#293 - When Is Equality Not a Good Thing?

Depends more or less on how one defines "equality," I suppose.

Kim Swygert (or whatever her name is these days) is guest-blogging over at Joanne Jacobs whilst Joanne pursues wedded bliss. She returns to a subject that has been discussed many times before. We get so concerned that childrens' self esteem will suffer should they ever find themselves disappointed about something, that we educate the drive to succeed right out of them. Or so it seems to me.

The idea that we can "protect" children by never singling out anyone for extraordinary achievement (or, conversely, by singling out everyone) is probably one of the more damaging principles to creep into public education over the past several years.

Hey, don't get me wrong; I went through my fair share of disappointment as a youngster. I was a skinny, geeky little kid, and the butt of more than a few jokes throughout my scholastic career. Valentine's Day was especially bitter for me, because I can probably count on one hand the number of Valentines I received in elementary school. Ever. Now, that could be a blow to the ol' ego, but (so far as I can tell) it didn't turn me into a bitter young man with dreams of becoming a disgruntled postal worker.

I was never the most popular kid in the class. My academic achievements were limited to showing up to class, except for those days when I could convince Mom that I was stricken with Dengue Fever. Nor was I a natural athlete. Any team on which I played generally lost. In fact, the only way I could be on a winning team was to play with kids that were at least two years younger than I was.

I'd say that I spent time in grade school dreaming of being the best at something. But I don't think I spent so much time dwelling on it that it became a crippling problem for me later in life. Truth be told, it just took me awhile to figure out where I did excel, and then to become comfortable that these achievements were indeed of worth. This isn't to say that I didn't spend some days crying on Mom's shoulder, but that's what Moms are for, and she always knew the right things to say.

It just so happened that public schools, especially thirty five years ago, weren't terribly well equipped to help with my peculiar abilities. Once or twice a week, some gracious lady would come to the school and take a few of us out of class. This started in the fourth grade for me, and I would take along my quarter-sized violin, sit in the cafeteria, and try to learn about playing violin while this same lady also taught kids with clarinets, flutes, trumpets, drums, or whatever. Mom and Dad knew that if I was to succeed as a violinist, I would need much more help than that. So they arranged private lessons with the concert-mistress of the Conejo Symphony, who also happened to be a friend of theirs.

My talent had begun to sneak out.

Of course, even with that knowledge I was still years away from being recognized for anything except underachieving. During the first Open House after I entered junior high school Dad (who had been a stud athlete in high school himself) walked up to my gym teacher and asked how his son, Woody, was doing in class. "Woody who?" was the response. I mostly excelled at being invisible to my teachers.

It was because of the local high school, really, that I began to earn some modicum of respect for my talents. I was still highly overrated as a student by any and all measures. Any report card that did not feature at least one "D" was viewed by my parents as worthy of being framed. But, I had some talent and was finally being recognized - even sought after - for it.

I was a performer.

I had started acting at age 11, taking advantage of a local summer drama workshop. I think probably I got in mostly because they needed Mom to play piano for rehearsals, but the die was cast. I took to the stage like deer take to running, and was recognized fairly early on by cast and crew alike as a natural. Unfortunately, these opportunities were, at first, limited to summer workshops. The junior high just didn't have much of a drama department to speak of. And then it happened.

The high school was about to do a performance of "Amahl and the Night Visitors," by Gian Carlo Menotti. To do "Amahl" one must have a boy soprano. And that boy had better be able to sing his way through an entire show. The director and music director had both worked with Mom in the workshops, and, just as importantly, they remembered me. Would I be willing to audition, they asked Mom. Oh, I'm sure he would, she replied. And so at the age of 12 I performed my first starring role as a crippled boy in the Holy Land who finds his life changed by a King he has never met. I also received more recognition than I had ever received in my entire life. And it felt good.

By the time I hit high school, I was a stage veteran. I was also the youngest kid to audition for and be accepted in the Madrigal Singers. (Later I would learn that this is because tenors are always at a premium. This is still true today.) So I did my plays and sang my concerts, and basked in the warmth of recognition (and even a little envy) showered on me by my contemporaries. None of this helped me land a girlfriend until my senior year (I was still a geeky-looking kid), but I had finally learned what it was that I was good at.

Once that part of me was defined, it was easier to find recognition by employing those talents. I was the go-to kid in Church for music and acting duties. I could, it transpired, even conduct choruses. I acted in roadshows and Stake musicals. I was never truly a Boy Scout, because the Scouts quite frankly didn't know how to handle me. But that was okay, too. I was developing different survival skills; skills that would serve me well on my mission and in countless situations since.

There is nothing at all wrong with striving to excel at something in life, although I know some people who would rather not. For those who wish to, there are so many different areas in which to excel, and public school cannot possibly prepare us for each and every one. But there's nothing wrong with recognizing achievement. Even if others may not get recognized. Not this year, anyway. Their times will come later. Perhaps much later. But they will come.

The idea that we need to make everyone "special" only dilutes the power of that word. That idea is useful in the context of a Special Olympics, where even to participate is tantamount to scaling Mt. Everest. But to believe that everyone is equally special has little value anywhere else. Even in religion.

That may sound funny, but it's still true. The apostle Paul knew this principle when he taught that the Lord "gave some, apostles; and some, prophets; and some, evangelists; and some, pastors and teachers; For the perfecting of the saints, for the work of the ministry, for the edifying of the body of Christ." (Eph. 4:11-12) In other words, there are many different offices in the Church. Each calling is unique and carries with it different responsibilities. Those who serve in those offices use the talents given to them to help them serve. We can't all be prophets because we don't all have the prophetic gift, but we can still minister to others. The talents we possess carry with them the ability to uniquely bless the lives of others.

So recognizing someone for having a unique gift is nothing from which to shy away. No, unique abilities should be recognized, and even encouraged, so long as those abilities are used to bless, rather than curse.

Note to Chris Blomquist: Yeah. That was a lot of typing. Lose my message? ;-)

#292 - Thoughts on The Plot

With the thwarting of another terrorist plot to blow more Americans into Mohammedan confetti, I see four possible responses:

1. Conservatives will shudder at how close we were to losing more lives to terrorists, and will continue to support those who fight against terrorism.

2. Liberals will assume the whole thing smacks of "interesting timing" [insert favorite Rovian conspiracy here] and blame the administration.

3. The New York Times will not rest until the intelligence used to break up this plot is fully exposed, thus rendering it completely unable to thwart any future attempts. They have a reputation to protect, after all.

4. Dave Barry will blame the squirrels.

#291 - Way Off Bass, As Usual

Cam does liberal math. As usual, he gets it spot on.

#290 - It Doesn't Say That in My Bible!

I've been watching the emasculation of press photo agencies with great interest these past several days. Between the blatant Photoshop®-ing and the customizable photos to dress up any war story, the mainstreamers actually remind me of certain fundamental Christians in their attitudes.

One of the hazards of being a missionary for the LDS church is the fact that, given our rather unique qualities, someone, somewhere, is going to disagree with you. Perhaps even vociferously. The classic story is told about having a discussion with, probably, an ultra-conservative Southern Baptist and quoting various Bible verses (they won't listen to anything else) to prove our doctrine. During the rather heated exchange, the missionary says, "But that's what it says in the Bible! Right here!" The other participant reaches down, rips a page out of his own Bible and says, "Well, it doesn't say that in my Bible!"

Now, I'll grant you this story may be squarely placed in the realm of LDS lore and legend, but the attitude still rings true of many people's feelings regarding what we teach.

To refute us, LDS Salvationists (they are "concerned" for us, doncha know?) always - but ALWAYS - quote scripture out of context to show just how wrong-headed we Saints are. They reach waaaay out to obscure quotes - also generally taken out of context - to show that some of our leaders weren't exactly consistent in what they taught. Brigham Young is a favorite target because, let's face it, Brother Brigham could occasionally be a bit - oh - colorful in his descriptions of eternal principles. And so we find that many of our detractors really have to work hard to manufacture a version of our teachings that ably demonstrates just how quickly we're going to Heck, and which routes we'll be taking. (Mine will likely be through the Mojave Desert. Never been closer to ol' Scratch than I was there.)

So how does this compare to the current "fauxtography" scandals we've been entertained with of late? Well, let's consider:

The media - those bastions of objectivity and reality - have a paper to sell. Ostensibly their only purpose is to be the eyes and ears of the public interest so that we can be informed. After that it should be our own responsibility as to what, exactly, we do with this knowledge. In reality, however, the mainstreamers have a problem: the very public in whose interest they work has become so jaded over time to the horrors of war, disease, and poverty which have been so relentlessly described to us that we no longer react to the stories when told in bald detail. We've seen it all, and not just in the news. As Hollywood's descriptive powers become more digitally enhanced with each passing year, their ability to literally shock-and-awe their audiences is overwhelming. We find ourselves working harder and harder to remind ourselves that these images are just computer-generated madness. We suspend the suspension of disbelief so frequently now that it becomes second nature. When confronted with any horrible image, even a live one, we block it from our minds, or stick our fingers in our ears and hum. Whatever it takes to remind ourselves that it simply isn't real.

So the media resorts to trickery similar to the Hollywood (or bible-thumping) approach of manufacturing a reality that fits with the kind of image they want us to see. They need us to believe their reports, or all is lost. Whether they do it for idealistic reasons or merely to sell papers makes no difference. Like Tinkerbell and other fairies, they need us to believe or their light is forever extinguished. So what if it means enhancing an already horrible image so long as we understand how horrible war is? Who cares if they have to stage the pulling of bodies from rubble, so long as we remember that to fight a war is to destroy life? Obfuscating the story is their way of ripping a page out of scripture just so they can say, "That's not what it says in my reality!"

Unfortunately, whether they ever intended to or not, the real message we get from these shenanigans is that integrity is not as important as telling the story. And the minute we understand that message, the Old Media (and any other media that uses the same tactics) has already lost their moral high ground. For, instead of being properly horrified at the killing of souls, we become even more disgusted at the prostitution of a news organization's integrity.

And their message is forever lost in the fallout.

#289 - Ok, NOW I Miss the Eighties

Attention Scion owners: You're driving a box.

Sorry to break it to you, but it's true. That xB model you think is making a statement is in fact stating that you are driving in a box that appears to have all the aerodynamic properties of a brick. With windows.

That's why I miss the 80's. Not for the poofy hair, or even necessarily the music, but for the aerodynamics. Because suddenly, just in the past couple of years, the entire country seems to be buying cars that look like they were losers in last year's Technology Fair at the local high school.

Not that I should talk. I bought my first car in 1982 with Mom and Dad's help. Oh, it was aerodynamic enough. It was the legendary (notorious? infamous? nefarious?) Chevy Vega; a car capable of speeds of upwards of 26 miles an hour before the aluminum engine block warped and various fluids and smoke (not steam) began issuing from the hood. Perhaps it should have tipped me off that I courted my ex-wife in that car. No marriage could have survived that thing.

The Vega had a unique ignition system. To start the car, you simply put the key in the ignition, turned it to the "Acc" position, popped the hood, took the screwdriver that is always kept in the glove box out, shorted the solenoid to actually start the engine, ran back to pump the accelerator a time or two to let the car know you were serious about going somewhere, then closed the hood and drove off. Sometimes you made it, sometimes you were calling Triple-A. But it was a car and it was mine. And, as I say, it was aerodynamic. This was a good thing, because it needed all the help it could get.

I paid $900 for it and sold it to the junk dealer who towed it off the freeway for $35 cash two years later. I consider that a respectable return for a '74 Vega Hatchback.

With the exception of my '81 Chevy Blazer - Tahoe Edition, which was an even more gutless wonder than the Vega but failed to entirely sour my relationship with Chevrolet, each car I've bought in my adult life has had an aerodynamic look to it. Even my old Chevy station wagon had a sleeker hood and body than the old fake wood-panelled wagons of the 60's and 70's. (Ok, that one finally soured me on Chevy. I will probably never buy another one in this lifetime, if I can at all help it.)

But lately, I've noticed that more and more manufacturers, even the luxury makers, are going for the "box" look made so popular by Hummer. I don't know if you've noticed, but even Cadillac, which has always struggled with a boxy look, is more and more resembling a steam locomotive these days. Why pay upwards of thirty thousand dollars for the privilege of driving around in something that looks like you could convert it into a duplex? ("Cadillac: Still Built Like a Box so You'll Know It's a Cad!")

I guess it was my having lived through the Energy Crisis of the 70's. Detroit finally responded to hordes of American consumers snapping up every cretin import to come along (anyone remember Yugo?) by designing their lead-sleds with sleeker, more aerodynamic looks to them. Thus was born an entire generation of American automobile that looked great, but still had mileages comparable to Sherman tanks. But we didn't care; we were buying American Cars again, and proud of it, too.

I suppose it was only the fact that these cars started breaking down about two weeks after you drove them off the lot that once again pushed American consumers in the direction of Japanese imports that (at the time) looked funny but lasted for decades rather than days. At least, that was how I responded. I owned a '79 Toyota Corolla that was my pride and joy for several years. It was a little sluggish for a Toyota by the time I bought it, but it was a sporty car and worked fine for the entire time I owned it. Likewise, Mrs. Woody brought to our marriage the '84 Honda Accord that she bought in '83 brand new, and now has over 212,000 miles on it. This is the car we will trade in for a mini-van sometime in the next year or so, but only because it doesn't have air conditioning. In my advancing age I must have air conditioning, so the Saturn stays.

The Saturn, too, is a sleek looking little car. It's a '97 model year car, and qualifies as the only "brand new" car I've ever owned (although we bought it in Mrs. Woody's name for reasons that are, frankly, none of your business). It has lasted nearly 10 years now and just rolled 100,000 on the odometer a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately, it follows in the same tradition as its ancestors by being mostly a gutless wonder. But it has been our vacation vehicle nearly every vacation we've ever driven, and it has earned every one of those 100K miles.

As I say, we'll be in the market for a mini-van soon. My sister-in-law is trying to sell me on Dodge, but I'm still eyeing the imports. They're just built better, in my opinion, and you don't have to pay so much overhead to cover union negotiations.

Although, should Detroit ever return to their aerodynamic roots, I might just bite. Maybe build a van with fins. Yeah, and maybe a spoiler on the back end.

Whatever they do, just so they don't make it look like a brick.

#288 - Why I Don't War-Blog

Cameron, who is back to form over at Way Off Bass, has a fairly decent sampling of current Middle East blogging. Cam spends way more time than I do going after the more thoughtful (or, at least, thought provoking) commentaries out on the 'sphere, so I don't have to.

Generally speaking, I am not a war blogger. Two things about me are pretty much all you need to know concerning my feelings about the Middle East today:

1. I absolutely believe that the Middle East generally represents the worst of extremist thinking, and therefore we can expect conflict there to continue pretty much until one race or religion has virtually wiped out all others. (When I was called to serve a mission in Central America, Dad snorted and said something about revolution being the national sport down there. He hadn't seen nothin' yet.)

2. I can support the idea of a war against terrorism, especially since terrorism has decided to attack us on our own shores. We spent an entire Cold War making sure we were protected from the Big Bad Commies, only to have lives destroyed on American soil by crazed Islamic extremists who learned how to use our own lifestyles and systems against us.

Since these two thoughts are basically conjoined twins, and since we have continually demonstrated that we in this country are more interested in fighting amongst ourselves than in prosecuting a war against a dangerous idealism, I also don't expect this "problem" to be resolved within my lifetime.

One might argue that I lived to see the fall of the Soviet Union, and that we therefore Won the Cold War.

I might argue in return that we have not won the Cold War; that the Cold War does, in fact, still exist and that we have lost our focus on such loose cannons as North Korea, China, and of course Cuba. Oh, they turn our heads from time to time. North Korea gets a little testosterone in a bottle and starts test firing badly designed rockets to make everyone nervous for a few weeks. Then everyone calms down and re-focuses on something More Important - something like Cindy Sheehan and her Mushroom Induced Jihad Against Bush. Before long, North Korea gleefully rubs its collective hands and plans its next test firing which will then remind us that there's still at least one nut job out there who does not thump a Q'uran but who nevertheless still wants to eradicate us.

So tell me again how we "won" the Cold War. And then explain to me how appeasement is ever going to resolve anything in the Middle East.

Here's the bottom line: Israel and Lebanon should by now have amply demonstrated that, American presence or not, fighting will continue in the Middle East. (And don't give me all that "moral equivalency" nonsense about Israel using American made war materiel. You really think we're the only game in town that Israel would buy from?) Iran and Iraq had been at each other's throats long before we ever established a "No-Fly Zone." Syria has been a breeding ground for terrorists of all stripes for decades; Jihadists, Sinn Fein, you name it.

Imagine for a moment that the more liberal elements of our nation get their way. Yippee, Murtha and Kerry have their moral mandate. Even if we pulled completely out of that region and said to the infant Iraqi government "fare thee well," does this solve anything? Not yet? Oh, that's right... we still need to cut off all ties with Israel. Ok, fine. We have Murtha-Kerryites running things now, that shouldn't be a problem. Sorry, Israel, you're on your own now. Does this mean that bin Laden will release another bunker tape, finally proclaiming that the Jihad against American imperialists is finally over?

Or will we all profess shock when the next bomb goes off in a major U.S. city, even after we did everything that bin Laden and Hezbollah ever wanted? I mean, hey, we still have all those Jews living in the United States. We still haven't done enough to satisfy Osama.

Appeasement: Recreational pharmaceutical of the new millenium.

#287 - Mel Gibson: Roadkill

Fodder for a made-for-TV movie, I suppose.

Mel Gibson gets drunk, races around Malibu (where all the chic Hollywood alcoholics can be fashionably arrested these days), blurts out a few drunken slurs against Jews, and will now end up being more heavily analyzed in the media than OJ Simpson.

Here are a few things that bother me about this whole affair, listed in no particular order:

1. Mel is an actor for whom I have harbored some respect. I say this strictly as a technician: I am a (strictly amateur, overrated) actor myself, and I like his technique. I'm not always crazy about the material he chooses, but I'm sorry that a good actor can't just stick to what he knows best.

2. For all the coverage I heard on the radio this afternoon, you would never have known that: a) we're still fighting a war in Iraq; b) Israel and Lebanon are fighting (again!); c) global warming may or may not be a problem and is or is not responsible for the current heat wave across vast sectors of the country; d) the price of gas is still ridiculously high with only two and a half weeks remaining before our family vacation this year; and e) President Bush GAINED 4 POUNDS OVER THE PAST YEAR.

That's right, Mel's drunken racial slurs were more important than the Leader of the Free World gaining as much weight in one whole year as I can gain over dinner tonight. Imagine that.

3. Jim Thornton, who is easily the cheesiest of the local talking-head radio news anchors in Los Angeles was positively wetting himself over the thought that they will pursue this story until we are so sick of Mel Gibson that we will offer him in trade for Lebanese prisoners of war. Do us a favor, Jim. Go back to traffic reporting. At least when you anchored the morning commute, traffic actually got covered. Now you guys have that lame "Extended Traffic on the Fives," wherein you never ONCE mention my freeway in the 45 minutes it takes me to drive it. Like today, when my freeway actually had an accident that tied up the 22 for a solid five miles, which is the only reason I had resorted to listening to your station in the first place this afternoon. This is why I listen to KUSC most days. Mmmm. Rachmaninov.

4. Someone needs to explain to me, please, why the idea that the police debated whether to "release" Mel's drunken tirades is evidence of a "cover up." Covering up what, precisely? Does that mean that the police have the responsibility - nay, the duty - to release every drunken tirade by every gangsta, doper, con, prostitute, or murderer that they happen to arrest? Or is this the media's tantrum over not having papparazzi in place to photograph the whole sordid affair so we can be bombarded with this story seventy-two times a day for the next three months? Hint, media guys: WE DON'T CARE. Really. Just drop it. You have our permission. Go back to faking your photos of Qana.

5. NOTE TO JEWISH COMMUNITY LEADERS AND ACTIVISTS: Mel has apologized - profusely, by Hollywood standards - and asked for forgiveness. Don't you people have much more repugnant enemies out there that really need your attention and energy? Move on, for corn's sake.

So, I will have to avoid radio news for the next few weeks, much as I was forced to during the entire Michael Jackson Show Trial. At least this time I'm not worried about Mel sleeping with young boys at his ranch.

But heaven help them if they get in the car with him.

#286 - Re: Global Warming

Mission accomplished. Ambient indoor temperature: 74° and dropping! Al Gore is outta luck!

#285 - Mumbai Bombings

India is no stranger to terrorism. Kashmiri militants have been on and off our local radar in times past as they push for an agenda the country simply cannot support. But the militants are, truly, terrorists, just as Islamic extremists and the IRA are also terrorists. Whoever targeted these trains, even if they turn out to be mere wannabes, are terrorists. Neighborhood gangs are, by definition, terrorists.

Thus we are not surprised in the least when no fewer than seven blasts take out commuter trains in the city of Mumbai.

The news simultaneously saddens and enrages. We are deeply saddened by the loss of life (last count was over 160) and the injuries (over 400). The survivors will never be the same. They will relive this terror for the rest of their lives.

We are enraged because it is inevitable that some who profess to be knowledgeable of such things will resort to the (Ward) Churchillian arrogance of labelling these victims as somehow being deserving of their misfortune. Acceptable losses, if we somehow "awaken" to a sense that we must appease those who feel a need to kill their chosen targets in this cavalier fashion.

But we must never appease. We must, instead, hold firm to the principles of defense of our freedoms. There can be no freedom without a fight, as our moral opponents have demonstrated time and time and time again. For the more we stand away from our struggles, the more advantage they take of our inaction.

This is, as was stated elsewhere, the next World War. It is global. We are fighting against terrorism. If anyone out there still doesn't get it, go walk a mile in the shoes of a Mumbai victim.

Then be willing to defend them. It's the only way this war will ever end.

#284 - Al Gore Wins One (For Now)

I have finally reached a place in my life where I am ready, even willing to concede that Global Warming is a Serious Issue requiring my Immediate Attention and probably All of My Disposable Income as well.

I say this because it was eighty-eight degrees outside, and only eighty-five degrees inside Hacienda Woody today.

Understand something: I grew up in a town where air conditioning was strictly optional because no one had yet figured out that we couldn't live without it. Our house - large, overpopulated (summer months only), and hot - was cooled by any number of fans that would appear like clockwork in May and be omnipresent right through September. We'd hesitate to put them away after that, because of "Indian Summer" in October.

As an adult, however, since moving away from said town in the 80's, I have come to appreciate the value of air conditioning. In the Mojave Desert we used evaporative coolers (lovingly called "swamp coolers"), which were fine as far as they went. But life with Mrs. Woody has meant never having to be without air conditioning any time we need it.

In fact, thanks to the miracles of middle-age for women, we frequently need it whenever temps rise above forty-five degrees in December. But that's another story that probably will never be written out of respect to Mrs. Woody's privacy and my need to sleep on an honest-to-goodness mattress.

Anyway, imagine our chagrin to find this morning (yes, this morning) that our A/C didn't seem to be blowing any cold air. At first I thought it was just unusually warm, especially for morning. After an hour or two, however, it became clear that our A/C was in trouble. A quick visit from the A/C repair guy confirmed it: our A/C has gone to that great appliance junkyard in the sky. Seems that the $500 part we had them install last summer (after the guy begged and pleaded with us to for heaven's sake please upgrade to a better unit!) literally blew itself into several useless pieces.

This evoked two responses:

1. Can we deal with this and still have a vacation next month? (Yes)

2. Can stress be one of my triggers for heart palpitations? (Yes)

So we're getting a new A/C. But not until tomorrow. No, one can't simply snap his fingers and make a work crew instantly appear. Not without overtime guarantees, one can't. So they come in the morning. Hopefully installation will be smooth and we can crank 'er up in time to feed the missionaries tomorrow night. (Of course the missionaries are coming tomorrow night! We'd had to put them off a couple of months ago, and we're not about to do so again this time!) This means that the House Fairy needs to visit the house tomorrow - in the heat - and make the house look like perfectly normal people live here, as opposed to refugees from Okefenokee Swamp West. I suspect the House Fairy will be taking a VERY cold shower immediately preceding dinner tomorrow evening.

So, Al Gore, I believe everything you say about global warming tonight. Just do me a favor, will ya?

Send a chunk of melting glacier down this way. Thanks!

#283 - Math: New and Improved?

I've seen this story numerous times, but the punch line gave me a good laugh. I believe it really has gotten this bad. (Note: I took math in 1970, and I don't remember it being quite that forgiving.)

Last week I purchased a burger and fries at McDonalds for $3.58.

The counter girl took my $4.00 and I pulled 8 cents from my pocket and gave it to her. She stood there, holding the nickel and 3 pennies. While looking at the screen on her register, I sensed her discomfort and tried to tell her to just give me two quarters, but she hailed the manager for help. While he tried to explain the transaction to her, she stood there and cried.

Why do I tell you this?

Because of the evolution in teaching math since the 1950s.

Teaching Math In 1950

A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100. His cost of production is 4/5 of the price. What is his profit?


Teaching Math In 1960

A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100. His cost of production is 4/5 of the price, or $80. What is his profit?


Teaching Math In 1970

A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100. His cost of production is $80. Did he make a profit?


Teaching Math In 1980

A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100. His cost of production is $80 and his profit is $20 Your assignment: Underline the number 20.

Teaching Math In 1990

A logger cuts down a beautiful forest because he is selfish and inconsiderate and cares nothing for the habitat of animals or the preservation of our woodlands. He does this so he can make a profit of $20. What do you think of this way of making a living? Topic for class participation after answering the question: How did the birds and squirrels feel as the logger cut down their homes? (There are no wrong answers.)


Teaching Math In 2006

Un ranchero vende una carretera de madera para $100. El cuesto de la producción era $80. ¿Cuantos tortillas se puede comprar?

#282 - Angelides vs. Trust

I've never trusted Phil Angelides. I have a natural dislike for most developers simply because they represent irresponsible growth in any community. Developers live by the "growth at any cost, but mostly in my pocketbook" credo that makes them such natural politicians. Angelides has always seemed to fit that mold.

Fetching Jen, who lives in the same neighborhood with the Angelides', gives me all the reason I need never to trust the man with my vote.

Not that I ever would have, anyway.

#281 - Gray Cells Still Dying Off...

I guess as anniversaries go this one deserves a decidedly low priority. Still, one might think that I would try to remember my own blogiversary. It was 2 years back on June 21.

And I'm still enjoying the ride.

You may have guessed by now that, beyond the usual bloggy reasons, I keep these blogs more as a form of personal history than anything else. I'm not the caliber of writer that might expect to sway public opinion through my clever use of word and phrase. Neither do I tend to wade into those areas of discussion that are so controversial as to guarantee much of an audience.

Hence the Woundup remains, as it always has been, my. own. space.

#280 - Touché

Baby Sis plays John Adams to my John Dickinson.

Guess I'd better stick with "bland" or "manilla" instead, hm?

#279 - Because We Can't Get Links Any Other Way

A very nice review from my brother, which naturally leads to one for my brother:

Cam has the benefit of a) the memory of a younger sibling, especially where sins of the elder sibling are concerned, and b) not being quite as close to 50 as I am. So it shouldn't really surprise me that he remembers my taking him for driving practice to Moorpark College. For those unfamiliar with the Simi Valley/Moorpark area, it's hilly country. In fact, one of Moorpark's more endearing nicknames is "Harvard on the Hill." Along the eastern border of the campus is an overflow parking area that was (note: past tense) perfect for kids with learner's permits. Especially kids with Volkswagens who were trying desperately to learn how to operate a clutch without rolling the car over in a turn.

It was only natural that I would take Cam out there for a couple of reasons. First, it was traditional. That's where Dad had taken me when I was learning how to drive. But Dad had maxed out on such fun the moment I got my actual license, so the job of training my siblings fell to me and Mom. And I usually wheedled Mom to let me do it because I was still enjoying being able to drive anywhere I wanted to go, so long as Mom or Dad would let me borrow a vehicle. So, I took my sister up there when it was her turn, and Cam was next in line. Then Moorpark College hired their own rent-a-cop agency and the tradition died on the vine.

Of course, I also remember letting Cam drive Box Canyon one day, and I do believe that was the first time my life actually flashed before me. Story for another day, perhaps.

It's also important to note (getting back to Cam's post) that, although I lived in that area for more than twenty years of my life, I never once hiked some of these trails that Cam has been trying out. It's a sad statement, I suppose, and the truth is that I now regret not having taken advantage of the opportunity when I had it. Simi Valley used to be a beautiful town. Back in the day it wasn't hard to find groves and orchards mingled in with the neat suburban tracts, and just to the west of our house were miles of trackless expanse, filled with enough tumble weeds to keep any young boy busy for days on end. And I don't mean clearing them. I mean making forts and clubhouses out of them. There was a wash running behind our tract that yielded more than a few attempts to turn pollywogs into frogs. (Far more failures than successes, I'm afraid.)

Those days are, of course, gone forever. Now Simi Valley is just another over-developed bedroom community. It has a "mall" now, along with its usual collection of strip malls and shopping centers. It has two or three primary industrial centers. What used to be a tiny, grass-covered air field has long since given way to several vanilla box-like warehouses.

Thus Cam has to head south to find trails that are still worth the effort. I would guess - in part from the photos he links - that once you're clear of the more civilized climes it's easier to imagine what Simi was like in its heyday, before the tracts that stretch literally from one end of the valley to the other, and before the freeway introduced us to the noisier, less refined elements of neighboring society.

So I applaud my little brother, and hope he continues to find peace in his travels. I certainly can't argue with his method. The time I spent in Guatemala, hiking up and down mountains that would swallow Simi Valley several times over actually gave me that kind of peace in my own life. I needed it, since I had companions that ranged from (literally) professional Boy Scouts, to KISS fans, to anti-Gringo Salvadorans. Peace did not always come easy, but a good hike was always sure to clear both head and heart.

Go, Bro!

#278 - Patriotism Is as Patriotism Does

I didn't think anything of the plastic flags that lined the walk leading to the church. They were just those cheesy little plastic flags that have become ubiquitous in cemeteries during holidays, and this was billed, after all, as a patriotic concert. Barely gave them a second glance as I hurried inside. My call was 5:30 for the concert, and I was already a half hour late.

Musically, the concert was unremarkable, really. Stuff I'd either done before, or was of the type that I could sight-read and perform after about two run-throughs. The choir was one of those pick-up choirs where folks volunteer (or, in my case, are guilted into volunteering), attend three or four rehearsals, and perform for a bunch of flag-wavers in your community. In other words, you weren't looking to hear the Dale Warland Singers here; you were more likely to think of Spike Jones.

The dividers at the back of the chapel open directly into the cultural hall, which had been decorated with a few dozen depictions of the American flag at various stages of design and purpose. Several of the "Don't Tread on Me" flags festooned one wall, while many versions of Old Glory up to and including our current 50 state flag surrounded the rest of the hall. At the back sat several tables where an honest-to-gosh ice cream social would await the audience.

The concert was hosted by our local LDS stake, but it was truly a community event. The chairperson of the event reminded me strongly of Eulalie McKecknie Shinn from "The Music Man." She had the kind of bearing that spoke to long hours of heading various committees - some probably by default - and getting the job done, or else. She gave all the appropriate recognitions, changed the program as required by circumstance ("The DVD honoring our Mr. and Ms. Senior Anaheim Hills has finally arrived, so we'll go ahead and show it now!"), and got the audience to clap as she announced every single committee chair and deputy chair ("And our fifth vice-chairman for the Arrangements Committee...!") that has had anything to do with this community's July 4th preparations.

Then came something that I knew was coming, but the intensity of which surprised me, I'm ashamed to admit. A sergeant wearing the beret of the 82nd, and who'd recently returned from Iraq, was introduced to the audience. The standing ovation he received was not entirely unexpected; this is, after all, a highly conservative part of a conservative county. But the ovation lasted for several minutes. Longer, indeed, than I would have predicted beforehand, and something that resonated with me for the remainder of the evening.

Suddenly, our little "Patriotic Community Concert" didn't seem so insignificant. Next up for the choir was a medley of all the anthems from the five major branches of the armed forces, wherein veterans of those who have served in those branches are invited to stand and be appreciated by the audience. And they were. There were vets from all five branches in attendance last night. Every one of them received hearty applause and even cheers from the audience. Personally, I have rarely been unable to articulate a piece of music because of a lump in my throat, but this certainly was the case during this part of the program. I was close to tears as we began each familiar anthem (excepting "Semper Paratus" for the Coasties... don't hear that one too frequently), and heard the clapping while watching several members of the audience stand to receive the praise and thanks of their neighbors. This sort of thing doesn't happen to me, darnit. I'm too professional to allow silly emotions to overwhelm a performance.

Or, perhaps, not.

The audience stood to sing "The Star Spangled Banner" and "America the Beautiful." Many of them were still able to sing all the verses from memory. The rest of the concert blurred its way past, and we suddenly found ourselves in the cultural hall, knocking back a cup or two of chocolate ice cream and mingling with friends. The first question on everyone's lips: "Where is everybody?"

It was a valid question. We've been advertising this concert for the last several weeks in our ward meetings, and several of us committed to join the choir after being informed that this was a chance to "mingle with the community" and demonstrate our commitment both to our town and our country. Four of us participated from our ward. About twice that many more showed up to listen. It's not that no one came; certainly there were plenty of people in attendance. But I had fully expected more from our own ward to come and support the concert. "Where is everybody," indeed.

Up to that point, I had been feeling somewhat redeemed. As a blogger who occasionally strays into socio-political discourse, it becomes so easy to take a cynical view of the world around me. I get bone-weary of the constant fights between conservative and liberal idealogues who couldn't have a reasoning discussion on any topic if their lives depended on it (which, fortunately for them, is not the case). I even wondered idly to myself in the minutes before the concert began whether we would be visited by protestors who would try to disrupt our goodwill for the sake of making themselves look silly while they got hauled off to jail.

People should have been there to hear the (short!) talk given by one of our city councilmen. He appreciated having this concert in a church, he said, because it serves to remind us that this country was founded on principles given to man by God (gasp!). He said the word "Creator" in the Declaration of Independence was not capitalized by accident. And these rights, endowed on us by Him, are being protected by the troops we were saluting that very evening.

A better speech I have rarely heard. He mentioned God no fewer than 10 different times in a talk that lasted barely 10 minutes. And he sounded like he meant it, too. It made me realize that I can't take responsibility for how other people view their citizenship in this country. I need to focus on my own efforts. I either support this nation, or I don't. But I can only improve my own efforts, and pray for others to see their own way clear to help.

As we left the building last night, we proudly sported our new blinking flag pins. They cost us $5 each, but the money was needed to offset the slight budget shortfall for all of the events planned for the 4th. They were only $1500 short as of last night. I hope we got them much closer to zero with our donations.

Walking out into the still-warm evening air, I noticed the flags lining the walkway. Simple, plastic, cheesy flags.

They've never looked better.

#278 - Benedict Would Be So Proud

Tensions are high in this country. It has been said that the country hasn't been this divided since the days of the Civil War. Indeed, I speak today of a crime that should offend the sensibilities of all who consider themselves to be loyal to this country. Patriots should publish tales of this crime in the highest courts of justice, and denounce the perpetrators in the halls of Congress. The Chief Executive of the nation should demand that punishment be swift and terrible; a warning to those who would also provide aid and comfort to the enemy.

Treason, you say? Absolutely. Those responsible are well deserving of the epithet "traitor." They have openly despised the country to which they owe their allegiance. They have endangered our democratic way of life, and may even have placed lives in jeopardy.

The criminal?

Albertson's.

The crime?

Giving in to the marketing Nazis who decided that Americans would be satisfied with half gallons of ice cream that are not true half gallons.

It started with the big name labels. Dreyer's. Breyers. Haagen Daaz. Over the last several years they have gone from true half-gallon sizes to a container that holds (prepare to be enraged) one cup shy of a true half gallon! And what are we paying for this privilege? Surely you can guess. More than we paid for a full two quarts! Unless they're on sale.

I had for some time taken comfort in the thought that the grocery stores were holding out. Even though the name brands had long since gone to this new marketing nightmare, the store brands remained at the good ol' American half gallon size. The container itself was comforting; akin to scoring a round number in bowling (preferably 300), or having round numbers in your bank account (preferably $5 million). Having a half gallon in the freezer meant being able to say, "You want some ice cream? Well, I've got a half gallon in the freezer." Now what do I tell my guest? "Ice cream? Sure. I think I've got a one and three-quarters of a quart container in the freezer."

I don't think so.

It also means I can never again satisfy my wife when I go shopping. "Be sure to get a half gallon of ice cream, Honey," she'll say. But can I deliver? I can not. "Sorry, Honey, I could only find those wimpy faux half gallons that are really one cup shy of the mark."

I'm sorry, but this is tantamount to the old communist plot to convert everything in this country to the metric system. Young readers will not remember this farce. We were suddenly required to remember what a "kilometer" was (not as long as a mile, I can tell you). Fortunately, we got smart after about five years of a half-hearted effort to be more like Canada. I mean, think about it:

Half Gallon

• Sounds American


• More bang for the buck


• Conservative

1.75 Quarts

• Sounds Canadian


• More buck for the bang


• Probably Communist

I of course recommend that the Attorney General immediately begin an investigation. Probably Congress should get Albertson's executives in closed session and ask about price gouging. And none of this namby-pamby "whatever the market will bear" nonsense that we let the oil execs claim, either. This has nothing to do with economics. This is a declared war against traditional American values.

Now, before I get lots of bleeding-heart comments telling me how insensitive I am to the environment, or whatever, let me remind you of one thing:

I don't care. I want my half gallon back.

Now.

#277 - A Traitor By Any Other Name

Or, really, just two. The New York Times and the Los Angeles Times. Heaven forbid we should question their patriotism, but this crossed far too many lines.

This has nothing - repeat, NOTHING - to do with the public interest. This is about selling papers. Their desire to become their own headline has once again compromised national security, and they should be treated as enemy combatants.

On a more personal note, at least now I have some fresh ammo to use the next time a Slimes-outsourced solicitor contacts me about subscribing. "No, sorry, it's against my religion to subscribe to a paper that endangers national security."

#276 - Way Off Bass Coins New Phrase

"Elevator Savant."

And you just know that most of the idjits who write that stuff get play time on "smooth jazz" stations.

#275 - Al Qaeda Replaces al-Zarqawi

Al Qaeda in Iraq have appointed a new leader to replace retiring leader Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, it was announced by al-Jazeera yesterday. To make for a smooth transition and avoid a possible leadership vacuum, Al Qaeda yesterday turned to U. S. Democratic Party Chair Howard "The Duck" Dean. Dean, coming off of stunning primary victories last Tuesday wherein no Democratic party candidates were caught vandalizing their opponents' offices or vehicles, quietly assumed control of the misunderstood insurgency last night in a simple ceremony.

"Avoid these safe-houses," he was told, having been handed a map with several large red X's on it. "We're pretty sure the ones circled in green are still ok." Three green circles were visible, according to sources close to the ceremony.

Dean was characteristically enthusiastic about his new duties. "This is a real opportunity to galvanize young insurgents to make their voices heard. Or, failing that, to blow themselves to kingdom come and blame the failed Bush administration for it."

Dean indicated that at least part of the $3 million being offered by deep-pockets Democratic supporters in the United States to encourage young Americans to vote Democratic would, instead, be diverted to special Swiss accounts earmarked for support of training camps in the Iraqi desert. "We need to show these young terrorists that the United States cares about them, and wants them to have every opportunity to succeed. If their vision of success is 72 virgins in Paradise, who are we to judge?" Dean told reporters after his swearing in.

Dean's appointment comes as a surprise to many Al Qaeda experts, particularly in Iraq. "It makes absolutely no sense," said one Iraqi observer. "Dean is the Infidel of infidels. He represents one of the worst Zionist nations on earth. Of course, he's no friend to Israel, but how can we possibly trust this capitalist dog?" Others were more cautious. "Give him time, I say," said one young college student. "He may turn out to be the best weapon against the Zionist American administration yet."

Still others were less gracious. "This man has failed every campaign he's run since his disasterous run for President," one man told al-Jazeera. "What makes him think he can fill al-Zarqawi's shoes?"

The White House has declined comment.