Razor E200S Electric Scooters For Kids | Best Electric Scooters For Kids: (see video)
'via Blog this'
Have you ever wanted something so bad that it just eats away at your sensibility? I just had one of those lopsided arguments one can only have with an 8-year old who wants to ride the hooligan neighbor’s motorized razor. The male side of species will jettison all rationality and become strong and invincible at a moment’s notice (even at the moment of sight—there it is, I want it).
When I was about that age I wanted to ride dirt bikes. So, I get it. But when I have to fix the damage that stupid wreaks, that is another story. He just walked off in a huff; is it because he reluctantly understands that his wise daddy is really correct, or could it be that he thinks I have a baboon brain, and he really really wants to speed up and down our busy street on a 12mph scooter with no helmet?
Friday, September 23, 2011
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Follow Your Bliss (1989)
(Rstuazon/Cover/Youtube video) Follow Your Bliss (B-52's 1989)
http://youtu.be/I0Qpe2E_oSc
Her curves were so smooth; he loved the way she moaned when he pulled her. Flushing red as he held her, she was his most treasured possession. She was tight. He spent time with her every night, strumming her heart strings, following his bliss. Truth be told, he loved her more than his girlfriend. It had all the makings of a serious relationship: he kept her clean, well maintained, spent a lot of money on her, and loved to hear her talk in that slow southern drawl. More time he spent with her, the better he was. She made him feel like a player; it was a pleasure to show her off with his arm around her neck. This love reverberated, made him feel electric.
What you see here is a story of any American young man in love with a premium Fender Stratocaster red electric guitar. You can feel the musical affection by watching this young man follow his bliss with a song by the B-52’s from the rich, late 1980s. Keith Strickland arranged a funky-pop guitar lead for this song which even made its way onto the Weather Channel.
Strickland explained his songs, "I think of my instrumentals as soundscapes--the chord progressions, rhythms, harmonics and musical direction are used to evoke various sonic atmospheres or moods."
American Fender Stratocaster (candy apple red) electric guitar
©Mark H. Pillsbury
http://youtu.be/I0Qpe2E_oSc
Her curves were so smooth; he loved the way she moaned when he pulled her. Flushing red as he held her, she was his most treasured possession. She was tight. He spent time with her every night, strumming her heart strings, following his bliss. Truth be told, he loved her more than his girlfriend. It had all the makings of a serious relationship: he kept her clean, well maintained, spent a lot of money on her, and loved to hear her talk in that slow southern drawl. More time he spent with her, the better he was. She made him feel like a player; it was a pleasure to show her off with his arm around her neck. This love reverberated, made him feel electric.
What you see here is a story of any American young man in love with a premium Fender Stratocaster red electric guitar. You can feel the musical affection by watching this young man follow his bliss with a song by the B-52’s from the rich, late 1980s. Keith Strickland arranged a funky-pop guitar lead for this song which even made its way onto the Weather Channel.
Strickland explained his songs, "I think of my instrumentals as soundscapes--the chord progressions, rhythms, harmonics and musical direction are used to evoke various sonic atmospheres or moods."
©Mark H. Pillsbury
Friday, September 16, 2011
Reflections on Hurricane Ike
written September 16, 2008
©Mark H. Pillsbury
(Houston, TX) Aftermath of Hurricane Ike:
I watched Hurricane Ike come through the neighborhood from the comfort of a wing-back chair. Even though the storm windows on the front of the house performed flawlessly under heavy fire, the long night witnessing the storm’s destructive power was in retrospect, dangerous. However, the past few months have been times of both reflection and danger for me. Spending five lonely hours watching the eye-wall continue to pound our little street in Houston, I reflected on a stay in the hospital in 2007 wondering, “Why God brings difficulties into our lives?”
John 15:2 Every branch in me that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit.
During trials, God prunes us like a tree, even though at the time pruning seems painful, it allows one to become stronger and able to produce more in the long term: to be more fruitful for His purposes. The concept of spiritual discipline is not very popular, but it is apparent to me over the last year how God’s providence in pruning can lead to better living.
The process of getting in shape is slow and painful. By gradually losing weight and eating right, God transformed my body; I not only feel better but my long-term health is improved. Daily pruning off bad habits, over the course of a year, not only increased longevity but gave me a fresh outlook on life. Even more, my family did not just witness this blessing but participated in it. During this period of change it was apparent that God is a faithful, but pruning God; constant like a rock but allowing our world to evolve. He is a God of change and hope and new beginnings (as Paul wrote to Ephesus, “You can start living an entirely new life, as a person regenerated…”). The Gospel gives us the chance at new life in Him if we believe by faith alone.
"It takes courage to push yourself to places that you have never been before....to test your limits....to break through barriers. And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." –Anais Nin
Thoughts on my favorite tree
There is one tree in our front yard; a majestic southern live-oak tree that my old neighbor says grew from a solitary acorn. It was just me and my tree during that dark storm. Sheltered inside my house, I watched her fight with Ike all night long. The oak tree did gyrations and swayed in the wind, slapping, twisting and contorting in extremes I thought impossible to survive. At times the branches looked like strands of spaghetti, boiling in a pot, whirling like a dervish! However, after all the swaying subsided, there was only one branch hanging loosely from her limbs. There were many trees in our neighborhood with dozens of branches littering their yard, but not ours. If any neighbor could assess this tree like God can, in geological time, they would see it leap out of the ground and turn to the sun and spread its arms and bask in the joys of being an oak tree in Texas. (thanks, Marilynne Robinson).
Thoughts on the future of Houston
The city can take two paths during the aftermath. One is outward, blame-centered, and passive. The other is an active, self-sustaining, collaborative time of healing and growth over the next year, a chance at a new beginning. My hope is the city can focus on the priorities of its citizenry and prune away the petty arguments and wasteful bureaucracy hindering the execution of the city’s daily priorities. Many neighborhoods discovered unity after they were all leveled by the storm, living two weeks without power connected to their homes. The cooperative force of political leaders working together for provision of city services inspired the citizenry, and showed us the best purpose of government.
If peace be in the heart,
The wildest storm is full of solemn beauty,
The midnight flash but shows the path of duty,
Each living creature tells some new and joyous story,
The very trees and stones all catch a ray of glory,
If peace be in the heart.
--Charles Francis Richardson
©Mark H. Pillsbury
(Houston, TX) Aftermath of Hurricane Ike:
I watched Hurricane Ike come through the neighborhood from the comfort of a wing-back chair. Even though the storm windows on the front of the house performed flawlessly under heavy fire, the long night witnessing the storm’s destructive power was in retrospect, dangerous. However, the past few months have been times of both reflection and danger for me. Spending five lonely hours watching the eye-wall continue to pound our little street in Houston, I reflected on a stay in the hospital in 2007 wondering, “Why God brings difficulties into our lives?”
John 15:2 Every branch in me that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit.
During trials, God prunes us like a tree, even though at the time pruning seems painful, it allows one to become stronger and able to produce more in the long term: to be more fruitful for His purposes. The concept of spiritual discipline is not very popular, but it is apparent to me over the last year how God’s providence in pruning can lead to better living.
The process of getting in shape is slow and painful. By gradually losing weight and eating right, God transformed my body; I not only feel better but my long-term health is improved. Daily pruning off bad habits, over the course of a year, not only increased longevity but gave me a fresh outlook on life. Even more, my family did not just witness this blessing but participated in it. During this period of change it was apparent that God is a faithful, but pruning God; constant like a rock but allowing our world to evolve. He is a God of change and hope and new beginnings (as Paul wrote to Ephesus, “You can start living an entirely new life, as a person regenerated…”). The Gospel gives us the chance at new life in Him if we believe by faith alone.
"It takes courage to push yourself to places that you have never been before....to test your limits....to break through barriers. And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." –Anais Nin
Thoughts on my favorite tree
There is one tree in our front yard; a majestic southern live-oak tree that my old neighbor says grew from a solitary acorn. It was just me and my tree during that dark storm. Sheltered inside my house, I watched her fight with Ike all night long. The oak tree did gyrations and swayed in the wind, slapping, twisting and contorting in extremes I thought impossible to survive. At times the branches looked like strands of spaghetti, boiling in a pot, whirling like a dervish! However, after all the swaying subsided, there was only one branch hanging loosely from her limbs. There were many trees in our neighborhood with dozens of branches littering their yard, but not ours. If any neighbor could assess this tree like God can, in geological time, they would see it leap out of the ground and turn to the sun and spread its arms and bask in the joys of being an oak tree in Texas. (thanks, Marilynne Robinson).
"A dictator sees the truth as a matter or will; anything he says or dreams is the absolute truth and soon the people are forced to go along with him.
For the so-called democrat, the truth is the will of the people. Whatever the majority says is the law and that law becomes the truth for the people.
But for men like us, the only truth is the truth of the tree. All trees. Because the truth of the tree is its roots in the ground, and the wind blowing, and the rain falling. The sun is the tree's truth, and even if it is cut down his seed will scatter and those roots will once again take hold." --Tolstoy McGill
In the five years we have lived in our house we paid expert arborists to prune our lone live-oak twice. These were expensive and painful but all the unnecessary branches were taken away and the strength of the tree grew until she was ready when the real trial came. When light finally broke the horizon and the worst of Ike moved on, the large canopy drooped all the way down so her branches almost touched the ground. I never saw a living thing so tired from fighting, yet so proud to have survived. There was quite a scattered mess in our front yard, but the branches and limbs I cleaned up were not from the tree pruned, they were from trees not so well prepared.
Thoughts on the future of Houston
The city can take two paths during the aftermath. One is outward, blame-centered, and passive. The other is an active, self-sustaining, collaborative time of healing and growth over the next year, a chance at a new beginning. My hope is the city can focus on the priorities of its citizenry and prune away the petty arguments and wasteful bureaucracy hindering the execution of the city’s daily priorities. Many neighborhoods discovered unity after they were all leveled by the storm, living two weeks without power connected to their homes. The cooperative force of political leaders working together for provision of city services inspired the citizenry, and showed us the best purpose of government.
"The flight crowd is created by a threat. Everyone fleas; everyone is drawn along. The danger which threatens is the same for all. People flee together b/c it is best to flee that way. They feel the same excitement and energy of some increases the energy of others; people push each other along in the same direction. So long as they flee together they feel the danger is distributed..." --Elias Canetti (Crowds & Power 1960) [reminded me of *Hurricane Rita* when the whole city left and nothing happened]Unlike New Orleans, this city has already rolled up its sleeves and started the entrepreneurial work that rebuilding and re-visioning requires. Instead of feeling sorry for ourselves, Houston begins the cleanup with the mindset that it could have been a lot worse; and we will patiently work until life is back to normal and the economic engines of this great city churn again. Like live-oak trees, all of us were severely pruned during Hurricane Ike, but this trial in the end will be thought of as a good thing. One day we will tell of how we rose out of the rubble and blossomed into a better place, one more fruitful for future generations.
If peace be in the heart,
The wildest storm is full of solemn beauty,
The midnight flash but shows the path of duty,
Each living creature tells some new and joyous story,
The very trees and stones all catch a ray of glory,
If peace be in the heart.
--Charles Francis Richardson
Saturday, September 10, 2011
My 9-11 tribute in fiction
[PG-13 rating due to some explicit language used infrequently throughout this piece of fiction]
A bad day fishing…
©Mark H. Pillsbury
Part One
“Dad, it’s Michael, hey good morning; we going fishing today?”
The dutiful middle-son Michael rose unusually early, but he knew a beautiful day lay ahead of him. His older brother acted as Dad’s fishing partner, but Patrick went to work today in the city. The brothers secretly agreed somehow once a week they would force their Dad outside for some sort of physical activity.
With scruffy gray-hair and a hard-scrabble beard, Michael’s Dad resembled the “old man and the sea” character played by Spencer Tracy. Despite the retired fireman’s failing health, the O'Keafes prized the trips they took out on the water in fair weather, so today Michael had the honor of being his Dad’s “buddy.”
Although their relationship was strained in a good, subconscious-Irish-Catholic way, as the independent, stubborn, middle-child, Michael carried on his connection with his Dad by staying out of trouble. So different than the patriarch, but also blindly loyal, loving, and traditional, Michael hardly ever mustered the nerve to confront the old man when they disagreed.
Instead of adopting the family business of firefighting, he could have easily succeeded lawyering; even though he rarely argued with his father, he usually twisted his Dad like a pretzel. They just kept their distance as a path of least resistance, however Michael held this deeply inside, causing him immense regret. Daniel James “Jim” O'Keafe lived out his retirement alone in West Nyack, New York, a widower addicted to ESPN, cold beer, and fishing with his boys; two of whom followed his path into public service as fireman in the NYFD. When journalists used the phrase “New York’s Finest” describing Gotham policemen, the erroneousness annoyed him.
Very few firemen were brought up on charges, yet NYPD internal affairs had as many officers as the local FBI office. Firemen were just not imbalanced like policemen, even though going into a burning building did not qualify as Jim’s idea of risk management. The thin blue line between the criminal mind and the criminal hunter often blurred as policemen fought it daily on the mean streets of New York. Fireman often had long stretches of tedious chores at the station as opposed to constantly patrolling; maybe their domesticity offered fewer temptations. Either way, Jim O'Keafe never trusted policemen like he did firemen, they were far too complicated and their ethical dilemmas did not suit his black-and-white personality; he liked simple things like sports, fishing, and putting out a blaze. Even when he drank, he did not think too much.
“Goddamn fish better watch out, Mikey, but where are we going?” the old veteran probably wouldn’t remember what they had planned, even though Michael took them to a new spot in the State Park on the other side of the Hudson River. “Where’s Patty this morning, Mike?” he asked, “Working in the city Dad, he switched off with a buddy so he could take off next Monday.”
Michael implored Jim O'Keafe he was just as qualified a guide as Patrick, his older brother, because neither of them had taken their Dad to this particular lake in Harriman State Park, which contained plentiful fishing lakes with adjacent public boat ramps.
“The weather’s so good, Dad, it don’t matter whether we catch anything?!” (The essence of Michael’s sunny outlook on life and especially in his time remaining with his father).
“Bullshit, Mikey, we are gonna kill ‘em today, you gotta have the positive attitude, plus—I got a couple of new lures for this trip,” “Where the hell is this lake you’re taking me to?” His Dad always took charge, and seemed to get more demanding with age, especially after their mother Joan passed away. Most of his childhood, their Mom made herself the buffer, now it seemed since she died, Dad’s sharp edges popped back out like thorns. The years of fighting fires in Manhattan caused him to offer a “fearless” persona to the world, part John Wayne and part Vulcan god Hephaestus.
Michael’s next generation “buffer” appeared to be his son Aiden, who ironically drew none of the typical Jim O'Keefe ire. Dramatically changing around this young boy, Michael felt intrinsically, it was somehow subconscious regret of how hard his Dad treated his own sons which somehow caused Jim to set up a protective force-field around Aiden. However clumsy, rude, emotional, or dim-witted Aiden acted around his grandfather, Jim treated him like a royal prince. Although Michael thought it hypocritical and inappropriate, he marveled at the way his father changed around Aiden, lamenting his son’s schooling on this pristine, late-summer morning.
After taking the Palisades Interstate Parkway north into the park, they dropped the small john-boat into the water from a steep old boat ramp. The teamwork required for this procedure made Michael cringe. Mr. O'Keafe blustered from the boat, “Turn the focking wheel, son!” “Straighten the trailer, straighten the trailer, we’re crooked; Goddamn, son, you could break an anvil!” “What in Mary’s precious name are you trying to do with this focking boat trailer? Jesus,” “I am glad you don’t drive the flippin fire trucks like this!” The relentless berating continued like ridiculously twisted Irish theater. Michael offered no rejoinder; however in truth his Dad’s hearing wasn’t good enough to merit a response.
The boat properly situated finally, Michael got out of his truck and politely told his Dad to switch places with him so he'd do the hard duty of starting the small outboard engine. Miraculously, Jim swallowed any comments about the extended cord-pulling required to ignite the trolling motor, and after quickly parking the truck and getting back aboard they were off. Relieved to be underway, and buoyed by the sunshine, Mike even let his Dad drive the boat!
Decompressing as they slowly puttered across the lake, Michael recalled the time 20 years ago as he carried one of his father’s tackle boxes down a narrow boat dock with no railings. One side contained the boat slips and the other a 3 foot drop-off into the cold water. The rhythmic swing of walking with the case pressed Michael along with a momentum beyond his control, and when he ventured too far to the right it carried him over into the water.
With the coordinated grace of a ballet dancer, Michael moved to the opposite side of the box in midair (falling); gingerly placing it on the dock, releasing it, and dismounting gymnastically into the lake. His Dad ran to the aid of the tackle box first, making sure it was secure and flat on the dock and then roiled the boy to get out of the water. With Jim you had to be great, because good was never good enough.
Part Two
With Jim as the captain of the boat, Michael had time to stare off to the shoreline and think. They did not have a flight plan for their trip, and Jim did not follow a set path, in fact it seemed like he going slightly off course.
The wandering john-boat provided a good comparison to Michael’s mind, not at all concerned about their direction. Free of plaguing stress, warmed by the late summer heat, and happy like nothing left in the world mattered, he thought he would appreciate the day just for its unique blandness.
“Son, goddammit, wake up! Don’t you know what part of the lake needs fishing?” Jim O'Keafe barked at his boy. “Where am I supposed to drive this damn thing?” Michael lazily replied, “See what happens when the real pilot isn't driving the boat?”
“Where do you want to enjoy the day, Dad? Over there or over here?!” he said pointing two different directions. They were in the middle of the second largest State Park in New York, but just a few miles north of New York City.
The red ball rose in the east, a slight breeze rustled the trees; there was deafening quiet. Hardly inhabited during a weekday morning, the peace illuminated by the intensely blue, cloudless sky belied the growing tension between the men. Without much space between them, Michael studied his Dad’s features as sons love to do, trying by divination to perceive what he will resemble when old age calls.
Patiently, and with resolve to enjoy the day on the lake, Michael asked his Dad, “Don’t you wish Mom was out here today?” “She would love this crystal lake, and the birds squawking.” It caught Jim off-guard, because they never discussed his former wife, Michael and Patrick’s mom. Even though a radical departure from their typical repartee, and as calmly as if it were the last day of his life, Michael pronounced boldly to his Dad, “There’s so much I would like to ask about Mom!” Jim said nothing and he worried he would eventually have to answer questions or engage in conversation about Joan.
As the two sat peacefully on the lake, they turned to observe a large, glistening silver jumbo-jet cruising fast and low about 500 feet, southbound along the Hudson River. Upon initial observation it was strange the big jet did not slow in order to ditch on the river; it made no emergency landing, instead it flew straight and level; steady, as if it were on a mission. They both glanced at each other, without words; acknowledging the strangeness of what they just witnessed.
Part Three
Boeing’s valuable and versatile “767” ferried passengers on long-haul flights partly because it carried a very high fuel load, but also due to its capacity for paying customers. However, on this sublimely calm and bright Tuesday morning, American Airlines Flight 11 [“AA11”] was not packed like a sardine can, and the 87 passengers boarded easily.
Nevertheless, accompanying AA11’s crew of 11, were 5 silent assassins dressed like typical travelling executives. These dark, wordless plotters designed to seize command of the “glass cockpit” and hijack the flight.
On September 11, 2001, AA 11 originated out of Boston’s Logan Airport soaring upward on a west-northwest heading at approximately 8:24am, until unexpectedly it pivoted around Lake George, New York, suddenly turning 100 degrees due south. The ersatz aviators found the Hudson River as their guide, and while other Jihadists simultaneously carried out one of the most sinister conspiracies in history, Mohamed Atta calmly captained AA11 without the required proficiency that real pilots had in landing the plane. He was on course, however, guiding the Boeing superliner on a downhill heading directly toward New York City.
“Ain’t never seen a big one like that close-up flying that fast and low!” Jim exclaimed. “And what the hellzit doin’ on the deck, trailing the river?!”
Michael O'Keafe froze with both premonition and confusion. He briefly thought about his brother Patrick, on duty in Manhattan with Rescue Company 1.
Just a few minutes later, at approximately 8:46am, American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into the north side of the North Tower (1 World Trade Center) between the 94th and 98th floors, flying at a speed of 490 miles per hour and exploding on impact. The 9/11 terror attacks had begun.
©Mark H. Pillsbury
[This is a work of fiction and any resemblance between the characters and persons living or dead is merely coincidental]
A bad day fishing…
©Mark H. Pillsbury
Part One
“Dad, it’s Michael, hey good morning; we going fishing today?”
The dutiful middle-son Michael rose unusually early, but he knew a beautiful day lay ahead of him. His older brother acted as Dad’s fishing partner, but Patrick went to work today in the city. The brothers secretly agreed somehow once a week they would force their Dad outside for some sort of physical activity.
With scruffy gray-hair and a hard-scrabble beard, Michael’s Dad resembled the “old man and the sea” character played by Spencer Tracy. Despite the retired fireman’s failing health, the O'Keafes prized the trips they took out on the water in fair weather, so today Michael had the honor of being his Dad’s “buddy.”
Although their relationship was strained in a good, subconscious-Irish-Catholic way, as the independent, stubborn, middle-child, Michael carried on his connection with his Dad by staying out of trouble. So different than the patriarch, but also blindly loyal, loving, and traditional, Michael hardly ever mustered the nerve to confront the old man when they disagreed.
Instead of adopting the family business of firefighting, he could have easily succeeded lawyering; even though he rarely argued with his father, he usually twisted his Dad like a pretzel. They just kept their distance as a path of least resistance, however Michael held this deeply inside, causing him immense regret. Daniel James “Jim” O'Keafe lived out his retirement alone in West Nyack, New York, a widower addicted to ESPN, cold beer, and fishing with his boys; two of whom followed his path into public service as fireman in the NYFD. When journalists used the phrase “New York’s Finest” describing Gotham policemen, the erroneousness annoyed him.
Very few firemen were brought up on charges, yet NYPD internal affairs had as many officers as the local FBI office. Firemen were just not imbalanced like policemen, even though going into a burning building did not qualify as Jim’s idea of risk management. The thin blue line between the criminal mind and the criminal hunter often blurred as policemen fought it daily on the mean streets of New York. Fireman often had long stretches of tedious chores at the station as opposed to constantly patrolling; maybe their domesticity offered fewer temptations. Either way, Jim O'Keafe never trusted policemen like he did firemen, they were far too complicated and their ethical dilemmas did not suit his black-and-white personality; he liked simple things like sports, fishing, and putting out a blaze. Even when he drank, he did not think too much.
“Goddamn fish better watch out, Mikey, but where are we going?” the old veteran probably wouldn’t remember what they had planned, even though Michael took them to a new spot in the State Park on the other side of the Hudson River. “Where’s Patty this morning, Mike?” he asked, “Working in the city Dad, he switched off with a buddy so he could take off next Monday.”
Michael implored Jim O'Keafe he was just as qualified a guide as Patrick, his older brother, because neither of them had taken their Dad to this particular lake in Harriman State Park, which contained plentiful fishing lakes with adjacent public boat ramps.
“The weather’s so good, Dad, it don’t matter whether we catch anything?!” (The essence of Michael’s sunny outlook on life and especially in his time remaining with his father).
“Bullshit, Mikey, we are gonna kill ‘em today, you gotta have the positive attitude, plus—I got a couple of new lures for this trip,” “Where the hell is this lake you’re taking me to?” His Dad always took charge, and seemed to get more demanding with age, especially after their mother Joan passed away. Most of his childhood, their Mom made herself the buffer, now it seemed since she died, Dad’s sharp edges popped back out like thorns. The years of fighting fires in Manhattan caused him to offer a “fearless” persona to the world, part John Wayne and part Vulcan god Hephaestus.
Michael’s next generation “buffer” appeared to be his son Aiden, who ironically drew none of the typical Jim O'Keefe ire. Dramatically changing around this young boy, Michael felt intrinsically, it was somehow subconscious regret of how hard his Dad treated his own sons which somehow caused Jim to set up a protective force-field around Aiden. However clumsy, rude, emotional, or dim-witted Aiden acted around his grandfather, Jim treated him like a royal prince. Although Michael thought it hypocritical and inappropriate, he marveled at the way his father changed around Aiden, lamenting his son’s schooling on this pristine, late-summer morning.
image credit: stockphoto
After taking the Palisades Interstate Parkway north into the park, they dropped the small john-boat into the water from a steep old boat ramp. The teamwork required for this procedure made Michael cringe. Mr. O'Keafe blustered from the boat, “Turn the focking wheel, son!” “Straighten the trailer, straighten the trailer, we’re crooked; Goddamn, son, you could break an anvil!” “What in Mary’s precious name are you trying to do with this focking boat trailer? Jesus,” “I am glad you don’t drive the flippin fire trucks like this!” The relentless berating continued like ridiculously twisted Irish theater. Michael offered no rejoinder; however in truth his Dad’s hearing wasn’t good enough to merit a response.
The boat properly situated finally, Michael got out of his truck and politely told his Dad to switch places with him so he'd do the hard duty of starting the small outboard engine. Miraculously, Jim swallowed any comments about the extended cord-pulling required to ignite the trolling motor, and after quickly parking the truck and getting back aboard they were off. Relieved to be underway, and buoyed by the sunshine, Mike even let his Dad drive the boat!
Decompressing as they slowly puttered across the lake, Michael recalled the time 20 years ago as he carried one of his father’s tackle boxes down a narrow boat dock with no railings. One side contained the boat slips and the other a 3 foot drop-off into the cold water. The rhythmic swing of walking with the case pressed Michael along with a momentum beyond his control, and when he ventured too far to the right it carried him over into the water.
With the coordinated grace of a ballet dancer, Michael moved to the opposite side of the box in midair (falling); gingerly placing it on the dock, releasing it, and dismounting gymnastically into the lake. His Dad ran to the aid of the tackle box first, making sure it was secure and flat on the dock and then roiled the boy to get out of the water. With Jim you had to be great, because good was never good enough.
Part Two
With Jim as the captain of the boat, Michael had time to stare off to the shoreline and think. They did not have a flight plan for their trip, and Jim did not follow a set path, in fact it seemed like he going slightly off course.
The wandering john-boat provided a good comparison to Michael’s mind, not at all concerned about their direction. Free of plaguing stress, warmed by the late summer heat, and happy like nothing left in the world mattered, he thought he would appreciate the day just for its unique blandness.
“Son, goddammit, wake up! Don’t you know what part of the lake needs fishing?” Jim O'Keafe barked at his boy. “Where am I supposed to drive this damn thing?” Michael lazily replied, “See what happens when the real pilot isn't driving the boat?”
“Where do you want to enjoy the day, Dad? Over there or over here?!” he said pointing two different directions. They were in the middle of the second largest State Park in New York, but just a few miles north of New York City.
The red ball rose in the east, a slight breeze rustled the trees; there was deafening quiet. Hardly inhabited during a weekday morning, the peace illuminated by the intensely blue, cloudless sky belied the growing tension between the men. Without much space between them, Michael studied his Dad’s features as sons love to do, trying by divination to perceive what he will resemble when old age calls.
Patiently, and with resolve to enjoy the day on the lake, Michael asked his Dad, “Don’t you wish Mom was out here today?” “She would love this crystal lake, and the birds squawking.” It caught Jim off-guard, because they never discussed his former wife, Michael and Patrick’s mom. Even though a radical departure from their typical repartee, and as calmly as if it were the last day of his life, Michael pronounced boldly to his Dad, “There’s so much I would like to ask about Mom!” Jim said nothing and he worried he would eventually have to answer questions or engage in conversation about Joan.
As the two sat peacefully on the lake, they turned to observe a large, glistening silver jumbo-jet cruising fast and low about 500 feet, southbound along the Hudson River. Upon initial observation it was strange the big jet did not slow in order to ditch on the river; it made no emergency landing, instead it flew straight and level; steady, as if it were on a mission. They both glanced at each other, without words; acknowledging the strangeness of what they just witnessed.
Part Three
Boeing’s valuable and versatile “767” ferried passengers on long-haul flights partly because it carried a very high fuel load, but also due to its capacity for paying customers. However, on this sublimely calm and bright Tuesday morning, American Airlines Flight 11 [“AA11”] was not packed like a sardine can, and the 87 passengers boarded easily.
Nevertheless, accompanying AA11’s crew of 11, were 5 silent assassins dressed like typical travelling executives. These dark, wordless plotters designed to seize command of the “glass cockpit” and hijack the flight.
On September 11, 2001, AA 11 originated out of Boston’s Logan Airport soaring upward on a west-northwest heading at approximately 8:24am, until unexpectedly it pivoted around Lake George, New York, suddenly turning 100 degrees due south. The ersatz aviators found the Hudson River as their guide, and while other Jihadists simultaneously carried out one of the most sinister conspiracies in history, Mohamed Atta calmly captained AA11 without the required proficiency that real pilots had in landing the plane. He was on course, however, guiding the Boeing superliner on a downhill heading directly toward New York City.
“Ain’t never seen a big one like that close-up flying that fast and low!” Jim exclaimed. “And what the hellzit doin’ on the deck, trailing the river?!”
Michael O'Keafe froze with both premonition and confusion. He briefly thought about his brother Patrick, on duty in Manhattan with Rescue Company 1.
Just a few minutes later, at approximately 8:46am, American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into the north side of the North Tower (1 World Trade Center) between the 94th and 98th floors, flying at a speed of 490 miles per hour and exploding on impact. The 9/11 terror attacks had begun.
©Mark H. Pillsbury
[This is a work of fiction and any resemblance between the characters and persons living or dead is merely coincidental]
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
The pen is mightier than the sword.
Behold, the arch-enchanters wand! — itself a nothing!
But taking sorcery from the master-hand
To paralyze the Cæsars, and to strike
The loud earth breathless! — Take away the sword —
States can be saved without it!
--Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1839) for his play about Cardinal Richelieu
Thursday, September 1, 2011
The Age of Dissonance
©Mark H. Pillsbury
Theo van Doesburg Dissonances (1925 image on canvas)
Assonance—vowels rhyming to have a semblance of the same sound, often used to represent partial agreement or correspondence.
(“He used the words penitent and reticence in the same sentence”)
Consonance—agreement of certain stressed syllables, often used to represent harmony or agreement among components.
(“It was a stroke of luck”)
Dissonance—musically inharmonious, or incompatible. Also represents disagreement, or a harsh variant.
(You think you are coming across one way but people see you in a totally different way)
Have you heard someone say on the street: “Doyouknowhadahmsayin?” or “Man, I know where you’re comin from.” Were these responses genuine or jargon? Continually bombarded with the ebb and flow of words, ideas, propositions, even sales pitches; how much sounds inharmonious or incompatible?
Unfortunately, even with various means of communication, so many channels to hear; are we really being heard? Dissonance keeps you from reaching people, and it keeps other people from reaching you.
I believe we live in the Age of Dissonance.
50% of all adults currently plug into social media, cell phone use increases yearly, and nearly 3 billion text messages are sent every day by US wireless companies. Communication creates the links necessary for relationships to flourish, nevertheless despite numerous channels and devices, dissonance regularly occurs.
"Why is modern communication so difficult?" says the typical adult.
On a closer level, humans strive constantly to know and be known. Incessantly communicating but failing to listen, communication varies in complexity and importance, the connections radiate out like a pebble striking a pond: close, constant, and outward into regular remote circles. But do we strike meaning with each chord? Is there agreement in the notes? The day flows like a musical score, the harmony naturally sought is played by the orchestra of our relationships; unfortunately we play from our own song sheet, not on the same page of our connections.
The three C’s of Dissonance
Cognitive dissonance—an emotional state wherein two simultaneously held attitudes or “cognitions” are inconsistent, or when there is a conflict between belief and overt behavior. Knowingly holding two competing ideals at the same time is like using a cell phone while driving, knowing that drivers using cell phones are four times as likely to get into crashes serious enough to injure themselves. The tobacco addict thinks, "Well, if smoking doesn’t kill me, something else will,” or, “Not everyone who smokes gets lung cancer."
Drive down any busy highway and look around at drivers; tell me that inattention due to cell phone use is not a major epidemic; or ask yourself if you “text” (or smoke) while driving when you have school-age children in the car?!
Cultural dissonance—sometimes unavoidable, nevertheless usually prevents streamlined communications in global commerce, as different peoples, customs, and languages struggle to work together with mutual understanding.
Corporate dissonance—often through a “roll-out” or a special project, the corporation thinks its employees have the same passion or vision as management; but instead, employees see the presentation as not consistent or unethical and do nothing to assist execution of the plan. Known as “dead-on-arrival.”
Opinion polls show that American business people are losing their faith in their country even as ordinary Americans are losing their faith in business (Economist 08/13/2011 p. 66).
An example of corporate dissonance is government recognition and celebration of the tenth (10th) anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks in New York and Washington DC. Passions caused by the tragedy have faded with ten years; however many patriotic citizens feel great pride in what we defend, the homeland security, and the safety engendered by fighting the war on terror.
The message from leadership is not harmonious with the grass-roots perception of the event, indeed the President is rejecting the resonant, visceral reaction to the tenth anniversary of 9/11 by attempting to craft his own rhetorical response.
The White House said, “A chief goal of our communications is to present a positive, forward-looking narrative,” despite the historical perspective of seeing 9/11 as a uniquely terrible event in time recognized ten years later and symbolized by a numeric calendar day.
Another government communications adviser said, “We need to make sure we’re speaking to a very broad set of audiences who will be affected by the anniversary.” Domestic 9/11 ceremonies will honor Americans killed in the Sept. 11 attacks but also “all victims of terrorism, including those who had been targeted by Al Qaeda and other groups around the globe.”
The government is communicating about 9/11 in a way which accentuates the broad idea of global peace and the wider struggle of all peoples against terrorists. By attempting to put a different spin on the event, the White House hopes to set the tone of the narrative as more global than personal, more positive than macabre.
This is incompatible with a precise focus on 9/11, which was one of the most violent and despicable days in United States history. In my opinion, this message is difficult to harmonize with the acts of the 19 al-Qaeda hijackers, and even a positive, forward-looking narrative set out by the President rings dissonant to the reflective, thoughtful citizens who lived through that terrible day.
©Mark H. Pillsbury
Assonance—vowels rhyming to have a semblance of the same sound, often used to represent partial agreement or correspondence.
(“He used the words penitent and reticence in the same sentence”)
Consonance—agreement of certain stressed syllables, often used to represent harmony or agreement among components.
(“It was a stroke of luck”)
Dissonance—musically inharmonious, or incompatible. Also represents disagreement, or a harsh variant.
(You think you are coming across one way but people see you in a totally different way)
Have you heard someone say on the street: “Doyouknowhadahmsayin?” or “Man, I know where you’re comin from.” Were these responses genuine or jargon? Continually bombarded with the ebb and flow of words, ideas, propositions, even sales pitches; how much sounds inharmonious or incompatible?
Unfortunately, even with various means of communication, so many channels to hear; are we really being heard? Dissonance keeps you from reaching people, and it keeps other people from reaching you.
I believe we live in the Age of Dissonance.
50% of all adults currently plug into social media, cell phone use increases yearly, and nearly 3 billion text messages are sent every day by US wireless companies. Communication creates the links necessary for relationships to flourish, nevertheless despite numerous channels and devices, dissonance regularly occurs.
"Why is modern communication so difficult?" says the typical adult.
On a closer level, humans strive constantly to know and be known. Incessantly communicating but failing to listen, communication varies in complexity and importance, the connections radiate out like a pebble striking a pond: close, constant, and outward into regular remote circles. But do we strike meaning with each chord? Is there agreement in the notes? The day flows like a musical score, the harmony naturally sought is played by the orchestra of our relationships; unfortunately we play from our own song sheet, not on the same page of our connections.
The three C’s of Dissonance
Cognitive dissonance—an emotional state wherein two simultaneously held attitudes or “cognitions” are inconsistent, or when there is a conflict between belief and overt behavior. Knowingly holding two competing ideals at the same time is like using a cell phone while driving, knowing that drivers using cell phones are four times as likely to get into crashes serious enough to injure themselves. The tobacco addict thinks, "Well, if smoking doesn’t kill me, something else will,” or, “Not everyone who smokes gets lung cancer."
Drive down any busy highway and look around at drivers; tell me that inattention due to cell phone use is not a major epidemic; or ask yourself if you “text” (or smoke) while driving when you have school-age children in the car?!
Cultural dissonance—sometimes unavoidable, nevertheless usually prevents streamlined communications in global commerce, as different peoples, customs, and languages struggle to work together with mutual understanding.
Corporate dissonance—often through a “roll-out” or a special project, the corporation thinks its employees have the same passion or vision as management; but instead, employees see the presentation as not consistent or unethical and do nothing to assist execution of the plan. Known as “dead-on-arrival.”
Opinion polls show that American business people are losing their faith in their country even as ordinary Americans are losing their faith in business (Economist 08/13/2011 p. 66).
An example of corporate dissonance is government recognition and celebration of the tenth (10th) anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks in New York and Washington DC. Passions caused by the tragedy have faded with ten years; however many patriotic citizens feel great pride in what we defend, the homeland security, and the safety engendered by fighting the war on terror.
The message from leadership is not harmonious with the grass-roots perception of the event, indeed the President is rejecting the resonant, visceral reaction to the tenth anniversary of 9/11 by attempting to craft his own rhetorical response.
The White House said, “A chief goal of our communications is to present a positive, forward-looking narrative,” despite the historical perspective of seeing 9/11 as a uniquely terrible event in time recognized ten years later and symbolized by a numeric calendar day.
Another government communications adviser said, “We need to make sure we’re speaking to a very broad set of audiences who will be affected by the anniversary.” Domestic 9/11 ceremonies will honor Americans killed in the Sept. 11 attacks but also “all victims of terrorism, including those who had been targeted by Al Qaeda and other groups around the globe.”
The government is communicating about 9/11 in a way which accentuates the broad idea of global peace and the wider struggle of all peoples against terrorists. By attempting to put a different spin on the event, the White House hopes to set the tone of the narrative as more global than personal, more positive than macabre.
This is incompatible with a precise focus on 9/11, which was one of the most violent and despicable days in United States history. In my opinion, this message is difficult to harmonize with the acts of the 19 al-Qaeda hijackers, and even a positive, forward-looking narrative set out by the President rings dissonant to the reflective, thoughtful citizens who lived through that terrible day.
©Mark H. Pillsbury
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