Archives, 1.9.2011 in Normal entries

People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, people who live in meat houses shouldn’t throw cleavers and people who live in hair houses shouldn’t throw matches. I just live in a regular house and I don’t throw any of that stuff inside. Never even been tempted, though I have tossed a cat or two and certainly a few dogs. Oh, and tennis balls, and no, tennis balls are nothing like tennis elbow. If asked I think the advice I’d give to someone living in a meat house would be to move. Even for mammals it’s kind of weird.

Throughout the course of my crooked little life I’ve been asked my opinion or for advice, not typically more than once from the same person. The law of averages would suggest that on at least one such occasion someone would ask me what not to throw in their house, but no, at least not as such as yet. Even figuratively I’m more likely to point out the color of the pot to the kettle than I am to chatter on about casting or tossing stones. I think perhaps people who live on the banks of a still lake should skip stones, well, should might be a bit strong, I think they might enjoy skipping stones. Of the classic American boy-child pastimes skipping stones nestles comfortably between whittlin’ and fishin’.

It’s evening, widely scattered darkness with a chance of rain. I made two different store employees snort today. I went to pier One as they had sent me 20 percent coupons on top of a 25 percent off sale, so I bought large pillows to replace the dog chewed couch back cushions. Given the wide selection of limited pillows I had to pick two different designs that hopefully complement one another and the room. I explained to the lady helping me track down pillows that my dog had eaten the sofa, she smiled and reminisced about a lab she had when she was kid. We swapped a tale or two and then she suggested the bitter spray stuff. I told her I had gotten a large bottle of that, Levi had got on the counter, got the bottle and chewed holes in it. That’s when she snorted.

I went to Petsmart to get a different bottle of yucky tasting anti-chew stuff. I prefer PetCo but that’s where I got the bottle he had eaten. PetSmart has better prices and what I don’t like about them really has nothing to do with them. Inside the store is a vet’s office, not affiliated, just renting space. I went there once with a lab I had who had fat ears from some sort of infection. Their estimated cost for treatment was in the four figure range, including a cat scan, anti-biotic, board, anesthesia and some other shit. While I was there I saw the assistants being sort of rough and impatient with other patients. I took the lab to Herschel’s vet, forty bucks to lance the boil and ten for some antibiotics and a painkiller.

Anyhow a fresh faced young man asked if he could help me and I told him I was looking for anti-chew spray, he showed me the section. I told him I was skeptical of the efficacy of these products and asked what he recommended. He recommended one with both a bitter taste and allegedly “pheromones that calm a nervous dog down making him less likely to chew” he told me if it didn’t work to return the unused portion. I told him about Levi eating the last stuff. He snorted. I don’t care how cute you are, you cannot snort with grace or dignity.

So far the cushions have survived the day. Hmmm, I may wait until the morning so I can add all the exciting things that happened to me during the night, nicht wahr? In English nicht wahr sounds contrived and archaic, it translates to isn’t that so? Well, ok, it translates directly to not true? You might as well be slurping an egg crème at the five and dime counter if you’re going to bust out with not true?

It is the morning now, turns out the most exciting thing to happen was that the cushions remain unmolested. The tight little ball of hate gathers like to like as it rolls down the mountain. You know I’m talking about the shootings in Arizona, right? I’m done reading OD entries about it, but I did catch an article this morning about the Westboro Baptist church planning on holding one of their infamous protests at the funeral of the one gay fellow. I guess there’s a website where you can donate your time or support to building Angel wings for the mourners to block out the protesters. I think the wings are cardboard and not made out of feathers from all the birds falling out of the sky. I think when you’re ready to make the tragic deaths of humans as grist for your mill you’re a heartbeat away from eating them.

I can recall several instances where right and left have polarized in the last ten years, but except for 9/11 I can’t think of an instance where we came together as a nation and even then it was to mourn, not to celebrate. I remember several years ago getting into an argument with this Australian friend of mine who was marrying both out of love and for citizenship (I mean they did have a kid and all, and he was not only welcome back to Australia, though his folks had moved to Christchurch NZ, but he loved Australia, he just needed to finish up his degree in the states and wanted to work here. The bride was actually a dual citizen, an American born in Canada). I don’t remember how it started but I was explaining the rights of American citizens to him and he busts out with “With rights come responsibilities. You Americans are always going on about rights but awfully soft when it comes to responsibilities, some don’t want to pay taxes, some don’t want to be drafted, some want to speak but shut down someone else.”

We argued into the night. I don’t know if I ever told him I thought he was probably right. We as a people do tend to trot out our rights as though they really were unconditional and inalienable.
We will holler about the right to keep and bear arms and not say a peep about the responsibility of not shooting people with them, until someone gets shot, which, forgive me my liberalness, is too late.
We will holler about the right to free speech with nary a word about the responsibility of discretion. Sure there’s the old saw about not yelling fire in a crowded theatre, but the responsibility isn’t limited to extremes alone. Oh, and in the last ten years there was the Patriot Act which meant we had the right to free speech but could get arrested for it, or we had the right to free speech but not to private conversation, or we had the right to free speech couple with the right to remain silent, anything we say could be used against us in a court of law …

We have the right to practice religion, with it comes the responsibility to not practice it in the face of someone practicing their own religion.

We have the right to life liberty and happiness, meaning freedom from abuse or being shot or persecuted for dancing in the street, we have the responsibility to not infringe on anyone else’s right to life liberty and the pursuit of happiness (I’m still not exactly sure what the pursuit of happiness is, but I’m positive we have a responsibility not to infringe on any else’s pursuit thereof).

I remember another argument I had with this black guy I used to play pinochle with. He was going on about reparations to the descendants of slaves and how he wanted his god damned forty acres and a mule with fucking interest. I went into something about how his people were enslaved for about four hundred years, every place in the world been trying to kill my people off for four thousand years. We argued throughout lunch and the game of pinochle and during the course of it he said “Yeah? Well blacks are the only group in this country that had to have their specific rights legislated, even as recently as last year with affirmative action laws.” One of the women playing the game reminded him that women had to fight for the right to vote as citizens. I don’t think I ever told him I thought he was right too. That business about all men being created equal? We have a responsibility to live up to that.

What the rest of world see’s is that we have this snotty sense of entitlement but no sense of responsibility, like a child who wants what he wants and all else be damned, who’ll cry for a tit in a crowded theatre, who’ll shoot his cap gun or finger when it pleases him, who won’t let the weird kid play in any of the neighborhood games, who prays for his family and for god to wreck punishment on his enemy. Maybe sometimes that’s what I see, the difference between the rest of the world and me is that I care how my country, my child, acts, I’m a damn patriot, I am responsible to care I am responsible to point out with pride our failings and our grace and these days it takes a lot of looking to find grace.