Interesting bit of graffiti I saw today. Way deeper than it seems at first. Ignore the spelling mistake. In fact, I think it’s a feature, not a bug.
“Before love I used to think words ment something.” True statement, maybe even truer than they thought. It’s also a paradox. Love is something words can’t express. But they said it with words.
That got me thinking. Language itself is a kind of paradox. A sentence never really “means” anything, because it’s made out of words, not the thing it refers to. Like an internet friend said on the subject, “It’s only a paradox because you’re using words.”
“The map is not the territory, the word is not the thing it describes. Whenever the map is confused with the territory, a ‘semantic disturbance’ is set up in the organism. The disturbance continues until the limitation of the map is recognized.”
I’m definitely not the first person to think of this. Wittgenstein explored the subject, as did Alfred Korzybski, quoted above. Surrealist Rene Magritte’s famous painting “This is not a pipe” is a good illustration. It definitely represents a pipe, but you can’t smoke it. It’s a symbol, just as words are symbols.
Being the old codger that I am, I have “get off my lawn” moments. I can’t deal with autotune, for one thing – keeps me from getting into music I might otherwise like.
I just had a conversation with a friend about how growing up on the internet has turned Gen Z into aliens. We don’t get their memes, their references. I tried a couple of songs his teenagers like and it was nails on a chalkboard. To be fair, Dad felt the same way about AC/DC.
Still I believe there is talent in every generation, even that one. I usually find a young artist or band that impresses me. When I do, that gives me hope. The latest of those is Ren, a young musician who just went viral with his song “Hi Ren.”
To be honest, I didn’t quite get it. What even is it? Song? Spoken word poetry? Acoustic hip hop with an English spin? I wasn’t sure if I liked it or hated it.
But there’s something to it. It’s original. Inspired. I think the world has been craving something like that. As he states in the song above, Ren has been sick a lot in his young life (from effects of long misdiagnosed Lyme Disease). He’s been able to channel his suffering into something creative and amazing.
And wouldn’t you know it? As soon as “Hi Ren” went viral, Ren got sick again and will take several months to recover.
In the meantime give his other music a listen and don’t forget him. I’ve subscribe to his YouTube channel and will be going through his other songs.
Frederick Douglass, ca. 1879. George K. Warren. (National Archives Gift Collection)
Exact Date Shot Unknown
NARA FILE #: 200-FL-22
WAR & CONFLICT BOOK #: 113
Today I’m happily married. My wife and I are eating strawberries dipped in chocolate. But I remember when Valentine’s Day was something I just had to endure as a chronically single person.
If that’s you, or you’re tired of celebrating yet another commercialized holiday, it turns out there are a lot of alternatives. Extraterrestrial Culture Day kinda jumps out at me.
The first REAL holiday on the list is Frederick Douglass Day.
Frederick Douglass deserves to be celebrated, and not just during Black History Month. He was a fiery activist for the abolition of slavery, and as an escaped slave, he knew exactly why it needed to end.
February 14th was the day when Frederick Douglass celebrated his birthday. He had to pick a day, because he was never able to find out when he was born.
I plan to know more about him by next Frederick Douglass Day. his works have been on my reading list for the longest time.
My wife told me last night, “I love the enthusiasm you exhibit when you talk about the worst case scenario.” Dang it. Nothing I could say. Lifelong #pessimist. Busted.
But two can play. I was picking on her for being double-plus Type A. She was beating herself up about not doing some work project 100 percent perfectly when she was probably in the high 90s.
“My Type A personality gives us a good life.” I said “So maybe you should enjoy life then?” Busted 🙂
Those are the kind of arguments we have. They basically amount to, “You’re sillier.”
So I am so tripping right now. I just found out about muonium. It’s lighter than regular matter and has nothing to do with cows. Why do I care? I don’t know. I’m a little high. And a lot nerdy.
I barely learned about muons a few months ago. Another one of those atom smasher stories. That was hard enough for me to wrap my head around.
Usually, “they just discovered a particle” quantum physics news goes in one ear and out the other. I can’t keep up with all the subatomic particles they keep finding in labs. It’s voodoo to me at this point.
I pay attention to science news, but they keep finding things out. When I was in school, atoms looked like the solar system. People on the news were going nuts over something called a God particle a while back, but I didn’t bother to dig into it. I usually don’t care as long as it’s not gonna blow me up. I might get curious about it later.
Muons grabbed my attention, because they already have a commercial use. Like electrons only bigger? Still trippy, but particles you can shoot at stuff is something I get. They have lasers now.
Now I find out there’s a kind of matter called muonium, like a little bitty atom. With an anti-muon (anti-matter!) and an electron. So it’s an “atom” that’s lighter than hydrogen. It’s another one of those things in the atom smasher that lasts a fraction of a second, but it’s long enough to make compounds like muonium chloride and Sodium Muonide (!). It’s too much for my brain.
They discovered it in 1960. Never came up in school. That kinda pisses me off. Anyway, it’s all of my life late, but now I know another physics thing. Now when are they going to figure our how to make something out of it?
It’s a weird feeling getting old. Sometimes I forget. Then I look in the mirror.
It still surprises me sometimes, all those wrinkles, all that gray. Or I get that twinge in my back if I stand or sit too long. I tell people I feel like a very poorly maintained 30 year old.
Because it’s kind of true. I know I’ve changed, but I feel like the same old me. I see 30-somethings and think of them as peers. We’re both “middle aged.”
But honestly I’m more than middle age. Way past the halfway mark. To a 30-year old, 58 is hella old.
It still surprises me sometimes, all those wrinkles, all that gray. Or I get that twinge in my back if I stand or sit too long. I tell people I feel like a very poorly maintained 30 year old.
Because it’s kind of true. I know I’ve changed, but I feel like the same old me. I see 30-somethings and think of them as peers. We’re both “middle aged.” But honestly I’m more than middle age. Way past the halfway mark. To a 30-year old, 58 is old.
Makes me laugh sometimes to think some of these “peers” may see the gray in my beard and think I’m some kind of elder statesman, and have some kind of wisdom. They look at me like the old oak tree and think, “You’ve seen so much history! How does it all work oh wise one?”
Actually, I’m sure they’re not thinking that. Which is good, because I have no idea! You’d think I would have by now. I have seen a lot of history.
But no. I haven’t figured out a damn thing. I thought I had the world figured out a few times and then, YANK! The the world pulled the rug out from under me. Everything I “know” about the world is provisional. If I know anything for sure these days it’s that the truth is slippery.
It’s like the feeling I had when I realized how my parents must have felt when I was a kid. Like holy crap! They were totally flying by the seat of their pants!
I remember when I turned 33, I wrote one of those reflection columns, about where I was in life now that I was middle aged. You know the age, where you figure out some of the things you might have done, you’re not going to live long enough to do? It’s a sobering thought when you first have it.
Then at least 15 years, living in denial, pretending you’re still young-ISH. You could still date those young honeys if you wanted to. But eventally you have to admit it. No, I’m old. Just let the hair go gray and fall out. Admit it.
Being old has its perks though. Knowing I won’t live long enough to do all those maybes, frees me up to work harder on the things I can still do. Plus it’s a relief not having to keep up with who’s famous any more, or listen to the pop of the day. I like some recent stuff, but I get to be choosy.
Of course I a scientist could turn me back into a 33-year old, I’d be ecstatic. I’d want to take my wife with me of course, but that would be awesome. Think of all the mistakes I wouldn’t have made if I knew what I know now…
But sometimes, when I jump out of bed like a 33 year old and my 58 year old feet hit the floor, I know being old can be a bitch. Hopefully I’ll still be around at 68, writing about how 58-year-old me had nothing to complain about.
Me, in the back of a friendly citizen’s pickup truck, about to cover a small town parade. I think growing a beard was a good move. Look at those chins…
I was so relieved to get out of print journalism, I burned my press card. The career of a lifetime, up in flames. (Actually just burned one corner. That shit stinks.)
All my friends had bailed. Corporate was making changes I just couldn’t stomach. I’d have less editorial control and I knew more layoffs were coming. I don’t know how I hung on so long.
But I do know why.
When it was good, it was so good — if you were cut out for it. We had a running joke in one place I worked, “I’m gonna move my car.” A cub reporter once went out to move her car on press day and never came back. Journalist isn’t just a job title. It’s an identity. One I tried hard to live up to for over 20 years.
Did I live up to it? Not always. But I tried.
I made a lot of friends and a lot of memories, but I also worked hard for not very much money, had to work weekends, nights and some holidays, had periods of great stress and loneliness. But I was hooked. You had to be.
At one newspaper we had a running joke. When things got rough in the newsroom somebody would say, “I’m gonna move my car!” A young reporter once went out to move her car and never came back. I admit I considered it a time or two.
Stressful as it was, there was nothing like the thrill of knowing you were the first to know. Even at a weekly or semi-weekly, you could scoop the dailies if you were good enough. At the very least you could have the best version.
Or the camaraderie you felt, all of us editorial folks working late so we could get a hot scoop into the next edition. We argued, told jokes in bad taste, had rubber band fights, threw paper wads at the ceiling fan. And we put out newspapers we were proud of. Then we’d race to the local bar and get trashed.
I wish I had appreciated it more. Eventually big box stores and the internet killed so many of our mom and pop advertisers, it was only a matter of time. I knew we were in trouble when the speaker at a convention tried to tell us our biggest competitor was the Yellow Pages.
They all found other jobs, one by one. Some saw the writing on the wall and found a job outside journalism. PR jobs, non-profits, state government. Others got laid off and their workloads fell on my shoulders. Press days got later and later. It sucked, but I kept convincing myself it would get better.
It was like trying to talk yourself out of a divorce you know is coming. I loved it once, maybe the magic would return. But deep down I knew better. I was getting too old for it and the outlook for journalism was grim.
I literally thought I was going to wind up homeless. I had a special backpack I planned to take on the road with me. Ultimately just would up using it as carry-on luggage.
I really miss the folks I worked with over the years. A bunch of crazy characters, yet creative and professional (most of ’em). None of the newspapers I worked for were big dailies, but I was proud of the issues we put out (most of ’em). Sometimes we even scooped the big city paper next door.
Late Boomer's Den 
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