He's a genius, but his stupid abounds

My RWNJ ex-husband recently argued with me about how Obamacare was messing with him and his co-workers.

As his story progressed, it wasn't about the Affordable Care Act (ACA) it was about internal work policies at his company that workers have to meet, such as an annual physical, and based on the results, those employees are held, Nazi- or Fascist-like, to employer-set goals regarding weight, blood pressure, thyroid levels, etc., etc.

When I pointed out that he wasn't talking about Obamacare, but the criteria his employer's Human Resources had set up to coerce health-conscious workers to accept the goals, and in the process, ostensibly lowering costs for the company, he got very belligerent and angry.

It's like hatred of the ACA, I mean, OBAMAcare, at all costs, and damn the torpedos.

I tried to placate by pointing out the ACA allows us to continue to keep our special-ed daughter insured (on my policy) beyond the limit of 26-years-old.  He made snotty, irrelevant and inane remarks about that. 

Discussion with RWNJs about improvements in current health care standards insurance is impossible.

R.I.P. Tebow-ery

This might appear to be an odd post because it is on football. I followed the NFL from 1983 to 1999, but only have a passing interest in the game today. Yes, I still watch the Super Bowl, and occasionally some other game, but since Dan Marino, the greatest QB the game has ever seen, retired, I do not watch much football.

Now, I do not begrudge those who rate Joe Montana or Tom Brady as the greater QBs, nor deny that Brett Favre has some statistical superiority over Marino, and feel certain that Peyton Manning will surpass all of the big marks that Marino once held, but, I shall always regard Marino as the special player who should have won a Super Bowl ring, but did not. Kinda like a Charles Barkley but one who had the talent of a Michael Jordan.

Marino played for the wrong team, and later, for the wrong coach. In Barkley's words, the main reason for Marino never winning the big one can be summarized as

Bad team man, bad fucking team...

The Toilet Incident

I’ve been invited to blog here because I participate in an online debate group (“Atheism vs. Christianity") with some of the other contributors (I love those guys!). Since atheism is why I am here, I thought I'd tell the story of how I first knew I am an atheist. It remains one of my proudest moments, partly because I came to this conclusion at a younger age than anyone I've met so far, and mostly because it involved the innovative use of a toilet.

US Open predictions (Updated)

Men's:

Federer > Querrey
Murray > Cilic
Gasquet > Tipsarevic
Djokovic > Delpo

Murray > Federer
Djokovic > Gasquet

Djokovic > Murray


Women's (bet this falls apart on Day 1):

Na Li > Azarenka
Kvitova > Sharapova
Serena > Wozniacki
Kerber > Cibulkova

Na Li > Kvitova
Kerber > Serena

Na Li > Kerber

UPDATE: So I blew it on the women's side (nothing unusual there) even as I got 3/8 quarter-finalists, 1/4 semifinalists and bupkiss in the finals.  Men's was better. 4/8 quarter-finalists, 2/4 semifinalists and 1/2 in the finals.

Mortality

I just turned fifty.

A numerically curious landmark I suppose, but it is just another year. At least that's the way I felt when the earth finally got around to complete its orbit around that star in our solar system.

My de facto best friend decided that it would be in my best interests to hold the company's holiday party on the same day. Well, the food was good enough, the presents welcome, and the night rather ordinary, so I cannot complain.

My wife wanted to get me something, I refused at first then relented for cable TV in my study. No wait, I change it to a credenza or a nice desk. It should be better than the office desk I picked up from a office giveaway seven years ago. My in-laws gifted me a thousand bucks; my mom and sis remembered my birthday, as did friends and other family. I still have a buffet at an Indian restaurant which few like, but I enjoy, coming up one of these days. So just about perfect. I have grown to hate the fanfare, and it is more complicated each year to maintain calm in the face of banal celebrations which get tiresome every passing year, and seem to irritate everybody else when I do not break down and enjoy it like they expect me to.

The art of persuasive discussion

Like most things in life, the art can be broken down to simple guidelines. Rules that are intuitively obvious to the most casual of observers:

1. Be civil and truthful.
2. Decline to reveal what you're not comfortable sharing.
3. But be polite only as far as you can tolerate your own hypocrisy.
4. Call out bullshit in the tone most appropriate to the company.
5. It is OK to let a thought go unexpressed.

or, if you prefer a more pretentious authority, like Philip Dormer Stanhope, 4th Earl Chesterfield

Learn to shrink yourself to the size of the company you are in. Take their tone, whatever it may be, and excel in it if you can; but never pretend to give the tone. A free conversation will no more bear a dictator than a free government will.

Talking Sense into Jay

I have been asked to talk some sense into Jay.

I'll presently reveal who Jay is, and why he needs some sense talked into him. For now, let's focus on me. (It is always about me.)

I'd rather not talk sense into anyone, even though I excel at it: Not my kid, The Wife, or The Godfather, and anyone who says that I do is lying. I prefer the power of suggestion. It even works on occasion. Like when I suggested to my kid that he could easily maintain his straight As if he only valued the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Of course, I had to add a sweetener: the playing rights to his Xbox.

Other times, it simply does not work.

[Waits for the audience to overcome their shock from disbelief]

For instance, my former student who is currently a scientist at NASA, recently wrote this on her Facebook wall:

number of calories burned at the end of the workout: 666. Wondering if I should have added just a couple more minutes on the elliptical ...

Since I was about to pen a stinging rebuke of NASA's Space Shuttle program, and needed her unstinting silence, I suggested what any intellectual would:

Shave your head, and make sure it doesn't match the number you find there.

She hasn't updated her profile picture, so I am beginning to suspect that she may have spurned my suggestion. She's stubborn that way. I vaguely remember how she stubbornly aced all her math finals.

Jay, a dear friend, is worse. He is a farm-owner, and is married to a wonderful woman. His stubbornness is evident in his insistence on calling her Sue. That wouldn't be so unusual except that her name is not Sue! She is Japanese, and does not even look like a Sue, even if she speaks English impeccably like a Sue from Tennessee. He also stubbornly refuses to grow tobacco, so the government adds a sweetener for his (non)efforts.

So as is plain, Jay is very stubborn!

About a decade and a half ago, Jay and Sue moved to The Coast from Tennessee, where the air is clean, but the sex is dirty. Predictably, they missed Southern Hospitality. But thanks to my charming influence over the years, they've finally adjusted to California. I suppose others played their part, but it was mainly me and my power of suggestion.

A few years ago, Jay, longing for the clean air (only), and also being an environmental terrorist, started riding his bicycle to work. That eco-friendly electric car of his was just not clean enough. One day, he and his bicycle lost a heated argument with a lamp post, and for his disorderly conduct he was imprisoned in a hospital--with some broken ribs, and a punctured lung. I remember visiting him, and while people think it was because I cared for him, it was to coquet with the nurses. [Note: The Editor stubbornly insists that commiserate would be the correct word here, but he is wrong.] They had suffered at his stubborn insistence in going home with a tube sticking into his body, and the unsuccessful escape attempt had left his room looking like a mess from M*A*S*H.

He recovered, reverted to driving his eco-mobile, and life became good again. Jay and Sue continued their evil ways, but he went on to better things: running marathons everywhere, even in strange lands like Tokyo.

Last Thursday, Sue and I meet for our ritual lunch. She tells me that Jay has had another accident! After expressing mock umbrage at not being notified like the best man at their renewal-of-vows should have been, I find out that he's not hospitalized and only has a broken shoulder.

Turns out that Jay, dissatisfied with the mundane challenges posed by a bicycle, had upped the ante and moved on to a unicycle. Even his mother-in-law, a pint-sized, serene lady not given to even rumors of officiousness, screamed in her inside-voice: "Jay-san should consider more appropriate means of conveyance".

"Will you talk some sense into him?" asked Sue.

Both Sue and I love M*A*S*H, so I'll now recall an episode where Dr. Sidney Freedman had been asked to talk some sense into the cross-dressing, discharge-seeking Klinger:

Lt. Col. Henry Blake: Corporal Klinger, this is Major Freedman, divisional psychiatrist.

Cpl./Sgt. Maxwell Q. Klinger: Major sir!                    

[curtsies wearing a frilly pink dress]

Dr. Sidney Freedman: You got me up here to ask me about him? About that?

Lt. Col. Henry Blake: Yeah well, you see, it really wasn't my idea.

Dr. Sidney Freedman: All the way from Seoul to ask me what? Whether he needs a girdle under that? Whether his seams are straight?... OK, OK. It's all part of the war, I guess.

[picks up a clipboard and looks at Klinger] 

Dr. Sidney Freedman: I have a few questions to ask you. Sit down, soldier. 

Cpl./Sgt. Maxwell Q. Klinger: Yes sir! 

[runs over to the chair. Freedman takes his time filling out the first part of his report] 

Dr. Sidney Freedman: Now, what's your name, honey?

(via IMDb.com)

Sidney may be a fictional character, but I am wondering if I can likewise talk Jay into using a taller, stabler unicycle. Or perhaps I can help inflate the tire on the weekends till his shoulder heals? Maybe I could sign him up for some lessons.

Wait, do you think I am way off-base here? You think you can do better than Dr. Shripathi Freedman?

Let's see you try!

Temerity

I have had tremendous opportunity offered to me a time or two in my life; not just the opportunity, but true support to back it up.

I am pondering those times because there is a young person I know who is about to blow a good chance, an "opportunity to excel." Many people on the edge of a challenge have heard those words, sometimes mockingly, but always with "No Turnaround Here" implied. Time after time, a person told, "here is your opportunity to excel," has a pause, a mental stop, the pupils enlarge, the chest deepens a breath and a breadth, and the knowing quickens and then, the step into the next greater future is taken.

I don't like this person too much, as familiarity breeds contempt; I've learned too much. Familiarity breeds contempt. Isn't that a famous quote?

There must be a corollary, "I love the me I see in you," which axiom's polar opposite must be more true: I hate the me I see in you.

In this person I see the judgmental me, the snide remarks, the cutting words, the blame language ("it's all their fault! Not me! It wasn't me! I didn't do it!") the self-awarded superiority; the inability to know when to shut up. Just STFU.

It has taken me more than fifty years to learn to not speak the language from the Land of Blame.

I am not without compassion. I recognize and know, because I am twice as old, and have children of that age, that if the person should want to hear and listen to me, I could help. I could help a whole lot.

This young person could gain years and years of better living not making the same mistakes, not suffering the same losses I have. If only.

A person who causes me friction or annoyance is someone I can learn from (in my self-designed beliefs) if nothing more than how to not engage, how to not become enmeshed, how to survive the encounter intact and none the worse for wear. That person is a challenge, it is an adventure rightly considered.

You see, this young person is very angry, and now we know unvetted by human resources, so we've come to find out there are two stalking orders against her and several other criminal and civil charges. Far, far, far too many counts for a person her age.

Ah, I see, another one too smart for her own good.

I feel sadness and compassion but my days of enabling this kind of person are long, long over.

This serves to make her very, very angry that I am not falling into the emotional manipulation.

I made a choice. I did what I think I have to do in the circumstances: I provided our supervisor with a point paper of the facts - I am letting him research it for himself. She will have choices.

Everything, everyday, at all times we have choices.


.

An Immigrant's Tale

"Now batting for Italy, MIII....IKE PI-A-ZZA!" blared over the public address system at Cracker Jack Stadium, March 7, 2006 of the World Baseball Classic. If you do not know what that is, look it up here. Briefly, it is a wholly-owned enterprise of MLB, but for the whole world. Yup, the same MLB that is a legal monopoly, one with an antitrust exemption that is repeatedly confirmed by the judicial branch.

So, if the irony of a natural-born American, representing a different sovereign nation in a sport organized by a walking mockery of the free-enterprise system does not grab you, you are either unfamiliar with what an irony is, don't care about baseball, or a patriotic Tea Party Republican whose depth on the nuances of immigration issues can often be summed up by the slogan "illegal is illegal" or the slightly longer bromide: "What don't you understand about the word illegal?"

Or perhaps, I erred in positing the trilemma, and you'll correct me.

Make no mistake, I am all for less illegal immigration, but I am also for more legal immigration. For now, I'll discuss the perspective of one such legal immigrant: Me. (It is always about me.)

Unemployment teeters at some 9.2% today. Underemployment is at least twice that. Yeah, things are bad. But I personally remember a worse time, soon after I first arrived in 1982 for graduate studies in Florida, on an assistantship, legally. The tuition was free, and the stipend barely covered my expenses. Unemployment soon peaked at 10.2%.

Had I displaced an American? Not according to my department head, who professed difficulties attracting Americans to graduate studies in a private institution, and willing to teach or assist at those wages. Or the INS, who reviewed my background before granting me a visa. I could work at the college, but not, for example, at McDonald's.

The longer I stayed, the more attracted I was to the country, and after a series of immigration procedures, I became a naturalized citizen in December 1994. The journey was long, but not arduous, aided largely by my skills and education. Each step of the way, my employer and I had to convince the government that I was not displacing an American.

"Why does someone have to call himself an African-American, or an Arab-American?" is a question I sometimes get asked at parties. It is a good question, which I honestly cannot answer, even if I can venture a good guess. I call myself an American, and therein lies another irony: when I do that, I sometimes get asked, "No, I meant where are you from, originally?" Often by the same folks who ask the first question. As an aside, I am yet to witness anyone raise an eyebrow if someone were to similarly call himself an Irish-American, or an Italian-American.

As Aside # 2, Darrell Issa calls himself an Arab-American less often these days. Something to do with this, I presume.

My command of the English language is demonstrably adequate, and it is accompanied by a strong accent. I have a vast vocabulary, which I pronounce as wocabulary. Hey, English wasn't my first language, and I learnt it in my formative years. The accent won! This amuses some people to no end, but after a longish conversation on a variety of cultural issues, invariably a "compliment" is offered: "Your English is pretty good!"

"So is yours", I respond, and it produces the quizzical discomfort which they quickly dismiss somewhat uneasily.

To be clear, that pales in comparison to the other acts to which I have been subjected. Like a cashier consistently throwing back my change instead of risking touching my hand, parents instructing their kids to spit when they see, well, melanin-rich bipeds like me, several choice epithets, threats, etc. I learned to ignore such incidents, for they are very few and far between. I have suffered similar or worse unpleasantries in the country of my origin too, so it is nothing unique. Just unpleasant, that's all. Even today, far more Americans suffer a worse fate.

I contribute to society, pay my taxes, consume beer, and am fortunate enough to have started a small company which hires other Americans. Life's good, even if the times are hard. I feel that I have followed, just a little, in the footsteps of Nikola Tesla. Without Tesla, an immigrant, the US could well be following someone else's lead in the industrialized revolution of the 20th century.

So what I am to do when I find that we have some massive problems facing us today, but the conversation has been hijacked by some grotesque disinformation? I find it useful to engage in discussion, offer my opinion, correct someone's misconceptions, correct my own, study, debate, vote ... participate. That is the duty of every citizen, isn't it?

Only as long as it remains rational. My mailbox is a litany of propaganda and chain-mail rhetoric masquerading to be "information" I apparently need to know. I disagree, which is why I let the trash bin take it hostage, and never negotiate. It is neither a discussion nor even the start of one.

It is hard to discuss issues with people who say "Why don't you go back to where you came from?" when they find your views objectionable. That is simply demanding for the conversation to end, albeit impolitely. Imagine if Tesla had gone back when Edison told him that he won't be paid what he was promised because he did not understand "American humor".

I remain hopeful though that some day, when we hear "Starting at pitcher for Iran, Yu Daa...rwish Jr.", we will perhaps express the same collective indifference we just offered to Mike Piazza's at-bat. For that to happen, we, as a nation should engage in rational dialog. It is increasingly more difficult, but it seldom hurts to try.

Should there be some interest, I'd like to discuss the powder-keg that "Illegal is illegal" has become, next. Let me know in the comments.

After all, to analyze a tautology, we need to analyze a tautology.

The Art of Listening

Disclaimer: Any resemblance between the characters in this article and any persons, living, dead or undead, is a miracle and should not be construed.

"Honey, I have a headache, can you please get me an Advil?" asks The Wife.

"No thanks, I am fine" responds yours truly.

Now, I have it on good authority that men do not listen too carefully to women, and I simply must protest this libelous accusation. I do listen to every word that is uttered. By me. I'm a man. Case closed. That shoots down that theory.

"You must love hearing the sound of your own voice, then" yells some lady, and if I were paying attention I'd remember who it was. But let the record show that I listened!

I hate my voice. It is by no means stentorian like I imagine William Gladstone's might have been, but there is a distinct accent, that is unmistakable. It is somewhat loud, kids love it, and The Wife thinks I am always yelling.

"I AM NOT YELLING!" I respond. Now, not only did I listen to what I was saying, I actually liked my voice. Couple more baritones or octaves or some musically appropriate scale, and Morgan Freeman better watch out!

My kid on the other hand, is Googling feverishly, looking for used straight-jackets on eBay.

So let's pretend that it is true. That I do not listen to The Wife all that well. Impossible, you exclaim, but I beg you to play along.

What should I do? Hang on her every word, as if it were my own?

You gotta be kidding! My home office has only enough room for either myself or my ego.

Perhaps nod my head approvingly every time she pauses for oxygen? I tried that. It really backfires when she asks "You haven't heard a word I have said, have you?" Apparently, that is a wee-bit too patronizing, and distressingly obvious. One more reason why Morgan Freeman is not quaking in his boots.

I got it! Ask questions. Lots of 'em. That'll make her think that I am listening. Unfortunately, she is way smarter than a door knob on sale at the local gas station. That leaves me farther behind.

"If you do not want to listen, just say so, and you won't look stupid and uncaring asking those dumb-ass questions!"

Another disadvantage of marrying someone whose IQ trumps yours by 10%. Conservatively.

I pull the switcharoo. Oh, why oh why, didn't I think of it before?

"YOU don't listen to me!  And you accuse me of not listening to you?!"

If this were a sitcom, the laugh track has turned into boos. The Wife has left the room, with me plaintively wailing "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I did not mean that..." even as I try to imagine what quicksand would feel like. Suddenly, it feels like a viable option.

[Commercial break]

It is now later at night. The Wife has forgiven, or so I assume.

"Can you come up to bed, honey? It is 11:30"

"Just a minute, dear. There is this guy on the Internet who is clearly wrong about quantum mechanical tunneling! Let me set him straight, and I'll be right up."

I set the cretin straight, and as I walk up the stairs, it hits me.

I do not listen, because I am selfish.