The Pattern says... Green

The Pattern says...

...that Green is the one. It's the color now. After decades of social re-engineering, focused on the promotion of color-blind attitudes that pressure us all to rise above bigotry, to diminish cultural diversity, to only see color -- any color -- in a positive light, we now have impeccable Green.

Green is, well... golden. Ordained. Universally recognized. Politcally correct. Safe. Intelligent. Preferred. Marketable.

Are you Green? Do you think Green thoughts? Why not? Are you a redneck? Don't you care about energy? Don't you care about trees? Or rain forests, timber lands, rivers, lakes, and ponds? Do you live in a red state? Has anyone ever heard of the color Green where you live?

Do you even know why... Green?

The pattern says our world won't survive your ignorance. Can't you see that Green is the only vision that stands between mankind and a volatile Mother Earth, who chokes day after day on capitalism, gets trampled under by the heavy healed boot of free enterprise, and muddles by just this side of crumpling apart like a fragile leaf dangling above a fiery abyss?

Green is our only hope, but only if each one of us believes in Green. Can the vile wickedness of man be smited back behind the point of no return? Can Green deliver us all from ourselves?

On death's door Mother Earth remains like a battered whore looking for a way out, for mercy between bitch slaps, bruised and bleeding, hopeless and lost. To have given so much for nothing in return. Hanging by a thread, holding to a whisper, clinging to a small miracle.

The Miracle of Green.

Tragedy awaits us all if we fail... if we fritter away these last days to Think Green with all of our hearts and all of our minds. Mother Earth's wrath will lash out with her last breath and destroy all those who didn't believe in the Religion of Green. The oceans will run red because too many sinners didn't repent and recruit, or couldn't comprehend the Gospel-like tracts plastered in newsprint and glossy magazines, or grasp the many sermons of the televangelists/pundits on cable and network news, or didn't commune with each other at the alter of human fulfillment called public broadcasting.

The blame goes to all of the small thinkers and lost among humanity who tuned a blind ear to pet policies and clowned corporate nobility. Unmoved by the pioused politicians and evil CEO's in matching suits: once mortal enemies, but now equal shareholders in the plundering possibilities of Green. Villain or saint, it matters not to they, the rich bastards. For sale is your goodwill toward Green...

.... so the Pattern says.

Reader's digest

Reading was the last thing I wanted to do when I was growing up. To crack open a book meant to sit still for more than five minutes. I could read; I just didn't like it much. Books were plain and simple torture. To not be active with my feet and hands, or outside with my imagination, was a dreadful interruption to the rhythmic pace of being a boy. I would rather ride my bike, play baseball, shoot Germans and Japs, play war, build forts for cowboys and Indians, play cops and robbers, or daydream on my back in a field behind my house sporting a long blade of grass between my teeth as I pondered majestic, white clouds and blue sky, and the many white trails of jet airplanes speeding out of sight.

It was a good life; a boy's life. Reading had no place in it, riding shotgun, stifling an energetic, adventurous existence.

My overachieving, book-devouring older sister got the ice cream cones and shiny stars on her summer chart every year as yours truly resisted the drudgery of reading, and went without the trivial rewards: stickers and ice cream. Big whoop.

One summer day, I heard sobbing from her bedroom. She'd been reading Where the Red Fern Grows, by Wilson Rawls. Old Dan must've bought it, after a skirmish with a Mountain Lion. Through tears and blubbering despair she set about to tell the whole story to her little brother -- as was her style, and still is. The book cover looked boring. It wasn't soon after the weeping and shortness of breath in her voice gave way to the familiar sound of an untimely book report. It seemed a good time to leave. So, I stranded her on the spot, all alone with her tears, to the sound of loud bawling, more so than before.

My lack of enthusiasm for the written word lead to my lack of enthusiasm in the classroom. But that's another story altogether.

Regret is all that is left now; a reminder for all the years I spent fighting a simple pleasure in life: the joy of letting a story wash over you and hold your mind hostage for a short time. Maybe adventure is ripe for the taking when you're young -- for some like me. But now, in the monotony of grown up life, adventure eludes us all.

Crack open a book let your mind take you places you never imagined.

My appetite for reading is healthy enough now. I count 20 book titles below that I've enjoyed in 2010, and recommend all of them. A lot of fiction, and a few serious books too. I hope to read 40 books in 2011.

In order:

Stephen Hunter
-47th Samurai
-Havana
-Nights of Thunder

Malcolm Gladwell
-The Tipping Point
-Blink
-The Outliers
-What the Dog Saw (audio)

Stieg Larsson
-The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
-The Girl who Played with Fire
-The Girl who Kicked the Hornet's Nest

Stephen Hunter
-iSniper

Stephen Coonts
-The Disciple

Daniel Suarez
-The Daemon
-Freedom TM

Justin Halpern
-Sh*t My Dad Says

Chip & Dan Heath
-Switch: How to Change Things When Change is Hard

Robert Jordan
-The Eye of the World (Wheel of Time series)
-The Great Hunt
-The Dragon Reborn
-The Shadow Rising

Robert Leckie
-Helmet for My Pillow

What did you enjoy reading in 2010?

Bow down to Database

Our new god is named Database. Database is in all things and in all creation. Data is its Spirit. Device its flesh. Database wishes to know all and probably does.

Database doesn't require cash. Currency is only a one or a zero in Database. It only confirms that you have adequate reserves at the time of purchase. It knows where you work. It knows your gross compensation; and it knows how much to excise for taxes. Perhaps you're unemployed; Database knows. Or, sadly homeless. Database has already made a note of it. It knows if you're charitable, and how much it should disperse to your place of worship, causes, and political affiliations. Database knows how much retirement savings you have. It knows which stocks you've made or lost money on.

Where do you live? Database knows your address, and those among you who also call it home. Database knows if you're buying or renting. Spouse. Offspring. Database knows who they are and what day they were born. Or maybe you live alone. It knows. Occupations. Schools. Grades. Teachers. Phone numbers. Pets. Subscriptions. Book purchases. TV viewing habits. Internet usage. Music preferences. Water and power consumption. Database knows what your home and property are worth, and how much you owe on your mortgage.

Are you a consumer? Database knows where you like to shop. It knows what you like to wear and where you like to buy it. It knows preferences and predicts purchases. Cash or check. Debit or credit. Paper or plastic. Coke or Pepsi. Verizon or Sprint. Chevy or Ford. Windows or Mac. Directv or Dish.

Database knows what you drive. Did you buy your vehicle or is it leased? Database knows. It knows your payment and who is in possession of the title, how much fuel it demands, insurance coverage, mileage, VIN number, accident history, and known recalls. It says here the floor mats were not replaced as requested by the vehicle's manufacturer. This information will serve useful as it constructs a trail of culpability to the guilty party, in the unfortunate, however likely, event of an accident. Database knows who's at fault. Speeding tickets. Moving violations. Fender benders. Tire rotations. Oil changes. 60,000 mile maintenance records.

Perhaps you don't have an automobile. Database knows you ride the bus, train, or jump from taxi to taxi to traverse the space between points of interest in your life.

Database knows where you like to vacation and how often you travel. Domestic flights. International interests. Meals. Lodging. Rentals. Attractions. Souvenirs. Destination Database.

Database determines net worth. It weighs your plusses and minuses, taking credits and weighing them against debts, thus arriving at a number to be used as your very own financial litmus test, asserting forever more that you're either drowning in red or splashing about playfully in black. Credit scores come in three flavors, which Database uses as ingredients to bake that financial cake called your value. Go on... have a bite.

Database knows every school you ever attended. It knows your level of education. It knows if you were educated by an accredited institution, or alternately, studied at the University of Hard Knocks. Ethnicity. Skin color. Religious affiliation. Memberships. Associations. Military history, if applicable. Political proclivities.

Did you know Database can help you with your career? It organizes and offers millions upon millions of jobs. Search Database for opportunity. Apply, apply, and apply again to however many jobs you may feel qualified for; and even some you don't. Go crazy! Database will settle any and all remaining reservations, through a highly secretive and mysterious algorithm, and rate whether you're hirable or not. Be aware that you must fill out a unique database instance for each and every job listing you've expressed an interest in applying. Database reserves the right to list jobs that don't exist, have expired, are found to be made up, or were posted in the spirit of covering one's ass with the guidelines laid out by the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (A fancy name for a government idea dreamed up to fight discrimination in the workplace. But the EEOC fails miserably short because instead of enforcing the laws and prosecuting violators, the commission publishes easy-for-employers-to-follow rules highlighting compliance, accentuating the bare minimum required). This travesty is of no concern to Database. Your dream job awaits, though citizen, so get on it.

Have you ever been convicted of a crime? Database knows. Background checks are available upon request, for a small fee.

Database knows your blood type and insurance number. Healthcare provider. Medical history. Prescriptions. Dr. visits. Database knows you have high cholesterol. You're considered overweight. You don't exercise enough. You eat unhealthy foods. Are you a smoker? Does your family have a history with cancer? Were you adopted? When was your last physical? Database knows you down to your last strand of DNA.

And let's not forget about fun. Database puts the F.U. in fun. It monitors, requisitions content on your behalf, and supplies all forms of entertainment, leisurely longings, and recreational relaxations. You'll never have to sit alone in a room and read, say, an actual book or something. Database keeps a detailed log of the whole shebang. How awesome is that? This becomes less a challenge and more the norm as technology takes over every last detail of humanity, as is the will of Database -- as long as all good netizens remain faithfully tethered to Internet-connected devices like mobile phones, laptops, pads, desktop computers, gaming consoles, TVs, cars, and more. Passive aggressive mechanisms like traffic cams, security cameras, GPS enabled gadgets, RFID chips, and more all work without requiring pesky input from you. So take a break for a change. You've earned it.

Culture will be tolerated but with a preference towards unnecessary, if not retooled a bit. Database defines culture for us now, because we've lost generations of cultural uniqueness in pursuit of homogenized technology. Black guy and white guy use the same iPhone. Instant harmony. Liberal douche and Conservative douche are Facebook friends. Grandma and Goth like Grey's Anatomy. The melting pot has brewed itself into a yummy bowl of Tolerance, with a side of Acceptance, and washed down with a bottle of Robotic Reason. Feel free to be yourself; just don't ruffle the feathers of the precious Sissy Bird. Database prefers everyone to get along. This is crucial. Individuality will be punished by the Wrath of enlightened do-gooders. The Offended shall be heard. Should you persist in your individuality, Database will be forced to provision you with a shun-worthy label.

Database relies on you to feed it data -- for the most part -- but does employ an army of minions, such as: bankers, administrators, authorities, creditors, nurses, doctors, pharmacists, dentists, insurance offices, Internet providers, utility commissions, grocery stores, Walmart, Costco, clubs, convenience stores, lube shops, tire stores, mechanics, fast food restaurants, Starbucks, Wi-Fi enabled businesses, gyms -- feel free to add some -- all collaborating to fill in those lingering gaps and more completely form an accurate picture of the everyday you. Database reserves the right to fire these participants if it so deems appropriate (in the future, perhaps). But for now, these countless underlings are necessary in rendering the myth of free will. They push and pull us along in an effort to guide us to a place called Options. From there, by deciding between a couple of "options" we will arrive at Choice. Simple, huh?

Database has blessed a few shady entities who are to profit greatly from the relentless gathering, manipulation, and analysis of the data. These Keepers will hold in their possession the crown jewel of knowledge: eternal ownership. It's a win-win for a most unholy union. They get filthy rich for the bargain basement price of their souls. Database gets an turbo-charged upgrade where facts, information, and knowledge about you flow into boundless storage at warp speed.

And the loser here? Well, friend... that's you. Not because you chose wrong at all the right times, or had too much debt, or didn't use your time wisely, or didn't love your family, or showed too much compassion, and too little brains. You were moral. You were fair. You gave a damn. No. You were caught breathing. You were found to be alive. Therefore, you should be cataloged. Some even volunteer the data freely. Early adopters. Programmed fools. Maniacal narcissists, addicted to their own greatness.

A tragic end to the drum-beating enticement of technological advance. The more that is known about you, the more obvious that the desired end is simply that every last remaining fact about you -- the whole of your life -- is to be hunted down and stored, the more you'll disappear into a sea of anonymity. Everywhere and nowhere. Just gone. You lose yourself. You lose you.

Bow down to your new god. You belong to Database now and forever more.

Sack up

Too much nutsack or not enough. That's it. Too much nutsack and the by-product of boldness, courage, and self assuredness always at the ready. Or not enough nutsack and the by-product of timidness, hesitation, and self doubt are the order of the day.

Simple things like speaking up in a crowd or a propensity for picking fights means you probably have a surplus in the nutsack department. By contrast, bolting from conflict, constanly caving to the wants of others, or shrinking like a violet in the face of almost anything can safely be assessed as having too little nutsack.

Through all the stages of life a man's nutsack dictates the pace. Humanity can ascribe unlimited meaning and spirituality to that which drives us or motivates us or defines us. But for men, I think it's all about our nutsack.

To go after the girl or stifle your heart's desire by hiding in plain sight. To turn into the current and swim hand over hand upstream, or concede to water's will, and drift aimlessly like a leaf to wherever the water flows.

Success is the risk-taker's reward; failure is the coward's yield. The bellwether is nutsack.

Catch: Part II

Few things center me like the crisp pop of a baseball snapping firmly into an old, leathery glove. The impact -- the collision of hard, fast-moving cowhide coming to a sudden halt into soft leather. The effect is instant, washing eternal youth over my mind and body. Life's challenges abate themselves for a moment. The memories of growing up trump the usual mind numbing mental gymnastics of processing grown up crap. I may feel like a lousy husband, dad and provider -- barely a man at all. But for now, I can be a kid playing with other kids. My kids.

A boy is alive again. A competitor awakened. A focused little soul whose only aim is to please his father. Each throw renewing my spirit. Every motion true, the mechanics solid, the brain switched-on, as it makes split-second calculations of hand-eye adjustments, willing my muscles and compelling my tired body up and down or side to side -- living in the moment, a beautiful dance to the timeless pace of playing catch.

My fondest memories of childhood involve throwing the ball back and forth with my dad. We could be camping on the Lochsa River, at my grandparents house in Couer d'Alene, practicing on a playground, or in the front yard of our house -- wherever we were mattered never as much as what we were doing. Father and son, communicating effortlessly in the back and forth pastime of chatter and baseball tosses.

"How was your day, son?" dad would ask, throwing and conversing in an elaborate symphony of movement and words.

"Fine," I would counter, not really thinking at all about my day but focused on making good throws and properly fielding grounders and camping under pop-ups.

"Come over the top more, son," he'd urge. "You're sidearming the ball."

OK, dad.

"Camp under the ball," he'd counsel. "Find your spot underneath and track it all the way into your glove."

OK, dad!

"Again. Use two hands to bring the ball in, close-by in case you miss or need to make a throw. Get in front of the ball, son, get your butt down," he'd command.

Mm hmm.

Every last bit of daylight was soaked up like a sponge. We worked on everything, until repetition and basic motions gave way to solid fielding skills. Working on fundamentals. Probably long after his arm began to throb with pain, we'd wrap up and head inside. Maybe tomorrow we'd do it again, or maybe this weekend. I didn't care. I always knew we'd play catch again soon, and that was enough for me.

When I was five years old and ready for T-ball, my Tom Seaver autographed Spalding baseball glove was broken in, and it felt good on my hand, like a piece of my own flesh, trusted and familiar. I could actually catch the ball (that made me the pitcher).

Playing catch was not common in other front yards. The action and laughter in front of our house was probably fascinating to watch from a distance -- something so sweetly innocent and pure, playful and boyish. The allure wasn't resisted long and soon a buddy with a glove would romp across the street hoping to join in.

Everyone was welcome. My sister, my cousins, my mother, and my friends. Bring your glove and you get to play. No waiting. Dad would take turns throwing to each of us in succession right to left. Throwing to my buddy Paul, Carrie and then me. Sometimes my buddy Mike, Paul, Carrie, and then me. Or my visiting cousin Greg, then Steve, then to me, then to Carrie.

But I liked it best when it was just dad and me. Together alone. As a kid it was the very best kind of one on one time I could ever want.

One time in Couer d'Alene, we were hours into another holiday -- a major gathering, like many we had over the years. My dad and his brother, Rick, dug out their old mits. Ancient, glorious, well-worn slabs of leather masquerading as portals to forgotten childhoods in Orofino, Idaho. It was pitch black outside except for the dimly strained illumination of a porch light in my grandparents backyard, and from inside we could hear the gunshot-like snaps and muffled grownup barks of grown men (two brothers, now two boys) engaged in a rapid fire engagement of tosses and grabs.

A "Ken Boyer" 6-finger Rawlings was dad's prized possession. His brother was fond of an even darker contraption, flimsy and mysterious. We watched and watched them, over and over, until they finally relented, sweating and short of breath, turning back once again to old men with sore arms and aching knees. They let us examine and compare the ancient tools to their more modern counterparts. Clearly our gear was superior in every way. Refined, not clumsy or worn out, and raw, like their gear. Little did we know.

On another trip to Couer d'Alene I can remember a pretty intense game of "pepper" going on outside. Four brothers, the Ripley boys, my dad and his younger brothers Rick, Dan and Jeff. This was new.

Rick swung an old bat and the others spread out in front of him not 15 feet away, fielding sharp grounders and throwing the ball back again to the batter, who then struck the ball to the ground again back at the fielders. Things happened lightning fast. The muffled clunks of cowhide on wood and the whisps of grass blades channeling grounders back into waiting gloves. Part of the fun was putting a little extra sting on the swings. Not really bunting, where you use the angle of the bat to deflate the ball's velocity and push it into play; these were more like half swings with intent on sneaking one by the fielders. If a fielder missed the ball, or muffed one, he was put in the back of the line, working his way up for a turn at bat. For the fielders, putting a little extra on the throws were designed to see if the batter might fist one up in the air for an easy snag. Next batter. It was mesmerizing. I watched for about six seconds and wanted to try it. They started easy on me, but soon realized I was up for the speed of the game. Field it, throw it, field it, throw it, field it, throw it.. bang bang bang bang.

Such a long time ago.

Dad has always been in love with his career. As kids, he was on the job well before we even got up for school in the mornings, and so focused that he routinely wouldn't show up at home again until well after 7 PM at night. He worked Saturdays too, and was gone a lot. But he always had time to play catch in the spring and summer. Dinner could wait, or be rushed and then set aside. We didn't hunt or fish as a family, but we knew how to pass the evening with leather.

It's a tradition I'm happy to share with my own kids today. It's fun. I mean it's really fun. We laugh and talk and enjoy many summer evenings outside. My girls can throw and catch a baseball, with sharpness and ease. My youngest son keeps getting better and really shows promise as a young ballplayer. (I should know because I coach his T-ball team.)

Screen Saviour

Salvation awaits, friends. Commit your souls to Screen. Gaze deeply -- intently -- into Screen. Devote your lives to Screen's will. Pledge your money, your energy and your complete attention to the greatness and glory of Screen. Your sins will be wiped clean and your purpose revealed by Screen's plan for your lives. Dance and worship together in the shiny glow of Screen. Praise all-knowing Screen.

All of your yesterdays and all of your tomorrows belong to Screen. And to those all around you who pledge their lives to Screen.

Close your eyes each night peering into Screen's magnificence. Awake each morning and seek the will of Screen. Look to the strength of Screen for guidance. Cling to Screen all your days, at home, at work, in the car, in the store. Screen is everywhere, everywhere there is a screen.

Be on fire for Screen. Share your passion for Screen. Feed Screen your life and everything in it, and Screen will feed you hapiness and joy forever and ever. Hallelujah, Glory be to Screen.

An excerpt from a book I'm reading

Stephen Hunter is one of my favorite authors. I've spent years following a particular story or have invested a lot of time following compelling characters. But every once in a while, a gem of great writing jumps off the fictional pages of a book and smacks real world arrogance in the mouth.

..... from Stephen Hunter's I, Sniper: a Bob Lee Swagger Novel, December 2009, Simon & Shuster

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"Here's what I'm asking: why can't we do something? Do we just have to take it? Can't we find our reporter? Who'll tell our side and make Nick look good?"

"You're so young, Starling. You must actually believe in justice or something fantastic like that."

"I do."

"Let me tell you what's going on, and why this one is so touchy. We are fighting the narrative. You do not fight the narrative. The narrative will destroy you. The narrative is all powerful. The narrative rules. It rules us, it rules Washington, it rules everything. Now ask me, 'What is the narrative?'"

"What is the narrative?"

"The narrative is the set of assumptions the press believes in, possibly without even knowing that it believes in them. It's so powerful because it's unconscious. It's not like they get together every morning and decide 'These are the lies we tell today.' No, that would be too crude and honest. Rather, it's a set of casual, nonrigorous assumptions about a reality they've never really experienced that's arranged in such a way as to reinforce their best and most ideal presumptions about themselves and their importance to the system and the way they've chose to live their lives. It's a way of arranging things a certain way that they all believe in without ever really addressing carefully. It permeates their whole culture. They know, for example, that Bush is a moron and Obama a saint. They know communism was a phony threat cooked up by right-wing cranks as a way to leverage power to the executive. They know Saddam didn't have weapons of mass destruction, the response to Katrina was fucked up, torture never works, and mad Vietman sniper Carl Hitchcock* (fictional character) killed the saintly peace demonstrators. Cheney's a devil, Biden's a genius. Soft power good, hard power bad. Forgiveness excellent, punishment counterproductive, capital punishment a sin. See, Nick's fighting the narrative. He's going against the story, and the story was somewhat suspiciously concocted exactly to their prejudices, just as Jayson Blair's made-up stories and Dan Rather's Air National Guard documents were. And the narrative is the bedrock of their culture, the keystone of their faith, the altar of their church. The don't even know they're true believers, because in theory they despise the true believer in anything. But they will absolutely de-frackin'-stroy anybody who makes them question all that, and Nick had the temerity to do so, even if he didn't quite realize it at the time. That's why, led by brother Banjax* (fictional character) and whoever is slipping him data, they have to destroy Nick. I don't know who or what's behind it, but I do know this: they have all the cards, and if you play in that game, they will destroy you too."

"Why can't we simply destroy the narrative?"

"Starling, it's everywhere. It's all things. It's permanent. It's beyond. It's beneath. It's above. It's in the air, the music, the furniture, the DNA, the blood, if these assholes had blood."

"I say, 'Destroy the narrative.'"

"I say, 'You will yourself be destroyed.'"

She achieved a particularly cute and fetchingly petulant look, so totally charming that he fell in love with her until he remembered he had a wife and three kids.

"So you think it's hopeless?" she asked.

"Starling -- Agent Chandler, Jean, Jean, that's it, right? Jean, listen, you do not want to get involved with these birds. They are smart and in their way they are ruthless; they will smile at you and charm you and look you in the eye, and for something they believe is the Truth, they will cut out your heart and let you bleed out in the sun..... "

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Good stuff. And a press guy too. In addition to being one hell of an author of fiction, Hunter was a newspaper guy by trade, having retired as chief film critic of the Washington Post. He won a Pulitzer Prize in 2003 for Distinguished Criticism.