You don’t have to be a gardener to get a green thumb

“To be a gardener, it isn’t enough to love flowers; one must hate weeds.” – Anon.

I’m no gardener, and find flowers to be only so-so, but I do hate weeds.

In the trunk of my car I keep a hoe and a pair of work gloves. The other day, I was talking to a friend in a restaurant parking lot after a meal. I kept getting distracted and finally told him to wait a moment while I got the gloves and pulled up an especially egregious thistle sticking up through asphalt nearby.

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Pixar really is the best there is at what they do

On Friday, the latest 3D-animated Pixar film “Up” came out, and I was in the audience to see it. Of course I was.

Now, I love words. Well, I love lots of things, but I’m a writer and I love words in particular. As a copy editor, I’m virtually awash in them, although it’s less easy to love them around deadline. And even if I don’t read books or literature as much as I should, I appreciate them and their place in the world immensely.

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Everything is amazing, and no one should be satisfied

The other day I saw a clip from Conan O’Brien’s show when the comedian Louis C.K. was on. I’m not sure when it was, exactly, but it wasn’t especially recent.

LCK complained about how everything is amazing, and yet no one is happy. Things are better now than they’ve ever been in the history of the world, and people are unappreciative and unsatisfied. For example, LCK grew up with rotary dials, while today we have multi-functional cell phones, and people still complain about how long it takes a call to go to space and back down to Earth.

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Sure it’s unbearable, but it’s a dry heat

The summer season is fast approaching, if it isn’t here already. By my reckoning, it is summer because there are far more summer days in the week than winter ones, and very soon the winter echoes will disappear for near a year. (Good riddance.)

Ah well. I love the summer season. Spring is by far my least favorite, and if I can, I skip over it. A poor man’s summer with more dust and allergies. (Achoo.)

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It’s nice to have some quiet time once in a while

The other day I went up to Odessa College during the afternoon to see my former professor and current friend David Newman. It wasn’t that long ago I walked those halls for my own edification, but already so much has changed that I spent most of my time thinking, “Well I don’t remember that being there.”

In any case, not many students were on campus at the time, and the experience reminded me of one of the things I miss most about school: being there when very few or no one else is.

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Torture is awful and we should never do it — unless we have to

It might have been more topical to write a column about the swine/Mexican/North American/H1N1 flu, but I’m sick of it. At this point, the panic seems to be more virulent than the virus, but then again, overreactions can only exist in retrospect.

That’s as close to a segue as I think I can manage, so I’ll just go with it. Some people are now looking back on the anti-terrorism policies and actions of 2001 and 2002 as excessive at best and literally criminal at worst, and at the center of all of it is the supposed torture of detainees at the Guantanamo Bay detention camp, and elsewhere.

Justifiably, it’s a very contentious and complicated issue, even when discussed civilly and with intellectual honesty. Mutually exclusive good principles sometimes butt heads, and this is unavoidable. Most of the time, the conversation is cast to make the opposing views look evil or ridiculous, but this isn’t helpful.

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And one for the road

When I first started working as a copy editor, I was told it would make an alcoholic out of me. Coming up on a year later, this is largely true, although real hell raisers and big dogs would be insulted to have me lumped into their company.

I any case, copy editing’s relationship to alcoholism is not so directly connected as it’s sometimes made out to be. Many people say after a day of work, “I need a drink,” and go sip longnecks at hotel bars habitually. Most of those people, though, do not get off work at midnight.

Every now and then I mention a bar in a column, and some people don’t like it. I understand their distaste for establishments specializing in alcoholic beverages, but I don’t have much other choice.

If your social life is your family, what this means is you go home to bed at a somewhat decent hour, get up in the late morning and keep to a roughly diurnal existence.

If you’re single and your social life is your peers, the evenings are a wash because you’re at work the whole night, and you get off several hours after the diurnal world has shut itself down, right as beer is no longer sold in convenience stores. In other words, there’s nothing to do (out in the world) except go to bars (or IHOP, or Denny’s, or Whataburger, Pojo’s or Catfish & Company, which most people make it to eventually at about the same time: 2:10 a.m.).

More importantly, once you get to the bar, you’ve only got two hours to drink. Well, less because last call is half an hour before that, depending on how skewed bar-time is to the time used by the rest of the civilized world, and less even than that because you have to drive to get somewhere, order, and get actually your drinks in-hand.

So at best, you’ve got an hour and fifteen of drinking to do, an hour and fifteen minutes to cram in an evening’s worth of consumption and stupidity. This, you see, is why copy editors become or at least act like alcoholics. One cannot drink enough to get drunk and forget the day’s work on beer alone but by every shot that comes from the bartender’s hand.

The point of social drinking is to become inebriated enough not to care about the stupid things you say and do, and to have an excuse the next morning when you remember and do care. For a copy editor of a morning edition getting off work at midnight, this is a goal that requires marked determination if you want any chance of success.

Now the upside is that it’s practically impossible to drink yourself passed the legal limit unless you really, and I mean really, are trying. The downside is that this is a lot more expensive than some other choices you have during the day, and it forms bad habits for alcohol consumption if you get started any earlier than midnight. (“Oh hey, I still have four more hours before the bar closes!”)

It’s tough being nocturnal, is all I’m saying. Enough to drive a man to drink.

Young people don’t know anything, especially that they’re young

My birthday was Saturday. I turned 22 and no longer feel young.

“Pshaw.”

No, you’re right to say it. But I always did feel older than I was. Not more mature. I stopped maturing sometime in the seventh-grade (unless maturity is the ability to better-stifle your laughter at fart jokes), but I always could see what was up ahead and fear it.

Twenty-one is the last birthday that means anything for a very long time except that continuing to get them is better than the alternative. When you’re a child, they’re all important, and when you’re a teenager, you look forward to the new things you get to do, but after 22, what is there? My dad couldn’t wait for his senior discount, but that’s quite a ways from here.

Then again, life comes at you fast.

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No taxation without majority representation

In light of certain gubernatorial comments and the aftermath, I was trying to think, what exactly justifies secession? The answer to that is pretty simple, namely sufficient force to be able to do it, but rhetorically or ideally or whatever, when does it become OK to start the conversation on breaking away from the larger country? More frankly, when does whining cross over into the territory of legitimate grievances?

Actually looking at the American Revolution, for example, you’d be hard-pressed to say the British were really all that mean to their American colonies, especially compared to the colonies the British possessed in other parts of the world – or even how the Americans treated their own slaves.

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Which of these magical objects would you take?

The other day I saw a poll, one of those ridiculous hypotheticals I think was designed to test a person’s personality, although what exactly was being tested and what the answers meant are still beyond me.

There were four magical objects offered, each with an impossible ability but having a limitation. They were a notebook, a car, a pen and a wallet, and these were their descriptions: Continue reading “Which of these magical objects would you take?”