Hergest Ridge

Blue is back at the helm, with another minority government. It would be too easy to go on a rant – the average Conservative is an IdealismVille pickup truck at day’s end. Any Government preoccupied with its citizens’ sex life, fighting for ends rooted in dogma, and keen to please the bully next door should be relegated not just to the backbench but the bleachers.

My fellow countrymen have once again swallowed a sugarcoated pill of Ignorance, Idealism, and Idiocy (just to stay within the letter I.) Ignorance most common in children and social conservatives, Idealism the bastard child of Feelgood and Ignorant, Idiocy an endless substance attracted to the former two.

While my opinion – and it is just an opinion – will make me unpopular, I look at the crowd and ask myself “Why the hell would I want to be popular with that crowd?” When it comes to politics, most can’t tell an ass from a head. Is it any wonder that they can’t tell from which end a politician parleys?

Harper – an economist – knows damn well that elimination of the prison tattoo and Vancouver safe injection site programs will not save money, for both decrease the significantly higher expenses we’ll otherwise need suffer in Health Care. Did you know that? Or did you instead buy the facade of “saving tax payers’ money?”

I am aware that there are many basis for choosing a political party, but how’d 5.2 million of you swallow the idealism, yet alone the rest of the crap? (Cough, cough.) I’m still gagging and coughing, and that’s after spitting the whole out before it could really do some damage.

Daily, the 700 Club helps hundreds part with their money. Today’s focus was on those close to bankruptcy. Give god a tithe – 10% of your after tax income, preferably for the rest of your life – and he’ll bless you with a tax return to pay off your debt, with money left to pay the tithe. (The host went as far as he could with the insinuation, without making a firm claim. To his credit, he knows he would have got away with the latter, too.)

After the fool goes bankrupt in part due to the tithe, the family will fall to their knees, drag the children down to do the same, and thank god for his grace; thank him for the wisdom that the bankruptcy taught them. And when in the end they make it through financially, they will pay god double – once for the ‘wisdom’ they learned through failing the first time, and then for his grace to let them stand again.

If there is a hell, its gates will be shut for a thousand years after Pat Robinson drops dead, all its resources dedicated to torturing Mr. Robertson alone. Every vice will be clamped around his stretched body, the whole abomination kept in the burning bowels of every flame and spark that the dark pits can muster.

Should anyone pray for Pat while he’s paying for his crimes against his fellow men, he’ll be enlightened to the fact through divine revelation. And when the pain and suffering does not recede in the slightest, Pat will experience for himself what a time wasting and useless exercise prayer really is.

The summer is slipping into something red and sexy, with a scent to match the occasion.

About five hundred words writing per day is the pace required to complete my writing project before year’s end. Perhaps a new deadline is more reasonable?

The religious pandering of politicians in election mode – here and south of the border – is making me nauseas.

“Jesus saves” is false advertising; If prayer accomplished anything, folks would be hiring others to pray for them.

Wearing your heart on the sleeve is a pathetic state; Love thy enemies like you love thyself a pathetic mantra.

(“Hi Honey, this is Jim. Jim tries to run me over with his car every time he pulls out of the driveway, but I love him as much as I love you and myself.” Well, aren’t we all just fucking special?)

I had nothing to say, but wrote anyway. And now I’m done.

Rid yourself of all forks and knives you have brought for this newest piece, for it’s not one to complement Swift’s Modest Proposal. No recipes, no tips, no cooking temperatures.

At age eight I took my six year old sister’s hand and left our home located in the middle of a city that once was Poland’s capital. Father had come home drunk, and home sweet home became purgatory. Things may have gone well if he fell asleep, the very unpleasant alternative best left to imagination.

With a few coins in hand we left to find mother.

To this day, much of the city is well preserved in my mind. The streets, where they connect, and which parts of the city they lead to have been firmly impressed in the mind of a child with a vivid imagination – a child that stacked white, large bricks in the shapes of the then emerging computers, and drew on them keyboards, screens, and buttons with labels to mark their importance.

Despite knowing much of the city, the trip to the small, home style fast food booth owned by my uncle and aunt at the entrance to the black market was out of reach. It’s one thing to remember the streets visually, another when it comes to their names and the public transport routes. The routes consisted of buses and street cars with schedules as mysterious as father’s regular and unpredictable behaviour.

My sister behaved better than she did in the company of an adult, leaving me to hold her hand and ask the bus drivers for directions. “We need to get to the black market. Will your bus take us there?”

No direct transit route connected the stop at the corner of our cobble stone street to the black market. The operators gave information on the best options, which routes we should take, and where we need to switch to another. The money for the trip was either enough, or pity chipped in to make up the difference.

Some two decades later, the mother of a nine year old Izzy leaves him at the New York subway with a metro card, a subway map, and $20.

Later she writes in her column “Half the people I’ve told this episode to now want to turn me in for child abuse. As if keeping kids under lock and key and helmet and cell phone and nanny and surveillance is the right way to rear kids. It’s not. It’s debilitating — for us and for them.”

Just like my sister and I navigated without incident the public transit to find our mother, Izzy, left by his mother arrived home on time, proud, confident, and a step closer to the kind of independence he will later require to begin a life as a capable and responsible adult.

I can imagine the face of Izzy’s mother upon his arrival home, for I’ve seen that of my mother when we finally arrived at the fast food booth. Later, we sat in the back of it on crates, ate fries and drank pop, while I told the story of how and why we had come.

The best lesson a child can learn is one of self sufficiency, for there are many more scenarios than anyone can imagine and prepare for. With self sufficiency, you needn’t imagine them all for your child to come through the day unscathed.

If you want to leave a comment or question for Izzy’s mother, or interact with the many parents looking for a healthy balance between safety and self sufficiency, visit Free Range Kids.

As my opinions on faith based convictions have already been well established, anyone with basic familiarity of the US political climate knows which party I wish to come to power. When it comes to the parties on the ballot, the word “choice” is a bit of a misnomer.

For all with a scientific understanding of the universe, the only option are the Democrats (a lousy option, the alternative far worse.) Those with a supernatural view of the universe will vote Republican.

Majority of those getting through life without the urgent need for heavy medication will share the world view of the household into which they were conceived. The apple travels but a short distance from the tree that bore it, it’s only hope for improved geography an animal in search for tomorrow’s meal. And since the fundamental beliefs are made for most voters by fate, at birth, the vote decision is as much choice as the offer from the dear leader upstairs, the one where we all supposedly have a choice not to follow him.

All of this brings me to Sarah Palin, John McCain’s vice-president candidate. In place of a long winded paragraph, I invite you to witness for yourself as Palin swiftly carves her own name in the Great Wall of Ignoramus: Part 1 | Part 2

Overall a boring speech, but well worth watching in full. The end gets interesting, with a crying prayer from the church founder, hands swaying hypnotically in the crowd under the camera and a god good overview of Palin’s roots deeply planted in ignorance, dogma, and a substance with a distinct smell of bullshit acting as fertilizer.

Based on his age, the Social Security Administration website calculates a 10% death chance for McCain in his first term, 27% should he get to a second.

One of the few qualifications for the most powerful world positions has become the ability to fit in with the average Joe by being an average Jane. The 21st century is much of a disappointment indeed.

Many folks are quick to admire with vigour and detail at par with the particularity of a nuclear reactor blueprint. Personally, I find such admiration a tad bit, shall we say, radioactive? Yes, I think radioactive is a good description for it all makes me a bit morbific.

Having moved away from eastern Europe and the relative vicinity of Chernobyl, I am avoiding the nuclear kind of radioactivity fairly well, thank you. It’s this other kind of radioactivity that is consistently and constantly challenging my well being.

Most of my symptoms have root in the absolutism and assumptions which often accompany deep admiration. In the presence of admiration, absolutism and assumptions are often present and inseparable. They become quite evident when the claim “she always takes care of the needy” is made – the assumption being that even when the person is seen by none, their behaviour remains unaltered and noble, while the “always” absolute clenches the prize for “let’s run our nails down the blackboard.”

What I am trying to say is that maybe if we cease putting others on high pedestals, we’d better understand the importance of ordinary folks doing good things. If we stopped believing in supermen (and women!), we’d sooner roll up our sleeves and do the hard work ourselves without waiting for heroes to come around.

And with a little less admiration, we can have better relationships with more realistic expectations. Fewer people believing the best on imaginary or inflated grounds means less damage when someone does a dance with something pointy and dangerous. Surely something this chancy will cause less damage when we’re all standing on solid ground.

It’s been too long, and I’ve decided on a spontaneous entry. It’s sort of unfair, because you’ll only get to read it if it succeeds. Anyway, as long as I remember, I’ve been thankful that the world is not a fair place. Can you imagine the things we’d have coming to us had the world been fair? Every wrong coming back like a boomerang? No, I’ll super-size my unfairness please, thank you very much.

The morning business meeting brought about a line – no doubt from some over hyped, empowerment pushing ‘self-help’ book – along the lines of ‘your thoughts create your reality’. (The quotes around self-help are a nod of agreement to George Carlin’s ‘if you read about it in a book, folks, it ain’t self-help’. Leave it to George to state the damn obvious that few are capable of recognising.) For me, the reality quotation was an instant reminder of George Orwell’s ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’, and I said as much. Sounded like maybe two people got it, but so early in the morning one never knows what constitutes a positive, yet alone intelligent reaction.

Speaking of the morning member meeting, I think I may have lost a new member application. Oops. I debated pawning off the issue on someone else – “I handed it to Daria during the last meeting” – and it would have been believable too, seeing the amount of paperwork going back and forth. In the end I decided on the more cautions, honest, and very terminal “Daria, did I already hand you the app? No? I must have left it at home.” No way I can go with the other plan now. But, I looked everywhere… well, obviously not.

That’s it. I’m bowing out before endless editing settles on me like a cold, damp fog, and the whole entry is butchered and skinned over hours and hours that could instead be used to help save hungry children in Africa. Eh, maybe I’m aiming too high? How about I get a kitten down from a tree – dead or alive okay with you? Even more realistic is a half an hour devoted to cleaning out Emails announcing, reminding, and offering discounts on Bob Proctor’s appearance in town. Gawd, how about I use the money to pierce my tongue instead? Much, much wiser investment.

Magnetic car ribbons are a pet peeve of mine. It wasn’t always like this. There was a time where the odd ribbon here or there, tacked onto the back of a car was a nice accent, a reminder for something special. These days, everyone has one of those things on their car, and the only theme not yet covered is “Potty Trained Baby on Board” (do not get me started on the ‘Baby on Board’ signs).

Give it up already!

Why do I get so worked up by the ribbons? It likely has to do with the limited ‘activism’ the practice encourages. People buy a freaking magnet, stick it on their damn car, and think they’re making a positive change – they figure because they have a “Support the Troops” slogan on their car, that they’ve done their share; that it somehow absolves them from the real responsibility. The insanity doesn’t end there. “Rest in Peace John Paul II”, “Keep my Husband Safe”, “Support the Earth”… how about “Will You Be My Brain Donour” instead?

Added to the insult is the total lack of creativity in expressing a message. Bumper stickers have the potential to be clever, or funny. Here, we have a cookie cutter solution, where the action stops. The ribbons are a placebo, where often a real cure is needed.

Please, do your part and move all ribbons from the back of your vehicle, to the home refrigerator. When you’ve done that, consider an action that makes a real difference, before you feel all fuzzy and warm inside.