Coffee heat rising

What Can Be Done?

Like everyone who doesn’t have to cover events for a news organization, I’ve been stunned to silence by the events in Newtown, Connecticut.

It was, I’m afraid, inevitable that something like this would happen. Just by dint of reporting on mass killings, we glorify the demented perpetrators, who then become models for the next madman priming himself to go ballistic.

What exactly is to be done to bring a stop to these horrific events?  Locking the doors didn’t help — this one used his long gun to blast his way through a locked door into the school.

Before the stench of gunpowder had cleared from the air, the hue and cry for gun control rose from all quarters. Not surprisingly: it makes some sense to believe that if no one had guns, the insane among us would be unable to hurt anyone. And it is true that the crazies in China who have to use knives to attack grade-school children so far have failed to kill their victims.

Not enough is being said in this discussion, which understandably still borders on the hysterical, about the weak mental health care we have in this country. We closed mental hospitals and, in a well-meaning (and conveniently cost-saving) impulse did away with involuntary hospitalization of the mentally ill. But we do still institutionalize the conspicuously mentally ill: in prisons.

If you’ve ever tried to get mental health care for someone who needed it urgently, you likely came up against a wall. One of my son’s high-school friends locked himself inside a bedroom and told his parents he was going to kill himself. They called 9-1-1, begging for someone to send help before he harmed himself. The police showed up. They smashed in the door, grabbed the kid (who was not very large), slammed him against a wall, handcuffed him, and roughed him up. Great treatment for a mental health emergency.

Dealing with the problem we’ve built for ourselves — violent behavior of unhinged individuals inspired by atrocities committed by other demented individuals — demands a complex response, and it will cost a lot of money.

First: Yes, gun control.

We must get automatic and semiautomatic weapons out of civilian hands. These things are now ubiquitous — on any balmy spring or fall evening that tempts me to open my windows, the tat-tat-tat of automatic gunfire wafts in from the war zone to the north of my neighborhood, and occasionally I’ll hear it closer, from the hectic main drags that form borders between my area and the blight to the north and west, as people shoot at each other in moments of road rage.

No one who is not on the field of battle needs a weapon that fires continuously when you rest your finger on the trigger. This is is a weapon of aggression, not of self-defense. Nor is it a hunting tool: if you can’t hit a deer, an elk, or a dove without an automatic weapon, you are not a good enough marksman to be waving a gun around in the woods. And  as for the burglar: the weapon of choice is an ordinary shotgun.

But taking semiautomatic and automatic firearms off the streets presents an almost insurmountable problem. Many of the things are owned by bad guys. They’re freely available on the black market, and nobody who has one that’s not registered will blithely turn it in on demand. Make owning it a felony? Big deal: committing felonies is a crook’s bread & butter. Too, semiautomatic and automatic guns are expensive. Many legitimate gun owners buy them as investments. No one who has ponied up $500 to $1,000 for a semi is going to cheerfully fork it over to Big Brother.

To rein in these weapons, governments will have to reimburse owners. Thousands of Americans own semiautomatic weapons — one source claims 17% of us do. Fully automatic firearms, which contrary to popular belief are not illegal in this country, cost even more than semis: thousands of dollars. No one who has an unregistered gun is going to hand it over to a government agent for free, nor will citizens who bought their weapons after registration became the law. Many may do so if owning the thing becomes illegal and a buy-back program is put in place. But some people will simply hide their weapons in the walls.

Second: Mental health care

Everyone now knows that access to quality health care is highly problematic in this country. If you don’t have a full-time job or you can’t afford expensive health insurance out of pocket, you have a difficult time getting to a doctor.

Take that situation and multiply it by five, and you’ve got a good picture of our mental health care.

We need to stop using our prisons as mental health hospitals, ensure access to and quality of health care of all kinds, and see to it that people who clearly have mental problems receive adequate and effective care.

That also is going to cost a lot of money. In a time when political leaders are trying to cut back (or one day eliminate) Medicare and Medicaid and when half our elected leaders throw sh!tfits over anything that vaguely resembles an effective national healthcare system, it’s unlikely we will muster the political will to spend what it will take to identify and treat even the most obvious mental cases.

Third: The tenor of “entertainment”

Americans marinate in violence. We think it’s entertaining. Turn on the television any time after about 7 or 8  p.m. You get two choices of  viewing pleasure: mind-numbingly stupid or mind-numbingly violent. The crime dramas that fill prime time are the only alternative to watching amateur singers compete or foolish people indulge in stupefyingly idiotic “reality show” antics, and those crime shows, whose plots are often taken from the news, are so bloody and so violent as to turn your stomach.

Except they don’t. We’ve become so inured to violence that we think it’s a game. Indeed, it’s the stuff of the very computer games our children and teenagers play every day. Is it any wonder that unstable individuals are primed to descend into madness?

All three of these issues cry out for change, and in my opinion the only way we will free ourselves from increasingly horrifying outbreaks of madness will be to open the national wallet and address each issue in a big way.

Bug-Eyed in America

Ever have an experience where something you hear or see or participate in leaves you with your eyes bugged out? Like, you just. can. not. believe. it.? As in, you can’t believe a Ph.D. in English would preface a sentence with “Like,” let alone separate every annoyed, frustrated, flabbergasted word with a period? Yeah. Like, one of those experiences.

My whole freaking day has been like that.

7:30 a.m.: Meet beloved English 102 students. By now they have plodded through an entire year of freshman comp, a pair of courses designed either a) to remind of all the things they should have learned in 13 years of K-12 education or b) to teach them all the things they missed during that lengthy period. Administer extra-credit final “exam,” jestingly dubbed the “Phaque Phinal.” Only those whose grades are on the borderline need apply: if 30, 40, 50 points of extra credits would kick you up a grade, by all means do participate.

Final Wee Quizzie…for 5 points of extra credit:

Question: What is the difference between inductive and deductive reasoning?

Answer: Inductive is pertaining to, or involving electrical or magnetic induction. Now deduction is based deductive from accepted premises, as in deductive argument [sic, sic, and sic].

Bet you don’t believe this, do you?

It’s real!

Bug-eyed moment.

Return an edited master’s thesis to an interesting and probably gifted student. Explain why several paragraphs full of amazing/wild/sometimes afactual assertions and allegations need documentation. Realize bright young(ish) woman hasn’t a clue about basic citation and documentation; fix her non-APA in-text citation and references documentation and tell her to cite vast quantities of unattributed factoids and wild allegations. Duck under the desk as volleys of outrage are lobbed at student from Graduate College.

Climb out from bomb shelter.

Fix thesis as best as possible under the circumstances. The circumstances: Grad College Format Cop demands student follow formatting guidelines; gives student link to same. Editor goes to link; it contains no formatting guide and no clue to formatting requirements, but editor finds a link to a PDF that claims to explain issues. No guidelines are forthcoming, but PDF contains a link to “master’s thesis formatting guidelines.” Editor clicks on this. Link takes editor back to link provided by Format Cop. Bug-eyed moment.

Cruising across the city, editor hears a report on NPR to the effect that some earnest soul proposes the U.S. Congress establish national standards for teacher promotion evaluation. Sorry, can’t find a link to this. But the eyes bug out.

Continuing to listen to NPR news, editor learns that hotel maid whose claims that a high-ranking French politician raped her were thrown out of court has won a civil suit against the man whose career she wrecked with apparently false charges. Says she, “I thank God, and God bless you all.” Eyes bug out. God bless us, every one.

Evening: NPR reports that the federal government wishes to regulate the descendants of Ernest Hemingway’s cats. Presumably not just their lives, but all nine of their lives. The eyes bug out.

Meet with friend who knows how to make things of glass. He gives me — gives me — a handful of glass hearts that will be perfect as beaded necklace focal pieces, just really pretty and cool and appealing. He calls them “tchochkies” and thinks they’re worthless and so hands a half-dozen of them to me for nothing.

Eyes bug out.

Decide that if I can sell these, the proceeds had better go to charity.

La Maya calls. She and La Bethulia have been awarded permanent guardianship of four-year-old grandchild, whose Bi*ch Mother is in yet another drug rehab facility. Child is much improved in stable environment. La Maya is only ten years less decrepit than I am. La Bethulia is pushing my advanced age. One woman has lost so much weight from the stress that her clothes no longer fit; the other is considering going back on antidepressants as a way to cope. Bug-eyed moment.

Kevin Carey, writing for the New  York Times, describes the amazing abuses of the credit-hour system, academic standards, and online ripoffs. Bug-eyed brain boggles.

In the same august publication, one Salem Solomon describes the ungraceful enthusiasm of our country’s proposed new Secretary of State for craven African despots. The brain is getting too damn tired to boggle very dramatically.

It’s been like that all day long. I’ve lost track of the bug-eyed moments…these represent just a fraction of them.

Is it only me? Or have you had a bug-eyed day, too?

 

 

One of Those Days…

Started at 4:00 a.m. Bathed, painted, dressed, answered emails. Read copy for an hour. Got tired of that around 5:30.

Hungry. Had a breakfast meeting this morning, but a) I wasn’t even supposed to leave the house for another hour and 15 minutes and b) I had to give the dog & pony show for this morning’s chivaree and so would bolt down a pressured restaurant meal around that. Decided to fix my own food and just have coffee at the shindig.

Howcum what used to take minutes now takes half a lifetime? Feeding the dog & then fixing a meal and eating it occupied the hour & something. Late as usual racing out the door.

Hideous traffic. Took 45 minutes to make the 20-minute drive to the Scottsdale meeting. But everyone else was running late, too, thank goodness.

Delivered a half-baked presentation.

Was reminded by a client, who also belongs to this group, that I haven’t done his project yet. He handed me more stuff in a large manila envelope.

I just realized, as I’m sitting here, I think I walked out of the restaurant without it. Shit.

Forgot my checkbook so couldn’t pay this month’s dues. One of the guys was collecting for popcorn, holiday fund-raising for some charity he supports. Couldn’t pay for that, either.

President wanted to know who’s slated to present next week. Would I e-mail him when I get home with the list of the next few weeks’ speakers. “Okay,” I said. Make a note:

send check for dues
send check for flicking inedible popcorn
feed popcorn to students
email Marshall with next month’s speakers.

Just called the restaurant. They close at 2:30 p.m. Whaaa???? What kind of chain freaking restaurant closes at 2:30 in the freaking afternoon????

Got home. Hungry. Had to eat something more than a snack before doing battle with noon class. Defrosted a small steak and threw some frozen hash browns into a puddle of hot grease while grilling meat over propane. Reheated tea in microwave. Good. Highly satisfactory. Left dirty dishes all over kitchen.

Changed clothes. Raced to campus.

Finished listening to 101 students explain exactly what it is they think they’re going to do in their respective papers. A week ago they were asked to brainstorm ideas for their paper, select an idea that looked feasible, and turn in a note describing that. These reside in my car, because I don’t grade them and have had neither time nor inclination to look at them.

Not one but two students asked me to find their note on their final paper, a stage of which was due at 5:00 p.m. today, because — get this — they could not remember what they thought they were going to write about. So the little twits accompanied me out to my rolling office in the parking lot, thereby to remind themselves of whatever it was they imagined would be the subject of their final flicking paper, which is now due in less than a week.

WTF?

Home again, searched for the calendar with the business group’s presentation dates on it. Couldn’t find it.

Shoveled out the mound of papers that’s duned up on the closet shelves. Threw out a lot of old student papers. Found no calendar.

Rifled through the drawers, searched the car, tossed the mounds of papers on the desk. No calendar. Dug through the file drawers. Found the hanging file for the bidness group; found a calendar: out of date. Wrong calendar.

Edited copy for several more hours.

Fielded a call from financial adviser. Reported that I’d just lost a regular client; doesn’t pay much but I may have to make up the lost editing income with a larger than planned drawdown. He advised that this would be an extraordinarily bad idea. Set up meeting for next week.

Prepared and sent copy to clients; sent bill. Updated billing spreadsheet. Sent a late notice to another client. Figure to see that money about the time I see the lost calendar.

Knocked off around 6:00 p.m.

Fed the dog. Returned call to SDXB while emptying dishwasher and piling more dishes into it. No answer.

Took dog for walk. Beautiful evening, a big fat harvest moon rising up in creamy glory behind a veil of backlit clouds against a black velvet sky.

Followed up the feeder street by two shady-looking males evidently drifting in from the slums across the main drag. Gave them the slip — not a bad trick for an old bat with a small, stubborn dog in tow. Shot up a neighborhood street, running on extremely sore foot, into the light from Pretty Daughter’s garage, where her son was working on a car.

Got mail on the way up the front driveway. Found not one but two notices from the police, still being misdelivered to Manny’s house. {groan!} What NOW?

Remembered M’hijito set a lot of the debris that accumulates on the van’s front seat into a back seat so he could ride somewhere with me the other day. Check back of car. Find calendar.

E-mail Marshall that we don’t have anyone scheduled to speak after this week and so we’ll need to recruit a presenter for next week and then get the rest of the members to sign up for meetings through next month.

Open mail from cops. Interesting. It’s not about Mr. Mejia, the perp who’s allegedly in the slam over the late, great armed robbery. They just arrested another one of these creeps (you may recall that the original heist was pulled off by three accomplices), a Matthew Jason Avery. This is the guy, it appears, that the SWAT team caught in my garage. Mejia may still be in the slam, but this one was not, at least not as of November 25. That’s when they hauled him back to the jailhouse, charged with kidnap, assault and battery, and second-degree burglary.

The latter would be for the theft of my valuable used clothing, gardening hat, and muddy clodhoppers, to use as his lawn-man disguise.

So, you realize what this means?

Well, it means a number of things.

a) Mr. Mejia, the character to whose trial I was summoned, is not the one about which I have anything to say.
b) Mr. Avery is. Therefore, I will also be summoned to his trial.
c) Therefore, it’s not altogether outside the realm of possibility that I could end up testifying at the trials of two of these sh!theads.
d) And while Mr. Mejia may be unavoidably detained in the slam, Mr. Avery has been out on the street. And he knows where I live.

Charming. Here’s what he looks like. Isn’t he a sweetie?

Tomorrow I’m committed to spending the entire day at the Tempe street fair with KJG. Therefore I will not be able to burn a quarter-tank of gas tomorrow a.m. driving to the Scottsdale restaurant to pick up the package my client gave me, assuming they found it and haven’t thrown it out.

That means I get to spend Saturday morning traipsing out there. Assuming they found it and (etc.).

Eight-thirty at night. Phone just rang. The “Attention Power Company Customers” robo-bastard. God, how I’d like to get my hands on the perpetrators of that nuisance scam.

My foot hurts.

 

Define “Success,” Please

So the other day I’m sitting around reading the New York Times Magazine, an article about playwright David Henry Hwang. About two-thirds of the way through the piece, the author remarks about Hwang’s father, Henry Yuan Hwang, “After running a laundry and working as an accountant, Henry found success later in life, founding Far East National Bank, the first federally chartered Asian-American bank in the continental United States. (He sold it to the Bank SinoPac of Taiwan in 1996 for $90 million).”

No kidding? He doesn’t find “success” until he founds a $90 million bank, an enterprise (we might note) that was fraught with some questionable dealings.

If you run a small business, you’re not successful.

If you’re an accountant, you’re not successful.

Sets my teeth on edge.

What does it mean to be successful, really? I have to say that my conception of “success” has changed significantly over the years–most radically in recent years. Today, I would posit that once you reach a standard of living that keeps a roof that doesn’t leak over your head and some decent food on your table, “success” has rather little to do with money. As a matter of fact, I don’t see $90 million as an indicator of success at all. Especially not when it involves the possible corruption of the mayor of Los Angeles.

When I was a truly young thing–as in about ten years old–I thought that one day success for me would be to finish the Ph.D. and become a scientist. I wanted to be an astrophysicist.

By the time I reached my freshman year in college, it was clear that family and mentoring support for that scheme would never be forthcoming–in the 1960s, women were still not welcome in the hard sciences, and a girl who said that’s what she wanted to do was regarded as not quite right in the head. So then it seemed to me that success for me would be to get a Ph.D. in anything and have an academic life.

But also I wanted to be a writer with a capital W. I dreamed of writing publishable fiction. Alas, that also was not a very viable option, or at least it wasn’t presented as one. After I began to write for publication (always nonfiction), I imagined that success would be to write something that articulated some grand and profound truth, an Insight with a capital W. And of course to become famous for having done so.

It’s not easy to do that when you’re writing business profiles, travel reports, and cocktail-lounge round-ups. Oh well.

My mother and father felt that success for me would be to marry a man who would earn a good living and support me in the style to which they wished me to become accustomed. So, I married a corporate lawyer, exactly the kind of man they had in mind. Because I was never in love with him (the men who attracted me were not what you’d call good marriage material), that particular “success” was also a shade questionable. But I lived for over 20 years in considerable comfort. I hesitate to use the “bird in a gilded cage” cliché. It was more like Sleeping Beauty: I simply turned off everything around me and existed in a sort of waking coma. To this day, there are things my ex-husband remembers that I have absolutely no recollection of.

Some else’s success is not necessarily your success.

Well, I’ve had the life of a society matron and I’ve had an academic life and I’ve been a widely published writer and I’ve edited even more widely published writers, but I haven’t founded a $90 million bank. Yet.

So what’s success, and how much money does it entail?

Yesterday Cassie and I went for a long walk down a shaded trail that runs through central Phoenix. It was lovely. And I felt truly contented. Not suffering from a lot of pressure to do anything right this minute: success. Not worrying where your next meal is coming from: success. Having enough friends to keep you company but not so many acquaintances to keep up that they run you ragged: success. Having a son whose life, despite a few vicissitudes, has not collapsed in ruins: success. Being comfortable with one’s onliness: success.

I don’t think you have to be a millionaire, let alone a multimillionaire, to qualify as “successful.” Yeah, you do need some money: I have enough to see me through the rest of my life in about the same conditions that I’ve enjoyed for the past three post-layoff years–minimalist, but not without some comforts. The things that are important to me–a pleasant dwelling place, decent food, a few friendships–are in place. I have enough that I don’t need any more. And that, I think, defines financial success.

As for the other kinds of success, the kinds that really matter: each to her own.

How do you define success?

Freedom Remorse? Short-Timer’s Syndrome and Second Thoughts

Only about two weeks left in this semester, thank God. That’s five more meetings of each class, and two weeks of interaction with the apparently comatose magazine-writing students. I’m going to be so, so glad to be free of ever having to teach freshman comp again (…i hope). You ain’t seen short-timer’s syndrome until you’ve come to the end of a semester of wrangling freshmen. But as you can imagine, I’ve had predictable second thoughts about walking away from my only steady source of earned income. Well…sporadically steady.

Oddly, though, I haven’t felt as jittery about it as I’d expected. The truth is, over the past few months, I’ve pretty much stopped obsessing about money. Once or twice a month, I go into Quickbooks to log my credit-card charges and the very few checks I write, and that’s about the last of think of it. I expect it’s because living on $26,820 a year, net Social Security and teaching pay, has demonstrated that I really can live on very little money. And my gross annual teaching pay is only about 3 percent of retirement savings. So the truth is, even in the unlikely event that The Copyeditor’s Desk never makes another dime, there’s plenty for me to live on. Modestly, but adequately.

Too, the little revelation that came to me earlier this year, when ex-DH underwent quadruple bypass surgery at about the same time a Mayo doctor was speculating that I had a gastric cancer, has made me care a great deal more about enjoying life and a great deal less about pinching pennies.

In the Insight! department, another little revelation occurred to me this morning. A lovely person purchased the latest of those pretty necklaces I cooked up, and so I set to constructing a third one. It takes about three hours to arrange and string those tiny little beads into a 40-inch “lariat.” That’s exclusive of running around the city in search of the beads, of course.

So let’s say I manage to net $90 on a sale (that would be extremely good, but it could be done if one were making enough of them to buy the parts wholesale). You realize, that’s $30 an hour: exactly what I earned at the Great Desert University when I worked there full-time in a managerial position. Exclusive of the two hours a day, ten hours a week, of commute time.

Yes. I can earn as much as a Ph.D. in an administrative job informed by 15 years of academic experience, 10 years of journalistic experience, and 25 concurrent years of editorial experience…by stringing beads.

{Sumbiche!}

Several small changes will help as things get tighter, if in fact they do get tighter.

Not buying gas to drive from pillar to post four days a week. This month I spent two hundred forty-eight dollars and seventy-eight cents on gasoline!!!  That’s $90 more than in August, when I wasn’t driving to campus.

Not paying the Underlings to provide teaching assistance.

Not passing by an upscale Costco outlet on the way home from campus.

Then there’s the turkey roasting on the grill for Cassie the Corgi, as we scribble. Safeway was peddling the things for 79 cents a pound. It certainly isn’t premium meat — it’s pumped full of saline solution and chemicals — but last year when I got one for her, the meat wasn’t inedible. She can’t tell the difference, anyway, and the meat from one of the things will keep her in food for a good month.

To make things better, one of my friends on the choir qualified for Safeway’s turkey giveaway. They foisted it on her even as she protested that she had no use for yet another turkey. She was trying to find a home for it, and I talked her into giving it to me. That will provide at least two, maybe three months of meat for Cassie.

Meat has become so expensive I no longer can buy  hamburger for Cassie, and the Safeway has stopped putting cheap cuts of beef on sale at affordable prices. Since about half of her diet consists of animal protein (and it probably should be more than that), the cost of feeding her has gone way up. For the short-term future, then, the meat from two fourteen-pound turkeys represents a significant savings.

So, I don’t seriously think things are going to get any worse, financially, than they are. Barring a miracle, they won’t get any better. But with the money situation already about as bad as it’s ever likely to get, I don’t believe I have much to fear.

NOW what?

Honest to God, this has been the single worst year of my life when it comes to endless minor miseries. Every time it looks like I’m just about to get over some ailment something else comes along to take its place. Literally, I’ve been sick since a year ago this fall.

The back and the foot still hurt, although on some days that interminable complaint is slightly better. Now, though, I’ve developed a real bellyache to bellyache about. Don’t know what it is — some kind of enteritis — but my GAWD it hurts!

Nor do I know where it came from, but I’ve got a suspicion.

Saturday friends and I had a grand old time. My pal KJG drove in from her house on the far, far, far west side of the Valley so we could go to the annual chicken coop tour.

Yes. Raising backyard chickens has become such a craze in these parts that chicken fanciers open their yards and coops to tours of fellow and would-be fanciers. So that’s amusing, to see what things people get up to. We went to an urban yuppie restaurant we enjoyed, where I ordered a sandwich billed as “goat cheese and cranberry.” It actually was more like an arugula sandwich with a little cheese and some sort of sauce.

I’m allergic to arugula, and this thing was just stuffed with it. Well, KJG was buying, so it seemed rude to grump that I couldn’t eat it or to send it back and make us wait around another 20 minutes or more for something else to come out of the kitchen. Besides, I was so hungry I just had to eat.

To my surprise, that sat fairly well, at least for the nonce.

Then it was off to dinner and then chamber music with another friend. We went by a kind of bistro for dinner, where I ordered a dish of glorified macaroni and cheese. It was very good, and nice and hot on a chilly rainy night.

By the time we got out of there, a major gas attack was coming on. That’s weird, because there was nothing exotic about the mac and cheese. And it was so hot that no microbes could have survived the trip to the table. So unless a glass was unclean, I’m thinking the bistro likely was not the source of whatever’s ailing me today. It probably was the arugula sandwich. Especially since cranberries were still coming out whilst I was spending the night on the john.

Last night I had the worst intestinal cramps I’ve ever had, and during the vast number of decades I’ve spent on this earth, I’ve enjoyed a few doozies. Entertained a trip to the ER, but I just can’t contemplate the prospect of spending still more hours and hours sitting around an ER with needles stuck in my arms, probably to little avail. So passed the night crawling between the bed and the terlet. Missed choir both on Sunday morning and for the beautiful evensong performance, to my distress.

The minute my fave client got back in town from her world-wide  junkets last week, she forked over a new book by one of our most difficult authors (I call him The Emperor of Bad Capitalization) and said she wanted it back in a week. Fortunately other work is slow just now, so there’s time to tackle a rush job. But today I’ll need to spend the entire day finishing that thing. Plus the online students are sending in a new raft of off-key copy for me to read.

So once again, the house won’t get cleaned. But that’s OK, because I’m in no shape to clean house, anyway. As soon as the dog is fed, I’m taking the Emperor’s book back to bed.

{moan}