The $600 solution

Suppose you are covered in bruises because you keep getting hit by someone.  Now suppose further that the person that keeps hitting you proposes a way to alleviate your suffering.  Instead of hitting you with his fists, he’s going to pick a fresh spot somewhere on your body and hit you with someone else’s fist.  

If this doesn’t sound ridiculous enough, suppose that the person hitting you expects you to be happy about this way to alleviate your suffering.  Imagine even further that you are happy about it. 

After thinking about it for several hours, this is what I’ve come to call the $600 solution.  I’m referring to the $600 bonus check that will start being delivered on Monday.  “But Mister Baatard,” you might be saying, “the government is giving us money!  That’s good, right?”

Uh, no.  My people, this disbursement is but the latest in a long line of wounds inflicted on our economy.  It’s bad enough that the dollar is devaluing, gas prices are through the roof, layoffs and downsizing continue unabated, the housing market is about to take a crap, and there’s a world-wide food shortage (using up all our to corn make ethanol instead of drilling in ANWR is brilliant).  These conditions all seem to feed on each other, exacerbating the problem.  

So what does the federal government do about it?  Do they implement a solution to lower gas prices, like build more refineries or cut back on gas taxes?  Nope.  Do they cut back on tax breaks given to companies that outsource overseas?  Uh-uh.  Does anybody put any ideas on the table for stimulating job growth?  Forget it.

In fact, a long-term solution isn’t even proposed.  What is done to kick start the economy?  We borrow money from China to give to U.S. citizens.  

Yeah, how many of you sitting at home greedily awaiting your checks knew that we borrowed that money from China?  These checks aren’t our tax dollars being returned to us.  This isn’t a refund.  This is the federal government going to China with hat in hand begging for money.  China loans it to us, thereby increasing our debt.  Then that money is going to be given to us, and for what?  They actually want us to go out and spend it?  

This raises several questions, at least with me.  What economic problem is this measure going to solve?  How will this actually help the economy in the long term?  Does the government expect an infusion of foreign cash to set about a chain of events that will strengthen our economy?  And what happens when everyone has gone out and spent their money?  

Retailers are offering discounts on high-dollar items in anticipation of this disbursement.  They will sell items normally out of the price range of consumers for the exact amount of the check.  So what, the poor in America will have HD TVs?  Yeah, I can’t get a good job, afford gas, pay for medical care, or feed my family, but I can watch Nascar the way it was intended to be viewed!    

Our government has just made our economic situation that much more dire, and they are patting themselves on the back!  Ask yourselves this:  How does this scheme actually help?  It’s increased our national debt.  Is that helpful?  It’s devalued the dollar even more.  Is that helpful?  It’s set a dangerous precedent with Americans who will now clamor for more “free” money once they’ve blown this check.  Is that helpful?

The $600 solution is nothing of the sort.  How about helping us save $600 on the cost of gas every year?  How about finding ways to shave $600 off the cost of shipping consumer goods?  How about finding a way to lower healthcare costs or college tuition by $600?  

Maybe a better analogy would be a junkie in dire need of rehab getting drugs from a different dealer and being told that this latest fix is a way to get themselves clean.  

The Path of Least Resistance

There’s an expression that I sometimes hear:  Choose the harder right over the easier wrong.  The reason they call it the harder right is because doing the right thing usually requires more work than doing the wrong thing.  Work requires commitment.  Commitment requires a moral foundation which compels right action.

Now for those of you that think that’s way too abstract, let me tell my story.

I recently switched units.  It wasn’t a punitive transfer.  Indeed, they were sore about losing me.  I switched jobs, which meant switching units.  Anyway, as I was leaving, my First Sergeant (hereafter abbreviated as 1SG) was being investigated on a variety of sometimes ridiculous accusations.  In my opinion, it was a fishing expedition.  Once they exhausted one allegation, they went on to the next.  

1SG was generally unpopular with his unit, in spite of the tenacity with which he took care of his troops.  You see, 1SG required a lot from all of his soldiers.  Things which are generally not asked of junior enlisted and NCOs (sergeants) alike.  He made us all recite both the Soldier’s creed and the NCO creed at the weekly safety briefing.  He made soldiers and NCOs keep Leader’s Books.  He required all of his soldiers to compete at unit-level competitions.  He mandated Sergeant’s Time training every Thursday without exception.  He enforced military courtesy at all ranks.  

This was a lot of work extra work, as you might guess.  In my experience, it was more than is generally required of soldiers, both in our daily and additional duties.  

I was one of his platoon sergeants, and as such it was my job (on top of everything else I did) to enforce the 1SGs policies.  He and I butted heads quite a lot, not necessarily because we’re different, but because we’re similar.  We both make decisions quickly and easily.  We both have very clear ideas of how we want to do things.  And we’re both terribly stubborn.  We disagreed on many issues and sometimes got into heated arguments.  Oftentimes, I would go on and do my own thing, much to his frustration.  But he was the 1SG, and I ultimately acquiesced to his directives.  

Being stubborn and willful like I am, it’s not surprising that he rubbed people the wrong way.  1SG has less tact with officers than I do, which may explain why they all dislike him.  What ultimately happened was that they complained to his superiors, and the witch hunt (I use that term with great reservation.) began.  

1SG and I disagreed on many issues, but I understand him.  I understood why he made the decisions that he did, and I understand the moral underpinnings of those decisions.  1SG has an uncompromising moral standard.  He enjoys a very clear sense of right and wrong.  When he makes a decision, he believes without exception that it is the right decision.  As frustrating as it sometimes was to work for him, I can’t help but respect and admire him.  

In the course of the investigation against him, he was eventually relieved of his duties as 1SG.  I went back to visit the unit (I was shamming, I needed a break) after he’d been unceremoniously dumped.  Although I expected it, I was a little disappointed to see that morale had gone way up after he’d been replaced.  I mean way up.  The soldiers were almost euphoric.  I almost expected to hear “Ding Dong the Witch is Dead” being sung in the hallways.    Even the NCOs were giddy at his termination.  People commented on how much easier it was now that 1SG was gone.  They didn’t have to keep up their Leader’s Books, they didn’t have to worry about competing, and they didn’t have to recite the creeds.  

What I think they all fail to understand is that these things were good for them.  They were good for the NCOs because such tasks brought them back to basics of junior leadership.  They were good for the soldiers who may become NCOs and have to mentor their own soldiers.  1SGs policies produced smarter, more competent, more disciplined soldiers.   And in general, they resented it.  

Why?  If it was good for them, why did they resist?  Why did they all rejoice when he lost his job?  What, you may be wondering, is wrong with pushing people out of their comfort zones in order to make them better?  The answer is this:  People tend to follow the path of least resistance.  Given a choice, people will do the minimum amount of work required to complete a task.  Given a choice, people might do nothing at all.  Let’s face it — most people are lazy.  Unless there is some reward or punishment power present, people will exert the minimum effort required in most tasks.  When forced to choose the harder right or easier wrong, most people will choose the latter. 

So without the prospect of reward or the threat of punishment, what makes people elect to do the right thing?  A moral standard.  One must place moral value in doing the right thing.  This inward compulsion, more than any external influence, spurs exceptional people to rise above their peers.  These people distinguish themselves from the throng.  They rise up and establish themselves as the standard.  

But the only place where there is room for everyone is at the bottom.  It’s easier to knock down people than it is to climb up to their level.  Such was the case with 1SG.  For his unflinching integrity, he was ultimately persecuted.  

His former soldiers have forgotten that he fought for them, defended them, sometimes even protected them from their own mistakes.  They don’t think about the battles 1SG waged on their behalf, the numerous occasions he was there to help them, to bail them out, to give them a hand.  They don’t consider that all the extra work he made them do actually benefitted them.  All they seem to consider now is how much easier it is nowadays.  

How sad.  How typical.

You Get What You Pay For

I have the flu.  Well, I think I have the flu.  That is, I diagnosed and am treating it myself.  

“But Mister Baatard,” you might be saying, “you’re in the Army!  Don’t you get free medical care?”

Well, sort of.  Being in the Army entitles me to make appointments with Army doctors at no cost to me.  If that is your definition of free medical care, then yes.

I’ve been staving off some kind of bug for several days now.  Last Thursday it began to get the better of me, and I called to make an appointment.  After some arguing and finagling I managed to get an appointment.  So I got in and laid out my symptoms:

Inner ear pain, both ears

Body aches

Sinus pain

Dizziness

Swollen lymph glands in throat

Sore throat (hoarse)

Dry cough

Nausea

I wasn’t running a fever at the time, which might have made the difference.  It was about 8:40 by the time I was actually seen.  The doctor came in, gave me a very quick look, and determined that I just had a cold.  She prescribed mucinex and ordered one day of light indoor duty and no sit-ups.  

I’m not kidding.  I went in there feeling simply awful and this was her treatment plan.  What kind of a course is this?  I can do push ups but not sit ups?  As for light indoor duty, I work in an office.  I’m a career counselor.  The heaviest thing I move all day is my mouse.  

So I dragged myself back into work the following morning and drudged through my day, feeling increasingly worse.  

I think that had I been given quarters (a sick day in the Army) on Friday, I might not have been laid up all weekend with a raging fever.  

I had a mind to go back to the doctor but, with shabby, half-hearted treatment being the hallmark of my first visit, why should I expect anything else?

So I took myself to the store and got myself some over-the-counter flu medicine.  If I wasn’t running a fever Thursday night, I sure was Friday and Saturday night.  I was absolutely miserable.  I’m still sick, and probably will be well into next week.  But what am I supposed to do about it?  I can go to Sick Call (the clinic) during duty hours, be treated poorly, and sent packing with under-diagnosed symptoms.  Or I can go to the emergency room after hours, be treated even worse, and be sent packing with orders to go back to Sick Call.    

All I know is that the last time I got decent treatment at Sick Call, I had a broken rib.  That’s what it takes to get a doctor to take you seriously, I suppose.

Am I going somewhere with this?  I don’t know.  I don’t even know if this is coherent (still running a fever).  I think if I were more lucid, this might be a commentary on socialized medicine.  Free health care isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  The moral of the story is this: You get what you pay for.

You’re Making Us Look Bad

Hello my people.  In a moment, I’m going to explain why I’m a total pagan snob.  Then I’ll tell you a story that reinforces my elitism.  

Well, not this case in particular, but occurrences like this make me hesitate to tell people I’m Pagan.  In general, I dislike people who claim to be Pagan.  Most of them don’t call it that, they say Wiccan, which increasingly makes my skin crawl.  

A little background first.  I’m openly Pagan.  You’d never guess it to look at me.  I neither wear nor own pentacle jewelry, I’m not a goth, I don’t greet people with “merry meet” and I don’t say “blessed be” when I’m pleased with something.  I was raised Pagan, I didn’t convert.  As such, I have no deep-seated need to rebel against society in some way, be it fashion, lifestyle, or otherwise.  I’m not a member of a coven, I (almost) never cast spells, and the only thing I do skyclad (naked) is bathe, f**k and sleep.  I have no special powers (and chances are neither does any other Pagan, no matter what they tell you).  I’m nothing like what you see in movies or TV.  I even usually vote Republican.  I’m just an old-fashioned polytheist.

I don’t mean to sound so bitter.  Look, I don’t mind someone being Pagan if they’re actually supposed to be Pagan.  By that I mean they are genuinely divinely inspired to be Pagan.  Unfortunately that is not the case.  Many so-called Pagans are just disgruntled Christians.  They’re rebelling against their parents, or they want to join a belief system that will let them do whatever they want.  No belief system lets you live any old way.  Live destructively and your life turns to pot.  This is why there’s a high rate of recidivism among Pagan converts, but that’s a post for another time.   

My story is about a co-worker in my unit (I’m in the Army).  We’ll call him Dan.  Dan is a good guy with a big heart, but not too bright.  Dan’s marriage is on the brink of collapse.  While he was deployed, his wife (whom we’ll call Renee) “converted” to Wicca.  Not long after, she cheated on him with the guy who converted her (we’ll call him Dirk).  When on the verge of being caught, she confessed and expected her Protestant husband to instantly adopt her laissez-faire belief system and forgive him.  

When he was understandably and justifiably hurt and angered, she actually took offense!  She wanted him to forgive her instantly, no questions asked.  This broad actually demanded that she be rewarded for her honesty.  When that ploy didn’t work, she attacked him for his “religious intolerance,” citing that the adultery was some sort of Wiccan ritual.  Then she feeds him lines about having special powers like – I’m not kidding – “reading his aurora.”  

Yeah.  

It gets worse.  When she calls Dirk’s name in her sleep, she claims that in her dreams she’s being attacked by wolves and only he can save her.  Then she claims that Dirk is her teacher, and that she has to live with him for a year and a day for one-on-one study.  

Can you believe this crap?

I don’t make any effort to hide my religious beliefs, but stories like this make me hesitate before disclosing my religion.  I may be Pagan, but I’m also an American.  A libertarian, patriotic American, mind you.  These things are not mutually exclusive.  I have morals and standards.  I understand and can differentiate between right and wrong.  I live by rules, and I understand that one cannot do whatever one pleases in life.  Many so-called Pagans avoid this way of thinking, attracted to alternative religions in the hope that they can do whatever they want and get away with it.  

To my fellow  Pagans who behave thusly, I say STOP!  You are the reason we are ostracized in our society, with your “do as thou wilt” mentality.  Being Pagan does not give you a get-out-of-moral-consequence-free card!  Your lifestyle discredits those of us who are trying to be productive members of society.  You are making us look bad!

Puppy – Short Story

The woman who answered the door startled Carl Gerard.  A mess of curly hair crowned a round face with ruddy cheeks, thin lips and piercing eyes.  Hers was a very average frame, and she was shorter than he’d expected.  

“Yes?” she asked, her voice raspy.

“Tiffany Corman?” he asked, realizing he was staring at her.  “I’m Carl Gerard.  We met on Craig’s list website.  I’m here to pick up the Pug puppy.”

Tiffany stared at Carl, making him slightly more uncomfortable than he was already.  Although he couldn’t put his finger on it, she possessed some intangible quality that unsettled him.  Locking eyes with her, he figured it might be her unrelenting stare.  

“Of course,” she greeted finally with an insincere smile.  “I just had to make sure you were the right one.”

Tiffany wheeled around and walked back into her apartment.  Carl’s forehead wrinkled in confusion as she disappeared around a corner.  “I, uh, do I have the right place?” Carl called out.  “We exchanged some emails about adopting a dog?”

“We sure did,” Tiffany called out from somewhere down the hall.  Carl took a half step forward, unsure if he had permission to enter.  The apartment was small, cluttered with knick-knacks, and stuffed with too-large furniture.  Looking around, Carl guessed why this odd woman was giving away a dog.  This was no place for a pet.

“Then I’m the right one,” he asserted, annoyed with the way she made him feel.  Tiffany emerged from around the corner and stared unsmilingly at him.

“Yes, I think you are,” she answered evenly.

A tan pug appeared from behind her feet.  Sitting next to Tiffany, the pug panted lightly, the tip of his tongue forming a U-shaped protrusion from underneath his snout.  Bending over to invite the pug to run toward him, Carl smiled and forgot the tension of only a few seconds before.

The pug stopped panting and gave Carl a very serious expression.  As Carl’s smile began to fade, the pug charged him without warning.  He tensed and extended his arms as if to catch the tiny dog.  In response to the gesture, the pug leapt into the air at him.  Not expecting the airborne display, he almost dropped him.

“God he’s cute,” Carl remarked, trying to contain the squirming ball of fur.  The pug struggled to  lick Carl’s face while climbing up onto his shoulder.

“I didn’t know pugs could move like this,” Carl admitted, craning his head to look at Tiffany.

Tiffany regarded the pair speculatively.  “When they’re young they can be quite a handful.  They don’t tolerate cold very well and need a lot of affection.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Carl asserted defensively.  

“They’re prone to sinus problems,” she blurted.  

Carl stared at her evenly.  “Look Ms. Corman.  I know that I have what it takes to give this dog a good home.  I have a big back yard, a nice home, and lots of free time to spend with him.  If you think you can find a better owner than me, let me know now before I get attached to him and I’ll leave.”

The pug froze, craning his head to look at Tiffany.  He offered her the same severe expression that he’d given Carl a moment before.  Tiffany looked at the dog and her poker face fell slightly.

“No, no, you’re the right one,” she sighed.  “I’ll miss him, that’s all.”

The dog whimpered slightly, still looking at Tiffany.  Carl blew gently on his head, and the Pug turned and grabbed Carl’s collar in his mouth, tugging gently.

Carl laughed.  “So what’s your name, little guy?”

“His name is Puppy.  That’s all he’ll answer to,” Tiffany explained, handing Carl a collar, leash, and a small plastic bag full of toys.

“A dog named Puppy, huh?” Carl asked, petting Puppy behind the ears.  “Okay then.  Does Puppy have any special needs?”

Tiffany laughed a howling, dry cackle.  “Mr. Gerard, Puppy will let you know what he needs.”

****

Once in the car, Puppy bounced back and forth from the front seats to the back, sniffing wildly at everything.  

“Puppy, let me sit there,” Carl said, ushering Puppy out of the driver’s seat.  Puppy obediently flung himself into the back seat and sat down for about one second before running to look out the window.  He started the car and began the drive home.  Negotiating the traffic, he caught several peeks of Puppy moving back and forth between the windows.

“Sit down, Puppy,” he ordered calmly.  

Carl barely registered that the dog complied immediately.  After driving for less than a block, he heard shuffling in the back seat.  

This is my toy.

A quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed Puppy chewing on the seat belt.  “Puppy, be good,” he called back.  Puppy appeared on the island between the front seats, intent on licking Carl’s face.  

“No no, Puppy.  I’m trying to drive,” he cautioned as if Puppy would understand.

Okay Mister.

Puppy jumped back to the seat, and Carl was sure that Puppy had somehow acknowledged what he said.  Shaking his head, he returned his focus to the traffic around him.  

When they were only a few blocks from Carl’s house, Puppy distracted him again.

I’m going potty.

Carl suddenly knew that Puppy was peeing in the back seat.  “Puppy!” he shouted, looking for the nearest place to pull over.  Jerking the car to a halt, he surveyed the puddle in the back seat before searching his glovebox for napkins.  Puppy stared at him, his ears pinned to his head.

“Puppy, that was bad.  You do that outside!” Carl scolded.

Puppy dropped his head low to the seat, and the wrinkles on his face helped to form a giant frown.  His tail, forming a double-curl rare in pugs, had straightened out and fell behind him.  Carl patted at the pee spot with the few napkins he could find.  

Mister, I’m real real sorry.

Carl froze, and his jaw dropped.  He didn’t actually hear the words, but the message reverberating in his head was unmistakable.  

“Puppy,” he whispered, staring at the forlorn dog.  “Did you, did you just apologize to me?”

Puppy’s face brightened and he cocked his head.  Yes, mister!  I’m real sorry!

Carl shifted in his seat to get a better look at Puppy, his eyes wide.  “You did, didn’t you!  You just said you’re sorry!” he declared.

Puppy’s tail curled back up and began to wag hesitantly, swinging back and forth like a metronome.  

“You understand me, don’t you?”

Puppy’s face seemed to part in a wide grin, the U-shaped tip of his tongue appearing.  Yes mister!

“Huh!” Carl turned back into his seat.  “I have a talking dog,” he remarked, “sort of.”  Reaching up, he adjusted the mirror to get a better look at Puppy, who stared back at him through the reflection.  Puppy shifted in anticipation, his tail rapidly swinging back and forth.

“Come here, Puppy,” Carl ordered.  With the words barely out of his mouth Puppy bounded off the back seat, ricocheted off the island, and landed firmly in the passenger seat.  He faced Carl and planted his butt hard, sitting politely.

“Say something else,” Carl demanded.

Mister, let’s play!  Without hesitation, Puppy spun around and grabbed at the seat belt hanging near the window.  With the strap firmly in his teeth, he looked at Carl out of the corner of his eye.  Here’s my toy!

Mesmerized, Carl watched Puppy tug at the seat belt.  This dog wasn’t actually talking, but somehow Carl knew what he was thinking.  More amazing than that, the dog seemed to know what he was saying.

“So, do you actually understand me?” Carl asked.

Puppy wheeled around and gave Carl a severe expression.  Yes Mister.

Carl stared at Puppy a second longer, shaking his head slightly.  “I’m losing it.”

Not taking his eyes off Carl, Puppy sat down and cocked his head.  I don’t know, Mister.

Carl looked around to make sure no one was watching them.  “I mean I’m going crazy.  Nuts, cuckoo, off the deep end, padded cell.  Do you get it?”

Puppy’s ears dropped, and he let out a slight whimper.  Mister, do you have a tummy ache?

Carl laughed in spite of himself, and he reached out to pet Puppy, who began panting and wagging his tail again.

“What am I going to do with a talking dog?” he asked, scratching his back.

Puppy’s ears pricked up.  I don’t know, Mister.  Can we go home?

Carl thought about Tiffany Corman, and the strangeness of meeting her suddenly made sense.  “First things first.  I want some answers.  Let’s go see your former owner.”

Where’s Missus?

“Come on.”  Carl pulled back out into traffic and drove back to Tiffany’s apartment.  Once there Carl turned off the car and reached for the leash.  Puppy hung his head and his ears peeled back.

Mister, I’m a good boy.  I’ll be good.

Carl stared hard at Puppy for a moment.  “Okay, but you stay right next to me, understand?”

Puppy’s face split in what looked like a smile.  Yes mister.

Carl and Puppy walked around to Tiffany’s apartment and found the door open.  Carl knocked on the door and looked inside, freezing in the doorway.

“Holy crap,” Carl whispered.

The apartment was completely empty.  No furniture, no decorations, no Tiffany Corman.  Behind them, a woman cleared her throat.  Carl turned and looked at the elderly lady standing politely behind him.  

“Are you interested in the apartment?” she asked.

Carl was stunned.  He was sure this was the right apartment, but he’d been gone only ten or fifteen minutes.  “Where’s Tiffany?   Tiffany Corman?”

The lady shook her head.  “I’m sorry, I don’t know that name.  If you’d like to see the apartment, I’m afraid we don’t allow pets,” she explained, smiling politely.

Carl’s head was spinning.  He looked back into the empty room, barely able to grasp what was happening.  “No, she was here!  Tiffany Corman!”

The old lady regarded him blankly.

Mister?

Puppy’s interest in him reeled him back to reality.  Carl looked down at the pug, who was staring intently at him.

“I’m afraid there are no exceptions to our rule about pets,” the lady asserted, less friendly.

Carl smiled and shrugged at the dog.  “Well Puppy, I guess we’re going home,” he chirped.  Puppy stood up and began wagging his tail furiously.  “Thanks anyway, ma’am.  Come on Puppy,” he ordered.  Puppy dutifully trotted alongside Carl and jumped right into the passenger seat when he opened the door.  

****

Carl oscillated between joy and frustration while Puppy integrated himself into Carl’s life.  Puppy managed to behave himself while Carl was at work, only making one or two messes in his absence.  The two quickly formed a routine that began the second he walked in the door to the time he went to bed.

MISTER!  Oh mister, I’m so happy to see you!  Mister you’re home!  I was so sad without you and you were gone a real real long time and I ate and I took a nap and I had to go potty and I’m real real sorry and I defended the house aren’t you proud of me, Mister, I’m so happy you’re back!

“It’s good to see you too Puppy.  Come on, go potty outside.”

Okay Mister!

Puppy’s time outside would vary from less than a minute to the better part of an hour.  Carl would feel Puppy’s absence in the house and open the back door.

“Puppy, come inside!”

I’m a good boy.

“Yes, Puppy, I know.  Come inside!”

Mister, I like to sit outside.

Carl shook his head.  “Okay, Puppy.”  He was only a few feet from the door when the scratching began.

Mister!  Don’t leave me out here!  I want to sit with you!

Carl chuckled in spite of himself as he turned back to the door.  “Okay, Puppy.”

Dinner was another ordeal.  Carl could feel Puppy’s imploring eyes scrutinize his every bite.

“Puppy this is my dinner.  You have your own food.”

But Mister it smells real real good!  Can I have some?

“No, Puppy.”

How about now?

“No, Puppy.”

After dinner, Carl would do the dishes and Puppy would nestle between his legs.  

“What are you doing Puppy?” Carl would ask as he whittled down the sink load.

Mister I like to sit with you.

Carl laughed every time.  “Yeah, I can see that.”

After the dishes, Carl would sit down to watch TV and Puppy would bound up onto the couch with a sock absconded from Carl’s dresser.

Mister let’s play!

Carl would frown or shake his head.  “Puppy, that’s one of my good socks.  Go get your toy!”

Puppy would drop the sock and bounce off the couch.  Yes, Mister!  

After a moment of excited searching, Puppy would appear with a bit of rope hanging from his teeth.  

Mister, let’s play!

A brief and exciting tug of war would ensue, with Puppy invariably working himself into a frenzy and bolting around the house in frantic circles.  Every time Puppy worked himself up, Carl laughed with delight.  Afterwards, Puppy would nuzzle up next to Carl on the throw pillow on the couch.

Mister, this pillow is luxurious.

“Puppy, how do you even know that word?”

I’m a good boy!

Carl’s brow wrinkled in confusion.  “But how do you -? Never mind” he dismissed, electing to rub Puppy’s head.

Mister, I love you.

Carl felt his heart swell, and he smiled broadly.  He scooped Puppy into his arms and squeezed him.  “I love you too, Puppy” he answered, receiving a flurry of licks on his face.

On some nights, long after Carl had fallen asleep, Puppy would startle him awake with a frenzy of barking.

“Puppy stop it!”  Carl hissed.

Mister, this is very serious!  Puppy erupted into another cacophony of barking.  Carl sat bolt upright and grabbed him by the scruff.

“Puppy, please stop!  I’m trying to sleep!” he scolded, releasing his grip on the tiny dog.

Puppy’s ears pinned against his head, and his tail drooped.  But Mister!  They’re coming!

Carl rested his head in his hands.  “Puppy, nobody is coming.  This is not serious.  Don’t bark at night anymore, understand?  No more!”

Puppy hung his head.  Mister, I’m just trying to help.

Carl felt awful for chastising Puppy, but his job required a full night of sleep.  “Then you have to be quiet when I’m trying to sleep!”

Mister, I’m real real sorry.

Carl peered at Puppy in the dark.  “It’s okay.  You just have to be quiet at night, okay?”

Puppy nuzzled closer to Carl.  Okay Mister.

****

A few weeks later, Carl was again jolted awake by Puppy’s barking.

“Puppy!  Stop it!”

But mister!  They’re coming!

“Puppy!  Nobody is coming!” he hissed.

Puppy whirled in two complete circles.  Mister!  They’re HERE!

Carl rubbed his eyes.  “Puppy, I told you -”

The sound of glass breaking was unmistakable.  Carl rolled out of bed, frantically groping for the Louisville Slugger he kept underneath.  Once he had a grip on it, he looked at Puppy.  

“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered.  Puppy couldn’t decide whether to sit or stand, seesawing between both poses.

Carl looked out his window and saw someone hanging half out the driver’s seat of his car.  Blood coursing through his veins, he tightened his grip and bolted for the front door.  

Looking up through the windshield, the thief caught a glimpse of a man in pajamas, wielding a bat, emerging from the house behind.   He began kicking to free himself from the side window when the first explosive stings of impact struck his legs and butt.  The shouting and commotion brought Carl’s neighbor out his front door.

“Call the cops!  Call the cops!” Carl screamed between swings.  He was trying to hit the thief and miss his own car, so his swings were clumsy and hesitant, but still painful.  The thief had finally wrestled himself free and hobbled desperately away.  Carl, hot on his heels, swung again and sent the thief slamming into the garbage cans set out only hours before.

Soon after, Carl was wrapping up his statement to the cops.  He’d told them everything, not wanting to be sued or arrested himself.  The cop scribbled notes and asked a few questions for clarity before congratulating Carl.

“This matches several burglaries in the area over the past few weeks,” the officer explained.  “He’ll be questioned, but you may have just beat up the guy responsible for those crimes, Mr. Gerard.”

Carl turned and saw Puppy staring nervously out the screen door at him.  “My dog woke me up.  I would’ve slept right through it if not for him.”

The cop nodded.  “That’s a good dog.”

Carl smiled at Puppy, who’s face split in a panting smile.  “Yes, he really is.”

****

A month later, Carl was jolted awake by Puppy’s barking in the wee hours of the night.

“Puppy, what is it?”

Mister!  They’re coming!

Carl rubbed his eyes and yawned.  “Let’s go check it out.”

Puppy leaped off the bed, grateful to be taken seriously by Carl.  Yes mister!

After staring out every window of the house for signs of activity, Carl turned to Puppy.  “I don’t see anything this time.”

Puppy pricked his ears to confirm Carl’s findings.  Sounds quiet, mister.

Once back in bed, Puppy let out a long sigh and nuzzled close to Carl.

Mister, I love you.

Carl scratched Puppy’s belly.  “I love you too, Puppy.”

Lawton’s Most Wanted

Something happened to me the other day that got me to thinking (well, everything that happens to me makes me think).  This particular experience got me to wondering about the nature of the connection between law and thought.  

I have three pugs, one of whom is very old.  His name is Pugsy and we think he’s about 19 years old, actually.  He’s incontinent, arthritic, blind, is prone to seizures and has almost no teeth.  With a fenced back yard, the pugs have plenty of room to roam in relative security.  The other two jump, play and run around, but Pugsy can’t even make it up and down the back stairs by himself.  We have to carry him in and out.  He’s about as feeble as a dog can get and still be able to walk.  

The other morning, the back gate was open.  I don’t know why, but it was.  I didn’t realize this when I let Pugsy out.  Now he has a habit of barking when he wants back inside (which these days is almost immediately after we bring him out).  So when several minutes passed without a peep from him, something was clearly wrong.

Pugsy was gone and the gate was wide open.  In a panic, I ran outside to look for him.  No sign of him.  So I got in the car and drove down the street looking for him.  I found him in the back of an animal control truck.  The guy was on my street responding to another animal call.  There was Pugsy, shaking, confused, and pathetic in the back of this meat wagon.  After some wrangling I managed to talk the guy into giving me my dog back.  He still wrote me a ticket; fine, whatever.  But what really incensed me about all of this was that a ticket for a dog roaming at large required a mandatory court appearance.  

I went down to the court house to see about just paying the fine.  I was told that there are no exceptions for this charge.  “It’s the law,” they explained to me.  I must appear before a judge.  People who go rocketing up and down my street like they’re acting out Grand Theft Auto can just go and pay a ticket, no questions asked.  But I have to go and stand next to murderers, rapists, child molesters, and drug dealers just to explain to a judge why my 19-year-old toothless dog and I are not a clear and present danger to society.

Yes, my people, I am the new Kingpin of crime in Southwest Oklahoma.  I’m Lawton’s most wanted, y’all!  Ding Dong ain’t got nuthin on me!

I’ve long held that the reason people think about things is so they don’t have to think about them.  That is, they think about something for the minimum amount of time it takes for it to become automatic.  Take driving a car for example.  Once you get the hang of it you do it without conscious, deliberate thought.  When you come up to an intersection where you have to turn, you just flip the turn signal.  It’s done automatically, without thinking.  

My overall belief on this subject is that the reason people make laws is so they don’t have to make decisions.  Their judgments are automatic and do not require original thought, only minimal interpretation.

I suppose it’s a defense mechanism against a community that is too large.  If a community grows beyond it’s ability to manage itself, they must agree on some sort of standard.  The burden of making judgments increases with the population of any community.  At some point, either from frustration or economy (not enough time), rules are created.  This creates relief for those responsible for making judgments.  They don’t have to consider what to do anymore.  They can always fall back on the rule.   

This creates a trap that’s very easy to fall into.  Making a rule to replace original thought makes one’s life easier.  They’re not unlike macros for day-to-day existence.  Instead of having to make judgments over and over for similar situations, they create a rule that applies broadly for similar situations.  

Something happens collectively to societies that replace creative judgment with law.  In creative judgments, there is an intimacy with the problem to be solved that makes it easier to answer the question fundamental to all judgments:  Is this right?

If you are forced to creatively judge something, the question of right and wrong is made very simple.  You are aware of the details and circumstances around the event you have to judge, and you know right from wrong.  The more a person, group or society relies on rules, the harder it is for them to gauge right and wrong.  

Perhaps the problem of law replacing creative judgment has to do with size.  In smaller groups (village-sized, for example) the person responsible for making judgments (chief or elder, etc.) can afford to make calls on a case-by-case basis.  In smaller groups, the senior individual knows all of the members of the group and can grasp all of the nuances and interpersonal relationships within the group.  Their responsibility for making judgments is relatively small in scope.  

If you make a call in a situation, you know you’re applying your moral standard to the judgment.  But this process is more demanding.  It requires more time and greater effort from the person responsible for making the judgment.  Since people follow the path of least resistance, they will typically fall back on the law to absolve them of the responsibility of making a moral judgment.  

Now before you judge me as an anarchist, I will say that some law is good.  There should be laws against obvious crimes, like rape, child molestation, murder, etc.  But no law, no matter how well crafted or intentioned, should replace moral judgment.  

 

 

The Sad Girl – Vintage Regular

I saw a picture a while back, and it made me sad.

It was a mural, actually; A black and white photograph blown up to larger-than-poster size. I saw it in a mall in my hometown, hanging up just outside some designer clothing store. In the foreground a man was sitting down. He was handsome; immaculately groomed, brilliantly dressed. He was looking smugly at the camera, with his hands clasped just underneath his chin. He looked worldly, rich, and powerful. 

Standing right behind him was a woman. She was physically beautiful, at least according to society’s standards; thin, blonde, somewhat large breasts. She was slouching in a sexually suggestive way, and was lazily holding a martini glass. Her mouth was wide open in what was probably a laugh, and her eyes were half-closed and vacant.

I felt sorry for her.

I only looked at the picture for a few seconds, not even stopping to stare at it. But the image and everything it said to me were burned into my mind. In this mural I saw so many things wrong with society that I’m not sure where to begin.

For starters, the picture was not of a man and a woman; it was a picture of a man and his property. This was a man primarily concerned with his status. He didn’t have to tell people he was a big deal. He used things to display his importance; his designer clothes, his manicured hands and perfect hair, his woman. Here is a man who objectified the people in his life in order to elevate his own status. He was primarily concerned with his appearance, and enveloped himself with things that improved it. The woman standing behind him was nothing more than a status symbol, and like all the rest of his property, he treated her accordingly. 

There’s something worse about this picture than the attitude of the man. The woman’s presence, her participation, her acceptance of everything this picture said to me, is much worse.

Her presence in this picture implies that she has subjugated her will to the man in the photo. She looks for happiness only within the scope of her relationship to the man. For her, the world she lives in is one that revolves around the man in the photo. She is not a woman unto herself, she is his woman. Her identity does not exist outside the scope of his identity. Her sense of self is defined through his eyes. She dresses the way he wants her to, carries herself the way he wants her to, and probably speaks the way he wants her to. She is not his companion or equal. She is only his girl. 

Her participation in the scene implies moral agreement with her objectification. This is how she describes herself, how she defines herself. Her identity begins and ends not so much with this man in particular, but with a man. Her individual identity vanished at some point in her past. She has lost the ability to define herself exclusively; that is, she cannot define herself without incorporating herself into someone else’s definition. What else is she if she is not some man’s woman? What else is there? I see a woman who asks herself such questions glibly, even mockingly. She cannot allow herself to see any answer to these questions that do not affirm herself as she currently is portrayed in the photo. I want very badly for her to know deep down that to define herself the way she has is fundamentally wrong, but I don’t believe she can do that anymore. Her eyes are vacant and empty.

Her acceptance of her status implies resignation of her objectification. If she ever saw herself as being something more than some man’s woman, that idea is gone from her mind. Any fire burning inside her that may have once told her that she could be more has been put out. She is no longer someone who can live for her own sake. Her ability to be a woman to admire, to look up to, is gone. There is nothing in her mind that communicates to anyone that she is or could ever be a peer. If she ever saw herself being a doctor or lawyer, politician or scientist, author or teacher, all she sees herself as now is some man’s woman. Her mind is gone, and her body is all that remains.

I don’t think much of the man. I don’t feel much either, except some mild contempt. He lives in a society that both encourages and forgives him for devaluing women. He is a symptom of the problem I have with this picture.

The woman makes me feel pity and resentment; pity at what she is reduced to and resentment at whatever reduced her to this. Was she molested as a child? Has she gone from one bad relationship to another? Did she have absent or apathetic parents? I see someone who has endured repeated attempts at putting her fire out. At some point in her past, she became too weak to resist, to hang on. She gave up, and her value system collapsed. Now all she is is some woman in a slinky black dress sipping a martini, doing a careful dance around the man in the photo, hoping desperately to be whatever he wants her to be from one moment to the next. She does this so that he will continue to give her value, to give her the worth. She can no longer give these things to herself. 

All this from a few seconds of staring at a photo designed to sell clothes. She is a sad girl, and she made me sad.

Welcome (back) to Lincoln Park

Hi!  I used to have a blog with this name under a different blogging service.  I made a spot decision to cancel it and have more or less regretted it ever since.  SO I’m back now, relying on the kindness of strangers for bits of sanity.  See you around!