Category Archives: odd stuff

On a bandage

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I had to put a bandage on my finger tonight because I accidentally hurt myself while preparing food. I don’t know about you, but I have sliced and diced my left hand until it has bled. Though I would not say I am particularly clumsy, I am not particularly deft and my hands bear the scars of years. My new bandage covers a small wound that only gave up a few drops of blood, so I don’t need stitches, but I wasn’t happy that I hurt myself either. It will heal, no doubt. I’ve put the requisite anti-bacterial products on my wound, a little peroxide. I put pressure on the wound to staunch the flow of blood, albeit a trickle. The bandage is holding in the rest. The bandage is flesh-colored except that my flesh is not that particular color of pink, but it does keep new germs from getting into the wound and infecting me with who knows what deadly horrors from the bacterial world. It turns out that if I cut myself, I bleed, that even on the macro-level, my blood is dark red, and I am not immortal. That is what the flimsy plastic bandage on my left finger tells me.

On a bandage

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I had to put a bandage on my finger tonight because I accidentally hurt myself while preparing food. I don’t know about you, but I have sliced and diced my left hand until it has bled. Though I would not say I am particularly clumsy, I am not particularly deft and my hands bear the scars of years. My new bandage covers a small wound that only gave up a few drops of blood, so I don’t need stitches, but I wasn’t happy that I hurt myself either. It will heal, no doubt. I’ve put the requisite anti-bacterial products on my wound, a little peroxide. I put pressure on the wound to staunch the flow of blood, albeit a trickle. The bandage is holding in the rest. The bandage is flesh-colored except that my flesh is not that particular color of pink, but it does keep new germs from getting into the wound and infecting me with who knows what deadly horrors from the bacterial world. It turns out that if I cut myself, I bleed, that even on the macro-level, my blood is dark red, and I am not immortal. That is what the flimsy plastic bandage on my left finger tells me.

On Halloween

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Costumes, candy, horror stories, parties, and lots of strange behavior mark the final day of October. I think that most mainstream religion visibly cringes at the religious tones of the holiday, or just relaxes and accepts it openly as one of those strange manifestations of supernatural belief that can neither be denied nor dismissed. There exists a carnivalesque atmosphere that draws people in who dress as zombies, politicians, monsters, superheroes, or whatever as an expression of the innermost desires to be heard and seen as something other than what they are during a routine day. Halloween is definitely a break from the routine, a break from the established social orders, a break from the sadness that often crowds into our daily lives. People wear masks, or perhaps they take one off. They eat candy–lots of it. Perhaps what people are doing with Halloween is confronting their fears–of the darkness, of the unknown, of the future, of economic ruin, of joblessness, of death. The dark, festive nature of Halloween is attractive because it speaks to the repressed desires that lurk just off camera for most people. Whether those desires are sexual, or violent, or perverse, or gluttonous, or lazy is the thing that brings out the ghosts and goblins on the last day of October. The year is winding down, summer is over, and the year is drawing to a close, boredom is creeping in from all sides. Halloween is a salute to our darker natures, the hidden ego, which, for one day a year, gets a chance to go out on the town and play.

On Halloween

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Costumes, candy, horror stories, parties, and lots of strange behavior mark the final day of October. I think that most mainstream religion visibly cringes at the religious tones of the holiday, or just relaxes and accepts it openly as one of those strange manifestations of supernatural belief that can neither be denied nor dismissed. There exists a carnivalesque atmosphere that draws people in who dress as zombies, politicians, monsters, superheroes, or whatever as an expression of the innermost desires to be heard and seen as something other than what they are during a routine day. Halloween is definitely a break from the routine, a break from the established social orders, a break from the sadness that often crowds into our daily lives. People wear masks, or perhaps they take one off. They eat candy–lots of it. Perhaps what people are doing with Halloween is confronting their fears–of the darkness, of the unknown, of the future, of economic ruin, of joblessness, of death. The dark, festive nature of Halloween is attractive because it speaks to the repressed desires that lurk just off camera for most people. Whether those desires are sexual, or violent, or perverse, or gluttonous, or lazy is the thing that brings out the ghosts and goblins on the last day of October. The year is winding down, summer is over, and the year is drawing to a close, boredom is creeping in from all sides. Halloween is a salute to our darker natures, the hidden ego, which, for one day a year, gets a chance to go out on the town and play.

On complicated coffee

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I think that coffee is already a flavor that needs no changing or improving. It doesn’t need any pumpkin or spice, no caramel or cinnamon, no vanilla or hazel nut. There is no reason anyone needs a quadruple trifecta macchiato with extra cinammon, caramel, and whipped cream with sprinkles. Perhaps a little milk, maybe a little sugar to bring up the flavors, but I don’t need other flavors to make my coffee experience a good one. This time of year, when it’s still hot, I like my coffee cold and bitter like a nasty January day on the Midwestern plains. Some folks like to dress up their coffee with strange Italian syrups, mountains of whipped cream, extra sprinkles, but isn’t that like putting a sweater on a dog? Dogs already come with the sweater attached last time I checked. All I want is a couple of shots of espresso and a little peace and quiet–maybe a quiet conversation with some friends, maybe a rowdy discussion of manners by Minnesotans. I think those ladies in the basement of the Lutheran church in which I grew up knew something about black bitter coffee as they continually brewed a pot to be served with the doughnuts on Sunday morning. Those wise women knew that coffee was a flavor all by itself and needed no improvement or variations. They often scoffed if you put cream in your cup, or at least looked on in disapproval. Coffee is simple, so why do we insist on screwing it up? Coffee, for better or worse, is an experience unto itself, love it or hate it. So the next time you go for coffee, think about how you can simplify your order. Think about coffee as if it were a metaphor for the life well-lived, simple, strong, and uncomplicated.

On complicated coffee

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I think that coffee is already a flavor that needs no changing or improving. It doesn’t need any pumpkin or spice, no caramel or cinnamon, no vanilla or hazel nut. There is no reason anyone needs a quadruple trifecta macchiato with extra cinammon, caramel, and whipped cream with sprinkles. Perhaps a little milk, maybe a little sugar to bring up the flavors, but I don’t need other flavors to make my coffee experience a good one. This time of year, when it’s still hot, I like my coffee cold and bitter like a nasty January day on the Midwestern plains. Some folks like to dress up their coffee with strange Italian syrups, mountains of whipped cream, extra sprinkles, but isn’t that like putting a sweater on a dog? Dogs already come with the sweater attached last time I checked. All I want is a couple of shots of espresso and a little peace and quiet–maybe a quiet conversation with some friends, maybe a rowdy discussion of manners by Minnesotans. I think those ladies in the basement of the Lutheran church in which I grew up knew something about black bitter coffee as they continually brewed a pot to be served with the doughnuts on Sunday morning. Those wise women knew that coffee was a flavor all by itself and needed no improvement or variations. They often scoffed if you put cream in your cup, or at least looked on in disapproval. Coffee is simple, so why do we insist on screwing it up? Coffee, for better or worse, is an experience unto itself, love it or hate it. So the next time you go for coffee, think about how you can simplify your order. Think about coffee as if it were a metaphor for the life well-lived, simple, strong, and uncomplicated.

On Deckard, the Blade Runner

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Deckard is one of my favorite characters in one of my favorite movies–Blade Runner. Deckard, a paid police assassin kills replicants when they are out of control or anywhere where they aren’t supposed to be. The movie is an existential examination of what it means to be human–to have self-awareness, to be unique, to have memories, to have purpose, to live your own life. Replicants are artificial human beings, or at least that is the starting hypothesis of the movie. They are used for distasteful, repetitious, or dangerous jobs that human beings do not want to do. Apparently, ethical considerations of treatment are off the boards because replicants are not really people, don’t have parents, are the result of complex DNA experiments. When replicants go wild, however, Deckard is called in by the police to identify and eliminate rogue replicants. So Deckard “retires” replicants who are no longer doing their jobs and are more an annoyance than a solution. By using a euphemism to describe the murder of a replicant, human authorities sidestep the issue of just how human the replicants are or if replicants are really just a name for slaves. The fact is, though, that replicants are such perfect reproductions of human beings that the humans need complex tests in order to identify the replicants. So if replicants are such perfect copies of human beings, why aren’t they human beings? Ridley Scott wanted to cloud the issue further by suggesting that Deckard was, ironically, a replicant as well in his movie version of the book, “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?” by Phillip K. Dick (in which Deckard is not a replicant). Though Scott’s idea is intriguing, I believe it eliminates part of the ethical question concerning the retirement of replicants, but Deckard’s job certainly fits the bill for a replicant job–distasteful and dangerous. If Roy Batty, the dangerous battle replicant that Deckard must retire, has so much super-human strength, why is Deckard so fallible and weak? Of course, if Deckard were a replicant designed to retire replicants, he would have to be programmed to believe that he was human in order to do his job. He would have to have an unlimited, or undetermined life span, he would have to believe that replicants were a threat to both himself, particularly, and humanity, generally, and he could not suspect for a moment that he himself is a replicant. Ergo he would have normal human strength, suggesting that Deckard is both human and replicant at once, blurring the line between human and replicant to the point where there is no difference between the two. The question of what constitutes a human being is in play as is the right of the government to determine life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in the case of the replicants, or do the replicants have rights? All of these questions double back on the society which has created artificial humans, but obviously considers them to be less than human in spite of the fact that hardly anyone can tell the difference. Deckard can “pass” as human, though a suspect one. Deckard as a human understands that the matched euphemisms of “retiring replicants” does not mask the problem of killing humans, and he struggles mightily with doing his job precisely because his profession puts into question the slavery of the replicants, which pushes the existential question to the forefront–what are we all doing working for big government, big business, or big bureaucracy? In the end, I think the story works a little better if Deckard is human, but making him a replicant with an indeterminate termination date certainly is suggestive.

On Deckard, the Blade Runner

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Deckard is one of my favorite characters in one of my favorite movies–Blade Runner. Deckard, a paid police assassin kills replicants when they are out of control or anywhere where they aren’t supposed to be. The movie is an existential examination of what it means to be human–to have self-awareness, to be unique, to have memories, to have purpose, to live your own life. Replicants are artificial human beings, or at least that is the starting hypothesis of the movie. They are used for distasteful, repetitious, or dangerous jobs that human beings do not want to do. Apparently, ethical considerations of treatment are off the boards because replicants are not really people, don’t have parents, are the result of complex DNA experiments. When replicants go wild, however, Deckard is called in by the police to identify and eliminate rogue replicants. So Deckard “retires” replicants who are no longer doing their jobs and are more an annoyance than a solution. By using a euphemism to describe the murder of a replicant, human authorities sidestep the issue of just how human the replicants are or if replicants are really just a name for slaves. The fact is, though, that replicants are such perfect reproductions of human beings that the humans need complex tests in order to identify the replicants. So if replicants are such perfect copies of human beings, why aren’t they human beings? Ridley Scott wanted to cloud the issue further by suggesting that Deckard was, ironically, a replicant as well in his movie version of the book, “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?” by Phillip K. Dick (in which Deckard is not a replicant). Though Scott’s idea is intriguing, I believe it eliminates part of the ethical question concerning the retirement of replicants, but Deckard’s job certainly fits the bill for a replicant job–distasteful and dangerous. If Roy Batty, the dangerous battle replicant that Deckard must retire, has so much super-human strength, why is Deckard so fallible and weak? Of course, if Deckard were a replicant designed to retire replicants, he would have to be programmed to believe that he was human in order to do his job. He would have to have an unlimited, or undetermined life span, he would have to believe that replicants were a threat to both himself, particularly, and humanity, generally, and he could not suspect for a moment that he himself is a replicant. Ergo he would have normal human strength, suggesting that Deckard is both human and replicant at once, blurring the line between human and replicant to the point where there is no difference between the two. The question of what constitutes a human being is in play as is the right of the government to determine life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in the case of the replicants, or do the replicants have rights? All of these questions double back on the society which has created artificial humans, but obviously considers them to be less than human in spite of the fact that hardly anyone can tell the difference. Deckard can “pass” as human, though a suspect one. Deckard as a human understands that the matched euphemisms of “retiring replicants” does not mask the problem of killing humans, and he struggles mightily with doing his job precisely because his profession puts into question the slavery of the replicants, which pushes the existential question to the forefront–what are we all doing working for big government, big business, or big bureaucracy? In the end, I think the story works a little better if Deckard is human, but making him a replicant with an indeterminate termination date certainly is suggestive.

On vertigo

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Vertigo is a strange unbalanced sensation that makes you want to throw up. Climbing around spooky old Spanish castles and cathedrals, I’ve had my share of strange experiences, looking down from high stone keeps and creepy pigeon-infested bell towers, climbing weird spiral staircases, and crossing flimsy medieval catwalks. I didn’t understand poor Jimmy Stewart until I looked over the wall and into the moat from atop the main keep of the castle in Segovia–straight down almost two hundred feet. My palms get sweaty, my neck gets goosebumps, and something odd happens to my stomach. It’s not so much I’m afraid of heights, but I also hate walking on transparent floors which you can see through. I don’t mind flying, proof of which are my more than seventy trips to Europe in thirty years. Yet, looking over the edge from some high-up place–a rocky, mountain path with no railing, a glass elevator, a very high suspension bridge. Vertigo is more about how your brain is trying to deal with the imminent danger it seems to be perceiving. It’s almost as if your body is bailing out at the worst possible moment, just when you need strong legs and a clear head, both things seems fail. Seeing birds fly below your horizontal line of sight is unsettling and a little nerve-racking. I can’t watch high wire acts or trapeze artists, and rock climbers give me the heebie-jeebies. I have no idea why people try to climb vertical walls using only their hands and feet. Although I drive over freeway fly-overs, the bay bridge in Tampa gives me second thoughts. I once drove over it by accident. Sky-scrapers don’t give me second thoughts, but I won’t look down a stairwell from the twenty-seventh floor. Heights don’t paralyze me, don’t leave me speechless, but they leave me thinking. As long as I don’t have to look down into the abyss of empty space in front or below me, I am very happy with being up high. Vertigo, however, always catches me by surprise, robbing me of my courage. I know it’s totally irrational, but rationality has nothing to do with it. So don’t ask me to skydive, bungee jump off a bridge, repel down the side of building, or ride a scary roller-coaster that turns its victims upside-down. Perhaps my sense of self-preservation is too great for high-risk behaviors or dangerous hobbies. Vertigo is a physiological response, however, which is very real regardless of what provokes it. As a child I never liked the slides in parks, but I didn’t mind climbing the rope up to the top of the gymnasium, touching the iron ring on the ceiling, and coming back down, even though that climb was forty or fifty feet. Yet, looking off of a balcony into all that empty space between me and the floor makes me sweat. I suppose that rock climbers and hang gliders who have no fear of heights, no vertigo, won’t understand this strange feeling of utter helplessness and blind numbing fear. Yet, the vertigo that Jimmy Stewart feels in Hitchcock’s 1958 psychological thriller about dopplegangers and simulacra is very real, paralyzing, strange. So I avoid scaffolding, catwalks, multi-floored stairwells, glass elevators, transparent floors, high places with low railings, scary theme park rides, balconies, high suspension bridges. I just don’t know how the birds do it–having wings helps I assume.

On vertigo

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Vertigo is a strange unbalanced sensation that makes you want to throw up. Climbing around spooky old Spanish castles and cathedrals, I’ve had my share of strange experiences, looking down from high stone keeps and creepy pigeon-infested bell towers, climbing weird spiral staircases, and crossing flimsy medieval catwalks. I didn’t understand poor Jimmy Stewart until I looked over the wall and into the moat from atop the main keep of the castle in Segovia–straight down almost two hundred feet. My palms get sweaty, my neck gets goosebumps, and something odd happens to my stomach. It’s not so much I’m afraid of heights, but I also hate walking on transparent floors which you can see through. I don’t mind flying, proof of which are my more than seventy trips to Europe in thirty years. Yet, looking over the edge from some high-up place–a rocky, mountain path with no railing, a glass elevator, a very high suspension bridge. Vertigo is more about how your brain is trying to deal with the imminent danger it seems to be perceiving. It’s almost as if your body is bailing out at the worst possible moment, just when you need strong legs and a clear head, both things seems fail. Seeing birds fly below your horizontal line of sight is unsettling and a little nerve-racking. I can’t watch high wire acts or trapeze artists, and rock climbers give me the heebie-jeebies. I have no idea why people try to climb vertical walls using only their hands and feet. Although I drive over freeway fly-overs, the bay bridge in Tampa gives me second thoughts. I once drove over it by accident. Sky-scrapers don’t give me second thoughts, but I won’t look down a stairwell from the twenty-seventh floor. Heights don’t paralyze me, don’t leave me speechless, but they leave me thinking. As long as I don’t have to look down into the abyss of empty space in front or below me, I am very happy with being up high. Vertigo, however, always catches me by surprise, robbing me of my courage. I know it’s totally irrational, but rationality has nothing to do with it. So don’t ask me to skydive, bungee jump off a bridge, repel down the side of building, or ride a scary roller-coaster that turns its victims upside-down. Perhaps my sense of self-preservation is too great for high-risk behaviors or dangerous hobbies. Vertigo is a physiological response, however, which is very real regardless of what provokes it. As a child I never liked the slides in parks, but I didn’t mind climbing the rope up to the top of the gymnasium, touching the iron ring on the ceiling, and coming back down, even though that climb was forty or fifty feet. Yet, looking off of a balcony into all that empty space between me and the floor makes me sweat. I suppose that rock climbers and hang gliders who have no fear of heights, no vertigo, won’t understand this strange feeling of utter helplessness and blind numbing fear. Yet, the vertigo that Jimmy Stewart feels in Hitchcock’s 1958 psychological thriller about dopplegangers and simulacra is very real, paralyzing, strange. So I avoid scaffolding, catwalks, multi-floored stairwells, glass elevators, transparent floors, high places with low railings, scary theme park rides, balconies, high suspension bridges. I just don’t know how the birds do it–having wings helps I assume.