Nero fiddled while Rome burned, Berlusconi fiddled around while Italy fell

A member of the Committee has asked permission to allow the Chinese to launch their next spacecraft.  After running a few simulations on the supercomputer and doublechecking their combined scenario against the Book of the Future, I have no problem giving permission to the Chinese to proceed.

Today is foggy but sunny, for me, but not for a few whose sentence of death reached its end.

My wife and I have recently been debating the social cost-benefit of the death penalty.

I’ve known several murderers in my life and not one of them expressed to me the thought that the death penalty was a factor in their deciding to end another person’s life.

Thus, only my from personal experience can I say that the death penalty is not a deterrent.

Therefore, I simply conclude that the death penalty is a form of closure, a physical sign of final justice, for the murder victim’s family.

Yesterday was a prime example of this issue.

We debate the death penalty with passion (or ignore it, if we want), pouring our emotion-based belief systems into the discussion.

Regardless of the systems we use, mistakes will be made, creating unintended victims caught in the bureaucratic inertia of a system’s tendency to perpetuate itself.

A teenager commits suicide because of bullying.

Dozens die due to unenforced meat inspection regulations because people get comfortable with the status quo, skipping inspections to help their buddies increase production to look good to their bosses and create a happy community.

Would you be like the Amish and forgive those who trespass against you, even if in trespassing they slaughter many of your children?

Or would you seek revenge for a few thousand killed on 9/11/2001 and spend trillions of U.S. dollars in pursuing the trespassers and their leaders/followers?

Our belief systems differ from one another in ways you imagine.

Your idea of justice is yours and yours alone.

I agree that the death penalty is not a deterrent but I’ve seen firsthand the desire of victim’s families for justice that the death penalty delivers after many years of appeals.

Is the U.S. legal system perfect? No.

Try facing a jury of your peers sometime, when you know you’re not guilty of the crime(s) for which you’ve been accused.  Listen to the prosecutors and the defense attorneys argue about your involvement in the crime, especially when the facts and memories of witnesses are fuzzy.

I was a jury foreman once, listening carefully to the details, not paying attention to the emotionally-charged arguments of the attorneys for/against the defendant.

The details proved the defendant was not guilty but the jury wanted to put the defendant away because the prosecutor had mentioned the defendant had a few former convictions for minor crimes (but we were instructed by the judge to ignore the prosecutor’s cheap shot and illegal mention of former crimes).

Even though the defendant had recently turned his life around and started a lawn maintenance business, the jury didn’t care.  Once guilty, always guilty.

One jury member joked about the defendant’s beady eyes.

A jury mainly composed of housewives and farmers, with one office worker and myself (an engineering manager, at the time) determining the fate of a young man accused by drunk people in the dark of the night of committing a crime which he was physically unable to do.

I didn’t care if he was guilty or not guilty.  I didn’t know the defendant and probably never would have met him or his friends in his social circle.

“Just the facts, ma’am.”  I dealt with the details, asking the jury to look over the testimony one more time and see if they could figure out, like me and a couple of others, that one of the witnesses had slipped up and accidentally confessed to the crime (and for which he was arrested outside of the courtroom after his testimony).

Eventually, they did.

Without me, they wouldn’t have, sending a man to jail for a crime he didn’t commit, possibly joined later by the person who did.

I’ve rambled enough in my thought-spewed writing today.

“What we’ve got here is a failure to communicate.”  What does your society think about a person getting arrested.  What about you?  Do you automatically assume a person’s innocence or guilt when s/he’s being handcuffed and seated in the back of a police car?

Do police sometimes arrest the wrong person?  Yes.

Do prosecutors and defense attorneys try to stack a jury in their favour?  Absolutely.

If you ended up on a jury, would you ignore the defendant’s lifestyle choices, no matter how much they offend your sense of propriety?  Most likely not.

Will the death penalty keep guilty or innocent people from being killed, rightly or wrongly?  No.

Will the millions who’ve lost their livelihoods and homes ever get a sense of justice while Bernanke continues to prove he is powerless to help the U.S. (and thus the world) economy?  I’m afraid not.

As Becca Phillips said the other day when talking to me about one of her favourite stories and lesser known Bible verses*, life’s not fair.  An ax murderer can receive God’s grace on the deathbed just as easily as a person who’s been pious from birth.

What gives you hope and a feeling of being loved?

For some, it has to be only life imprisonment for a person convicted of murder.  For others, only the death penalty will do.  They’re both right.  And when it’s your murdered family member(s) for which you’re seeking justice, you get to make the call.

Otherwise, well…is it really any of our business in pointing out the unfairness of life?  Don’t we already know life is unfair, where leaders like Berlusconi get to screw around while their countries collapse and their people die of starvation by the tens and thousands?

————

* Jonah 3:10-4:11, for those who are interested.

Detail in the Detailed Tent, Sans Decals

She listened to the radio.

Actually, she drove mindlessly, returning from another visit to another store, another merger causing another reorganisation.

In the merchandising business, change is good – new clothes lines every season, new displays, new employees – a merry-go-round of ups and downs.

This visit felt different.

It felt the same.

She saw herself sitting on the back of a camel crossing an endless desert of mergers and acquisitions, the policies and procedures rewordsmithedonceagain to reflect both previous and current owners.

And there were always the concerns from upper management – “Are we going to hit our numbers this day/week/month/quarter?” – like woodpeckers ramming against her skull, digging, digging, digging, building a headache that drove her to unfamiliar hotel rooms night after night on the road to yet another store whose facades must change the next day.

When would it end?

An urgent voice came on the radio.

“It appears a plane has crashed into the World Trade Center.  More details as it develops.”

She shook her head to wake herself up, driving so early from Detroit to get back home at a decent hour that she hadn’t taken the time for a good breakfast.

The announcer described the momentary confusion – “We interrupt your smooth music morning commute to give you the following information.  First reports from New York indicate a small plane, possibly in the fog, has exploded into the side of the World Trade Center.  One moment…no, now they’re saying that the size of the explosion indicates it had to be a larger plane.  Video footage shows that the skies were clear at the time of the crash.  We’re being told that smoke is billowing out of one of the towers.  Wait a minute…let’s go live to our correspondent on the ground in Manhattan.  Jeneva Jones, what do you see?”

She looked out the window.

How many pilots in the sky at this moment were possibly having a heart attack or lost control and were potential crash victims in the making?

Is that why she decided to drive from store to store instead of fly?

As she drove further south, the radio stations changed but the news did not.  Plane after plane seemed to be in attack mode along the East Coast.

When she stopped for gas, panic had infected everyone.  Rumours of invasions and security checkpoints spread from traveler to traveler, no one exactly sure what was going on.

She called her husband.  They assured each other that her plans to drive straight home were the best in the current situation.

The closer she got home, the more she knew what she was going to do.

She was going to quit her job.

It might be days or months before her next (dream) job became available, but she knew she had to change.

This day – the 11th of September, 2001 – had answered the question she was afraid to ask, “Is what I’m doing right now the most important thing I could be doing for myself and others if we knew we were going to die today?”

In that next job, she was going to dedicate herself to the people who mattered – the workers, the volunteers, the customers – and avoid a job that forced her to pay attention to those who don’t matter – the worrisome managers and owners who only know how to cover their trails and cater to fickle stockholders and market analysts.

lyrics du jour [NOTE: NSFW]

from: http://www.ratm.com/lyrics/selftitled/bullet.html

Recent events remind me of the following song:

BULLET IN THE HEAD

This time the bullet cold rocked ya
A yellow ribbon instead of a swastika
Nothin’ proper about ya propaganda
Fools follow rules when the set commands ya
Said it was blue
When ya blood was read
That’s how ya got a bullet blasted through ya head

Blasted through ya head
Blasted through ya head

I give a shout out to the living dead
Who stood and watched as the feds cold centralized
So serene on the screen
You were mesmerised
Cellular phones soundin’ a death tone
Corporations cold
Turn ya to stone before ya realise
They load the clip in omnicolour
Said they pack the 9, they fire it at prime time
Sleeping gas, every home was like Alcatraz
And mutha fuckas lost their minds

Just victims of the in-house drive-by
They say jump, you say how high
Just victims of the in-house drive-by
They say jump, you say how high

Run it!

Just victims of the in-house drive-by
They say jump, you say how high
Just victims of the in-house drive-by
They say jump, you say how high

Checka, checka, check it out
They load the clip in omnicolour
Said they pack the 9, they fire it at prime time
Sleeping gas, every home was like Alcatraz
And mutha fuckas lost their minds

No escape from the mass mind rape
Play it again jack and then rewind the tape
And then play it again and again and again
Until ya mind is locked in
Believin’ all the lies that they’re tellin’ ya
Buyin’ all the products that they’re sellin’ ya
They say jump and ya say how high
Ya brain-dead
Ya gotta fuckin’ bullet in ya head

Just victims of the in-house drive-by
They say jump, you say how high
Just victims of the in-house drive-by
They say jump, you say how high

Uggh! Yeah! Yea!

Ya standin’ in line
Believin’ the lies
Ya bowin’ down to the flag
Ya gotta bullet in ya head

Ya standin’ in line
Believin’ the lies
Ya bowin’ down to the flag
Ya gotta bullet in ya head

A bullet in ya head
A bullet in ya head
A bullet in ya head
A bullet in ya head
A bullet in ya head
A bullet in ya head
A bullet in ya head
A bullet in ya head
A bullet in ya head!
A bullet in ya head!
A bullet in ya head!
A bullet in ya head!
A bullet in ya head!
A bullet in ya head!
A bullet in ya head!
Ya gotta bullet in ya fuckin’ head!

Yeah!

Yeah!

 

Fog Warning Number P3B27

Unnamed Novel Which Reveals Much

(20th September 2011 – )

I was raised to believe that all women are ladies unless they demonstrate otherwise.  Of course, that begs the question, what is a lady?

I suppose a lady is a woman who uses her brain as well as the rest of her body to connect socially with the rest of her species.

But is that all?

What if there’s more that we can’t see that defines living, which, in turn, means a “lady” is more than the appearance and actions of what we formerly called a single person?

How often do supernovae wipe out all living things on nearby solar systems?

If we had an inkling that in 3,000 years our planet would be bombarded with the explosive material of a supernova, would we act differently today?

Would women be more or less ladylike in their urgency to get us (or some of us (or some living things)) as far away from our planet and the future exploding star as possible?

NOTE: Jargon determines the genre/category of stories/books/novels.  This novel could easily fall into the science fiction lot and be lost forever, if scientific jargonese dominates too strongly.  I want this to be an ordinary story about ordinary lives 1000 years from now, where technology is happenstance, background, not the main character.

= = =

I forgot my notes.  Tonight, at the 20-Plus Member reception for Huntsville Botanical Garden members who’ve donated and/or kept up their membership for more than 20 years, I met new and old friends.

A new friend, Paula, is like a restaurant menu item I never sampled but wish I had.  I think she’s the president of the Huntsville Botanical Garden, also formerly of the Parisian retail store chain (director of stores?).  Details, details, details…like when did the garden start making scrapbooks of newspaper articles, 1984 or 1985?  Yawn.

Paula, you keep climbing the social ladder, stepping over the good, solid folks like Harvey Cotten, who’s done more for plants than you could ever hope to remember, say, a few Latin names.

We all have our place.

I’m so, so bored with this planet.  There has got to be more than fundraisers at my age, surely.

Putin and Berlusconi, let’s have a get-together.  We’ll invite folks like Kirstie Alley with a taste for life after age 50 and go from there.  Forget all the whiners and do-nothings (they know who they are).  Let’s be men and women of action, who make money the old-fashioned way – we take it from those who put their nose to the grindstone and never look up at the big picture.

I want to be a kind, generous person who remembers all seven billion of us make important contributions to this planet’s chance of expanding outward but, some days, my patience wears thin.

Get it over with, willya Rick, with the humble pie eatery and just take over this planet like every leader before me – there is no escape! 😉

 

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Sorry, Sinead, I don’t tweet

I’ve been asked to give my opinion on SLS, the revised NASA proposal for long-range space exploration.  Time will tell.

I found a note scratched onto the walls of a quarry that is not obvious to the naked eye because one must take multiple photographs of different parts of the wall and overlay them correctly.

That was my excuse for missing a high school reunion.

The words of the note sit here in front of me, pointing to a place where I can (or might) find the door that leads me out of the novel into which I’ve written myself.

One of the former rotating leaders of the Committee buried instructions in children’s reading books so that some day, when a new, grownup leader, took over, s/he would, like me, suddenly have, in a dream, full recall of the instruction set, and thus find oneself in a quarry similar to mine, with the right equipment, to escape from the living dream of perpetual, hesitant, nonmonomaniacal leadership.

One hundred million comedians out of work and, although I have the coolest comedy gig on this planet – making subtle, satirical, sarcastic edicts daily to unseen billions – I’m willing to give it up without a golden parachute?

What am I, crazy?

[Don’t answer that question.  It’s supposed to be rhetorically posed, not debated in Rhetoric, Stoicism, stochastic, or scholastic style.]

Does anyone remember the first bird who squawked, “Polly want a cracker”?  Was the parrot named Polly (assuming it was a parrot) or was the bird speaking for a person who said the phrase so many times the bird joined in?

If beauty is truth and truth your duty, then why do pirates bury their booty?

More than one person has requested that I release a new novel into the world.  I’m not sure why.  Novels are evidence that, for a short time period, I was completely out of my mind (Minds don’t exists so I guess I should say that novels are proof my thoughts are organisable such that nightmares are becoming, neither cautionary tales nor light bedtime reading.  (“Becoming what?”  Nothing.  Just becoming, as in evoking delight.)).

To go into that mindset without medical aids, to see the hidden meaning behind the nod from a blonde at the front corner of Beauregard’s, or the extra baked potato at Tim’s Cajun Kitchen, or the echo of voices in a bedroom with wood flooring…

Do you want to know what this universe is really all about?

Do you want to know why I want us to get off this planet as soon as possible?

I’m not sure that you really want to know.

I’m not sure that I want to split myself into multiple personalities and explore storylines that may or may not be real, putting pebbles in ponds both imaginary and epicureal.

If only I can find that door, the escape hatch from this leadership position which cages me in this blog.

As in times past, a muse holds the key.

Or, rather, the muse is the key.

Time to write my exit…

Living A Year Under One Belief System

If the paying gig stereotypes your behaviour, do you keep renewing the contract despite personal objections?

Do we reinforce the behaviours of our subculture or spend time putting down the behaviours within other belief systems?

I no longer keep track of the number of times I’ve transferred hypnotising microorganisms in a handshake or hug.

Wavelength synchronisation is such a natural state of existence for me, I stopped counting the people with whom I’ve synchronised and passed along the messages that my subculture wants broadcasted.

Body language.

Does insecurity or overconfidence drive Berlusconi to brag about his sexual encounters?

When despots are no longer in power, does the will of the people exert itself through insecurity or overconfidence?

In which subculture(s) do the people believe and act?

In the Middle East, “Turkey” and “Egypt” are forming a new alliance as if those two words account for every subculture within the two, nearby but distinct, geographic regions. [A side thought asks myself “geographic or geographical?”]

Israel and Palestine are very close to becoming legitimate neighbours, sharing the status of countries and, like many political entities, a brewing mistrust of each other’s true long-term intentions.

What makes one person set up a website like http://www.barrelhouseboys.com to promote a book about historic events and others to turn their lives into a future bestselling autobiography in the making?

Do you remember the first time you told your significant other “I love you”? [What a difference “I love you?” would have made in that sentence.]

= = =

These questions set up situations for colonists – on Mars, the Moon, an asteroid, and/or space schooner – to examine as they take root and spread their branches.

= = =

Meanwhile, back in the R&D lab, my mad scientists have created a monster from microbes found living in the frozen Arctic.

One of the scientists, angry about spoiled food he bought at the supermarket and couldn’t get a refund for, wants to let the microbes loose in the frozen foods department, hoping for devastating economic impact on the supermarket.

Another wants to launch a probe loaded with microbes into near-Earth orbit that’ll circle the planet for a few months and then safely parachute back so she can study the microbes’ ability to survive in space.

I’ve asked my supercomputer programmers to estimate the microbes’ mutation paths over the next thousand or so generations, feeding some of them (the microbes AND the programmers) common material on the Moon and some of them common material on parts of Mars.

= = =

My friends in the “drug lords” business ask me why they get such a bum rap.  They provide protection and a living wage for their growers, processors and distributors.  They’ve killed fewer people than the food manufacturers who’ve turned our species into obese diabetics.  They prey on the weak, eliminating those who probably wouldn’t have contributed much to society, anyway.  They should be rewarded for their efficient operations and beneficial economic impact.  Instead, they’re punished worse than common criminals.

How do you argue with comments like that, especially when the drug lords have deposited large sums of money in anonymous offshore bank accounts to assure me of their legitimate accounting practices, insure my future retirement and ensure my loyalty?

Sure!

What are my seven billion friends for?

I don’t judge where you got or how you made your money, just that you give me enough money (or its purchasing power equivalent) to spread life in appropriate form outward from our home planet, Earth.

= = =

Manage your innersubcultural practices well and leave the intrasubcultural interfacing to the so-called professionals.  Professionals you can fire.  Amateurs, like rowdy family members, are harder to get rid of.

Remember, after the cat’s out of the bag, you have more room in your sack for goods and services to use in the next moment – the cat can fend for itself.

= = =

A friend showed me a line of adhesive bandages he’d invented that use body heat and motion to power a watch and changing colour display.  He’s trying to convince his favourite comic book company’s executives to license their popular characters to appear as moving images on the bandages.  In version 2.0, he hopes he can add sound, with characters speaking multiple languages, saying phrases like “You’re healing well, my friend” and “Your bravery makes you a hero in my book!”

How long before our bandages contain time-released microorganisms and medication, little bots and their tiny toolboxes repairing our bodies, enhancing our “natural” healing, removing scars and fighting off infections that our weak bodies can’t handle, detecting fatal conditions on the micro scale and alerting medical professionals before the fatal conditions become macroscopically pathological (or is that “pathologic”?).