MonkeyFight

Count to One Hundred

I’m clearly not the only one engaged in the MonkeyFight.  I recently read the essay, The Joy of Quiet, by Pico Iyer. The title says it all. It’s about the ever-shrinking peace and quiet in most people’s lives and the rising effort to reclaim some of that space. He writes that the future of travel lies in “black-hole resorts,” which charge high prices for rooms without internet access. 

"In barely one generation we’ve moved from exulting in the time-saving devices that have so expanded our lives to trying to get away from them — often in order to make more time. The more ways we have to connect, the more many of us seem desperate to unplug." 

When I’m sitting at my computer losing the MonkeyFight to digital distractions, I’m no better than a rat hitting a lever for a dopamine pellet. I don’t know if rats like dopamine but I sure as hell do. My distractions aren’t even interesting or idiosyncratic. Faced with the endless universe of information at my fingertips, I check my goddamn email and the NY Times website and I numbly scan Facebook, reading status updates from people who have no business being in the front of my mind. (Sure if I had to I could  still conjure certain pairs of Jordache certain girls wore from 8^th-12th grade, but it doesn’t mean I want daily updates on their kids and the weather in their city of residence.)

In the essay, Iyer mentions the internet-blocking software, Freedom, which is an app I use when I’m desperate to unplug and focus on my work. When I get on Freedom I actually have a somatic response; I literally breathe easier and am immediately more able to focus on my work. I’m not much for advertising here, but Freedom definitely gets the MonkeyFight seal of approval.

I wonder where we’ll be ten and twenty years from now with regard to peace and quiet.  Will it get harder to unplug from information and advertising or will the marketplace provide us with enough options to balance things out? Iyer mentions "internet rescue camps" in China and South Korea for internet addicts. The Boy doesn’t live in China or South Korea but I know he’ll be as vulnerable as anyone to the sacred screen. He already reacts to my laptop with the fervor of a malnourished zombie at a fat farm.  Denying him access to it is the one thing that is sure to make him cry. I’ve actually seen him handle physical pain with more grace and stoicism than when I shut my computer.

So who cares? What’s being lost – if anything – by the expanding web of distraction? After all, people have struggled with the monkeys for centuries.  Is the hand-wringing about digital overdosing any different from the days when old farts recoiled at Elvis' pelvis? This is a debate I run into with friends occasionally when I’m the recoiling old fart at the table. I like how Iyer addresses the complexity of the issue by quoting someone from a very long time ago.

"Distraction is the only thing that consoles us for our miseries,” the French philosopher Blaise Pascal wrote in the 17th century, “and yet it is itself the greatest of our miseries.” He also famously remarked that all of man’s problems come from his inability to sit quietly in a room alone.

I can feel annoyingly redundant in my fascination with distraction but I do know that when I've burned time in a mindless online haze I feel bad, and when I'm free from ports and phones and cables I tend to feel lighter and happier.   So I'm gonna err on the side of lightness. 

In case you're looking for a way to keep score in the MonkeyFight, I’ve devised a system. Simply shut your eyes and try to silently count to one hundred without stopping. The number you reach is your score. I haven’t figured out the grading curve but let’s just say I rarely make it to 50 and occasionally get lost between 10 and 20.

Let me know how you do sitting quietly in a room.

 

Qaddafi's (Magic) Number is Up

Every few days I put The Boy in front of my laptop and show him a few minutes of Sesame Street or old school School House Rock while I cut his nails.  Each time he's mesmerized. This has been the extent of his media consumption so far but it’s been enough to make him ravenously excited when he sees me open my laptop.

The Boy is not a very fast crawler in general. In fact, he seems oddly deliberate and aware of his body when he moves - kind of like a Great Dane (which is why they make such good apartment dogs). Anyway, apparently he saves his fastest crawling for the moments he spots my open laptop. And he never sounds more desperate in these moments either. If I’m at the table trying to work (ie Google: roasted carrots) I’ll soon find him whining at my feet with his arms desperately stretched upward.  He’s really not that kid so it’s particularly disturbing to see him transform in these moments.  I'm not gonna say he acts like a crack head but I'm not not gonna say it either. Come by some time and open my laptop and see what you think.

Anyway tonight was particularly disturbing. I was reading this article on the death of Qaddafi. The writer argued that dictators get the deaths they deserve: "...if a tyrant is executed while crying for mercy in the dust, then that, too, is a reflection of the nature of a fallen regime and the reaction of an oppressed people." I couldn't help but think there was truth to that since Saddam was found in a hole in the ground and Qaddafi was pulled from a storm drain bloodied and begging for his life. Anyway, the article convinced me to watch the video of his capture. It’s a frenzied, bloody affair.  I won’t link it here. It’s easy enough to find.

It's shot on a cell phone I think. The sun is shining brightly as you see close ups of arms and legs and you can hear machine gun fire and shouting and Qaddafi’s dazed, bloodied face occasionally enters the frame. It was sickening but I was glad I was watching it since I sometimes feel like the world is changing while I’m changing diapers. It made it more real for me.

But then The Boy appeared in the doorway like a curious puppy. He saw me at the laptop and his eyes widened. On the screen in front of me, Qaddafi’s bloody face appeared for a moment and then a flash of sunlight. The Boy scurried over and pulled himself up by the bed, whining and whimpering for a session of School House Rock while men shouted and dragged Qaddafi toward his fate. I shut the computer and The Wife took The Boy away for his bedtime rituals. 

After he was gone, I  breathed a little easier.  And then, I couldn’t help it - I opened the laptop back up and watched one of his favorites.

 

 

The Boy’s Irish Side

St. Patrick’s Day is an appropriate time to reflect on The Boy’s Irish side.  After all, right now people all over the city are getting drunk and bragging about being Irish. Some are even in traditional Irish dress: green foam hats, shamrock necklaces, and vomit-speckled shoes.

I only hear people brag about being Irish when they’re talking about drinking or actually drinking. It’s a sucker’s move. The drink has crushed a lot of great Irish (among others) and it’s only romantic from a distance.  Don’t get me wrong – I’ve embraced the drink plenty. In our youth, my brothers and I worked out a neat little routine called tequila chugging. And at one time my drink of choice was a funnel of Jack Daniels. I eventually evolved to a rocks glass - but please - no rocks. I’m no stranger to the drink but it’s silly and demeaning to attach it to your Irishness.

 When The Boy’s old enough, instead of introducing him to shamrocks and whiskey and green beer I’ll make sure he knows about a couple of Redmonds. There are a lot of them in my family.  I’ll make sure he knows that his great grandfather, my mother’s father, Redmond Burke, came over from County Kerry on the Lusitania after foregoing his scheduled passage on the Titanic because his suit wasn’t ready. Grandpa, I hope you tipped that tailor. And I’ll make sure The Boy knows that this Redmond enlisted in the Navy in 1918 and then worked for the NYPD and provided opportunities to his children that he never would have had back on the farm.

And I’ll tell The Boy about my Uncle Redmond who passed away last year.  His Veteran’s Day funeral inspired my post about the endless, ignored war in Afghanistan. In the days around his passing I learned that Uncle Redmond enlisted in the Navy before he even finished high school to fight in WWII. At the funeral home I heard about a letter he’d written in which he described an encounter with Kamikaze pilots at sea. The closest I’ve come to facing a Kamikaze pilot is when my dogs charge me when I’ve been away from home too long. Like his father, Uncle Redmond went on to the NYPD, working there for 39 years while rising to the rank of Captain. He worked in the infamous Bronx precinct nicknamed Fort Apache. I suppose staring down the Kamikaze pilots was good training for his time on the Force.

While I didn’t spend much time with these Redmonds I’ve always carried a lot of respect for them and for that entire side of my family - my mother’s side - my Irish half. It won’t be hard to inform The Boy about his Irish side. For one, the family’s been steadily working on the genealogy so we’ll have the who’s and where’s of it all.  And the topic is bound to come up when he's old enough to start asking about his name:  Enrico Lucas Redmond Gullo.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day

P.S. I’m drunk.

Cracking Chat Roulette

A short film by the Neistat Brothers’ inspired me to explore Chat Roulette a few nights ago. For those of you who don’t know: Chat Roulette is a site that allows you to video chat with random people all over the world. With the click of a button a person appears on your computer screen. You can either chat with the person or move to the next person with the click of your mouse; this is called ‘nexting’ someone. Chat Roulette is largely populated by lonely guys hoping to glimpse a woman and/or expose their johnsons.  So there is a lot of nexting going on.

 I went on the site and watched a few faces appear and disappear as if my screen was an eye that conjured someone new with each blink. The experience was perfectly dehumanizing and potentially depressing.  There’s also something about the aesthetics of communicating with single anonymous guys via webcam that makes you assume a johnson is just around the corner. 

On a whim, I wrote an opening line - ‘I REFUSE TO NEXT ANYONE! ANYONE!!’ - to paste into the text box before I could be nexted.  It felt like a defiant gesture - some sort of dare.

 I watched the first guy read the sentence.  It seemed he was translating the words in his head. He could be anywhere in the world after all. Then he laughed and gave two thumbs up. Turns out he was Argentinean, sitting in his living room in Buenos Aires.  He told me he was new to Roulette and was glad to meet good people.  When we were done chatting he flashed me...the peace sign. Then I chatted for a while with a 16 year old kid in China who told me his English was not strong. I told him I once taught English to Chinese students in Brooklyn and then referred him to some ESOL sites. He told me I was an excellent teacher. I love Chinese students.  Next I chatted with a guy in Maryland who loved my opening line so much he vowed to spread it across Chat Roulette. I encouraged the idea but asked for a footnote.

I was a bit uncomfortable about it, but in the name of science I even put The Boy on camera at one point. Onscreen were a few 20-something guys who had the sort of amped energy that went with chugging beers and beating nerds but not necessarily in that order. Score one for humanity: when they saw The Boy they cheered and said he was cute. I like to think The Boy saved a nerd that day.

I still got nexted a lot but mostly by people who disappeared so quickly I couldn’t even send my message. And I had less success with a pink stuffed animal and a guy who was dangling from a noose above an upturned chair.  But for the most part people responded well.

The funniest encounter happened when the screen went completely black and these words appeared on my screen: get naked.

I responded in kind: I REFUSE TO NEXT ANYONE! ANYONE!!

The conversation continued as follows copied verbatim from my screen. My responses are in CAPS:

get naked

I WON’T NEXT ANYONE!

Get Naked

DONT BE A COWARD. BESIDES I AM NAKED. MY SKIN LOOKS LIKE FLANNEL [ed. I was wearing a flannel]

Get naked

YOU ARE BLACK AS NIGHT - NO OFFENSE

let me see your dick

I LOST IT - WHERE ARE YOU?

next me - my mouse doesnt work

I REFUSE. I TOLD YOU I REFUSE TO NEXT PEOPLE. BESIDES I THINK WE'RE GETTING ALONG WELL.

next me

FOR CRYING OUT LOUD - YOU SHOW UP TO CHAT ROULETTE

next me

WITH NO CAMERA & NO MOUSE
AND YOU ASK FOR DICK?!
SORRY CHARLIE, YOU'RE GONNA HAVE TO REBOOT YOUR COMPUTER. WE'RE IN THIS TOGETHER
im on on my ipod

THEN IT'S A STARING CONTEST. WHERE ARE YOU?
in new mexico. cmon next me

OK I'LL CUT YOU A BREAK BUT YOU HAVE TO SAY PLEASE
Please

NEXT

My adventure with Chat Roulette was exhilarating. I felt like I’d made an inroad into the dynamics of the site and it ultimately reinforced my love of the humans. By telling people I wouldn’t next them I was essentially inviting them to take pause. I was letting them know I would give them a chance. Stay awhile. I was also poking fun at the compulsive nexting everyone was doing. People seemed to appreciate that too.

Unfortunately, women can’t really expect to go on Chat Roulette without being aggressively harassed.  If a woman were to attempt this same experiment she would get a glimpse into a perverted corner of the male psyche that would either boggle her mind or confirm her worst fears.  Someone should figure out how to do a Women’s Only Chat Roulette.  Just footnote me on it. 

chat roulette from Casey Neistat on Vimeo.

  

 

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I Want to Live in an Obama Speech

I want to live in an Obama speech. He knocks 'em out of the park. Don't get me wrong - he’s terrible at baseball; his opening day pitch was only a little better than his attempt at bowling, but when it comes to orating, the guy hits home runs.  And he’s too skinny to be on ‘roids, so he’s got to be legit.

They say talk is cheap but with him it’s cheap and it’s good. True bang for your buck - even if you don’t like his politics (and if you don’t - come on, who would you rather put in the White House? I mean honestly, who would you rather have in the White House than Barack Obama? If you have no answer then I suggest you hunker down and help him dig us out of this freakin’ hole).

Needless to say, I thought his memorial address in Tuscon was impressive. Although, am I the only one who found the smiling and clapping a little creepy? I suppose people needed a certain amount of that, not to mention that when 14,000 people get together to listen to Barry string words together they're gonna clap, but still, I found it utterly surreal at one point when he said:

We are grateful for the men who tackled the gunman as he stopped to reload. We are grateful for a petite 61 year-old, Patricia Maisch, who wrestled away the killer's ammunition...

It sounded like a logline from TV Guide. And then everybody cheered and clapped and he smiled and clapped along as if someone had just scored a Bingo.

Anyway, the address was terrific. He spoke of healing and humility and empathy, he quoted Scripture, he said "life partner" along with husband and wife - a little something for everybody. His words about death were poignant and familiar to my own experience. Whenever I’ve been close to death I marvel at how the world slows down, the same world that moments before seemed to be moving so impossibly fast. When someone dies, suddenly nothing else is very important.

After all, that's what most of us do when we lose somebody in our family - especially if the loss is unexpected. We're shaken out of our routines. We're forced to look inward. We reflect on the past: Did we spend enough time with an aging parent, we wonder. Did we express our gratitude for all the sacrifices that they made for us? Did we tell a spouse just how desperately we loved them, not just once in a while but every single day?

Barack would’ve been proud of me yesterday morning. I realized I was heading out the door in a foul mood so I turned around to spread some sugar around the apartment – to The Wife, both dogs, and The Boy –just in case I got killed by a snowplow before I could make it back home. I didn't exactly tell The Wife I desperately loved her, but it was an improvement on the grunt I'd given her moments earlier. 

Obama also spoke to The Big Idea as I like to call it, an idea that courses through every religion and every school yard; the idea that we should treat people well, treat people as we would want to be treated, an idea that I believe is embedded in our DNA despite all the contradictory evidence.

We may not be able to stop all evil in the world, but I know that how we treat one another, that's entirely up to us...We recognize our own mortality, and we are reminded that in the fleeting time we have on this Earth, what matters is not wealth, or status, or power, or fame - but rather, how well we have loved - and what small part we have played in making the lives of other people better.

 Maybe I'm biased but I like having a writer in the White House. I think words matter so I'm glad our president is articulate and capable of nuanced thought. And that is not a dig at our last president. It would be inappropriate to take a cheap shot like that while the country's rhetorical seas are changing for the better. Nor is it a dig at Sarah Palin, who I'm sure has been surprised by the amount of heat she's been catching for using the term 'blood libel'.  What people have to understand is that she uses that term more casually than most history books and dictionaries.  It's just a term she uses around the house like, "Jeez, Bristol, replace the batteries. Don't make a blood libel out of it." It's not her fault. I mean it. She makes words up. We can all stop listening to her.

I recommend reading the text of Obama's address. (And for that matter, have you read his race speech lately?!  It truly makes me feel both hopey and changey.)  With all the short form writing that occurs in blogs, tweets, and text messages, his speeches are an opportunity to read well-crafted, inspired pieces of writing that are longer than 140 characters.  I'll end with just six here, one for each of those slain in Arizona: R.I.P.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Shooting

In this country, we currently have murderous political rhetoric, paper thin gun control, weak mental health services, and a profit-driven media that chases ratings as hungrily as American Idol.  We also have some really good things, but I’m focused on the problems at the moment. There are so many angles on this totally unsurprising tragedy I don’t know where to begin.

I was on the NYTimes website when the shooting occurred so I first read that Giffords was dead only to watch as the facts gradually arrived.  Back in the old days journalism used to be a bit more cautious with their reporting, but now our fancy New Media gets scoops first and facts second.

Some people will brush this aside as the act of a lone lunatic. But when politicians use scare tactics they have an especially large impact on people who are already scared or unbalanced or insane or paranoid. People at the podium or pulpit have to take responsibility for their words by acknowledging that their audience includes unstable people who are prone to violence. If they use violent words and images, if they speak in apocalyptic language, a certain percentage of listeners will take it too far. As Sheriff Dupnick said, people with mental issues “are especially susceptible to vitriol”. There may be free speech, he said, but “it is not without consequences”. Perhaps the politicians will say this is the price for free speech.

Since we’ve had Senate Hearings about the effect rap music and death metal has on our precious, vulnerable youth how about we have some hearings to investigate the effect murderous political rhetoric has on our society. Maybe we’ll find that the most rabid Senators and pundits have been listening to rap music and it’s turned them violent. (On a side note: imagine if the Tea Party was an African American movement. Imagine the media and social response if huge crowds of black people were organized, armed, and screaming about changing the government. That's all - just imagine it.)

In the aftermath of the shooting, I heard a lot of people say that we need to pray. Politicians, family and friends of the victims, witnesses to the crime - it seemed like everyone spoke of the need to pray. Prayer's all right by me. It calms the mind, helps a person gather their strength, conjures their faith - all helpful stuff especially at a time of tragedy. But I've yet to hear anyone talk about anything tangible and substantive in response to the attack.  In 1997 after a school shooting in Scotland that left 16 kids and 1 adult dead, the U.K. almost completely banned handguns. I'm not suggesting anything remotely as extreme as that.  I'm not suggesting anything at the moment really.  But I am saying that if any of this is going to change we're going to have to do a hell of a lot more than pray.

 

THE IGNORANT BLISS

It looks like Jamie Stewart, the guy who did Man in a Blizzard, is having his day and then some.  His story's a good reminder to artists to stay active and do the work despite the challenging speculative nature of it all.  Here's a guy who went out with his camera in the middle of the blizzard when nobody was telling him to or paying him to do it and it's proving to be his big break.

When I wrote of Stewart's film I mentioned that both my recent walk in the blizzard and his film made me feel all warm and human inside. So I thought I'd use this opportunity to post the short film I made with John Hyams which premiered at Palm Springs International Shortfest this year. It's called The Ignorant Bliss of Sun and Moon.  For me, it's always been a film about the human experience - or less pretentiously said - all the ups and downs and confusion of it all. The title refers to the occasional moments of bliss that catch us off guard and stir us in one way or another, make us feel small but in a good way - or make us feel small and big at the same time.

As a new parent, I occasionally wonder how I might talk to The Boy about topics such as these - topics revolving around inspiration and consciousness and his place in the universe.  Maybe I'll start by getting some life-sized toys in the house so he doesn't think he towers over elephants and lions. I mean, is he going to forever think he can put a hippopotmus in his mouth?  Isn't this preceisely why there are so many deadly hippo attacks in the wild?  Babies who play with tiny toy hippos must grow up to be clueless tourists in Africa who attempt to hug the adorable and murderous animals.

In any case, The Ignorant Bliss of Sun and Moon is in some ways about a guy struggling with his place in the universe.  Like a lot of people (i.e. me) he's a bit confused and overwhelmed by it all so he cycles between bouts of self-destruction and momentary bliss.  So if you've got six minutes to spare...

 

 

Blizzard Gizzard

The City finally has the snow under control. A plow came down our street this morning, burying the cars that had been dug out over the past few days. And then there was the true measure that the hardships of the blizzard have come to an end: The Boy and I saw the first discarded chicken bone since the snow arrived.

It was perched in a snow bank just out of reach from Moose, my fifteen year old, handsome-as-ever dog. In his younger years (age 1 month-12 years) he would have lept the two feet to the top of the snowbank and been crunching bone before I could even tighten the leash. But this morning he just strained at the end of his leash, his snout longingly taking in the scent of greasey chicken flesh mixed with the crisp winter air.

I imagined he was remembering all the great food he's snatched off the sidewalks over the years. And there's been a lot: chicken bones, pizza crusts, half sandwiches, mysterious food wrapped in tin foil. For most of his life, I would fight with him to release the culinary treats he'd found. More than once I've grabbed the end of a pork chop bone that was clamped between his jaws as if it was a greasy door handle.  During those struggles, he must have been convinced that we were in direct competition for survival. After all, he was out scavenging for food and I was pulling it out of his mouth. And then, to his horror, I would throw the food back into the street. It's amazing he listens to anything I say after seeing that sort of behavior.

Chicken bones are the bane of urban dog owner's lives (except when pigeons are eating the meat off the bone which most people agree is grotesquely entertaining). They seem to be everywhere and it's often said they can be lethal since chicken bones can splinter and get caught in the dog's wind pipe. That said, Moose is 15 years old and he's eaten about 147 chicken bones over the years and he's never so much as had to clear his throat after eating one. So these days if I suddenly hear a satisfied crunching from Moose, I get less stressed about it. Instead I think, 'Well done, old man. You've still got it.' 

Anyway, we've got quite the cycle of life in the household between Moose's whopping fifteen years on the planet (that's 105 to you and me) and Enrico's measly four months. With New Year's Eve upon us it's like we've got our very own Father Time and Baby New Year in the house. 

I've learned a lot from Moose over the years - he's smart and strong, enthusiastic and resilient - all traits I'll encourage as a parent. But I'll still wrestle a dirty chicken bone from The Boy's mouth if he finds one on the sidewalk or playground.  I don't care what Moose says - that's nasty.

 

 

Vitamin ReDux

The Boy just turned three months old.  He’s plumping up nicely, and yesterday he flipped from his stomach to his back. Unfortunately, The Wife and I missed it because we were getting frisky.  But this isn’t that kind of blog. (Note to self: research those kinds of blogs.)  An article in today's paper relates to a post I wrote on October 6th and more recently to The Boy's two month medical checkup which brought shame upon our household. I wish I had written about it then. 

We were in the doctor’s office, cartoon hypodermic needles on the wall, and things were going fairly well. The doctor looked in The Boy’s eyes and ears and asked how he was eating. The usual checklist. She inspected his head and told us we should give him more tummy time because, “There’s a little flattening going on back there. It’s just aesthetic, but you know, if you can avoid it.” Our horrified silence told her we agreed.

Then, her eyes on her chart, she asked, almost as an after thought or a confirmation, “You’re giving him a Vitamin D supplement?” I paused, thinking of my blog entry, feeling slightly insane, like a reluctant crusader for a cause I didn’t care that much about. I said, “Yeahhh, I don’t really buy all that Vitamin D stuff.” The doctor looked up at me and her eyes changed. Like she had assumed she was talking to a completely rational, responsible parent one moment and a potential flight risk the next. Her eyes darted to The Wife as she explained why we should give the Vitamin D supplement. “I’ve done a lot of reading about this…and if you do all the reading you’ll see…” The Wife and I stammered through our response, assuring her we were not negligent, “Of course, oh, ok, we weren’t sure, it just seemed…hem haw…”  The doc closed by saying, “I mean, nobody’s gonna come to your house to make sure you’re giving him the Vitamin D but you really should do it.”

Ultimately, we walked out of the 2 month check up thinking we’d better get our act together unless we wanted a flat-headed, rickets-ridden kid. I mean, aesthetics matter. Frankenstein had a flat head and we all know how he ended up -  a misunderstood, gentle, flatheaded giant.  Needless to say, The Wife and I bought the Vitamin D drops and have been giving them to The Boy for the last few weeks.

And now today I hear about this new report that's all over the news.  A commitee of experts has concluded:  The very high levels of vitamin D that are often recommended by doctors and testing laboratories — and can be achieved only by taking supplements — are unnecessary and could be harmful, an expert committee says.

 And so it goes. 

Do scientists really need to spend this much time and energy on vitamins? Don’t we already know, for the most part, how to eat well? When I was growing up, my father, The Boy's namesake, had great nutritional advice. He preached in simple phrases that could fit on bumper stickers: “Eat food not food products!” ; “Use meat as a condiment!” That kind of common sense stuff. Stuff The Boy will be hearing from me I’m sure.

I wouldn't even notice this news if I wasn't a new parent parsing medical advice for the first time. But this confirms my vague, mostly uninformed, but adamant theories regarding the Great Vitamin D Conspiracy: the Vitamin Industry went to a conference with the Medical Industry, they had a few drinks, got freaky in a hotel room, and gave birth to a study that cites a need for Vitamin D supplements in just about every life form on the planet. The trend was rooted in profit not people. And that's why I think this is an important topic even for people who don't give a damn about Vitamins D, E, or F (but sometimes give a damn about Y). On some level, this seems to be another case of manufactured demand, a perfectly accepted practice that involves twisting the truth in hopes of selling us things, even if it puts us at risk.

The same report discounts much of the recent advice to consume more Calcium as well, which leads me to wonder what will happen to all that orange juice that must have been invented based on this medical advice? I’m referring of course to the delightful Tropicana Pure Premium Lots of Pulp Calcium + Vitamin D Orange Juice. (actual name).  Maybe another study will come out to convince us The Boy shouldn’t have the breast milk from his mother’s breast but from a newly designed feeding apparatus: The Mother Udder® that has an ergonomic design better suited for the development of an infant’s teeth and gums. Whatever it is, I’m sure they’ll find another thing we need. After all, the holidays are coming.

 
   
 

 

 

 

WHAT RHYMES WITH IGNORE?

The war in Afghanistan has been going on for nine years. It took me a moment to absorb that number so I think it bears repeating: nine years. It’s the longest war we’ve ever fought. Interestingly, the Soviet War in Afghanistan lasted nine years.  In the 1980’s the Soviets were fighting the Mujahideen who got help from the United States because our country hated the Soviet Union then as much as we hate the Mujahideen now. 

Anyway, while we’re fighting the longest war in our history, 3-4% of the voters in the recent midterm elections listed the war in Afghanistan as an important factor in their vote.  Why is this? Are we exhausted by it? Are we bored? Confused? Or maybe we ignore war in the same way we ignore other complicated, painful topics – like our mortality. Let’s face it, certain topics make us feel bad and are terrible for cocktail parties.  Whatever the reason, it seems like we’ve changed the channel on the war.

The screamedia does us no favors when it comes to fixing our attention on the war. This week they spent more time flapping their lips about Obama’s trip to India then anything happening on the ground in Afghanistan.  This is just the latest example of news as entertainment although I think it’s time we buried that phrase since the popular news programs are hardly entertaining.  That’s a bit like calling it entertaining to watch a car wreck. Just because you can’t take your eyes off it doesn’t mean it’s entertaining.

 Nine years of war, nine Veteran’s Days. I’d like to put the nine presidential speeches commemorating the day next to each other to see what’s changed, to see what we’ve learned in that time, to see what we’ve accomplished and at what cost. And maybe most importantly to see where we’re headed and what we are hoping to achieve now. 

I would hate to think that Veteran’s Day shoulders the bulk of the attention we pay to our veterans and active military personnel. But with 3-4% of voters basing their decisions on Afghanistan it’s hard not to feel like too many of us are ignoring the war. Here's one way not to:  help public school students whose parents are in the military.  http://www.donorschoose.org/colbert-wants-you