Thursday March 6th, 2008: London: A Chat with a Genuine Bigot

I've always admired the English for their willingness to speak their minds, even to complete strangers. As an old-timey native New Yorker I sympathize with that urge, the urge to get the message out at any cost. Still, Londoners are far more ideological than New Yorkers.

R and I were walking down a side street near Kings Cross talking about all the Ethiopian shops and restaurants in the neighborhood. R is well familiar with London and was explaining the ebb and flow of different ethnic and national groups over the years since he first came to London as a boy.

We were standing outside of a butcher shop, admiring the excellent cuts of meat in the window, when a older man came shuffling out the door with a white plastic bag.

This gentleman looked a bit down on his luck. He was of medium, bent-over height, had long, greasy grey hair, a stained white beard and was wearing a soiled t-shirt and bedroom slippers. I'll call him G.

G: Hello, gentlemen! Fine cuts they have here!

R: Oh, yes. We were just wondering if we should buy some of the lamb. Looks very good.

G: It's fine! I've got two fresh chickens here, but not for myself, no! These are for the foxes!

Y: Which foxes?

G: Why, the foxes right here, of course! London is full of foxes and they must be fed to stay healthy. I have a young fox, a male, that comes by my back yard often for chicken. What a beauty he is!

Y: How remarkable. I had no idea that foxes lived in central London.

G: They do in considerable numbers, my friend. You know, I came to think of my foxes just last night while watching the news. In Afghanistan, they said, over a hundred were killed by a bomb while watching dog fights. And I say good job! Can you imagine, dog fighting? Those bastards richly deserved what happened to them! More, I say! Let them kill one another to a man - rather than come here with their damned business. Which they are doing anyways.

R: I take it you don't like immigration.

G: No, I don't! Those miserable buggers have been coming here for years and years and look what they've done to us! Look what they've done to the City! It's a damned disgrace. And now, as if things weren't bad enough, there's a black trying to be president in America. It just shows how low the world has sunk.

Y: Barack Obama is going to be the next president of the United States.

G: More the shame for the United States. It's unfathomable. Good day to you.

G limped off with his plastic bag, cursing to himself.

R watched him for a moment as he disappeared up a side street.

R: What a horrible character.

Y: A real misanthrope. But he likes foxes, apparently.

Why I Don't Argue With People

When I was a young man I learned a very valuable lesson. I haven't been able to apply this lesson in the intervening years nearly as often as I should. This is not the fault of the lesson, it's my fault.


I learned that you shouldn't argue with people. Ever. About anything.

Sure. There may be a few exceptions. If life and limb are at stake or huge moral damage is about to be done, fine. Go ahead and argue. These kinds of situations can arise but it's worth thinking about how frequently they actually do come up. Also, you might want to think about the usefulness of debating under these extreme circumstances as opposed to running, calling the cops or looking around for a baseball bat.

That leaves the other 99.9999% of all arguments: Is Hillary Clinton an agent of Satan? Should the Yankees move to New Jersey? Is Putin a true democrat? Is global warming due to carbon dioxide or to hot air? Are Zionists Jews? How many Palestinians are on Facebook? Is the Church of the Latter Day Saints bigger or smaller than Safeway? Does Purgatory really really exist? Is the Apple Corporation run by a secret Masonic conspiracy?

Many years ago I was in a small Greek city. It was early Spring and the great Aegean sun was already gaining the upper hand. The fogs and the cold inland breezes that come down off of the mountains were retreating higher and higher into the snowfields. The small meadows in the valleys were gleaming green, the mud was starting to dry in the roads and people began, very slowly and judiciously, to unwrap the shawls and black cloaks that had warmed them in the preceding season.

I had come to town from the countryside to do some shopping. The usual vegetables and cheeses that were not easily found in the villages, some razor blades, a newspaper, some envelopes. One doesn't need a lot.

I was on my way back to the bus station when it occurred to me that I needed some suntan lotion. And at just that moment I saw a shop with a shelf facing the street filled with plastic bottles that looked right. Sure enough, suntan lotion. They were European brand-name products, a bit faded, undoubtedly left over from last summer, but who cared.

The proprietor was sitting at a small table just inside the shop door. As soon as he saw me looking at his bottles he got up and came out with a big smile.

Stavros: "Hello! How are you?" (in English)

Y: "I am well, thank you. And yourself, how are you?" (in Greek)

S: "Ah! You speak Greek!"

Y: "I am just learning."

S: "Nonsense! You speak Greek very well!"

Y: "Thank you, you are too kind. Tell me, these lotions . . . I see you have numbers 2, 3, 4 and 5 - but my skin is quite white after the winter. Do you have any higher numbers? That are stronger protection against the sun? 10 or so?"

S: "My friend, please! You don't understand at all! Those numbers have no such significance - protection and such. Not at all! Those numbers are simply for us retailers to be able to identify the product. When I call my supplier I just say: 'Bring me ten 3's and five 4's.' That is all that it means, you see. Nothing else!"

This was the great moment. And, of course, the Greeks have a word for it: ἐπιφάνεια or epiphany. A mighty revelation was put before me, a veil was torn from in front of my eyes and the lesson was revealed to me right there in front of that shop.

Arguing with this guy, explaining that he was in the wrong on this small point, was futile. Not just futile, but going against the grain of the entire texture of human existence. To start a discussion about sun block at that moment would have instantly dragged up all the discord of the last 1500 years of Greek history. The Western Powers would once again betray the innocent and abandon the loyal, the Eastern Powers would resume their eternal attack on freedom and true faith. Blood pressures would rise and smiles would vanish. A conspiracy would be joined, a bad rumor would spring up and the sun would go behind a black cloud.

Debate is useless. Pointing out to people that they are wrong, that they have a mistaken opinion, is folly. What is to be gained? Are you going to feel better? To shine in the light of your own superior understanding? Says who? Are you educating the world? What are you, some kind of smoldering Prometheus, lugging your dubious light around, looking for takers? You're right, you're right, you're right - except you're wrong.

And I saw this, all laid out as neat as you please.

Y: "Of course. I'll take a 5."

More ranting in the Times

This is a no-brainer, except for badly confused people.

Same sex couple who fulfill the same criteria for household residency as opposite sex couples obviously have the same rights to shared, job-related benefits.

If you believe an invisible spirit told you differently maybe you should ask the spirit for clarification. You might have heard wrong.

The judge got it exactly right:

“A bare desire to harm a politically unpopular group cannot provide a rational basis for governmental discrimination,” Judge Reinhardt wrote.

Rational? The current denial is not based on any form of reason. It's based on mass hallucinations.

Me in the Times, again

The Republican party has devolved from class acts like Eisenhower and - yes - Nixon to a small town, bush league, political hack nobody like Cheney.

It’s a sad story. A democratic political system requires a functioning, intelligent opposition. The US currently doesn’t have one. We have people like Gov. Palin.

NYC Moments 2: "I am Bill Gates"

Celebrity is a heavy burden. Being instantly recognizable and recognized by millions of people, any number of whom are outright lunatics, is no easy proposition. How would you behave if every public gesture or statement you made was dissected and published ten minutes later all over the web and the mass media? Easy enough to say: "Well, I'd just be myself!" Really, would you? Which self?

A couple of weeks ago M., E. and I were walking crosstown in Manhattan. We were walking West over to Hell's Kitchen and E. and N.'s apartment. It was a fine afternoon, mild for the season and the air felt good - fresh Hudson River air blowing in from New Jersey. I mentioned this to M. and E. and couldn't resist adding that times sure had changed. When I was a kid any wind from anywheres in the direction of New Jersey was a thing to be feared. I don't know what they used to burn over there, in all those places near Hoboken and Paramus ("That guy is an ignoramus from Paramus.") - but I'm very glad they stopped.

As we walked West the sidewalk, which up until then had been pretty much full speed ahead, became crowded with people standing around, leaning up against the buildings and generally making a mob scene.

"What is this nonsense?", I wondered. We tried to step off the sidewalk into the street to walk around these obstructionists but it didn't work. The curb was tightly lined with parked cars and, just beyond them, taxis and limos were zipping by without a care in the world. The crowd got denser and denser as we walked and finally, stopped.

I tapped a guy on the shoulder who was standing right in front of us. I couldn't help noticing that this guy was huge - he looked like a professional football player. A defensive center.

"Excuse me, sir. Could we get by?"

"Sorry. It's blocked right here. See?"

He pointed down toward his knees where there was a low portable fence set up directly across the sidewalk.

I stared down in stupid amazement. Then a sign on the facade of the building caught my eye and I realized what was going on in a flash. This was the stage entrance to the studio for one of the late night TV extravaganzas. Obviously some famous people were expected momentarily and the gawkers, the paparazzi, the NYPD and the security people were out in force.

"You can walk around this van, just be careful."

I turned and explained quickly to E. and M. Just then I had the first of two New York moments.

I noticed a man standing just behind us on a plastic soda crate with his back to the building. He was perched up there to improve his view of the proceedings and looked slightly too enthusiastic for my tastes. Some kind of nut. Sure enough, this guy points at me and lets out a loud, shrill yell:

"Omigod! It's Bill Gates!"

The crowd, which had been buzzing with talk and excited anticipation, froze and spun on its collective heel. Not a sound. Everybody staring feverishly at me.

I must explain that I do not think that I look very much like Bill Gates. OK, I am tall. I do wear glasses. I do have sort of an oval face. And that's where the similarities end: I have considerably broader shoulders and I don't walk around like I just stepped out of a flying saucer.

So there I am, in the middle of this crowd, several hundred gawkers glaring at me. What to do?

I yelled back:

"That's right. I'm Bill Gates. Now just hand over all your money."

That did the trick. People were cracking up. Fortunately, they had realized that I could not actually be Bill Gates. I was relieved, for a second there I thought they were going to tear me to pieces like Pentheus in The Bacchae.

Some joker yelled back:

"Hey! Listen! If you're Bill Gates you've already got everybody's money!"

Yeah. Wonderful. More merriment.

I said to E:

"Help your mother around this van and let's get outtahere. This is starting to get the hell on my nerves."

We walked around the velvet rope and got back on the sidewalk. And found ourselves in the midst of a dense tangle of photographers. I asked one of them as we went by:

"Who are you guys waiting for anyway?"

"Oh. Tom Hanks and Morgan Freeman."

"Well, good luck with the pictures."

"Yeah. Thanks, man."

"And, you can always take a few of me. I'm Bill Gates."

The Old Hare

I live in a place that encourages reflection, because things change so slowly here. They change slowly and repeat themselves endlessly. Not to bore anybody, but to give a lesson. If you need a quick fix, you can watch television or screw around with your Facebook page. If you need to reflect, you can come here and look around for a while.

I went out this morning to the backyard to chuck the kitchen scraps on the compost pile. I turn that pile over every Fall. That is a meditation in itself. We aren't here for long, and that's not a bad thing. If we were all made out of stainless steel or high impact plastic, the world would be one hell of a cluttered mess.

Fortunately, we degrade. I say fortunately because I think decay has generally gotten a bad rap. Disintegration can be beautiful, sometimes, but it is always necessary.

That's why I get such a huge laugh out of the incessant "news" about immortality through technology. We've got Methuselah on the brain and the old geezer is making fools out of us once again. The Fountain of Youth is gushing more liquefied baloney today than ever before: cybernetic, genetic, nanotechnic, cytological bullcrap. I won't bother with the links, you've undoubtedly seen the breathless headlines: "Don't Die Now, Soon Average Lifespan Will Be 985 years". The hype is perpetual and the gullibility is catholic. It's rather like millenarian delusion standing on its head: "Don't worry, you'll be around for ever as soon as you subscribe to our monthly immortality newsletter. Only $49.95." Yes, we are going to be uploaded, paid up and marked "read-only". Then we can sit back and watch the centuries roll on by.

Immortality is not only dumb, it's undignified. That's what the Old Hare told me this morning. He was an old male, sitting in the dug out half of the compost crib where he had slept the night. He had chewed up a few of the apples, but he wasn't looking too refreshed. I walked right up to him and he half froze, as hares do, and sized up his chances of making a quick dash out of the crib. Not too good. He was battered, his fur was shot through with grey patches and worn down spots. He even had glaucoma covering his left eye. He kept his right eye on me, pawed the slats a bit and then just turned around and faced me. Nope, no run. He wasn't up to it.

This is the Old Hare's last winter and he seemed at ease. The nights are real cold now, below freezing just about every sundown. So, soon he will be leaving. And that was his lesson. There is no tragedy in decay. The only distress is our misunderstanding and the lies we have been feed by people who make a living by selling fear.

I went down into the root cellar and found a carrot from the vegetable garden. I took it back to the compost and left for the Old Hare, who wasn't around. Perhaps he'll come back and eat it tomorrow morning.

Cairo Neighborhood

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Sorting GMail IMAP All Mail in Thunderbird by Attachment Size

Above: GMail IMAP connection in Thunderbird 2.0.0.6. The folder "All Mail" is selected. Be prepared to wait for the complete IMAP transfer if you have many mails on GMail. Watch the transaction progress in the status bar, it can take a few minutes the first time you do this - it will be much faster in subsequent connections.

Below: Thunderbird's Folder Detail panel. I have sorted in ascending "Size" order and simply paged to the bottom of the list. Click on the image below for a clearer look at what is happening.


If you want to clean up by deleting unwanted mails with huge attachments: I suggest using the GMail web interface and searching on the Subject of the mail(s) you want to drop. Then just delete them and empty the online Trash folder. You will see an immediate and dramatic improvement in your storage numbers.

Sofia

Soldier in the Family

Olesya by Olesya

Georgians in Iraq

Photo: Scott Nelson/World Picture Network, for The New York Times

Faith in the service of foreign policy.

Reflection

Halcyon morning light reflecting off the inside of the balcony. The peace of the unnoticed comforts us.

Göteborg in October

Washington Square 1966

Elegant Bar

Million, billion . . who cares. It's a lot.

Our Swedish journalists are innumerate. They consistently use "million" and "billion" interchangeably. This is remarkable in a country that - according to myth - makes enormous demands on journalists and their educations.

The article above reports on a boondoggle that will cost 250,000 SEK. The headline below screams 250,000,000 SEK for the same crock of baloney.

I should probably mail the evidence of this "mistake" to SLA as a printout (this would greatly increase the chances of it actually getting to SLA compared with emailing) but the stamp might cost 5,500 SEK.

Three Characters by the Lake

Master Artist and Draftsman Bob Reichert

Gabriel and Olesya

From August 2007