Monday, September 27, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Morals schmorals
"Taxes, I believe, are the lubricant for the machinery of our democracy."
Huh???
Minnesota gubernatorial candidate Mark Dayton makes 'moral' case for tax increase - TwinCities.com
Huh???
Minnesota gubernatorial candidate Mark Dayton makes 'moral' case for tax increase - TwinCities.com
Monday, September 13, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Today's Ray of Hope (Re-visited)
In honor of 9/11, I'm posting the following story a friend of mine sent to me a couple weeks after the events of September 11th, 2001.
"It is a late Tuesday night (aka early Wednesday morning). I have just returned from a bar, where I and two co-workers celebrated our completion of this week's edition of the newspaper before last call. As I was sitting alone, recently abondoned by the aforementioned co=workers and waiting to pay my tab, I became aware of something very troubling. At a table several feet from mine sat two dark-skinned men quietly imbibing their beers. I had noticed them when I first sat down, and felt immediately guilty, as my first thoughts were: hey there's two dark-skinned males... should I be suspicious of them?
What was even more troubling, however, was the tension mounting them and a be-mulleted man who's ill-conceived patriotism was about to manifest itself as something ugly. His friends called him Vic, so I shall call him Jake. The only other thing I know about this man was that he seemed to have total recall of Bon Jovi song lyrics, as I had made note of several minutes earlier.
Anyway, this Jake fellow, well within my earshot, had approached the two dark-skinned men and, anything but innocently, asked, "So, are you guys happy my country blew up?" Despite his hyperbole, it was obvious he was referring to the events of September 11th.
The question was loaded with gunpowder, and the response could not have been a more effective fuse. One of the men responded by quietly stating, "It's not my country". As far as Jake was concerned, this guy was shrugging off the attack by saying: "America is not my country, so why should I care?"
But, to my ear, what this dark-skinned male, whose accent had revealed him as Hispanic, was trying to say was: "It's not my country that launched the heinous attack, so please don't hold me responsible". Jake retorted with incorrectly administered racial epithets and rhetorical suggestions too bizarre to relate. The two men returned fire with odd remarks which probably made more sense in Spanish. At this point Jake made it clear that this matter would be settled in the parking lot when these men decided to leave, which was emanate, as closing time was already being announced.
During the exchange I had repositioned myself at my table and was now physically between Jake and the two men. The bartender called out (for the umpteenth time), "C'mon, everybody out".
The two men stood up from their chairs. Jake hopped off his bar stool and started stepping towards them. I stood up. Jake stopped in his tracks, looked around, and sat back down on his stool. For a moment all I could think was, "Woah... I can't possibly be that imposing". Then, I too looked around the room and this is what I saw: everyone else in the bar was standing, and in the same stance I was: glaring at Jake, shoulders forward, fists clenched, and eyes that said, "Not in my country you don't".
At this point a middle-aged, pot-bellied, gentleman (who's adult life could probably be divided into two equal parts: 1. many years spent following the Grateful Dead, and 2. many years spent paying bar trivia) moseyed over to Jake and, with calmness that would've made Ghandi enraged with jealousy, began to reason with him. Very slowly, yet almost in unison, I and the army of vigilant bar patrons relaxed from our battle stations as we intensely eavesdropped on the conversation between Jake and this Jerry Garcia-esque Buddha.
I feel guilty for the second time tonight. I feel guilty because ever since the events of September 11th I have been dreadfully anticipating the backlash of passionately irrational against innocent and misallocated people who look even vaguely Arabic, yet I've underestimated the power of everyone else - the people who believe in America and who understand what this country is founded on. The ones who care more about what it is that makes America such a unique and wonderful place, and who understand that nationality goes beyond ethnicity and that humanity supercedes them all.
Jake didn't leave the bar tonight with any great revelation, for all I know he may be sitting at home right now writing an email to his friends advocating unrelenting intolerance and blind injustice. But, I feel confident in having seen first hand that, for every Jake there is a bar full of people willing to get in his way, and at least one wise man who has some sense to share.
I was in the parking lot when the two men drove away. They left peacefully with no further confrontation. For now.
There's no moral here, and I don't mean to come off as some sort of preacher, for my feelings towards Jake were just as mechanical as his were towards the hispanic men, but still I found the experience to be enlightening and positive. The sad thing is, what was an enlighteningly positive experience for me was undoubtedly a horribly threatening experience for two poor guys who came to this country for probably much the same reasons our ancestors did.
Take that for what it's worth.
I think it's worth a hell of a lot.
God bless Americans."
I think it's worth a hell of a lot too, hombre.
(h/t: UBP)
"It is a late Tuesday night (aka early Wednesday morning). I have just returned from a bar, where I and two co-workers celebrated our completion of this week's edition of the newspaper before last call. As I was sitting alone, recently abondoned by the aforementioned co=workers and waiting to pay my tab, I became aware of something very troubling. At a table several feet from mine sat two dark-skinned men quietly imbibing their beers. I had noticed them when I first sat down, and felt immediately guilty, as my first thoughts were: hey there's two dark-skinned males... should I be suspicious of them?
What was even more troubling, however, was the tension mounting them and a be-mulleted man who's ill-conceived patriotism was about to manifest itself as something ugly. His friends called him Vic, so I shall call him Jake. The only other thing I know about this man was that he seemed to have total recall of Bon Jovi song lyrics, as I had made note of several minutes earlier.
Anyway, this Jake fellow, well within my earshot, had approached the two dark-skinned men and, anything but innocently, asked, "So, are you guys happy my country blew up?" Despite his hyperbole, it was obvious he was referring to the events of September 11th.
The question was loaded with gunpowder, and the response could not have been a more effective fuse. One of the men responded by quietly stating, "It's not my country". As far as Jake was concerned, this guy was shrugging off the attack by saying: "America is not my country, so why should I care?"
But, to my ear, what this dark-skinned male, whose accent had revealed him as Hispanic, was trying to say was: "It's not my country that launched the heinous attack, so please don't hold me responsible". Jake retorted with incorrectly administered racial epithets and rhetorical suggestions too bizarre to relate. The two men returned fire with odd remarks which probably made more sense in Spanish. At this point Jake made it clear that this matter would be settled in the parking lot when these men decided to leave, which was emanate, as closing time was already being announced.
During the exchange I had repositioned myself at my table and was now physically between Jake and the two men. The bartender called out (for the umpteenth time), "C'mon, everybody out".
The two men stood up from their chairs. Jake hopped off his bar stool and started stepping towards them. I stood up. Jake stopped in his tracks, looked around, and sat back down on his stool. For a moment all I could think was, "Woah... I can't possibly be that imposing". Then, I too looked around the room and this is what I saw: everyone else in the bar was standing, and in the same stance I was: glaring at Jake, shoulders forward, fists clenched, and eyes that said, "Not in my country you don't".
At this point a middle-aged, pot-bellied, gentleman (who's adult life could probably be divided into two equal parts: 1. many years spent following the Grateful Dead, and 2. many years spent paying bar trivia) moseyed over to Jake and, with calmness that would've made Ghandi enraged with jealousy, began to reason with him. Very slowly, yet almost in unison, I and the army of vigilant bar patrons relaxed from our battle stations as we intensely eavesdropped on the conversation between Jake and this Jerry Garcia-esque Buddha.
I feel guilty for the second time tonight. I feel guilty because ever since the events of September 11th I have been dreadfully anticipating the backlash of passionately irrational against innocent and misallocated people who look even vaguely Arabic, yet I've underestimated the power of everyone else - the people who believe in America and who understand what this country is founded on. The ones who care more about what it is that makes America such a unique and wonderful place, and who understand that nationality goes beyond ethnicity and that humanity supercedes them all.
Jake didn't leave the bar tonight with any great revelation, for all I know he may be sitting at home right now writing an email to his friends advocating unrelenting intolerance and blind injustice. But, I feel confident in having seen first hand that, for every Jake there is a bar full of people willing to get in his way, and at least one wise man who has some sense to share.
I was in the parking lot when the two men drove away. They left peacefully with no further confrontation. For now.
There's no moral here, and I don't mean to come off as some sort of preacher, for my feelings towards Jake were just as mechanical as his were towards the hispanic men, but still I found the experience to be enlightening and positive. The sad thing is, what was an enlighteningly positive experience for me was undoubtedly a horribly threatening experience for two poor guys who came to this country for probably much the same reasons our ancestors did.
Take that for what it's worth.
I think it's worth a hell of a lot.
God bless Americans."
I think it's worth a hell of a lot too, hombre.
(h/t: UBP)
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Three Ingredients for Murder: Neuroscientist James Fallon on psychopaths...
Hmmmm... This might explain why I am the way I am.
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