Tom Desrosier
Much of what we believe about ourselves, our world and our politics, we learned from someone else.
Sometimes, years later, we still cling to this stufff, long after its proven wrong.
Go figure...
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Polishing the Cannon Ball
I bet you’ve read this one before: “Its been a while since my last post.”
Yeah - me too. I haven’t really written close to my expectations. Alas, my posts have been infrequent; largely random. Even this post about posting - as phenomenally important as it is, will take a few days to finish.
Go figure… I’d always thought the ether would be full to overflowing with my powerful prose, blistering repartee, and blindingly insightful commentary. I imagined vast arrays of interlinked stories on influential websites worldwide, describing their untiring devotion to my every word.
You know - I’d become one of those celebrated illuminates who gets all the admiration and praise; whose quoted all the time… That should have been me by now.
I wonder what happened; I wonder when I fell unawares off the back of the turnip truck. Such a perplexing conundrum.
Perplexing conundrum… Is there another kind? That’s like saying “new beginning” or “kind benevolence”.
But I digress.
Each morning starts out well enough, with me bounding out of bed early and settling down in front of my computer, steaming coffee at elbow… Enthusiasm, ambition, a desire to write; surging effortlessly through noble veins.
But then something happens; something inexplicable; yes, even something diabolical: My mind starts to focus on writing’s preparations, and not on the writing. There’s a difference you know - preparations cause me to clean the area around my computer, re-order a nearby stack of books by height (since I can see them, they are therefore a distraction). Then the little message from Microsoft - Windows requests that I update my computer! Can’t blame me there - I have to forgo control of my computer for awhile - we all know that you simply can’t do anything on a computer that Windows is loading stuff on behind the scenes - its just too hard.
And don’t even get me started about how completely disconcerting it is when someone talks to me or interrupts me while I’m focusing on this shadowy, often non-cooperative muse; a blank page in front of me in utter readiness… Yes, even, while Windows is dutifully, downloading and installing, x43dd3556j, an update of some kind, but no doubt absolutely essential to a future quality writing experience.
Ho hum.
I’ve been mostly about getting ready to write for some time now; and as long as I’ve been getting ready, I’ve let myself off the hook, since I’m moving in the right direction sort of speak. Yeah, I’m getting there - albeit in a meandering indirect route; I’m getting there.
As part of preparing, I require frequent respites to other websites - just to prime the pump so to speak. As a matter of fact, the superbly crafted prose above required short visits to drudgereport.com, digg.com, and of course, fark.com. But honest, I only skimmed the bare minimum number of stories before returning to the work at hand.
A few minutes pass.. This time I’m checking for updates on the HP website. Hey- you can’t expect me to write if my computer isn’t tip top.
Writing again. Gee it feels good to be about my life’s work. Yup - my life’s work, my true calling! Ahh, writing.
Oh, time to let the dogs out (we have two Springer Spaniels, named Abby and Bella). And yes, not only did I let them out, then let them back in - I interrupted my fierce concentration to get up to give them both doggie-treats as well.
Twice.
Abby’s on the left; Bella’s on the right. And can they ever fill the lawn with yard-trout!
Ok… Time to write some more now.
Hmmm. What should I write about.
Hey look - my coffee cup is almost empty. Be right back.
Did I mention that I spent over 30 years in the U.S Navy’s Submarine Force?
Poetic justice, it is… We often made light of those “preparers” who never seemed to stop “Polishing the Cannon Ball” - the phrase often used to rebuke a reluctant Commanding Officer, who seemed so consumed with preparing to fight, he’d never get off a shot. I saw this off and on as a senior evaluator- a Commanding Officer would just keep refining what we called the “firing solution”, a rather complex set of equations and assumptions that would be fed into a Submarine’s Torpedo prior to its launch. And in delaying the weapon’s launch, would loose the initiative and the advantage of surprise. As you can imagine, this was a fatal trait - the enemy wasn’t just sitting there waiting for you to achieve “firing solution Nirvana” as it were.
Hence, I learned in the school of hard knocks, yes, in the best traditions of military service, I have been honed over the years to be bold and decisive. “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead - that kind of thing.”
Yep, prep little, and write your arse off! That’s me!
I’ll start first thing in the morning, or the day after - absolute latest. I just need to tweak a few things first.
Another fishing expedition for inspiration… Oh look - Rob Paterson has been busy on his blog. Indeed, while I’ve been philosophizing about how I should be pounding out my guts on this keyboard, Rob’s posted some thought provoking ideas about gas prices, World War II movies and their impact on him; a complimentary post about Bob Pageant and so on. Four or five posts in just two days. Way to go Rob.
A rather flashy show-boat, him. No thought of my flagging self-esteem, oh no, he just keeps banging them out like hotcakes.
I just wouldn’t go there, that’s all: Rob Paterson’s Blog. Don’t do it!
I took another break to prime the ole pump. And what did I find? This braggadocios NASA graphic of the Universe’s epic history! Notice how the Universe’s stupendous journey seems to have culminated in some satellite, called the WMAP.
No mention of me or my important work on my blog. Apparently I’ve been beat out by an inanimate object, built by the lowest bidder. Its no wonder I succumb to such writing-angst.
This for NASA: “Dear NASA, WMAP gets way too much notice in the cosmic view of things; I hereby authorize you to replace your graphic with this one instead. I think its more appropriate, given that you’re trying to describe why the universe exists.
Good news. We’re finally wrapping up here, just one more thing to do…
Shameless Aggrandizement?
Yup.
Opportunist subterfuge?
You bet.
Global Warming?
What else!
You see, the mere mention of the phrase, “global warming” brings people to my blog who in turn click on my Google adds. Global warming is great fodder for blogs - and as Al Gore will attest, a proven money maker!
And the more times you say “global warming”, the better for traffic.
Global Warming, global warming, global warming.
Here’s a Ted video that puts Global Warming in proper perspective when compared to all the other problems humanity faces. And although I might make light of Global Warming, I don’t make light of this great talk by Bjorn Lomborg, a political scientist and superbly gifted speaker. Please take a moment - if you do nothing else today, at least watch Bjorn.
Bjorn lets us know that humanity has lots of global problems facing us, of which global warming is but one. I know. Nothing conjures the degree of guilt and remorse, we feel at the mere thought of our influence on global warming; nothing sates our bottomless pit of self-loathing like the mere thought of green house gasses caused by domestic farting cows.
All the while rallying us to… Inaction.
Except for all those budding industries, started by those few pionoeering spirits who attempt to transmorgrify our blackened, remorseful souls into gold. Who attempt to sell us on such redemptive grace as “going-green”, and “mitigating our carbon footprint”.
But back to Bjorn - in presenting such a rich plethora of humanity-destroying problems, he also reminds us of how warmly we embrace the general notion that the world is coming to an end in a million different ways; each one as gruesome as another. Humanity apparently thrives in such wondrous variety and choice! Indeed, a species as diverse as humanity demands a commensurately diverse demise!
And now comes the real point of my posting…
Regardless of which human problem we believe is most pressing, collectively we never seem to advance beyond polishing the cannon ball. We are incapable of changing our headlong dash from the direction we have been moving since the big bang. Alas, we never seem to get it.
Never.
Quite a metaphor I think. My procrastination about writing this humble blog post vs humanity’s inability to solve anything of import until an unavoidable and inescapable cusp has arrived.
Well, at least I’ll end up with some global warming traffic.
Back to NASA’s depiction of cosmic perfection:
Lo, an Army a million strong, marching relentlessly toward our good-earth; And our answerable cannonballs, glistening contently in the overly hot sun; not quite ready, not yet polished to a high sheen.
Perhaps a fitting epitaph:
“Thus in this time and place, rests mankind. Even though they unlocked the very secrets of the Universe, they couldn’t stop eating their young.”
Just kidding - none of this stuff matters anyway.
Or am I? Such a perplexing conundrum.
Oh look - flashgames!
Tom
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High Heels…
Click, clack, click clack; oh, the incessant tapping of high-heeled ladies strutting across an expansive granite floor. Women of all shapes and sizes; but mostly well dressed; smart, business women.
Attend my surreal education about high heels and those who wear them.
This is big - really big.
Click, clack, click, clack…
I noticed that women wearing high heels have a certain gait. They don’t exactly walk the same way as those in regular shoes; somehow they stand straighter, their backs thrown further back, their fronts thrust more forward… And from my perspective, the look seemed ungainly, uncomfortable or unnatural.
My wife Gail and I were at the Boston South Station Train Terminal. We sat near one of those coffee kiosks; big cups of hot coffee; luggage sprawled upon two chairs. And at regular intervals, doors opened, and disgourged a cacophony of urgent humanity; each seemingly intent on a destination, deep in private thoughts, they whisked by us - clearly wanting to be elsewhere as soon as possible.
We were wanting to be elsewhere too - hence our presence at the train station.
Humanity sure spends lots of time wanting to be elsewhere.
Oh yeah, high heels and stuff.
Click, clack, click clack…
I mentioned to Gail that wearing high heels seemed like a lot of fuss just to look taller. “Why do women wear such uncomfortable contrivances as High Heels! It just didn’t make sense, that’s all,” I asked, rhetorically.
No matter my question’s rhetorical nature… Gail was able to disabuse my struggle with such a difficult conundrum rather handily.
She screwed her face in one of those, its all your fault expressions and explained, "high heels are a man’s invention, created solely to make women’s legs look more shapely, her gait more alluring, and of course, it also makes women look thinner." (Or words to that affect).
Hmmm. My fault. Somehow I knew it all along.
“You see, when stepping on tippy-toes, the calf muscle bunches up in a more shapely, feminine way. The posture is forced back, and as unimportant as this might seem - when you’re taller, you don’t look as fat.”
But it seemed rather cruel. And to think men did this to women. And by association - me too!
Just thinking of all those pathetic waifs in uncomfortable high heeled shoes, their calf muscles painfully all bunched up, and all just for me. I was justifiably wracked with tears of shame and guilt.
But at the same time, dutifully allured.
Oh, look, the truth will set us free! Wikipedia says differently… Apparently French men invented high heels to keep their feet from slipping too far forward in the stirrups while riding their horses.
Women noticed them forthwith, and apparently found other uses for the high-heeled French hiding boots. And so, not men, but women! Women did it to themselves, they bunched up their own calf muscles without men asking them to!
I couldn’t wait to tell Gail and extricate men-kind from our sullied, guilty association with high heels.
Here’s a video about how women should walk in high heels. As you might have surmised, its an art form. As long as your being miserable, Hey! May as well make it count. May as well display those bunched up calf muscles to best advantage.
Click, clack, click, clack…
Lo. Comes now, a tall woman in denim jeans; high-heels clacking on the polished stone floor; her otherwise quite-alluring bunched-up calf muscles unseen, indeed hidden from view on purpose!
Too bad. Her sacrifice and suffering pointless; at least to me.
Washington Post had an interesting piece on the damaging affects of wearing high heels… Two ladies I know required surgery due to leg damage from high heels. Years and years of displaying bunched up calf muscles caused the muscles in front of the leg to become damaged from excessive stretching. Still another elderly lady I know is incapable of walking in flat shoes anymore due to her damaged leg muscles.
Well, time to hop on the train and head home.
Click, clack, click clack, Gail’s high heels tapped importantly upon the hard, stone floor. Just think of it… Calf muscles bunching up at this very minute.
I had much to learn.
No, perhaps not about high heels, this whole thing was bigger than all that - it spoke to me about humanity’s customs. They seem so ingrained, so formidable, so unstoppable. And each of us seems so helpless against their immovable authority. Yes, custom is the name we give things that are so stupid, so arcane, that they defy explanation. We’ll call it custom, the inconceivable, the inexplicable, the impractical and uncomfortable.
Ahh, the questions, whizzing about… Why do married middle -aged women go to church wearing high heels? An elderly woman waddles painfully up the street in high heels - what for? And lo, even my lovely wife Gail, uncomfortably climbing the steel steps into the train car, wobbling on precariously narrow heels.
Questions.
Sometimes I simply wonder of it all - how such things got started and how they are perpetuated from generation to generation. Sometimes I wonder why we can’t so easily change our paths when irrefutable proof of such a need besets us.
But alas, we are who we are.
Oh… Almost forgot: How could we part without this quintessential image: "Sport calf-muscle bunching!"
They look so thin and graceful; go team go!
Tom
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