its infinitesimal contribution. Thusly are thoughts--and consciousness itself--born and reborn like stories from nowhere, like shimmering fish from the white-hot volcanic depths of the seething cauldron we call mind. But what the heck. What else is there to do?

 

 Cosmologist Lawrence M. Krauss joins a chorus of physicists and cosmologists who have been pushing into sacred ground, proclaiming more and more loudly in the last few years that science can explain how something — namely our star-spangled cosmos — could be born from, if not nothing, something very close to it. God, they argue, is not part of the equation. The book, “A Universe From Nothing,” is a best seller and follows recent popular tomes like “God Is Not Great,” by the late Christopher Hitchens; “The God Delusion,” by Richard Dawkins; and “The Grand Design,” by the British cosmologist Stephen Hawking (with Leonard Mlodinow), which generated headlines two years ago with its assertion that physicists do not need God to account for the universe.

Going to the Demnition Bowwows

Movie poster: NY, NY. USA. February 2007.
News clipping: found among my deceased uncle's few worldly possessions. February 1998.
TV image: January 2005.