Creator Hour!!

I was all ready to post a long, ranting, fairly unkind opinion piece about “Earth Hour”, but Doug Tenappel at Big Hollywood beat me to it, and in a much more positive fashion!

The Earth Hour website calls for us to “Vote Earth,” but  I intend to cast my ballot for the other party: Vote Creator! Turn on the lights and show the pagans that illumination, inspiration, capitalism, creativity and sobriety in the face of hysterics is how we conquer our problems.

I’m planning on leaving all my lights on, and then going to a movie!

 

Geez Oh Man, Yinz Guys!

I’m hobbling along today, not quite firing on all cylinders. In fact, the coffee I had just made the cylinders which were firing do so more erratically, so that I may be even more unfocused that I would have been if I’d avoided it. This will be my excuse if this posting is less than coherent.

Now that we’re past the setup, I can get to the point: I’m tired because I flew home late from Pittsburgh last night!! Yes, not your usual sunny vacation destination, but “Picksburgh, ‘n’ ‘at” has the added benefit of my buddy David.

David and I have been friends for quite a few years now. He showed up at our wedding, despite the fact that he wasn’t officially invited. Of course, his brother was in the wedding party, so this was really my bad. But since then he’s been a really great and true friend. Despite his numerous attempts to kill me.

Briefly, I’ve narrowly averted death when David and I:

• Went kayaking in Casco Bay and the wind picked up, throwing waves into my little flatwater boat, where I could conceivably have drowned 1/2 mile from shore,
• went hiking in the Middlesex Fells Reservation during a blizzard, within sight of Interstate 93,
• went hiking up the Cohos Trail in N.H., a singularly remote and primitive trail paved almost entirely in Moose poop, for two nights in the rain,
• and surely several other occasions which will be teased out of my memory by intensive therapy and psychotropic drugs.

So I flew out to Pittsburgh this weekend to finally see where David grew up, and has now settled down with his lovely wife, Heather. And how did David try to kill me this time?

Kielbasa!!

We’d talked about me coming out for a visit for a couple of years, and his enticements usually involved cheap food and beer. What can I say, he knows me. But I knew before I left that he would make me earn my grub.

David and Heather picked me up at the airport, three hours later than expected (my original flight to Laguardia was delayed so many times, the nice lady at the counter got me another flight through Regan in Washington – a happy benefit! From the gate and plane, I saw the Washington Monument, Capital Dome, National Cathedral, Pentagon, and Arlington National Cemetery – and I STILL got to Pittsburgh before my original flight got to NY). We went directly to Primanti Brothers for dinner. If you’ve clicked through the link, you’ve already realized, to your horror/delight, that the sandwiches come with fries andcole slaw ON THE SANDWICH. The only question left is what meat to include. And I chose cheese with…

Kolbassi. Yeah, that’s Kielbasa to us Yankees.

Pittsburgh’s ethnic population runs equal parts Italian/German/Polish, so I got a two-fer!

I slept in late because David forgot to reset the guest room clock, which worked out well for him, since he’s not really a morning person. Heather went off to visit her sister at college, leaving David and I to explore the city on bikes! I hadn’t ridden a bike in two years or so, but it was as easy as remembering to do something that you learned to do once and never forgot despite years of not doing it. If only there were a convenient phrase for this situation…

We went to the Strip District, where trains used to unload all their cargo for the city. It’s now lined with ethnic shops and restaurants, and was teeming with people. We parked and walked. I’ll never remember the names of all the places we went, and you probably won’t know where I’m talking about anyway, so I’ll just say it was a lot of fun, and I would have given myself a coronary had I not eaten breakfast beforehand.

Now that I think about it, this really is shaping up in my head to be a post about “What I Ate in Pittsburgh”. Maybe a change of tone is in order…

It was wonderful to hang out with David for the first time since his wedding last April. We got caught up quickly and it was like we’d never moved hundreds of miles from each other. It was also nice to be on a bike again, even if it was Heather’s cruiser with the upright handle bars and dropped top tube to accommodate my skirt. And while we did go through some sketchy neighborhoods, and nearly couldn’t unlock the security cable after hitting the Warhol Museum (Summation: Warhol = awesome; most everyone else = pretentious and predictable), I think I can safely say that my life was never in any serious danger. But I’ll get over it.

We rode all over the city: to Point State Park where the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers meet to form the Ohio; to Penn Brewery for great German beers, a Pork Schnitzel sandwich and potato pancakes. Later in the evening we drove to the Bloomfield Bridge Tavern, a Polish bar/club, for the Polish Platter, which, I don’t think I need to tell you, included Kolbassi. We topped off the night with David’s hilarious friend Steve at Nico’s Recovery Room, where we drank pitchers of Yuengling in the booth behind the Karaoke mic. There’s nothing like being the living backdrop for truly terrible singing. It did make me feel better about my own ability to belt a dulcet tone, especially since I didn’t get up to submit it for comparison. All in the name of charity, you understand… My Fred Schneider would have killed.

We went to his church the next day, Hot Metal Bridge Church, which was actually meeting across town, in an unheated Presbyterian church on the steep ridge over the city, known as Mt. Washington. It was wonderful. Despite the lack of heat (it actually felt warmer outside), the place was packed with every shape, size and color of believers. The Bible was preached unashamedly, and we were encouraged to pray for new thoughts as well as discipline for the Word. I was sold the moment he quoted C.S. Lewis, and talked about discussing the allegory in the Chronicles of Narnia with his 7 year old son. I was sincerely blessed by the service, and not only felt at home, but felt like this is what Home will look like someday.

Did I mention that the congregation contains an inordinate number of punks, and is associated with the Christian tattoo shop called In The Blood? Did I mention that one of them runs Bible Fight Club, where they openly debate the really hard questions? Did I mention that there was lunch served downstairs after the service, which included…

Kielbasa?!?!

And no weekend would be complete without some home renovation. The church is helping to repair homes for needy folks, and so David and I went after lunch to do some work on a roof. We only expected to drop by for an hour, but when we showed up, the other team that was there (from another organization) all took off, and it was up to just us to finish nailing down tarpaper.

I’d like to amend an earlier statement: climbing the steep, poorly-secured aluminum ladders to the roof, past close-strung electrical wires, MORE than counts toward life-threatening activity in David’s presence. But Steve showed up and we finished in plenty of time to get home, change, and get to the airport in plenty of time to see…

BERNADETTE PETERS ON MY FLIGHT TO JFK!!!!!

She’s a little thing, with TONS of curly red hair, and seemed very nice. I say seemed because there was no way I was going to introduce myself after three days without shaving and smelling like I’d worked outside for two hours nailing tarpaper. A girl on her cell phone behind me did, however, and I overheard her telling her friend how gracious she was. You have to appreciate a class act.

Well, I treasured all these memories as I sat at my gate in New York, waiting an extra hour and a half for our plane to even board, before waiting another forty minutes in line to take off. I got home at 1:15 a.m. but it was all worth it. Thank you David and Heather!!

I REGRET NOTHING!!!

 

Guess What.

No, it’s not a question. It’s not even a rhetorical question. I know it’s usually phrased “Guess what?”, but that’s wrong. It’s a demand. I’m telling you to guess what I’m going to say. I believe that I have interesting, startling, or shocking news. News about which I believe you don’t already know. And I’m telling you to guess what that news is.

No, it has nothing to do with what we are currently, or were just recently, talking about. It might pertain to a previous conversation, which I’m sure you’re not thinking about right now, or a subject about which we both have an interest, though that’s by no means necessary from my point of view. Or it could be totally out of the blue, which is much more likely, because then it would be really surprising. Ultimately, I’m not going to tell you to guess what I have to say if I think you actually know what I’m going to say. Then you’d be the one relating the exciting news, and what fun would that be?

What I’m really telling you to do, in asking me to tell you my thrilling account, is to tell me that I’m smarter than you, and that you want to be as smart as me by having me teach you what I know. If I were to just blurt out what I know, I run the risk that you didn’t want to know it. No, you have to tell me that, no matter what I have to say, you want to hear it. I want you to tell me to tell you what I’m dying to tell you, not because I’m dying to tell you but because you’re dying to hear it. I’m demanding, in fact, that you pump me for information that you can’t live without.

With this in mind, I’m going to actually ask you a question, for which I believe you are capable of giving me an answer, because I believe you know the answer, and not just because I want to tell you the answer, though that is also true. And here is the question:

Who do you suppose are the kind of people to most often demand that someone else “guess what”?

That’s right. Children.

As in, “‘Kay, um, know what? ‘Kay, um, so, um, this one time..?” in a sing-song-y voice, before launching into an endless story about finding something in their nose. Of course, they are more likely to ask if you “know what” as opposed to demanding that you “guess what”, but the child is at least honest about their intentions. They don’t want you to guess what they’re talking about, so much as have you admit that you have NO IDEA what they’re talking about, which implies, to them, that you WOULD LIKE DEARLY TO HEAR WHAT THEY HAVE TO SAY. ABOUT WHAT THEY FOUND IN THEIR NOSE.

And here’s a rhetorical question: why would adults want to continue communicating like children?

I think that it’s time we, as adults, hold ourselves and each other to a higher level of maturity in our exchanges. I had originally thought that I might offer alternatives to the use of “guess what”, but that would imply that you need to be told what those alternatives are.

And you don’t. If you’ve read this far, you’re probably an adult, and hopefully, know how to start a conversation with another adult without resorting to “guess what!!”

One suggestion I will offer: if you are confronted by the demand to “guess what”, there is an age-appropriate response that should be used to illustrate, to the person demanding, the only level at which a conversation thus begun can logically proceed.

Chicken butt.

 

Knock knock…

Well, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? My muse went on hiatus some time ago, and she’s only now coming back around, giving me the occasional poke in the back, landing a spitball behind my ear, and generally letting me know that she’s still there, but isn’t interested in hanging out. That’s fine, I suppose. I’ve been busy. Or keeping busy. Anyway…

This will be another one of those occasions where I don’t re-start blogging with any great epiphanies, but with a humorous or annoying observation that won’t stop buzzing in my ear. Usually I’d be sputtering about the current state of politics but, with all deference to my friends of liberal persuasion who may still be celebrating, the bafflingly absurdist, Bizarro-World situation that’s developing speaks for itself.

No, today I want to let my poor reader know my thoughts on a subject of great personal, sociological, and psychological importance, by way of an anecdote…

I was working at Starbucks the other day, and one of my co-workers (or “Partner”, as the company refers to us) returned from the bathroom, visibly shaken.

“Doesn’t anyone know how to KNOCK ANYMORE?!?!”

“Oh, man, did someone walk in on you?!”

“No, the door was locked (general sigh of relief from all in hearing…) but as soon as I get in there, someone’s always rattling the handle!” At which point he makes the universal “rattling-the-handle” hand motions, accompanied by full-body convulsions, denoting the violence of the handle-rattling. “All they have to do is knock!!”

This, of course, being me, is not the first time I’ve had a discussion regarding occupied-bathroom etiquette. It’s just the kind of thing you’re not supposed to talk about that I find myself repeatedly talking about. And, of course, being me, I had to be contrary.

I pointed out that it’s far preferable to have someone check the handle than knock. A locked bathroom door is as much a psychological barrier as a physical one. It’s one of the few instances of real privacy any of us get anymore. When you’re behind a locked bathroom door, you’re safe. There is little to no danger that someone is going to see you in a state of undress, or worse. You could be doing the Watusi in there and no one is the wiser, though you should always look for wet-floor signage before doing so.

And what happens when someone knocks instead of trying the handle? One of two things:

1) You have to answer. All privacy has suddenly evaporated. You have to all but identify yourself! For all you know, the person on the other side can actually hear if you’re sitting down or not. They can hear the tension in your voice, conveying just enough of your emotional state to insist they imagine what’s happening in there. You’re in one of the most vulnerable states possible, and there is someone demanding that you verbally confirm for them what the locked handle obviously and dispassionately conveys.

Offhand, I can think of a couple of rather satisfying ways to diffuse the situation:

a) Respond with a cheerful “Who is it?” or “Come in!!”, or

b) upon exiting, stand in the doorway, blocking entrance, and look them in the eye for a full three seconds, deadpan expression. They quietly say, “It’s all yours…”

The other response option is:

2) Ignore the knock in the hope that that the knock-er will realize what kind of position they’re putting someone else into. How often is a bathroom door locked with no one in it? But, of course, the person on the other side may assume, because they weren’t BRIGHT enough to to come to any other conclusion, that this is, in fact, an EMPTY, LOCKED bathroom.

Now it becomes a race between one of three outcomes:

a) you manage to get out before any other action is taken by the knock-er,

b) the knock-er makes it non-too-subtly known to the waiting line that they’re going to find someone who can open the door, and/or

c) the person with the key actually arrives and opens the door, with the waiting line craning behind them to verify that the bathroom was, indeed, EMPTY.

If you yell “OCCUPIED!!” at any point before the door opens, the whole line assuages their own embarrassment by turning to each other and laughing about YOU! THE REASON FOR THEIR EMBARRASSMENT, AND THE ONLY ONE IN A COMPROMISING POSITION!!!

Surely everyone has a similar visceral reaction to this kind of thing. We remember being kids, finally allowed to be by ourselves as we did our embarrassing business, only to have our sanctuary threatened by the insistent pounding on the door by a family member.

“What the hell is going ON in there?!?! WHO IS THAT?!?! What happened, did you fall in?!?!”

You have absolutely no control over the situation. Suddenly, a sibling is broadcasting to the entire neighborhood that they need the bathroom, and you won’t get out, and demanding that a parent get involved and DO something about it. And what, exactly, are they going to do? Well, I don’t need to tell you: it’s entirely possible that they will OPEN THE DOOR, demanding to know what’s taking so long, and guaranteeing that in ten years you will find yourself telling this to a therapist and unable to form committed relationships.

So please: unless the door has been locked for an HOUR, during which you’ve quietly checked the handle several times, there is NO reason to knock.

 

Hark! The Herald Angels Sing

Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!
Joyful, all ye nations, rise,
Join the triumph of the skies;
With th’ angelic host proclaim
Christ is born in Bethlehem!
Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King!

Christ, by highest heaven adored;
Christ, the everlasting Lord;
Late in time behold him come,
Offspring of the Virgin’s womb.
Veiled in flesh the Godhead see;
Hail the incarnate Deity,
Pleased as man with man to dwell;
Jesus, our Emmanuel!
Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King!

Mild he lays his glory by,
Born that man no more may die,
Born to raise the sons of earth,
Born to give them second birth.
Risen with healing in his wings,
Light and life to all he brings,
Hail, the Sun of Righteousness!
Hail, the heaven-born Prince of Peace!
Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King!

Come, Desire of nations come,
Fix in us Thy humble home;
Rise, the Woman’s conquering Seed,
Bruise in us the Serpent’s head.
Adam’s likeness now efface:
Stamp Thine image in its place;
Second Adam, from above,
Reinstate us in thy love.
Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King!

 

New Digs!

Greetings, readers! Yes, both of you.

I’m writing to you today from my new office space, by which I mean cubicle. I took a position with a different department, in a different building up the street, and started last week.

Please note: Before any of you make obscure references to the movie “Office Space”, I won’t get them. I saw the movie once, and years ago, and don’t remember much of it, so I’ll spare you the disappointment of sending me a quote and having me stare blankly at the screen, not responding. Now give back my red stapler.

It’s a bittersweet change, as I left a wonderful group of people at my old office, but have gained a smaller but equally wonderful bunch of new co-workers. I’ve also gained something that makes up for the, ahem, complete LACK of monetary increase that came with the shift: privacy.

I started to think about all the…er, issues surrounding my productivity at my former location (and no, blogging wasn’t one of them, thank you very much…), and it was starting to become a rant. Since I do that often enough, I’d like to shake things up a little by providing a simple flow-chart of a few issues around the office, and the method for addressing them, which I’ll call “Not In My Job Description!”

While you may not be able to read the issues themselves, the method of address should be pretty clear. Almost any problem could easily be addressed by simply stopping whatever I was actually being paid to do.

My new space is fantastic! My position was just created, and so all of my equipment is brand-new. My cubicle is much larger, and lacks both the massive support post behind my chair and additional computer that sat next to me at my old space (the latter at which worked an intern for my first three months). The new space lacks the prospect of a view of Mt. Washington on a clear day, as there was if I walked into the adjacent conference room, but there is natural and indirect light in a high overhead space.

The first week and a half have been slow, but my lovely co-worker, Tara, (HEY!) who generously recommended me for the job, will be out on maternity leave any minute now, and I’ll be on my own until April or so. She assures me that I’m prepared, but then she’s a really nice person who says all sorts of nice things which aren’t necessarily true. Let’s just call her an “idealist” in this case.

Naw, I kid. I’m sure everything will be fine…. gulp.

 

I’m Too Old For This…

It’s been quite a week.

I worked monday at my office job, directly followed by about 5 hours at Starbucks. I had Tuesday off for Veterans Day, but for some reason felt really motivated to work outside. Thankfully, it was a beautiful day, so I:

• blew leaves for about 2 hours and
• filled 5 extra-large garbage bags with them. There were more than 5 bags worth in the yard, mind you. That’s just what Susan requested for use in her flower beds for the winter. The rest (probably three times again as much) went over the precipice on which our house sits. Then I
• tacked Tyvek (registered) sheeting around the outside of the crawlspace under the laundry room so that I could then
• move 10 wheelbarrows or so of crushed stone to fill the excavated gap on one side for proper drainage. Unfortunately, it looks like I’ll need a couple more yards of the stuff. And in between these, I
• did three loads of laundry, and
• had supper ready for Susan… if she’d have gotten home at her usual time. However, when I don’t tell her when I anticipate her arrival, and she doesn’t tell me she’s going to be late… well, supper was still good.

So, busy day, and my hands were plenty sore. But Wednesday meant back to work, among other things.

8am – secret interview for new position in different department
9am – returned to office to turn on computer and read about two emails before
9:30 – two elderly volunteers arrived, only to have me tell them I have no space for them to work, and had to send them home. What kind of a jerk am I?? I kept reading emails (way too many) until
11am – another meeting, then back to the office at
12pm – choke down a sandwich while still trying to get through email (I still had unread messages until about)
3pm – anticipating another meeting, I try not to get into any intense projects, but finally at
4pm – the meeting happens and I was offered the new position! Not sure what I’ll do yet, but what a great thing to happen just before
4:30 – get in the car to go to Boston to go see my favorite band, The Sea and Cake!!! I’d been waiting for weeks. Their new album is amazing, and I had their whole discography on shuffle on my ipod on the way down. I made great time until
6:25 – when, just after crossing the Zakim Bridge, Route 93 South becomes a parking lot. I crept along in it until
6:45 – when I arrived at Tremont 647, Joy’s restaurant, for dinner with Sean, my dear but tragically misguided liberal friend (don’t worry, I couldn’t get a shot in edgewise as he baselessly insulted my party and candidates… but ’twas all in good fun!). We have a fantastic dinner (Andy’s ribs… I may have found my new favorite BBQ item in the whole world) right trough
8:00 – doors open for the show. But I had a Hendricks and tonic in me, and was, therefore, feelin’ fine, and not worried when it hit
8:45 – because I knew they wouldn’t come on until after the opening band. So I made my way to Cambridge for
9:05 – only to discover that the Sea and Cake go on at
…

10:45.

10:45?!?! This is why rock music is for the young. It’s a Wednesday night, for goodness sake!!! Don’t these people have jobs to go to?!?!  But, of course, they don’t have jobs, other than stumbling into class late, wearing their girl/boyfriend’s Che tee shirt, latte in hand and third-world-revolutionary hat yanked down over bedhead.

Oof… I was sore already, and I’d only been standing for an hour. However, after a noisy but talented band called Helms, and a rather odd little man who plays a great guitar but sings in a small child’s voice, calling himself Death Vessel (no, not kidding) finish up…

The Sea and Cake take the Stage.

The last time I saw them, touring to promote One Bedroom (not my favorite), they played too fast, and seemed a little rusty. They also played the Somerville Theater, and, given the opportunity, Boston fans stay seated, so it was a much different feel. They had a 5th person on stage, playing keyboard. It seemed… off. I know they do things in the studio that can’t be replicated live with just the four of them, so it’s to be expected that they’d need an extra pair of hands to make it sound like the album. But it still didn’t seem right.

Wednesday night they were at the Middle East Downstairs. It’s standing room only, and holds a few hundred hipsters with appropriate personal space. Bostonist has an interesting review of the show, though I didn’t find Death Vessel nearly as compelling as most others in the room. Oh, and when you get to the part about “older men” in the crowd, I look NOTHING like Sam Prekop. More like Eric Claridge.

My take on the show was much different from the above reviewer. This was the show I’d wanted to see since college, when a group of friends saw them with Tortoise and 5ive Style. They were tight and together and engrossed. They sounded fantastic, even through my old-man ear plugs. This was a band that had been together some 15 years, but acted like this show was the first. I swear they only own one instrument apiece. Sam on a beat-up, old, red Telecaster, Archer on a Silvertone (I think), Eric with a big-ol’ Fender, and John behind a simple, beachwood-toned 4-piece kit, sounding like the end of the world.

They played everything. Car Alarm, Crossing Line, The Biz, Parasol, Sporting Life, Bird and Flag, A Man Who Never Sees a Pretty Girl That He Doesn’t Love Her a Little (yeah, I don’t care that you haven’t heard of any of this stuff. My blog!) I was right up front (somehow) and hate attracting attention (no, really!!), but I shamelessly “rocked out”, bouncing my head and drumming the rhythm on my thighs as much to the beat as I could manage. And I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face the whole time. This, in sum, was the last show I ever wanted to see. In a good way, though! Not like I would have rather seen any other show than this one, but that, given one final performance to see, I got to see this. I can die now. Thanks, guys.

Although, before I do shuffle off this mortal coil, I would like one more thing. To anyone who finds this post and who was at this show… actually, to the girl who snagged the set list from the stage where Sam was standing: Could you email me that list? Yeah, I’m a total dork, but I want a playlist on my ipod of the songs, in order.

I got back to Joy’s place at about 1am (buh…) and collapsed on the couch. The next morning we walked Sophie, got coffee, and then it was back on the road to work.

Gosh! A point-by-point rundown of two days worth of work, plus a personal review of a band that nobody I know has even heard of. Entertaining stuff, to be sure! If you’re still reading, heaven help you… you can stop now.

 

What Now?

It’s the Onion, so it’s okay…

Obama Win Causes Obsessive Supporters To Realize How Empty Their Lives Are

This, of course, from a guy who’s whole EXISTENCE has been about the election, and reasoning against Obama, for two years. Of course, I’ve still got a hobby complaining on my blog, so I got that going for me.

 

“So perhaps conservatives don’t have a monopoly on humorless dogmatism.”

To my mind, you HAVE to have a great sense of humor to be a conservative in New England. And this article certainly seems to lend some credence to my assertion.

I don’t know what I like most about this article; that the study it talks about was conducted in Boston (there are still some conservatives left there?), that conservatives liked absurdist humor – all humor – even more than liberals, or the exposure of what borders on elitist bigotry among social scientists. This article has it all!!

When defining two types of humor – incongruity-resolution humor (your standard joke) and nonsense humor (think Far Side and Monty Python), Willibald Ruch came to some conclusions, apparently without much actual…what is that thing scientists claim to always be hunting for… oh yeah, evidence. On the former type:

Dr. Ruch and other researchers reported that this humor, with its orderly structure and reinforcement of stereotypes, appealed most to conservatives who shunned ambiguity and complicated new ideas, and who were more repressed and conformist than liberals.

Well, we’re off to a rollicking start, aren’t we? And on nonsense humor?

This humor was reported to appeal to liberals because of their “openness to ideas” and their tendency to “seek new experiences.”

So far everything checks out just as we’re usually told it does. It would seem like a pretty safe bet to run a study on these reports. And hey, whaddaya know, there’s a presidential election going on! This would be a great time to reinforce who’s against “openness to ideas” and “seeking new experiences”. But, of course, as with the best laid plans of mice and social scientists…

They expected conservatives to like traditional jokes…that reinforce racial and gender stereotypes. And because liberals had previously been reported to be more flexible and open to new ideas, the researchers expected them to get a bigger laugh out of unconventional humor…

Indeed, the conservatives did rate the traditional golf and marriage jokes as significantly funnier than the liberals did. But they also gave higher ratings to the absurdist “Deep Thoughts.” In fact, they enjoyed all kinds of humor more.

HUH! I’m as shocked as you! Even better, though:

When we asked our respondents to self-report how funny they are, liberals indicated that they were funnier. This means that liberals are not finding life to be funnier, but they think they are.

I must admit: even as I write this, I’m having trouble supressing titters (a conservative having trouble with supression? The surprises just keep coming!). Helpfully, the article offers a couple of explanations for this…

“Conservatives tend to be happier than liberals in general,” said Dr. Martin, a psychologist at the University of Western Ontario. “A conservative outlook rationalizes social inequality, accepting the world as it is, and making it less of a threat to one’s well-being, whereas a liberal outlook leads to dissatisfaction with the world as it is, and a sense that things need to change before one can be really happy.”

This is what Bill Buckley, that happy warrior, God rest his soul, summarized with “Don’t Immanentize the Eschaton”. Loosely translated, don’t try to create heaven on earth. It doesn’t work and just leaves you -  and everyone affected by your decisions, however well-intentioned – disappointed. It’s not that we don’t see problems in the world, we just know that there are tradeoffs to every solution, which are sometimes worse than the problems.

Another possible explanation is that conservatives, or at least the ones in Boston, really aren’t the stiffs they’re made out to be by social scientists. When these scientists analyze conservatives, they can sound like Victorians describing headhunters in Borneo. They try to be objective, but it’s an alien culture.

And this is what I really came here to say. I have liberal friends and family who are gasping-for-air, fall-down-a-manhole-and-die riots and, charitably, insist I am, too. This study is just a snapshot of 300 folks on the streets of Boston. While it may show some indicators about worldviews and humor, it says much more, I think, about the researchers. And, helpfully, here’s what it says!

Could it be that the image of conservatives as humorless, dogmatic neurotics is based more on political bias than sound social science?

Maybe the stereotype of the dour, rigid conservative has more to do with social scientists’ groupthink and wariness of outsiders…

Conservatives often get pegged as being “anti-science” for their skepticism of reports that proffer explanations for data at odds with traditional understanding. But, while seemingly open with their findings, the above researchers, their assumptions, and their bafflement at their own results, are a perfect and glorious example of one of my favorite forms of humor…

Irony.

You just have to laugh!!

 

I totally wasn’t going to vote

But then that guy from that movie said I should!

The entertainment industry: selflessly educating the drooling masses. How could we ever think without them?