I’m Not Arrogant and Not Submissive

I posted a number of photos on Facebook today, photos of masks I had made recently. They were the final, glaze-fired pieces. I suggested, in my post, that I had imperfectly glazed them. And I had. In reflecting on my comments, though, I wondered whether my comments were apologies for failures or simply statements of fact.

Based on my intimate knowledge of the situation and myself, I was acknowledging failures. But those failures were facts. They were not apologies. They simply stated information. Yet I think maybe people read my comments as a weak guy excusing himself from judgement because, after all, he is incapable of producing better. Well, nonsense.

I am capable of producing better. But what I’ve produced so far falls short of the standard I’ve set for myself.  That standard may be absurdly high, but it’s my standard. Yet, even with that standard lurking in the background, I won’t apologize for my masks. Some people could have made better masks; many people would have failed midway in their efforts. So, though, my masks are the work of an amateur, they are works of a guy who is getting better. But understand this: I have neither the desire nor the stamina to achieve the status of master. I’m here to have fun!

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Scenes from Garvan Woodland Gardens

Last night, my wife and her sister and I went to Garvan Woodland Gardens to view the spectacular Christmas lights display. It was extraordinary. My photo skills, and smart-phone camera, aren’t quite up to the task, but these photos offer a glimpse of the wonder of the show. (Click on image to enlarge…in most cases.)

3-Piano 4-Peacock 5-Blue 6-Waterfeature 7-Train 8-CandyCanes 9-Turtle 10-JB-CM-2 11-JBCM 12-Chandellier 13-Bridge 14-In-Light 15-Waterfall

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Three Hundred Thirty-Seven

The line was crossed yesterday. It should have happened before. Regardless of when it happened, or should have happened, here is the upshot: I am no longer willing to accept that I have a disagreement with people who support ready access to assault weapons. Instead, I judge those people who argue we all should have easy access; they are irresponsible, deeply stupid people for whom I have nothing but contempt. Easy public access to machine guns—for that’s what they are—is idiotic.  No longer will I argue; I will judge and hold people who argue for this madness in absolute contempt. It matters not whether mentally ill patients or psychopathic killers are to blame for the deaths; neither should have access to weaponry suited only to murder. If you find this unwavering attack of mine painful, don’t bother coming back to this page. I don’t want you here.

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Pretzels

Sunday was a good day. My sister-in-law and I went into town (my wife was having none of it, as she preferred to stay warm and dry at home). Heavy rains had kept us inside for a couple of days. With the exception of my wife, we were going stir-crazy and we needed to get out. So, off we went to Best Buy, where I bought a new printer and a high capacity thumb drive. From there, we went to Kroger to do a bit of grocery shopping. And then, we decided to stop off at Superior Bathhouse and Brewery. That’s when the goodness of the day really jelled.

We ordered a Foul Play Stout and a soft pretzel with three dipping sauces; one a spicy mustard, one a thicker sauce with cheese and fake bacon bits, and one a pesto. Due to a glitch with our order, we ended up with a fourth sauce, another mustard sauce. The pesto was fabulous. The beer and pretzel and pesto combination is what got me thinking: I wonder whether I could make a good soft pretzel?

I have never made pretzels. In fact, it’s been years since I’ve made bread. I think the last bread I made was a soft white braided challah, long, long ago. As I recall, though, making challah wasn’t hard. How hard could it be to make pretzels?

The internet makes it easy to learn how to do things like make pretzels. Basically, it involves combining water, flour, yeast, salt, and sugar. Then, mix it, knead it, and let it rise. Thereafter, recipes say to divide it and roll out ropes of dough, then form them into pretzel shapes. Sounds easy enough.

I’ve decided, based on what I’ve learned, I’m going to do it. But to make pretzels that taste like pretzels, it’s necessary to dip the formed pretzels in a boiling water-lye bath before baking. Apparently, lye is hard to come by and, if handled improperly, dangerous. But, it’s available. However, most recipes call for using baking soda instead of lye, though it’s generally conceded that the taste won’t quite match that of commercially-available pretzels. Happily, I found an alternative, which calls for baking the baking soda before mixing it in a pot of boiling water.  The suggestion, from an article in the New York Times, calls for putting a layer of baking soda on a foil-covered baking sheet and baking it for an hour in a 250-300 degree oven. Baking the baking soda transforms it into sodium carbonate, which gives pretzels their unique flavor and deep brown hue.

When will I do this? I don’t know. But I expect to try my hand at making pretzels soon. I’ll make some pesto dipping sauce, as well, along with a spicy mustard dipping sauce. I’ll have to buy the beer to go with the pretzels. For now. Brewing beer in on my list of things to do, too.

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Tension

She paces like a jaguar on the prowl, sniffing at the wind for a hint of his presence. Her face is flushed and ready, poised to pounce when the moment is right and the night air is perfectly still. The light of the moon reveals her profile high upon the ridge, slim and muscular, her body tight in anticipation of springing toward him with an open mouth and full embrace.

Alone and dejected, he trudges away in the desert night, far below the high ridge. His shadow transforms into a smudge in the early morning air as the sun quenches the light of the moon. Had he but known, he would have climbed toward the moon, an eager and willing prey.

At this intersection between night and day, as the distance between them grows, their most regrettable fault is their inability to read minds.

 

 

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Three Hundred Thirty-Six

A man can wrap his emotions in a steel blanket inside a stone cave of his own making, but if he does he will lose a part of himself he can’t recover. I’m only now beginning to realize the ability to emote is more of a gift than a curse. Masculinity is not defined by stoicism, nor by the ability to hide what’s behind the mask.

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Jamaican Breakfast

Breakfast close-up.

Breakfast close-up.

This morning I prepared a special international breakfast, salt fish and ackee, regarded (according to what I read) as one of Jamaica’s national dishes, one frequently served at breakfast. Salt fish is salt-dried cod. Ackee is a fruit native to West Africa, related to lychee. Because parts of the fruit of the plant can be toxic, even deadly, the USA prohibits its import. An exception has been granted to a small number of companies on a “green list” that have demonstrated they have food safety controls in place to ensure that only properly ripened ackees, without seeds or rind, are included in finished products.

The ingredients are salt fish, ackee, tomatoes, onions, scallions, bell pepper, habanero pepper, garlic, ground black pepper, garlic, fresh thyme, and a smidgen of olive oil. I soaked the salt fish in water overnight, and then rinsed it and boiled it, and then I rinsed it again and squeezed it dry before removing the bones, a few of which I missed. While the fish was boiling, I diced/prepared the veggies, etc.  Once everything is ready, it only takes about 15 minutes to cook from start to finish. The ackee goes in last, on top; the recipes I’ve read advised not to stir once the ackee is in the pot, because it will fall apart. It’s good advice and I’m glad I followed it.

S_A-2

Salt fish, boiling. Then, remove the bones.

Some of the ingredients being prepared.

Some of the ingredients being prepared.

Everything ready to be put on the stove.

Everything ready to be put on the stove.

A can of ackee, ready for this morning's breakfast.

A can of ackee, ready for this morning’s breakfast.

The finished dish, ready to eat.

The finished dish, ready to eat.

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Three Hundred Thirty-Five

There’s never an inappropriate expression of real love. There’s never a reason to be embarrassed to love someone. Yes, we’ve created artificial boundaries that keep us from being “in love” with people we love, or at least expressing our love for certain people, but the reality is that artificial boundaries don’t always work. A boss can love an employee; we say it’s not right, but who are we to condemn the emotion? A woman can love her husband’s best friend; sure, there may be dangerous complications, but by what right can we judge that love wrong? We have a thousand reasons and we practice a thousand ways to say our rationale for our condemnation is right. But we’re not right. People love one another; it’s not necessarily a reasonable emotion, but it’s the best emotion we can share.

 

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Brazos del Diablo

Stella wasn’t a light sleeper, but Kitchener worried that the sound of jangling keys might stir his wife from her sleep. He took care to minimize noise as he fumbled for his wallet and his keys in the dark. When he was dressed and ready to leave, he stood still next to her side of the bed and listened to Stella’s soft, regular breathing. He bent down and touched his lips to her bare shoulder. “See you in a bit, sweetie,” he whispered, and turned toward the door. He craned his neck to look toward his sleeping wife as he closed the door behind him, and whispered again, “Back before you know it.”

Kitchener shuffled across the house, stepping gently so the heels of his shoes wouldn’t click on the Saltillo tile floor. The night before, he’d set the coffee maker to start at a quarter to five; the aroma of fresh coffee filled his nostrils as he crossed the room.  The hiss of  the machine greeted him as he as it pumped the last ounce of water through the filter into the carafe. He poured the coffee into the thermos and sealed it.

Kitchener didn’t need an alarm clock. He awoke well before five every morning, a forty-year habit since his first job in a bakery. He’d been surprised to learn, back then, that he liked getting up early, before anyone else. Early mornings were his most productive times, times when he was happiest. In the two years since he retired, he’d begun using those early morning hours at the gym, trying to work off the weight he’d gained during a career in the restaurant business. Despite his efforts, though, the weight he lost kept coming back, thanks to his passion for cooking and eating.

This morning, the gym wasn’t Kitchener’s destination. He grabbed his thermos of coffee, opened the side door and stepped across the car port to the driver’s side of the red Miata convertible. He’d bought the car, used, shortly after he and Stella had moved to Brazos del Diablo two years before. The purchase was his only visible nod to the tendency for old men to try to regain their youth.  Kitchener had never had such a vehicle when he was younger, but he’d always wanted a sporty car. He climbed inside, depressed the clutch with his left foot, and started the engine. As he eased up on the clutch, he flinched at the pain in his knee. Five speed transmissions are better suited to younger men, he mused, as he pulled out onto the street.

The drive to Sheila’s cottage took less than five minutes. When he pulled in the driveway, he saw her through the blinds in the kitchen window. She waved at him, then closed the blinds. A moment later, the porch light switched on, illuminating the pathway between the driveway and the front entry.

Kitchener flinched as he extricated himself from the car. He cursed his knee and the car as he hobbled up the sidewalk to the door. Sheila opened the door just as he reached for the knob.

“Oh, you brought me coffee! You’re such a sweet man.”

“Yes, I am, and good-looking, to boot!”

“Yes, you are that. Come in here!” She reached for his upper arm and pulled him beyond the door, shutting it behind them.

Sheila took the thermos of coffee from him and set it on the kitchen table and turned back toward him. “Good morning, mister. Want some coffee?”

“Indeed I do. I’ll take mine with some sugar, please.”

“Happy to oblige, sir.”

Sheila wrapped her arms around Kitchener as they embraced. They kissed, a long, passionate kiss.

“Okay, you did say you wanted coffee with that sugar, right?”

“Right again. How are you doing this dark and dreamy morning, hon? You look beautiful.”

“I’m giddy because you’re here.”

Kitchener glanced to his right and caught the reflection of the two of them in a mirror on the wall between the dining room and the kitchen. For a fraction of a second, Sheila’s profile looked to him exactly like Stella’s. He sucked in a breath.

“I’m giddy, too. But…”

“But, what?”

“Sheila…”

Kitchener’s gaze drifted toward the floor as Sheila reached for his hand.

“Listen, honey, I know you feel guilty about our relationship. Is that it?”

“Yeah, that’s it. I mean, I am incredibly happy when I’m with you, but I can’t stand the thought of Stella being hurt by this.”

“I feel guilty, too. But we shouldn’t feel guilty about allowing ourselves to be who we are. I know you love Stella; but it’s not like how you feel about me. I admire you for not wanting to hurt her. We won’t let her get hurt; we will take great care to make sure she doesn’t get hurt.” She put her arms around Kitchener and hugged him.

ALL RIGHT, ENOUGH OF THIS SORT OF WRITING FOR THIS MORNING.

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Three Hundred Thirty-Four

The only means for us to end racism and bigotry is to engage in honest and thoughtful conversations, one-on-one, with people unlike us. No question arising out of honest curiosity should be off-limits, but if one party finds a question offensive in any way, he or she should quickly express that offense in a non-accusatory way.  We all need thick skin and a willingness to listen to words we’d rather not hear.

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Things That Mattered

I have a Twitter account, but I rarely use it. My most recent involvement was to post a photo in May of 2014. Before that, I rarely tweeted anything after early 2010. For some reason, though, I went to my Twitter feed this morning and reviewed posts I made in years past.

I posted my first tweets in March 2008, the month I joined. For a while, I posted every few weeks, then dropped off for a bit, then got more active for a month or two at a time. Reading back over some of my tweets triggered memories long since buried and rekindled unwanted memories:

2008

  • Ate soba noodles at Noodle Wave in May
  • Spent time in Pittsburgh in July that year
  • Worried as I watched the track of Hurricane Ike in September
  • Sat in a bar at the Fort Lauderdale airport on September 28, drinking a beer and grieving over Paul Newman’s death
  • On November 5, I said I’d seen more progress in the USA in the past 24 hours than I’d seen in the past 24 years
  • Left New Iberia, Louisiana on December 30 on the road to Avery Island

2009

  • Left Dallas for a three-day meeting in Atlanta on January 14
  • Ate Durban curry for dinner near the end of January that year
  • In early March I drank a glass of valpolicella and ate an Italian sausage
  • Went to a Leonard Cohen concert on April 3
  • Traveled to Washington, DC and Chicago toward the end of April
  • In early May, my brother and his wife who live in Mexico came for a visit and we ate at a Vietnamese restaurant where I had goat curry
  • Drove to Houston in May to be with my sister in the hospital for angioplasty, placement of a stent, and treatment for COPD
  • Took an 8-day vacation to New York City in June
  • Began a short stint as an “on call” disaster relief volunteer with the Red Cross in early December

2010

  • On February 19, 2010, expressed anguish at my oldest sister’s death
  • In early October 2013, learned that my Twitter account, which had been dormant from quite some time, had been hacked; fixed the problem with new password.

Though I don’t use Twitter much, I am glad I left a trail of memories when I did. I suppose I’m doing the same thing with Facebook now, though Facebook has lost most of its appeal. That having been said, I do enjoy sharing experiences with friends who share their experiences with me. There was a time when I used my blogs, though not so much this one, as a journal of sorts. My old Musings with Myopia blog was a place for me to rant and post stream-of-consciousness drivel. I guess I do that here with my daily “Ruminations,” but I rarely use those posts to track my activities. But maybe I will begin to document my daily or weekly experiences here, instead of relying on other social media. Then, again, maybe I won’t.

At least I’ve captured here some of the momentous and mundane things I once tweeted about. For one reason or another, even the mundane among them mattered to me when I wrote them; they still do.

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Three Hundred Thirty-Three

A few days ago, I watched the sky change from thick to thin and go back again. That’s how I perceive the presence and absence of clouds; the sky skips between corpulent and consumptive.

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Saltfish and Ackee

DamnAckeeMy book about international breakfasts is underway, and has been for quite a while. Lately, I’ve been giving it a bit more attention, attention it deserves. The photo to the left is evidence of my attention. I recently stumbled across this can of ackee, which I had believed was illegal in the U.S., due to its poisonous properties if the fruit is improperly picked and prepared. But, no, it is not illegal, provided one of ten companies approved by the FDA produces it. My can was produced by one of them; I breathed a sigh of relief.

My intent is to make a Jamaican “National Dish,” saltfish and ackee. Saltfish is dried cod. You buy fish that has been laden with salt and dried. You can use boneless cod or or you can buy it with bones and remove them after re-hydrating the fish. I would rather the former, but the only saltfish I could find is full of bones. So, I’ll soak it in water overnight, remove the bones, and prepare the recipe according to one of several recipes I’ve collected, including one such recipe on this can of Linstead Market Jamaica Ackee.

From what I gather, the real star of the show is the ackee, which as I said can be poisonous. The fruit is native to West Africa but is now considered Jamaica’s national fruit.  My plan is to make the dish next Tuesday morning. My wife and her sister and I will then enjoy it (I hope) and I will take a photo or two (or more) I can use in my book. I will, of course, make notes about the experience here on my blog.

 

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Three Hundred Thirty-Two

This morning, for reasons beyond my ability to comprehend, I am thinking about the decomposed granite we bought to fill the spaces between the flagstones of our patio in Dallas. The flagstones were hard sandstone, the sort of stuff that weathers relatively quickly; I expect they will not last one hundred years. The decomposed granite, though, came from stone that weathers over many thousands of years so that, finally, it is sufficiently brittle to be crushed into gravel and dust.  I wonder what will become of those flagstones and that decomposed granite in the next thousand years? It’s safe to say I won’t be around to know.

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Black Friday

Today is Black Friday, an artificial event conceived to activate an odd emotional concoction in which an admixture of greed and generosity pulse through our collective brains, triggering impulse buying and irrational spending. According to various sources I’ve found, the term is relatively new, having found purchase in the collective consciousness only around 2000, though the tradition of Christmas season buying on the day after Thanksgiving began earlier. Some people claim Black Friday’s roots go back much further, to the days of slavery; then, it is falsely claimed, slaves were sold at auction on the day after Thanksgiving. Snopes.com, which I have come to trust, says there is no truth to it. But the darkness of the concept of Black Friday is firmly implanted in my brain. I equate the day, and the term, with naked greed and conspicuous consumption gone wild. It is a day for which brick and mortar merchants and online retailers selfishly and jointly conspire to unleash and validate raw avarice, purely to feed their own gluttony. Is my bias against this day of unbridled esurience showing?

 

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Three Hundred Thirty-One

Tears are lubricants. They enable emotions to flow freely, expressing emotions the way they were meant to be, tumbling unimpeded from the mind into an unsuspecting world.

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Living Wages: Earned and Due

Arguments against raising the minimum wage, based purely on economic factors, ignore the reality that economies cannot exist in the absence of humanity. And humanity cannot exist in the absence of morality. Even arguing strictly on economic factors, opponents of increasing the minimum wage tend to state as fact issues that are subject to debate and evidentiary challenge.

For example, the argument that increasing the minimum wage leads to significant loss of employment has been shown to be specious. A 2013 study authored by John Schmitt for the Center for Economic and Policy Research (Why Does the Minimum Wage Have No Discernible Effect on Employment?) summarizes a review of research data by saying:

The weight of that evidence points to little or no employment response to modest increases in the minimum wage. The report reviews evidence on eleven possible adjustments to minimum-wage increases that may help to explain why the measured employment effects are so consistently small. The strongest evidence suggests that the most important channels of adjustment are: reductions in labor turnover; improvements in organizational efficiency; reductions in wages of higher earners (“wage compression”); and small price increases. Given the relatively small cost to employers of modest increases in the minimum wage, these adjustment mechanisms appear to be more than sufficient to avoid employment losses, even for employers with a large share of low-wage workers.

Arguments suggesting that industries like fast-food cannot afford to pay higher wages because their margins are so low are subject to dispute. Aside from whether profits are sufficient to sustain higher wages in the fast food industry, though, a 2013 study by the University of Illinois and UC Berkeley Labor Center (The Public Cost of Low-Wage Jobs
in the Fast-Food Industry) reported that taxpayers pay about $243 billion each year in indirect subsidies to the fast food industry because the industry pays wages so low that taxpayers must put up $243 billion to pay for public benefits for the industry’s workers. So, in effect, taxpayers are subsidizing the fast food industry’s unwillingness to pay a living wage to its workers. But back to their profits. McDonald’s profit margin in 2012 was almost twenty percent, whereas the industry average that year was just 2.4 percent, according to Capital IQ. McDonald’s significant profits, opponents to a minimum wage increase point out, do not translate into big profits for the franchise owners. Those folks, the opponents would suggest, are barely scraping by. Frankly, I do not buy that, inasmuch as (as I understand it) getting a McDonald’s franchise is not easy and is very expensive; franchisees are not living lives of abject poverty, as I see it. Even if their profits were extremely low, their parent company’s were not; so, if McDonald’s and its shareholders would simply allows its franchisees to absorb a meager $2.25 billion of the parent’s $5.5 billion in profits, franchisees would have ample money to pay a living wage.

A separate study by the Center for Economic and Policy Research (The Minimum Wage is Too Damn Low) says:

Between the end of World War II and 1968, the minimum wage tracked average productivity growth fairly closely. Since 1968,however, productivity growth has far outpaced the minimum wage. If the minimum wage had continued to move with average productivity after 1968, it would have reached $21.72 per hour in 2012–a rate well above the average production worker wage.

If the rapidly growing wealth of the richest of the rich in this country has to be taken without their consent to achieve some degree of reason and balance, then so be it.

In examining the arguments for and against raising the minimum wage, I find myself–as usual–more apt to accept those in favor than those opposed. However, I think it’s reasonable to assume the vehement arguments on both sides of the issue contain more than a bit of overblown hyperbole. Clearly, though, reins must be placed on the accelerating growth in the enormous wealth of people who already own the vast majority of wealth in this country. I don’t pretend to know exactly what mechanism those reins should take, only that it must be done. The greed that drives the engines of wealth at the expense of the majority of other people is symptomatic of values gone badly astray. At the other end of the spectrum, though, attacking wealth and the people who accumulate it as the embodiment of evil should look at their own behavior and their own circumstances; how do they compare to people whose wealth is a fraction of their own? Are they willing to drastically reduce their own standards of living to allow others less fortunate to achieve parity with them?

As I read back over what I have written, it is evident that dispassionate discussions about the issue of raising the minimum wage will be hard to come by. Even in my attempt to be even-handed in my assessment of the issue in yesterday’s and today’s posts, I quickly see that my biases and my tendency to judge quickly rose to the surface. Cooler heads than mine must prevail in this conversation.

That having been said, I believe these words of Franklin D. Roosevelt, from his statement on the National Industrial Recovery Act, made on June 16, 1933, should always guide our philosophy on the matter of employment:

In my Inaugural I laid down the simple proposition that nobody is going to starve in this country. It seems to me to be equally plain that no business which depends for existence on paying less than living wages to its workers has any right to continue in this country. By “business” I mean the whole of commerce as well as the whole of industry; by workers I mean all workers, the white collar class as well as the men in overalls; and by living wages I mean more than a bare subsistence level–I mean the wages of decent living.

Posted in Business, Economics, Philosophy, Thanksgiving | 2 Comments

Three Hundred Thirty

The desire to document one’s philosophies of life is not arrogance, in my view, though my perspective may be a creature of personal protective armor. Rather, it is the expression of a hunger to be understood. It reflects a person’s wish to collect his attitudes on life in capsule form so that someone outside his impenetrable mental cage can see the opinions that informed his behaviors and beliefs.

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Pricing Workers Out of Jobs

Many arguments I’ve heard—and made—about raising the minimum wage rely on the presumption that anyone working a full-time job should be rewarded, at a minimum, with sufficient compensation to enable her to feed and house her family. The argument, at its core, is fundamentally one based on morality, on right and wrong.

The science of producing, distributing, and consuming goods does not operate according to moral principles; it operates according to economic principles. It is relatively common to find economists who argue that governmental coercion—through minimum-wage legislation—that forces the worker to raise the wage she charges has the same effect that raising the price of a car or a house has on their sales: demand falls as the price rises. These economists argue that no economic principle is more solid than the one that explains that raising the cost of engaging in some activity results in decreased frequency of people engaging in that activity. Thus, they say, raising the cost of employing low-skilled workers will result in the employment of fewer low-skilled workers.

Despite the arguments by these economists to the contrary, the majority of the American public does not understand that artificially pushing wages up through minimum-wage legislation causes loss of jobs for low-skilled workers or causes them not to be hired. An argument I recently read, posited by an economist, is that the politicians and other proponents of minimum wage legislation also complain about the greed and profiteering by business owners; therefore, he says, it is understandable that the public (who are in general economically uninformed) would support an increase in the minimum wage, assuming that such a hike is fully paid for out of excess profits of greed-mongers. However, the argument goes, most minimum-wage jobs are in competitive industries such as food service and retailing that do not generate enormous profits. Those businesses, he says, earn just enough to satisfy their investors.

The argument that businesses whose profit margins already are razor-thin could simply increase their prices to cover increases in costs of employing low-skilled workers is faced with the counter argument that higher prices will reduce demand, thereby lowering the number of employees necessary to meet that demand.  No matter how you cut it, unskilled workers loses with increases in minimum wages, according to economists and others who support these arguments against increases. While some workers will benefit, the ones who lose their jobs or see their hours cut will suffer. And the effects will trickle—some say surge—through the economy to the everlasting regret of those who succeeded in pushing the increase through in spite of solid economic arguments against it.

In another post, I’ll present arguments in support of raising the minimum wage and will explain which of the arguments makes the most sense to me.

Posted in Business, Philosophy | 1 Comment

Three Hundred Twenty-Nine

Late afternoon shadows seem gentler, softer than the hard lines of dark figures against bright reflected light of the harsh morning sun. Late-day filtered light makes dim images, tired old relatives to the brash young impressions made by their morning brethren whose edges were sharp and crisp.

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Longing for the Road

Yesterday, I wrote that I planned to take a risk with this blog and make the strongest arguments I could in opposition to raising the minimum wage. And I will. But not today, even though that’s what I intended to do. I will not be compelled by a misplaced sense of self-imposed obligation to do what I said I would do. Instead, today, I will write what’s on my mind.

I am restless. I want to go exploring; not just up the road to see what’s new in a nearby town, but across state lines. I can imagine myself driving into the deserts of New Mexico and Arizona, where in the right places desolation is an art form. I might find a tidy little motel where I could rent a room for the night. I might learn that the place serves as home to a few old souls satisfied to come together for companionship and to watch the sun set against scrub and sage brush; and I might discover a kinship with these gypsies whose most prized possession is the knowledge that there’s nothing tying them to the place that can’t be untied on a whim, in a moment’s notice.

I’d like to get in the car and go east, wandering the blue highways of Mississippi, crossing southeast through Alabama and into Florida. I envision myself skirting the coast in search of tiny, out-of-the-way restaurants where I could find fresh seafood and enjoy a meal in the open air within a stone’s throw of the water. The proprietors of one of the seafood shacks I stumble on could be a crusty old couple who pried themselves away from dead-end administrative jobs in small-town Nebraska and went in search of a place to retire. But when they came upon this out-of-the-way and hard-to-reach place on the beach in northwest Florida, they used their meager retirement savings to buy it. They, too, could walk away from it if the mood struck them; they could scrape by on Social Security and freedom from obligation.

I value my comfort and the relative safety of bank accounts and a roof over my head, but some days I want a little discomfort and danger and the opportunities afforded by the absence of obligation. There’s nothing in particular that prompted this sense of wanting to get away from everything that ties me to where I am. I suppose part of it is knowing I don’t have the freedom to just get up and go without planning the “escape.”  I’ll get over it. It will just take some time. Maybe a trip—planned out in advance with all the requisite reservations and knowing the destination—will do it; no, that’s probably not it.

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Three Hundred Twenty-Eight

Pretend everything will be fine. Believe it. Behave as if it were true. And maybe it will be true. Whether everything will be fine or not, surely it will…be. That’s the way it is.

Posted in Ruminations | 3 Comments

Arguing Against Myself

I’m going to take a risk on my blog. Admittedly, anything I write here is not much of a risk because it won’t reach many people. I’ve done nothing to try to build readership and don’t intend to start now. Minimal readership notwithstanding, I’m going to tackle some issues that will fly in the face of my willfully progressive political and economic perspectives. In so doing, I may offend people who share my perspectives and I may offend others who don’t.

First up: the minimum wage.

I will argue against my long-held position in favor of raising the minimum wage. It has been my position, heretofore, that raising the minimum wage is the right thing to do for humanitarian reasons. Moreover, I have believed that raising the minimum wage will boost the economy.

But I will argue against those positions. I will argue that forcing businesses to raise the amount they pay their least productive or least skilled workers will actually hurt the intended beneficiaries of an increase in the minimum wage. And I will provide rationale and data to support those arguments against my long-held positions. And, then, I will attempt to logically, rationally, and unemotionally decide whether my arguments and my data have won me over. That will be the hardest part.

Tomorrow, I will begin in earnest.

Posted in Business, Economics, Philosophy | 3 Comments

Three Hundred Twenty-Seven

The weight of the world is not on your shoulders; instead, it is on the shoulders of an abandoned child, seeking food and water sufficient to enable her search for sustenance to go on again tomorrow.

Posted in Ruminations | Leave a comment

How to Heal

Unless my assessment of the “state of the union” is badly skewed, it is apparent that the preponderance of Americans yearn for healing the sharp divides that exist in our country today between those on the political right and the political left. That majority is fervent in its wish for filling that divide with the fruits of compromise, yet we see few signs of healing. I think the reason we see so little evidence of healing is this: in spite of our desire to mend political fences, we collectively continue to allow emotions, rather than intellect, to rule our behavior.  When we disagree about ideas, we tend to attack the person espousing the idea, rather than dispassionately discussing our perspective on the idea.

Until we stop name-calling and cease berating those with whom we disagree, we will achieve nothing but a deepening of the divide we so desperately want to eliminate. I readily admit I lean far to the left and, if I had my way, would steer this country in a way that would satisfy my political leanings. But I understand that many do not share my perspectives; my only reasonable expectations of achieving some degree of success in the political realm is to be willing to compromise. Some might argue that the willingness to compromise is tantamount to abandonment of one’s principles. The way I see it, compromise is the only path toward achieving any of my desired outcomes. I can either sacrifice everything by rigidly standing on principle, and thereby achieving stalemate, or I can accomplish some of what I believe is vital by acknowledging that others’ ideas have a place in the world.

Of course, almost everyone seems willing to say they are willing to compromise, yet when presented with the opportunity to do so revise their definition of the term. Too many people equate compromise with caving in. That is most certainly true among the people we have elected to Congress. The only solution, if they will not compromise among themselves, is to replace them with people who understand the meaning of the word. That’s how to heal.

Posted in Just Thinking, Philosophy, Politics | Leave a comment