Recently, I wrote a paper about the Falklands War for one of my Poli Sci classes. Now, I'm not going to recap the war here. You either remember it or you don't, and if you don't, go and look it up or buy a book or something.
In doing the research for the paper, I came across an excellent analysis of the war, written by then-Second Lieutenant Jason McClure for a military research journal, Strategic Insights. Not only was this a pretty spot-on analysis of the war and the motivational factors behind it, but it McClure also made a great point regarding the expectations that nations have entering into a war, and why they are different for smaller countries (say, Argentina) than for a hegemonic state (albeit a reduced one) such as Great Britain.
To paraphrase McClure, it's easily possible for a lesser country to take on a greater one, lose the entire war, and still get what they want. In fact, both sides get what they want. The lesser state gets some minor concessions and some attention and a net change, hopefully a gain, in its status quo. The more powerful country gets a return to the status quo.
In writing the paper, I came up with a really good way of illustrating this concept, but it's a bit too whimsical and glib for use in an academic work. But I have to get it out of my system, so academia's loss is your gain.
IMPORTANT NOTE: This has never happened at a holiday dinner at which I have been present. My personal memory of holiday dinners has been nothing but joyful and happy, with delicious food and nice, warm memories. I do, in fact, have a Mom, but not like the one portrayed here, and I have no such thing as an Uncle Randy. All of my uncles were WWII veterans. Clear? Then let's begin.
Thanksgiving dinner is a rich and old tradition in the family, going back decades. All the family members and invited guests converge on Mom's house for a day of delicious food, happy chat, pumpkin pie, football on TV, kids running around, and so forth. Mom owns the big house, so that's where everyone meets. Mom also sets the menu, prepares the food, tells everyone when it's dinner time, establishes the schedule, and sorts, wraps, and distributes the plentiful leftovers. She sets the table as well, with diplomatic skill, so that Uncle Henry won't be so close to the liquor cabinet and Aunt Grace, who is devoutly religious, won't sit next to Aunt Sarah's daughter, who is going through this thing with Goth music and the pale skin and black hair and makeup. Honestly, she looks like a ghost. Such a pretty girl, too.
So, Mom is the hegemon here. She holds all the power and distributes all the resources. She pulls the strings, and with the help of her enforcer, Dad, makes the whole meal run like clockwork. Dad is the military arm. He just does what he's told, trusting in Mom to bring and keep peace to the house.
The guests arrive in cars and minivans, couples, small families, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Some of these people genuinely love Mom and think she's great for putting on this whole shindig. Some of them, to be honest, think Mom is a little bossy and overbearing, but come anyway out of varying senses of loyalty: Mom watched my kids when I was in the hospital. Mom helped me through my divorce. Mom lent me some money when I needed it. Some of these people are just here because they have no place else to go and don't want to sit at home. Some of them just can't be bothered to cook for themselves. A few of these people absolutely hate Mom and everything she stands for, but a free meal and some leftovers to take home is worth a few hours of being patronized.
And then there's Uncle Randy, who arrives in a taxi (such extravagance!), having flown in this morning from his loft apartment in the big city.
Mom doesn't talk about Uncle Randy much, but you know most of the story from family gossip. Mom and Randy were very close as children, inseparable, even. They were the closest of pals, and stayed in contact as they grew up and went to college.
But over the years, they have drifted apart, due to some differences in personal philosophy and lifestyle. Mom doesn't like Randy living in the city, which is so far away and full of crime and, you know, minorities (not that Mom isn't a firm believer in equality), and it's so expensive.
Randy, for his part, loves Mom, but he thinks she's had everything her own way for too long. Mom always thinks she's right, and she's never interested in trying anything new. She's made a comfortable life for herself in the suburbs, and she wants to keep it that way.
The meal goes off without a hitch. The turkey is perfect, the stuffing moist and delicious, the mashed potatoes plentiful, the gravy rich and savory, the relish tray and crudites divine. The youngsters at the kids' table are boisterous but not to the point of requiring much discipline, unless one gets too noisy. In that case, a stern look from Mom to Dad makes Dad get up and walk over to the kids' table to get them to settle down. (That Dad gets to refill his glass of Bushmills from the sideboard every time he takes the trip is an extra benefit.)
Now, it's time for the toast. Usually, of course, Mom picks the person to give the toast, someone she can count on to be brief, tasteful, and, naturally, effusive in their praise for Mom. This usually means the Rev. Parker, whose parish has been the recipient of much largesse from Mom and Dad.
But before the vicar can stand, Randy does, glass in hand.
"I'd like to make an announcement," he says, and proceeds to tell everyone that he has quit his job at the bank, and taken a job working in an art gallery, and is gay, and is going to be gone this Christmas because he will be in Majorca with his soon-to-be-spouse, Eric.
Naturally, Mom is appalled. She's upset that Randy has done all this without talking to her. She's upset that the family might think less of her for Randy's mild outburst. (They really don't care, to be honest; Randy's big reveal wasn't that surprising to anyone who'd talked to him for five minutes, and really, it's the 21st century. Who cares?)
Mom fires the first shot: "I would never live like that. All that promiscuity and craven behavior."
Randy drops the bomb: "Yeah, right, sis. Remember, I knew you in college."
Things get worse after that. Dad is now asleep on the couch with the Seahawks-Niners game on and has to be roused to escort Randy from the house. Mom has a breakdown and retires upstairs, weeping. The various relatives help themselves to whatever leftovers they can grab (Uncle Henry stretching the definition of "leftovers" to include "half-gallon Costco bottle of Tanqueray gin from the garage.")
The kids go outside and play.
The next year, Randy is not present at the dinner. Everything is mostly as it was before, barring a few cracks in Mom's facade. She gives the excuse that Randy "and his 'friend'" can't make it to dinner this year because of his work. The dinner proceeds as always; the Reverend gives the toast, Dad falls asleep on the couch and misses Richard Sherman intercepting a Colin Kaepernick pass and running it back for a touchdown.
Who won?
Everybody.
Mom gets what she wanted. Everything is back to the status quo, with one minor modification, and next year, people won't even notice that change.
The guests are happy as long as there's free food and maybe some leftovers.
Dad is happy because he doesn't have to work today and everybody seems content.
Randy is happy because he has elevated his position. He is no longer defined solely in terms of his relationship within the Mom hegemony. He has a great story to tell at parties, is no longer responsible to Mom, and has the freedom to do what he wants.
The parallels to the Falklands War are clear. The UK got to return everything to the status quo as quickly as possible (and, quietly, resume agricultural trade with Argentina shortly thereafter.) Argentina got to change its position on the world stage and get some notice, although it did signal the end of their right-wing military junta, so even that worked out well.
It's an interesting metaphor, and one that can be extended a bit,
Sunday 30 November 2014
Saturday 15 November 2014
Useful Information
So, spent today hauling a futon, a suitcase full of clothes, and some other stuff over to the new apartment in Kawasaki. My roommate and I met the landlord out in front of the place and he showed us around, including all the brand-new appliances, the video security system, the new combination microwave/convection oven, and everything else. Then, he took us out for some really nice ramen while we waited for the Tokyo Gas guy to show up. (He spoke English.)
After we got all hooked up, we caught a cab over to Costco, which is only four kilometers away, and stocked up on housewares. We came back and I did some quick shopping around the neighborhood, which included grabbing a bottle of Jim Beam from the My Basket supermarket for 1080 yen, which, at today's exchange rate, is about $9.30 a fifth, which is about a third of what it costs at the Safeway in Federal Way.
Then I ordered some pizza from Dominos online and we put the stuff away and I've had a few beers and now here is the secret to finding a decent apartment in Tokyo.
First, forget about finding a decent apartment in Tokyo. Unless you're willing to pay north of $1500 a month for a studio, that is. Tokyo real estate is about like Manhattan; it's there, there's plenty of it, but you're gonna pay through the nose. The good news here is that you can do like everyone else with an ounce of sense does and find a reasonably-priced place just out of town somewhere. Kawasaki, where I live, is really nice and cheap; so is Yokohama, and both are under 45 minutes to Tokyo by train. (It takes me about 30 minutes on the train, with about a 12-minute walk at either end.) Don't like long train commutes? Enh. That's what cellphone games are for.
Second, for the love of Pete, don't go to an agency, especially one that pops up on Google. These guys find lots of apartments, but half of them won't rent to foreigners (keep an eye peeled for a vicious rant from me on this topic at some point), and they all charge first month's rent plus another month's rent as a deposit PLUS another month's rent as "key money," which is basically just some money that you sort of give to the building owner, God knows why, PLUS maintenance fees PLUS building insurance.
PLUS you have to have a "Guarantor," who is basically someone who agrees to pay your rent if you can't. Zillion dollars in the bank and excellent credit, but no guarantor? Then your best bet is probably to go screw yourself. Now, if you're Japanese, then this is perfectly okay, as your parents or your employer will sign on as your guarantor. My parents have outstanding credit, but are in their 80s and live in Idaho, plus no Japanese company will act as a guarantor for a foreigner here on a student visa. So it's institutionalized racism, essentially.
So, here's what you do. You find yourself a company THAT OWN AND MANAGE THEIR OWN BUILDINGS. This is what we did. Well, okay, I didn't personally find them; a fellow student who lives in my new building posted about an available apartment on Facebook and I jumped on it. The deposit was less than the first months' rent, there was no key money, and, in exchange for no guarantor, we just pay an extra 3000 a month. It's a pretty new building, all clean, with great management. There's a park next door and a 7-Eleven a few blocks away.
Now I'm going to walk over to that 7-Eleven and buy some tea and a bottle of water and then come back here, drink another can of Yebisu, and watch Avengers for the rest of the evening, in my new, clean, quiet apartment.
After we got all hooked up, we caught a cab over to Costco, which is only four kilometers away, and stocked up on housewares. We came back and I did some quick shopping around the neighborhood, which included grabbing a bottle of Jim Beam from the My Basket supermarket for 1080 yen, which, at today's exchange rate, is about $9.30 a fifth, which is about a third of what it costs at the Safeway in Federal Way.
Then I ordered some pizza from Dominos online and we put the stuff away and I've had a few beers and now here is the secret to finding a decent apartment in Tokyo.
First, forget about finding a decent apartment in Tokyo. Unless you're willing to pay north of $1500 a month for a studio, that is. Tokyo real estate is about like Manhattan; it's there, there's plenty of it, but you're gonna pay through the nose. The good news here is that you can do like everyone else with an ounce of sense does and find a reasonably-priced place just out of town somewhere. Kawasaki, where I live, is really nice and cheap; so is Yokohama, and both are under 45 minutes to Tokyo by train. (It takes me about 30 minutes on the train, with about a 12-minute walk at either end.) Don't like long train commutes? Enh. That's what cellphone games are for.
Second, for the love of Pete, don't go to an agency, especially one that pops up on Google. These guys find lots of apartments, but half of them won't rent to foreigners (keep an eye peeled for a vicious rant from me on this topic at some point), and they all charge first month's rent plus another month's rent as a deposit PLUS another month's rent as "key money," which is basically just some money that you sort of give to the building owner, God knows why, PLUS maintenance fees PLUS building insurance.
PLUS you have to have a "Guarantor," who is basically someone who agrees to pay your rent if you can't. Zillion dollars in the bank and excellent credit, but no guarantor? Then your best bet is probably to go screw yourself. Now, if you're Japanese, then this is perfectly okay, as your parents or your employer will sign on as your guarantor. My parents have outstanding credit, but are in their 80s and live in Idaho, plus no Japanese company will act as a guarantor for a foreigner here on a student visa. So it's institutionalized racism, essentially.
So, here's what you do. You find yourself a company THAT OWN AND MANAGE THEIR OWN BUILDINGS. This is what we did. Well, okay, I didn't personally find them; a fellow student who lives in my new building posted about an available apartment on Facebook and I jumped on it. The deposit was less than the first months' rent, there was no key money, and, in exchange for no guarantor, we just pay an extra 3000 a month. It's a pretty new building, all clean, with great management. There's a park next door and a 7-Eleven a few blocks away.
Now I'm going to walk over to that 7-Eleven and buy some tea and a bottle of water and then come back here, drink another can of Yebisu, and watch Avengers for the rest of the evening, in my new, clean, quiet apartment.
Wednesday 12 November 2014
Hmm
I've been helping out at the Minato Citizens' University, a joint function of Minato City in Tokyo and Temple University, Japan Campus. One of the benefits of working at this thing is getting to attend the lectures and taking part in discussions with the lecturers afterward. These people are all faculty at my school, and most of them work in one or the other of my major fields, so the lectures have been mostly fascinating and occasionally frustrating, as the speakers don't always touch on points that I would like to see addressed.
Then it occurred to me: oh, hey, I'm studying this stuff. I could probably go ahead and touch on those points. I'm not going to tonight, because it's 1 AM and I have to go and sign a lease on my new apartment tomorrow, but this is a great place to explore some of the meatier aspects of Japanese geopolitics.
(The sound of chairs scraping on the floor as people silently edge towards the exit.)
That's okay, I think it's interesting, and, what's more, I think I can make it interesting.
Here's the deal. If Japan goes the way it has been for the past twenty years or so, within the next one hundred years its population will dip below the viability level and it will cease to exist. There's a lot of denial about that, and a lot of discussion, and I legitimately think I have something to add to that discussion. Which is sort of one of the reasons why I'm in college.
Other interesting topics I intend to cover are the insular nature of Japanese culture, the institutionalized racism, the aforementioned spectacular denial, gender issues, the aging population, infrastructure in a nation where cronyism is rampant, xenophobia, the attempt to run a cultural trade surplus, and oh so much more. Like, you know, China. Lots of China.
(CUT TO: one empty desk chair, spinning slowly. A door closes in the distance.)
Best part: I'm not kidding. I'm going to have to write about all this stuff for school anyway; might as well get it up here and hopefully get some love from this direction.
I'm also going to complain a lot about how Japanese people cram right up against the outside door of the train so as to grab a seat right away, but when the door actually opens, they rush inside and then stop right inside the car, so that nobody behind them can get a seat.. I've started just running right over these people.
So, yeah, this. Enjoy.
Then it occurred to me: oh, hey, I'm studying this stuff. I could probably go ahead and touch on those points. I'm not going to tonight, because it's 1 AM and I have to go and sign a lease on my new apartment tomorrow, but this is a great place to explore some of the meatier aspects of Japanese geopolitics.
(The sound of chairs scraping on the floor as people silently edge towards the exit.)
That's okay, I think it's interesting, and, what's more, I think I can make it interesting.
Here's the deal. If Japan goes the way it has been for the past twenty years or so, within the next one hundred years its population will dip below the viability level and it will cease to exist. There's a lot of denial about that, and a lot of discussion, and I legitimately think I have something to add to that discussion. Which is sort of one of the reasons why I'm in college.
Other interesting topics I intend to cover are the insular nature of Japanese culture, the institutionalized racism, the aforementioned spectacular denial, gender issues, the aging population, infrastructure in a nation where cronyism is rampant, xenophobia, the attempt to run a cultural trade surplus, and oh so much more. Like, you know, China. Lots of China.
(CUT TO: one empty desk chair, spinning slowly. A door closes in the distance.)
Best part: I'm not kidding. I'm going to have to write about all this stuff for school anyway; might as well get it up here and hopefully get some love from this direction.
I'm also going to complain a lot about how Japanese people cram right up against the outside door of the train so as to grab a seat right away, but when the door actually opens, they rush inside and then stop right inside the car, so that nobody behind them can get a seat.. I've started just running right over these people.
So, yeah, this. Enjoy.
Sunday 9 November 2014
Sunday Evening
Just sitting around, reviewing notes for my Politics of Identity exam tomorrow and listening to some Soma FM.
Yesterday I was hired by a company as a teacher, but it's not the sort of job that you show up and get a salary. This company finds students who want to learn English in and around whatever areas you specify. My university is pretty centrally located in Tokyo, so I have lots of options there, plus my new apartment is in Kawasaki, so, yeah. Once the company hooks you up with a student, you meet them at a cafe and do a trial lesson; if they like that, then you get started on weekly lessons. Each private lesson pays ¥3000; group lessons can pay as high as ¥5000. So I would really only need about ten or so of these a week to get by.
Oh, yeah, right: new apartment. A friend from Highline and I got a place in Kawasaki, but a kind of quiet, out-of-the-way place. Two bedrooms, although you have to walk through one to get to the other. The building owner is sorting that out by bringing in some shelving units to act as a wall/hallway, and also as shelving. It also has all the appliances, which is really convenient. Most Japanese apartments don't include refrigerators and washing machines and so forth. We even get a few sticks of furniture. Moving in the next couple of weeks or so.
I also walked by a bar last night that clearly had some live blues going, so I walked up to the little place on the third floor and hung around there quite a while. Made some new friends and I'll be playing at their next blues jam, which is December 27th. I'm looking forward to that. I haven't had a chance to perform in quite a while.
Think I'll go downstairs and have a nice soak in the sento before going to bed. That is the one thing I'll miss about living here: a bathroom that somebody else has to clean.
Yesterday I was hired by a company as a teacher, but it's not the sort of job that you show up and get a salary. This company finds students who want to learn English in and around whatever areas you specify. My university is pretty centrally located in Tokyo, so I have lots of options there, plus my new apartment is in Kawasaki, so, yeah. Once the company hooks you up with a student, you meet them at a cafe and do a trial lesson; if they like that, then you get started on weekly lessons. Each private lesson pays ¥3000; group lessons can pay as high as ¥5000. So I would really only need about ten or so of these a week to get by.
Oh, yeah, right: new apartment. A friend from Highline and I got a place in Kawasaki, but a kind of quiet, out-of-the-way place. Two bedrooms, although you have to walk through one to get to the other. The building owner is sorting that out by bringing in some shelving units to act as a wall/hallway, and also as shelving. It also has all the appliances, which is really convenient. Most Japanese apartments don't include refrigerators and washing machines and so forth. We even get a few sticks of furniture. Moving in the next couple of weeks or so.
I also walked by a bar last night that clearly had some live blues going, so I walked up to the little place on the third floor and hung around there quite a while. Made some new friends and I'll be playing at their next blues jam, which is December 27th. I'm looking forward to that. I haven't had a chance to perform in quite a while.
Think I'll go downstairs and have a nice soak in the sento before going to bed. That is the one thing I'll miss about living here: a bathroom that somebody else has to clean.
Friday 7 November 2014
Minor Adjustments
Long day but a good one. Got up at 7 AM, went downstairs and had a shower and shave, made it to school in time to kill the kanji test and finish some review for Politics of Identity. Then, across town to Hongo Sanchome for a pre-screen interview for a job which, if I get it, would be pretty damn awesome. I impressed the heck out of the person doing the prescreen and so she is writing me a letter of introduction and recommendation for the job.
After that, I realized I was only a block or two away from the main entrance to Tokyo University, famous from about a thousand anime and manga. I walked over there and took some photos, then caught a train back to Azabujuban near my university. I walked around for a bit and found a sort of Taco Del Mar-type burrito place. It was... okay. Not delicious until I drenched it in Tabasco Chipotle sauce, and expensive as heck, but the guacamole and chips were pretty good. Next time I'll just have that and something smaller.
Walked over to Mita Hall and got there about an hour before we had to set up for the lecture. Fortunately, I know a hidden little lounge area that is very quiet, and I was able to take a short nap before I heard the other folks arrive. Made sure we were well-prepared and set up for the lecture, which is more than the actual lecturer did.
Came home and found a big box from Seattle, with some jackets (including my Russian flight jacket that Katyann Wilson loves), some shirts, some more t-shirts, two quart bottles of Huy Fong Sriracha and another of Tapatio, and a big bottle of Tabasco.
Tomorrow is another job interview, this time for some part-time teaching work, and tomorrow night I just might go out and have a beer.
Things are slowly improving.
After that, I realized I was only a block or two away from the main entrance to Tokyo University, famous from about a thousand anime and manga. I walked over there and took some photos, then caught a train back to Azabujuban near my university. I walked around for a bit and found a sort of Taco Del Mar-type burrito place. It was... okay. Not delicious until I drenched it in Tabasco Chipotle sauce, and expensive as heck, but the guacamole and chips were pretty good. Next time I'll just have that and something smaller.
Walked over to Mita Hall and got there about an hour before we had to set up for the lecture. Fortunately, I know a hidden little lounge area that is very quiet, and I was able to take a short nap before I heard the other folks arrive. Made sure we were well-prepared and set up for the lecture, which is more than the actual lecturer did.
Came home and found a big box from Seattle, with some jackets (including my Russian flight jacket that Katyann Wilson loves), some shirts, some more t-shirts, two quart bottles of Huy Fong Sriracha and another of Tapatio, and a big bottle of Tabasco.
Tomorrow is another job interview, this time for some part-time teaching work, and tomorrow night I just might go out and have a beer.
Things are slowly improving.
Wednesday 5 November 2014
A Short Tale Regarding The Need For Discretion
I used to drive a flatbed semi across the US and Canada. It was fun for a while, then it was less fun, then it stopped being any sort of fun at all. Then I quit.
For a time, I was driving on what they call the regional fleet, and spent a fair bit of time rolling with another driver on that same fleet. He was some sort of cool cowboy type, but young, and with an element of skaterboi to him. He was a driver trainer, so he always had a trainee on board, which was useful, because the trainee would help him secure his load or roll up his tarps, and then would come over and help me with my load and tarps.
Anyway, this guy would always regale us with stories of horrible injuries he had suffered in one way or another: automobile crash; motorcycle accident (I think he actually raced them at one point); falling off a cliff; diving into a creek that was only eighteen inches deep; what have you. He had pins in his bones holding them together and could turn one of his fingers around on the bone and pull his nose away from his face. These are the things that constitute hours of entertainment when you are waiting for a load of scrap metal from a recycling yard in Calgary.
One day he was telling me a story about how he sliced himself open somehow while loading his rig, a huge gash down the side of his ribs. It was a suitably grisly tale and I won't relate all of it here.
"So, how did you get to the hospital?" I asked.
"Man, I didn't go to no hospital," he sneered. "Squirted some Super Glue on it and wrapped an Ace bandage around my ribs. Got a wild scar out of it."
That was when it hit me: Hey, I thought to myself, this guy is kind of an idiot.
It wasn't too long before he fell off the side of a trailer and went on light duty for several months. I never really dealt with him much after that.
It's not really a cautionary tale, as such; just a reminder that sometimes, someone will be talking, and that voice in the back of your head will finally get your full attention, and you'll realize that spending time with this person could very well lessen your sanity, or your life span, or both.
It's kind of important, when that happens, to flee.
For a time, I was driving on what they call the regional fleet, and spent a fair bit of time rolling with another driver on that same fleet. He was some sort of cool cowboy type, but young, and with an element of skaterboi to him. He was a driver trainer, so he always had a trainee on board, which was useful, because the trainee would help him secure his load or roll up his tarps, and then would come over and help me with my load and tarps.
Anyway, this guy would always regale us with stories of horrible injuries he had suffered in one way or another: automobile crash; motorcycle accident (I think he actually raced them at one point); falling off a cliff; diving into a creek that was only eighteen inches deep; what have you. He had pins in his bones holding them together and could turn one of his fingers around on the bone and pull his nose away from his face. These are the things that constitute hours of entertainment when you are waiting for a load of scrap metal from a recycling yard in Calgary.
One day he was telling me a story about how he sliced himself open somehow while loading his rig, a huge gash down the side of his ribs. It was a suitably grisly tale and I won't relate all of it here.
"So, how did you get to the hospital?" I asked.
"Man, I didn't go to no hospital," he sneered. "Squirted some Super Glue on it and wrapped an Ace bandage around my ribs. Got a wild scar out of it."
That was when it hit me: Hey, I thought to myself, this guy is kind of an idiot.
It wasn't too long before he fell off the side of a trailer and went on light duty for several months. I never really dealt with him much after that.
It's not really a cautionary tale, as such; just a reminder that sometimes, someone will be talking, and that voice in the back of your head will finally get your full attention, and you'll realize that spending time with this person could very well lessen your sanity, or your life span, or both.
It's kind of important, when that happens, to flee.
Tuesday 4 November 2014
Gooble Gobble
Here's the problem. Every so often, things that happen here on Earth really piss me off. I then do what most folks do, which is go on to Facebook and vent, mildly.
Which then results in incredible quantities of blowback, and reminds me of Hartman's Fourth Law:
Everybody is a moron about something.
It really can't be helped. Everybody has a blind spot about some position or belief that they hold, and, because of their location inside their own head, they can't spot the logical fallacy inherent in their position. However, because this takes too long to articulate properly, we fall back on the convenient shorthand of language and just say, "Huh. Moron," and get on with our lives.
Do I have one of these? I'm sure that I do. In fact, I can guarantee that I have at least one if not several areas of moronism moronitude morononononon that thing I said. But remember, because I'm me, I can't see it.
(Oh, very well: I suspect that one of them is my belief in God. All of the cool kids are atheists, or, at best agnostics. I accept that there is no scientific evidence to support the existence of God, and that the history of Christianity is rife with stolen pagan holidays and horrible atrocities committed by men in God's name, and that the word "Christian" has such a bad rap these days that anyone who claims to be one gets ten percent lopped off the top of their IQ automatically. Yet, here I stand.)
I've had some major moron moments recently, with my Facebook audience.
The first was when I made a comment supporting the position of raising the minimum wage to something livable. You know, what the minimum wage was legislated into existence for, originally. I received so much flak on that from people who legitimately thought they understood the issue, who were ultimately unable to express a cogent argument contra raising the minimum wage, apart from:
A. If they want a better wage, they should go to school and get an education and get a better job. (This ignores the point that one must actually remain alive through one's education; dying halfway through the process is only optimal in that it upsets the student loan people.)
B. Flipping burgers isn't worth fifteen dollars per hour. (Very few people who say this have ever tried to survive on a fast-food wage or worked in a fast-food restaurant.)
C. Why should they make fifteen dollars per hour when I only make twelve? (Well, you probably should make more money. After the minimum wage goes up, if you don't get a raise in pay, you can threaten to go and work at Wendy's.)
D. A minimum wage increase will make all the prices go up. (Please go and take an economics course. Take several. It's provable that it doesn't. Honestly.)
I finally had to shut down that thread on FB; people just got either too stupid, or too angry, or too loud, and it was making me all three.
The other one was during Ferguson. Here's what I said, as best as I can remember.
"I think we should try not killing black people for a while. Just for a few days. Let's see how that works out."
Now, I defy anyone to find a flaw in that statement. (Anyone sane, that is.) How hard is it to read that sentence and not agree with every single point made in it? Especially as there's just one: NO KILL THE BLACK PERSON. Seriously? I'm getting pushback on this?
I sure did:
"What about black on black violence?" (I didn't specify which race should stop killing black people.)
"But he stole that box of cigars." (I was unaware this carried the death penalty in Missouri, or that local law enforcement were authorized to enforce it on-site.)
"He had marijuana in his system." (Again, against the law in that state, but probably doesn't merit being shot six times.)
Again, I nuked the thread. Ridiculous.
Sigh. I don't mean to be a jerk, honestly I don't. It does just so happen that I'm kind of good at it. But, by the same token, I know every single one of my 483 Facebook friends personally, and they are my friends because I genuinely like something about them. It just so happens that people are, well, people, and aren't all of a piece. The guy who only refers to the President as "Hussein Obama?" That guy was there for me when I went through a fairly bad personal crisis, and I was there for him when he went through one of the most horrifying things that could happen to a person. That old guy who posts up all the pro-veteran stuff to the point that you kind of wish he'd shut up about it and move on? Family, and good family, at that. The dingus who makes vaguely racist and sexist assertions, the guy who uses wildly inappropriate language on other people's FB pages, the woman who is constantly negative to the point where you start to worry a little bit...
...These are people.
They are human beings, and I know them, and there is something to love about each one of them, just as there is something to dislike.
It can't be helped. There's even a condition named after it.
No, not "The Moron Condition." Try again.
I've had some major moron moments recently, with my Facebook audience.
The first was when I made a comment supporting the position of raising the minimum wage to something livable. You know, what the minimum wage was legislated into existence for, originally. I received so much flak on that from people who legitimately thought they understood the issue, who were ultimately unable to express a cogent argument contra raising the minimum wage, apart from:
A. If they want a better wage, they should go to school and get an education and get a better job. (This ignores the point that one must actually remain alive through one's education; dying halfway through the process is only optimal in that it upsets the student loan people.)
B. Flipping burgers isn't worth fifteen dollars per hour. (Very few people who say this have ever tried to survive on a fast-food wage or worked in a fast-food restaurant.)
C. Why should they make fifteen dollars per hour when I only make twelve? (Well, you probably should make more money. After the minimum wage goes up, if you don't get a raise in pay, you can threaten to go and work at Wendy's.)
D. A minimum wage increase will make all the prices go up. (Please go and take an economics course. Take several. It's provable that it doesn't. Honestly.)
I finally had to shut down that thread on FB; people just got either too stupid, or too angry, or too loud, and it was making me all three.
The other one was during Ferguson. Here's what I said, as best as I can remember.
"I think we should try not killing black people for a while. Just for a few days. Let's see how that works out."
Now, I defy anyone to find a flaw in that statement. (Anyone sane, that is.) How hard is it to read that sentence and not agree with every single point made in it? Especially as there's just one: NO KILL THE BLACK PERSON. Seriously? I'm getting pushback on this?
I sure did:
"What about black on black violence?" (I didn't specify which race should stop killing black people.)
"But he stole that box of cigars." (I was unaware this carried the death penalty in Missouri, or that local law enforcement were authorized to enforce it on-site.)
"He had marijuana in his system." (Again, against the law in that state, but probably doesn't merit being shot six times.)
Again, I nuked the thread. Ridiculous.
Sigh. I don't mean to be a jerk, honestly I don't. It does just so happen that I'm kind of good at it. But, by the same token, I know every single one of my 483 Facebook friends personally, and they are my friends because I genuinely like something about them. It just so happens that people are, well, people, and aren't all of a piece. The guy who only refers to the President as "Hussein Obama?" That guy was there for me when I went through a fairly bad personal crisis, and I was there for him when he went through one of the most horrifying things that could happen to a person. That old guy who posts up all the pro-veteran stuff to the point that you kind of wish he'd shut up about it and move on? Family, and good family, at that. The dingus who makes vaguely racist and sexist assertions, the guy who uses wildly inappropriate language on other people's FB pages, the woman who is constantly negative to the point where you start to worry a little bit...
...These are people.
They are human beings, and I know them, and there is something to love about each one of them, just as there is something to dislike.
It can't be helped. There's even a condition named after it.
No, not "The Moron Condition." Try again.
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