Inter-Galactic Memo
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: Ground Zero Muslim Center
8-16-2010
President Obama has had a few things to say about this proposed (and when we say “proposed,” we mean “foregone conclusion) Islamic Studies Center near Ground Zero, in New York. Here is a good sampling:
"As a citizen, and as president, I believe that Muslims have the same right to practice their religion as anyone else in this country," Obama said in remarks at a White House dinner celebrating the Islamic holy month of Ramadan. "That includes the right to build a place of worship and a community center on private property in lower Manhattan, in accordance with local laws and ordinances," he said. "This is America, and our commitment to religious freedom must be unshakable."
See full article from DailyFinance: http://www.dailyfinance.com/story/president-obama-backs-muslim-center-near-ground-zero/19593495/?icid=sphere_copyright
I have to agree with him this time. He is absolutely right. This is America, and we have a sacred trust, and obligation, to hold the 1st Amendment sacrosanct. We cannot equivocate on this.
The Republicans are blasting the President on his statements, but the criticism rings hollow to my ears—after all, it’s an election year.
They are yelling at the wrong person. Obama, were he an actual American, and real President, would have found himself caught between the rock and the hard place on this issue. As president, he would rightfully have had to take just the stand that he has, and suffered the unpopularity and polling hits, content to be on the right side of the issue. As an American, he might have been conflicted, upset, even disgusted at the dilemma. But he is not—as far as I am concerned—a “real” American, nor a “real” President. (well, I might have to rethink that last one—he does live in the White House).
Because of who he is, (rather than who he portrays himself to be), I don’t think he had one second’s problem taking this stand, and making these statements. In fact, there are a lot of people, Obama apparently included, who believe Islam should have additional rights over those guaranteed by the Constitution. Rights no one else seems to have.
The President has shown no real evidence that he is a religious man. Which is fine. (And please don’t mention Rev. Wright’s “church.” That place is to religion what pornography is to sex.) But if he is religious, we can be confident that he is Muslim. (Which is fine as well, but I wish he’d be upfront about it). And he is still the wrong one to be yelling at. The conservative pundits have it wrong. (Or maybe they’re being cagey. Maybe they’re yelling at him because they think he’s being duplicitous and using his high office to further the cause of Islam. None of which is relevant to my thesis.)
No, the people the Republican’s should be yelling at are the Muslim’s who made the proposal. They have the right to worship when, where, and how they please. But the proposal itself is beyond the pale of bad taste. It is the single most insensitive thing I have ever heard of, with the possible exception of the Holocaust. They should not have asked. Having asked, New York had the right to deny it. They didn’t. They fast-tracked it—despite the fact that the same committee has been keeping a Greek Orthodox Church waiting 9 years for permission to effect repairs to damage caused by the 9-11 collisions.
They aren’t yelling at the Muslims who want to build at ground zero because they are afraid. They are afraid because a lot of Muslim’s (not all, by any stretch) are insane as measured by western standards. Of course, now that all values, standards, cultures, and civilizations are equal, there’s nothing anyone can do on that front.
They are afraid that extremist jihadists will come and kill them, and their families, and then kill a few thousand innocents just because. Remember—it is better to be dead than an infidel. No one wants a Muslim mad at them. So they are yelling at the President. It’s kind of like how we yell at Iran because we know North Korea is listening.
The fact that the proposal hasn’t been withdrawn is provocative. Just as the proposal itself was provocative. I do not for a moment think it was made innocently, out of a desire for peace and reconciliation. If that were the case, the Ground Zero Muslim Center would have been taken off the table long before now.
So what should we do? Nothing. As Americans, they have the same rights you and I do. But remember, this thing will be a blight to most Americans. An insult too extreme to be ignored, or suffered. And once finished, and open, security will cost millions. Not just internally, but think about all the money NYC will have to pay out every year protecting the place from people less genteel and sophisticated than you and I.
I hope America gives the place a chance to prove it’s sincerity as a place of peace, hope, and brotherhood. And I hope they do prove it. Really.
But I’m not holding my breath.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
Inter-Galactic Memo
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: A New Sensibility
8-6-2010
We drove over to a big, brand new Good Will store today (yes, we shop at thrift stores) and we saw two reserved parking spaces we had never seen before. They were not for handicapped cars, (I think it’s irresponsible to let handicapped cars on the road anyway) instead, they were for environmentally aware cars-slash-people. The ink was green, and it said:
Preferred Parking
Parking for Environmentally Friendly and/or fuel efficient vehicles only.
Took me completely by surprise. But it did elicit one or two questions. Like . . . who decides which vehicles are friendly to the environment? What is the minimum allowable level of friendliness? And what is the criteria (if any) for fuel-efficiency in this particular parking lot?
I did not see an attendant standing by to offer helpful consultation as to who might qualify for these coveted spots, so close to the entrance to a thrift store. I did not see a list of acceptable makes and models, which would have been helpful. Nor did I see a comprehensive list of attributes and characteristics which would render a given person acceptable.
We were driving a 2007 Dodge Grand Caravan. It has a six cylinder engine and gets around 20 MPG. I doubt that would qualify. But we had 6 people in it, which brings passenger MPG up to 120. Do you suppose that would qualify?
I didn’t really want to park in one of the spaces anyway, because I can’t think of anything more pretentious and disingenuous than setting aside parking places for such meaningless, unquantifiable reasons. I mean, think about it—there is no discernable criteria involved in the message. As close as anyone could get is something like; “If you think of yourself as an environmentalist, or if you drive a hybrid, or electric car, or gas or diesel engine that gets pretty good mileage, or if you really like trees and clean air, or if you believe in Gaia, or are maybe pagan—but only the good kind—or you think the stock holders of BP should be taken out and shot, or you liked “Free Willy”, or “Ferngully”, or are really sad about Katrina, or think Obama and Biden are doing enough for the planet, or you believe in only wearing natural fibers, or are a vegan, or . . . well, you get the picture. All of the above please feel free to petition for an environmental parking space. (Hey, shouldn’t such a space be grass, rather than paved? And if it is grass, should anyone really be driving on it?)
Here’s what bothers me about this. Someone had to have had the idea to do this, and their internal censor must have actually let it pass. Not only that, they had to have talked to someone else about it, and everyone had to have agreed it was a good idea—not in the sense that there was any kind of reasoning for it—because clearly, as written, there was not—but because it would make everyone involved in creating the policy “feel good” about themselves, as well as whoever decided to park in a space. It’s all about feeling good these days. Remember when it was about being good, or doing good? Now . . . all we gotta do is feel good, and we’re part of the in crowd.
I saw this happen in the public schools too. For years the growing focus was on kids feeling good, until finally, every minute of instruction time was geared towards the students “feeling good” about themselves, until there was no academic rigor left, no scholarship, no sense of achievement—no need in a world where feeling good about oneself is the ultimate goal.
And now we can do it while we park our cars. Feel special. Feel exclusive. As long as we are kowtowing to the PC world of the newest sensation, the latest craze . . . the self-esteem addict.
It’s a brave new world boys and girls.
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: A New Sensibility
8-6-2010
We drove over to a big, brand new Good Will store today (yes, we shop at thrift stores) and we saw two reserved parking spaces we had never seen before. They were not for handicapped cars, (I think it’s irresponsible to let handicapped cars on the road anyway) instead, they were for environmentally aware cars-slash-people. The ink was green, and it said:
Preferred Parking
Parking for Environmentally Friendly and/or fuel efficient vehicles only.
Took me completely by surprise. But it did elicit one or two questions. Like . . . who decides which vehicles are friendly to the environment? What is the minimum allowable level of friendliness? And what is the criteria (if any) for fuel-efficiency in this particular parking lot?
I did not see an attendant standing by to offer helpful consultation as to who might qualify for these coveted spots, so close to the entrance to a thrift store. I did not see a list of acceptable makes and models, which would have been helpful. Nor did I see a comprehensive list of attributes and characteristics which would render a given person acceptable.
We were driving a 2007 Dodge Grand Caravan. It has a six cylinder engine and gets around 20 MPG. I doubt that would qualify. But we had 6 people in it, which brings passenger MPG up to 120. Do you suppose that would qualify?
I didn’t really want to park in one of the spaces anyway, because I can’t think of anything more pretentious and disingenuous than setting aside parking places for such meaningless, unquantifiable reasons. I mean, think about it—there is no discernable criteria involved in the message. As close as anyone could get is something like; “If you think of yourself as an environmentalist, or if you drive a hybrid, or electric car, or gas or diesel engine that gets pretty good mileage, or if you really like trees and clean air, or if you believe in Gaia, or are maybe pagan—but only the good kind—or you think the stock holders of BP should be taken out and shot, or you liked “Free Willy”, or “Ferngully”, or are really sad about Katrina, or think Obama and Biden are doing enough for the planet, or you believe in only wearing natural fibers, or are a vegan, or . . . well, you get the picture. All of the above please feel free to petition for an environmental parking space. (Hey, shouldn’t such a space be grass, rather than paved? And if it is grass, should anyone really be driving on it?)
Here’s what bothers me about this. Someone had to have had the idea to do this, and their internal censor must have actually let it pass. Not only that, they had to have talked to someone else about it, and everyone had to have agreed it was a good idea—not in the sense that there was any kind of reasoning for it—because clearly, as written, there was not—but because it would make everyone involved in creating the policy “feel good” about themselves, as well as whoever decided to park in a space. It’s all about feeling good these days. Remember when it was about being good, or doing good? Now . . . all we gotta do is feel good, and we’re part of the in crowd.
I saw this happen in the public schools too. For years the growing focus was on kids feeling good, until finally, every minute of instruction time was geared towards the students “feeling good” about themselves, until there was no academic rigor left, no scholarship, no sense of achievement—no need in a world where feeling good about oneself is the ultimate goal.
And now we can do it while we park our cars. Feel special. Feel exclusive. As long as we are kowtowing to the PC world of the newest sensation, the latest craze . . . the self-esteem addict.
It’s a brave new world boys and girls.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
IGM Settling IN
Inter-Galactic Memo
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: Settling In
8-3-2010
Nita and I took a walk today. I may have mentioned to some of you that Aubrey (and now we) lives a ten-minute walk from the Palmyra Temple. I estimated that from looking at Google Earth, but I missed by a little. We walked to the Temple this morning and it took 25 minutes . . . but it was a pretty country road with so much green it hurt the eyes, and wonderfully old and quaint homes lining the lane—which is actually a state highway, but you can’t tell to walk along it.
The Temple is beautiful. Small, compared to many others, but set on a grassy hill, with the usual immaculate grounds full of dazzling flowers. A Nita paradise.
And since the Joseph Smith farm was a few hundred feet away, which meant the Sacred Grove was right around the corner as well, we walked over there and into the forest to meander the paths and see if we could feel some residual spirit still lingering from the Visitation. Maybe. How would I know?
We walked around the grove for an hour, and at some point the spirit backed-off in order to let sweaty exhaustion take center stage. By the time we found our way out, I was so tired I called Aubrey and asked her to come rescue us—which she did. Good girl, Aub.
I have been chastised for not mentioning how beautiful it is here—and it is, truly. But I am not recovered yet from my marathon trip, nor am I acclimated to the elevation, humidity, and flora-induced claustrophobia, so my appreciation is lackluster at best. Maybe it will improve this fall. I’m not optimistic though—everyone knows I have a huge, raging bias against all things eastern.
We’re supposed to be here though. I have no doubt of that. Now I just have to figure out why.
Our cottage is wonderful. Aubrey and Greg took it down to the floorboards and studs and fixed, upgraded, or replaced everything. Way too much work and money spent, but we love it. Small, but cozy. And we live ten feet from them, connected by an enclosed “breezeway,” and their house is big and old—1870 I’m told. The light in their house is buttery, and their kitchen-dining area is the kind one envisions for the Celestial Kingdom; all about family and love and modern conveniences. And they have a new dog—Meggie—a Australian Shepherd, and she is wondrously alive and happy. Newell, you would love her.
So I guess we’re really here. I know we’re supposed to be, but I wish I knew why.
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: Settling In
8-3-2010
Nita and I took a walk today. I may have mentioned to some of you that Aubrey (and now we) lives a ten-minute walk from the Palmyra Temple. I estimated that from looking at Google Earth, but I missed by a little. We walked to the Temple this morning and it took 25 minutes . . . but it was a pretty country road with so much green it hurt the eyes, and wonderfully old and quaint homes lining the lane—which is actually a state highway, but you can’t tell to walk along it.
The Temple is beautiful. Small, compared to many others, but set on a grassy hill, with the usual immaculate grounds full of dazzling flowers. A Nita paradise.
And since the Joseph Smith farm was a few hundred feet away, which meant the Sacred Grove was right around the corner as well, we walked over there and into the forest to meander the paths and see if we could feel some residual spirit still lingering from the Visitation. Maybe. How would I know?
We walked around the grove for an hour, and at some point the spirit backed-off in order to let sweaty exhaustion take center stage. By the time we found our way out, I was so tired I called Aubrey and asked her to come rescue us—which she did. Good girl, Aub.
I have been chastised for not mentioning how beautiful it is here—and it is, truly. But I am not recovered yet from my marathon trip, nor am I acclimated to the elevation, humidity, and flora-induced claustrophobia, so my appreciation is lackluster at best. Maybe it will improve this fall. I’m not optimistic though—everyone knows I have a huge, raging bias against all things eastern.
We’re supposed to be here though. I have no doubt of that. Now I just have to figure out why.
Our cottage is wonderful. Aubrey and Greg took it down to the floorboards and studs and fixed, upgraded, or replaced everything. Way too much work and money spent, but we love it. Small, but cozy. And we live ten feet from them, connected by an enclosed “breezeway,” and their house is big and old—1870 I’m told. The light in their house is buttery, and their kitchen-dining area is the kind one envisions for the Celestial Kingdom; all about family and love and modern conveniences. And they have a new dog—Meggie—a Australian Shepherd, and she is wondrously alive and happy. Newell, you would love her.
So I guess we’re really here. I know we’re supposed to be, but I wish I knew why.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
IGM Wives and Daughters
Inter-Galactic Memo
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: Wives and Daughters
7-8-2010
I have three daughters, and a son. This will be mostly about my wife and daughters, but I promise to say something nice about Grah in the future. It will be easy to do.
For forty years, off and on, at random moments, I will catch a glimpse of Nita, and she will take my breath away. My heart jumps in my chest. It still happens. She surpasses my understanding. Her beauty is inextricably tied to who she is, and her character cannot help but shine through into the outer world.
This is not always the case with human beings. (I will use Lindsey Lohan as exhibit A).
Perhaps I am able to see something no one else does. Although she has always been well-regarded by males, who have hovered around her with silly, surreptitious and hopeless longing.
And ever since my daughters became young women, and now simply women, the same thing happens, occasionally, when I look at them. It amazes me how much a momentary glance can speak so much of them to me. I see dedicated mother, and caregiver, student, teacher, artist, devoted wife (and girlfriend), and so many other things.
I see good. Honor, integrity, sacrifice—all the same things I have always seen in Nita. And in my daughters, the gestalt of these traits combine to create a rare kind of beauty often missing in the faces of women internationally known for a different, and lesser, kind of splendor.
Each has her own peculiar aspect. A radiance, an ethereal, inner glow that manifests with a turn of the head, in a stray beam of light, or a gentle shadow.
Aubrey, with decades of wisdom and love beyond her years in her eyes. A kind of celestial countenance shining through.
Jessica with that naturally blonde hair, that skin, and those eyes, with a mother’s love burning eternally in them.
Chani, with her crazy make-up and hair color of the week, that sparkle, that elfin smile.
And Nita, with . . . everything. Forever eyes. A whole set of smiles only I ever see. A tenderness and dedication beyond reason, beyond imagination.
A man should not be allowed such fortune; it is unfair to those with lesser beauty in their lives. But there it is, and nothing I can do about it.
And already I can see the same exquisite grace growing like a special blessing in my granddaughters. Naomi, the Gelfling Princess, Ellie, the wide-eyed gypsy-girl, Caroline, my perfect little shadow, with a smile that defines mischievous, Salem, the dark-eyed gift from another dimension, Cecily, whose beauty is so radiant, and intense, she retains its perfection even when frowning, or crying, or angry, and Tesla, so small and new, and already extraordinary, with the same other-worldly looks of her sister.
When—no, if—I find myself in a personal interview with Heavenly Father, the first thing I will ask Him is, why me? What did I do to deserve such singular people in my life, to be so well-loved by such completely beautiful women and girls? I don’t have a clue, but it must have been something pretty good.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
IGM Connectivity
Inter-Galactic Memo
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: Connectivity
6-19-10
Has anyone else noticed the radical speed with which our culture is allowing itself to be changed by emerging technology? We are in the midst of so much upheaval, from so many fronts, that I suspect most people are not comprehending the nature of the paradigm shifts. Plural. And neither do I.
Today, for the first time in known human history (I include that caveat because we have no idea what the level of technical civilization was prior to the Flood) we are in a state of unending, consistently mind-boggling, emergent technology. We have no time to assimilate, consider, or become familiar with implications before we are again inundated with the next wave. And as far as I can tell, no one is monitoring any of this, other than a few über techno-geeks writing for obscure online magazines. And my son.
What brought this situation to my admittedly scattershot attention, was a recent event on my Facebook account.
In fact, let me regress for a moment. I am a 60 year old American male, one of the last people born in the 40’s. I was old enough to remember the first television we ever got. I am one of the last of the Beatles and Beach Boys generation. And I have a Facebook account.
Back to the future.
So, a few days ago, I got an email, inviting me to be ‘friends’ with someone. Most of us have experienced that annoying little game. (How many times have you received friend requests from people you do not know?)
It took me a minute. Her name was familiar, but did not ring any bells for a moment. Then it hit me. René. She was my first girlfriend when I went to Glen Burnie High School, in Glen Burnie, Maryland, in 1966-68. For those of us addicted to calculation (which does not include me), that is 44 years ago. And now we are in a position to reconnect. I almost always say yes to friend requests . . . and I don’t even know why. To be polite? Maybe it had something to do with that song, Walk Away René, which was popular when we were going steady. (Who did that? Was it the Left Bank?)
In the old world, people we knew half-a century ago, would be long-gone, forever and properly relegated to the obscure past, half memory, half fiction. In no sense are any of us the same people we were at seventeen, even though that kid still lurks in the hinterlands of our subconscious. So why bother?
I think the reason may be deceptively simple; because we can. Because technology makes it too easy. We do it, and don’t even question why. Well, some of us do. A lot of us. And for my childrens generation, it is much worse. They are immersed in the world of cyberspace. My grandchildren will no doubt be living in Tron.
So I clicked on the SUBMIT button, or whatever it is, and let René back into my life, if only peripherally. I liked René. She was cute, and insecure. A little too skinny—could’a used a few pounds . . . And she broke up with a senior to go with me. And then I broke up with her. Why? Who knows? I was young and stupid, and insensitive. And I took things like girlfriends very seriously, despite my total lack of cool, and my ultimate cluelessness. I was the only high school jock in history who wasn’t popular—not that I cared.
Another regression: I didn’t ‘date’. I was terrified of girls, and mesmerized by the mystery at the same time. Consequently, I either had a ‘girlfriend’, with whom I was hopelessly in love, or nothing at all. I didn’t do casual. I fantasized about marrying every one of them, and living happily ever after, in a cave, while I protected them from dragons and evil boys. Oh, what? Like you didn’t?
Back to the future.
So what do we talk about? How many bases we got to? (Just one—repeatedly.) Obama? Religion? Our lives? And what possessed her to ask in the first place? What kind of morbid curiosity would compel someone to reconnect with a high school boyfriend after all this time? (well, other than Gloria, who seems to make a habit of it. ) It’s not like I stayed in the area, or that we kept in touch. I haven’t seen, or talked to, or much thought about René for over forty years. Which is not meant to be a criticism, I was just getting on with my life, as I’m sure she has been. And admittedly, I’m sure I posses that same morbid bent. I’m still looking for Kay.
The point: Everything is changing, before our eyes. Connectivity is becoming a proper noun. I Googled Gadianton Robbers last night, and only got to Gadian—before the suggestions popped up and Gadianton Robbers was the first one. That’s a pretty obscure reference, and Google not only had it, but had it number one. Go ahead, try to Google something that doesn’t hit. Try and find a name on Facebook. (XKCD has a great cartoon about that. I’d send it with this IGM if the content wasn’t questionable.)
As an example, did you know that most photocopy machines (post about 2003) now have hard-drives in them? It speeds up the process. The first scan sends all the info to the hard drive, which then sends it to the copy brain, making it unnecessary to scan again and again, saving time. Think about all the documents you’ve scanned as a matter of course. All the personal information. Copy machines are storing it all. Who has access to it? No wonder people are trying to opt out of the grid, get off the net.
I can’t help but wonder where it’s all going to lead. Of course, it’s all fodder for a writer of speculative fiction, good and bad, but still . . . what happens when everything we are, and everything we know, and think, and do, is public knowledge, accessible to everyone? And how will it change the social dynamic when we all have ten thousand friends, and have not met any of them?
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: Connectivity
6-19-10
Has anyone else noticed the radical speed with which our culture is allowing itself to be changed by emerging technology? We are in the midst of so much upheaval, from so many fronts, that I suspect most people are not comprehending the nature of the paradigm shifts. Plural. And neither do I.
Today, for the first time in known human history (I include that caveat because we have no idea what the level of technical civilization was prior to the Flood) we are in a state of unending, consistently mind-boggling, emergent technology. We have no time to assimilate, consider, or become familiar with implications before we are again inundated with the next wave. And as far as I can tell, no one is monitoring any of this, other than a few über techno-geeks writing for obscure online magazines. And my son.
What brought this situation to my admittedly scattershot attention, was a recent event on my Facebook account.
In fact, let me regress for a moment. I am a 60 year old American male, one of the last people born in the 40’s. I was old enough to remember the first television we ever got. I am one of the last of the Beatles and Beach Boys generation. And I have a Facebook account.
Back to the future.
So, a few days ago, I got an email, inviting me to be ‘friends’ with someone. Most of us have experienced that annoying little game. (How many times have you received friend requests from people you do not know?)
It took me a minute. Her name was familiar, but did not ring any bells for a moment. Then it hit me. René. She was my first girlfriend when I went to Glen Burnie High School, in Glen Burnie, Maryland, in 1966-68. For those of us addicted to calculation (which does not include me), that is 44 years ago. And now we are in a position to reconnect. I almost always say yes to friend requests . . . and I don’t even know why. To be polite? Maybe it had something to do with that song, Walk Away René, which was popular when we were going steady. (Who did that? Was it the Left Bank?)
In the old world, people we knew half-a century ago, would be long-gone, forever and properly relegated to the obscure past, half memory, half fiction. In no sense are any of us the same people we were at seventeen, even though that kid still lurks in the hinterlands of our subconscious. So why bother?
I think the reason may be deceptively simple; because we can. Because technology makes it too easy. We do it, and don’t even question why. Well, some of us do. A lot of us. And for my childrens generation, it is much worse. They are immersed in the world of cyberspace. My grandchildren will no doubt be living in Tron.
So I clicked on the SUBMIT button, or whatever it is, and let René back into my life, if only peripherally. I liked René. She was cute, and insecure. A little too skinny—could’a used a few pounds . . . And she broke up with a senior to go with me. And then I broke up with her. Why? Who knows? I was young and stupid, and insensitive. And I took things like girlfriends very seriously, despite my total lack of cool, and my ultimate cluelessness. I was the only high school jock in history who wasn’t popular—not that I cared.
Another regression: I didn’t ‘date’. I was terrified of girls, and mesmerized by the mystery at the same time. Consequently, I either had a ‘girlfriend’, with whom I was hopelessly in love, or nothing at all. I didn’t do casual. I fantasized about marrying every one of them, and living happily ever after, in a cave, while I protected them from dragons and evil boys. Oh, what? Like you didn’t?
Back to the future.
So what do we talk about? How many bases we got to? (Just one—repeatedly.) Obama? Religion? Our lives? And what possessed her to ask in the first place? What kind of morbid curiosity would compel someone to reconnect with a high school boyfriend after all this time? (well, other than Gloria, who seems to make a habit of it. ) It’s not like I stayed in the area, or that we kept in touch. I haven’t seen, or talked to, or much thought about René for over forty years. Which is not meant to be a criticism, I was just getting on with my life, as I’m sure she has been. And admittedly, I’m sure I posses that same morbid bent. I’m still looking for Kay.
The point: Everything is changing, before our eyes. Connectivity is becoming a proper noun. I Googled Gadianton Robbers last night, and only got to Gadian—before the suggestions popped up and Gadianton Robbers was the first one. That’s a pretty obscure reference, and Google not only had it, but had it number one. Go ahead, try to Google something that doesn’t hit. Try and find a name on Facebook. (XKCD has a great cartoon about that. I’d send it with this IGM if the content wasn’t questionable.)
As an example, did you know that most photocopy machines (post about 2003) now have hard-drives in them? It speeds up the process. The first scan sends all the info to the hard drive, which then sends it to the copy brain, making it unnecessary to scan again and again, saving time. Think about all the documents you’ve scanned as a matter of course. All the personal information. Copy machines are storing it all. Who has access to it? No wonder people are trying to opt out of the grid, get off the net.
I can’t help but wonder where it’s all going to lead. Of course, it’s all fodder for a writer of speculative fiction, good and bad, but still . . . what happens when everything we are, and everything we know, and think, and do, is public knowledge, accessible to everyone? And how will it change the social dynamic when we all have ten thousand friends, and have not met any of them?
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
IGM The NASA Islam Connection
Inter-Galactic Memo
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: The NASA Islam connection
7-6-2010
In a surprise move right out if the old “Bat-**** insane” playbook, President Obama has given a brave new mandate to the new head of NASA. According to an article in Google News, which quotes the new space boss, Obama told him in no uncertain terms that NASA’s number one priority now, will be improving relations with Muslims, and Islamic nations.
I don’t know about you, but when I read something like that, I experience a moment of severe cerebral short-circuiting.
“What? . . . . I mean . . . WHAT?”
But then, after I thought about it for a moment, it made perfect sense. Because, what else would NASA be doing, right? After all, they are the National Space and Aeronautic Administration, which puts them at the forefront of relations-building with nations and cultures which can barely figure out a flush toilet, much less conceive a need for, and design, a commode that works in zero gravity.
The obvious question I suppose, is, why would Obama list such a thing as a priority at all, much less for NASA, the least likely of all government agencies to have anything to do with our relations with Islam? Is it possible the President has a soft spot for Islam? Could it be that he considers himself a Muslim? Lots of people have been making that claim lately, and this certainly bolsters that radical possibility. Not that being Muslim in any way disqualifies him from being President—that’s not what this country is about.
Here’s the thing: Contrary to popular belief, and Charlie Rangel, NASA’s annual budget is miniscule. Things like this need to be put into some kind of perspective. Human and Social Services, as an example, spends NASA’s budget about every nine days. With that in mind, who in their right mind would task the National Space agency to spend hundreds of millions of its very limited budget, building good relations with Muslim—or any other—countries? I mean, seriously . . . . . how are they supposed to even do something like that?
“And this is a spacesuit . . . it’s air tight!”
“Behead the infidel!”
I’m not suggesting that good, or better, relations with Islam is a bad, or unnecessary thing. On the contrary, I’m sure improvements in that area would be wonderful. What I am suggesting, is that it might be less than appropriate for a high-tech, scientific organization, which does things in space, for America, to be our good-will ambassador to third-world countries. Don’t we already have agencies and organizations designed for just such things?
One wonders what the President has in mind. Maybe we can partner with Afghanistan to put poppies in orbit. Or go in with Iran to help them improve their long-range ballistic missile program, or accelerate their nuclear ambitions, or even give them a heads up on superior, heat-resistant and ablative material so they can make better tents.
I mean, if this is a good idea, why not task the Bureau of Indian Affairs to get together with the people of Indonesia and the Sudan and do little compare-and-contrast sessions on culture and religious traditions? Muslims would love that, right?
The next thing we know, someone from NASA is going to say the wrong thing, or misinterpret some innocent Jihadist remark, and we will find ourselves with a Fatwa against astronauts, and all “devil-spawned” satellites. Then we’ll be in a pickle. We’ll have to put the entire NASA program in orbit, just to keep it safe. And that will work, because one thing we can count on is that the current iteration of Islam will never have the technical, cultural, or philosophical wherewithal to get off the ground, much less into space.
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: The NASA Islam connection
7-6-2010
In a surprise move right out if the old “Bat-**** insane” playbook, President Obama has given a brave new mandate to the new head of NASA. According to an article in Google News, which quotes the new space boss, Obama told him in no uncertain terms that NASA’s number one priority now, will be improving relations with Muslims, and Islamic nations.
I don’t know about you, but when I read something like that, I experience a moment of severe cerebral short-circuiting.
“What? . . . . I mean . . . WHAT?”
But then, after I thought about it for a moment, it made perfect sense. Because, what else would NASA be doing, right? After all, they are the National Space and Aeronautic Administration, which puts them at the forefront of relations-building with nations and cultures which can barely figure out a flush toilet, much less conceive a need for, and design, a commode that works in zero gravity.
The obvious question I suppose, is, why would Obama list such a thing as a priority at all, much less for NASA, the least likely of all government agencies to have anything to do with our relations with Islam? Is it possible the President has a soft spot for Islam? Could it be that he considers himself a Muslim? Lots of people have been making that claim lately, and this certainly bolsters that radical possibility. Not that being Muslim in any way disqualifies him from being President—that’s not what this country is about.
Here’s the thing: Contrary to popular belief, and Charlie Rangel, NASA’s annual budget is miniscule. Things like this need to be put into some kind of perspective. Human and Social Services, as an example, spends NASA’s budget about every nine days. With that in mind, who in their right mind would task the National Space agency to spend hundreds of millions of its very limited budget, building good relations with Muslim—or any other—countries? I mean, seriously . . . . . how are they supposed to even do something like that?
“And this is a spacesuit . . . it’s air tight!”
“Behead the infidel!”
I’m not suggesting that good, or better, relations with Islam is a bad, or unnecessary thing. On the contrary, I’m sure improvements in that area would be wonderful. What I am suggesting, is that it might be less than appropriate for a high-tech, scientific organization, which does things in space, for America, to be our good-will ambassador to third-world countries. Don’t we already have agencies and organizations designed for just such things?
One wonders what the President has in mind. Maybe we can partner with Afghanistan to put poppies in orbit. Or go in with Iran to help them improve their long-range ballistic missile program, or accelerate their nuclear ambitions, or even give them a heads up on superior, heat-resistant and ablative material so they can make better tents.
I mean, if this is a good idea, why not task the Bureau of Indian Affairs to get together with the people of Indonesia and the Sudan and do little compare-and-contrast sessions on culture and religious traditions? Muslims would love that, right?
The next thing we know, someone from NASA is going to say the wrong thing, or misinterpret some innocent Jihadist remark, and we will find ourselves with a Fatwa against astronauts, and all “devil-spawned” satellites. Then we’ll be in a pickle. We’ll have to put the entire NASA program in orbit, just to keep it safe. And that will work, because one thing we can count on is that the current iteration of Islam will never have the technical, cultural, or philosophical wherewithal to get off the ground, much less into space.
Monday, June 21, 2010
IGM YouTube
Inter-Galactic Memo
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: YouTube
6-21-2010
I spend an inordinate amount of time watching YouTube videos, listening to music. Mostly, I go for stuff I already know, memory lane, as it were, but I’ve been known to venture off into uncharted territory as well. I never intend to spend that much time. I always have a specific video or song in mind, but as I’m listening/watching, that damn string of useful suggestions to the right of the screen beckons me like a Siren, and I click on another, and another, and suddenly it’s like whoa! Here’s a suggestion for someone else, and I haven’t heard that one in forever, or yikes! I didn’t know those two people ever sang together, etc., etc., and before I know it I’ve been up half the night, lost in a kind of musical reverie.
Sometimes I run across a real gem, hitherto unknown to me. Like when I looked for David Wilcox because I wanted to hear The Eye of the Hurricane song, and discovered this insane Canadian of the same name—a middle-aged madman, blues guitarist of extraordinary talent. Most of the new ones, however, come from my children, and most of those from Chani, because she is CONNECTED. I get my fix of weird from Grah, who finds stuff so esoteric that even the internet is surprised. Like The Darkest of the Hillside Thickets, or Depapepe. (Is that right? I’m not online right now.) I listen to a lot of Chani’s stuff, with her band, Rubik’s Hotel, and some Crowd of Small Adventures, and Hungry Cloud, because my second cousin (or first cousin once-removed, I can never remember), Jack Wilcox, the Human String Bean, fronts them both. (For those of you lucky enough to have seen Thor at the Bus Stop, Jack is the Milk Strider.)
A few nights ago, I got an itch to hear “In My Room,” by the Beach Boys. It maybe my favorite song by them. So I got on YouTube and found it and listened, and loved it again, and then how could I not listen to “Little Deuce Coup, and then there was “Surfer Girl,” Brain Wilson’s favorite of his melodies, and on it went, "Good Vibrations", "Be True to Your School", until I found an interview with Brain. Brian Wilson is one of my hero’s, and a universal cautionary tale. I listened to an interview from the 60’s, with Mike Douglas, and then a long one from the 90’s. Brain is fried. His mind is gone, his brain burned to a crisp—which he readily admits in the second interview. Drugs, and poor mental health, combined to destroy one of the most creative and brilliant musical minds of our century. Oh, he’s still articulate, in his own way (and by that I mean he was never articulate), but he has trouble concentrating, and is the king of non-sequiturs. He wanders, and has a tendency to protect himself by breaking into song at odd moments.
Here’s this perfectly normal California kid, with a gift from God, who at 16 puts together a band of his brothers, a cousin, and a family friend, and somehow brings normally talented teenagers up to the levels of greatness by the time he is 19. And they let him, They listen to him, because his brain is on fire with melodies, and harmonies, and arrangements both manically complex, and angelically sophisticated. Then—because of issues with an overbearing and physically abusive father, his own innate emotional instability, DRUGS, and a manipulative, greedy, despicable, Svengali-like therapist—he is brought down into a living hell for decades. And through all of it, he manages to write and arrange—and produce—some of rocks most enduring anthems. He couldn’t perform live, though. Six months after their first big hit, which I believe was “Surfin’ USA,” he was home in bed, where he stayed for three years. In the interview with Douglas, Brain sounds like a PSA against drugs. He describes the many times he took (among others) LSD, and how wonderful it was, but what it did to him as well. He was very frank, very candid. Then, in the newer interview, the guy asks him if he ever took LSD. Brian says “oh sure,” and goes into some random, wandering diatribe, then suddenly stops. “At least I think I did,” he says, then looks off into space. “Maybe not . . . I’d have to ask somebody.” He looks at the camera. “I don’t remember.”
I probably listened to 30 songs that night, thinking about all of this, dismayed, and amazed at what he did, what he went through, and curious about what might have been under different circumstances. Then, towards the end of the long interview, he mentioned his two older daughters, Carnie, and Wendy, whom he barely knew while they were growing up, and I was off into a search for Wilson Phillips.
As you may recall, they were a female trio from the 90’s with a few good hits. Carnie and Wendy were Brian’s girls, and the other one, Chynna, was the younger daughter of Papa John and Michelle Phillips, who founded the Mama’s and the Papa’s. How she survived her father’s bizarre lifestyle is anyone’s guess. But those girls could sing. It was top-notch pop music, with a legacy unparalleled in music history. Nothing profound, but “hold on just one more day,” is a fine sentiment for a song, evoking all kinds of possibilities. I listened to all the stuff of theirs available, watching them, trying to imagine the dynamics in which they had grown-up, and were formed, and the serendipity that might have brought the unlikely pairing to fruition.
Maybe the reason I spend so much time doing that, reading about all these people, listening to them, and wondering about them, is because of the emotions it makes me feel. Music—even obviously commercial music—has a strong effect on me. Musicians fascinate me. What they do is so hard, and requires so much time and commitment before anything can really begin. I know just enough about that to make me particularly susceptible to the struggle, and the miracle of talent at that level. Hell, even the 1910 Fruit Gum Factory had talent. And although it makes me nauseous to admit it, even the Rolling Stones have talent.
We often marvel at how easy and effortless they make it look. But most of us don’t delve deeply enough to discover the years of sacrifice, of obsessive practice, repetition, and compulsive dedication it takes to be one of the great ones. Eddie Van Halen says he locked himself in his bedroom with one of Eric Clapton’s albums, and a guitar, and didn’t come out for three years—essentially his adolescence—until he could play every note of every song perfectly. You wanna see extreme skill? Go to Youtube and call up a band called Dragonforce. You won’t like them. They are a “speed metal” band, “shredders,” but they have a unique sound. Watch part of a video, listen to the drums and the lead guitars. It is impossible to play that fast, much less complex arrangements that fast, that perfectly, for that long. I can’t even describe the speed. You have to experience it. It makes one wonder where the limit is. What can’t humans do? Remember the 5 minute mile? The unbreakable barrier? Now housewives run faster than that, in sneakers, on concrete. And usually really ugly outfits . . . . nothing personal, housewives.
Sometimes people wonder how I can possibly know some of the stuff I do. Especially about music. First of all, I don’t know all that much compared to someone who really does. It’s easy to impress people who don’t know anything about something. And second of all, I can’t help it. I remember it. (Actually, my memory is terrible, chaotic. Except in a few narrow areas. ) I’ve read the back of every album I’ve ever owned (a lot), I’ve read countless articles, books, biography’s, I watch documentaries endlessly, heck, I used to subscribe to Rolling Stone—who does that? and I was a music major for a while. And now that YouTube is around, well . . . it’s even worse. I get to see them too. Ultimately, it comes down to curiosity.
It’s like the people who think I’m a pretty good musician. I know better. They usually only think that because they aren’t one at all. I think we all experience that. Yeah, I write better than people who don’t write, but I’m not kidding myself. I’m no Mark Helprin or Cormack McCarthy. I’m not even Larry McMurtry or Tom Clancy, or Anne Rice. Such is the nature of talent, of “the gift”. It is an infinite spectrum, a river into which we are all dipped, like Achilles. Some are dipped deeper than others. And like Achilles, something about the experience often renders us tragic, as well as gifted. Look at Brian Wilson.
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: YouTube
6-21-2010
I spend an inordinate amount of time watching YouTube videos, listening to music. Mostly, I go for stuff I already know, memory lane, as it were, but I’ve been known to venture off into uncharted territory as well. I never intend to spend that much time. I always have a specific video or song in mind, but as I’m listening/watching, that damn string of useful suggestions to the right of the screen beckons me like a Siren, and I click on another, and another, and suddenly it’s like whoa! Here’s a suggestion for someone else, and I haven’t heard that one in forever, or yikes! I didn’t know those two people ever sang together, etc., etc., and before I know it I’ve been up half the night, lost in a kind of musical reverie.
Sometimes I run across a real gem, hitherto unknown to me. Like when I looked for David Wilcox because I wanted to hear The Eye of the Hurricane song, and discovered this insane Canadian of the same name—a middle-aged madman, blues guitarist of extraordinary talent. Most of the new ones, however, come from my children, and most of those from Chani, because she is CONNECTED. I get my fix of weird from Grah, who finds stuff so esoteric that even the internet is surprised. Like The Darkest of the Hillside Thickets, or Depapepe. (Is that right? I’m not online right now.) I listen to a lot of Chani’s stuff, with her band, Rubik’s Hotel, and some Crowd of Small Adventures, and Hungry Cloud, because my second cousin (or first cousin once-removed, I can never remember), Jack Wilcox, the Human String Bean, fronts them both. (For those of you lucky enough to have seen Thor at the Bus Stop, Jack is the Milk Strider.)
A few nights ago, I got an itch to hear “In My Room,” by the Beach Boys. It maybe my favorite song by them. So I got on YouTube and found it and listened, and loved it again, and then how could I not listen to “Little Deuce Coup, and then there was “Surfer Girl,” Brain Wilson’s favorite of his melodies, and on it went, "Good Vibrations", "Be True to Your School", until I found an interview with Brain. Brian Wilson is one of my hero’s, and a universal cautionary tale. I listened to an interview from the 60’s, with Mike Douglas, and then a long one from the 90’s. Brain is fried. His mind is gone, his brain burned to a crisp—which he readily admits in the second interview. Drugs, and poor mental health, combined to destroy one of the most creative and brilliant musical minds of our century. Oh, he’s still articulate, in his own way (and by that I mean he was never articulate), but he has trouble concentrating, and is the king of non-sequiturs. He wanders, and has a tendency to protect himself by breaking into song at odd moments.
Here’s this perfectly normal California kid, with a gift from God, who at 16 puts together a band of his brothers, a cousin, and a family friend, and somehow brings normally talented teenagers up to the levels of greatness by the time he is 19. And they let him, They listen to him, because his brain is on fire with melodies, and harmonies, and arrangements both manically complex, and angelically sophisticated. Then—because of issues with an overbearing and physically abusive father, his own innate emotional instability, DRUGS, and a manipulative, greedy, despicable, Svengali-like therapist—he is brought down into a living hell for decades. And through all of it, he manages to write and arrange—and produce—some of rocks most enduring anthems. He couldn’t perform live, though. Six months after their first big hit, which I believe was “Surfin’ USA,” he was home in bed, where he stayed for three years. In the interview with Douglas, Brain sounds like a PSA against drugs. He describes the many times he took (among others) LSD, and how wonderful it was, but what it did to him as well. He was very frank, very candid. Then, in the newer interview, the guy asks him if he ever took LSD. Brian says “oh sure,” and goes into some random, wandering diatribe, then suddenly stops. “At least I think I did,” he says, then looks off into space. “Maybe not . . . I’d have to ask somebody.” He looks at the camera. “I don’t remember.”
I probably listened to 30 songs that night, thinking about all of this, dismayed, and amazed at what he did, what he went through, and curious about what might have been under different circumstances. Then, towards the end of the long interview, he mentioned his two older daughters, Carnie, and Wendy, whom he barely knew while they were growing up, and I was off into a search for Wilson Phillips.
As you may recall, they were a female trio from the 90’s with a few good hits. Carnie and Wendy were Brian’s girls, and the other one, Chynna, was the younger daughter of Papa John and Michelle Phillips, who founded the Mama’s and the Papa’s. How she survived her father’s bizarre lifestyle is anyone’s guess. But those girls could sing. It was top-notch pop music, with a legacy unparalleled in music history. Nothing profound, but “hold on just one more day,” is a fine sentiment for a song, evoking all kinds of possibilities. I listened to all the stuff of theirs available, watching them, trying to imagine the dynamics in which they had grown-up, and were formed, and the serendipity that might have brought the unlikely pairing to fruition.
Maybe the reason I spend so much time doing that, reading about all these people, listening to them, and wondering about them, is because of the emotions it makes me feel. Music—even obviously commercial music—has a strong effect on me. Musicians fascinate me. What they do is so hard, and requires so much time and commitment before anything can really begin. I know just enough about that to make me particularly susceptible to the struggle, and the miracle of talent at that level. Hell, even the 1910 Fruit Gum Factory had talent. And although it makes me nauseous to admit it, even the Rolling Stones have talent.
We often marvel at how easy and effortless they make it look. But most of us don’t delve deeply enough to discover the years of sacrifice, of obsessive practice, repetition, and compulsive dedication it takes to be one of the great ones. Eddie Van Halen says he locked himself in his bedroom with one of Eric Clapton’s albums, and a guitar, and didn’t come out for three years—essentially his adolescence—until he could play every note of every song perfectly. You wanna see extreme skill? Go to Youtube and call up a band called Dragonforce. You won’t like them. They are a “speed metal” band, “shredders,” but they have a unique sound. Watch part of a video, listen to the drums and the lead guitars. It is impossible to play that fast, much less complex arrangements that fast, that perfectly, for that long. I can’t even describe the speed. You have to experience it. It makes one wonder where the limit is. What can’t humans do? Remember the 5 minute mile? The unbreakable barrier? Now housewives run faster than that, in sneakers, on concrete. And usually really ugly outfits . . . . nothing personal, housewives.
Sometimes people wonder how I can possibly know some of the stuff I do. Especially about music. First of all, I don’t know all that much compared to someone who really does. It’s easy to impress people who don’t know anything about something. And second of all, I can’t help it. I remember it. (Actually, my memory is terrible, chaotic. Except in a few narrow areas. ) I’ve read the back of every album I’ve ever owned (a lot), I’ve read countless articles, books, biography’s, I watch documentaries endlessly, heck, I used to subscribe to Rolling Stone—who does that? and I was a music major for a while. And now that YouTube is around, well . . . it’s even worse. I get to see them too. Ultimately, it comes down to curiosity.
It’s like the people who think I’m a pretty good musician. I know better. They usually only think that because they aren’t one at all. I think we all experience that. Yeah, I write better than people who don’t write, but I’m not kidding myself. I’m no Mark Helprin or Cormack McCarthy. I’m not even Larry McMurtry or Tom Clancy, or Anne Rice. Such is the nature of talent, of “the gift”. It is an infinite spectrum, a river into which we are all dipped, like Achilles. Some are dipped deeper than others. And like Achilles, something about the experience often renders us tragic, as well as gifted. Look at Brian Wilson.
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