. . . And the End of Civilization As We Know It

Today is the day Florida's judicial stay on the enforcement of the declaration of unconstitutionality of the state's ban on same-sex marriages was lifted. It's convoluted.

Several years ago, along with a bunch of other red(dish) states, our legislature managed to work up enough of a paranoid frenzy among the insecure and easily frightened to get a constitutional amendment passed limiting marriage to the "traditional" one man, one woman format and besides, it's what Jesus wants. (Let's forget that "traditional marriage" as they defined it is barely more than a century old and for most of history was a transfer of property contract between men, and Biblical marriage was even worse involving slavery and polygamy (lookin' at you, Solomon!).)

Anyway, last year a federal judge, upon complaint from two guys wishing to wed in the north end of the state and two women in Miami, declared the ban unconstitutional under the federal 14th amendment which requires states to comply with federal law and ordered the clerks of the county in which the betrothed lived to issue the marriage licenses.

The state, in the full majesty of its official capacity, immediately freaked out and requested a stay of judgment to give it time to appeal the decision, which the judge granted.

Now, the thing about appeals is: higher courts are not usually required to hear them and, if they refuse, the original ruling, whatever it may be, stands. And no higher court, not even the Supreme Court where the extremely conservative Clarence Thomas was the justice who heard the request, agreed to take the case.

So the stay was set to expire at midnight last night.

And then the fun started. The state attorney general, still in full freak-out mode, declared that the ruling only applied to the plaintiffs and anyone else seeking a same-sex marriage could still be discriminated against. And the law firm for the county clerks' association warned the members that the clerks of all the other counties not covered by the ruling risked breaking the law by applying the ruling. So on New Year's Day the judge issued a clarification making it plain that his injunction against the constitutional ban applied to everyone across the state.

At which point some counties (specifically those encompassing Miami, Tampa and Key West) began celebrating, most counties began adjusting their forms and procedures, and a dozen counties in the deep redneck north of the state began contorting themselves to do the barest minimum mainly by refusing to perform any marriage ceremonies gay or straight on the logic that the judge's ruling applied only to marriage licenses not actual marriages. (At least they were smart enough to realize that continuing to perform straight marriage ceremonies would open themselves up to discrimination charges. And there are plenty of other options, both religious and secular, for couples to hold their services.)

And so, despite the trembling of the earth, rising of the waters, lightning splitting stone, and howling winds, society has not yet collapsed. And Florida is being dragged kicking and screaming right up to the edge of the twenty-first century.

The MOOC and Me: Validation

I received my certificate from the Catholic University of Louvain for "successfully" completing the course Paradigms of Computer Programming.

"Successfully" is in quotes because it turned out I was in over my head and, while I did learn a great deal on the philosophical/abstract side, the practical work was mostly beyond my current skill level and the certificate represents what we used to call, back when college was for wastrel scions (aka "Legacies") who needed a little polishing before entering the family business, a "Gentleman's C."* It certainly doesn't qualify me to do anything other than, maybe, discuss tail-recursion and nod knowingly when others speak of explicit state, data abstraction and object oriented programming.

I downloaded everything I could from the course, mostly lectures and slides and such which I can now review at my leisure, but the problem sets, which were where I fell down, could not be saved.

In the meantime, I can now get back to the Harvard CS50 Introduction to Programing course which I had to suspend because Louvain had a tight deadline for completion. (Turns out it was too tight and they had to extend it by two weeks or risk losing a number of students but I still couldn't do both at the same time. Also didn't help that my laptop crashed right at the deadline for completing the final exam.) CS50 is geared much more to someone of my noobiness and is practically open-ended requiring only that I complete it by the end of the year. Plus the upcoming problem sets look to be much more fun, and less academically mathematical, than the Louvain ones.

Of course, none of the above is hinted at in the Louvain certificate, which will look good on the wall.

*The concept is not entirely obsolete. Cf: W at Yale.

Late Night Drinks With Pete Seeger

I woke up this morning to the news Pete Seeger had died and flashed back about forty years or so. 1971 to be exact.

I was a sophomore at a small private university in northern New Jersey majoring in political science and self-appointed chair of the school's environment committee. My roommate, Bart, was majoring in theater (and later went on to get his masters and create and lead the puppetry department at the University of Connecticut).

There was an official student entertainment committee that booked popular-but-safe concerts (I remember Santana being one) but Bart wasn't satisfied with their selections and essentially started his own freelance booking agency on campus specializing in unknown, under appreciated, controversial acts mostly of the acoustic or folk variety. Among others, I remember he brought in the Boys of the Lough featuring Aly Bain and Mike Whellans.

And he booked Pete Seeger.

I don't remember the actual venue for that concert. The official committee usually booked into the gymnasium. Bart's concerts were much smaller and usually played in the common room of the Great Hall ( a copy of Christ Church Hall at Oxford University).

The important thing is not where the concert was held, or that it was a roaring success. The important thing is that, after the show, as Pete and his accompanists were packing up, someone asked him if he would care for refreshments before taking off and he allowed that, "singin' is thirsty work," whereupon we decided, what with the hour and all the commercial establishments being close to or already past closing time, to invite him back to our dorm room for a beer or three.

To our delight, he accepted. And so Pete Seeger (and troupe) spent the next two hours or so up in our room in deep conversation about music and politics and the environment. We talked about the war. We talked about pollution. He told of us building the sloop, Clearwater, a sailing ship on the Hudson River as a kind of moving billboard for cleaning up the water. He took out his guitar and and strummed a bit. He told us never to get discouraged or give up, the fight was its own reward and you never knew what kind of effect you could have down the line.

Rest in peace, Pete Seeger. What an effect you had, down the line.

Hair Apparent

I cheated on my barber today. I felt bad about it before going into the new place but now I'm mostly perfectly O.K. with it.

I try to support local businesses whenever possible and the barber I've been going to is a local guy (or person, at least. He's still undergoing some sort of transition as far as I can tell.) He has six chairs and when I first started with him a couple of years ago he had a few old-time actual barbers renting space from him but, recently, it's just been the owner and a woman who is only marginally competent. I don't know whether the others left because business is slow, or because of the owner's vocal Tea Partyish political views (I was present for a couple of "debates" among the staff) but the result has been the same.

The last time I was in there the owner was out and she was just standing around so I made the mistake of letting her work on me. By the time it was over, we were both frustrated, she had taken too much off the top and not enough off the sides (I ended up trimming that myself at home a couple days later when I couldn't stand it any longer) and I wondered if I should even bother to go back again.

I'd been debating that on and off for a while as my hair grew too long. My phlebotomist nurse at the blood center told me about another local shop in town but, when I went by, the outside was enough to scare me off.

Then I received a coupon for one of the chain salons.

I really didn't want to use it. I held onto it almost until it expired. Today, I gave in and went to the mall with the big box stores and found the place. They were busy and someone was out sick so my ten minute wait turned into twenty but, when I finally sat in the chair, my stylist was friendly, attentive and competent. When I told her it had been six months since my last "trim" she dug her hands in and pulled my hair out to the sides saying, "Wow! She must've really cut it short." Indeed. And then proceeded to do a great job on my head.

I know it's a great job because the pretty African-American lady at the gas station where I stopped immediately afterward and who was very perfunctory with the two gentlemen in front of me suddenly got all smiley and talkative when I got to the counter and the young woman checking out the soon-to-be-discarded sale books at the library turned and smiled at me as I walked past, things which do not normally happen to me.

So here's the dilemma: Do I give my weird, quirky, filled-with-strange-characters locally-owned shop one more try next time? Or do I just give up and go with the decent haircut?

I Am Legion

I have lived most of my life under the assumption, based on anecdotal evidence, that I am, in fact, only one of an indeterminate number of identical clones, although I like to flatter myself by thinking I am the original template and all the others merely copies.

My awareness of this situation began shortly after I went off to college. On my first trip home, Mom reported that she'd seen me in the local supermarket three weeks earlier and, wondering why I was AWOL from school, had approached to within six feet before realizing whoever it was was not me. Six feet! My own Mother! It happened again a couple of years later when she almost stopped to pick "me" up hitchhiking along the highway before remembering I was over 500 miles away. (I do hope that clone eventually got to wherever he was supposed to be.)

There were a number of times, when I had my game company, when I was mistaken for the owner of another game company and I do have to admit, at the time, the resemblance was uncanny.

I have been accosted on the street more than once by friends of my clones, calling out to me in their names, and inquiring as to the latest news. I have invariably both disappointed and fascinated them.

It happened again today. A woman with a gaggle of young children coming down the hallway in the library tried to shepherd them aside to make room for me and as we passed she called out, "Hello!" and then to the kids said, "That's Mister So-and-so." I was so startled I turned the corner before realizing her greeting had been addressed to me and when I turned around again she and the flock had moved on.

I hope, when she finally sees the "real" Mister So-and-so, he has the chance to explain why he was so rude as to ignore her today.

I wonder how many of me there really are?

The Littlest Thing

I have been advised to express my gratitude for "the little things in life." Here goes.

I am grateful that the mosquito in the living room last night (there is one, and only one, in there every night, always different, sometimes one of the larger types with the high-pitched buzz but, just as often the small silent little bitches with the extremely painful, and surprisingly long-lasting bites, and all nearly impossible to see in the gloaming) was stupid and/or desperately thirsty enough to land right on my wrist where I could smoosh it immediately thus allowing me to avoid an entire evening of ritual random spastic arm and leg movements, swatting at shadows and forced focussed attention to imaginary sightings at the expense of enjoying my book.

There. That is absolutely the littlest thing I could possibly be grateful for.

We won't mention health, family (including an incredibly brave and sweet niece), friends, a roof overhead, (too much) good food. Nope.

Just the little things.

Balance of Terror (Holiday Version)

Several decades ago, in a previous millennium, my International Relations course discussed the theoretical possibility that the Balance of Terror between the US and USSR could have been maintained with a very low number of nuclear warheads on each side as opposed to the tens of thousands eventually produced. As I recall, our conclusion was it could not, that the low balance was too unstable because nukes are cheap and that the next stability point comes only when both sides have maxed out their capabilities. The only choices are none or all.

We seem to have arrived at some sort of unspoken truce this year between ourselves and Neighbor Dan. What with our lawn problems and the expenditure of energy needed to put up the Hallowe'en decorations at the last minute only to have to take them down again almost immediately, my brother has not been in the decorating mood for a while.

Meanwhile, Neighbor Dan and family were away for an extended trip through most of November.

The result is neither party has yet put out any outdoor Christmas decorations. Nothing. Nada. My brother has decided as long as Neighbor Dan does not, he will not. While I am not privy to the internal Neighbor Dan Family debates I get the feeling he also is waiting to see what we will do.

The difference between our competing lawn decorations and the strategic arms race (aside from the number of potential fatalities) is this: a deadline. The longer each side waits the closer we get to the Christmas don't-bother-it's-too-late date. The closer we get the easier it is to just say "Why bother with so little time left."

Our solution this year appears to be: None.

Redneck Studies

I've been studying my brother for some time now and I am beginning to get a handle on the concept of "Redneck" especially the southern variety. For one thing, it's an acquired trait. My brother was born and raised in New England and has lived everywhere from the northern plains to southern California without betraying any such tendencies previously.

One of the primary traits is the habit of trying to come up with original yet ad hoc solutions to common problems, attempting to bypass the ways of the world as it were, without, at the same time, covering all of the possible, and often obvious, consequences.

For example: My brother decided, a couple of years ago when gasoline prices were going through one of their regular and in no way manipulated spikes, to do a little hydrocarbon arbitrage. He bought a number of plastic jerry cans and filled them with regular unleaded in an attempt to lock in the price. The full cans he then stored in the shed out back.

Let's forget the opportunity cost of tying up cash in a volatile commodity.

The redneck point is: The shed is not watertight. Neither are the jerry cans. By the time the price of gas had risen enough for him to feel justified dipping into the strategic reserve, the cans contained probably 98% distilled petroleum and 2% H2O. I had to rescue him more than once before we figured out why his truck kept conking out on him (invariably in the middle of the night).

Although he no longer tops off the truck from the cans neither has he disposed of the contaminated fuel. (Note: Review the concept of sunk costs.) Apparently, a couple of weeks ago he filled the tank of the lawnmower from one of the cans. The lawn is now knee high and the grass is literally going to seed. (The length of time it has taken to fix the mower, this time, is not entirely his fault since Mom put the receiver of the phone in her room (Why does she even have a phone in her room?) down backwards which took the entire house off-line for the weekend (we don't use the land line much) causing the lawnmower repair guys to get a busy signal and delay returning the mower to us.)

The last time the mower needed repair (August) he bitched and moaned for a day and a half about the cost. This time, not a word. Which means he knows it's his fault. The repair guys didn't just find water in the tank. Spiders (more accurately, spider corpses) were clogging up the carburetor, too.

The "Princeton"

Went to the barber for my semi-annual. He laughed when I told him I'd misplaced my ears and could he help me find them. He did. It's going to be a very long time before they're hidden again.

When I told him how short I wanted my hair, he said, "You want a 'Princeton'?" Well, I don't know. Describe it for me. He did. The results were a lot more severe than the description would lead one to believe.

It may not have been his fault. We were all distracted by the shop's owner, a full-bore Kool-Aid-chugging Tea Partier, who was ranting to his customer about not being willing to pay taxes even for police or fire services. If his house caught fire he'd let it burn down before paying for the fire department. Let it burn and rebuild. That's why he had insurance.

(It apparently hadn't occurred to him that his insurance company requires affirmative action on his part to limit his/their losses. They wouldn't pay a dime if they suspected he just stood around watching. In their eyes, that's only one step away from arson itself.)

Turns out both his customer and my barber were retired firemen.

My barber assures me that my part will reappear in a week or two and I should need the comb again in about a month, maybe a little more.

Still no idea why they call it a "Princeton."

Mom, the Anarcho-Libertarian Philosopher

We just recently increased (doubled) the dosage of the Excelon patches Mom uses to slow the Alzheimer's and I think it's working. (The reason the patches start on lower dosages is because one of the side effects is "psychotic episodes"(!!) which we, fortunately, did not experience. Anyway. . .) I don't think any of what follows would have been possible before the patches.

I had the most interesting "conversation" with Mom the other day. She had become thoroughly bored with the game on TV so I turned it off. Her eyesight and attention span don't allow her to follow the games anymore and everything runs together and seems never-ending to her. (See Mom-sequiturs .)

With the TV off, she kept talking. At first it seemed like she was complaining about the no longer visible game. Her complaints usually run along the lines of "Who decides that (X) should go with (Y)?" And I explain that "X" is the game but "Y" is just a commercial and has nothing to do with who's up next or the current score. Or "Y" is a preview/review/instant replay. This time we went in a different direction.

Mom: I don't understand who makes these decisions.

Me: What decisions? (This is usually a bad question and most often I just ignore the opening.)

Mom: The decision about who should make the decision.

Me: (O.K., this is a little meta. Obviously, she's not going to let this go.) Different people make different decisions about different situations.

Mom: Absolutely! But we're not happy with what's going on. I guess life is supposed to be like that. Is one person supposed to be in charge of everything? We should choose our own way or leader and if that makes you happy, good! Be happy!

Me: (Are we still complaining about the composition of the TV program? These conversations seldom have a defined subject.) Are you asking me if I have any ideas, because I'm not sure what you're talking about.

Mom: (Laughs.) Live our own lives and don't pay attention to anyone else. Everyone do as he wishes . . . as long as you don't hurt anyone else. I'd like to see how the program ends.

Me: What program? (Surely, she doesn't want the game back on?)

Mom: What's good for you and what you should do. That plant out there in the yard, taller than anyone else. I don't see why that makes it any better. And you can get awfully tired discussing this because there is no answer.

Me: . . ..

Mom: If there is a particular item in charge, I don't want to know about it.

Me: (Item? I'm not sure I want to get into a theological debate this late in the evening.)

Mom: I like to think we're happier with the more people we know and are in contact with.

I agreed and went to get her another cup of coffee. By the time I got back the topic was closed. We changed her patch, did her eye drops, and she went off to bed. A good place to end it anyway.

Act of God v. Graven Image

So...,

Is this evidence of God's non-existance, that lightning can strike, with impunity, His devotees' object of veneration, or

evidence that He's real and pissed at the violation of His Second Commandment?