Wednesday, July 23, 2003
...well... I suppose it's good to be back after a week in Lake Powell. Really, there's no place like home, but I'd have to say a good book in the shade under that magnificently brilliant red rock and a plunge in the cool water whenever the heat would get unbearable, would take a pretty close second. Unfortunately I'm not one to complain when there's little work to be done and every responsiblity at home is thrown out the window. Hmmm... sometimes I wonder about my priorities. Still, it's back to the old grind once again, so I feel that should include a good half-hour pounding away at the blog-page.
While I was away, a sort of parable came to my mind. It appears in a desert surrounding (as can only be expected after the four days I spent away from civilization in an extremely blistering climate with only the beetles at night to keep us company). This story begins when a park ranger, cruising a particularly barren area on his rounds, discovered an old, wooden hand-made bench that had been crudely arranged by a long-forgotten camper. The individual obviously had not professed much skill in carpentry, as the bench was slightly askewed to one side and the back rest seemed to balance precariously between screws on either end. Still, it was a handy little creation and the ranger smiled at the ingenuity of some campers to "make do" in the wild. As he studied the handiwork, however, he noticed a small obtrusion near the right-hand side on the seat. Through closer inspection, he discovered a screw, carelessly placed too high so that it protruded past the surface of the wood. Obviously this would cause some considerable pain, if not damage, should someone unknowingly place themselves over this inscrutable weapon. Visions of injuries, complaints, law suits, swam before his eyes and he found himself immediately radioing to headquarters for assistance and advice as how to proceed. Meanwhile, back at base, the summer interns were scrambling like mad to find the right forms to solve this problem. Within 3 days, the manager had ordered a sign to be posted, engraved in copper (taken from the proceeds of the campers' payments, of course) warning all potential sitters of the imminent danger should they choose to repose in this spot. Within the week, the head manager had been informed of a camper suing a prominent recreational area, including various insurance claims, etc. Immediately, legal documents were drawn requiring all who wished to use this site, to sign and fork over a $10 fee, "displacing all responsiblity from the establishment to the user of such said establishment." Trees were cut down immediately surrounding this menacing object, allowing its danger to become more visible, but also discouraging any desire to relax in the shade of this stealthy snare. Everyone slept more soundly after that, and felt everything possible had been done to dissuade those who might inadvertantly harm themselves in such a compromising position.
One afternoon, in the not-too-distant future, a young man named Elroy Simmons happened to be on a day-hike through this beautiful desert country. Unknowingly, he happened upon this site that had been the cause of so much stress and turbulence for those in authority. He, too, spotted the bench and came to admire its crude fashion, himself being a sort of amateur craftsman. As he studied its form, he quickly noticed the deformity and simultaneously spotted the potential injury it could cause. A boy scout in his former days, Elroy always carried a pocket knife in the great outdoors, so he expertly flicked out the best tool for the situation and got to work forcing the point back under the bench's surface. Within a minute he had finished his task. While he was at it, he tightened the hold of the back rest and it looked almost like new. He noticed the bench was placed most unfortunately away from the shade, so he promptly dragged it under the nearest tree, lay down and took a nap. The whole process had taken less than 3 minutes.
One begins to wonder of the wisdom of the world. With all of the precautions and apparent advancements, with the increasing emphasis on education and higher institutions of it, with the decline of looking out for your neighbor and instead looking out for number one, it only becomes clearer that the world could be much improved by using all the things we learned in Boy Scouts.
While I was away, a sort of parable came to my mind. It appears in a desert surrounding (as can only be expected after the four days I spent away from civilization in an extremely blistering climate with only the beetles at night to keep us company). This story begins when a park ranger, cruising a particularly barren area on his rounds, discovered an old, wooden hand-made bench that had been crudely arranged by a long-forgotten camper. The individual obviously had not professed much skill in carpentry, as the bench was slightly askewed to one side and the back rest seemed to balance precariously between screws on either end. Still, it was a handy little creation and the ranger smiled at the ingenuity of some campers to "make do" in the wild. As he studied the handiwork, however, he noticed a small obtrusion near the right-hand side on the seat. Through closer inspection, he discovered a screw, carelessly placed too high so that it protruded past the surface of the wood. Obviously this would cause some considerable pain, if not damage, should someone unknowingly place themselves over this inscrutable weapon. Visions of injuries, complaints, law suits, swam before his eyes and he found himself immediately radioing to headquarters for assistance and advice as how to proceed. Meanwhile, back at base, the summer interns were scrambling like mad to find the right forms to solve this problem. Within 3 days, the manager had ordered a sign to be posted, engraved in copper (taken from the proceeds of the campers' payments, of course) warning all potential sitters of the imminent danger should they choose to repose in this spot. Within the week, the head manager had been informed of a camper suing a prominent recreational area, including various insurance claims, etc. Immediately, legal documents were drawn requiring all who wished to use this site, to sign and fork over a $10 fee, "displacing all responsiblity from the establishment to the user of such said establishment." Trees were cut down immediately surrounding this menacing object, allowing its danger to become more visible, but also discouraging any desire to relax in the shade of this stealthy snare. Everyone slept more soundly after that, and felt everything possible had been done to dissuade those who might inadvertantly harm themselves in such a compromising position.
One afternoon, in the not-too-distant future, a young man named Elroy Simmons happened to be on a day-hike through this beautiful desert country. Unknowingly, he happened upon this site that had been the cause of so much stress and turbulence for those in authority. He, too, spotted the bench and came to admire its crude fashion, himself being a sort of amateur craftsman. As he studied its form, he quickly noticed the deformity and simultaneously spotted the potential injury it could cause. A boy scout in his former days, Elroy always carried a pocket knife in the great outdoors, so he expertly flicked out the best tool for the situation and got to work forcing the point back under the bench's surface. Within a minute he had finished his task. While he was at it, he tightened the hold of the back rest and it looked almost like new. He noticed the bench was placed most unfortunately away from the shade, so he promptly dragged it under the nearest tree, lay down and took a nap. The whole process had taken less than 3 minutes.
One begins to wonder of the wisdom of the world. With all of the precautions and apparent advancements, with the increasing emphasis on education and higher institutions of it, with the decline of looking out for your neighbor and instead looking out for number one, it only becomes clearer that the world could be much improved by using all the things we learned in Boy Scouts.
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
Something in me has been hearkening back recently to the pre-technology era. It was mentioned briefly in the tirade about the man inciting flames against an innocent mountainside. However, since the effects are around us every day (and not just in the wake of a single maniacal event) I've decided it is important enough to mention more than once. Now, far be it from me to deride the pleasures we have from running water, electricity, and ATMs; most of these I sincerely believe have been brought on by pure inspiration and intelligence from the heavens. However, it leaves us in a quandry as to the result of such progression. People in Moses' day were granted freedom from slavery and left to inherit their own land. One must admit that is quite an achievement, as well as a marked state of progression from tyranny of the past. Still, those familiar with the Bible story must be aware that this new-found freedom led only to 40 long years of petty squabbling in "the wilderness." Unfortunately, times have not changed as much as we would like to think.
What is it that I see as I look around this vast era of improvement and enlightened technology? Impatience. People apparently were not satisfied with Model T Fords that could cruise around at the astonishing rate of 30 mph-- instead they wanted bigger, faster, and better. Now you're lucky not to be run down in the fast lane by a sporty white "Beamer" doing at least 105 with the license plate that says "Big Mama" and a driver to match. And look out if you don't get out of the way fast enough-- she's likely to care more about getting where she wants to be than paying a few hundred bucks for damages. Impatience. That seems to be what has come out of our progression, our freedom from tyranny of the past. Somehow, it seems a cruel irony that the better things get, the more we are displeased with it. Hmmm... something of a "selfish brat" syndrome seems to be crying out here. What else could make us pound on the hard drive of our computers when the webpage we want doesn't come zooming up within nanoseconds of our command? Or puts our dander up when the printer doesn't spit out our documents instantaneously? They are completely inanimate objects, and are thus incapable of mercinary deeds, but we seem to forget that as thousands of expletives come out of the corporate offices of America against innocent hardware. Impatience. That has been the result of our ingenious developments. And when was the last time you went to the checkout at the supermarket and didn't roll your eyes when the person in front of you pulled out a checkbook, thereby assuring that you would spend at least an extra 2.5 minutes waiting for them to fill it out? Admit it, it wasn't that long ago. Impatience. It fills our freeways and docile neighborhood streets. It happens on the telephone (haven't you always wanted to tell off a telemarketer?). It practically screams out at line-standing places like the DMV. Perhaps the next time we want to roll our eyes, or groan over another's actions causing us even a fraction of a delay, we can choose to instead close our eyes and revert to a time when there was no such thing as Express Aisles, Qwik Washes, Take-out, or even The Fast Lane. Maybe we can even recall such thing as common courtesy (door holding, permitting to cut in, and-- gasp! heaven forbid!-- ladies first.) Then again, we may just find ourselves wandering in the wilderness with Moses. Maybe some things really do never change.
What is it that I see as I look around this vast era of improvement and enlightened technology? Impatience. People apparently were not satisfied with Model T Fords that could cruise around at the astonishing rate of 30 mph-- instead they wanted bigger, faster, and better. Now you're lucky not to be run down in the fast lane by a sporty white "Beamer" doing at least 105 with the license plate that says "Big Mama" and a driver to match. And look out if you don't get out of the way fast enough-- she's likely to care more about getting where she wants to be than paying a few hundred bucks for damages. Impatience. That seems to be what has come out of our progression, our freedom from tyranny of the past. Somehow, it seems a cruel irony that the better things get, the more we are displeased with it. Hmmm... something of a "selfish brat" syndrome seems to be crying out here. What else could make us pound on the hard drive of our computers when the webpage we want doesn't come zooming up within nanoseconds of our command? Or puts our dander up when the printer doesn't spit out our documents instantaneously? They are completely inanimate objects, and are thus incapable of mercinary deeds, but we seem to forget that as thousands of expletives come out of the corporate offices of America against innocent hardware. Impatience. That has been the result of our ingenious developments. And when was the last time you went to the checkout at the supermarket and didn't roll your eyes when the person in front of you pulled out a checkbook, thereby assuring that you would spend at least an extra 2.5 minutes waiting for them to fill it out? Admit it, it wasn't that long ago. Impatience. It fills our freeways and docile neighborhood streets. It happens on the telephone (haven't you always wanted to tell off a telemarketer?). It practically screams out at line-standing places like the DMV. Perhaps the next time we want to roll our eyes, or groan over another's actions causing us even a fraction of a delay, we can choose to instead close our eyes and revert to a time when there was no such thing as Express Aisles, Qwik Washes, Take-out, or even The Fast Lane. Maybe we can even recall such thing as common courtesy (door holding, permitting to cut in, and-- gasp! heaven forbid!-- ladies first.) Then again, we may just find ourselves wandering in the wilderness with Moses. Maybe some things really do never change.
Friday, July 11, 2003
I was really racking my brain for a question-of-the-day, and the best I can do was spurred by a recent fire in Farmington, UT. Apparently this was started by a transient (aka hobo-- is that still pc?) who was "mad at society," and thus promptly started a fire, walked to the local police station, announced his guilt, and bedded down for the night. What started out as an innocent scorch on a hillside (in light of the fact that we are experiencing one of the worst droughts in decades) has ravaged a whole mountainside and threatened to put people out of their homes. I have discovered a number of frightening questions surrounding this strange phenomenon. First, what sort of society do we live in that makes us use p.c. words (that's "politically correct" for those of you still living in the 70s) to keep from offending each other. No matter what you call someone, you're still placing him or her in a category-- up-to-date words just depend on whether that category sounds more sugar-coated than another. Besides, who wants to be coddled all the time? As touched upon in the last posting, when we find ourselves in comfortable surroundings, we lose our edge, our creativity, our pure personal synergy with the world.
All right, the next question this poses-- how did the people of the world manage before the 1900s? Obviously, they had to do something to keep from burning everything up in sight. What happened when people got "mad at society" and decided to start burning things? Well, that answer is simple-- they had a town hanging. No quabbles, no pandering to someone who had a grudge against the local judge because he sent Cousin Ed to a chain gang in South Carolina-- just a swift carry-out of judgement and everyone was much more content and smoke-free. (I contemplated putting in my two-cents worth here on smoking in public places, but we'll leave that for another day.) But our predicament here is that we can't ignore someone like this or we'll end up with char-broiled Rocky Mountains. Not to dismiss the great work done by our Utah Fire Departments, but whatever happened to people just stepping in to lend a helping hand? A mountain full of fire is a bit much to tackle, but a small brush-fire. I had the occasion to drive past this blaze in its initial phase on my way to a wedding reception in Ogden, and from its proximity to the freeway, I could see that it would easily have been managed by a few well-intentioned house-holders armed with buckets of water. Perhaps a small neighborhood's worth. In my mind I hearkened back to pioneer times when a neighbor's house was protected as one's own, and people would throng together for anything from a cow-birthing to a hoe-down, cheerfully submitting to obstacles and lending a helping hand. That is the heritage we come from and I assumed it was all in our blood. But what was my surprise when I returned on the same route, only to see copious amounts of salmon-colored smoke billowing from the mountainside in a much more ominous way than I had viewed previously. There were no pioneers foraging on the mountainside for sources of water to assist. Of course, by now it was much to large to contain by simple neighbors and buckets. Sigh... the effects of complacency in an abundant environment of freedom from responsibility. Unfortunately, if it gets much worse, we must all live in burnt-up communities, watching helplessly as the firemen futilely battle the inferno.
Just be careful to call them "flame-conquering persons."
We wouldn't want anyone to be offended.
All right, the next question this poses-- how did the people of the world manage before the 1900s? Obviously, they had to do something to keep from burning everything up in sight. What happened when people got "mad at society" and decided to start burning things? Well, that answer is simple-- they had a town hanging. No quabbles, no pandering to someone who had a grudge against the local judge because he sent Cousin Ed to a chain gang in South Carolina-- just a swift carry-out of judgement and everyone was much more content and smoke-free. (I contemplated putting in my two-cents worth here on smoking in public places, but we'll leave that for another day.) But our predicament here is that we can't ignore someone like this or we'll end up with char-broiled Rocky Mountains. Not to dismiss the great work done by our Utah Fire Departments, but whatever happened to people just stepping in to lend a helping hand? A mountain full of fire is a bit much to tackle, but a small brush-fire. I had the occasion to drive past this blaze in its initial phase on my way to a wedding reception in Ogden, and from its proximity to the freeway, I could see that it would easily have been managed by a few well-intentioned house-holders armed with buckets of water. Perhaps a small neighborhood's worth. In my mind I hearkened back to pioneer times when a neighbor's house was protected as one's own, and people would throng together for anything from a cow-birthing to a hoe-down, cheerfully submitting to obstacles and lending a helping hand. That is the heritage we come from and I assumed it was all in our blood. But what was my surprise when I returned on the same route, only to see copious amounts of salmon-colored smoke billowing from the mountainside in a much more ominous way than I had viewed previously. There were no pioneers foraging on the mountainside for sources of water to assist. Of course, by now it was much to large to contain by simple neighbors and buckets. Sigh... the effects of complacency in an abundant environment of freedom from responsibility. Unfortunately, if it gets much worse, we must all live in burnt-up communities, watching helplessly as the firemen futilely battle the inferno.
Just be careful to call them "flame-conquering persons."
We wouldn't want anyone to be offended.
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
Question for the day: How old is too old to live with your parents?
sigh... a tough topic of conversation for me. I mean, how long can you really mooch off the generosity of a loved-one before your self-respect and creativity go out the window? By creativity I'm suggesting that one must be cracking on top of things to find fresh and exciting ways to use macaroni and cheese, or to make clothes smell tropical-sunshiney without a washing machine. When the luxuries in life are all provided for, where does all the adventure go? Right out the drive-thru window. No prospective employer should overlook the fertile ground of a college mind, one who is incessantly bombarded with the predicament of how to study when his or her roommates are throwing a stomp in their flat. Speaking of which, the innovation of roommates is another question to consider with the previous query in mind (i.e. the age of accountability when one's dignity require they leave the feather-coated nest to dwell on an investment-liability floater down by the river). At first reflection, simply the genius of reducing rent costs seems the major benefit of "house-sharing". However, in deeper probing, it is obstinately apparent to anyone who has ever worked in a think-tank that ideas always flourish more in the presence of many different "thinking-types". Laymen's terms: if 2 heads are better than 1, certainly a whole house full of thinkers would near-border on ingenious. Hence, the resourcefulness that comes out of college-dominated towns. One such example comes from a friend living in Provo, UT, a place known for its wet-behind-the-ears kind of fun that only comes from a town full of students who don't drink. Her brilliant example was that of investing in $7 chairs for the porch (and she assures me they are an investment), waiting for the plethora of joggers that go by, then blasting the theme music from Chariots of Fire while madly cheering as they pass. Where else could you find such fresh ingenuity to adopt your themes of entertainment to the reality surrounding you?
Clearly, the answer to my afore-mentioned question is simple. When does a child ease from the leather-couch comforts of an upper-class home? Based on the logic given above, the assumed age would be around year 12, before any adult-like habits set in. Clearly, one can't be assaulted by the Barry Manilow-listening generation without their growth (physical and emotional) being stunted for life. It would clearly be better for all delinquents involved to find jobs at their local computer programmer, where they could easily take over the company since they apparently lived with computers actually as a fetus, and thus support themselves in a high-income-upper-class home that makes their parents' look like a floating boat on the banks of Hong Kong. Yes, they are the world, they are the future, so they better get out now and start making it better for the rest of us, since we've obviously failed our task. As long as they don't want to move back in when their dot.com fails. Don't worry-- their roommates will think of something.
sigh... a tough topic of conversation for me. I mean, how long can you really mooch off the generosity of a loved-one before your self-respect and creativity go out the window? By creativity I'm suggesting that one must be cracking on top of things to find fresh and exciting ways to use macaroni and cheese, or to make clothes smell tropical-sunshiney without a washing machine. When the luxuries in life are all provided for, where does all the adventure go? Right out the drive-thru window. No prospective employer should overlook the fertile ground of a college mind, one who is incessantly bombarded with the predicament of how to study when his or her roommates are throwing a stomp in their flat. Speaking of which, the innovation of roommates is another question to consider with the previous query in mind (i.e. the age of accountability when one's dignity require they leave the feather-coated nest to dwell on an investment-liability floater down by the river). At first reflection, simply the genius of reducing rent costs seems the major benefit of "house-sharing". However, in deeper probing, it is obstinately apparent to anyone who has ever worked in a think-tank that ideas always flourish more in the presence of many different "thinking-types". Laymen's terms: if 2 heads are better than 1, certainly a whole house full of thinkers would near-border on ingenious. Hence, the resourcefulness that comes out of college-dominated towns. One such example comes from a friend living in Provo, UT, a place known for its wet-behind-the-ears kind of fun that only comes from a town full of students who don't drink. Her brilliant example was that of investing in $7 chairs for the porch (and she assures me they are an investment), waiting for the plethora of joggers that go by, then blasting the theme music from Chariots of Fire while madly cheering as they pass. Where else could you find such fresh ingenuity to adopt your themes of entertainment to the reality surrounding you?
Clearly, the answer to my afore-mentioned question is simple. When does a child ease from the leather-couch comforts of an upper-class home? Based on the logic given above, the assumed age would be around year 12, before any adult-like habits set in. Clearly, one can't be assaulted by the Barry Manilow-listening generation without their growth (physical and emotional) being stunted for life. It would clearly be better for all delinquents involved to find jobs at their local computer programmer, where they could easily take over the company since they apparently lived with computers actually as a fetus, and thus support themselves in a high-income-upper-class home that makes their parents' look like a floating boat on the banks of Hong Kong. Yes, they are the world, they are the future, so they better get out now and start making it better for the rest of us, since we've obviously failed our task. As long as they don't want to move back in when their dot.com fails. Don't worry-- their roommates will think of something.
Monday, July 07, 2003
Honestly, who wants another web-page desecrating the choices of the nation or its leaders? Who needs another get-rich, get-thin, get-beautiful quick scheme that forces our souls into submission? And who can stand another "reality" fix? Isn't that why we watch TV or read a book? To have some relief from a ferris wheel-type existance? Somehow I don't really imagine my ideas can actually change the world. But if it gets me away from reading another man's fart-in-the-wind ideas, or from watching another woman desecrating herself on the altar of reality, I feel more than pleased to use this as a forum of release and relief. But whether those ideas will appeal to anyone else, I cannot say. I can only offer a small dose of home-cooked goodness right from mamma's oven, complete with the aroma of freshly cut bread and melted honey butter.
Since this is a new undertaking, I will only attempt a few words at a time. Please understand this will be more like a simple journal-log of random thoughts than anything else. Feel free to skip any and all rambling (which would, in essence, keep you from reading any further) and take it, or leave it. If you prefer to leave it, I send my condolences. You may tell the rest of the hang-it-out-in-the-wind crowd that we are happier without them. Thank you for your support.
Since this is a new undertaking, I will only attempt a few words at a time. Please understand this will be more like a simple journal-log of random thoughts than anything else. Feel free to skip any and all rambling (which would, in essence, keep you from reading any further) and take it, or leave it. If you prefer to leave it, I send my condolences. You may tell the rest of the hang-it-out-in-the-wind crowd that we are happier without them. Thank you for your support.
