vicious cycle

There are those who argue that a murder must be tried where it was committed by the people who suffered the injury. So the 911 terrorists must be tried in the US by Americans. That makes sense, it is almost irrefutable.  Then there is Robert Bales who murdered 16 innocent Afghans, mostly children.  Shouldn’t he then be tried in Afghanistan by the Afghan people? If it’s good for the goose, it should be good for the gander.  But instead he was quickly whisked back to the US to face possible charges in an American court. The victims in the case have no say.  You walk away with the sense of double standards that if a crime is committed against Americans, it is tried by the US and if a crime is committed by Americans it too is tried by the US.

I understand the difference in both those cases and the flaw in the reasoning of that argument.   The difference is that the soldier was placed in that situation by his government, in the service of that same government, and is therefore owed some sort of government protection. While the terrorists were acting of their own volition, not backed by any official government and therefore not entitled to any such protection.  The government is in the situation to protect the country’s interests, the terrorist is just a murderer with no higher ideal.   I understand it, but I wonder if the Afghan father who had to bury his children does.  I wonder if he is now so incensed that he would be willing to fly an airplane into a building, but mostly I wonder where it ends.

An unnamed teenage ability

Ok, when I was a teenager I had a thing for Neil Diamond. [Waits for the laughter to subside before continuing.] There is a sort of fanaticism, a sort of compulsion, a radical attraction that you only experience as a teenager.  It’s short lived, by the time you’re in your twenties it’s faded, by the time you’re thirty it’s just a memory, and by the time you’re forty it’s a youthful folly that you can’t really explain. For my cousin it was Elvis, for my mother it was Rock Hudson, for you it was someone else.  But for me it was Neil Diamond, he could do no wrong, in my mind he was perfect. When his album Primitive came out in 1984 I cried myself to sleep because it was obvious in that album he had lost his rather fragile voice and adapted his songwriting to suit his new diminished vocal abilities.  And I still loved him.  Why? Because I was a child and in my mind he was perfect.

What is that? Where does that come from? What is that ability to worship we have when we are very young and why do we lose it over time? I would have had words with anyone who questioned his unquestionable talent, or found fault in his flawless character.  What ability did my brain posses then to completely deceive itself, and why do I lack that same ability now?  Today, of course, I question his very questionable talent and I fault his very faulty character. But where did that unreasonable fanaticism go? How did that overwhelming talent for blind adoration simply dissolve into air? It was real, of that I am certain, and it was mine. 

Think of the hoards of teenage fans trampling each other for a glimpse of the airplane that brought the Beatles to America. The unexplainable phenomenon of teen idols like Bieber and David Cassidy, they are not talented people, they are a product of this unnamed ability of the teenage brain.  And their careers often fade in the time it takes our brains to lose that same ability.   Teen idols owe their stardom to a talent our brains possess for a very short time: the power of voluntary self delusion culminating in blind adoration.  It’s a condition that generates billions of dollars in profits every year, it launches questionable talents into stardom every decade.  Shouldn’t it have a name? Shouldn’t music executives be able to measure it? Chart it on a graph? Determine how much it’s worth each year?

And there is one more aspect of this unnamed ability that should be widely discussed and is not:  is it a good thing or a bad thing?

What name would you give it?

How would your dog introduce you?

When I had to board my dog I used to call up my vet and say to the receptionist “Hi, this is Titus’ human, he was wondering if he could stay with you a few days next week.”  She thought I was silly. But think about it, how would your dog introduce you to another dog? Wouldn't you be his human?  Titus was a min-pin, so he was 10 pounds of fierce independence with a Rottweiler glint in his eye.  He would have said “Hi, my name is Titus.  This is MY human, you may sniff her but none of that tail wagging, ‘pet me I’m so cute’ act ‘cause I will bite you! She’s mine.”  He was 18 when his body finally gave out, and I miss him everyday.


Now, Saskia is a mutt.  She was destined for a miserable, very short life in the streets of São Paulo, except that she was much too nice and friendly when I said hi to her.  So, now I'm her human.  Living in the streets made her afraid of other dogs.  If she had to introduce me she would say. “Hi, please don’t bite me.  I have a human, and I’m hiding behind her because she’ll bite you if you try to bite me. You can act all cute if you want, and she can pet you if she likes, ‘cause I’m the one going home with her, so there!”
 
If you think you ‘own’ your dog, if your dog is your property, you shouldn’t have a dog.

I'll have the gnocchi please

Low season, after lunch and before dinner, in modern Pompeii is characterized by deserted streets and closed restaurants. Two disheartened, wet, tired and frozen people wandered out of the scavi in search of food and warmth. We were desperate as we felt life drain from our cold, wet bodies. When we thought we couldn’t take another step we came across a McDonald's. The outrage and the subsequent vociferous and vigorous bitching about the fact that there was a McDonald's in front of the ruins revitalized us and we were able to continue.

Everything looked closed, except for one tavern next to the church, the door was half open and there were people sitting at a table having a meal. We tentatively pushed our way into the darkened space and out of the rain, fully expecting to be chased back outside by someone gesturing wildly and announcing loudly ‘Chiuso! Chiuso!’ We looked around for a host or waiter and saw that the only people in the place were sitting around a table next to an area heater having a meal. An old Italian woman left the table and came to greet us with a smile, while at the same time indicating a table near the wall. I couldn’t determine her age, she could have been forty or perhaps ninety five. As we gratefully settled into our seats the woman dragged the area heater away from the group’s table and placed it next to us. I looked over my shoulder expecting the other patrons to complain and gesture half obscenities toward the woman for removing the heater. Nothing! They continued their conversations and meals as if the only source of life giving heat in the world hadn’t just been snatched away from them. I was in awe of the woman’s power, from my perspective she had just snatched a prime rib out of the snarling teeth of a hungry lion and walked away unscathed. She wore her power with ease, she was accustomed to great power, to telling people what to do and never be questioned. A creature of such power could only be an Italian mother, and a progenitor of the other patrons in the restaurant.

 I perused the menu, found a gnocchi dish and was happy. My mother, knowing that I would order the gnocchi, focused on a lasagna. The matron came to take our order and smiled at my choice, informing me in Italian that the gnocchi is very good today and that I had made a good choice. She turned to my mom and tisked her tongue and shook her head from side to side at her choice informing her that the lasagna is not good today. Mom selected a string of different dishes while the matron shook her head at the selections and informed her, one by one, that those dishes weren’t any good today either. Mom gathered up some of her Italian and asked the woman what she would recommend today. She was told "Gli gnocchi, signora, è buono oggi."

We were already enjoying our gnocchi when another patron arrived at the door. The new arrival was seated at a table on the opposite side of the restaurant. My first concern was that the old woman would take the heater away from us and give it to the new arrival and that I would be powerless to object. She didn’t, because we were cold and she was an Italian mother. Instead she stood next to the young woman to take her order. We watched as the young arrival made her first selection from the menu and recognized the familiar head shaking and tongue tisking. We both agreed that though we couldn’t hear the details of the conversation, the new arrival would eventually get the gnocchi. The young woman made several other selections, each was politely declined by the proprietress. We couldn’t hear the final arrangement, but a few minutes later the young woman was served a lovely plate of gnocchi.

When we were all happily eating our gnocchi, the old woman sat down in a chair next to the half open door looking outside at the dismal, cold, gloomy rain and started to talk. She wasn’t talking to us directly because she was still gazing out of the door, but we were the only ones able to hear her. “February.” She said in Italian. “February is always like this… March is better.” She kept looking out of the half open wooden door. “You should come back in March, it’s much better then.” My guess was that in March the other choices on the menu were available too.

I just love Italy.