It's 10 PM Friday, and I'm watching "The Hunger Games" with my son. We have one more summer swim meet tomorrow morning, and then the season is officially over. I'm guess I'm relieved, but I'll miss it.
I was so busy at work today that I didn't even hear about Priebus until I was driving home. We have a President now who has made Sean Spicer, Jeff Sessions, and Reince Priebus all look like sympathetic characters. For a while, I actually felt sorry for Spicer. And now, all of a sudden, Republican lawmakers are having Profiles in Courage moments, warning Trump (via Twitter, of course) not to try to fire Sessions.
It all begs just one question: What did you bitches expect? Did you all think that Trump was going to treat you better than he treated Jeb Bush and Marco Rubio and Ted Cruz and everyone else he bullied and humiliated throughout the campaign? Did you think he was going to be nice to you, just because you're on his side? I give Scaramucci three months. I got your communications, right here.
*****
I'm still reading A Kim Jong-Il Production. Sang Shin-Ok spent several years in a North Korean prison as punishment for his second escape attempt, and it was just as brutal as you'd expect a North Korean prison to be. Because I'm the most fun person in the world, I sometimes imagine my favorite places--the pool, for example; or Avalon, New Jersey, turned into giant battlefields or prison camps. Not, obviously, because that's what I want to happen, but because I'm afraid that it could. Because it has.
We saw "Dunkirk" last night. Brilliant, but not what I expected. Maybe I've been married to a Korean for too long, because all of the young, handsome Englishmen looked the same to me. I liked the three interwoven stories, and Mark Rylance is great as the captain of the tiny Moonstone. But I keep returning to the opening scene, of a soldier running through the almost-too-picturesque streets of Dunkirk. He runs past the seaside hotel and onto the sun-drenched beach, where he finds queues of stranded soldiers, thousands of them, trapped with no food or water and awaiting uncertain rescue amid bombs and machine gun fire raining down from German fighter planes.
All of these places, all of the killing fields and mass graves and secret prisons and re-education camps, all started as something else. They all started as just places, where people lived or vacationed or just drove past every day without much thought, only to see them turn into hell on earth. Good prevailed over evil at Dunkirk, as it will in the end. But evil never stops trying.
Sunday, July 30, 2017
Sunday, July 23, 2017
A week minus a day
Monday
So this week will be a test of my determination to post something here at least once a week. I say that every week (well, I think it every week, anyway), but this time, I'm serious.
When I'm overextended, I tend to look for shortcuts, and to rush through things and places and people as fast as I can, so that I can get to the next task. Not the most harmonious approach to life, I know. Sometimes, things go smoothly, and I dodge and weave my way through the grocery store, for example, finding the shortest line, and sailing out of there with no delays.
Other times, I hit roadblocks and obstacles, seething as I wait for slow people to meander their way through wherever I happen to be. Like the grocery store again, where I try not to let my irritation show as the overly friendly, overly solicitous cashier stops to chat with EVERY SINGLE PERSON in the already too-long line, and asks EVERYONE if they found everything they needed, or if they need stamps, or if they want paper or plastic. But by the time I reach the front of the line, all I can think is I'LL BEAT YOU WITH THAT PAPER BAG! I'LL BURN THIS PLACE DOWN WITH THOSE POSTAGE STAMPS, WHICH WILL BE IGNITED BY THE FIRE OF MY RIGHTEOUS FURY!
And then I say "Oh yes, thank you. No, no stamps, thank you. No, I have my own bags. Thank you. Yes, you too! Thanks again!"
Tuesday
In The Screwtape Letters, there's a part where Screwtape writes to Wormwood that his goal should be to make sure that his mortal victims realize, far too late, that they spent most of their time doing neither what they should have done nor what they wanted to do.
This made a deep impression on me. I don't ever set out to waste time, of course, but I give way to panic and indecision, and minutes (or hours) later realize that I just wasted an irretrievable part of my day because I couldn't decide what to do.
But not today. Today was one of those days when I stayed focused from morning to night. Productive at work and productive at home. I finished making dinner at about 8:15. Too late to go swimming, I thought, because the pool closes at 8:45. On the other hand, the pool is right around the corner. But on yet another hand, I'm still in my work clothes. But if I get changed quickly, I can be in the water by 8:25, which means that I can swim for 20 minutes.
There are plenty of days (most days) when the back and forth about this very minor decision would have sent me into a tailspin of panic-fueled indecision, until it was too late to do whatever I was trying to decide to do or not to do. But again, not today. I covered the food with aluminum foil, ran and put on a suit, grabbed a towel, drove to the pool, and was in the water by 8:25. And that short time in the water was like a 20-minute vacation that made the kitchen clean-up that still awaited entirely worth it.
Wednesday
My grandmother, who is in her 90s, used to be a writer of strongly worded letters. Any time she was outraged or offended about something (almost daily), she'd write to newspaper editorial pages, local officials, members of Congress, or anyone else who incurred her displeasure or who should, in her opinion, address whatever issue she was concerned about. She had very nice Catholic school Palmer Method handwriting, and she wrote her letters in longhand, on lined letter paper (the kind you used to be able to buy in tablets at drugstores) at the end of her kitchen table. She had the names and office addresses of the mayor of Philadelphia, the governor of Pennsylvania, her Senators and Representative, and every member of the Philadelphia City Council (they were frequent letter targets) in her leather address book. I don't recall that she ever wrote to the President, but perhaps she did. Or perhaps she just copied him on her letters to her Senators. Her letter-writing efforts were not restricted to politicians and newspaper editors. If a product or a service or an establishment didn't live up to her expectations, those responsible would hear, in letter form, from my grandmother.
I used to do the same thing, only via email. But l just don't have time anymore. As much as I'd like to fight City Hall about, oh, I don't know, speed camera tickets in general, or my 14th speed camera ticket in particular, there are only so many hours in the day.
When I pay the tickets (and I always threaten to go to court, but then I just shut up and pay the $40), I usually take a screen shot of the payment screen, and save it, just in case. I used to just name the file speedcamerapayment and the date. Now, let's just say, I'm a little more expressive. fuckmylifemofospeedcamerabitches_072017.dox is a sample file name. But there's always a silver lining. After all, I've been meaning to get rid of that extra $40 for weeks.
Thursday
I was writing something about something that happened today, and I couldn't sustain enough interest in the story to even finish the first sentence, so I won't inflict it on my reading public. You're welcome.
Friday
Ain't nobody got time to blog today.
Sunday
I worked part-time and/or at home from 2009 to 2016. Of course, the Internet and mobile technology were around in 2009, but I don't remember feeling required to be available for work at all times, just because it was possible to work at all times. Things have changed, though.
I love my job. But it occurred to me yesterday that perhaps I shouldn't feel guilty about joining my son and his friends and their mothers for a post swim meet lunch and buddy gift shopping trip, rather than going immediately home to work. Because yesterday was Saturday. Of course, I paid for it by working until 10 last night.
*****
Hey, that's kind of a lot. I didn't think I'd get more than a sentence or two out of myself this week. None of it makes sense or is relevant to anything, but I don't promise all the news that's fit to print.
So this week will be a test of my determination to post something here at least once a week. I say that every week (well, I think it every week, anyway), but this time, I'm serious.
When I'm overextended, I tend to look for shortcuts, and to rush through things and places and people as fast as I can, so that I can get to the next task. Not the most harmonious approach to life, I know. Sometimes, things go smoothly, and I dodge and weave my way through the grocery store, for example, finding the shortest line, and sailing out of there with no delays.
Other times, I hit roadblocks and obstacles, seething as I wait for slow people to meander their way through wherever I happen to be. Like the grocery store again, where I try not to let my irritation show as the overly friendly, overly solicitous cashier stops to chat with EVERY SINGLE PERSON in the already too-long line, and asks EVERYONE if they found everything they needed, or if they need stamps, or if they want paper or plastic. But by the time I reach the front of the line, all I can think is I'LL BEAT YOU WITH THAT PAPER BAG! I'LL BURN THIS PLACE DOWN WITH THOSE POSTAGE STAMPS, WHICH WILL BE IGNITED BY THE FIRE OF MY RIGHTEOUS FURY!
And then I say "Oh yes, thank you. No, no stamps, thank you. No, I have my own bags. Thank you. Yes, you too! Thanks again!"
Tuesday
In The Screwtape Letters, there's a part where Screwtape writes to Wormwood that his goal should be to make sure that his mortal victims realize, far too late, that they spent most of their time doing neither what they should have done nor what they wanted to do.
This made a deep impression on me. I don't ever set out to waste time, of course, but I give way to panic and indecision, and minutes (or hours) later realize that I just wasted an irretrievable part of my day because I couldn't decide what to do.
But not today. Today was one of those days when I stayed focused from morning to night. Productive at work and productive at home. I finished making dinner at about 8:15. Too late to go swimming, I thought, because the pool closes at 8:45. On the other hand, the pool is right around the corner. But on yet another hand, I'm still in my work clothes. But if I get changed quickly, I can be in the water by 8:25, which means that I can swim for 20 minutes.
There are plenty of days (most days) when the back and forth about this very minor decision would have sent me into a tailspin of panic-fueled indecision, until it was too late to do whatever I was trying to decide to do or not to do. But again, not today. I covered the food with aluminum foil, ran and put on a suit, grabbed a towel, drove to the pool, and was in the water by 8:25. And that short time in the water was like a 20-minute vacation that made the kitchen clean-up that still awaited entirely worth it.
Wednesday
My grandmother, who is in her 90s, used to be a writer of strongly worded letters. Any time she was outraged or offended about something (almost daily), she'd write to newspaper editorial pages, local officials, members of Congress, or anyone else who incurred her displeasure or who should, in her opinion, address whatever issue she was concerned about. She had very nice Catholic school Palmer Method handwriting, and she wrote her letters in longhand, on lined letter paper (the kind you used to be able to buy in tablets at drugstores) at the end of her kitchen table. She had the names and office addresses of the mayor of Philadelphia, the governor of Pennsylvania, her Senators and Representative, and every member of the Philadelphia City Council (they were frequent letter targets) in her leather address book. I don't recall that she ever wrote to the President, but perhaps she did. Or perhaps she just copied him on her letters to her Senators. Her letter-writing efforts were not restricted to politicians and newspaper editors. If a product or a service or an establishment didn't live up to her expectations, those responsible would hear, in letter form, from my grandmother.
I was writing something about something that happened today, and I couldn't sustain enough interest in the story to even finish the first sentence, so I won't inflict it on my reading public. You're welcome.
Friday
Ain't nobody got time to blog today.
Sunday
I worked part-time and/or at home from 2009 to 2016. Of course, the Internet and mobile technology were around in 2009, but I don't remember feeling required to be available for work at all times, just because it was possible to work at all times. Things have changed, though.
I love my job. But it occurred to me yesterday that perhaps I shouldn't feel guilty about joining my son and his friends and their mothers for a post swim meet lunch and buddy gift shopping trip, rather than going immediately home to work. Because yesterday was Saturday. Of course, I paid for it by working until 10 last night.
*****
Hey, that's kind of a lot. I didn't think I'd get more than a sentence or two out of myself this week. None of it makes sense or is relevant to anything, but I don't promise all the news that's fit to print.
Saturday, July 15, 2017
In my day
We have an intern at work (well, we have more interns than you can shake a stick at, if you're a stick shaking person, but that's a story for another day) who just bought a Polaroid camera--an actual Polaroid camera, that spits out ready-to-develop paper photographs. He told us that he carries it everywhere. It's almost the size of a shoebox, and looks like it weighs about five pounds.
*****
I'm familiar with young people's love for old technology. It seems silly to carry around a giant Polaroid camera when you can take far better pictures with even the cheapest 8-ounce smartphone, but Polaroid photography seems like a harmless-enough hobby, so who am I to judge? It keeps them off the street, as they say.
*****
Last year when I was in Boston, I bought a little velcro wallet made from an old museum banner at the MFA gift shop. I loved that wallet. LOVED it. It's starting to come apart, though, and so I have to replace it. It was one of a kind, which means that I have to replace it with something else altogether, since I can't get another just like it.
I found a wallet on Amazon, which for some reason appealed to me even though it's not at all the kind of thing that I normally like, so I ordered it. And I was horrified when it arrived. In the photograph, it looked like a small, brightly patterned cordura nylon wallet with a velcro closure and cute red trim. IRL, it was a huge, bulky, Guatemalan ikat fabric monstrosity with an enormous label and unraveling thread. It looked like something you'd carry your Phish tickets in.
I read an article yesterday, criticizing Amazon for its low prices and easy, so-called free returns, and although I can see the author's point, I do love Amazon. I have no time to shop, and it's quite lovely to have things delivered to me, so that I can either keep or send them back. And now, you can return things (or pick them up) from something called the Amazon Locker, in a neighborhood location.
When I was growing up, my mom used to shop from the Montgomery-Ward catalog, which was the size of a phone book, assuming anyone even knows what a phone book is or was. M-W delivered its giant catalogs twice a year, and they came equipped with order forms that you could remove, complete in pen, and stuff into an envelope with your check or money order. A week or so later, your items would arrive at your door.
Or, you could go to your neighborhood Montgomery-Ward catalog store and pick up your box in person. The catalog store wasn't really a store, because you couldn't actually shop there. It had a counter in front, like a dry cleaner; and in the back, boxes were stored on rows of shelves, organized by last name. You could also return your purchases at the catalog store. So once again, what's old is new.
*****
I thought that I was reasonably well-informed on current events, but I suppose I still have some catching up to do. Because I thought that Donald Jr. was the blond one.
*****
My work commute is only six miles or so, all through neighborhood streets and secondary roads. It's a nice change from my old Beltway commute. There's a little neighborhood in Rockville that I drive through every day, that reminds me of my neighborhood. It's a 1960s-built Life Magazine version of an American suburban neighborhood, with alternating ranch, colonial, and Cape Cod-style houses with neat lawns and mature shade trees.
I like Rockville and Silver Spring, especially the mid-century neighborhoods that aren't quite upscale, but also not quite affluent. These are among the few truly egalitarian communities left in the Washington suburbs, where lawyers and doctors live next door to police officers and nurses, who live next door to hair stylists and electricians. OK, so not exactly the full spectrum of society, but not as polarized as the rest of this city sometimes seems to be.
And that was my social commentary for the week. Now, I'm exhausted.
*****
I have a long-standing aversion to ridiculous street and town names. In fact, if I were to ever inherit my dream house, but it was located in a stupid-name town, or on a ridiculously named street, I'd sell immediately.
I live in Maryland, where there are actually lots of places with beautiful and/or dignified names. Silver Spring, of course is the most beautiful town name, and that happens to be where I live. We also have Camp Springs, Bethesda, Fort Washington, Baltimore, Prince Frederick, Prince George's County, Aberdeen, Rising Sun--anyone would be happy to return address their letters from any of these places.
On the other hand, we also have more than a few towns and streets that have ridiculous or absurdly ugly names. Boonsboro, Scaggsville, Dundalk, Waldorf (it's the "dorf" sound that makes it ridiculous), Accident, Boring, and (no kidding) Crappo are all towns that must be deserted, like Centralia; only not because of raging underground fires, but because the names of those places are so awful that no one would ever want to have such an address printed on their driver's license.
Wait, what was I talking about?
Oh right! Rockville! (Another very serviceable name.) Although I normally have a distinct bias against silly street names, I make an exception for one street name in Rockville, in the little neighborhood that I drive through every day. The street names there are made-up portmanteau words, most of which I can't remember right now, but one that amuses me to no end every time I drive past it: Miltfred Way.
Isn't that the best name? I have no idea who Milt or Fred were (or are--maybe they're still alive), but it does seem quite certain that the street is named after two men named Milt and Fred (or Milton and Frederick, I suppose).
I'm not sure who named the street after them. Maybe they were the developers of the neighborhood, and one day, after a few too many drinks, they decided to name a street after themselves. I picture two middle-aged men in Mad Men-era glasses, wearing golf clothing, and laughing uproariously at the people who would eventually have to tell other people that they just bought a house on Miltfred Way. Or maybe Milt and Fred were the fathers or grandfathers of the people who built the neighborhood, and the street was named as a tribute to them. I have no idea; and I also have no idea why I'm so fond of this name, when I'm normally so particular about street names. Nostalgia maybe--a reminder of a simpler time, when Polaroid cameras were cutting-edge technology, and Montgomery-Ward was still a thing. And no one knew one Trump from another, and we liked it that way.
*****
I'm familiar with young people's love for old technology. It seems silly to carry around a giant Polaroid camera when you can take far better pictures with even the cheapest 8-ounce smartphone, but Polaroid photography seems like a harmless-enough hobby, so who am I to judge? It keeps them off the street, as they say.
*****
Last year when I was in Boston, I bought a little velcro wallet made from an old museum banner at the MFA gift shop. I loved that wallet. LOVED it. It's starting to come apart, though, and so I have to replace it. It was one of a kind, which means that I have to replace it with something else altogether, since I can't get another just like it.
I found a wallet on Amazon, which for some reason appealed to me even though it's not at all the kind of thing that I normally like, so I ordered it. And I was horrified when it arrived. In the photograph, it looked like a small, brightly patterned cordura nylon wallet with a velcro closure and cute red trim. IRL, it was a huge, bulky, Guatemalan ikat fabric monstrosity with an enormous label and unraveling thread. It looked like something you'd carry your Phish tickets in.
I read an article yesterday, criticizing Amazon for its low prices and easy, so-called free returns, and although I can see the author's point, I do love Amazon. I have no time to shop, and it's quite lovely to have things delivered to me, so that I can either keep or send them back. And now, you can return things (or pick them up) from something called the Amazon Locker, in a neighborhood location.
When I was growing up, my mom used to shop from the Montgomery-Ward catalog, which was the size of a phone book, assuming anyone even knows what a phone book is or was. M-W delivered its giant catalogs twice a year, and they came equipped with order forms that you could remove, complete in pen, and stuff into an envelope with your check or money order. A week or so later, your items would arrive at your door.
Or, you could go to your neighborhood Montgomery-Ward catalog store and pick up your box in person. The catalog store wasn't really a store, because you couldn't actually shop there. It had a counter in front, like a dry cleaner; and in the back, boxes were stored on rows of shelves, organized by last name. You could also return your purchases at the catalog store. So once again, what's old is new.
*****
I thought that I was reasonably well-informed on current events, but I suppose I still have some catching up to do. Because I thought that Donald Jr. was the blond one.
*****
My work commute is only six miles or so, all through neighborhood streets and secondary roads. It's a nice change from my old Beltway commute. There's a little neighborhood in Rockville that I drive through every day, that reminds me of my neighborhood. It's a 1960s-built Life Magazine version of an American suburban neighborhood, with alternating ranch, colonial, and Cape Cod-style houses with neat lawns and mature shade trees.
I like Rockville and Silver Spring, especially the mid-century neighborhoods that aren't quite upscale, but also not quite affluent. These are among the few truly egalitarian communities left in the Washington suburbs, where lawyers and doctors live next door to police officers and nurses, who live next door to hair stylists and electricians. OK, so not exactly the full spectrum of society, but not as polarized as the rest of this city sometimes seems to be.
And that was my social commentary for the week. Now, I'm exhausted.
*****
I have a long-standing aversion to ridiculous street and town names. In fact, if I were to ever inherit my dream house, but it was located in a stupid-name town, or on a ridiculously named street, I'd sell immediately.
I live in Maryland, where there are actually lots of places with beautiful and/or dignified names. Silver Spring, of course is the most beautiful town name, and that happens to be where I live. We also have Camp Springs, Bethesda, Fort Washington, Baltimore, Prince Frederick, Prince George's County, Aberdeen, Rising Sun--anyone would be happy to return address their letters from any of these places.
On the other hand, we also have more than a few towns and streets that have ridiculous or absurdly ugly names. Boonsboro, Scaggsville, Dundalk, Waldorf (it's the "dorf" sound that makes it ridiculous), Accident, Boring, and (no kidding) Crappo are all towns that must be deserted, like Centralia; only not because of raging underground fires, but because the names of those places are so awful that no one would ever want to have such an address printed on their driver's license.
Wait, what was I talking about?
Oh right! Rockville! (Another very serviceable name.) Although I normally have a distinct bias against silly street names, I make an exception for one street name in Rockville, in the little neighborhood that I drive through every day. The street names there are made-up portmanteau words, most of which I can't remember right now, but one that amuses me to no end every time I drive past it: Miltfred Way.
Isn't that the best name? I have no idea who Milt or Fred were (or are--maybe they're still alive), but it does seem quite certain that the street is named after two men named Milt and Fred (or Milton and Frederick, I suppose).
I'm not sure who named the street after them. Maybe they were the developers of the neighborhood, and one day, after a few too many drinks, they decided to name a street after themselves. I picture two middle-aged men in Mad Men-era glasses, wearing golf clothing, and laughing uproariously at the people who would eventually have to tell other people that they just bought a house on Miltfred Way. Or maybe Milt and Fred were the fathers or grandfathers of the people who built the neighborhood, and the street was named as a tribute to them. I have no idea; and I also have no idea why I'm so fond of this name, when I'm normally so particular about street names. Nostalgia maybe--a reminder of a simpler time, when Polaroid cameras were cutting-edge technology, and Montgomery-Ward was still a thing. And no one knew one Trump from another, and we liked it that way.
Monday, July 10, 2017
On high, for 30 seconds
Monday: On Friday night, I tried to use the microwave, which is no more than six months old, and nothing happened. No little beep, no lights, no whirring sound as the plate revolves around to ensure even irradiation of your food.
Hmm, I thought. This microwave is no more than six months old. Why isn't it working? Is it a power failure? Obviously not, what with the lights blazing and the air conditioner humming happily along. Maybe a circuit breaker was tripped? No, they were all fine. ("Do you know what you're doing?" my 12-year-old son asked skeptically as I scanned the breaker box.)
I suppose I started with zebras and then proceeded to horses, because the last thing I checked was the plug, which was inserted firmly into the outlet. So there was no reason why it didn't work, but it didn't work. Until, of course, my husband came home, and I told him that it didn't work. He scoffed. "What are you talking about?" he said. "That microwave is no more than six months old. Of course it works." And he pushed a button, and it worked.
I can't tell you how much I hate when that happens. So imagine my glee when I came home from work today, and found the microwave in the box that it came in, on the kitchen floor. I called my husband. He didn't answer, because he's not an idiot. So I texted.
What happened to the microwave?
He texted back:
It's broken. No idea what's wrong with it.
I replied:
Hmmm. That's weird. Did you check to see if it was plugged in?
There's no point to this story whatsoever, except that it's 100% worth whatever it costs to replace that microwave. VINDICATION.
*****
Wednesday: My older son, when he was six or so, really loved everything Star Wars (at 16, he's still a fan). He used to talk about "Star Wars: The Complete Songa." I still like to pronounce "saga" as "songa." I have no idea why I'm thinking about that.
I'm reading Paul Fischer's A Kim Jong-Il Production. It's the true story of how Kim Jong-Il kidnapped South Korea's most famous movie director and his actress wife, and forced them to make movies in North Korea. The book was recommended by a friend; and of course, the irresistible combination of movies and totalitarian Communism makes it that much more compelling. It's gripping, so far.
This morning, I was listening to NPR, and heard a story about efforts to subvert state censors in North Korea. Watching Western movies is punishable by death in North Korea, but people do it anyway, using tiny removable drives that can be swallowed or flushed when the secret police come knocking (why do they even knock, I've always wondered). The point of the story was that North Korea is not quite the hermetically sealed information black hole that we think it is, and that enterprising North Koreans are finding ways to undermine their totalitarian government, even at risk of death.
So it seems that Orwell was only half right. The same technology that makes it possible for the state to monitor every aspect of our lives, 1984-style also allows people to subvert the state, with social-media-convened flash mobs, and revolutionary hashtags.
Maybe that's the end game. Maybe the Internet has ended the possibility of real, permanent, 100% totalitarianism, and it's only a matter of time before North Korea collapses under the weight of thousands of miniature flash drives.
Or maybe the Internet ends instead, when governments good and bad agree that they can't govern their people as long as those people have unfettered access to information, and the means by which to share it. In the "good" countries, the end will come as the result of a massive security breach that empties millions of bank accounts; or maybe when the Russian hackers finally figure out a way to take down the whole power grid. Then the government will cut off access to the Internet for our own good. In the "bad" countries, of course, they'll just shut the whole thing down, because they can.
Without the Internet, they'll have to spy on us the old-fashioned way, with hidden cameras and microphones, recording our every move and conversation. Maybe they'll hide them in microwave ovens.
Hmm, I thought. This microwave is no more than six months old. Why isn't it working? Is it a power failure? Obviously not, what with the lights blazing and the air conditioner humming happily along. Maybe a circuit breaker was tripped? No, they were all fine. ("Do you know what you're doing?" my 12-year-old son asked skeptically as I scanned the breaker box.)
I suppose I started with zebras and then proceeded to horses, because the last thing I checked was the plug, which was inserted firmly into the outlet. So there was no reason why it didn't work, but it didn't work. Until, of course, my husband came home, and I told him that it didn't work. He scoffed. "What are you talking about?" he said. "That microwave is no more than six months old. Of course it works." And he pushed a button, and it worked.
I can't tell you how much I hate when that happens. So imagine my glee when I came home from work today, and found the microwave in the box that it came in, on the kitchen floor. I called my husband. He didn't answer, because he's not an idiot. So I texted.
What happened to the microwave?
He texted back:
It's broken. No idea what's wrong with it.
I replied:
Hmmm. That's weird. Did you check to see if it was plugged in?
There's no point to this story whatsoever, except that it's 100% worth whatever it costs to replace that microwave. VINDICATION.
*****
Wednesday: My older son, when he was six or so, really loved everything Star Wars (at 16, he's still a fan). He used to talk about "Star Wars: The Complete Songa." I still like to pronounce "saga" as "songa." I have no idea why I'm thinking about that.
I'm reading Paul Fischer's A Kim Jong-Il Production. It's the true story of how Kim Jong-Il kidnapped South Korea's most famous movie director and his actress wife, and forced them to make movies in North Korea. The book was recommended by a friend; and of course, the irresistible combination of movies and totalitarian Communism makes it that much more compelling. It's gripping, so far.
This morning, I was listening to NPR, and heard a story about efforts to subvert state censors in North Korea. Watching Western movies is punishable by death in North Korea, but people do it anyway, using tiny removable drives that can be swallowed or flushed when the secret police come knocking (why do they even knock, I've always wondered). The point of the story was that North Korea is not quite the hermetically sealed information black hole that we think it is, and that enterprising North Koreans are finding ways to undermine their totalitarian government, even at risk of death.
So it seems that Orwell was only half right. The same technology that makes it possible for the state to monitor every aspect of our lives, 1984-style also allows people to subvert the state, with social-media-convened flash mobs, and revolutionary hashtags.
Maybe that's the end game. Maybe the Internet has ended the possibility of real, permanent, 100% totalitarianism, and it's only a matter of time before North Korea collapses under the weight of thousands of miniature flash drives.
Or maybe the Internet ends instead, when governments good and bad agree that they can't govern their people as long as those people have unfettered access to information, and the means by which to share it. In the "good" countries, the end will come as the result of a massive security breach that empties millions of bank accounts; or maybe when the Russian hackers finally figure out a way to take down the whole power grid. Then the government will cut off access to the Internet for our own good. In the "bad" countries, of course, they'll just shut the whole thing down, because they can.
Without the Internet, they'll have to spy on us the old-fashioned way, with hidden cameras and microphones, recording our every move and conversation. Maybe they'll hide them in microwave ovens.
Sunday, July 2, 2017
Plagues and pestilence
When my sons were very young, they always got sick in June. Every year, from about age 2 to age 9 or 10, they'd be felled by dreadful stomach viruses, or bacterial infections--usually strep. Then, we enjoyed a few sickness-free summers. But the plague has returned. Both boys have raging strep infections, and the house feels like a MASH unit. There are blankets and pillows and half-empty (and not half-full) glasses of water everywhere, and no one other than me has enough energy to move off the couch. Thank goodness for antibiotics. They'll be back to normal in no time.
*****
This is an unusually demanding and un-summer-like summer, and every week, I think that I won't bother with posting anything, because what do I have to say? But I feel strangely compelled to write about nothing in particular, with occasional veiled (well, maybe not that veiled--I think the filter is gone) references to crippling anxiety and panic attacks. There are no antibiotics for this, but it comes and goes. I'll also be back to normal in no time.
*****
It's Friday now. At 6:45 this morning, I was sitting on my couch watching "Morning Joe." I watch "MJ" almost every morning, but by "watch," I mean that it's on in the background while I get ready for work. Today, though, I actually sat and watched to see how Joe and Mika would respond to Trump's Twitter attack on Mika.
I thought that I had finally reached a point at which I just couldn't take Donald Trump seriously enough anymore to maintain an appropriate level of outrage. But as it turns out, I have outrage to spare about the fact that this vile and contemptible little man who is entirely lacking in dignity, decency, and self control; and who is unfit to hold any public office at any level, is the President of the United States.
But maybe I'm wrong about self-control. It's 9:30 PM now, and I'm watching Rachel Maddow (OMG, what am I doing with my life?) and she makes the very convincing and compelling argument that the Trump tweets and comments that seem most undisciplined because of their shocking lack of courtesy are the most carefully and thoughtfully written and delivered, because the Twitter storms are all part of a vast bread and circus plan to keep people distracted--maybe entertained or maybe outraged, but distracted from what really matters, which is this administration's determination to dismantle the so-called "administrative state," and establish a Putin-style plutocracy.
Wait, how did I even get started on that?
I don't really like to write about politics, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. I don't really have the time or inclination to do the research and study necessary to really do it well; and besides, what can I say that hasn't been said a million times already. I'm much better just writing inconsequential nonsense about daily ephemera.
The problem is that I can't stop worrying that all of the daily, routine, ordinary things that interest me most will all disappear soon. But I might be overreacting. I tend to do that. How much damage can one man do in just 3 1/2 more years? Things will be back to normal in next to no time.
*****
This is an unusually demanding and un-summer-like summer, and every week, I think that I won't bother with posting anything, because what do I have to say? But I feel strangely compelled to write about nothing in particular, with occasional veiled (well, maybe not that veiled--I think the filter is gone) references to crippling anxiety and panic attacks. There are no antibiotics for this, but it comes and goes. I'll also be back to normal in no time.
*****
It's Friday now. At 6:45 this morning, I was sitting on my couch watching "Morning Joe." I watch "MJ" almost every morning, but by "watch," I mean that it's on in the background while I get ready for work. Today, though, I actually sat and watched to see how Joe and Mika would respond to Trump's Twitter attack on Mika.
I thought that I had finally reached a point at which I just couldn't take Donald Trump seriously enough anymore to maintain an appropriate level of outrage. But as it turns out, I have outrage to spare about the fact that this vile and contemptible little man who is entirely lacking in dignity, decency, and self control; and who is unfit to hold any public office at any level, is the President of the United States.
But maybe I'm wrong about self-control. It's 9:30 PM now, and I'm watching Rachel Maddow (OMG, what am I doing with my life?) and she makes the very convincing and compelling argument that the Trump tweets and comments that seem most undisciplined because of their shocking lack of courtesy are the most carefully and thoughtfully written and delivered, because the Twitter storms are all part of a vast bread and circus plan to keep people distracted--maybe entertained or maybe outraged, but distracted from what really matters, which is this administration's determination to dismantle the so-called "administrative state," and establish a Putin-style plutocracy.
Wait, how did I even get started on that?
I don't really like to write about politics, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. I don't really have the time or inclination to do the research and study necessary to really do it well; and besides, what can I say that hasn't been said a million times already. I'm much better just writing inconsequential nonsense about daily ephemera.
The problem is that I can't stop worrying that all of the daily, routine, ordinary things that interest me most will all disappear soon. But I might be overreacting. I tend to do that. How much damage can one man do in just 3 1/2 more years? Things will be back to normal in next to no time.
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