I can sorta understand why UC raised tuition so drastically - they are another victim of the economic landslide. But they handled it poorly, and I'm sure they could have kept things going with a far smaller increase. So when I heard that students were taking buildings, I was pleasantly surprised. Good for them. Education is the only provable cure for society's ills. Rich people need to give more to educational institutions than they do to varied governmental lobbies. The government needs to give less money to bank bonuses and more money to teach people how to not have any more bank problems.
CNN's story about the protests
This is for my friend, Sully. He is a favorite internet read of mine. He's my people (in a way). He speaks his mind, he talks a lot about a lot of different stuff, from the evolution of human civilization to what constitutes great pizza, and he does it all in a written voice of such humor and candor that I can't help but read, even if I've heard the stories before. Also, he's from New England - I'm from the metro New York area, so we've got a lot of cultural/sociological commonalities. Lastly, he has a unique musical palette that I find ear-opening. If you're sold, go read his stories by clicking on this section of the sentence you are currently reading.
His latest essay is on 15 albums he'd bring with him to a desert island. It's an eclectic grouping, and the rationales for each are soulful. So, for him, here's the long version of one of the songs from one of the records he chose:
Crazy. A school bus, loaded with kids, drove down the street next to our local elementary school (a block from our house), somehow caught its side-view mirror on a support cable for an electrical pole, which immediately brought the pole down on top of the bus. No injuries, amazingly. This happened just today - Click here to read the local news story.
I get most of my daily intelligence briefings from the internet (including, but not limited to, The New York Times, The LA Times, The Washington Post, Fox News (gotta see what the other side's up to), The Jerusalem Post, CNN, The Daily Breeze (the paper that covers our local neighborhoods), The Guardian (UK), and others)... In addition to straight news, I also read a few tech-oriented websites, for keeping up with current gadgetry/science. And then there's Boing Boing. Boing Boing is its own entity, a unique gem of a site. In a nutshell, Boing Boing is a blog with four contributors (along with the a fifth guest-host, a position which rotates every few weeks). These folks post a brilliant bricolage of science/pop culture/current events/weirdness that I find highly educational and immensely entertaining. While they are a "blog," they currently average approximately 5 million readers a month. That's unique readers (or individual computer addresses, to put it another way). So I guess it's nice to know I'm not alone. In fact, I know that there are more than one of my fifteen readers who are fans of Boing Boing. For the rest of you, if you haven't yet, take a few moments to peruse their content: Boing Boing
Anyway, what does this have to do with the title of this entry? In the recent past (depending on when you read this, it could have been yesterday or the day before or the day before that) Boing Boing ran a post pointing to a newly-written article about the history and current state of an internet protocol (application) that pre-dates the web, a protocol known as Gopher. For those unfamiliar, Gopher was sort-of like the web without pictures, a text-only listing of a computer's public "stuff." Back in 1993, before the first web browser fell into wide distribution, if you wanted to use the internet to get a file from another computer, your choices were limited to FTP or Gopher. FTP was nice if you knew exactly where you needed to go to find the file you were after, but Gopher was better, because it was searchable in a variety of ways. Unfortunately/fortunately, Gopher went away with the explosive popularity/ease of use of HTML (the code that was used to create the first web pages, a code that is still widely used today) and the free web browser Mosaic (...the Gopher folks also announced that they were going to start charging a fee for its use, which didn't create a lot of love in the burgeoning internet community). In other words, when HTML hit town, anyone with a middle-school diploma could utilize it to set up their own server, easily offering up their "stuff" to an ever-increasing number of novice computer users. Gopher was, in a relative instant, obsolete.
The following years were wonderful, especially for folks like me. I wasn't blessed with a math/engineering brain, yet I was able to teach myself this new way of using the internet. And there were plenty of folks like me out there, computer geeks with both a mild amount of computer programming know-how and an infinite desire to see other people's stuff. The rest of the 90s and the vast part of our current decade were a grand time for me, internet-wise.
But now I've begun to notice that the web has become a bit top-heavy, in that the substance out there is so thickly coated in fancy graphic ornamentation that the internet is, at times, difficult to navigate. The web used to be fairly clean and streamlined. But an over-abundance of graphic designers and an under-abundance of content-makers (a result of our ever-crumbling public education system) have led us to our current environment of almost-incomprehensible web sites. The sites who can afford skilled graphic designers are ok (few are actually lovely), but the vast majority of today's websites are constructed by folks with little or no design education, so the pages are impenetrable, like a dark and dense forest hiding potential treasure. It is this current state that has me misty-eyed for the heady days of the mid-90s, when the internet was uncluttered, sleek, easy to traverse.
My intent is not to complain. I'm impossibly grateful for what I have. The internet, the web is a true garden of delights - everything is out there, no matter where your interests lie. Yet I feel a certain hesitancy when I use today's web, a slight reluctance borne of the knowledge that my internet travels will be a tad more difficult. Not a big thing, but something I felt was worth mentioning.
Bored To Death contains some of Ted Danson's best work.
As a preamble, to those who read this, our family has been hit with a head-cold, felling us like dominoes. Noe is fully recovered, Nich is on his way, maybe he's passed the half-way mark, Leslie is doing better, but a little more coughy than Nich, and I am the rotten egg, having been hit with it last. It hasn't hit me as hard as the others, due, I assume, to my charm and savoir-faire. Nothing dramatic about any of this, but if you've noticed we've been a little out of the press lately, this is why.
As Leslie and Nich took the brunt of it over the weekend, there was a lot of laying around, watching films. Mostly Harry Potter, as Noe is on a binge lately, like some extended Harry Potter lost weekend. (In fact, much to my surprise, I've been so affected by her devotion that I've started reading the series. While I enjoy reading quite a bit, fantasy is not my cup of tea. The Harry Potter series was something I just thought I'd take a pass on, but I found myself watching these films with Noe and asking so many questions that I realized the only choice I had was to start reading the novels.)
But that's not what I came here to tell you about.
After so many Harry Potter films, I wanted a respite, so I turned on The Fifth Element, my favorite science fiction film. While watching the scene with Plavalaguna performing that wonderful version of Il dolce suono, I was reminded of how beautiful I found the original opera, Lucia di Lammermoor. It's story is reminiscent of Romeo & Juliet, so if you haven't experienced this opera yet, you may well enjoy the plot as well as the soaring arias. Which is what I came here to tell you about. I'd like to share with you a performance of the original composition "Lucia di Lammermoor," and Spargi d'amaro pianto, in English: The Mad Scene. In this scene, Lucia has gone so far 'round the bend that she experiences a full-bore hallucination where she thinks she is going to marry the man she loves, even though he's dead. Pretty moving stuff. -- For those of you who are fans of The Fifth Element, you will undoubtadly recognize the aria.
Some folks may not have a taste for the band Rush, but I am a nigh-trufan (I'm a devotee of their entire catalog up to the mid-eighties, but then their song-writing train ran out of steam) - If you dig any one of the sub-genres of rockandroll, you just may dig this track, "Vital Signs," a lesser-known track from their monster 1981 album "Moving Pictures."
The following is a short story by William S. Burroughs, from a collection entitled "Tornado Alley." This tale is certainly my favorite of Burroughs' shorter works, and it serves as an exceptional model for artful writing:
Where He Was Going
by William S. Burroughs
Farm kitchen, blinds drawn, guns propped in corners. Plates and glasses have been shoved aside to make room for road maps. Four men lean over the maps. There's a basic sameness in the faces. Kerosene lamps cast a flickering light of death on cheekbones and lips on the tired, alert eyes.
"Sure to have roadblocks here and here."
Ishmael pours a generous portion of whiskey into a dirty glass.
"Couldn't we just hole up here?"
"Uh-uh. If they don't rumble us moving out, they will close in for a house-to-house search. Makes sense. Let's try it here."
And suddenly it occurred to him that he was going to die, not sooner or later, he knew that of course, they all did, but tonight. It came in a puff, the wind that makes a candle flicker, the sick hollow fear hit him like a kick in the stomach. He doubled slightly forward, supporting himself on the back of a chair. It's always like this, he tells himself, the fear, and then the rush of courage and a clean sweet feeling of being born. He read that somewhere in an old Western.
But the fear can go on and on until you can't stand it. It's going to break you, and that's when the fear breaks... he hopes.
"Let's go," he croaks.
He wonders if they're all as scared as he is. His gun seems clumsy and heavy in his hands, alien, malignant.
Sure they are but they don't talk about it. Click of hammers and breeches.
They're in the car now, shutting the door. He is sitting by the car door on the right side. The road is full of holes, and water in the holes in deep ruts.
Please G-d we don't get stuck: seeing themselves stumbling around in the woods with the bloodhounds closing in.
"Stop! Douse the light!" ... Chug-chug.
Another car coming this way, closer. The light coming around the corner of a narrow road between heavy timber.
Ishmael gets out slow, his feet like blocks of wood, and stands in the middle of the road, his hands up.
The old car sputters to a stop. Old gray man behind the wheel.
Ishmael walks over slow and shows the old man the wallet.
"FBI!"
Ishmael's lips are numb. This is no pawnshop badge: it's a perfect replica of the real thing, with cards to go with it. Made up by a forger in Toronto. Cost a hundred and fifty dollars. Flashed him out of some tight spots.
The old man sits there with his face blank.
"We're looking for some bank robbers holed up around here. You live here long?"
"Forty years."
"Must know the area."
He brings out a road map.
"Now we've got roadblocks up here and here and here. Is there any other way they could get out?"
"Yep. Old wagon road, cuts in right here. Bit rough, but they can make it. Comes out on County Road 52. Yep, they could get clean away."
"If your information checks out, you'll be eligible for a reward of five hundred dollars." He hands the old man a card. "Just call the FBI office in Tulsa."
I'll do that. I surely will." The old man drives on.
The driver studies the map under the dashboard lights.
"Make it exactly five and three-tenths to the turnoff."
Old man on the phone. "That's right, posing as a G-man."
Ishmael remembers old Doc Benway saying, "You face death all the time, and for that time you are immortal."
The raccoon crosses the road, its eyes bright green in the headlights, not hurrying, slipping along, and it came with a rush, a sudden evil-smelling emptiness. And the raccoon was slipping lightly along the edges.
"Get away to Mexico. I've been there. Only way to live. Got five G's in a money belt. Go a long way down there."
The fear is back around his chest, like a soft vise squeezing the air out, the gun heavy in his hands: he knows he couldn't lift it. All the strength is running out of him, in waves of searing pain.
They pull around a corner and light jabs into his eyes, his brain explodes in a white flash. And he is free: throwing the door open, jumping out in the air as the windshield explodes, sending yellow shards, and Tom throws a hand in front of his face.
Very light on his feet, the tommygun light in his hands like a dream-gun, when a sincere young agent (religious son-of-a-bitch too) leaps to his feet, rifle level.
He hadn't made his dog meat yet, as they call it.
"Animals!" his fellow agents tell him, "That's what they are! Animals! And
don't you forget it!"
"Get down for Christ' sakes!" bellows the DS, and Ish stitches three .45s across the boy's lean young chest an inch apart.
He has the touch.
"It's an instrument," Machine-Gun Kelly told him. "Play it."
He must have dozed off in the car. Another shootout dream. He knows they have been driving all night. Home safe now. Coming down into a valley. Warm wind and the smell of water. From here you climb ten thousand feet to the pass. Remembers Mexico City and his first reefer cigarette: went crazy on him, wonderful crazy wandering down Nio Perdido and everywhere he sees sugar skulls and fireworks, kids biting into the skulls. "Dia de los Muertos," a boy tells him and smiles, showing white teeth and red gums. Very white, very red, and whiter and redder than life. And he thought, "Why not? I done it in the Reform School."
The boy has a gardenia behind his ear. He wears a white spotless cotton shirt and pants to the ankle with sandals. He smells of vanilla. Ish used to drink it in Reform School.
The boy understands. He knows Ulugar.
They stop to watch two pinwheels spinning in opposite directions. He remembers the queasy floating feeling he got watching it, like being in a fast elevator.
The boy is smiling now and pointing to the black space between the pinwheels as they sputter out. And the blackness spreads wide as all the world and then he knew that was where he was going.
Ishmael died when they picked up the stretcher.
Being opposed to gay marriage but supporting civil unions is like saying gays can't drive, but it's ok for them to ride in taxis. Ugh.
My brother pointed me to a new policy being implemented by the Transportation Security Administration (here's his post). Very soon, they will require that, if you fly, your government-issued identification needs to display a name that matches exactly the name printed on your airline ticket. The specific language from the TSA reads:
- Boarding passes may not always display the exact name you provided when booking your travel. The name you provide when booking your travel is used to perform the watch list matching before a boarding pass is ever issued, so small differences should not impact your travel. Secure Flight is a behind-the-scenes process that TSA and airlines collaborate on to compare the information you provide against government watch lists. The additional data elements that you may be asked to provide, such as date of birth and gender, serve to better differentiate you from individuals on the government watch list.
You should ensure that the name provided when booking your travel matches the government ID that you will use when traveling. However, TSA has built some flexibility into the processes regarding passenger name accuracy. For the near future, small differences between the passenger's ID and the passenger's reservation information, such as the use of a middle initial instead of a full middle name or no middle name/initial at all, should not cause a problem for the passenger. Over time, passengers should strive to obtain consistency between the name on their ID and their travel information.
First, wow, consider for a moment what your government is doing. I'm sure you're familiar with all of this, but take another pass at these thoughts: There's a watch list. The government, your government, is collecting your personal information (middle name, flight information, date of birth, gender, etc.) and using it to keep tabs on your whereabouts. They are surveilling you without judicial oversight.
Second, they are requiring identification when you, a citizen of the United States of America, travel from one state to another using public airlines.
I'm a staunch supporter of the rights given to me by the Constitution of the United States. I believe that until legislation by Congress overturns any right guaranteed me in the Constitution or until the Supreme Court overturns any Constitutional guarantee, I get to stand behind that document, with the full knowledge that it is the last word on my personal freedoms.
With regard to travel within the United States, the Constitution provides a pretty clear right of travel. While not explicitly stated, my right to travel without identification or investigation is guaranteed in several sections of the Constitution.
First, take a look at the Privileges and Immunities Clause in Article IV, which states, "The Citizens of each State shall be entitled to all Privileges and Immunities of Citizens in the several States." - In other words, if I don't need identification to travel within the borders of the state of Nebraska, if I cross the border into Kansas, I do not need identification, as the Nebraska privilege applies in Kansas. This means that if I am riding a bike and I cross the border, if there is no probable cause, the Kansas police cannot stop me and demand identification because I traveled from Nebraska. Article IV's Privileges and Immunities Clause guarantees me safe passage, with full protection from federal government interference.
So if I take a plane instead of a bike, the rule still covers me. I am a citizen and the Constitution defends me against the need for any papers identifying who I am (assuming a lack of probable cause).
And if Article IV isn't enough, I am further protected by the Fourteenth Amendment. Section 1 states: "All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside. No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws."
This clearly makes the request/demand for identification when traveling by plane (within the United States) unconstitutional. If I am acting in a manner that is, within a reasonable doubt, perceived as lawful, the 14th Amendment protects me, as it grants me immunity as a citizen of the United States.
And if anyone questions my conclusion stated here, I respectfully point them to the 1966 US Supreme Court decision in United States v. Guest. The Court, debating the rights of African-Americans traveling between states, held, in part, "As construed to protect Fourteenth Amendment rights § 241 is not unconstitutionally vague, since, by virtue of its being a conspiracy statute it operates only against an offender acting with specific intent to infringe the right in question (Screws v. United States, 325 U. S. 91) and the right to equal use of public facilities described in the indictment has been made definite by decisions of this Court"
This language makes it clear - if I am not acting in an unlawful manner or suspected of acting in an unlawful manner, I retain the right to equal use of public facilities. Airlines are public facilities. I get to fly without identification (from state to state).
Our government, despite all of the above, requests identification from those lawful citizens traveling from one state to another via an airplane. Most folks provide their i.d., but a few haven't, and litigation has followed. One such example is John Gilmore, who refused to identify himself when attempting to fly to Washington, DC in July of 2002. He stood his ground, requesting that the TSA agents provide him proof of any law that required his identification in order to lawfully travel within the U.S. It turned into a scene (as this was not too long after 9/11 and the US government was clamping down hard, in the name of security, under the guise of protecting the citizenry. Eventually Mr. Gilmore sued the Attorney General of the United States (John Ashcroft). The case was heard in US District Court, where the case was found in favor of the plaintiff. The language that bears focus is the concluding finding: "In regards to the right to travel issue which counsel argues they should not be liable for, again, this goes right back to the secret law issue, as to whether or not they have the right to demand id or not. We do not know what that law is because it's not been published. The government has stated, as we mentioned in our addendum that the airlines are not mandated to demand, merely request it."
I plead with my fellow Americans to never give our government license to arbitrarily overturn or ignore the Constitution, under any circumstance. Each of us, individually and collectively, deserve full protection under the law, for the law is what protects us from the government.
- "They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety." —Benjamin Franklin
Richard Feynman, Carl Sagan, Bill Nye, and Neil deGrasse Tyson in a beautiful auto-tuned mix. Indeed, we are all connected:
First, there's a select few of you who are big fans of "Doonesbury" by Garry Trudeau. To those few, the title of this blog might have caused a giggle of a memory, as you're experiencing what Mike and others experienced when he received Joinie and Rick's wedding invitation (First come's the invitation, where they spell the groom's name wrong. Then comes the first errata note, where they correct the spelling of the name, but in doing so, misspell another word, prompting a note, titled "Erratum #2." -- Trudeau is a pretty funny guy, and I find that to be one of his best "just for laughs" gags.
Second, I goofed again. It occurs to me that I am the only one getting the first email, the one that goes out immediately after publishing. The rest of you get my blog entries sent to your email boxes some time later, which gave me enough time to fix the obvious errors. Which means that one or two of you found this amusing and the rest of you, if you are still reading this, have just wasted quite a few of the very precious minutes of your life, minutes that you will never, ever get back. Sad, really, when you think about it.
- "Sorry, did I say something wrong?" said Marvin, dragging himself on regardless. "Pardon me for breathing, which I never do anyway so I don't know why I bother to say it, oh God I'm so depressed. Here's another one of those self-satisfied doors. Life! Don't talk to me about life."
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Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, 1979First, corrigendum is nominative future passive of corrigere, "to correct". Corrigendum is almost the same as the more familiar erratum. Erratum means that it's the printer's fault, corrigendum means that it's the author's fault.
Second, to those of you who receive my blog entries by email, the original Descartes bit was an original draft, rife with mistakes. Please use a web browser to go to my blog to see the final draft, which I crafted until it looked nice.
Third, to those of you who don't care or come here via the web, head on home with yourselves, there's nothin' to see here.
"Je pense donc je suis,"
"I think, therefore I am"
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René Descartes, Discourse on the Method, 1637"But what then am I? A thinking thing. And what is that? Something that doubts, understands, affirms, denies, wills, refuses, and also senses and has mental images."
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René Descartes, Meditations on First Philosophy, 1641
Tonight, in a deeply wooded section of southern New Jersey, a joyful noise will be heard. 25 years, my college radio station began its broadcasting journey and tonight will be the official anniversary party. I won't be attending, due to distance and expense, but I will be there in spirit, celebrating the memories of a genuinely enraptured time in my life. Those of you who really know me know that music is, family/friends aside, my dearest companion. And while I was taught well by my mom and dad and sister and brother, the folks at my campus radio station gave me an advanced degree in musicology.
I arrived at Stockton State College back in the fall of 1985, and, almost immediately, walked into the campus radio station as if I'd been pushed there by a phantom. (For those of you who believe in a higher power, I look back on things and feel secure that there was some heavenly handiwork going on)
At the time, I was aware that music was good stuff, no doubt, but my exposure to it was but a fraction of what it is today. My folks taught me about Sinatra, about Big Band, about Jewish music. My siblings taught me about rock&roll and folk and gave me tastes of other genres. The radio (via my own curiosity) taught me about classical and jazz. But the time I spent at the campus station not only gave me far deeper insight into all of these, but taught me just about every other genre on the planet, from the piphat music of Thailand to the bluegrass music of the Appalachia. It was four years of musical bliss, with passionate instructors (disk jockeys) who never tired of my endless curiosity.
Looking back, I see that things could have been different. I could have made different choices, I could have turned my focus elsewhere. And while I am comfortable admitting that I've a few tiny regrets about my wayward youth, the many, many hours spent at WLFR are precious gifts that I would never give back, not for all the money in the world.
I raise a glass to my brothers and sisters at WLFR, 91.7FM, Lake Fred Radio. I toast each and every one of you, for sharing a piece of yourselves with me, a benefaction of unimagined splendor. Bless you all.
And for those who dug the Shostakovich, here's a rockin' little number from Beethoven. It's his Große Fuge, Opus 133, as performed by the Alban Berg Quartet. This is among my favorite Beethoven selections, partly for it's ferocity and partly for it's exceptional complexity and difficulty. (Also, Ludwig wrote this while completely deaf) - The Berg Quartet really bring their all to bear for this performance. (Please note, the full Fuge is upwards of fifteen minutes. This video just has the first half - I couldn't find a video anywhere that contained a complete performance. That said, if you dig what you hear, I highly recommend you get yourself a copy. If you do a search for Beethoven and 133 on half.com you'll find several quality performances at deep-dish discounts.)
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