In Praise of Contraception

In Praise of Contraception

 

Enfettered by the seed of men?

This wheel, darling, guards for thee

Affection, passion, love and yen;

A month of women’s liberty!

Anti-vax Limerick

 

There once was a pundit named Max

Who said that he was anti-vax

though he took it himself

for the hypocrite wealth

of his bosses, and those are the facts.

 

Right to Privacy Amendment, Gender Politics of Leaking, Scotus Trilemma

 The Right to Privacy Amendment

Congress shall make no law violating a citizen's right to privacy.

 

Gender Politics of Leaking

If the Court thinks that women don't have a right to privacy, then it's logical to expect that some women may think that the Court doesn't have that right either. Therefore, by this reciprocal logic, they leak. Some men may also expect to lose privacy rights later, so they too might pre-emptively retaliate against the Court, and be the leakers.

Note that I said that some women might 'reciprocate', and some men might 'pre-emptively retaliate'. This describes well-established behavioral norms, which exist for cultural, genetic, and other reasons. Due to biological variation and individual choice, a minority of men might 'reciprocate' and a minority of women might 'pre-emptively retaliate'. But these are private concerns, and so have no bearing on the leaks, which are public.

 

The Scotus Trilemma

Citizens have no right to privacy;

Citizens have equal rights with SCOTUS;

SCOTUS has the right to privacy;

Choose at most two.

Smuggler’s Eye

           Smuggler’s Eye

 

          I write here about a revealing incident. Sherri and I drove Hannah to the airport, to fly back East to visit relatives for eight days. (Uncle Seth, Aunt Kazzie and their children Zeke and Sarah; then Uncle Dan and Aunt Susan.) Sherri dropped me and Hannah off; I went with Hannah; the plan was for me to get a gate pass and accompany her to the plane; then come out and get picked up by Sherri. We did this before, and it sort of worked.

          We got me a gate pass. While walking to the checkpoint, I reacted to security theater with mockery, as usual. Hannah agreed, and noted that once Sherri had to give up some contact lens solution. I said, “Water is officially an explosive.” Hannah laughed and said, “I can’t take you anywhere!” “Absolutely not,” I agreed. Then it hit me. “My swiss army knife!”

          We ran into trouble with that on a previous airport visit. I keep a swiss army knife in my backpack; a useful tool; but airports are paranoid. I tried to go through, but they said they’d confiscate the knife. I pulled back, fuming; Sherri drove by to pick up the knife, I proceeded. Not a process to repeat!

          So what to do? Hannah and I agreed that I had to hide it somewhere. So as she wheeled her pack towards the security gate, I kept an eye out for hiding places. Small volumes, out of sight, beneath or behind. I found a recycling bin, approached it, glanced behind it, dropped the knife there, and proceeded towards the security gate.

          There we removed our shoes like good Moslems. Our luggage got X-rayed and we went through a metal detector. It was one of those booths where you’re supposed to raise your hands in surrender, which is what the word ‘Islam’ means; I raised my hands in a shrug.

          We went to the gate, Hannah left her luggage at the counter for last-minute luggage check-in, and then boarded right away. Surprisingly efficient. I left the gate, went out to the main hall, found the recycling bin, looked behind, there was my knife. I picked it up and went out to get picked up by Sherri, no hassle.

          I see in that knife a symbol. Their stupid rules turned it into a problem; I couldn’t efficiently manage it within their clueless authoritarian system; so to get things done, I had to cheat. I had to smuggle my knife out of the terminal. This proved easy to do, for “the invisible hand is quicker than the all-seeing eye” (as I said in my Underfable, “The Magic of the Marketplace”).

          When the rules are stupid, it’s stupid to follow the rules. That airport taught me how to remove my shoes like a good Moslem, but also how to see like a smuggler.

 

Realism and Unicorns

        Realism and Unicorns

 

Once Hannah and I went to Baycon, where she had a fangirl moment. We went to the Dealer’s Room, her in Zorro outfit, me in an Escher T-shirt. Since her tag read “Queen Gwink” - an old in-joke - I pretended that Her Majesty was going incognito, and I her loyal retainer. But as her knight or her jester? (I asked. Hah, hah, her majesty replied.)

          At the entrance was Peter S Beagle, signing books. Hannah was halfway through “The Last Unicorn”, and a fan. We didn’t have her copy of the book with us, so we retreated to our hotel room to retrieve it; thus armed, we returned.

          At the sight of the author, she shied. Fangirl moment; speechless, wanting to stay, wanting to flee. I introduced her. Peter Beagle calmed her by telling a tale of his fanboy moment in front of one of his favorite writers. Then he signed her copy of “The Last Unicorn”.

          I bought two other books of his. I gave money to his business partner, and a $0 bill to him. I quoted a Zen master; if you meet a warrior on the road, give him your sword; if you meet a poet, give him your poem. “This is my poem for you,” I told Beagle.

          Then I told him about when I met Lancelot, the one-horned goat. I was visiting Marion Zimmer Bradley’s house; I stepped into her backyard; it was night; there was a moon; and there was the unicorn, and it was eating Marion Zimmer Bradley’s rosebushes.

“That’s just like in a Thurber story,” said Beagle.

“That’s exactly what I thought at the time,” I said. “And that was the danger of visiting Marion Zimmer Bradley’s house; you might find yourself in the middle of a Thurber story.”

I also told him that unicorn droppings are about so long (holding my fingers about 3/4 inch apart) and so wide (holding my fingers 1/2 inch apart).

It was my way of making a stand for my style of literature.

 

Inoculating my Daughter

            Inoculating my Daughter

 

I had the honor of giving my daughter Hannah an inoculation against a common teenage ailment. I refer to Objectivism; for she asked me about Ayn Rand, and I gave her my informed opinion.

Specifically I told Hannah about the infamous railroad scene in “Atlas Shrugged”. I detailed the set-up; the dangerous tunnel, the idiotic bureaucrat’s suicidal demand, the chain of buck-passing, the fatal go-ahead, the complaisant workers, the train’s doom... all of which I described with admiration for Rand’s meticulousness (for once not tiresome) and her passion. A death machine of incompetence and spinelessness, clickety-clicking right there before your eyes! A masterpiece of eldritch horror! That scene was this close to Literature!

But the moment the train entered the tunnel, her writing all went horribly wrong! For Rand then focused on the passengers; a risky move if you do it wrong, and she did. For what if (I asked Hannah) that train had been full of good people? Or perhaps even a few of them super-virtuous by Rand’s elitist Objectivist standards? For them to die alongside the idiot bureaucrat would been supreme injustice; a raw red wound, an affront against humanity! What if Rand had raged and wailed against the sick cruelty of the idiot world? That (I told Hannah) would have been writing!

But no! By the way Rand told it, everyone on the train was an idiot moocher, as bad as the bureaucrat, and so everyone got what they deserved! (Hannah rolled her eyes upon hearing this.) Instant justice, automatic karma, all’s well with the world! Rand got that close to Literature, but at the last moment she turned it into Propaganda!

The trainwreck scene was itself a trainwreck!  And that (I told Hannah) is Ayn Rand.

At Half-Mast for Roadkill

 At Half-Mast for Roadkill

 

         I was driving past Colma on December 26, 2006, to find the flag at half-mast there; though it was officially there in honor of Gerald Ford, former unelected President of the United States, I announced to my daughter that, as far as I am concerned, it was really at half-mast in honor of James Brown, the Godfather of Soul; for that is the world in which I prefer to live.

        Later I was driving on the same road. I passed two roadkills; a cat and an opossum. This saddened me; but then I passed Colma, with the big flagpole there, and guess what, it was at half-mast.

        Right away I felt better. I thought, “How considerate of them.”

        Now again, I am well aware that officially the flag was at half-mast for a human, specifically someone prominent in business or government. Nonetheless I insist, just as before, that as far as I am concerned, that flag was at half-mast in honor of the roadkill; and any human being also honored that way is benefiting from a coincidence. That is my story, and I am sticking to it.

 

Welcome to my world.

 

        Since then I have evolved a ritual. Every time I drive past Colma, and the flag there is at half-mast, I take off my hat, I hold it over my heart, and I intone:

        Honor the heroes,

        Honor the V.I.P.s,

        And honor the roadkill!

 

        For we are all heroes,

        And we are all V.I.P.s

        And we are all roadkill!

        Amen!