Page 27 of 51

Javier and the You-mama

October 5, 2007 / Jim

I was building a rack mount pizza box server (1-U), and I needed some mounting screws for the fans. "Javier, want to go the store with Daddy?"

"Oh!!!! I get my shoes." And off he ran to get his shoes. "Oh Daddy, we go the the store. Yeay! Here are my shoes, Daddy. Here are my Diego shoes."

"All right, little man, let’s go." I strapped on his little sandals and opened the front gate to our house. He bounded out, dancing down the sidewalk towards the Chevy Lumina. He stopped, paused.

"Daddy, we go in da You-mama?" That was the first time he had called the car by its model. You-mama. I was so tickled, I busted up laughing at the cute sound of You-mama. He thought he had said something funny, so he repeated it and smiled. "Da You-mama!"

And off we went. "Daddy, we go the bike store?" I usually take him with me to the bike store and he tries out all the little bikes.

"No, Javier, not this time, we’re going to the hardware store to buy screws. Tornillos. Can you say that? Tornillos."

"nee-yoes," he repeated carefully.

"Screws – tornillos." I said again.

"Scqews – nee-yoes," Javier said with a grin.

"Yeah, we’re going to get some screws for the computer, not the bicycle."

"Not the bicycle? Oh."

"Hey Javier? Say Lumina."

"You-mama."

Mother Teresa Missed Out on a Lot of Joy

October 1, 2007 / Jim

Jesus: Mother Teresa was a great lady. She was a great and wonderful person. I say this because it makes me sad to see she was not happy.

I guess I knew it. I’d heard her cries in the darkness. She was tortured.

She was tortured by what though? What was it that was eating her up inside?

Host: Audience? I see that Jesus is pausing for us to ponder his question. What do you say, audience? What was Mother Teresa tortured by?

*audience member struggles to his feet*

Yes, you, hold on, here I come.

Audience Member: *out of breath* Yes, I think she was tortured by her doubt. She had lost her belief and was trying to gain it back.

Jesus: Well, that’s what she writes in her letters. But let me ask you… *smiles* because I like asking these questions. In what had she lost her faith? What was this "belief" she was trying to get back? Belief in what?

Audience Member: Ummm

Host: Let’s ask someone else. You there –

Audience Member 2: *grabbing microphone* I, um, think she had lost her faith in you? She wasn’t sure if she believed in God? Maybe she lost her belief in prayer? Maybe Satan had gotten to her.

Jesus: Maybe we’re getting closer, but we’re still a long way off. Let me do my best to answer this question. From what I can tell, all Mother Teresa lost was her belief in orthodoxy. Since orthodoxy was the foundation of her spiritual life, she found that when she lost her way with regard to the objectification of her faith as put forth by the Catholic Church… sure enough, she lost her faith, her belief in the way. It all got tossed by the wayside because she had never stripped it down enough to recognize it in its nakedness.

Orthodoxy is like paint. Sometimes it’s pretty, serves a function and works well enough. But sometimes it covers up some deep rust, scars in the structure and foundations. When we can’t strip away the paint and check out the undercarriage, give it some maintenance, we’re doomed to catastrophic failure. ‘Cause paint, although nice, doesn’t keep the ship from sinking.

I like to be certain about the root of things.

You like to be certain, right?

Audience: *in unison* Yes Lord!

Jesus: *laughing* That just reminded me of a movie. Sorry *stifles guffaw*. Where were we?

Certainty.

An older priest went on a sabbatical to spend some time with the Missionaries of Charity. He had been in a spiritual crisis, and upon meeting Mother Teresa, asked her to pray for his clarity. She laughed at him and walked away, refusing with a flip of her hand. Baffled and confused, the priest asked her why? Why wouldn’t she pray for him. He sought clarity.

I know what she thought. She thought to herself, "clarity is a pipe dream, honey. There is no clarity. Don’t you think if anybody had clarity, I’d have it? Clarity is something I’ve sought my whole life. And it has eluded me."

That is just so sad, my friends. You complicate everything. You complicate and sour those very things that should bring you joy. You codify and organize and arrange – until you’re left with these tasteless, joyless morsels. Ughggg who can eat that stuff.

God = Love

Equal as in the same. What is love, but empathy, caring. Love is not mimickry. Love is not rules. Love is not "going through the motions" out of stubborn devotion, out of some misguided duty to ME. Men, how would it make you feel if you found out your wives were faking orgasms?

Not too good, huh.

Well, I don’t feel very good when you do the same. Do you bear the stench of the homeless old man, because he is Jesus, putting up with him for your chits in heaven. Slog your way through the unpleasantness to get to the creamy filling.

*sarcasm* Lovely.

Personally, it doesn’t do a thing for me, and it shouldn’t for you either. It’s a waste. It wastes my time, and it wastes yours.

Love is empathy. Empathy is projecting yourselves, getting outside of your mortal shell and into the hearts of others. I don’t want you to help the dirty, miserable, craven, pathetic, misguided, or criminal. I want you to LOVE them. What does love mean. Love compels you to help them. You should be passionate about that. Love is acceptance. Love doesn’t judge. Love isn’t proud. Love doesn’t despair. Love is a force multiplier. Love is infectious. Love is sincere. Love is binding.

In that connection, that connection of love, within its tendrils as they intertwine amongst you all, between rich and poor, between self-righteous and humble, between the smug and the doubtful is where I dwell.

Let me tell you what you will do, people. Here it is. You will do this because it will make you happy. It will bring you joy.

Connect with each other. Reach out to your enemies and love them, especially those that would hurt you, fear you. Love them more, because they need it. Love them not as a sacrifice, but as a joy. Don’t worry about the outcome. Outcomes will take care of themselves and beside you don’t love for the outcome of it, do you?

And if you’re looking for me, know that I am Love, that it is in your true and sincere devotion to one another that I exist.

And if you fake it, it doesn’t work.

I will still love you though.

Proper Perspective

September 18, 2007 / Jim

The debate between terrorism and security theater has been built up on logical fallacy after logical fallacy. The victim? The truth, lost long ago, buried it was under the rubble of stupidity. I’ll start with the, "there are a million things worse or more dangerous than terrorism" line. It begins like this:

You have more chance of dying in a car crash than you do of a terrorist attack. Cue smug look. Oh how right you are little snarky fella. Why didn’t I think of that? Gosh, the terrorists would have to blow up ten World Trade centers for us to feel as safe as we do in our cars. Man, I feel stupid for being afraid.

Let me illustrate my sarcastic point with some details from my personal experience. Laura and I lived in the Basque Country of Spain for two years. While we were there, ETA was active. There was a car bomb that went off near our apartment. We witnessed riots, riot gear, marches, murders and political assassinations. It all sounds dire, but in fact, I felt "safer" in the Basque Country than I have felt ever in my life. "Crime" was virtually non-existent. Robberies, home invasions, car-jackings? Nobody had ever heard of such a thing. And apart from the targeted violence against agents of the Spanish state, life was extremely tranquil.

By contrast, I had a much better chance of being mugged, murdered, or car-jacked in New York, DC, or St. Louis.

The question now is, where would I rather live?

Me personally? I would rather live somewhere else besides the Basque Country. Yeah, you heard that right. The Basque Country’s ETA problem makes me madder than random violent crime… even a lot of it.

It’s not a mechanism of risk per se. My net risk of dying through crime or accident is much higher in the US than the Basque Country, but net risk of dying isn’t the main metric that I go by.

Your net risk of dying is much higher driving a car than going your office in the World Trade Center. Why did the country go crazy after 9-11? Why have we taken such extreme measures when surely the raw logical dispassionate numbers of the situation relegate it to a minor event?

I think it has to do with intent. I’d much rather be mugged randomly than targeted politically. If I were to live permanently in the Basque Country, I would have a political opinion. It would be my right to have an opinion and discuss it as I see fit with those whom I consider my friends. If I should run for political office, I would expect that if my opinion differed from those in the extreme that we would be able to discuss our differences like reasonable people. If your violence exists for the purposes of political coercion then it is deadlier than physical harm. If your violence is targeted at someone for the purposes of silencing them for what they say or think, then you are more deadly than a random car accident. There is malevolent intent far beyond the death of the individual involved.

The terrorist hopes to spread his influence far above his real capability as an individual. The terrorist’s target isn’t you. His target is the freedom of ideas in an open society.

That is why it is dangerous, more dangerous than a traffic accident. In a world where the worse possible thing you can lose is your life, then I guess they are more or less equivalent. But in a world where we value justice and liberty higher than individual life, that terrorist is a whole lot more dangerous than your car.

Thirteen Years!? How can it be Thirteen Years!?

September 7, 2007 / Jim

Laura and I celebrated our thirteenth wedding anniversary this Monday. Actually we celebrated it on Tuesday, because that was our date visiting a coffee farm, or rather a collective of coffee farms and a processing facility. Here’s a pic:

Those rows in the distance are coffee plants. Breathtaking how beautiful it was up there in the mountains in Ciales, Puerto Rico. I spit on the city, ptooie, I’m moving here.

And here’s our little campecino farmer guy delivering his load of fruit for the day.

Look, it’s the Puerto Rican Juan Valdez, maybe here he’d be Juan Sanchez.

Guy really fit the part, is all I’m sayin’.

The next one is of the little coffee plant that grows next to the processing facility. The manager joked that they use it to gauge the ripeness of the fields. It’s like their little ripeness trigger plant or something.

Those are coffee beans. The flesh is juicy and somewhat sweet. I popped one in my mouth and tasted it. It was like a cherry with a hint of tartness and no coffee-like flavor. In fact, the coffee flavor comes from the roasting. This fruit, unroasted and ripe, would make a great pie. Seriously. I’ve got to try it at some point. I’d probably just follow my mom’s recipe for cherry pie.

Here’s the last pic. This one is from one of the farms on the mountain-side. These are small young coffee plants. They will yield fruit after two years, and are considered mature after four. If well cared for, the plants will continue to bear for many years. The farmer joking told us, "… and if they are not well cared for, they die quickly."

Coffee plants don’t like too much sun. They don’t like too much shade. They like to be up high, not down low. Do they seem fussy to you? Many times coffee in Puerto Rico is planted next to the plantain or orange or lemon trees. The neighboring vegetation helps regulate the sunlight.

I liked the scene above because the whole high country was frothing with hazy mist, like big steaming cups of hot bubbly java.

mmmmm.

Gringo Moves in New Direction

August 21, 2007 / Jim

What is going on here? I’m tapped out. I’ve had all kinds of interesting adventures and conversations, but I just can’t seem to put them down here. I guess, I should just take a deep breath and realize that sometimes the rivulets of artistic juices run in other directions.

I’ve recently started drawing and cartooning again. Laura has a project for a children’s educational curriculum, and I offered to help out with the illustrations.

That’s Don Pedro, the gardener. I got myself a cheapo Genius tablet (here’s a review) that works just great under Linux. Wacoms are in the hundreds of dollars, but this Genius was only $40 and works great. I’m using Inkscape for sketching and inking. When I’m done, I have a scalable vector graphic (SVG) which I can use, recolor, modify, and export.

Look for more artwork, cartoons, and projects in the coming months.

Once I learn the medium a little better, I’ll post some tutorials about working in Inkscape (or any vector graphic program for that matter).

For Immediate Release:

August 18, 2007 / Jim

Javier Ignacio O’Malley Gorbea gladly began the journey to toilet self sufficiency this past week. Javier, third born of four, has awakened each morning for the past few mornings wishing to go "pee pee" and "caca" in the toilet.

"Daddy, Mommy go pee pee in da toilet?"

"Yes, Javier, Mommy goes pee pee in the toilet."

Javier smiled, tickled by this little piece of secret trivia. "Mommy goes caca in da toilet," he declared, extrapolating upon known data, quite a valid hypothesis, if you ask me.

"Yes, Javier, Mommy goes caca in the toilet too." We both chuckled at our scatological observation. "Daddy goes caca and pee pee in the toilet too. Olaia, Jaimito… everybody, all the big people go in the toilet. Asier is a little boy, so he doesn’t go in the toilet."

Javier smiled, happy to be included among the big self sufficient pee pee and caca goers. "I go pee pee caca in da toilet!"

Honorable Blade

July 17, 2007 / Jim

I shall forever honor the tip of the sword, for how could I but honor such a perfect edge. It is as clean and sharp and brilliant as anything has ever been. No, my rancor is held for the dirty paw that wields it with such vulgarity and dishonor.

I am frequently asked if I would spit on the blade for its acts, its dealing of death, its bloodshed, or its willingness to do violence. What sort of fool asks such a thing? It does what it was designed to do: slice and slay.

Ah, but to throw hot spittle unto the beady-eyed twit that waves it around like a bright red banner, a beautiful sash to adorn his craven soul. If I could but spit in his eye, I would.

For the generation of swords whose surfaces are pitted with rust, dripping wet with the saliva of the masses, I spit on this troll for you.

Babies Come From Sex

July 12, 2007 / Jim

"Daddy, where was that picture taken?" asked Jaimito looking at a wedding picture of Laura and me.

"That picture was taken in Old San Juan, El Viejo San Juan, here in Puerto Rico, Jaimito."

"Oh."

Olaia, who was brushing her hair in front of our mirror, asked, "Daddy, are you and Mommy happy that you have kids?"

"Oh, of course, Olaia. We had you, decided it was so much fun that we had Jaimito. Two wasn’t enough fun, so we had Javier. And it was more fun. Then we said, ‘Well, I think that’s sufficient fun. We should stop.’ And along came Asier."

Jaimito and Olaia giggled.

"Daddy, somebody in my class said that babies come from S-E-X. Is that true?" She had spelled it out like it was some taboo word. I was a little taken aback. These things come from nowhere. She has been in a summer camp these past couple of weeks with older kids from the fifth grade. It would stand to reason that she is being exposed to the thoughts of older niños.

"Yes, that is correct, Olaia. Babies come from sex."

"Really!?" Her eyes got wide.

"Yes, Olaia. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s how you got here. But you don’t know what it is, do you? I don’t think the kids in your class know either."

"Um, no."

"Well, we’ll talk about it when you’re a little older. It’s okay, when you feel like you want to know something, just ask. There’s nothing wrong with it, though."

"Okay, Daddy."

We climbed into the car and pulled out to go to camp. Olaia had been thinking about this, though, her little brain hadn’t let go of the discussion. It was rolling around in there, bouncing and tumbling about.

"Daddy, we were playing the game LIFE at the camp, and I had a boy and girl. One kid wanted to get to be a grandparent. That’s how you win the game. Anyway, that’s when they started talking about S-E-X." And she spelled it out again.

"Olaia, you don’t have to spell it out. It’s not a bad word. There’s nothing wrong with it."

"I just don’t want to say it. It makes me uncomfortable."

"It shouldn’t."

"Well, I just don’t want to say it."

"Hehe, you know Olaia, without that word you wouldn’t be here."

"That is not true, Daddy. It’s not the word, it’s what the word represents!"

"You are too smart, little girl. That is absolutely right. Wow! What a smartie."

Once again, that little girl and her precision are after my heart… no have sunk deep into my heart, tied it up, seized it and made it her own.

*I just got off the phone with my smart ass academic wife, Laura (attending her sister’s 40th birthday in Rhode Island). After recounting the story, her reaction was this:

"Well, of course – it is well understood that bi-lingual children are much more advanced in the abstractions of language, that is, they can recognize concepts apart from the words they represent at a much earlier age."

Straight Up

June 20, 2007 / Jim

We went to an open house this evening. In preparation, Laura sprayed Javier (age 2 and 3 months) with a bit of his perfume, a traditional gift of Los Tres Reyes. Javier came in proudly displaying his arms for me to smell.

"Oooo Javier," I took a good whiff. "That smells great. What perfume is it?"

"Mine," he declared.

Later, as we were settling into the cars to head out, we realized we were missing a certain little slowpoke boy.

"Jaimito, why are you taking so long," I hollered into the house attempting flush him out.

He threw up his hands in exasperation, "I don’t know!"

I haven’t laughed like that in ages. *sniff*

Well, I Can Certainly Tell You Who DOESN’T Answer Prayers

June 15, 2007 / Jim

Know who else doesn’t answer prayers, requests, complaints, or issues? Read this to catch up on the whole answering prayers thing. Now let me share something with you atheists out there, about the whole God not answering prayers, meme. You have no idea. You have no idea of the depths of indifference to which other entities stoop. Let me tell you who really doesn’t answer prayers, and they don’t give a flying rats ass if you boil in your own bile for all eternity… in fact, they revel in it. No, scratch that, they just don’t give a shit. Who am I talking about?

Customer service.

Ha! You just CAN’T make this stuff up.

This evening I assembled my favorite photos to print out using Walgreen’s internet photo printing service. It’s great, I can upload my photos over da intarweb and get them printed out at the store AND pick them up in an hour – so convenient. What they don’t tell you, is that if your photos are too good, and by too good, I mean better than what the slack-jawed minimum fucking wage stooge in the photo development area could snap, then they will confiscate them.

"Sir, I can’t give you those photos," she sneered.

"Huh? Why." I’d never heard this one before. What was going to come next? Do tell.

"I need the release in order that I may release the photos to you."

"Huh," I’m thinking… what the hell. Release? Of the models in the photos? They are my kids. Release of the photographer? I’m the photographer. They are pictures I took. "I took those photos," I said, those are my kids. That is my wife. You see, we look great, don’t we?"

"Well then who took that picture, if you’re the photographer?" Like a burly detective she was sure she had me, like, smartass, who took that picture if you’re in it, hmmm? Well, truth be told, since I’m never in pictures myself, I handed the camera to my son’s godfather to snap. Laura and I were dressed in formal-wear… all gussied up and shit. Sigh, he’s not a photographer. It’s my camera. I set the shot, and told him to push the button. They are my pictures. He was my assistant. Maybe I used a tripod. Why are you interrogating me. Just give me my pictures!

"And hey, wait a minute, since when do I get to be treated like a crook for printing out my photos at Walgreens?"

"I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to see the originals so that I can release these photos to you." She was a snot, a horrible little snot. Arrrgghhh.

"You can keep the pictures, I’ll just print them someplace else," I ranted and walked away.

I considered my predicament for a second. Although I’m flattered that my pictures have raised so many eyebrows here at the Walgreens Institute of Photography Art, I’m still pissed that I don’t have my pictures to put in my wallet. They are beautiful pictures of my beautiful family and by God I would like to show them off.

"I want to see a manager," I demanded.

"I’ll get her." And she got on her little phone and called her little manager.

So by this point I was fuming. First, I wanted those pictures. Second, that smug little bitch thinks I’ve stolen some photographer’s work, trying to recreate these to get out of paying him for his prints. I’m mad, but flattered too… it’s just all kinds of messed up.

"Look, I’m not happy one bit," I said in a loud voice to the manager when she showed up. "You’re calling me a liar, that I am stealing some photographer’s work. How dare you. Are you going to resolve this!" I was being kind of loud. Fuck it, I’m a big loud American. It’s who I am. I can’t help myself. It doesn’t help that Puerto Rican’s are like the Japanese without the efficiency. They shy away from conflict. They will not raise their voices. They will not engage. They go limp. They will redirect, be indirect, but they will not deal with the issue in front of them.

I know this, but it still doesn’t do any good when I’m pissed.

"Sir, would you let me talk. Please lower your voice."

"Is what you’re going to say something along the lines of ‘here are you pictures, sir, sorry for the inconvenience?’"

"If you would let me – "

"I’d really like to know what you’re going to say. Please say it. I’m waiting."

"Please sir, lower your voice. If you would let me talk."

Frankly, her attitude is so common in so many walks of life. It’s really just a technique "ad hominem" to redirect her inaction, fabricating as its cause, my emphatic and irritated voice, like she is some clucking mother, I’m sorry I cannot help you until you use your indoor voice. You’re making this difficult, sir. It’s you who is wrong. It is your demeanor that is making this difficult.

Bah!

"So what do I need to do to get my pictures?" And I stood there, and although I couldn’t see them, I’m sure my nostrils were flaring.

"As I told you, we need to see the originals in order to release them."

"What is an original? They are digital!"

"Sir, lower your voice."

"Look, just forget it. I’ll get them printed someplace else. Ignorante!"

And I left.

So, I’m now at home. On the one hand, I had the fact that The Walgreens Institute of Photographic Art thinks my pictures are so good that I couldn’t have possibly taken them… which I guess makes me feel okay, until I consider the minimum wage drone working the counter… which sends my blood boiling again. On the other, I did this transaction through the Walgreen’s website and no where anywhere did it mention that I could face the copyright theft gestapo at my local Walgreens. No where. The terms of use clearly state that I must have the right to upload pictures, which I do. I have violated no policy. They have my contact info. Why the hell then, did the store take it upon themselves to refuse to deliver me my photos?

My next step is to call The Walgreens Institute of Photographic Art’s corporate headquarters. I dialed up the 24/7 customer service number.

"Hello, this is Gale, how may I help you."

I explained to Gale my predicament, my irritation, and my confusion at this arbitrary policy. No where on the website was this mentioned as a possibility.

She said that I should call another number. I thanked her and called it. "We are not available to take your call now, please leave a message and we will get back to you."

WTF. I looked at the contact information on the Walgreens website. Customer Service 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It says it right there. I call it back.

I launch into my story again, get part of the way through it, when Gale cuts me off. "Sir, we just spoke. I told you have to call that other number."

"That’s funny, because I’m calling the 24/7 hotline that says Customer Service. It’s right here on your website."

"Well, the problem is that this is an in-store issue and needs to be escalated through the proper channels."

"Again, I see ‘Customer Serivice, 24/7’ What is it that you do there, anyway?"

"Well, I’m not going to get into that with your, sir."

I had her on the ropes. I could tell. She was getting flustered. My logic was ironclad – my resolve, firm. "Okay, I can kinda see what you’re saying, but I don’t see this as an in-store problem only. I initiated the transaction online, through www.walgreens.com so if anything you’re partly responsible for the issue as well. I should have been notified of this policy. Is there, in fact, any policy at all?" I asked, channeling Monty Python’s Cheese Shop. Funny how often that comes up, huh?

"Actually, you’re like the fourth or fifth person to call with this issue. I don’t really know. I haven’t heard of it either, but I’ve gotten maybe four or five calls. Maybe there’s been some change. I don’t know. If you want I can take your information and we will get back to you."

"Okay," I sigh. I know where this is going. My complaint will be filled out in triplicate, stamped, processed, filed and sent on a on-way ticket to a happy place, a place of rainbows and unicorns and magic butterflys with candy fountains. No, there’s no fighting it. I lose. Customer Service, you win. I acquiesce.

*I ended up happily using www.shutterfly.com to print my pictures. No problems. Cheap. You have to wait for them to come in the mail, but at least I don’t have to go to submit to the fascists at Walgreens

El Gringoqueño

Page 27 of 51

Javier and the You-mama

Mother Teresa Missed Out on a Lot of Joy

Proper Perspective

Thirteen Years!? How can it be Thirteen Years!?

Gringo Moves in New Direction

For Immediate Release:

Honorable Blade

Babies Come From Sex

Straight Up

Well, I Can Certainly Tell You Who DOESN’T Answer Prayers

QOTD

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