There’s always something to howl about.

Category: Egoism in Action (page 9 of 26)

Realtor, Associate Broker

Friday morning motivation: Computers is dead, kitsch leads to cannibalism — and none of this says anything about you.

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
–Oscar Wilde

Like the kitschy “antique” phones at Restoration Hardware, this is decadence.

Nothing but a coy little pomo trick of the mind, but this is how it starts: You have no reason to prefer our product over any other, so we’ll tease you with nostalgia and cool-geek chic, instead. There’s a laptop that praises itself on the strength of its Unique Selling Proposition: Interchangeable “skins.”

You heard it here first: Computers is dead.

But despair you nothing: Particle physicists have caught a glimpse of an unseen aspect of our world, unthought of just a year ago. These are the first days of understanding mass as subatomic physics. Very cool.

The implication? Clowns to the left of me. Jokers to my right. But that says nothing about where I can take myself. The human race is Fortune’s treasured pet, obviously, and with luck we will continue to outrun outright predation, the terminal stage of cultural decadence.

Which side are you on? Are you just another gelatinous face in the mob, grasping for some way to trick people into doing business with you? Or do you have the character to bring real value to the marketplace?

Catching a glimpse of Don Reedy’s vision: So far, so good.

Email from Don Reedy regarding his post-op appointment yesterday:

Exhausted.

But the news is good.

The last operation was successful….so far. The scar tissue that was of such concern was eliminated. I have my next appointment one week from today, a milestone that should determine if we are “likely” to have scar tissue problems from this event. I must remain in the facedown position 12-14 hours a day, BUT THIS MEANS THAT I CAN NOW READ, WRITE AND BE PRODUCTIVE THE OTHER 10-12 HOURS!!! I am so very thankful. There is a good prognosis for vision to return, the quality of which is yet to be determined….and yet again, I am thankful and optimistic.

Nothing’s ever over in the world of medicine. The good news comes in the form of fewer and fewer appointments.

Don Reedy has a beautiful soul. He will never be robbed of the light of human goodness, regardless of how this turns out. And it takes nothing to note that our heroic battles against the relentless forces of entropy are but temporary, and, for now at least, are ultimately doomed to failure. But we are human, and to be human is to wish, to hope, to pray — and to press on regardless. In the end, what matters is not what you lose, but what you refuse to lose.

To say the truth, my plan was to say nothing about the iPad 2…

…but that was before I saw the new Smart Covers

Minor upgrade to the product. Major upgrade to the experience. The video samples Extraordinary Machine, and that’s just exactly right.

This is egoism in action: Steve Jobs is a spectacular genius at satisfying himself. Not everyone loves what he loves, but he never releases a product that is not perfect in his estimation. Bill Gates and all of the CEOs of the kleptocracy can say that about not one thing they do in their whole benighted lives…

A valentine for Cathleen.

I want to be the man she sees when she looks at me.

That’s a country song, ain’t it? It’s the first line of the hook. That’s fun for me, and everything like that is fun for me, but it’s more fun because it’s so painfully real.

In love more than anything, and in my marriage to Cathleen more than once, I have seen myself at my worst, much to my shame. Those are good words — I have seen my self at my worst — the kind of words that, the more you worry them over, the more you find yourself thinking the way I think.

But: Being eloquent about bad behavior is ever the poet’s absolution, and I absolve myself nothing. I know I have done badly by Cathleen, because I have seen myself doing it. And because, having done it, by impetus of memory I can never stop seeing myself doing it.

And yet, when she looks at me, she almost never sees anyone but the man I could and should always have been.

I want to be that man.

I want to be good, I want to be good, I want to be good — I’ve always wanted to be good, and I’ve always known what the good was to me — my own ego. And I’ve done a pretty good job of developing and defending my ego, I think, not so much in spite of the resistance I’ve run up against but because if it.

But I’ve won much of my freedom, I know, by scaring would-be bosses-of-me away. I’ve never hit anyone, not since I was a boy. I’ve never needed to: I can lay a lash on you that will sting forever in ten words or fewer.

But here’s a fact of nature I managed to learn in just fifty short years of careful study: Not everyone is trying to be the boss-of-me.

Many people are, of course, and one of the things I’ve loved about living my life so publicly, at BloodhoundBlog, is that I get to see dominance games I’ve been watching my whole life, but I get to see them Read more

Time and a vector — these are the back-stories of our lives…

This is an extract from the novella I wrote at Christmas:

 
Christmas — the back-story.

“The name of the game is back-story.” I said that. I was sitting with Tigan and Chance at the food court at the Paradise Valley Mall. “The objective is to pick out people in the crowd, then come up with a plausible back-story for them.”

“Why?” Chance asked.

“Because it’s fun, mostly. But you can learn a lot about people if you think about how they got to where they are.”

We had been shopping, the three of us. I sent them off on their own to get gifts for their parents while I shopped alone for gifts for them. I had sent Adora off on an errand in the car, and we had all agreed to converge on the food court when we finished.

“Look at her,” I said, pointing to a chunky woman in scrubs barreling past us. “What’s her story?”

“Well,” Tigan said, “She’s a nurse.”

“Duh!” Chance said that.

“Why is she walking so fast?” I asked.

“Dood! It’s Christmas Eve!”

“Okay, I’ll give you that. Married or unmarried?”

“How could you know that?” Tigan asked.

“You can’t know, but you can guess. My guess would be unmarried. Kids or no kids?”

Chance scowled, glowered almost, but Tigan said, “…She has kids.”

“How do you know?”

“She came here straight from work. If she were unmarried with no kids, she would have changed clothes first. And brushed her hair and put on some make-up. Ms. Unmarried Nurse is available and wouldn’t waste an opportunity. Mrs. Married Nurse would have her husband and kids with her. Mrs. Single Working Mother has too much on her plate to worry about any of that.”

I said, “I like that story. So where are the kids? Home alone? Grandma’s house?”

“They’re with their father!” Chance enthused.

“I read it that way, too. Dad has the kids for Christmas Eve, and mom is rushing to get ready for Christmas Day. What do we actually know? Only what we can see — her person, her face, her clothes and the way she holds and moves her body. But we can draw some very strong inferences from those Read more

Good news, bad news, good news and more good news…

Here’s some good news: Time magazine has discovered the Singularity. It’s a fan-boy article, but it covers a lot of interesting ground, anyway. What’s missing? Sim, massively large databases, signal processing, lots of cool stuff. The article devotes a lot of attention to Ray Kurzweil’s research on exponential curves in individual disciplines, but misses the big picture: The overall rate of change is not exponential but logarithmic. I say all the time, “They can’t enslave us if they can’t catch us.” We are fast approaching the day when it will no longer be possible even to attempt to enslave human intelligence.

Here’s some bad news: The current president of the National Association of Realtors is either a clueless dupe or a knowing villain — just like all the other grand poobahs of the NAR. I’ve invited him to come talk to us. Don’t hold your breath waiting for him to show up.

Here’s some good news from my house: I resumed lifting weights on Monday, two months after I cracked up my elbow. I could tell from other activity that I hadn’t lost much in strength, so I left the plates where I had had them. On Monday, I did ten repetitions of ten exercises. Fifteen reps on Tuesday, 20 on Wednesday, then 30 today. Not much pain in my elbow, and less every day. I’m at full extension, and maybe 98% of full compression. The only real pain is in the tendons of my left thumb — the guitar tendons. In a week, I’ll be back to 50 reps of each exercise, which is where I was before I fell.

And here’s the best news I saw today: The iPad 2 is coming soon, and the iPad 3 may not be far behind. I’m annoyed that the Verizon deal wasn’t for Verizon’s pretend 4g network, and I’m annoyed that there is no true 4g wireless service in Phoenix yet. But, as soon as I can afford to, I’m going to move all of my email to an iPad. I simply cannot be away from my email for hours at a time, and I’m Read more

It’s springtime in Phoenix, when every ‘Zonie should feel proud to intone the most fundamentally American words that can ever be uttered: “Git offa my land!”

I bought my house out of hock yesterday, for the second time. I took that photo last Friday, looking up into a tree in our back yard, in anticipation of the event.

It’s springtime here in Phoenix, mid-seventies every day. That lighter green stuff is pollen, richly redolent with the sticky scent of vegetable love. There were stiff breezes on Saturday, and that pollen came cascading to the ground like green snow.

I love this house, this land, this home. I’d hate to lose it. Not so easy to hang onto it, lately, but it’s very much worth it to me. “Beloved over all,” says Kipling, and I’ll defend it with everything I have within me.

Heads up, America: Slavery is not somehow virtuous when you enslave each other. If you want freedom, you must demand freedom.

Here’s the political issue that matters: Government is crime.

When your local City Hall tells you which trees you must plant in your yard, that’s a crime against you.

When your state taxes your income in order to give your money to people who did not earn it, that’s a crime against you.

When the federal government dictates the specifications of the products you can buy and the tariffs you must pay to obtain products you want still more, that’s a crime against you.

We are not a family composed of 300 million strangers, we are each one of us individual human beings, each with our own minds, our own lives, our own families, our own hopes, dreams, wishes and plans. When the government impedes your life in any way — that’s a crime against you.

We don’t need to reduce this or reform that, we need to rid our civilization of this systemic criminality.

That is the message we should be hearing from the newly-elected presumptive friends of human liberty. If the new Congress is not committed to individual rights, then it’s just more Collectivism-on-the-Cheap: All the intrusiveness but even less satisfying!

Nobody is going to change anything overnight, nor very dramatically very soon. But if we don’t start making dramatic changes in the way we govern ourselves, we will succeed only in enslaving ourselves and our children.

That is what we need to focus on: Ridding our society of all criminal intrusions into the lives of individuals innocent of all wrong-doing.

So-called technological and economic “miracles” will result, of course, but that’s irrelevant. It is wrong to prey upon individual human beings, no matter what the nature of the predator. It is no less an abomination to be enslaved by a democracy than by an aristocracy or a dictatorship. It was freedom from all forms of tyranny that the American patriots fought to win for themselves and their children.

If you want freedom, demand freedom — which can only mean individual freedom. Demand that your governments stop committing crimes against you and your neighbors.

If you’re not willing to do this, you and the people you elect to represent you Read more

Freeing Jefferson’s slaves

A Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie story

“Mark Twain said, ‘In the first place God made idiots. This was for practice. Then he made school boards.'” There was a smattering of uncomfortable laughter throughout the school gymnasium, accompanied by pained looks from the dais, where the school board sat. “I’m not here to talk to practiced idiots. I am here, though, to stand up for Huck Finn.”

And yes, Uncle Willie was giving a speech. Wearing a jacket and tie, no less — finest quality thrift shop haberdashery. I was shuffling through Jefferson, Oregon, shuffling my way to somewhere less moist, when that gray and soggy city was struck by the national craze to ban Twain’s “Huckleberry Finn” for using the N-word.

The N-word, in case you were wondering, is “nigger”. Not “north”. Not “nitrogen”. Not even “nebulous nincompoop non-communication”. It’s “nigger”. I think it says something rather profound about the life of the mind in latter-day America that we have become used to conversing in meaningless euphemisms. “Intestinally deficient,” to say the least of it.

Anyway, you know the story; it shows up in the papers five or six times a year. Some snotty little proto-teen decided that blowing off her homework was a human rights issue, and some sleazy little ‘educator’ made a media circus out of it. It is a testament to the progress of the Politically Correct “idea” that it is now possible to be a jackass by proxy. I showed up just as the school board members, hand-crafted idiots made with pride by a skilled and practiced god, were gearing themselves up for the predictable denouement.

“And why wouldn’t I stand up for Huck?” I asked. “In some ways I am Huckleberry Finn. In some ways we all are. And, like Twain, ‘I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.'” More laughter, maybe a little better humored.

I had a copy of “Huckleberry Finn” in my hand and I was gesturing with it like a TV preacher with his bible. I said, “You can ban this book if you want to. You’ve got the power and I can’t stop you from using Read more

My New Years Resolution: To take care of today’s goals today, tomorrow’s tomorrow, and to track my progress every day.

Yikes! The end of the month is upon us. The end of the year is upon us. I have no good opinion of New Years Resolutions, by now, but I think the world of chipping away at your goals day-by-day. Here’s a calendar for January to get your New Year off to the right start. Set some goals and track your progress. You’ll be amazed at your results, if you will just follow through one day at a time.

Merry Christmas, Princess Peach

A Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie story

“Luigi!” The beautiful blonde girlchild tore her way across the packed airport corridor.

“Oh,” said her mother, a beautiful blonde womanchild. “Great…”

There is only one Christmas, isn’t there? Holly and mistletoe. A golden retriever by the fire. Mom bastes the bird while dad carols with the choir. Icicles cling to the branches of birch trees and fat, wet snowflakes tumble down, lit by the yellow glow of gaslights. Horses nicker and children giggle and lovers nestle and sigh. We’re all dreaming of a white Christmas — and we’re all dreaming.

And why not? Over the ghetto and through the industrial park doesn’t sound like a very nice way to get to Grandmother’s house, even though the highway really does go that way. There are no trails of tail-lights at Christmas, glinting and glowing in the drops of muddy drizzle on the windshield. The snow is white and windblown into drifts, not plow-piled and gray with soot. The children don’t squabble, the drunkards don’t wobble and the lovers don’t quarrel or cry.

Even at the airport there is only one Christmas, the Christmas-card Christmas of a world without airports.

Luigi was sitting across from me and he leapt up to meet the little girl as she crashed into him. She was seven or maybe eight, really too old to be picked up, but he picked her up anyway. She hugged him tightly and they both had a sudden wetness in their eyes.

He set the girl down as her mother approached. She nodded to him in a way that might have been curt, except the honey gold ringlets of her hair fell forward and robbed her of her haughtiness. She said, simply, “Brendan.”

He answered with a smile that was good-humored at the mouth and mocking in the eyes. “Best of the season to you, Chloe.”

The little girl shook her head furiously, her own white gold ringlets redeeming her mother’s haughtiness with an imperiousness of her own devising. “He’s not Brendan, he’s Luigi. And she’s not Chloe, she’s Princess Daisy. And I’m not Jennifer, I’m — ”

Luigi said, “This announcement wants herald trumpets, I Read more

A future more vivid

A Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie story

“Salve, caudex,” the big little boy said to his father.

“Salve, caudex,” the father replied.

The boy turned to me, a stranger, and said, “Salve, caudex.” I smiled at him and he confided, “That means, ‘Hello, blockhead’.”

We were sharing a bench at the mall, as one must at Christmas. When I had sat down it was just the father and me at opposite ends of the bench. But then the big little boy — too young to be big, too tall to be little — had come bounding out of the toy store across the way.

He was his father in miniature, seven or eight years old but very tall, very lean. His hair was brown and a little shaggy and his eyes were gray and very bright. He had his father’s large hands and long fingers, and it won’t be long before he has his father’s prominent proboscis. He walked fast and talked fast and he moved his body with a blinding abruptness.

“You like it, don’t you?” his father asked.

“Boy, do I! I think that’s the best video game system ever! That’s what I want for Christmas!”

“How interesting.”

The boy spun to me and said, “That means, ‘I don’t care’.”

I said: “I’m sorry?”

“When he says ‘how interesting’, it means he doesn’t care.”

“What it means,” said the father, including me, I think, because he felt he had to, “is that you have said nothing to motivate me to act. You haven’t asked for anything, and you haven’t given me any reason why I should honor your request in any case.”

“It means he doesn’t care.”

“Attend me, sir,” the father said.

“That means, ‘Listen up’.”

Attend me, sir. I think you’re right. I think it is the best video game system ever. At least the best so far. Have I told you lately how much I despise video games?”

“He hates video games,” the boy confessed.

“I hate video games,” the father confirmed — to the boy, not to me. “And yet you love them. And a Christmas gift should be what you love, not what I love — what you love, even if I hate it. Read more

A Costco family Christmas

A Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie story

“Okay, so one day we’re driving, and we’re just about to get on the freeway, and I look up and the sign says, ‘Squaw Peak Freeway.'”

The Kid said that. Maybe eleven years old, tall and thin. Tousled brown hair and the most beautiful gray eyes I’ve ever seen. He was talking to the Mom, mid-forties, fair and tall. She had long brown hair and eyes of a gentle, laughing green.

She said, “That’s what the sign says.”

“But my whole life I thought it was called the Pipsqueak Freeway. That’s what Dad always called it. That’s what he still calls it.”

The Mom was laughing silently, trying very hard not to laugh out loud.

“It’s not funny! I asked him why he called it that and he said he named it after the mayor.”

The Mom was still trying not to laugh.

“Oh, sure. Very funny. Every day after school we used to stop at the Post Office, and I was seven or eight before I found out that it’s not really called the Edgar Allan Poe Stoffice. I didn’t even know who Edgar Allan Poe was.”

The Mom was stopped short by her laughter. She stood there behind her shopping cart trying to catch her breath.

“You think it’s funny. I think it’s funny sometimes, too. But I never know when he tells me the name of something if that’s the real name, or if it’s just something he made up.”

“You have a lot of room to talk,” said the Mom. “The other day I said I needed to get four quarters and you spent the rest of the day telling people that I want to put warts on forks.”

“The Fork Warters, semi-notorious villains from the nether reaches. Or maybe they’re just a really bad rock band.”

“You see? You sound just like him. Where is your father, anyway?”

“He took off. He said he had Santaclaustrophobia.”

The Mom said nothing, just smiled and pushed her cart along the aisle.

They were Christmas shopping at Costco, which used to be called The Price Club before some genius decided that made too much sense.

Do you know about Costco? It’s Read more