A man of might might be a weakling in disguise,
But a man of means can be the meanest of men.
A man of might might be a weakling in disguise,
A man of might might be a weakling in disguise,
But a man of means can be the meanest of men.
The NBA All Star Game is quickly approaching and the fans submitted their votes for who they’d like to see start in the greatest showcase of basketball. But one player, a player who was the fans’ choice to Make Basketball Great Again, will not be in the starting lineup.
Zach Pachulia represents change. Many NBA fans are tired of the status quo for what defines basketball greatness. They don’t want to see players who can simply launch the ball into the hoop from 35 feet away or who display dazzling athleticism in averaging nearly a triple-double. They demanded a departure from rigid definitions of greatness in basketball that value athleticism and skill over facial stubble and Russian toughness. They demanded Zach Pachulia. They demanded a player like Pachulia who makes the most out of his 18 minutes a game and who stands above the so-called stars.
Zaza Pachulia stands over Russell Westbrook after foul https://t.co/caGf2E0CoF—
Round 2 (@World_Wide_Wob) January 19, 2017
They demanded a player from the Soviet bloc who shares the traditional Slavic values that we cherish.
Pachulia received the second most votes from the fans to start for the Western Conference, yet now there’s a good chance he may be watching the game from his neighborhood Chili’s.
This is because the NBA does not trust democracy. In 2016, Pachulia almost got his chance to be an All Star starter while playing for the Dallas Mavericks. Thanks to a grass roots effort, he finished 3rd place in All Star Voting for frontcourt players in the Western Conference, barely losing his spot to Kawhi Leonard. With a new team, this year he overtook The Claw in fan voting, but the NBA changed the voting rules. This year, starters were determined by a weighted system that uses player votes and media votes in a way that undermines the democratic process. Pachulia finished second in fan voting, but the elitist members of the media and the NBA had him way down on their ballots.
The NBA isn’t the first to wield its tyrannical saber at the voting process. In 2007, on American Idol, Sanjaya displayed his artistic vocal stylings in an effort to Make Music Great Again by reverting back to a day before notes and key signatures mattered. The fans loved him and voted him onward. The judges, however, did not like that. They held it against Sanjaya that he didn’t sing in a way that conformed to their view of what makes a great singer, to wit: singing on pitch. In subsequent years, they too created a weighted system that allowed the judges’ votes to potentially override the popular vote.
This is terrifying for democracy. The people obviously know best. The people wanted Zach Pachulia to Make Basketball Great Again. Thank goodness, at least in Government, the United States hasn’t limited the people’s right to decide whom they want to represent their values.
We don’t believe the dinosaurs thought about the comet that wiped them out, but I’m sure it pissed them off. The whole consciousness of Gaia, Mother Earth, was offended by that death blow. Life had evolved to fill every niche; land, air, and sea teemed with it. Stable for millions of years, Mother Earth had achieved perfection, she thought.
Then that outside force, a war hammer from the stars, and Nature started over, this time not just to fill every biosphere of the earth, but to face down threats from the stars as well. She knew it would take more than just biology; it depended on emergence, characteristics of a complex system where the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. Complex systems like our large brains; we call it intelligence, the ability to reason.
20 million years later and here we are. Intelligence is expensive, the power to reason comes at great energy costs to the organism, and there has only been one species that has made the cost workable. Us, with maybe the large sea mammals holding a back-up copy of the basic software.
There was a time when the human species was on the endangered list, a time when there were only a few thousand of us. But we made it through that narrow gate, we made our large expensive brains work for us, and now we rule the planet. Some of nature’s processes are still outside of our control, but we’re working on gaining control of even those.
So, we are Gaia’s tool, evolved to extend the shield of life beyond the boundaries of our own atmosphere. And what are we doing? Struggling with petty arguments, backing away from the great challenge for which nature created us, turning our backs on the stars.
Today we struggle with a government that has shut down, unable to do even the most basic of things. Our sky watch is dark. And in less than a month, an asteroid will pass between us and the orbit of the moon, death whistling by to remind us that the universe is uncaring, if not downright hostile.
The sky is falling. Reason has failed. Winter is coming.
Consider Bob. Bob wakes up at six a.m. when his alarm goes off. He doesn’t want to wake up. He stayed up all night playing poker. He was up a hundred bucks at the beginning but ended the night with pretty much the same amount he brought to the table. Kind of the story of his whole life. It’s the price to pay for friendship. His wife will later accuse him of being greedy and trying to win it all, but there’s no way she’ll ever understand the social taboo of winning your friends’ money then leaving without sharing a few drinks. They would deride him for putting money over friendship, as if money had nothing to do with poker night. The point is, he’s pretty bitter about not being a hundred dollars richer, and now the alarm is hammering into his head. He has a choice. He can go back to sleep and miss work, or he can get up and get ready. Or he can take the middle rode and hit snooze, making a sacrifice with each press of that oversized button: first the breakfast, then the coffee, then the relaxing shower, then the careful shave. And if his flailing arm becomes so automatic in its slap of the snooze that he’s not even consciously aware of it until it’s 7:25 and he has to be at work at 8, then he might have to skip the shower and shave altogether and opt for a greasy swipe of deodorant instead. Today he gets up on time as if he’s a puppet of obligation.
By 7:30 he’s on the road. It takes him longer than he thinks to get out of his neighborhood because there’s only one way in and one way out. But since he’s moving at the speed limit he doesn’t get the absurdity that even though the main road passes directly behind his property, it takes him seven minutes to exit the neighborhood, loop around the block, and make it to the main road. While another access point to the main road would open his neighborhood up to thru traffic, that’s the last thing he needs when he has two kids who like to play outside. Once he meets the main road, rush hour traffic is a bitch. There are no shortcuts. Apparently, others don’t like thru traffic through their neighborhoods either. The city planners are idiots, he thinks. And does every mom need to spoil her kids by driving them to school instead of making them ride on the buses, which are running half empty? He convinces himself that if he lets that red Mazda cut in front of him, that that is going to make the difference on whether he is late or not. He squeezes the gap, but damn that bitch to hell, she cuts in front of him anyway. Everyone seems to be conspiring against him to make him late.
Didactic aside. The truth of the matter is that commute times to and from work have been consistently about 30 minutes on average for the last 4000 years, as if that’s the threshold to which humans can endure without going insane. Once, Prehistoric Joe probably thought it would be much easier to live right next to the river, but after one good flood washed away their clubs and hides and especially after the subsequent tongue lashing from Prehistoric Jane, Joe knew better than to settle so closely to their water supply. Even Roman planners built their cities with a 30-minute commute in mind. The outskirts of a Roman city could not be more than 30 minutes away from the center. As we move faster our cities have grown bigger. When that interchange Bob and three hundred other angry motorists complain about is completed, it will only facilitate more growth in the area and traffic will swell once again. The half hour commute is here to stay, but we won’t tell this to Bob.
He gets to work, which, even though it makes him stressed by the end of the day, isn’t that traumatizing in the grand scheme of things. He likes to flirt with Wendy. Of course, his wife wouldn’t approve, but it’s not like she (his wife) can see him. He’s a free man when he’s at work, unless he slaps Wendy on the butt, which he’s really itching to do, but he’s worried doing that might get a sexual harassment claim levied at him. Damn those frivolous lawsuits and feminist laws that prevent him from just being a man. Once a year, he and every other employee at the office have to attend sexual harassment awareness meetings and sign off that they’ve read the information pamphlet carefully and promise to abide by company procedure or else face disciplinary action or even termination. Rules, rules, and more rules encroach on his freedom to reach out and meet that sumptuous tush.
Meanwhile, Wendy is the first of three generations of female workers in her family to be able to go to work free from the abuse and degrading behavior of her male coworkers. She’s not a liberal feminist and hates when people label her as such. Nevertheless, she goes home angry that her boss can be so hardheaded and that she’s been passed over for a promotion when she’s clearly more qualified. She knows the real business, as far as the internal politics is concerned, goes on after work when the men hit up the neighborhood bar and share a few drinks before going home. She’s never invited…anymore. She was invited once, but since she’s not a drinker, she ordered a lemonade. The others teased her before settling into an uncomfortable period of awkwardness where they weren’t willing to relax and talk until she took a swig of some real stuff. A co-worker tried to buy her a shot. She politely pushed it away, and he reacted as if she’d just slapped his momma on the face. Damn social entrapments. But she’s an independent woman, thirty-five, and still in her entry-level job. Today on her way home, it’s Rush hour—Rush Limbaugh. He’s making her angry—in a good way, she thinks. She’s being enlightened. She works her ass off and these socialists in power want to give her hard-earned money to people too lazy to work. Her husband calls just as the show is getting interesting.
“Hey, hon. I’m just getting off of work, but I’m going to stop at the supermarket before I get home. How was your day?” he asks.
“Fine,” she answers, as if she could say anything else. She’d like to tell him how crappy her day was—he’s her husband for God’s sake—but the times that she’s tried this, he’s slowly retreated into a secret tunnel inside that cave that is phone silence. Neither of them feels free to ask anything that might penetrate their wall of security. She can’t ask him where the money goes, because he might take it that she doesn’t trust him. They don’t trust that the other can handle inquiring questions without becoming defensive. So, they don’t talk anymore. Really talk. To each other, they’re just safety belts that come into use only in case of an accident. One day, unless an accident saves it, their marriage will collapse on itself. Maybe she secretly hopes for this. Bob at work seems to be interested in her. “Damn those lazy socialists!” she yells after she hangs up the phone. She’s almost home when she remembers that she’s out of dog food and she’s mad at herself for not telling her husband to pick up some at the store. Whatever. Let them eat steak, she thinks, but Steve her husband will volunteer to go back to the store and buy some food, making her feel guiltier in the process. She turns around and detours to the pet store.
Steve returns from the supermarket, and his wife is still not at home. Did she go drinking with the guys again? He went to a company party once and saw how Bob looked at her. Is something going on? Is she with him? He can’t stand the thought. At first he’s saddened, then he’s angered. He calls her again, but she doesn’t answer. Since he lost his career job when his company went belly-up, he’s been working at the Shoe Palace selling ladies’ shoes. Doesn’t pay well. Better hours though. But he senses Wendy’s resentment at their lower lot in life. He’s tried to be a better husband. More helpful. But the truth is she’s the breadwinner, and that’s just not acceptable to his family, especially his brothers who tease him mercilessly. He’s also ashamed when they go out with her friends from the office. He feels small. Each day that he tries to be a little more helpful to his wife, he feels a little more empty and depressed. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. “The man is the head of the household,” his pastor said, but he sure doesn’t feel like it. What else can he do? Where is she? That slut. Oh, the love of my life, he thinks. We were happy once, right? Stupid banks. Stupid financial crisis. Stupid deregulation. Why doesn’t Wendy see that it was the Republicans that caused this? She’s so cold-hearted and fixed in her ways. Maybe Bob’s a Republican and is in to that free trade crap. Free trade my ass. It had a lot of costs. Opened the doors to cheaper imports costing American jobs, my job. Why doesn’t she answer the phone? He’s feeling desperate. He was going to cook dinner, but now he doesn’t feel like it. He goes to his bedroom, but their happy wedding pictures on the wall make him feel even more depressed. He goes into the bathroom. Locks the door. Here, he’s free.
A moral? In our day-to-day lives we are free—and responsible—to make choices and accept the consequence of these choices. We isolate ourselves in protected neighborhoods. We hide in the anonymity of our cars where we feel free to unleash our anger. While we are bound by some rules that are intended to protect the freedom of others, we are free to attack these rules as being to loose…or too strict. We are free to tangle ourselves in our own abstract fantasies until we become victims of our own minds. We are free to blame the government, though it has always struck me as odd that in one string of thought we can view the government as hopelessly dysfunctional yet still believe that this same government has the ability to manipulate our lives as if it were their personal agenda to make us miserable. We are free to let our own fears and suspicions get the better of us even after we experience time and again that the cost of distrust is greater than the pain of betrayal. Yet, we also are free to choose the things that will fulfill our lives. We are free to consider that perhaps the things that anger us most are the things that really affect us the least. Or we can stay angry. We are free to embrace humanity, including our faults and missteps, instead of running from it. We are free to perceive the world as we wish.
We are free to enslave ourselves.
We are free to escape.
Pundits have tried to attach their own spin to the meaning of the Occupy Wall Street movement. Depending on the media outlet you watch or listen to, the protesters are either a group of uninformed youngsters more interested in creating havoc than pushing a cogent agenda or a group of highly educated, underemployed who champion Michael Moore’s views on Capitalism. As is often the case, neither of these extreme characterizations are likely accurate.
What the Occupy Wall Street movement is all about is regaining the individual’s voice. Corporations have gained control of our government, a fear expressed by Abraham Lincoln in the quote I posted yesterday. We live in a corporatocracy and the corporation always has the upper hand. I’m not trying to tout a conspiracy theory but am merely pointing out the obvious. Every candidate for public office, unless he or she is independently wealthy, needs corporate support to have a chance at winning an election. Foreign policy is often dictated by “American interests,” which is just code for corporate interest, rather than by threats to national security or humanitarian reasons. Corporations push for free trade agreements and have a large say in the “foreign loans” we give to other countries. That being said, just because corporations have power doesn’t necessarily mean they will use it poorly.
Corporations have many tools at their disposal to get their way. They’ll use lobbyists, public relations campaigns, political influence via campaign donations, and if all else fails, making the American worker an unwitting hostage, which goes something like this: if we don’t get our tax loopholes, we’re taking these jobs overseas. Because through mergers and acquisitions, these corporations have grown so big that their profit sheets dwarf the GDP of some smaller nations, we almost have to give in to their demands because not to do so would be like letting a state leave the union.
Corporations can be very good. In the past, we’ve followed their guidance as they’ve led us to prosperity. We were all too willing to cede control of our say in the process, provided we were included in a share of the profits. During the 80s and 90s, the standard of living improved for most Americans, and retirement portfolios combined with social security were enough to allow our seniors to retire in comfort. Is it justified, that when these corporations make a few bad decisions, that we should take to the streets in protest?
In this case, I can see why. While wages for the poor and middle class have remained stagnant for a little over a decade, we’ve seen executive pay skyrocket. Pension plans of the average worker have been mined to enrich the kings on the throne. Who decides on these salaries? The board of directors. Who serves on these board of directors? Executives of other companies who know that if the general pay of CEOs increases, their own pay raises will be justified. Who elects these members of the board to allow such foolishness? Sadly, we do. Or that is, we’re supposed to, but long gone are the days when we considered which companies we owned. We sacrificed our voice to fund managers who manage our retirement portfolios. While diversifying through mutual funds spread risk and basically ensured profit as long as the stock market goes up (‘the stock market has never lost value over any ten year period,’ is how my financial advisor sold it to me), it also made us less involved in the operations of the companies we own. As long as we were making money, we didn’t make a big stink about it.
This lack of shareholder insight combined with deregulation unleashed the corporations and opened the way for ballooning executive pay. We were doing better; so were they. Greed begets greed. But now we have a chance to fix this. No single entity is entirely to blame, but what we can do is regain our voice. We can watch companies a little more closely and if we don’t like the way a company is doing business, we don’t need to do business with the company. Sometimes this is easier said than done, but isn’t all change? The protestors in New York are making a stand in a collective voice, which is not common in our nation. The free world can easily slip into becoming a “me” world where the concerns of society are quickly forgotten. Corporations can no longer be faceless, and the people who support them can no longer be voiceless because when we are stripped of our identities, like Gollum or Gyges, we lose our humanity.
I’m not one who keeps up with American politics. The electorate is surprisingly fickle and never seems quite able to determine the most meaningful things in their lives. But I am quite taken by the energy surrounding a new candidate named Nobama. What are the odds? A candidate whose name rhymes with the current president! I first saw his name on the bumper sticker of a car I rear-ended. In an attempt to take responsibility for my negligence, I followed the driver for some thirty miles until we ended up at a rally where no less than 500,000 people were screaming Nobama’s name. He seems to be sweeping the imagination of our nation, so I took the first step in becoming an informed citizen by doing some research on Facebook. The only Nobama I found was Jack Nobama out of Dayton, Ohio, and I knew this had to be the guy. His status update of 9/17/2011 stated, “Am tired, but I need to run.” Running for president is exhausting I’m sure. Luckily, learning about a candidate is not so exhausting. Taking an in-depth look at his profile and views on the issues, I could immediately see why people were drawn to this man, so I sent him a friend request. He accepted!
The following are the critical details of this man that are swaying my support in his direction:
His current status is “uncertain,” but I would assume any candidate for public office would have an uncertain status. Campaigning can’t be a job, can it?
He’s forty-seven and lives with his parents. Most people would have forgotten about their parents at this point or counted down the days when they could stick them in a nursing home. Not Jack Nobama. He shows how much he cares about family by staying close by their side.
His status update of 5/16/2010 states “I hope the economy gets better. SOON!!!” On its surface this may not seem like much, but if we look a little deeper, we see that this statement reveals the optimistic, realist, and urgent nature of Nobama’s vision.
Nobama’s educational background bolsters his credentials. He attended Kenyon College in Gambier from 1982 – 1990. His many years at the institution clearly demonstrate his inquisitive mind and thirst for knowledge. It would also be nice to have a bona fide Kenyon in the White House.
Jack Nobama is a man of middle-America values. In the past, he has admirably managed a successful farm in a community called Farmville, although he seems also to have had, at least at some point, loose connections with the mafia and their wars. Upon deep reflection, I don’t consider this a bad quality because we need a president who can bridge the deep divides running through our country.
Let’s face it, engaging with the whacko leaders of the world takes great skill and acumen, but Nobama understands the intricacies of these interactions evidenced by his relationship status which states “It’s complicated.” This is a refreshing acknowledgement of the difficulties of diplomacy.
It’s the 21st century and the days of gender bias should be long gone. Nobama’s profile states very clearly he is interested in both men and woman.
I admit, I have allowed the wave of enthusiasm for candidate Nobama to sweep over me, and now, as enshrined in my Facebook status, I pledge to vote for my friend Nobama in 2012.