Cherry blossom time

Via Kayo. By the way, I used to have that exact recording of "Sakura" on CD.

Vote Obama

I voted for Obama in the Democratic Primary and I am going to vote for him in the Presidential Election (because he will get the nomination). I have not stated this plainly anywhere because I have been afraid that the people I love will not understand. But how, after reading his March 18 "A More Perfect Union" speech, can people not see that he is the one we need right now?

Here is an excerpt from the transcript posted at the Drudge Report:

The fact is that the comments that have been made and the issues that have surfaced over the last few weeks reflect the complexities of race in this country that we've never really worked through – a part of our union that we have yet to perfect. And if we walk away now, if we simply retreat into our respective corners, we will never be able to come together and solve challenges like health care, or education, or the need to find good jobs for every American.

Understanding this reality requires a reminder of how we arrived at this point. As William Faulkner once wrote, "The past isn't dead and buried. In fact, it isn't even past." We do not need to recite here the history of racial injustice in this country. But we do need to remind ourselves that so many of the disparities that exist in the African-American community today can be directly traced to inequalities passed on from an earlier generation that suffered under the brutal legacy of slavery and Jim Crow.

Segregated schools were, and are, inferior schools; we still haven't fixed them, fifty years after Brown v. Board of Education, and the inferior education they provided, then and now, helps explain the pervasive achievement gap between today's black and white students.

Legalized discrimination - where blacks were prevented, often through violence, from owning property, or loans were not granted to African-American business owners, or black homeowners could not access FHA mortgages, or blacks were excluded from unions, or the police force, or fire departments – meant that black families could not amass any meaningful wealth to bequeath to future generations. That history helps explain the wealth and income gap between black and white, and the concentrated pockets of poverty that persists in so many of today’s urban and rural communities.

A lack of economic opportunity among black men, and the shame and frustration that came from not being able to provide for one's family, contributed to the erosion of black families – a problem that welfare policies for many years may have worsened. And the lack of basic services in so many urban black neighborhoods – parks for kids to play in, police walking the beat, regular garbage pick-up and building code enforcement – all helped create a cycle of violence, blight and neglect that continue to haunt us.

This is the reality in which Reverend Wright and other African-Americans of his generation grew up. They came of age in the late fifties and early sixties, a time when segregation was still the law of the land and opportunity was systematically constricted. What's remarkable is not how many failed in the face of discrimination, but rather how many men and women overcame the odds; how many were able to make a way out of no way for those like me who would come after them.

But for all those who scratched and clawed their way to get a piece of the American Dream, there were many who didn't make it – those who were ultimately defeated, in one way or another, by discrimination. That legacy of defeat was passed on to future generations – those young men and increasingly young women who we see standing on street corners or languishing in our prisons, without hope or prospects for the future. Even for those blacks who did make it, questions of race, and racism, continue to define their worldview in fundamental ways. For the men and women of Reverend Wright's generation, the memories of humiliation and doubt and fear have not gone away; nor has the anger and the bitterness of those years. That anger may not get expressed in public, in front of white co-workers or white friends. But it does find voice in the barbershop or around the kitchen table. At times, that anger is exploited by politicians, to gin up votes along racial lines, or to make up for a politician's own failings.

And occasionally it finds voice in the church on Sunday morning, in the pulpit and in the pews. The fact that so many people are surprised to hear that anger in some of Reverend Wright's sermons simply reminds us of the old truism that the most segregated hour in American life occurs on Sunday morning. That anger is not always productive; indeed, all too often it distracts attention from solving real problems; it keeps us from squarely facing our own complicity in our condition, and prevents the African-American community from forging the alliances it needs to bring about real change. But the anger is real; it is powerful; and to simply wish it away, to condemn it without understanding its roots, only serves to widen the chasm of misunderstanding that exists between the races.

In fact, a similar anger exists within segments of the white community. Most working- and middle-class white Americans don't feel that they have been particularly privileged by their race. Their experience is the immigrant experience – as far as they're concerned, no one's handed them anything, they've built it from scratch. They've worked hard all their lives, many times only to see their jobs shipped overseas or their pension dumped after a lifetime of labor. They are anxious about their futures, and feel their dreams slipping away; in an era of stagnant wages and global competition, opportunity comes to be seen as a zero sum game, in which your dreams come at my expense. So when they are told to bus their children to a school across town; when they hear that an African American is getting an advantage in landing a good job or a spot in a good college because of an injustice that they themselves never committed; when they're told that their fears about crime in urban neighborhoods are somehow prejudiced, resentment builds over time.

Like the anger within the black community, these resentments aren't always expressed in polite company. But they have helped shape the political landscape for at least a generation. Anger over welfare and affirmative action helped forge the Reagan Coalition. Politicians routinely exploited fears of crime for their own electoral ends. Talk show hosts and conservative commentators built entire careers unmasking bogus claims of racism while dismissing legitimate discussions of racial injustice and inequality as mere political correctness or reverse racism.

Just as black anger often proved counterproductive, so have these white resentments distracted attention from the real culprits of the middle class squeeze – a corporate culture rife with inside dealing, questionable accounting practices, and short-term greed; a Washington dominated by lobbyists and special interests; economic policies that favor the few over the many. And yet, to wish away the resentments of white Americans, to label them as misguided or even racist, without recognizing they are grounded in legitimate concerns – this too widens the racial divide, and blocks the path to understanding.

Barack Obama sees what I see--people are who they are based on the times they lived in, the people they've known, the experiences they've had. There are so many race issues that still need to be worked out. And there is no simple band-aid we can apply to fix everything.

Obama knows that we have to acknowledge these problems...and he also knows that we simply cannot do so in an angry, violent, stubborn way. We must take a step back and be thoughtful. We must evaluate positions other than our own, and ponder the implications of our own upbringing.

This is the path to wisdom and justice, not only in our internal affairs but also in our dealings with the rest of the world.

We need someone who isn't single-minded, who can take in all the issues and weigh them with intelligence and sincerity, and then make the tough decision.

Barack Obama is that person.

This is where we are right now. It's a racial stalemate we've been stuck in for years. Contrary to the claims of some of my critics, black and white, I have never been so naive as to believe that we can get beyond our racial divisions in a single election cycle, or with a single candidacy – particularly a candidacy as imperfect as my own.

But I have asserted a firm conviction – a conviction rooted in my faith in God and my faith in the American people – that working together we can move beyond some of our old racial wounds, and that in fact we have no choice if we are to continue on the path of a more perfect union.

Fear, procrastination, and disorganization

Last night, one of the people I've met through Twitter posted the following stream of angry tweets. (Read them in reverse order.)

I probably don't have to tell you how much these hit home for me. I'm not the one she's talking about, but I may as well be. How many years have I whined about wanting something more? About wishing I could lose weight? About how I can't seem to follow through with anything?

Here is a person who seems to actually be able to do those things, frustrated as hell with someone like me who won't get organized and do it. I can't blame her for feeling that way. I'm frustrated with myself most of the time.

A nice community

I really like where we live. It's very convenient to all the west Augusta amenities, but because it's back away from main roads, it feels secluded and private, and people here are typically friendly. I'm not sure I know of any other community like this in the area. There are nice, quiet places on the outskirts, of course, but none so convenient to everything that I can think of.

At one time I was convinced that I wanted to move, but I've made the apartment more homey since then and I really can't think of anywhere else I would want to live at the moment. Even North Augusta, where I have wanted to live for some time, can't really offer me the privacy and convenience that this place can.

That said, I do wish our community had sidewalks...and bike trails would be awesome. I would also like it if there was a grocery store within walking or biking distance. Technically Kroger is not all that far, but I'm not sure I would feel safe biking on skinny Flowing Wells Road.

I have an idea for an ideal community that someday, when I have money to invest, I'd like to develop.

A nice walk

This morning I walked around the neighborhood. It had been a long time and I felt like seeing everything. I headed left out of the apartment complex and walked down every side road to the left until I got to the end of the main road where construction is still going on. There I looked around to see if I could figure out what the future plans are, but I couldn't really tell. I'm hoping they're not planning to extend the road to meet Wrightsboro or some other road because that might turn our quiet little community into a high-traffic area.

After that I turned around and headed back up, but instead of going straight home I turned left into some more townhomes. I moved through one community, turned left, turned left again, and walked back towards the pond. There's a nice dead end street I like to visit that I hadn't been to in awhile, so I walked down there, then turned around and headed back out. Finally I crossed the main road again and went back to the apartment. In all, I walked for more than an hour.

The morning was beautiful. It rained a lot yesterday and last night, so everything was clean and glistening. I saw a few people walking and a lot of people getting into their cars to go to church; we all said "good morning" to each other.

By the time I got home I was pretty pooped, but it was a wonderful feeling.

The crazy dreams are back! For one night, at least

I thought all my dreams had been banished by the CPAP, but last night I had a doozy.

I was going over to the house of the family of a friend of Sean's for some reason, and I knew there was an item worth $80,000 there. The temptation was too great; I decided to steal it.

For a time I acted normally. Then, finally, I took my first step towards stealing the item. I don't even remember what it was, but it ultimately didn't matter because cops immediately popped out from nowhere and arrested me. Somehow, everyone had known my plan all along, and they'd been waiting to see if I would actually go through with it.

The police kept me in the house for a long time. I latched onto a female cop and kept trying to give her my statement. I wanted to cooperate as much as possible, because I knew I was guilty. But she kept brushing me off. Finally I was crying, saying, "I always thought that even if there was a lot of money involved, I'd still choose to do the right thing. But I guess not!" But the cop just looked at me, and didn't ask any questions.

At some point the house changed into a huge, castle-like house where the highest towers broke through the cloud cover. Someone was there with me--the character was a lot like Ben, but somehow wasn't him, and he was asking if the house continued down beneath the clouds, and whether he might use the place as the setting for a film. Later, there was a man who may have been wearing a white lab coat trying to perfect a bicycle-like floating vehicle in the home's dungeon. He started riding it around the room, but then another man was yelling that it was his idea and started trying to make the guy crash. I used our PS3 remote control to make the vehicle slow down and avoid obstacles. "There you go," I said.

After that I was for some reason in a long dirt tunnel with my bicycle, watching through the exit as the police discussed things, and trying to figure out a way to deal with them.

I was very relieved to wake up and realize I hadn't tried to steal anything.

Cemeteries

Recently there has been what news organizations might call a rash of cemetery thefts in the area. People are, understandably, upset; they've spend tens to hundreds of dollars decorating the plots of their loved ones, only to have those decorations taken by someone else.

For me, though, this all begs the question: why spend so much money to leave flowers in a field?

Your lost loved one is gone. There's no way of knowing if they see you putting flowers on their grave. The act of decorating gravesites is for the mourner, not the deceased--it's a way of keeping that person's memory alive. Why, I ask, do you have to do it in this certain way?

I say, remember your loved ones in a more special way. Scrapbook. Set aside a certain day or time to think about them. Tell your kids/friends/family stories about them. Write about them. Cook their favorite meal and enjoy it with others who miss them.

You can't buy meaning.

I haven't lost a lot of friends or family, knock on wood. My great-grandmother is buried in Mount Sterling, and I think I know where the cemetery is...but I haven't been there since she was interred. I remember her when I'm at the farm, and through my grandmother, and through the stories my dad tells. When I think about growing my hair out, I think about how she apparently had hair down to her ankles when she was younger--quite a feat, even if she was barely over four feet tall.

My grandfather died close to a decade ago. I know where he's buried, but I have only been there once or twice. However, for many years I drove his car, and every time I got behind the wheel I thought of him. Whenever I see cute old men I think of how cute he got towards the end, and how he was always flirting with his nurses. I will always remember his bright blue eyes and how joyful they always seemed. And even though I lost it in the fire, I will always remember that last picture I took with him.

I just don't think we need a location to go to for remembering. I think we are the best vessels for that. No matter where we are, the ones we love are with us in our memories. We can bring them anywhere we want to, and share them with whomever we choose.

In a few hundred years, when all available land is filled with cemeteries, will we think they are as important as we seem to think they are now?

I would rather be cremated and strewn in a garden. There doesn't need to be a marker. I'm forward-thinking. Things change. That garden might need to become homes, or it might need to transition back into wild territory. The needs of the living should not take a backseat to the dead.

Those remains are not your loved one. Your loved one is inside you and everyone they knew and in the world they shaped through their life. Not in the ground. I don't see the point of using up so much land to create a place that you end up going to out of a sense of duty, and not a desire to honor the lost.

There is going to come a time when our descendants have to decide what to do with all the cemeteries, unless something changes now.

So cute!

Check out this ad for March for Babies (click for full size):

So cute I could die ;>

Moo

The station got a tip from a viewer about 3000 cows that apparently disappeared from the Wrens area of Jefferson County after the tornado March 15. The lady told our morning producer:

"I bet that tornado picked them boogers up and sent them down to Florida on vacation! Someone's looking for their hamburger meat tonight."

My freezer is ridiculous

So today I went and bought a zillion frozen dinners. Healthy Choice, Lean Cuisine, and Smart Ones. If it looked remotely appealing, it went in the cart. I tried to keep them below 600 grams of sodium, but that was impossible in some cases. I also got some frozen Indian dinners...chicken tikka masala, etc. I was pretty much out of luck with those in terms of sodium, but right next to them were some vegetarian dinners that had 350 grams...so I got both.

I also picked up a bag of frozen chicken, because I had the niggling feeling that I hadn't been able to find any lately.

When I got home, I took everything out of the freezer in order to make things fit. I stacked the frozen dinners in the back and juggled most of the frozen veggies into the door. Then I started trying to fit all the meat back in.

I discovered during the course of all this that I already had three bags of frozen chicken in there.

One bag only had one chicken breast left, and it looked pretty crystallized so I threw it away. I also tossed a mostly-empty carton of ice cream and a mostly-empty tub of Cool Whip. Then I rearranged and rearranged and rearranged, trying to make it work. But no matter what I tried, I couldn't get the door to close.

Finally I gave up and I threw away the oldest bag of chicken. It looked pretty crystallized anyway. As for the rest...well, let's just say that tonight's dinner will consist of:

• Hella frozen french fries
• Hella steamed veggies

Sweet rig

Today's Penny Arcade is absolutely hilarious, and so is Tycho's rant:

It's a little inside baseball I guess, but at the same time the story was so delicious that we couldn't leave it be: a District Attorney in Texas is on trial for building himself a sweet rig on the county dime. The machine in question sports "two hard drives, seven fans, high-end video and audio cards, a wireless Internet connection and cables that glow under ultraviolet light." It's a crime, yeah, but it's an awesome crime. I make an exception for awesome crimes.

"I would not configure a backup computer in that way," says Mr. Gregg, FBI senior forensic examiner and reigning Understatement King.

Thanks, Mom and Dad

I love you.

Hard

From Marie's blog:

I tend to think it'll be a while before we move on from this whole fascination with stolen-identity and exposing-ourselves-in-ways-that-make-us-think-we-are-being-authentic. It's just too tempting, too easy to follow the facile path and to engage yourself in a meaningful, and private endeavor is, well, hard.

Ouch.

Brooke and Heather Day

I took Wednesday off from work so I could spend the day with Brooke. We went on a few adventures.

First, we headed out to Thurmond Dam, by way of Pollard's Corner.

This is the way Brooke always used to go to the lake. Pollard's Corner is also on the way to Lincolnton, where I worked briefly in the summer of 2005.

After our stop to pick up sodas and snacks, we headed on to the dam. We went through Georgia until we got to the dam, which is different from the way I went last time. Last time I took 28 through Columbia County and into McCormick County before I got to the lake and river. This time we drove right over the dam to get to the Visitors Center.

The center was open, so we went in and looked at all the displays explaining about J. Strom Thurmond Dam. My favorite part was the window-walled room with views of the lake and pictures and discussions of the wildlife. We had a lot of fun with the bird call recordings; click here.

We went outside and took some pictures of the lake and dam, but it was pretty cold so we soon hopped back in the car and headed on. At this point we hit the field with the old turbine display.

Then we headed towards the dam...but instead of going immediately to the main observation area, we drove down to the boat ramp. I hadn't done that last time because I figured the road just ended at the water, but it turned out there was a broad parking lot there, and some great views of the river and dam.

Once we had our fill of this angle, we headed up to the observation area, where we snapped photos and sat in a porch swing for awhile.

Click here for a video.

On our way back from the dam, we stopped at the Bartram Trail golf community to see what we thought. The houses were mostly okay, but the yards were pretty small, and we didn't think we would want to live there. I'd previously had high hopes for the area so I was fairly disappointed, but I'm not expecting to ever live in a house that large anyway. Brooke and David are looking for a larger-sized home so they can host family from England, so it was unfortunate that the yards didn't meet Brooke's expectations.

Following that we went on a more mundane (but no less fun!) adventure:

After Brooke beat the pants off me for three games, we decided to go to downtown Augusta for awhile, picking up David on the way.

I need to find a camera that won't add random glowing pixels to night shots.

After that we stopped at the grocery store for supplies and then went to my apartment for dinner and Eton mess, which is ridiculously easy to make and amazingly delicious.

It was a long, fun day. I'm glad we were able to spend so much time together!

Holding on

Originally written as a comment on Marie's blog.

I've always been pretty bad about wanting to hang on to things. Visiting my mother's family in Illinois as a child, I had two experiences that shocked me and made me think that maybe I was hanging on too tight.

The first was with my cousin Cary. We built a diorama out of paper and aluminum foil of some pretend land. When we were done, my cousin exclaimed, "And the best part about Imaginary World? Destroying it!" And she proceeded to tear what we had just created to shreds.

I was so horrified I couldn't even react.

Later that same trip, at my Aunt Carol's house, Carol was teaching me to crochet. I made a long, thin, curly something that I thought was pretty neat.

"Now for the fun part," Carol intoned. "Destroying it!" And she started to pull at the yarn, tugging the loops apart at the end. (Obviously Cary and Carol spent a fair amount of time together.)

This time I thought quickly enough to protest. "No!" I cried. "Don't destroy it! I want to keep it!"

Carol was taken aback by this. Her previous excitement vanished, and the crocheting session ended.

Her reaction made me wonder if I was being silly. I wondered if I should go along with the destruction to please her.

But I've always been stubborn. I said nothing further and kept the strip of woven yarn.

And I kept it for years. In fact, if it hadn't been for our apartment fire three years ago, I'd still have it, 20 years after disingenuously crocheting it.

Sometimes I wonder if that fire was meant to show me that I hang on too much.