Poor Gen. Dave Petraeus. It must be difficult to be a man in his position. On one side he has the perpetrators of the biggest conflict of this generation putting him in charge of said conflict and asking him to give America a warm fuzzy about its progress. On the other side he has a wiser American public, weary and wary of the misinformation, propaganda and all-out deception of a war-hungry administration, futilely grasping at any defense of its poor decisions.
MoveOn.org purchased an ad in the New York Times featuring a large photo of the general and a headline that pondered, "General Petraeus, or General Betray Us?" It accuses Petraeus of "cooking the books" on the progress in the Iraq conflict. No doubt, things are not going as swimmingly as the general's report seemed to suggest (not that I'm saying he thinks it's going swimmingly). Time after time we hear word from the administration that progress is being made, only to have that word contradicted and dashed by the media, who continue to report the unabated deaths of Iraqis and Americans alike in this increasingly thickening "quagmire".
At this point, it's difficult to take any positive reports on the situation in Iraq seriously, and as responsible citizens, it is our duty to question our leadership for nothing less than the truth. As such, it's not surprising to see public outcries like MoveOn.org's in the New York Times. The wording of the ad was, perhaps, a bit harsh, and those of us who speak out should be sure to phrase our dissent in a way that doesn't give the opposition more ammunition to help redirect the focus of the issues at hand.
Case in point, Senate voted on a bill to "strongly condemn personal attacks" on the general and the US military. This resolution, proposed by Republican John Cornyn (R-TX), and subsequent overwhelming majority approval just shows how desperate defenders of the war are to...well, defend the war. With so many important issues the senate could be resolving right now, they actually took the time to vote on a resolution that brushes dangerously with the first amendment, not a first for our demonstrably capable (read with sarcasm) congress.
And before anyone pipes up about libel and slander, I urge you to look up those concepts and do your homework before you say something that tells all of us that you have no idea what you're talking about. Libel has to be falsifiable for it to be considered as such, and try all you like, there's nothing you can say to convince the American public in general that Petraeus and the administration isn't heavily sugar-coating the information. The MoveOn.org ad doesn't qualify, but Senate's actions come frighteningly close to censorship, and you all know how I feel about that!
My point is, in these emotionally and politically charged times, lots of words are flung around by all sides. It's easy to get caught up in the game of language when quippy headlines, powerful speeches, and mudslinging advertising are given so much attention, but we must remember that words are not actions. If they were, the current administration would be able to turn Iraq around by merely continuing to say that everything's okey-dokey. Neither "side" should be bothered by the other wielding words as weapons because words are only as powerful as we allow them to be, and Senate made MoveOn.org's words powerful indeed.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
Letters From the Lost Man, Part 11
It's Dark. But this isn't the usual darkness. There's light somewhere. Instead of the regular inky blackness, there's a reddish hue to everything. And it's not silent. Voices are murmuring all around me. I'm compelled to open my eyes.
Yes, that's what it was. My eyes were closed. I feel a little woozy. It's kind of nice, actually. I try to sit up. My body feels really heavy for some reason. I look down at my chest. A large brown leather strap has me buckled securely to the bed. My wrists and ankles are likewise bound. I feel like I should be panicked, but I can't seem to get up the energy.
"Dr. Spector, the patient's awake," I hear a voice say.
That visage, that awful gap-toothed smile, enters my vision. "Well, hello there," Dr. Spector says with a kind of creepy joy that makes me wonder what he's done to me while I was unconscious.
"I was afraid we lost you there, for a moment," he says as his beady eyes flick rapidly over me.
"What are you doing to me?" I demand, my speech sounding sluggish.
Dr. Spector feigns offense. "Why, we're helping you," he says in a creaky voice that is in no way reassuring. "It's better you don't think about it. The treatment works better that way."
"Treatment?" I repeat with disgust.
The doctor clucks and shakes his head. "My, what stories has that horrible Ms. Vine told you? That we're performing inhumane experiments on you?" he asks, his expression becoming sincerely grave and a bit angry.
"It is true," he continues, "your treatment is experimental, but it is for your own good. Trust me; it is better than the alternative. If we are successful, it will revolutionize the way people with your...condition...are treated."
Something about the conviction in his voice prompts me to ask, "What is my condition?"
Dr. Spector's serious tone vanishes and he shows the gap in his teeth prominently. "Never you mind. If we are successful, you will never even know anything was ever wrong."
"Yes I will," I reply defiantly.
The doctor's smile fades. "You won't," he says quietly, drawing close, "and don't expect Ms. Vine to come to your rescue any more."
From his tone, it's obvious he's insinuating something. "What have you done to her?" I ask.
"I haven't done anything," Dr. Spector says, straightening up. "What has been done to her she did herself. That little escapade you two went on nearly killed her. It still might, but never mind that for now."
I don't reply. An image of Loretta hooked up to a bunch of machines flashes through my mind. I barely register the prick of a hypodermic jabbed into my arm. Whatever the nurse is injecting, it works fast. I can already feel reality swirling.
"You see," Dr. Spector's voice echoes through the drugs rushing in my ears, "the next time you wake up, your life will be normal. And you won't even remember any of this. A pity...you would probably thank me if you knew what I'd given you."
I strain my eyes looking sideways to focus on him through the dancing imagery that's playing across my vision. "I'll...remember," I struggle to insist.
"Ri-chard...my name is..."
Welcome back to the blackness.
***
I jump suddenly to a sitting position. My breathing is heavy. I'm drenched in a cold sweat. I look to my right. Through the darkness I see the red symbols: 4:26 AM. Damn, woke up too early. I still have two hours to sleep. These nightmares are getting ridiculous. What was this one about?
Hmm, don't remember. Oh well, guess I'll go to the bathroom and try to get back to my precious sleep. I get out of bed slowly, careful not to wake Linda, walk across the hall and empty my bladder. My wife stirs slightly as I climb back into bed, but stays asleep. Pretty soon, I'm...drifting...off...
Why do cheap alarm clocks emit the most horrific electronic screeching imaginable? I guess it's 1) because they're cheap and 2) because it's effective. They should try using these things on people in comas. If I was half dead, I would still jump up and race to the snooze button. It takes incredible self control to not turn it off with a baseball bat.
Ok, so I guess I'm awake. I kiss Linda, who greets me with a sleepy smile.
"Mornin', dear," she offers consolingly.
Off to the shower. I scrub myself as clean as someone who is half conscious can, exit the shower and brush my teeth. After the deodorant, the clothes go on and I run a comb through my slightly damp hair. Then it's down to the kitchen for breakfast. I bolt down some cereal and gulp some coffee before kissing Linda farewell and hurrying out the door to make it to work.
It's a nice little routine, simple and efficient. It gets me clean, fed and out the door to get to work relatively on time. Not that I have much to look forward to at work. By day, I'm a mild-mannered database programmer for a large government agency. Trust me, it's not as glamorous as it sounds.
"Hey, Mike," a familiar voice greets me.
"Hey, Tom," I reply. Tom is my cubicle neighbor. Something funny strikes me about his greeting. "What did you call me?"
Tom blinks. "Mike," he answers, "that is your name, isn't it?"
I think for a second. "I'm sorry, Tom...I'm not quite awake," I explain.
"Yeah, tell me about it," he agrees. "Good thing our jobs are so interesting and keep us awake throughout the day."
"Oh, yeah!" I agree with exaggerated enthusiasm.
"Listen, just a head's up," Tom says, "Greer's going to be making his rounds early today, so..."
I roll my eyes. "Man, that guy's a dick. How do I get his job?"
"Easy. Go bang your head against a filing cabinet for a few hours. By the time you're done, your IQ should be low enough to qualify."
"Morning gentlemen." Ah, just the voice we didn't want to hear.
"Hi, Ted," I greet as Greer takes the last few steps to our cubicles.
He shoots me a nasty glare. He hates it when people call him by his first name. "Hard at work, I trust," he says through a plastic smile.
"Oh, you know us," Tom answers. "Busy as beavers."
"Good," Greer says, "because Mr. Weisman is getting a bit anxious about the NetBox project deadline. I'm sure I don't have to remind you how important this is to the agency."
"Well, the last two modules are going to be ready for test by the end of the month. You know that's weeks ahead of our deadline," I say, unable to stop myself from sounding a bit defensive.
Tom chimes in, "Yeah, besides, you know all the tables are already built and most of the interface is there. Hell, they could start using it now if they wanted to."
Greer looks back and forth between me and Tom. "Well, then... Don't let me keep you from your hard work." With that he walks off with his nose in the air.
"Man, what the hell is his problem?" Tom asks as Greer turns the corner.
I shake my head. "Someone shoved a larger than usual stick up his ass," I suggest.
Tom nods. "Well, I guess we should probably get to work."
I nod back in agreement. Well, time to turn toward my monitor and start hacking away at the keyboard. I look at the screen. A cursor blinks next to the SQL command prompt. I'm drawing a blank. After staring for 10 minutes, what I'm supposed to be doing becomes no clearer to me. Not knowing what else to do, I type 'help' at the command line.
A bunch of sql commands scroll up the screen followed by short descriptions. The only thing that stands out is the 'use' command. It seems to be the only one that actually manipulates anything. I type 'use' and a space. I think for a moment as the cursor blinks patiently at me. My fingers move absently over the keys and a database name appears on the screen.
sql> use med_proj3
I hit enter. The command line outputs 'Database changed'. The prompt flashes at me again. Without realizing what I'm doing I type, 'select * from exp_inp where lead_last=spector;' and hit enter.
Data begins scrolling rapidly down the screen. There's a lot of information here. If I want to look at it all, I'll have to print it. I'm not really sure how to do that. Actually, I'm not even really sure how I just did what I did. I'm supposed to be a database programmer, but none of what I just typed looks familiar to me. I've obviously retrieved some kind of data from a database, but I don't know why or even how to interpret it.
"Hey, buddy. Whatcha doin'?" Tom says suddenly. His voice sounds really close.
I look over. He's standing right next to me and leaning over to peer at the screen. "Oh, ah..." I respond nervously.
"That doesn't look like NetBox to me," he says seriously. "You're not poking in anything you shouldn't be, are you?"
I glance at my screen. "Honestly, I don't really know how I got this," I explain.
Tom nods. "Listen, Mike, why don't we go for a little break. We'll get some coffee...clear our heads."
"Ok," I say distantly, feeling a bit like I need a break. I stand up to go, and Tom switches off my monitor.
"You'll come back to it later," he assures me when I look at him questioningly.
Coffee is very refreshing. The caffeine gives me just the boost I need to refocus on my work. All thoughts of this morning's strangeness fade away as Tom and I collaborate on the next steps in the project. The day passes quickly and, before I realize it, five o'clock rolls around. I pack up for the day, wish Tom a good night and head home.
"How was work, hon?" Linda asks as I lean over to kiss her hello.
"It was good," I reply. "Actually, it was really good. We made some good headway on NetBox. Greer came by and harassed us early in the morning, but he's going to feel like an idiot when we wrap this up 3 weeks early."
"Aw, that's my brilliant programmer," she beams.
The evening passes like most others. We watch a little TV, eat dinner, watch some more TV, then go to bed and read for a while before going to sleep. It's a routine much like the morning one. Simple...efficient. As I close my eyes to sleep, I welcome the coming darkness. It embraces me. I let go of this world.
***
Yes, that's what it was. My eyes were closed. I feel a little woozy. It's kind of nice, actually. I try to sit up. My body feels really heavy for some reason. I look down at my chest. A large brown leather strap has me buckled securely to the bed. My wrists and ankles are likewise bound. I feel like I should be panicked, but I can't seem to get up the energy.
"Dr. Spector, the patient's awake," I hear a voice say.
That visage, that awful gap-toothed smile, enters my vision. "Well, hello there," Dr. Spector says with a kind of creepy joy that makes me wonder what he's done to me while I was unconscious.
"I was afraid we lost you there, for a moment," he says as his beady eyes flick rapidly over me.
"What are you doing to me?" I demand, my speech sounding sluggish.
Dr. Spector feigns offense. "Why, we're helping you," he says in a creaky voice that is in no way reassuring. "It's better you don't think about it. The treatment works better that way."
"Treatment?" I repeat with disgust.
The doctor clucks and shakes his head. "My, what stories has that horrible Ms. Vine told you? That we're performing inhumane experiments on you?" he asks, his expression becoming sincerely grave and a bit angry.
"It is true," he continues, "your treatment is experimental, but it is for your own good. Trust me; it is better than the alternative. If we are successful, it will revolutionize the way people with your...condition...are treated."
Something about the conviction in his voice prompts me to ask, "What is my condition?"
Dr. Spector's serious tone vanishes and he shows the gap in his teeth prominently. "Never you mind. If we are successful, you will never even know anything was ever wrong."
"Yes I will," I reply defiantly.
The doctor's smile fades. "You won't," he says quietly, drawing close, "and don't expect Ms. Vine to come to your rescue any more."
From his tone, it's obvious he's insinuating something. "What have you done to her?" I ask.
"I haven't done anything," Dr. Spector says, straightening up. "What has been done to her she did herself. That little escapade you two went on nearly killed her. It still might, but never mind that for now."
I don't reply. An image of Loretta hooked up to a bunch of machines flashes through my mind. I barely register the prick of a hypodermic jabbed into my arm. Whatever the nurse is injecting, it works fast. I can already feel reality swirling.
"You see," Dr. Spector's voice echoes through the drugs rushing in my ears, "the next time you wake up, your life will be normal. And you won't even remember any of this. A pity...you would probably thank me if you knew what I'd given you."
I strain my eyes looking sideways to focus on him through the dancing imagery that's playing across my vision. "I'll...remember," I struggle to insist.
"Ri-chard...my name is..."
Welcome back to the blackness.
***
I jump suddenly to a sitting position. My breathing is heavy. I'm drenched in a cold sweat. I look to my right. Through the darkness I see the red symbols: 4:26 AM. Damn, woke up too early. I still have two hours to sleep. These nightmares are getting ridiculous. What was this one about?
Hmm, don't remember. Oh well, guess I'll go to the bathroom and try to get back to my precious sleep. I get out of bed slowly, careful not to wake Linda, walk across the hall and empty my bladder. My wife stirs slightly as I climb back into bed, but stays asleep. Pretty soon, I'm...drifting...off...
Why do cheap alarm clocks emit the most horrific electronic screeching imaginable? I guess it's 1) because they're cheap and 2) because it's effective. They should try using these things on people in comas. If I was half dead, I would still jump up and race to the snooze button. It takes incredible self control to not turn it off with a baseball bat.
Ok, so I guess I'm awake. I kiss Linda, who greets me with a sleepy smile.
"Mornin', dear," she offers consolingly.
Off to the shower. I scrub myself as clean as someone who is half conscious can, exit the shower and brush my teeth. After the deodorant, the clothes go on and I run a comb through my slightly damp hair. Then it's down to the kitchen for breakfast. I bolt down some cereal and gulp some coffee before kissing Linda farewell and hurrying out the door to make it to work.
It's a nice little routine, simple and efficient. It gets me clean, fed and out the door to get to work relatively on time. Not that I have much to look forward to at work. By day, I'm a mild-mannered database programmer for a large government agency. Trust me, it's not as glamorous as it sounds.
"Hey, Mike," a familiar voice greets me.
"Hey, Tom," I reply. Tom is my cubicle neighbor. Something funny strikes me about his greeting. "What did you call me?"
Tom blinks. "Mike," he answers, "that is your name, isn't it?"
I think for a second. "I'm sorry, Tom...I'm not quite awake," I explain.
"Yeah, tell me about it," he agrees. "Good thing our jobs are so interesting and keep us awake throughout the day."
"Oh, yeah!" I agree with exaggerated enthusiasm.
"Listen, just a head's up," Tom says, "Greer's going to be making his rounds early today, so..."
I roll my eyes. "Man, that guy's a dick. How do I get his job?"
"Easy. Go bang your head against a filing cabinet for a few hours. By the time you're done, your IQ should be low enough to qualify."
"Morning gentlemen." Ah, just the voice we didn't want to hear.
"Hi, Ted," I greet as Greer takes the last few steps to our cubicles.
He shoots me a nasty glare. He hates it when people call him by his first name. "Hard at work, I trust," he says through a plastic smile.
"Oh, you know us," Tom answers. "Busy as beavers."
"Good," Greer says, "because Mr. Weisman is getting a bit anxious about the NetBox project deadline. I'm sure I don't have to remind you how important this is to the agency."
"Well, the last two modules are going to be ready for test by the end of the month. You know that's weeks ahead of our deadline," I say, unable to stop myself from sounding a bit defensive.
Tom chimes in, "Yeah, besides, you know all the tables are already built and most of the interface is there. Hell, they could start using it now if they wanted to."
Greer looks back and forth between me and Tom. "Well, then... Don't let me keep you from your hard work." With that he walks off with his nose in the air.
"Man, what the hell is his problem?" Tom asks as Greer turns the corner.
I shake my head. "Someone shoved a larger than usual stick up his ass," I suggest.
Tom nods. "Well, I guess we should probably get to work."
I nod back in agreement. Well, time to turn toward my monitor and start hacking away at the keyboard. I look at the screen. A cursor blinks next to the SQL command prompt. I'm drawing a blank. After staring for 10 minutes, what I'm supposed to be doing becomes no clearer to me. Not knowing what else to do, I type 'help' at the command line.
A bunch of sql commands scroll up the screen followed by short descriptions. The only thing that stands out is the 'use' command. It seems to be the only one that actually manipulates anything. I type 'use' and a space. I think for a moment as the cursor blinks patiently at me. My fingers move absently over the keys and a database name appears on the screen.
sql> use med_proj3
I hit enter. The command line outputs 'Database changed'. The prompt flashes at me again. Without realizing what I'm doing I type, 'select * from exp_inp where lead_last=spector;' and hit enter.
Data begins scrolling rapidly down the screen. There's a lot of information here. If I want to look at it all, I'll have to print it. I'm not really sure how to do that. Actually, I'm not even really sure how I just did what I did. I'm supposed to be a database programmer, but none of what I just typed looks familiar to me. I've obviously retrieved some kind of data from a database, but I don't know why or even how to interpret it.
"Hey, buddy. Whatcha doin'?" Tom says suddenly. His voice sounds really close.
I look over. He's standing right next to me and leaning over to peer at the screen. "Oh, ah..." I respond nervously.
"That doesn't look like NetBox to me," he says seriously. "You're not poking in anything you shouldn't be, are you?"
I glance at my screen. "Honestly, I don't really know how I got this," I explain.
Tom nods. "Listen, Mike, why don't we go for a little break. We'll get some coffee...clear our heads."
"Ok," I say distantly, feeling a bit like I need a break. I stand up to go, and Tom switches off my monitor.
"You'll come back to it later," he assures me when I look at him questioningly.
Coffee is very refreshing. The caffeine gives me just the boost I need to refocus on my work. All thoughts of this morning's strangeness fade away as Tom and I collaborate on the next steps in the project. The day passes quickly and, before I realize it, five o'clock rolls around. I pack up for the day, wish Tom a good night and head home.
"How was work, hon?" Linda asks as I lean over to kiss her hello.
"It was good," I reply. "Actually, it was really good. We made some good headway on NetBox. Greer came by and harassed us early in the morning, but he's going to feel like an idiot when we wrap this up 3 weeks early."
"Aw, that's my brilliant programmer," she beams.
The evening passes like most others. We watch a little TV, eat dinner, watch some more TV, then go to bed and read for a while before going to sleep. It's a routine much like the morning one. Simple...efficient. As I close my eyes to sleep, I welcome the coming darkness. It embraces me. I let go of this world.
***
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
"Suck it, Censorship!"
Well, well, it seems Kathy Griffin has won an Emmy for pointing out to the world how unsuccessful she is. I wonder if next season her show will be called My Life on the C-List: Movin' On Up! But titular ramifications aside, something else happened when the D-Lister stepped up to accept the award, and it was made into an even bigger deal than the fact that Kathy Griffin...WON A FRIKKEN EMMY!
Apparently, Ms. Griffin doesn't put much stock in Jesus’ role in her personal achievements, as evidenced by her telling Jesus to "suck it" in her acceptance speech. This, of course, has raised many a religious hackle and has prompted E! to edit the telecast of her speech in a manner found acceptable by our fundamentalist overlords, may God bless them forever. Most of these are the same people, mind you, who probably chuckled at the emails forwarded to them by their friends with attachments showing the Muhammad cartoons that got certain European countries in trouble in recent years.
Now listen, I'm not saying that people shouldn't be considerate of other people's sensitivities, but you can't criticize people for being PC (that's political correctness) Nazi's out of one side of your mouth and express outrage at people for singling you out in their political incorrectness out of the other. That makes you a hypocrite. It's irrational and catches you up in logic that makes you have to either stop making fun of other people or deal with it when you’re made fun of.
Have you ever stopped to wonder why it's called political correctness? Because it's for politicians. Most of the country would never vote for a candidate who stood up and made very public derogatory comments about someone's religion, race or gender... Well, maybe not never, but still. It's damaging to a politician to even be connected with statements that could be considered prejudiced in any way. It is helpful to their campaigns if they can be as inoffensive as possible. This is a dynamic they created, so I say let them have it, but don't mistake their self-imposed restrictions as commandments for the rest of us.
Comedians make their livings being offensive in some way. Maybe not all of them do, but they do by at least pointing out the offensive things in life. It is difficult nowadays for a really successful comedian to go very long without offending somebody, and it's usually the people who have the least reason to be offended that are. Comedians tell jokes. Grow a sense of humor. I can laugh at myself when my friends are poking fun, and I do it right back to them, but we all know it's not for real.
Maybe it's not the most well-formed argument, but there is clearly something wrong in this country if we have to censor a comedian for being funny. You know the old question of whether a tree falling in the forest makes a sound when no one's around to hear it? Well, it makes one wonder, is free speech really free when no one's allowed to hear it? Censorship sucks, and that's straight from the liberal, left-wing nut job's mouth.
Apparently, Ms. Griffin doesn't put much stock in Jesus’ role in her personal achievements, as evidenced by her telling Jesus to "suck it" in her acceptance speech. This, of course, has raised many a religious hackle and has prompted E! to edit the telecast of her speech in a manner found acceptable by our fundamentalist overlords, may God bless them forever. Most of these are the same people, mind you, who probably chuckled at the emails forwarded to them by their friends with attachments showing the Muhammad cartoons that got certain European countries in trouble in recent years.
Now listen, I'm not saying that people shouldn't be considerate of other people's sensitivities, but you can't criticize people for being PC (that's political correctness) Nazi's out of one side of your mouth and express outrage at people for singling you out in their political incorrectness out of the other. That makes you a hypocrite. It's irrational and catches you up in logic that makes you have to either stop making fun of other people or deal with it when you’re made fun of.
Have you ever stopped to wonder why it's called political correctness? Because it's for politicians. Most of the country would never vote for a candidate who stood up and made very public derogatory comments about someone's religion, race or gender... Well, maybe not never, but still. It's damaging to a politician to even be connected with statements that could be considered prejudiced in any way. It is helpful to their campaigns if they can be as inoffensive as possible. This is a dynamic they created, so I say let them have it, but don't mistake their self-imposed restrictions as commandments for the rest of us.
Comedians make their livings being offensive in some way. Maybe not all of them do, but they do by at least pointing out the offensive things in life. It is difficult nowadays for a really successful comedian to go very long without offending somebody, and it's usually the people who have the least reason to be offended that are. Comedians tell jokes. Grow a sense of humor. I can laugh at myself when my friends are poking fun, and I do it right back to them, but we all know it's not for real.
Maybe it's not the most well-formed argument, but there is clearly something wrong in this country if we have to censor a comedian for being funny. You know the old question of whether a tree falling in the forest makes a sound when no one's around to hear it? Well, it makes one wonder, is free speech really free when no one's allowed to hear it? Censorship sucks, and that's straight from the liberal, left-wing nut job's mouth.
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