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Poetry: Girls are like…

Thursday, January 14th, 2010

This isn’t mine, but I saw it here, liked it, and thought I’d share.


Girls are like
apples on trees. The best
ones are at the top of the tree.
The boys don’t want to reach for
the good ones because they are afraid
of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they
just get the rotten apples from the ground
that aren’t as good, but easy. So the apples
at the top think something is wrong with
them, when in reality, they’re amazing.
They just have to wait for the right
boy to come along, the one
who’s brave enough
to climb
all the way
to the top
of the tree.

Poetry: Tsutomu Yamaguchi

Monday, January 11th, 2010

Tsutomu Yamaguchi

How can we recognize luck,
Or grace,
When it’s so hard
To divine the everyday difference
Between a blessing
And a curse?

This man was in Hiroshima
On August 6, 1945,
The worst place to be
In all the world,
Yet survived.

With ruptured eardrums,
And serious burns,
Temporarily blind,
He headed back home,
To Nagasaki.

Fulfilling duty,
And destiny,
Another ordinary day,
He went to work and
Suffered
His second atomic bomb,
Yet survived.

Things just happen.
And we can’t tell
Which is which.
No one whispers
In confidence,
“Just wait -
This is something good.”

Watchmen

Monday, November 30th, 2009

I recently finished the graphic novel/comic book series Watchmen for the first time.  After seeing and enjoying the movie, I resolved to eventually get my hands on it.  Last week, after lurking back-and-forth for a while in the Emmet O’Neal Library fiction aisles with nothing else catching my eye, I walked over and happened on it in the young adult/required reading section.  Good taste (and subversive), those Mountain Brook schools.

It’s excellent and dark.  Read it.  Especially if you’ve never read a “graphic novel” before, it’s a good place to start.  And now I’ll be looking for more Alan Moore (I’ve read From Hell) and wanting a list of other non-standard works of literature I’ve somehow missed.

The picture on the right is a single panel from Watchmen.  I wanted to share it because I liked it so much.  I’d love to find someone to paint or draw this for me.  My limited talents couldn’t do it justice, I’m sure.  I can’t draw.  Who could do this?

Another note, I admit that law school molded me into a compulsive tabber of good quotes in books.  If I own the book, it goes back on my shelf with all the tabs in.  (And anyone unfortunate enough to borrow it has to flip around all my tabs.)  If it’s a library book, I usually take some time to type all the quotes down before I take it back.  Just for a lark – and to share one of my OCD habits – here’s some of the stuff I tabbed from the book.

  • Beneath me, this awful city, it screams like an abattoir full of retarded children.
  • Real life is messy, inconsistent, and it’s seldom when anything ever really gets resolved.  It’s taken me a long time to realize that.
  • Blake is interesting.  I have never met anyone so deliberately amoral. . . .  As I come to understand Vietnam and what it implies about the human condition, I also realize that few humans will permit themselves such an understanding.  Blake’s different.  He understands perfectly . . . and he doesn’t care.
  • American psychology and its Soviet counterpart are [not] interchangeable.  To understand the Russian attitude to the possibility of a third world war one must first understand their attitude to the second.  In WWII, none of the allied powers fought so bitterly or sustained such losses as did the Russians.  It was Hitler’s lack of success in his assault upon the Soviet heartland that assured his eventual defeat, and though it was paid for mostly by Soviet lives, the entire world reaped the benefits.  In time, the Russian contribution to the war effort has been downplayed and dismissed – most noticeably as our political differences became wider – as we glorified our own contribution while forgetting that of our estranged former allies.  The Russians, however, have not forgotten.  There are still those who remember the horror of a war fought on their soil . . . .
  • Truly, whoever we are, wherever we reside, we exist upon the whim of murderers.
  • [Rorschach] said, “None of you understand.  I’m not locked up in here with you.  You’re locked up in here with me.”
  • Why do we argue?  Life’s so fragile, a successful virus, clinging to a speck of mud, suspended in endless nothing.  Next week, I could be putting her into a garbage sack, placing her outside for collection.
  • Tactically, Rorschach was brilliant.  He was so unpredictable.
  • People swallow lies easily, provided they’re big enough.
  • I’m not a . . . serial villain.  Do you seriously think I’d explain my masterstroke if there remained the slightest chance of you affecting it’s outcome?  I did it thirty-five minutes ago.
  • What does fighting crime mean, exactly?  Does it mean upholding the law when a woman shoplifts to feed her children, or does it mean struggling to uncover the ones who, quite legally, have brought about her poverty?  Yes, I’ve busted drug rings and been accused of being an establishment pawn for doing so . . . that happened a lot in the sixties.  I’ve also uncovered plots by breakaway extremist factions within the Pentagon, for example the plot to release some unpleasantly specific diseases upon the population of Africa . . . .  I guess I’ve just reached a point where I’ve started to wonder whether all the grandstanding and fighting individual evils does much good for the world as a whole.  Those evils are just symptoms of an overall sickness of the human spirit, and I don’t believe you can cure a disease by suppressing its symptoms.

Armistice Day

Wednesday, November 11th, 2009

From the 1973 Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut:

“I will come to a time in my backwards trip when November eleventh, accidentally my birthday, was a sacred day called Armistice Day.  When I was a boy . . . all the people of all the nations which had fought in the First World War were silent during the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of Armistice Day, which was the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

“It was during that minute in nineteen hundred and eighteen, that millions upon millions of human beings stopped butchering one another.  I have talked to old men who were on battlefields during that minute.  They have told me in one way or another that the sudden silence was the Voice of God. So we still have among us some men who can remember when God spoke clearly to mankind.

“Armistice Day has become Veterans’ Day.  Armistice Day was sacred. Veterans’ day is not.

“So I will throw Veterans’ Day over my shoulder.  Armistice Day I will keep.  I don’t want to throw away any sacred things.”

America’s Next Great Pundit

Thursday, October 22nd, 2009

The Washington Post is holding a competition, looking for “America’s Next Great Pundit”.  I entered it yesterday and thought I’d share my piece.  Fingers crossed.

In America, You Can’t Hit the Quarterback

Two of the National Football League’s most compelling stories are connected.  First, many have suggested that football’s repetitively violent collisions may lead to increased rates of dementia or other disabilities.  It’s easy to show steady growth in player mass and velocity; it follows mathematically that the force of each impact has also grown.  Second, the NFL has regularly expanded protections for one particular group of players: quarterbacks.  A simple on-the-field “roughing the passer” penalty has morphed into a complex and unpredictable off-the-field system of monetary fines for impermissibly touching a quarterback.

A causal link snaps tight in considering the timing of these stories.  The public is becoming aware of long-term effects of football on the human body.  It’s not hard to imagine that the players have at least intuitively known about these possible consequences.  It’s also easy to speculate that informed players have already lobbied the NFL for additional safeguards.

Why, though, would the league single out only one type of player for protection from the game’s unforgiving nature?  Maybe because the position is undeniably the most glamorous, high-profile, and marketable.  Quarterbacks are often paid more than teammates, especially if you consider endorsements and commercial opportunities.  They’re often considered to be smarter.  They’re often white.  The quarterback is an institution; other players are grist for the mill.

The true connection jumps out in viewing these stories against the grander game of capitalism and high finance – a game also widely accepted as being violent and unforgiving.  The nickel version of the current meltdown always comes back to a story of major financial players operating at least recklessly and our industry regulators acting at least negligently.  Millions of Americans have lost careers, forfeited homes, and slipped a standard of living.  Even in the wake of these cataclysmic events, it seems like there has been no significant impact for those quarterbacks of capitalism.  They’re somehow insulated from the dangers of playing.

Most of us are not so lucky.  We have a view from somewhere deep in the trenches.  We’re the linemen of the market, colliding every day, and fail to fully understand or contemplate the trend towards special treatment for our fellow players.  For a nation founded on equality, it’s disturbing that we could so easily accept a class of people exempted from the rules.