Condolences

Agathon and others who knew and loved this man have sustained a great loss.
(Please see http://agathon-sbh.blogspot.com/2008/01/unidentified-american-citizen.html)

My friends know that I've been avoiding The News for months--okay, years. I can't take it. Part of the reason I can't take it is because for every one of these reports of senseless violence and suffering, there is a story like Agathon's to tell about the victims and those left behind.

I'm too close to the continuum; I feel the pain too much to be able to absorb the information. For every "unidentified American," for every singular individual counted among dozens or hundreds or thousands of whatever nationality, there is a group of people who will be forever changed because of the events described so succinctly in AP reports.

The idea--or the gut-wrenching reality-- of that grief chokes me up in public places and I have to turn away to protect myself from horrified scrutiny, and people around me from having to open up to the agonies of grief they might have to feel if they get too close. We have a society to run, people... we can't all fall apart and sob at the relentless media coverage of the atrocities that are taking place down the street or across the ocean. (Though maybe we should. Ponder that for a moment.)

I've always defended my periodic media fasts (which have become a way of life) by saying that if I need to know about it, I'll hear. For example, I heard about the planes flying into the World Trade Center when my best friend called me at six in the morning. I fell right into that news story because my mother was planning to fly standby on her way to Arizona from New York/New Jersey to help me prepare for the birth of my first child. A childhood friend worked in government service in or near Washington, D.C.; the nature of her work begged the assumption that she could be in the Pentagon. The daughter of coworkers/friends/family of choice taught English in a high school RIGHT THERE in the shadow of the two towers (Agathon's wife, interestingly enough). Their other daughter was somewhere else in that city. There were many phone calls made that day and in subsequent days to check on the status of my family, friends, editors who I'd never met in person, and other people of particular significance to me.

The story of yet another terrorist attack would normally be enough to make me get up and exit the room if it were broadcast in my presence. And yet, this one must make me pause to listen because of its particular significance to someone who is significant to me. I can cry about this for his sake as well as for the inherent existential angst of the matter. I will break my media fast to follow this story in honor of friendship, even if I never made this particular friend. More's the pity, that, from what I've learned about this Unidentified American.

My condolences, A. I am sorry for your loss.

The erotic appeal of the Lands' End catalog

Here's some food for thought: Courtesy of Nerve.Com Magazine (http://www.nerve.com/):

Personal Inventory
The erotic appeal of the Lands' End catalog.
by James Stegall
November 20, 2007

The Lands' End Fall catalog is porn for the heartsick man. Who thought sixty pages of stylish-yet-practical clothing would employ models that are disturbing approximations of the lovely, thirty-something woman who doesn't want to put up with your shit anymore?

But there she is: kicking leaves on a crisp day, sipping coffee in an immaculate breakfast nook, nestling a golden baby and smiling like the most perfect family photo on a young executive's desk.

These are images more invasive than any Victoria's Secret spread, because they don't inspire lust. This is a pornography of regret, and the longer you stare, the more seductive it becomes. These sixty pages are a self-pity trap; any sane lonely man would do well to avoid them.

Read on at:
http://www.nerve.com/personalessays/stegall/personalinventory/

... and check out the mission statement for this Internet magazine, if this kind of content doesn't offend you. If it does, then move along, move along... there's nothing to see here.

(Doncha love it when I put this stuff up on my Blog without comment? It's sort of unfair, but I just can't spare the energy to react in words at this time. I figure throwing these things against the wall to see if they stick is a sign that I'm alive, and getting out there enough to find some wacky stimuli. Don't come to any conclusions about my state of mind by the content of my recent posts. Just laugh along with me, eh?)

Hanukkah gansta rap

Hanukkah Gangsta Rap from the mind of Steve Kerper