History is not a feel-good story.

I wrote this in February 2022, but I’m re-upping it now as I see a news item this morning about how parents in Wisconsin challenged a book about the interment of Japanese-American citizens during World War II, on the basis that “the government’s perspective wasn’t shared” or some such thing. Of course that’s a bullshit excuse; these people simply think that nothing negative in our history should be taught, ever.

No subject is more eternally disappointing to see discussed in America than race, because a great many of us simply don’t have any inclination to engage in anything remotely resembling an honest discussion of race at all.

This is not the least bit new. All that’s changed, in recent months, is the wording. White people have been finding ways to dodge discussions of racism probably since the beginning of time, but the most prominent version in my personal experience has been simple dismissal of the subject as soon as it is brought up: some version of “There they go again, playing the Race Card,” usually accompanied by a rolling of the eyes.

What is signaled by saying “Playing the Race Card” is itself a rhetorical strategy that has several goals: it’s a granting of permission to oneself to ignore anything the other person is saying, as well as a signal to that person that their words are falling on ears that have been rendered deaf before the fact. It’s a neutering of conversation, and saying it is a metaphorical hanging of the “CLOSED” sign on the mind.

The racism-denialist side has become a bit more sophisticated of late, which you can see in the way they have cynically elevated something called “Critical Race Theory” to the status of Bogeyman Supreme in this country. For a good summation of this, I strongly recommend the summation John Oliver did on this season’s opening episode of Last Week Tonight:

Of special interest is the fact that not one of the people shrieking most loudly about “Critical Race Theory” can tell you the first factual thing about “Critical Race Theory”, and that the American right-wing has become so divorced from any factual basis for its constant drum-beating about nonexistent grievances that now their entire debate can be shaped by dishonest actors like Christopher Rufo, who will publicly and openly admit the dishonest nature of their rhetorical framing as they watch their preferred framing of the debate happen anyway. These people are deeply sophisticated in their knowledge of how American media will follow a bouncing ball to the end of the Earth, so long as the ball is set bouncing by the right wing.

I personally do not know much at all about Critical Race Theory, but I am at least aware that my willingness to admit this puts me in an unfortunate minority among white people. Weird irony, that.

What catches me so much about the rhetoric around the thing that right-wingers have crafted in their increasingly fever-minded, fact-deprived heads about “Critical Race Theory” is one objection I hear over and over and over again. You’ll hear it in the Oliver segment above, and I also saw it this past week in comments on a post to my local Nextdoor forum.

(Yes, I’m on Nextdoor, mainly because it’s useful for stuff like “Hey, anybody know what all those sirens were last night” and “Anybody know a good roofer?” But the site is very obnoxious in a lot of other ways, and I’ve imposed a personal rule of never posting at all on it. One good example is the thread from a few weeks ago–and I am not making this up–of a person breathlessly posting about the suspicious-looking ‘colored’ person in the pickup truck who was obviously casing local houses…until someone else on that same street said, “Yeah, that’s Bob. He’s a meter-reader for the power company.” If I had commented on that, I probably would have been banned.)

(UPDATE: Since I wrote this, I closed out my NextDoor account. It just got to be too much idiotic racism.)

A person posted about “Critical Race Theory” being taught! in the local elementary schools!!! Now, this is BS, obviously, and to their credit, a few folks did point out that this is total BS. But equally obviously, “Critical Race Theory” is just a catch-phrase for these people that has come to refer to any mention of race at all, in any context. (Which is what Rufo et al. intended the entire time–again, see Mr. Oliver.) And that framing leads to this specific talking point:

“I do not want my children being taught to feel bad about their country!”

Or:

“I do not want my child being made to feel BAD about their history!”

Or:

“I don’t want my kid being made to feel like they have to answer for things they didn’t do!”

And you know what? Maybe that’s a bit tempting. I never owned any slaves! Why do I have to feel bad about it? Why do have to atone for that? It was 150 years ago! Leave me alone! Lemme be! Get over it!

When you really start digging into this, you realize quickly that these people don’t want history taught as a factual discipline from which we can learn valuable lessons for the future and in which we come to see the flaws as well as the strengths in the generations that preceded us. No, these people want a feel-good story, a hegemonic tale whose purpose is to shape young minds so they get obediently tearful in the presence of a flag (and, maybe just maybe, the creepy politician literally hugging it). They want the Hero’s Epic version of history, with an honesty-obsessed George Washington admitting chopping down the tree years before he stood proud and tall in that boat as he crossed the Delaware. They want a tale of lantern-jawed heroes, always driven forward by God and goodness, with their women at their backs (always, always that) as they hew their destinies from the land itself.

These people want all the feel-good stuff from history, and that’s it. They want heroic inspiration from the brilliance of Thomas Jefferson’s diplomacy and writings, and none of the frankly horrific caution of Thomas Jefferson’s forced relations with his own slaves. It’s this feel-good cherrypicking approach to history that gives me particular pause, because it’s borne of the same lack of curiosity and honesty that leads these same people to embrace nonsense across the board, including rejecting vaccines in favor of some random medication pushed by some random doctor Joe Rogan had on the podcast this week.

“I don’t want my kid to feel bad about their history!”

Look, here’s the thing, for all those people who complain that they don’t want their children being made to feel bad about their history, or to feel like they are being blamed for awful things their ancestors did:

If you’re not going to let the evils in our past make you feel bad, then you don’t get to turn about and let the triumphs in that same past make you feel good.

If you don’t want to feel bad about slavery, or Jim Crow, or red-lining, or the KKK, or resistance to Civil Rights, then you also don’t get to feel good about defeating fascism in World War II, or triumphing over the East in the Cold War, or landing on the Moon. History is not a buffet where you can choose what things you like and which you don’t.

And this isn’t about “feeling bad” in the proper context to “feel good” about the good stuff, either. History isn’t about feeling bad or feeling good. History is about learning what we’ve done, the good and the bad, so we can make better decisions later.

But we don’t want that…or too few of us want that. We don’t want to talk or even hear about race. If we do, we want to pretend that ending officially-sanctioned slavery and quoting a single sentence from a single speech by Martin Luther King is all the discussion race ever needed. I don’t know how we get White America to even come to the table to have the discussion much less honestly engage it in the first place, but I do know that if something in history makes you feel bad, you shouldn’t avoid that topic but interrogate it even harder, because if something your ancestors did a few dozen or a few hundred years ago makes you feel bad, maybe it’s relevant to something going on now.

Maybe.

(Comments are closed on this post.)

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“As if the way one fell down mattered.”

“When the fall is all there is, it matters.” (from THE LION IN WINTER)

I am disgusted by the Supreme Court’s ruling. I, like everyone else, knew it was coming, but the awful thing is no less awful for all the foreknowledge in the world.

I support reproductive rights for all persons, period. I reject the notion utterly that protecting a fetus is the most important thing in the world. (In fact, I’m not terribly convinced that protecting a fetus is all that important at all.)

I don’t know where we go from here, but I know it’s to a deeply ugly version of America that I have no desire to see or live in. We all have to act if we don’t want America’s bible-waving minority to force this country back to a time when abortion, birth control, and homosexuality are all illegal. And make no mistake: they’re not stopping at Roe. They’ve got the taste for blood, they think victory is in hand, and they’re coming.

Right now, the fall is all there is. But there’s a lot of future left. So let’s get up.

(I will reject any comments that try to argue in favor of what this Court has done. Not interested.)

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I miss our old futurists

UPDATED below.

I saw these two tweets the other day, in reaction to Elon Musk’s widely publicized dictum that his employees have to put in their 40 hours a week at the office, no ifs ands or buts, no refunds returns or exchanges, that’s just the way it is, because something something gazpacho:

https://twitter.com/LouisatheLast/status/1532791845322883073

https://twitter.com/LouisatheLast/status/1532792510015320067

I like it when someone comes along and succinctly says something that I’ve been struggling to crystalize in my own mind. Elon Musk is largely feted because he’s apparently a vanguard of our wonderful future…or, at least, that’s the pleasant veneer that has been applied to him. But when you really get down to it, that’s not at all what he is. He’s just a rich capitalist with a shiny thing to sell. That’s it. That’s all he is, all he ever was. He stands on the shoulders of giants and with his piles of money convinces millions that he got there by virtue of some special genius unique to him.

But then he says stuff about his businesses and how he wants his employees to behave and be forced to work, and you get a glimpse under the hood. And you realize there’s nothing new there at all: he’s nothing more than a railroad tycoon, maintaining absolute control over his giant well-moneyed empire.

Elon Musk is no futurist. He has said nothing about improving the human condition in any way other than the same old idea that rich people should just be allowed to keep doing rich people things, that humanity is best served by letting rich people prosper and that their underlings should be happy to work, work, work for the greater glory of The Company and the CEO.

Elon Musk’s future is pretty much the same as the world we’re in now, only with different insignias in chrome on the backs of the cars. It’s a world where the pursuit of wealth is the paramount human concern, where the entire economy is propped up on the illusion of work as the paramount function of the individual, where life must be earned through work. There is nothing new under the sun in Elon Musk’s worldview. Nothing at all.

We need better futurists.

UPDATE: I wrote this post yesterday and scheduled it for this morning. Then, I see this:

https://twitter.com/Stonekettle/status/1533419550158602240

The way Elon Musk wildly vacillates between “Rich Capitalist Overlord Who Demands Loyalty And Labor From His Underlings” and “Aging Stoner Using Star Trek Action Figures To Play-act His Future Visio” really ought to give more of us pause….

 

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Ryan Fitzpatrick for the HOF!!!

NFL quarterback Ryan Fitzpatrick has announced his retirement after a 17-year career. Fitzpatrick was drafted in the 7th round of the 2005 by the Rams, while they were still in St. Louis, after playing college ball at Harvard. He then proceeded to play for nine teams, occasionally being the starter and sometimes having some astonishing games in both directions. He was never a winner–his record is an unimpressive 59-87-1–but strangely, he was.

Ryan Fitzpatrick was one of those quarterbacks who always knew what he wanted to do in any situation, and he always had the confidence to try to do it. He was never once a guy who shrank from the moment. But sadly, he was also a guy who often didn’t have the physical skills–either the arm strength or the speed or the dead accuracy–to make it happen, so the results would sometimes be very, very bad.

With Ryan Fitzpatrick playing, you knew there was potential on every play for something worthy of a highlight reel to happen. Problem was, it could be his team’s highlight reel, or the opponent’s. He might have been a winner someplace, had he landed with a team with a historically good defense–think Jim McMahon or Trent Dilfer–but he also always provided strong leadership and a good presence for the fans. Ryan Fitzpatrick was never great, and everywhere he landed he was generally viewed as the placeholder until the team, whichever team it was, could draft the “Franchise Quarterback”.

That never stopped him, though. Never once did Ryan Fitzpatrick’s confidence flag or falter. Late in his career he played for Tampa Bay (before that team made its own deal with the devil), and he would appear at postgame pressers like this:

Now performing “More Than a Woman”, we have….

But he was also absolutely beloved every single place he went. Nobody ever hated him, and it shows in how he remains beloved in every place he went, after he left. Just this past offseason, Ryan Fitzpatrick attended a playoff game for a team that wasn’t even his, and he took his shirt-off in sub-zero temperatures to cheer the home team, because he had actually played for that particular team ten years prior.

This happened here. Ryan Fitzpatrick played four years with the Bills ten years ago before moving on, and this past year he was with the Washington Football Team…and yet, there he was when the Bills played the Patriots in the wildcard round, shirtless and exuberant:

He never won here, but he did beat Tom Brady’s Patriots here one time, snapping a losing streak to that team that felt like it started in 1938. He had huge plays, and gigantic gaffes. And yet he was beloved, because of stuff like this. He remains beloved, because of stuff like this.

Which is why I think he should be in the Hall of Fame.

I’m being kind-of serious here. I know, I know: the Hall is meant for indisputably great players, and there are statistical thresholds one expects of players in the Hall. And I know, because Fitzpatrick’s stats are hardly gaudy, he’ll never get there. But I submit that it’s the Hall of Fame, not the Hall of Stats. The Hall of Fame does not exist merely to honor numerical excellence. I’m a storyteller, and stories are why I love the Hall of Fame–in fact, stories are what I love most about sports in general. Who doesn’t love sitting with friends around a beer or two, swapping stories about great games and great players or even players who weren’t so great but had some great moments?

We don’t love sports because of stats. Stats help and they’re fun in themselves, but stats aren’t what connect us to sports at the most basic level. Stories are why we connect with sports: stories that we can share, stories that we recall collectively, stories that bind us together in fandom either in love for this team or, yes, hatred for that team or player, the one that always drives in the knife.

I submit that sport is more about story than it has ever been about statistic, and on that basis, I have to say that Ryan Fitzpatrick belongs in the Hall of Fame, because…well, anyone who ever watched him play will have a twinkle in their eye and a knowing smile as they remember his exploits. Sport is compelling because of its stories: its good stories and its happy stories and also its terrible stories, its tragic stories, its sad stories. Numbers are great and important and even essential, but there’s a reason nobody sits around the bar or the campfire with a beer in their hand swapping yarns about the time that one banker did something. There’s no stories in that.

Ryan Fitzpatrick was a great story. There are guys with Hall-worthy stats whom fewer and fewer people will ever talk about again, but I guarantee people will be talking about Ryan Fitzpatrick for a long, long, long time.

That’s a Hall of Famer, in my book.

(I was hoping the Bills would bring Fitz back here for just one season, as Josh Allen’s backup. To see him come back here and maybe get a ring? That would have given his story the sheen of fairy tale, wouldn’t it?)

(And yes, by my definition, my Hall of Fame would have to include Tom Brady. But my Hall of Fame would have a Wing of Pure Evil….)

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On Memorial Day (an annual repost)

Here is my annual reposting of some things that pertain to Memorial Day. This particular year’s iteration of this day gives me pause to consider my sense that many of the things for which the men and women we honor today fought and died may be slowly, or quickly, passing into memory. I hope not….
 
First, a remembrance of a soldier I never knew.

Fifteen years ago I wrote the following on Memorial Day, and I wanted to revisit it. It’s about the Vietnam Veteran whose name I remember, despite the fact that I had no relation to him and clearly never knew him, because he was killed four years before I was born.

Memorial Day, for all its solemnity, has for me always been something of a distant holiday, because no one close to me has ever fallen in war, and in fact I have to look pretty far for relatives who have even served in wartime. Both of my grandfathers fought in World War I, but both had been dead for years when I was born. I know that an uncle of mine served during World War II, but I also know that he saw no action (not to belittle his service, but Memorial Day is generally set aside to remember those who paid the “last full price of devotion”). My father-in-law served in Viet Nam, but my own father did not (he had college deferments for the first half of the war, and was above draft age during the second). So there is little in my family history to personalize Memorial Day; for me, it really is a day to remember “all the men and women who have died in service to the United States”.

One personal remembrance, though, does creep up for me each Memorial Day. It has nothing at all to do with my family; in fact, I have no connection with the young man in question.

When I was in grade school, during the fall and spring, when the weather was nice, we would have gym class outdoors, at the athletic field. On good days we’d play softball or flag football or soccer; on not-so-good days we’d run around the quarter-mile track. But the walk to the athletic field involved crossing the street in front of the school and walking a tenth of a mile or so down the street, past the town cemetery. I remember that at the corner of the cemetery we passed, behind the wrought-iron fence, the grave of a man named Larry Havers was visible. His stone was decorated with a photograph of him, in military uniform. I don’t recall what branch in which he served, nor do I recall his date-of-birth as given on the stone, but I do recall the year of his death: 1967. I even think the stone specified the specific battle in which he was killed in action, but I’m not sure about that, either.

That’s what I remember each Memorial Day: the grave of a man I never knew, who died four years before I was born in a place across the world to which I doubt I’ll ever go. And in the absence of anyone from my own family, Mr. Havers’s name will probably be the one I look for if I ever visit that memorial in Washington. I hope his family wouldn’t mind.

I looked online and found these images, first of Mr. Havers’s obituary and then of Mr. Havers himself. The things you remember. I wonder what kind of man he was. He has been gone for more than half a century. His name is not forgotten.

 

Mr. Havers’s service information can be found on the Virtual Vietnam Wall here. He was born 14 October 1946 and died 29 October 1967, in Thua Thien.

Next, my annual repost for Memorial Day.
 

Tomb of Unknown Soldier

 

Know, all who see these lines,
That this man, by his appetite for honor,
By his steadfastness,
By his love for his country,
By his courage,
Was one of the miracles of the God.
— Guy Gavriel Kay

“The Green Field of France”, by Eric Bogle
Well, how do you do, young Willie McBride,
Do you mind if I sit down here by your graveside?
And rest for awhile ‘neath the warm summer sun,
I’ve been walking all day, and I’m nearly done.
I see by your gravestone you were only 19
When you joined the great fallen in 1916,
I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean
Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death-march as they lowered you down?
Did the band play The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?

Did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
And, though you died back in 1916,
To that faithful heart are you forever 19?
Or are you a stranger without even a name,
Enshrined then, forever, behind a glass pane,
In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained,
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame?

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death-march as they lowered you down?
Did the band play The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?

The sun’s shining down on these green fields of France;
The warm wind blows gently, and the red poppies dance.
The trenches have vanished long under the plow;
No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard that’s still No Man’s Land
The countless white crosses in stand mute in the sand
To man’s blind indifference to his fellow man,
And a whole generation who were butchered and damned.

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death-march as they lowered you down?
Did the band play The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?

And I can’t help but wonder, no Willie McBride,
Do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did they really believe when they answered the call,
Did they really believe that this war would end wars?
Well the sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the pain
The killing and dying, was all done in vain,
For young Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death-march as they lowered you down?
Did the band play The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?

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When in Rome….

The Wife and I are traveling this weekend, spending a few days in the Finger Lakes. We got back to our rented cottage yesterday, when I found a Direct Message from a Facebook friend. It was something along the line of “I hope it didn’t happen in YOUR workplace, and I hope you’re OK.”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

I learned quickly.

No, that was not my workplace. I do work in a Buffalo area grocery store, but not that chain and not in that area. It’s appalling nonetheless, on so many levels. I’ve often thought about what it would be like when it happened where I work. Not if, but when. I know every way out of my building, every place I can hole up if I can’t get out, every object I might use if defense becomes necessary.

I shouldn’t have to think like this.

But that’s not even the worst of it, is it?

It’s an entire community of human beings, specifically targeted again. Reminded that they will always be targeted, again. Reminded of this country’s long ghastly history of this stuff, again. Confronted by our nation’s abject refusal to admit its past and atone, again.

That’s all we do in this country: it’s just one big litany of again. Again. Again.

No horror, no injustice, no violent outcome is ever enough for us to collectively say, “No more.” We will be back about our business by, oh, I don’t know. Dinner time today, I guess.

I don’t have anything insightful to say about this. I have no suggestions for a way forward, because even if I did, we very clearly don’t want a way forward. We’re not interested. At this point, the warp and weft of America isn’t fate, nor is it judgment handed down from on high. It’s a choice.

We are the country we have chosen to be, and I see no reason to believe we are going to choose to be anything other than this.

And that is how America will fade into history.

I often wonder these days about Roman citizens around the year, oh, 350CE. Or 400. Maybe even a bit later.

The commonly accepted date for the fall of the Roman Empire is 476CE, but it’s not as if there was some grand proclamation in Latin officially ending the Empire. It just withered, and that’s when historians generally agree that beyond that point, with the deposing of that last Emperor, that nothing existed that could be meaningfully called “the Roman Empire”.

But I wonder about the citizens who lived in Rome not long before that. Did a Roman potter in 422CE sense that it was ending? A fisherman in what is now Napoli? A seamstress in modern-day Tuscany? Did they have some feeling that the Empire in which they lived was soon to be history?

And if they did, did it feel something like what it feels to be an American now?

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Then: Hoovervilles! Now: Shapirovilles!

So, a couple weeks back, a video made the rounds of social media that was billed as “A progressive DESTROYS Ben Shapiro!!!!” Now, this is an obnoxious tendency in our click-bait era, when any time a person on one side challenges someone on the other in “debate”, it’s described as “Joe ABSOLUTELY DEMOLISHES Donald!” or the like. It’s pretty tiresome, because every time I watch one of these, it’s never really one person UTTERLY CRUSHING the other. It might be a slight upper-hand, but that’s about it. And this video was a case in point.

The video wasn’t worthless, though, because while it didn’t show Shapiro getting reduced to a pile of sniveling tears, it did put Shapiro’s debate “style” on display. (If you’re not familiar with Ben Shapiro, you are really lucky and really not missing much. He’s one of the current darlings of America’s right-wing, and he’s as nauseating now as he was when he was a 15-year-old kid writing pro-Iraq war columns back in the early 2000s.) A guy stepped up to the q-and-a mike at one of Ben Shapiro’s events and challenged him on the topic of “wokeism” (which is in itself a deeply tiring and dull obsession of America’s right wing, but I digress). When the guy started talking, the audience went “Oooooooh!”, thus demonstrating part one of Shapiro’s strategy: Always have a friendly audience.

The next thing Shapiro did was to let the guy talk just long enough that he’d be able to say that “I let you speak”, and then he began talking over the guy, basically taking over. Shapiro then went into his personal definition of “wokeism”, which is a definition that is just full of nonsensical characterizations, but when the guy at the mike tried pushing back, guess what: Ben starts with the “I let you speak, now it’s my turn” stuff, and he spouted some more nonsense, very quickly. That’s the second of Shapiro’s debate tricks: speak quickly and sound authoritative. The strategy is to get so much BS into the air that it’s difficult for the other interlocutor to figure out where to start.

And when the interlocutor does start, Ben turned to his final trick: he had the friendly folks running his event cut off the guy’s mike.

People like Ben Shapiro are why I think “debate” is a giant waste of time. The ability to debate has little to do with being correct, or analyzing issues, or providing genuine factual context. It’s about speaking quickly and maintaining composure while speaking quickly. The person who controls the conversation is the one who “wins” the debate (and frankly, the idea that a debate should be “winnable” in the sense that a football game is “winnable” is utter nonsense), not the one with the better ideas or the more correct interpretation of the facts. This is why I never watch debates of any kind, not even the final Presidential debates.

The proper way to engage Ben Shapiro, if engage him one must, is shown in the following video. Apparently this guy managed to so get under Shapiro’s skin with this that Shapiro blocked him on social media:

(This is actually an excerpt from a longer video.)

Video like this, where you can isolate each bullshit bullet point that comes from Shapiro’s mouth and bask in the scent of its idiocy, is the best way to deal with him and his comrades-in-arms. (I was going to say “ilk”, but wow, do I hate the word “ilk”. It sounds like an incomplete word, like someone choked out a syllable and someone else decided, “OK, that’s the word, I guess.”) His intellectual nonsense is so much more obvious when he’s not able to surround it by a lot of other rapid-fire nonsense.

This specific brand of Shapiro dopeyness came to mind earlier today when I saw this on Twitter:

In honor of Ben “Don’t you think they’d have already sold their houses and moved?” Shapiro, I propose that since we’re going to see much, much, much more of these “houses crumble into the sea” videos in the years to come, we should dub such locales where this happens as Shapirovilles. Not unlike the Hoovervilles of the Great Depression.

Shapirovilles: where the real estate trends favor mer-people!

 

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Quiz-things? Remember those?

Roger has a quiz-thing! Remember those? They used to be so common in the high days of blogging, and they were always–well, usually–fun and reliable ways to generate a bit of blog content if you were hard up for inspiration. So, let’s do this!

1. Do you like your handwriting? 

Not especially. Over the last few years my day-to-day scrawl has become even worse, so I have to remind myself to write more slowly if I want to be able to read my own stuff. I have given some thought, and even made a few small efforts, to revive my cursive, but wow, that’s hard now. I’m going to have to dedicate energy to that, if I want it to continue. Luckily, it gives me a good excuse to use my fountain pens.

2. Do you like roller coasters?

I haven’t been on one in forever, so I’m not sure anymore! But I used to like them quite a lot, though with two provisos: 1. I don’t like being flipped upside-down, and 2. I don’t like coasters in the dark where I can’t see what’s happening.

3. Do you like scary movies? 

I love the horror genre, but I don’t like too much gore, and I prefer my horror in print or viewed on the small screen, with lights on.

4. Do you like shopping? 

Depends on what! Antiquing? Books? Vintage clothing? That’s all a blast, as are souvenir shops in places I’m new to visiting. Art and craft shows, too. Trips to Target/Wal-mart? Ewww, no. And if I’m looking for something I have to have–say, a showerhead breaks and I need a new one–that’s a drag.

5. Do you like to talk on the phone?

I do not. I’ve been this way forever. When The Wife and I started dating and I returned home to WNY in summer while she stayed in our college town, I didn’t call her enough and my phone calls were of the grunted-reply variety. It took her a bit to get used to my distaste for talking on the phone. Later, I got a telesales job where part of our performance metric was how much cumulative time we spent on the phones. It’s no surprise that I got fired from this job. (That was part downsizing, part “This guy sucks at this”, and we ended up moving a month later so I would have quit anyway, so I honestly can’t hold a grudge.)

6. Do you sleep with the lights on or off? 

Off, but I need a bit of light somewhere, be it the light from outside through a window, or a tiny nightlight, something. I get freaked out when I try to sleep in complete darkness.

7. Do you use headphones or earphones?

When I walk doggos around the neighborhood, or sometimes at work when I’m doing something repetitive. Or when I’m at home working, or I’m writing someplace out and about. I actually like headphones a lot and I have several. My favorites now are my Bluetooth earbuds and a pair of Bluetooth over-the-head headphones

8. Do you have tattoos? Do you want any?

No. I do think about it once in a while, but it’s nowhere near a priority for me to get one.

9. Do you wear glasses?

Yes! I’ve had glasses in one form or another ever since I was in first grade. Ask my mother about the time I stepped on my glasses! She loves that story! (I don’t think she likes that story, actually.)

10. What is your strangest talent?

I’ve honestly no idea.

11. Have you ever been in the hospital? 

No. I figure that string

12. What color mostly dominates your wardrobe?

Blue, because of the overalls collection.

13. What’s your most expensive piece of clothing?

A pair of Hickory-striped vintage Lee overalls. No, I will not divulge how much I paid for them.

14. Have you ever had braces?

No, thank God. As a trumpet player in school, braces would have been an absolute curse. I seem to recall a dentist who wanted to put me in braces, but my mother put the squash down on that idea.

15. Have you ever been on TV?

Yes. In college, one year our annual Big Christmas Concert was recorded and televised on Iowa Public Television. A while back, a college friend who was also in that concert digitized it and put it online. Ye Gods, how I hated my hair back then! Since then I have not been on teevee to my knowledge, unless it was a crowd shot at some event I visited.

That was fun! More quiz-things, I say! [bangs ale flagon on the table]

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Two quotes

Here are a couple of brief quotes from two different teevee shows, both of which (the quotes, that is) have been on my mind this week:

“Why are we still talking about this?” (Captain Mal Reynolds, FIREFLY)

“You’ll have doled out five thousand dollars worth of punishment for a fifty-buck crime.” (Admiral Fitzwallace, THE WEST WING)

No, I’m not going to illuminate just why those two quotes have been on my mind. But in both cases there’s not just a single reason.

 

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“They’re called ‘quotation marks’.”

Diving a bit deep into the weeds of the writer brain, I’m always thinking about…quotation marks. Because my way of using them is, for most Americans, incorrect. This drives my poor friend and editor, Jason Bennion, to distraction each and every time I send a manuscript his way. And I am always sympathetic, apologetic, and…unwilling to change.

What’s the issue?

The problem isn’t quotation marks in passages of dialogue; those I deploy correctly (or when I mess up, it’s a genuine typo). My problem comes when using quotation marks when denoting words or phrases specifically, at the end of a sentence. Because now the question becomes, Where does the punctuation go?

In American usage, punctuation always goes inside the quotation marks, no matter what:

“Surely you’re joking,” he said. “You cannot seriously think we’re going to let Mr. Bond live.”

Now, that example I get right. But here’s an example where I differ with many:

He passed her a slip of paper on which he had written a single word: “Monopoly”.

See the difference? In American usage that should be:

He passed her a slip of paper on which he had written a single word: “Monopoly.”

To me, though, that looks wrong. And it always has looked wrong to me. In my brain, what’s in the quotes is itself a single unit, and I honestly don’t get why the period should be inside. This holds even for phrases in quotes:

We were playing Hearts, and as I looked at my hand, I realized I could take all the tricks in this hand. This is called “Shooting the Moon”.

But, if that phrase where in a sentence that is itself a quote? I get even messier:

I looked at my hand and I thought to myself, “Look at this hand! I might try…’Shooting the Moon’!”

Again, this drives my editor friend crazy.

To my great delight, though, a while back I did some searching to see just how badly incorrect I am on this–not that I had any intention of correcting my habit, because at this point in my life the die is cast, I can budge no farther on this, and it will have to be my way of things, one of my authorial and personal editorial quirks, not unlike how The New Yorker always employs a diaresis in words containing diphthongs (not to be confused with the umlaut)–I found an article that makes the point very nicely. It turns out that my preferred usage of quotation marks aligns with the British:

Since a period marks the end of a sentence, it should not be placed before marking the end of the quotation. You can compare this with nested or hierarchical structures, or with stacks, or even with first in, first out methods of computing, systems theory or asset management. Under any comparison, the British style will seem preferable to the American. You resolve the nested item first, before resolving the parent.

While I certainly do not align with the British in all such matters, in this one, their approach seems much more logical and sensible, as well as more consistent. But reading this post, I suddenly realize where my tendency on this comes from: way back when I was a computer nerd (in another universe I’m something of a computer programmer), I learned that in programming, parentheses must always be closed, and if you closed them incorrectly, bad things would happen to your program. If you had a program section or line with multiple parentheses-usages inside each other, you had to close them out. This results oddly (in passages that (might look kind of (if you’re not used to it) strange)). This also made debugging programs a lot of fun, if the bug that was killing your program was that somewhere in Line 63 you had three left-parentheses but only two right-ones.

So I treat quote-marks as programmers do parentheses: You close one out before doing anything else, and that includes any punctuation that does not specifically belong to the word or words in the quotation marks.

I shall therefore continue using my quotation marks in the British manner, and I shall continue to “eschew the American”.

i have spoken

 

 

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