FlamingText

There goes the last human voice

Robots are stalking me.

Every day for two weeks now I've gotten home and the same robot has left a message on my voice mail telling me to call an 800 number for some important information. The robot has a Brooklyn accent. I looked the number up and it's the number of a marketing survey company. I can't tell the robot I'm not interested, I can't opt out, I can't even talk back. The robot does all the talking. It doesn't care if I hang up. It doesn't care what I do. It just keeps calling and calling.

   Robots are also faxing my office with offers for discount vacations and mortgage refinancing. Of course they never stop filling my email box with offers to enlarge my manhood and help me meet Seattle area singles. The e-robots seem very concerned with my sex life in general, although they also want to sell me pharmaceuticals and offer me stock tips. Recently one of them disguised itself as one of my friends, and wrote me an email directing my attention to a hot new website where I can both sell and purchase a wide variety of items. Afterwards my friend wrote to say that her mailbox had been invaded by an obnoxious robot who proceeded to spam everybody in her address book. She wrote:

"Ignore that last message. This is the real me and I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

I asked her how I knew this was really her and not just another clever robot. She replied "Trust me. By the way, I would like to tell you about a remarkable new patch that will enlarge your penis!"

I asked her if she knew some means by which I could reduce it, because quite frankly enough is enough.

   See, I can joke around like that with my friends, but not with robots. If you talk back to the robots then they know somebody's home and they'll never leave you alone. Your phone will keep ringing off the hook, they'll camp out in the yard waiting for you to come outside, and they'll move into the apartment upstairs from you where they'll keep you up till all hours with the racket they make while they're clomping around on their huge ungainly metal feet. You'll never get a decent night's sleep again. No, the only thing to do with robots is to lie low and pretend you don't hear them.

It's not like any of them has a sense of humor anyway. Fucking robots.

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"Why are you investing in this company?" he asks me. "I've never heard of them, they seem to be based in the Cayman Islands, and I'm not sure that they actually produce anything. As your broker I cannot recommend this."

"Hot tip from a robot." I tell him. "Robots can't lie to humans. I'm pretty sure it's one of Asimov's Laws or something."

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   I must confess to having a soft spot for Tom Petty. The first record I remember buying with my own money was a Tom Petty record (yes, record.) Tom Petty is not particularly radical or groundbreaking -- quite the opposite. Even when he broke in the late seventies his music was considered kind of a throwback to bands from the previous decade, most notably the Byrds -- but he understands how to write a simple, straightforward pop song and I appreciate that. He's also not the first person you'd think of when you think of radical politics. Hell, it doesn't get much more mainstream than classic-rock stalwart Petty.

   But every once in a while a guy like this will surprise you by hitting the nail right on the head. There was a song he released back in 2002 called "the Last DJ" that got a little bit of radio airplay and then faded away never to be heard again. What's kind of amazing is that a song that is so critical of radio and media ownership in general would ever get played in the first place.* There's one stanza that gets stuck in my head because it sums up how I feel about so much of what's going on in today's business, political and media landscape. Plus, it rhymes:

As we celebrate mediocrity
All the boys upstairs want to see
How much you'll pay for
What you used to get for free

   That pretty much sums it up. I've been thinking about it today as I watch with great interest the debate unfolding in Congress over whether to actually have an open discussion about completely dismantling the principle of Network Neutrality, or whether to just hand the big telecoms what they want by slipping the rewrite of existing laws into a rider on the "Government Puppies for Sad Orphans Appropriations Bill" in the middle of the night after all the reporters have gone home for the day. (Don't worry, the Senate version of the bill will eliminate funding for the puppies, so your tax dollars are safe.)

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   You know who won't suffer if some kind of tiered-access, pay-to-play standard for internet access is established? Robots, that's who. Robots have deep, deep pockets. Deeper than yours. There's a lot of money to be had in swindling retirees out of their pension checks and selling sugar pills to insecure men. Well, more money than there is in telling people about your band's next gig anyway. Yep, the robots will pay to play, and they'll keep calling and they'll keep writing, so you'll never have to feel lonely, because the robots are never going away!

The machines have your number, and they're here to stay.

Pt 2: A Sufi Tale, adapted

   Sufism is a mystical branch of Islam that concerns itself with direct knowledge of the divine, what might correspond to the term gnosis in Western religious thought. One of their central beliefs is that, because all knowledge transmitted through speech or writing tends to distort at every step of the retelling, the only true way to knowledge of the workings of the universe is through direct contact with the higher spheres of existence. They accomplish this through various ecstatic states, most famously in the spiral dance that gives the whirling dervishes their name.

  It is still practiced in many parts of the Islamic world, although in some areas practitioners must maintain a high degree of secrecy as it is not always tolerated by more doctrinaire branches of Islam. Their distrust of dogma and the contention that a central truth lies at the heart of all religions has not always made them popular with the ruling political factions in certain countries.

This is my interpretation of the Story of Fire as told by Idries Shah in his book Tales of the Dervishes. I am representing it to the best of my capacity and with the sincere hope that in doing so I am not subverting or perverting its original meaning. Also, I changed the only proper name in the whole story for no good reason other than the fact that I liked the way it sounded. No disrespect intended.

Please enjoy the Story of Fire.

  So once there was this guy. Let’s call him Eddie. Eddie was pretty sharp, and so one day he was sitting there thinking about nature and how it works when all of a sudden he got this idea for a way to make fire. And after some trial and error he worked it out and next thing you know, he’d figured out a foolproof method. And you have to understand, this was a huge deal because at that time nobody knew how to do this. Sure, lots of people had seen fire, like when lightning struck and the woods went up in flames, or maybe if they lived near a volcano or something, but nobody could make it for themselves. To them fire was just a terrifying force of nature and something that was best avoided. So when this guy, Eddie, figured out how to make it on his own, it was huge. I would say it was the biggest thing since sliced bread, but people weren’t doing that yet. Still, you get the picture.

  Eddie figured this discovery could be of great use to people so he went traveling around all over hither and yon teaching whoever he came across his methods for making and controlling fire. And these efforts met with mixed results. Some people saw the potential in this new invention and eagerly learned what Eddie had to teach them and so learned how to make fire for themselves. Other people couldn’t get past the fact that fire was really dangerous. They had a saying, back in those days: “Fire bad.” And that’s really just common sense if you think about it. And some people just couldn’t get past that and when they saw what Eddie was doing they chased him right out of town and then breathed a huge sigh of relief when they thought about what a close call they’d just had. And they went right on being cold all the time and eating their food raw just like they'd always done.

  Still Eddie continued going from place to place doing his fire-making demonstrations for anybody who’d listen until one day he came across a tribe of people who were so freaked out by what he was doing that they set upon him and tore him limb from limb, because they assumed that anybody who could summon fire like that must be some kind of demon. And they too breathed a big sigh of relief afterward, happy that they’d managed to kill the demon that had come into their village. None of them ever really thought too hard about how strange it was that, for a demon, he really hadn’t put up a very impressive fight. And they all went right on being cold and eating their food raw too, but now at night when they were all sitting around in the darkness huddled together for warmth they would tell the tale of how once long ago a demon had come to town but luckily their brave forefathers had killed him. It was their favorite story. They told it over and over.

  And so it went with all the different people that Eddie had encountered in his travels, that over generations they all retained the story of the man who’d come to their village long ago, and yet they all told the story in different ways depending what their ancestors had done with the knowledge of fire that Eddie had shown them. In one tribe the secret of fire was reserved for the priests, who used it to live in comfort and unquestioned authority while the people all froze. In a second tribe the people had forgotten how to make fire but, because the story of the of the wise man who had come to them and performed miracles was such an important one to them, they had set up shrines all over the place that contained the instruments for making fire. And every day, three times a day, once each before the hours for morning, noon and evening meals, they would stop what they were doing and bow down to the sacred instruments for fire-making without the foggiest idea what those instruments were used for or what their original meaning was. There was a third tribe of people who all bowed down before statues of Eddie, because he was the source of the divine gift of fire.

  Among a fourth tribe people still told stories about this guy who had somehow summoned fire, but since they had never really gotten the knack for performing this miracle for themselves it had all passed into legend and nobody was sure if it had really happened or if it was a metaphor or a tall tale or what have you. They argued about it a lot as a question of faith but in spite of all their scholarly debate on the subject nobody ever figured out how to make fire on their own.

  And there was a fifth tribe where the people did get the knack for making fire on their own, and they used it to cook their food and heat their houses and smelt metal and all sorts of other things.

  Centuries passed, and then one day a wise man and a band of his disciples began a journey through the lands that Eddie had long ago traversed when he was giving his fire-making seminars. After several stops along the way where they carefully observed the local customs and practices, the disciples noticed that all the stories these people told related in one way or another to making fire. And they said to their mentor “Well, now this is just crazy! All they’re talking about is making fire! They might as well be worshipping sliced bread! We’ve got to reform these people.”

  And their mentor said “Alright, since you’re so keen on bringing knowledge to these poor benighted souls, let’s start our journey again from the beginning and see what happens. By the time we reach the end, those of you who survive will have a better understanding of the real problems involved in such an undertaking and how to approach them.”

  And at that the disciples said “What do you mean, ‘those of us who survive’?” but it was too late, the mentor had spoken and so they all retraced their steps and went back to the beginning of their route.

  The first stop on their journey they were received graciously by the tribesmen, who invited them to one of their religious ceremonies. They all went to the ceremony and sure enough, the priests were there doing their mystical dances, jumping up and down and chanting and calling out to the heavens and then finally at the end they “summoned” fire and the crowd went completely nuts.

  After witnessing this, the master asked his disciples if any of them had anything to say, and one of them immediately piped up with “You bet I’ve got something to say! These people are being bamboozled! Those charlatans have all got them convinced that they’ve got God’s personal phone number just because they know how to rub two sticks together. We’ve got to tell these people the Truth!”

And the master said, “I can think of two or three reasons right off the top of my head why that may not be such a great idea, but if you’re really committed, go ahead, provided you do so at your own risk.”

  And so the idealistic young acolyte stepped up and addressed the crowd and the tribal chiefs and the priests who were all still gathered and said to them “I too can produce fire, which you believe to be a special manifestation of divine power. If I can perform this miracle, will you admit that your beliefs have been in error for lo these many years?”

Immediately upon hearing this, the priests summoned some guards who dragged him away and that was the last anybody ever heard from him. The rest of the band made some hasty goodbyes and took their leave of that place.

They all had to agree afterwards that it had not gone well.

  Next they all came to the place where the people prayed to the shrines filled with fire-making tools. One of the braver disciples, who also happened to be a very fast runner, asked his master’s permission to go and try to reason with the people in this tribe. The master told him “Absolutely. Knock yourself out.”

  So the disciple approached the people and began talking to them, although he was careful to keep a clear path for himself to the exit in case things started to take an ugly turn.

“I beg your permission to speak to you as reasonable people,” he began, balancing on the balls of his feet as if poised to take off sprinting at a moment’s notice. “What you are worshipping is simply the means of doing something, not even the thing itself. The whole usefulness of the process is lost to you.”

And the people there replied “Say what?”

The disciple bravely continued. “If you allow me, I can show you the truth that lies beneath your rituals, and I think you’ll find the knowledge you gain from it to be exceedingly useful.”

  Now these people were more reasonable than the first tribe had been, as evidenced by the fact that they didn’t kill this newcomer as soon as those words were out of his mouth, but even so they took umbrage.

  One of the oldest and most respected among them stepped up and said “Now look here. You are strangers and we’ve shown you hospitality because that is our custom. But even so, you are way out of line. Where do you get off criticizing our beliefs? Didn’t you notice that we pray to the sacred instruments three times a day? Three times! Every day! Didn’t that clue you in that we take our religion seriously in these parts?”

“Well, I…” said the acolyte.

“You come in here with your ‘fire this’ and your ‘worshipping the means’ that, and the fact is you don’t know the first thing about us or our traditions,” he continued, “and yet you would presume to tell us all about the true meaning behind our rituals? How dare you?”

“It’s just that I….” Stammered the acolyte.

“Maybe you’d best be on your way.”

And with that they took their leave of that place as well.

  Before long they came to the place where the people worshipped the image of Eddie. In front of each and every house was a statue of Eddie, except over time the sculptors had made some enhancements, so that the Eddie in their depictions had broader shoulders and a much more prominent jaw than the original ever had. And the people bowed down to the statues and laid garlands at their feet and asked them for advice in all kinds of matters.

Seeing this the disciples, who along the way had begun to learn a thing or two about tact, tried to broach the subject of faith with the most learned members of the priesthood.

  “Now look, let’s be clear on one thing,” said the third disciple, who had volunteered for this task, “Nobody’s knocking Eddie. Eddie was obviously not only one very sharp cookie, but also a truly generous guy for devoting his life to bringing the gift of fire to a bunch of people he didn’t even know, most of whom didn’t understand or appreciate what he was trying to do for them.”

“He was not a ‘sharp cookie.’ “ Answered the priests. “He was a God.”

“Yes, well, be that as it may, the reason he was so special is because he brought fire, you see, and the reason fire is special…”

“The reason he was special,” replied the priests, “is because he was a God.”

“And the reason fire is special,” continued the exasperated disciple, “ is because it is useful. And if you’ll permit me to demonstrate using these simple tools, I will show you how…”

  “Stranger,” said the chief priest, his expression grave and his voice icy, “your speech and ways are foreign to us. You are clearly not a priest or even an acolyte of our faith, and yet you profess to tell us that you know more about our God than we do, we who have devoted our lives to following him and knowing his ways. This is the most rank heresy.” And his expression never wavered and his eyes never moved from the third disciple all the while he was saying these things.

“Maybe we’d best be going.” Said the third disciple.

At the fourth stop they decided to split up and report back what they had found. When they had all gone into the settlement and returned to check in, the master asked each of them in turn to tell the company what they had encountered.

“Well, they’re all very familiar with the stories of the man who made fire, although for some reason here they all call him Ramón,” said one of their number.

“I noticed that too. Ramón!” said another.

  “But,” the first one continued, “it’s all just legends now. Most people don’t seem to believe that it really happened. The only people I could get to believe me seemed to be people who were more or less lunatics, and I’m certain they would have been ready to believe I could lay a golden egg if I told them so. I have my doubts if any of those believers I talked to could have managed to make fire even if I showed them how.”

"I had a similar experience,” another disciple chimed in, “except some of the lunatics who believed me seemed like they probably would have been able to master it if I’d showed them how.”

“And why didn’t you?” asked the master, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

  “I questioned their motives. I started to wonder what the effect might be if only a few crazy people possessed the secret. One fellow I talked to seemed real excited about learning the method for making fire, and when I asked him what he planned to do with this precious gift, he just said something about how he’d ‘make them all pay, that’s what’ and then started rocking back and forth on his haunches and chuckling to himself. I could hear him chuckling all the way down the street as I was leaving. For all I know, he’s still chuckling right now.”

“And were your experiences similar?” the master asked another of his pupils.

  “Indeed no, master.” The student replied. “I managed to talk to one of the foremost religious sages of this area, who seemed sane enough in his way. He informed me that the mystery of the making of fire was the axis around which their entire faith spun. For the fact that proof of the matter was unobtainable demanded faith, and therefore to even seek to settle the question one way or the other would eat away at the very foundations of belief, which rests on faith and not on doubt. For it is only the doubter who demands proof. “

"Listening to him was giving me a headache so I left.”

“And what of you?” the master inquired of the last of his pupils.

“They heard me saying I could make fire and ran me out of town, calling me a huckster and a 'snake oil salesman,' whatever that means.”

“Hmmm. Interesting.” Said the master, the faintest of smiles crossing his lips.

  So they continued on their journey, encountering many more tribes along the way, the descendents of the same people who had been visited by Eddie centuries before, each with their own interpretation of the meaning of the story of his fateful visit. At one point they came across a tribe of people whose beliefs all centered around a ritual reenactment of the slaying of the Fire Demon. They all agreed to skip that stop.

At last they came to a thriving little town. It showed all the signs of prosperity and civilization, so it was with some hopefulness that one of their number went forth to inquire about the native customs regarding fire.

On a bustling city street, the disciple approached a passing stranger, and called out to him “Tell me, good sir, what do you know of the teachings of the Making of Fire?”

And the stranger turned, pulled out a Zippo lighter, lit up a smoke, and said “Come again?”

So afterwards the company all had to agree that they had nothing to teach these people.

Then the master gathered all of his disciples into a circle and told them:

“I hope you’ve all learned something here. It’s not enough to know a thing. You’ve got to know how to teach. The main difficulty is that people don’t want to be taught. So first you’ve got to teach them how to learn. And before that you’ve got to teach them that there’s something to be learned.”

“Oh sure, people will tell you that they’re ready to learn, they'll swear up and down that they want to learn, but when you get right down to it what they really want is to be taught things that confirm what they already think they know. Which is exactly the same as not wanting to learn anything at all.”

“So it’s a tricky business.” He concluded. “Only when you know these things can you devise a way to teach. Otherwise you can have all the knowledge in the world and you may as well be telling it to a wall.”

Pt 1: Special Effects

  Remember last post where I was quoting some political hack who was saying that we are living in a society that all but treats Christianity like some second-rate superstition? I feel certain that this is the sort of thing he was talking about. Seems there’s this scientist who claims to have found a possible explanation for one of Jesus' top-ten miracles: walking on water. He claims that unseasonably cold weather in Israel 1,500 to 2,600 years ago might have caused "spring ice" in the Sea of Galilee, which floated just beneath the surface and would have been strong enough to support a man's weight. Thus to an observer from a distance, somebody could step from a boat out onto the spring ice and appear to be walking on water.

  This is the kind of thing that provokes anger in true believers because they think people are trying to explain away their belief system, which I suppose is kind of true. In a sense scientists who engage in this kind of speculation regarding possible natural explanations for supernatural articles of faith are deliberately raining on that parade. My housemate subscribes to a magazine called the Skeptical Inquirer which is put out by the Committee for the Scientific Investigation of Claims of the Paranormal, and which I jokingly refer to it as the Killjoy Monthly. In spite of the fact that this is a publication written by people who literally want to track down and destroy every last trace of magic in the world today, it can sometimes be pretty entertaining reading. It's also a case study for anybody who believes that there are no articles of faith in doctrinaire atheism, but that's a whole other can of worms and it's not my point so I'll steer clear of it for now.

  My point is that people love their miracles and I understand why. In a sense miracles are to spirituality what special effects are to certain movies. Take the Matrix, for example. * I didn't see this movie until about a year after it came out in theatres due to my longstanding policy of avoiding any movie featuring Keanu Reeves in a speaking role. So I was pleasantly surprised that it turned out to be as well-made as it was, that is to say it was a sci-fi action/adventure movie with lots of CGEye-Candy and attractive people doing kung fu in skin tight leather and PVC, but it also contained an idea that wasn't completely throwaway.

The idea itself is nothing new: There is plenty of evidence to suggest that the notion that hey, what if everything all around us is, like, an illusion? has been around since well before Plato proposed his whole "shadows on the wall" metaphor. But it was in the execution of it, I thought, that the Matrix did a good job. The real money shot of that movie for me was when Keanu pops out of his little capsule and realizes that he's just a pale, flabby little grub living in a test-tube being tended by huge insectoid robots. That was a well-realized vision. That was the point in the movie where I said to myself “Alright! Now we’re getting somewhere.” Without that and all the bullet-time scenes * what you're left with is the sort of long rambling metaphysical conversation such as you might have had in a dorm room with your college buddies, perhaps after a couple rounds of bonghits, except with Keanu Reeves playing the role of your stoner roommate.

   But nobody would pay ten bucks to see that movie. So there’s gotta be a special effects budget; It's non-negotiable if you want to reach your audience. There’s gotta be robots and kung fu and suspension of the law of gravity and Carrie-Anne Moss in tight pants and all that other stuff or nobody would watch long enough to get to the point of the thing. That's the candy coating that make the chewy idea at the center palatable for the general viewing public.

   From the Arabian Nights to Shakespeare, good storytellers have always known that it’s the flash of mystery and magic that hooks listeners and makes them listen longer than they ordinarily would, but it’s the themes that lie just beneath the surface that give the story its lasting impact. And if some in the audience don't really get that second level and walk away thinking only that they heard a good story with a magic carpet and a humble peasant who became a hero and married the princess, well they may have missed the point but no harm done. Maybe the meaning will dawn on them later, when they're ready for it.

   But the people who are ready to fight over the special effects? The ones who protest “But there really was a genie, and he really did grant wishes, and there used to be flying carpets for sale in the bazaar, way back in olden times,” but can’t tell you for the life of them what the story was actually about? These people are all plot and no theme. What can you do for people like that?

Next: A Tale from the Sufis.

Too Legit to Quit?

   Okay, I'd just like to point out one more thing about this whole Tom DeLay story that's been largely ignored in the coverage that I've seen. After this I won't bring it up again and we can all get on with the business of forgetting who this person is and why he used to be important and how he ended up with the nickname "the Hammer" in the first place.

   It has to do with this story from a few weeks back about how DeLay and some other GOP luminaries spoke at a conference held in D.C. by Vision America. Vision American is a group founded by the Rev. Rick Scarborough, a prominent Texas preacher and radio personality with a large following among the "values voters" there. The conference was called the War On Christians Conference, which makes attending it sound like a politically risky move for DeLay until you realise it's a conference for American Christians who believe their values are under attack and not a conference on how to wage war on Christians as the name would seem to imply.

   Even if there actually were such a conference organized by Christianity's enemies, DeLay wouldn't be there, no matter how many voters were in attendance, for DeLay, you see is a fierce warrior for Christian values, which are currently under assault, at least according to Vision America. .* Here's how "the Hammer" drove his point home for the crowd:

"Sides are being chosen, and the future of man hangs in the balance!" Mr. DeLay warned, apocalyptically. "The enemies of virtue may be on the march, but they have not won, and if we put our trust in Christ they never will. ... It is for us then to do as our heroes have always done and put our faith in the perfect redeeming love of Jesus Christ."

   While some might call it a bold and reckless move for a politician to come down on the side of the religion of choice for upwards of seventy percent of Americans, DeLay is not to be deterred. In spite of the formidable political muscle wielded by liberal elites, neo-pagans and homosexuals, DeLay has again and again stood up for the "perfect redeeming love of Jesus Christ" by carrying out the savior's repeated biblical imprecations against stricter labor standards in the Mariana islands and for preferential licensing and tax exempt status for certain tribal casinos.

  In spite of his tireless work in the cause of righteousness or perhaps because of it, DeLay has for the past year found himself beset by enemies on all sides, just like Joan of Arc or Saint Bartholomew before him. DeLay’s indictment in Texas on money-laundering and conspiracy charges as well as persistent questions regarding his longstanding political ties to indicted über-lobbyist Jack Abramoff have been at the center of his recent political troubles, with the former forcing him to resign his position as House Majority Leader and the latter further damaging his reputation when Abramoff was found guilty and sentenced on March 29th, one day after DeLay gave his speech at the conference wherein he assured the rapt audience that there was no cause for fear:

“Of course there is a war on Christianity,” he told attendees. We are living in a nation dominated by liberal elites and a hostile media that "... all but treats Christianity like some second-rate superstition.’’*

“But, he added, “No matter how cowardly the evil before us may be, it is nothing compared to the power and glory of God.’’

Preach it, brother Hammer!

   Scarborough alluded to DeLay’s difficulties in his introduction, stating "I believe the most damaging thing that Tom DeLay has done in his life is take his faith seriously into public office, which made him a target for all those who despise the cause of Christ," going on to state that "This is a man that I believe God has appointed." *
After DeLay finished giving his speech to thunderous applause, the host retook the podium and graciously reminded the politician: "God always does his best work right after a crucifixion."

Strong words! But fair enough. DeLay is like Jesus in so many ways that the allusion is, I think, more than appropriate. That is to say, being nailed to a couple pieces of wood and left to die for the crime of preaching love for your fellow humans is almost exactly the same as being implicated in fundraising irregularities after years of using the corrupt lobbying system to feather your nest, enrich your friends and achieve an all-but-unbreakable hold on power, and thereafter being forced to step out of public service in a cloud of scandal and shame, only to matriculate into a far more lucrative position in private consultancy.

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Can we all just agree that when a public figure makes direct appeals to religious values like this that it should be immediate grounds for suspicion? I mean, how often have we seen this progression:
1.Public figure makes a career out of espousing Christian, Judeo/Christian or just plain-old Family values. Usually this includes a heavy emphasis on those who don’t seem to share these values and what should be done about them.
2. Said person gets caught doing something that would seem to violate the very principles they publicly espouse.
Usually followed by
3. Public figure subsequently resigns in disgrace/ goes to jail/ gets off scot-free, perhaps issues an apology (or not) then goes right back to preaching about the deplorable values of others as if nothing happened.

   The pattern has become so familiar that no sooner do I hear a politician, preacher or pundit talking up those crowd-pleasin’ Judeo-Christian Family values than I start waiting for the other shoe to drop. You can set your watch by it. All I’m saying is, can't we just skip that whole middle step and just assume that somebody's up to no good the second they step up on a soapbox and and start in a-preachin' them old-timey Family Values? It would sure save time. We could start looking for where the bodies are buried right away.

It reminds me of an old Bill Hicks routine about Jesse Helms, the one with the punchline about how when he’s gone, his wife will be on CNN saying “I always wondered about Jesse’s collection of little shoes.”

Mr. Hicks may have been on to something.

Abstinence Education.

This post is actually a comment I tried to post on Joshua's blog, but it wouldn't let me because it contained one of the forbidden words. Bonus points to anyone who can figure out which word tripped the block. Warning: If you follow the links herein to the posted pictures you may regret it. It not appropriate for viewing at work. It is not appropriate, period.

On a related note, I'm reasonably sure you've seen this, but have you seen this?

A few of my favorite things

Things that have made me happy in the last several days:

1. Friday at the Conor Byrne, playing with the Inkwell Rhythm Makers and Miss Mamie Lavona. The Inkwells was a trio out of Eugene, Oregon consisting of washboard, gutbucket (i.e. washtub bass), National Steel guitar and lots of hollering. Gutbuckets make me happy. Also, I played, got paid. Getting paid makes me happy. (Played, paid and laid is the sacred trifecta, but alas...)

2. Saturday I got a haircut and shot the shit with my barber, er, stylist, who is a great guy. However, we spent so long shooting the shit that by the end a really alarming amount of my former hair lay on the floor. I now look oddly respectable.

3.Sunday I was out walking around my neighborhood and I went in to the drugstore to buy some sunglasses. Up at the counter, the cashier told me "You know there's a two-for-one deal on these, right? Go back and get another pair FOR FREE!"

Those last two words put together like that have always been nearly impossible for me to ignore so I went back and picked out another pair. When I got back up to the counter, however, I discovered to my dismay that the second pair I had chosen was identical to the first in every way. (What can I say? My tastes are consistent.) So I went back and got another pair and went back up to the cashier with them and he said "Isn't that great? I don't tell everybody about the two-for-one deal. Just the people I like."

So you see what happens when you look respectable? Flamboyantly gay cashiers give you free sunglasses, that's what.

Then that evening I went to see the Billy Nayer Show at the Rendezvous. They played mostly brand-spanking new material from the album they are currently recording in New York. Lead singer and autoharpist/ukelelist Cory McAbee explained that they were just sneaking out of the studio for a couple quick club dates before finishing up. "The perfect crime," he called it.

The new songs were amazing. My favorite is "I'm your peg-legged father," although I'm not sure that's its real title. I don't know what the CD will be called either, but by the sound of it it will be essential listening. Seeing this guy's songwriting and performance skills filled me with inspiration and, frankly, more than a little envy. Mr. McAbee's ability to push an idea further than you possibly thought it would go and then a little further is remarkable. Also, who knew an autoharp, the instrument of, as McAbee put it "Kindergarten teachers, hippies, preachers and me," who knew it could produce such nightmarish walls of screaming feedback alongside the more standard sweetly plucked mellifluous tonality? Holy crap was it ever cool. The perfect backdrop, along with the badass rhythm section, to stirring tales of demons, bunnies, copulating houseflies and peg-legged fathers.

If this band comes to your town, go see them. Also, rent The American Astronaut. It is brilliant and weird.

4. Monday I was walking in my neighborhood where all the cherry and plum blossoms are in full bloom and it was lovely. When the wind blows hard, as it did on Monday, the fragrant pink and white petals swirl around like snow flurries. Everything looks like a Japanese painting.




My neighborhood is unspeakably beautiful this time of year.

5. Tuesday. I foolishly have my clock radio set to the local NPR station. This means many days the first thing I hear upon awakening is a story about massive sectarian violence in Iraq or how many people died in a mining disaster or something equally unpleasant. But today I was awakened by the news that Tom Delay is stepping down from his seat in Congress because of his ongoing legal troubles. It was like being awakened by a ray of sunshine falling warm upon my feet while the scent of coffee and fresh-baked biscuits wafted up through the house. Okay, not that good, but pretty damn good.

It could only be better if he was resigning because compromising pictures of him commiting unspeakable acts with dachshund puppies had been posted on the internet. Anyone?

Okay, I realize I'm pushing my luck here. Anyway, there you have it: Plum blossoms and schadenfreude. One pure joy and one guilty pleasure. Happy spring!