serendipity

Ethical Realism

 

Ethical Realism: A Vision for America's Role in the World

Anatol Lieven

Just bought this book based on an interview I heard with the authors on NPR this morning. The authors are two of the most reasonable people I've heard talk in a long time about what our role in the world should be. There is a podcast and a lengthy excerpt here. 

Explosive violence in Iraq and Afghanistan has generated intense discussion about U.S. foreign policy. In a new book, two scholars say America's strategy in emerging democracies and elsewhere is flawed because it's based on idealism and moral imperatives.

"That doesn't mean that we don't see the United States as a force for good in the world," says John Hulsman, co-author with Anatol Lieven of Ethical Realism. "That doesn't mean we don't see the United States as anything less than the first among equals for the foreseeable future. It does mean it's imperative you work with allies. And it's important to have humility at the basis of what you do because that leads to prudence and that leads to a foreign policy that's sustainable in the long run."

Are you going to eat that?

I was probably not the only Voxer to hear (and be horrified) by an NPR story this morning reporting that the average American family throws away over $600 of food a year.

The interview with anthropologist Timothy Jones, is available by podcast and gives advice on how to avoid doing this - like shopping on Thursdays instead of Sundays (since we are more likely to eat fruits & vegetables during the weekend), and freezing food (it lasts much longer than you think).

Not a long story (four minutes) and worth a listen.

Thou shalt not touch the Netflix queue

I had no idea it was such a big deal.

Well, that's actually a stupid thing to say because by all measures my husband is as late a technology adopter as they come. He just learned how to send e-mail two years ago - IM last year. So when he signed up for Netflix all by himself, then set up a queue of movies, I should have known better than to mess with it.

Netflix was his.

I was not authorized to touch it.

But I couldn't help myself. The queue was chock-full of action flics, horror movies and crime dramas and while I love the action stuff, I was getting a little tired of his choices. They seemed a little, I dunno, repetitive and pointless. But he wasn't really taking my input on this and we got into a rut where nothing in the little red envelope was interesting to me.

So I thought I'd spice things up a bit. No, not that way. If I'd spiced things up that way I wouldn't be in this predicament. He, like most men, would have been pleased as punch at such initiative.

I didn't.

Well, not really.

Ok, I kinda did. But not the right way.

I added Montenegro, which I had not seen since high school. I also added Lantana, Transamerica, Baraka, and Microcosmos. These are supposed to be good movies. And several of them he'd probably even enjoy but we may never see them because we are stuck on Montenegro. It arrived three months ago. He took one look at it, sighed and said, "what the hell did you do to my Netflix queue?" But I didn't send it back because I thought, hey, I want to see it, I'll wait until he's out of town and then I'll watch it by myself.

But I haven't done that.

And I haven't sent it back either.

And now nothing new is showing up at our house because Netflix won't send anything new until they get that one back. I suppose I could upgrade the account to get more movies at once, but that seems just as silly as holding on to a movie it seems obvious I will never watch.

Why am I holding on to it? Honestly, I don't know. It was one of the first graphically sexual movies I ever saw. Not porn but definitely sexual. And a little depraved, I might add. I left the movie theater a giant walking eyeball. I was very shocked by what I had seen (warning, spoiler ahead) because after running away from home to have an affair, the mother returns and kills her entire family. I mean this was not a bad family that had mistreated her. They were just really, really boring. So she hand-fed them poisoned grapes. (I'm sorry, I've completely ruined this movie for you, but since I can't imagine that Netflix has more than one copy of it in stock, and that one copy is safely tucked away in my bedroom, the chances of you actually seeing it are pretty small.)

I think I'm wondering how the movie will stand the test of time and my own personal experience. So I'm holding onto the damn thing, knowing that if I send it back I will certainly never put it in the queue again, knowing also that I have no real intention of watching it.

This is the kind of behavior that makes my husband insane. And really, who wouldn't be driven insane by it? As I read my own words I'm struck by some sense of witnessing the pathological.

That's it. Tomorrow I'm sending it back. And if I have an ounce of sense I'll put something awful like "Saw 2" at the top of the list to make amends.

No I won't.

But I could put something like Fishing with John at number one, and the Usual Suspects at number two. Maybe that will redeem me enough so that he will reclaim ownership of the Netflix queue and we can get back to watching movies again.

See, it's called merging

Here's how it works:

He goes in front of you.

Then you go in front of her.

The Jetta goes next.

Then I go.

Ad infinitum.

This activity is called merging. You may remember a similar activity from kindergarten called taking turns.

So when you, Mr. I'm-a-very-busy-man-in-a-big-expensive-car, made such a big point about not letting the Camry go in front of you, you interfered with the natural order of things. Your refusal to merge was akin to tripping the first domino. The rest of the dominos (the line of cars behind you) quickly decided the Camry was weak and didn't let him in either. Car after car passed as he blocked the lane, creeping forward with his turn signal on, hopeful of mercy.

But this is Highway 101 and there is no mercy here.

The rest of us poor suckers who are queued up behind the Camry, now AKA Mr. Yellow Belly, are trapped and motionless (unless you count hand gestures). This is not good. This is where road rage starts. It starts where most good bouts of rage do, with injustice.

Car after car passes and our lane doesn't move. Something must be done. Everyone in my lane starts turning their heads to the left, looking for an opportunity to escape. The act is risky. Pack mentality has turned the other lane into a defensive line, and we have become the invaders. They have to keep us out. We have to force openings big enough to merge while not running into Mr. Yellow Belly.

The Jetta in front of me jumps suddenly into traffic and the element of surprise works: she's in. I wait for the next car to pass, then insist on my place in the merge.

Hit me, I dare you. I double dog dare you.

Success. The rest of the cars behind me resume their acts of taking turns while Mr. Yellow Belly watches. Eventually someone takes pity on him and lets him in.

Order is restored to the universe.

QotD: A Tip About Tipping

What's your method for calculating a tip?

I'm going to steal my answer from Steve Martin in My Blue Heaven:

It's not tipping I believe in. It's overtipping.

But the best answer to this question so far, comes from Spike.

 

 

 

You gotta have friends

I've been so out of touch with just about everyone. We moved houses - over two years ago - and never told anyone the new address. I haven't sent Christmas cards in at least three years (and yes, I'm sad because now I don't get them either). I never call anyone on the phone except my sister. I can call her because she has the same loud screeching noise happening in her background as I do. My girls never need to talk to me until I'm on the phone. Then they need me THAT INSTANT. I rarely even answer the phone these days because it's almost never my friends. It's usually people looking for donations, or votes. Yes, I'm planning to vote. No, I'm not going to say for whom or what. No, I don't care what you are pitching. Please stop calling during dinner. In fact, please just stop calling.

I hate being so out of touch with my people. I miss them. But reaching out seems so impossible and if you aren't on my IM list, in Vox or actually in my office or house, there's a really good chance that we aren't talking.

That doesn't mean that I don't love you, of course. I just don't seem to have the time to tell you about it. (Please take a note: I love you.)

This life as a busy hermit crab has naturally resulted in a much smaller circle of friends. One that I have expanded somewhat within Vox, but which is still incomplete. I like my new friends but I miss my old friends.

(non sequitor: right now Peggy Lee is singing "Black Coffee." Such a great song. "I'm feeling mighty lonesome, I haven't slept a wink. I walk the floor and watch the door, and in between I drink, black coffee. Love's a hand me down brew. I'll never know a sunday, in this weekday room." Ah.)

Scott and Mike are two friends I thought I'd lost forever. These guys were my buddies for the three years I worked at Novell, and we did a good job, for a while, of keeping in touch after we left the company. We were, I thought, such a perfect set. We traveled together, worked trade shows together, re-enacted the Kennedy assassination together in Dallas (don't ask, it was so awful it was funny) and in general we made each other laugh. I loved every minute with them. (Except for when Scott was vomiting. He's such an adorable lightweight.)

Then three completely unrelated events occurred: I got pregnant, Scott got married and Mike went off in search of adventure (taken together like that, it looks kind of sordid. It wasn't). We tried to stay in touch but eventually lost the thread. Well, not quite, Scott and Mike still had each other (they were best friends, after all), but I didn't have them. I felt the loss.

Then last week Mike found my email address online (thanks Google) and dropped me a note. That evening a flurry of email passed between the three of us and it was just like it used to be. From Mike: "'Mikey' brings it all back. Scott never changes and apparently neither do you." What he is trying to say is that he still hates the annoying nickname I gave him so long ago (Mike is sooooo not a Mikey) and that we are just as immature as we always were. Which of course makes him happy. Me too. Oh, and he agreed to try Vox out too.

In addition to these two dear friends, I am back in touch with my favorite teacher of all time, Larry (and yes, I still want to call him Mr. Vilaubi). And though I have lost Cathy to the northern wilds of Portland (still sobbing about that), I did manage to get her into Vox. Miracle of miracles, she's posting (not publicly). Beloved Janis is in here too, posting photos very, very quietly. That's ok. It's enough that she's here. Now if I can just get the Vixen (aka Jackie) in here, my Vox will be damn near to perfect.

Lucky girl that I seem to be this year (knock on wood), my world is filling up with friends. I may not have a legion of them, but the ones I have are golden. I still don't spend enough (read any) time with them, but as Mike puts it: "The best friends are the ones you never have to actually see. They're so easy to not be around." This is so Mike. One of the many reasons I'm glad to have that boy (and Scott) back on the radar.

2006: the year of recovered friendship.

Welcome to duck season

fist ducks of the season

No, this is not our truck. This truck belongs to Cody.

But they are our ducks. Or at least they were until we gave them to Angelo. Whoever is eating dinner at his house tonight is very lucky.

[This is sad]

11-03-06_0836.jpg

A mere three days after Halloween and our pumpkin is already decomposing. So much so that the gourd is covered in black mold, a liquid has started to seep from the bottom (look Mama, the pumpkin is going pee!) and there is a snail living on the side (not for long).

I'm going to need a hazmat suit to get this thing into the trash.

QotD: My Vox Name

How did you pick your Vox name? Does it mean something? 
Submitted by LeendaDLL.  

ser·en·dip·i·ty (srn-dp-t)  Pronunciation Key  
n. pl. ser·en·dip·i·ties

1. The faculty of making fortunate discoveries by accident.
2. The fact or occurrence of such discoveries.
3. An instance of making such a discovery.

Serendipity has always been one of my favorite words. The way it rolls off the tongue reminds me a little of Mary Poppins (supercalifragilisticexpialidocious), or Cinderella (bibbity bobbity boo). Serendipity is a happy word. It's also a fantastic dessert shop in Manhattan - their frozen hot chocolate is to die for.

So really, what's better than something good that happens totally unexpectedly? Well, I suppose you could say hoped -for happiness, as in a wish-come-true. Ok, I'll buy that. But this is a very close second and much more fun to pronounce.

Blogging in Vox, for me, is all about serendipity (yep, it's all about me). You hop over here, skip over there, and lo, what's that? Something cool. Something interesting. Something discovered that you never ever would have found had you searched for it all your life. And of course you never would have searched for it in the first place. But there it is: serendipity.

 

P.s  The spell checker does not like supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, but it does like bibbity bobbity boo. Go figure that.