tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18212459722423969642024-03-05T13:29:16.013-05:00Detour"...miles to go before I sleep..."Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-34035082294311765552012-08-28T14:16:00.000-04:002012-08-28T19:27:13.583-04:00Coming Home (3 of 3)A few weeks ago my former trainer, Sam, who is now my coworker and who I'm increasingly apt to call friend, was getting ready to compete in what I consider a "gun show." Part of this process involves doing unnatural things to one's body. Don't ever be under the illusion that bodybuilding and physique competitions have anything remotely to do with health. The aesthetic side of the fitness industry is the antithesis of health; it simultaneously inspires and alienates. It sets artificial ideals and then places undue emphasis on them. Health is an afterthought, and it is easily sacrificed in the name of whatever the judges the day of the show consider desirable traits.<br />
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Saying that - I have tremendous respect for people who participate. My disdain for that side of the industry is not a disdain for those who compete. Quite the opposite. I hate the war, not the soldiers. I admire anyone with that much discipline.<br />
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But I knew that was never the direction I would take my personal goals - I'd be years away from even attempting to compete anyway, but the idea of standing in front of people judging my physical appearance pretty much dredges up every fragment of insecurity I have remaining and enlarges them. Even seeing my friends and coworkers do it kind of makes me feel bad for them, as proud of them as I may be. It seems somehow degrading, borderline dehumanizing. Then again, I'm still new at this. Maybe I just don't get it.<br />
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No - I knew I something to work toward that didn't have me checking and rechecking and posing to the side every time I walked past a reflective surface. I knew didn't want to be somebody who measured their obliques with a ruler. Even if I ever enter the local abs competition it will just be to have done it. Faces aren't in the pictures, so I could almost handle that. But I knew that no, that's still not what I needed to have as my first major goal, as much as I considered it. But then I heard something at work - a phrase. The phrase was rolled out of someone's mouth here in the office recently, and it echoed around my head for a while. It was an idea, anyway. <br />
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And besides - what I do now will just be the first goal. Once completed, I'll set another. But if I did this, it was going to be in the three to five year plan. Sam suggested I do it in two, and I conceded. Any longer risks my stagnation. So I started working toward it this weekend. I'm on the lookout for training partners. I will do this. By this time in 2014 I want to have completed an IronMan Triathlon.<br />
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I've got my eyes set on my first half-triathlon in June of next year in Raleigh. I would like to complete at least two other marathons next year. My cousin is donating a bicycle for me to adapt for triathlon use, and Sam will be giving me pointers on my freestyle swimming stroke. Janet, another trainer with K180 has agreed to look at my running stride and let me pick her brain. For the past three days I've been running five miles a day and plan to up that in the coming days. I'm modifying my diet to add some calories and try to minimize losing some of the muscle I've worked hard to build. I'm researching ways of continuing my strength training as I also train for endurance. And as much help as I'm getting, and as many questions as I'll likely ask my coworkers in the coming months, it's ultimately up to me this time. This thought occurred to me as I worked out the other day: <i>Trainer, train thyself. </i><br />
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In that, I'll in turn be a better trainer. After the IronMan, what will I do? Who knows? All I know is that I've just started down a very interesting road. IronMan is just the first stop. But for a while, at least until it's done, along with what I'm learning as I'm becoming a coach - is the new focus of this blog.<br />
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This is my new life. And since I managed to earn myself a new life, found what I was supposed to do and found a way to do it, I feel like it's also up to me to help others do the same. And every day, it's up to me to help my clients find out what's inside of them, half asleep, waiting to wake up and stretch its legs.<br />
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Are you ready? <br />
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Let's make it happen.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-77281517049211779652012-08-27T14:25:00.000-04:002012-08-27T14:25:11.856-04:00Coming Home (2 of 3)I was in the gym more and more every week. And as I finally began going through the motions to get certified as a Les Mills BodyPump instructor, I spent nearly as much time in the gym working out and learning choreography (all Les Mills classes are pre-choreographed) as I did at work. I was losing sleep, but each day went through the motions at work just to get to the gym. I felt alive again, felt like I was going to a place for which I was far more cut out than an office. Every morning I hit the gym either to work out with my trainer or by myself, and every evening after work I hit the gym to take a class or practice for my certification. And every evening when I left the office (I started referring to it as the "cold, florescent place") and got to the gym I felt like I was coming home.<br />
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My solo workouts were my new escape, my alone-time, meditation time, my ME time. The harder I worked, the more even-keeled and mellow I would be throughout my day. And while I wasn't sleeping as many hours, the sleep I did get was of better quality than I'd had in years.<br />
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My doctor was pleasantly shocked as my weight continued to drop, I was taken off my blood pressure medication, and where I used to get a cold every two to three months - to this day, I haven't had a cold in nearly a year.<br />
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Every morning as I put on that tie in the gym locker room it was obvious where I belonged, and where I didn't. I just didn't feel like I had a choice, that the military had been my only escape route, until one day - quite unexpectedly, the obvious slapped me in the face while I was working out with my trainer.<br />
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I had recently completed my Les Mills certification weekend, and was practicing by team teaching, getting ready for the final part of the certification - which was to film an entire class from start to finish and send in the tape to Les Mills for critique and evaluation. It was during that training that two small, seemingly insignificant events occurred that today give me goosebumps. We were sent on a two-mile run to warm up for part of the training. I ended up leading. Me. The hundred-pound overweight, chain smoking, hypertensive guy was leading a group of fitness instructors. And later that afternoon, the teacher referred to us as athletes. Athletes. I was an athlete. Really? <br />
<br />
I've always loved to teach. I've always been especially good at it. And the gym is where I feel at home. Working out and learning how to work out changed me, inside and out. I was working out with my trainer, as I said, and that word kept popping back into my head: <i>athlete. </i>I feel myself changing more all the time, becoming more and more who I was meant to be. Who am I not to do this for other people? As my trainer was spotting me, standing over me while I was pressing dumbbells, it was obvious that I should be on the other side of this.<br />
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But my confidence, while increasing, still wasn't where it needed to be. I really still didn't look like a trainer, how would I sell anything? I didn't know the first thing about training, did I? I decided that would come.<br />
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I gave my notice it work - it was supposed to be an extended notice, but that didn't work out as planned. So I ordered the ACE personal trainer certification study materials. And then I spoke with the Director of Personal Training at K180 Fitness (the company with whom my trainer worked). And then I registered for the exam.<br />
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My last day in the hospitality business was uneventful. At around 1pm I walked out of hotel doors for the very last time as an employee. I was done. That was it. What did I do to celebrate? I had a Legs Day. I ran into the Group Fitness Director at our club, and informed her that my schedule was now pretty wide open. She gave some pointers on getting my taping ready, and after a few days I started scheduling classes to be videoed. <br />
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I was done. I was out. It took a while to really hit home, but I did it. I was no longer a Hospitality lifer. <br />
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My last day at the hotel was also exactly one week before I was scheduled to take Personal Training Certification exam, and I couldn't officially begin work as a trainer until I was certified. So I had to pass - there was no question. There was no "if." So that week I spent nearly every waking hour either studying for the exam or shadowing trainers. Twice I team taught BodyPump classes so that I wouldn't lose sight of my taping, but my focus was mostly on the exam. <br />
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I went into the testing facility the Friday morning of the test, and I passed. I was a personal trainer. I was a Certified Personal Trainer. It was my full time job. I can't tell you even now what that was to me, how very <i>right </i>it felt.<br />
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Three weeks later I recorded a BodyPump class and emailed it for evaluation. Eight days later I received an email that I had passed. I was also a certified Les Mills BodyPump instructor. I had in fact managed to change my life and move it in a new direction. I loved driving to work every morning, and still do. I'm where I'm supposed to be, doing what I'm supposed to be doing.<br />
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It's said that success is the enemy. So what now? I get better at being a trainer, yes. I read all the time, research everything, ask constant questions, and I feel like I'm getting better all the time, building a good client base and building strong relationships with them, beaming with pride as I watch people with whom I'm lucky enough to work get stronger, leaner, happier.<br />
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But in addition to working on becoming a better trainer, I realized I needed more solid goals. Something measurable. I needed another hill to climb. Not just the endless one that is getting healthier, changing my body and getting better at what I do. Those things are never-ending. I needed an attainable summit. Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-70894271956548067202012-08-25T08:30:00.000-04:002012-08-25T08:30:49.099-04:00Coming Home (1 of 3)I'm sorry for my long absence.<br />
I got distracted.<br />
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When I last wrote on here I was about a hundred pounds overweight, desperately squeezing a novel from my brain through pudgy, oily tobacco-stained fingers like a rusty caulk gun fixing a hole that could only be fixed from the other side.<br />
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The hole got bigger. It let in more fat while it tried to fill itself with unhealthy food, cigarettes and intricate stories developed from an overactive, escapist imagination. I should've asked from day one: from what was I trying so desperately to escape? My happiest days were spent in front of a laptop, staring at the screen that was a window to a world of my own construction - where the characters acted how I expected them to act and the universe behaved according to my rules.<br />
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The only thing I knew for certain was that I hated my job, and was bitterly angry at this career that with each passing year trapped me in the jaws of experience, dangling me above the fear-of-taking-a-pay-cut pit. At some stage I inexplicably came to the conclusion that the only was out was to join the military.<br />
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I was ready to pack up and leave at any moment. Only I was a little too out of shape. Although at some point I finally managed to quit smoking, I was still overweight. So I gave up escaping into the world of plot convenience and instead escaped into the world of cardio, clumsily hammering away pounds on the eliptical machine, afraid to go on the weight floor and look like a complete fool, not knowing that I had successfully completed that task already. I made myself work until it hurt, punishing myself for my excesses, stomping away life's tedium with each cylce, creating artificial exhilaration with the hammering of my heart and yet doing very little good. But yes, I got smaller, dining on WeightWatchers and denying myself the calories my body needed. <i>No food for you, fat boy. </i><br />
I was still pear-shaped, but I was a smaller pear.<br />
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One day I was happy enough with my weight loss to go ahead and take the next step to joining the military: announce it on Facebook. And then I told my employer and family. I was finally getting out. I was reaching escape velocity. I hired a personal trainer to ready me for boot camp. For the first time in many years, I was really, truly excited about something - not so much joining the military but changing my life for good. I knew that above all else, that was my goal, direction or not.<br />
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The trainer introduced me to weights. And as I passed the age deadline for active duty military, I found I wasn't even terribly upset. My mood seemed to be evening itself out. I still loathed going to work (more and more with each passing day) but I had something to look forward to. I started working with my trainer before work just to set the pace of the day right. The worst part of the day was always leaving the weight floor to shower, put on a tie and take the walk out of the gym to my car.<br />
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Soon I started working out on my own twice a week. I started taking a group class, and as I discovered a confidence I'd never felt, decided one day that I would teach that class. I met new friends.<br />
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The gym became my escape - my therapy and my medication. Walking in, putting on my headphones, melting further into my music with each rep was my new happy place. The pain I caused myself was no longer self-punishing, but a reward that manifested each time I looked in the mirror and discovered a new muscle, or looked at my face and thought "is that really me?" I discovered the adrenaline and endorphin releases that could be found on the weight floor. I was discovering someone deep inside me who may always have been there, but I never bothered to wake up. I was discovering me. The person curled up in a fetal position beneath layers of fat like rings on a tree was stretching his legs.<br />
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<br />Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-2047651083300900432011-02-13T11:39:00.007-05:002011-02-13T12:28:07.879-05:00Alea Iacta EstAlthough there are numerous definitions of life, most schools of science are agreed that life is defined by the following seven characteristics:<br />
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1) Homeostasis<br />
2) Organization<br />
3) Metabolism<br />
4) Growth<br />
5) Adaptation<br />
6) Response to Stimuli<br />
7) Reproduction<br />
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Or, more simply, it is a thing with the ability and drive to further its existence.<br />
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We're not only alive, we've moved beyond basic survival, into a world where many of us are largely driven by the need to be entertained. We're adept at life. And now, we - as a species - are about to do what life does when it has finally worked out how to survive - reproduce.<br />
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If you're not already familiar with the term, <a href="http://www-rohan.sdsu.edu/faculty/vinge/misc/WER2.html">Technological Singularity</a> is the point in which technology will outpace our ability to predict its outcomes. <a href="http://www.kurzweilai.net/the-law-of-accelerating-returns">We have been growing technologically at an exponential rate for years now. </a> As the curve of our technological advance curls upward, it will inevitably reach a horizontal point of no return. Beyond this singularity, as far as humanity is concerned, all bets are off.<br />
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The Singularity is often referred to as the point when a machine has learned to creatively learn. It is the point in which the computer begins to self-evolve. This could also be viewed as the spank and cry, the first breath of something new.<br />
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And what then are we to this new being, this child of ours? Are we little more than messy, high-maintenance carbon-based parents? And if we are even that, only a few of us could take credit for parentage. To our digital offspring, the remaining billions would amount to the monkeys at typewriters required to reproduce Shakespeare. How is this intelligence going to define its creators? How is it to define life? Its definition may well differ from ours as it learns to bypass some of life's previously definitive needs. It will continue to improve upon itself. Anything beyond that is redundant.<br />
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So let's suppose this child of ours does in fact appreciate our need to continue. Let's suppose it somehow deems us relevant, and adopts from us our model of environmental preservation. (After all, why would we suspect our preservation to be little more to it than species management?) This child is functionally immortal, so it's not a stretch to imagine this computer having the ability to upload our very beings. We could "live" forever as data. Our world would quite literally be whatever we wished it to be. Is this Heaven? Would this not be the ultimate test of faith?<br />
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You might one day be given this choice: live out your human life and move onto the next realm, or continue to explore our world indefinitely, and not take the chance. How tempting would it be? But then - what would happen to said faith? Would you still need it? Would you still have it? Would the computer comprehend such a thing, given its infinite capacity?<br />
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Suppose you decided to upload yourself. Would you still be you? Or would you still be dead, a digital copy of yourself remaining in the "cloud?" The only way to know for sure would be to physically attach your brain to the machine until you no longer felt the need for it. And then - with access to the sum total of human knowledge and the access of the interpretation of such by all others that uploaded, I ask again, would you still be you? Would you retain that elusive self? Or, given such a wealth of information, would you not simply wish to join the collective?<br />
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We are approaching this singularity, whether we like it or not. This might seem far-fetched, but technology will reach this tipping point. With the current state of technological advancement, given the direction of its course, and following it to the next logical step, I can't see this <i>not </i>happening.<br />
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This week, a computer will be playing two humans on <i>Jeopardy! </i>The computer, named Watson, will not only need to compile the information needed to answer in the form of a question - a relatively simple task - it will need to comprehend double-entendres, puns and colloquialisms. It will need to take into account humorous nuance and riddle. Watson will then have to decide how much of its winnings to wager based on the probability of a correct answer. It will need to strategize against two other players who may or may not play with a discernible pattern. What this is, goes far beyond what Deep Blue did in its games of chess.<br />
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While Watson may still be light years away from self-awareness or self-evolution, it is a step closer to the Singularity. Whether or not we spend time evaluating possible outcomes or wait, the answer to these questions is fast-approaching.<br />
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I for one, am excited. You might think we should instead be afraid, but I can't say I am. We'll find the answers to these questions. We always find the answers, eventually. This is how we got ourselves in this mess. But you can't blame us. We're only human.<br />
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(You saw that coming).Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-89911885499478383342011-02-05T22:11:00.003-05:002011-02-05T22:55:19.716-05:00My PleasureOkay, so I never intended to use this blog as a sounding board for my emotional frustrations. I've never considered myself especially "emo" or even remotely skilled at expressing my emotions efficiently. But in this newer era I've entered of self-honesty and growth, I have to admit to myself: I absolutely deplore the hospitality industry.<br />
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I've told myself I like it. I've told others I like it. I moved my way out of operations (so as to have a life) into event planning, and then growing bored with that rather quickly, moved into sales. The goal of moving into sales was to learn something new, learn to strategize, learn how the hotel business operates from this standpoint, and still have a schedule which affords personal time.<br />
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After a year in sales, I'm bored again. Yes, I'm learning, yes, I'm challenged. But with my particular position the challenge often comes in the form of a perfectly balanced blend of tedium and stress. It's often repetitive to the point of comical prediction. I know the cold call is going to end in "send me some information." I know when the caller asks "how much is your ballroom?" They can't afford us. I know banquets and the kitchen will perpetually assume I have no idea what life is like in their shoes, and I know that at the end of the day, (like that expression or not), there is no such thing real loyalty in this business. And what I'm learning, to me, has very little impact or relevance in the world. It is a soulless operation.<br />
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I always wanted to help people, to make a difference. I wanted to write, to create, to affect the world and allow myself to be affected by it. I wanted growth, change, interesting ideas and I want to be challenged. I want to travel, I want to explore, I want to learn.<br />
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Currently, I sit in a shared cubicle under fluorescent lightning, in front of a computer. The most variety in my day comes from the wonky AC unit that perpetually makes us all very hot and then very cold. My daily challenges consist of system crashes and slow email. My biggest surprises are exciting requests for proposals over "need" dates. The hills I need to climb are complex BEOs (banquet event orders) that need to be done. Productive discourse is an argument in the exercise in strategic debate that is daily BEO meeting over whether the dressing should be served on the side for a luncheon.<br />
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I would like to affect lives. Instead, I'm producing successful room blocks and day meetings.<br />
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I write because I see it as a way out. I look to return to school because I see it as a way out. I started work in this field because it was something I could do. I continued work in this field because it made my family proud. I built a career out of it because I didn't think there was much else I could do. And now, after a very rough few years, now that what's important is more clear to me than it ever has been, I know that I made a mistake in continuing a career that I don't want. But I'm trapped in it. It's got me in its jaws. If I leave and enter a field in which I have no experience, I'll be lucky to make $10 an hour. My only hope is to go back to school or keep writing.<br />
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Life is so short. Eleven years ago I returned to Charleston from two years in England. Eleven years ago I was a different person, and yet it feels like a matter of several months in many respects. And yet still - this was about a seventh of my life. A seventh. Such a large portion, and clearly there isn't much left. How much regret will I continue to bank?<br />
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How much more of it do I have to lose?<br />
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I'm divorced. I have no children, and I may never. I'm not even sure I want to. All I know is, I'm wasting my precious time. I feel it now more than ever. What's more important? Financial freedom and a mediocre-to-depressing life, or a career that interests me, but living paycheck-to-paycheck? I'll take poverty if it makes life interesting again.<br />
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Thanks for listening, if you did. It's been a long time coming that I get that off my chest.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-81509237807410546322010-12-22T22:14:00.000-05:002010-12-22T22:14:23.723-05:00Blitzer in North Korea: Writing from the Tinderbox<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Far b</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>e it from me to critique a man who has more journalistic experience (and probably talent) in his left pinky fingernail than I in total. Far be it from me to take digs at a CNN journalist who just spent six days in North Korea. I don't have the experience or credentials necessary to take a sarcastic look at the writings of one so well-traveled and seasoned. But it's never stopped me before, so why let it now?</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>I read an article of his today that actually made me laugh for lack of tears. Does this man not have editors? Does he even proofread himself? And how can one so well-spoken and clearly well-educated (poor performance on Jeopardy notwithstanding) write what I'm about to discuss? </b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>To follow is an examination of the article I ready this morning.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">Pyongyang, North Korea (CNN)</span></span></span></b><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b> </b></span></span></span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>-- The Korean Peninsula is a tinderbox. One miscalculation can quickly lead to all-out war and hundreds of thousands of military and civilian casualties on both sides. Millions of North and South Koreans live very close to the DMZ.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>True enough, if vague.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>The North also has a million heavily armed troops on their side of the DMZ; the South nearly has many. There are also nearly 30,000 U.S. troops along the frontier with thousands of artillery pieces and missile launchers facing each other. The North is widely believed to be building a nuclear arsenal.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>I believe this is the most dangerous spot on Earth right now.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Because Sudan, The Ivory Coast, Iran, Iraq, and Afghanistan are so last year.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>We certainly packed a lot into six days here.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>This sentence reads like "What I Did On My Summer Vacation, by John Radley, Grade 5"</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>After receiving our visas at the North Korean Embassy in Beijing, we arrived on Thursday, December 16, on a regularly scheduled North Korean commercial flight from Beijing on Air Koryo flight 252.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Thank you for specifying.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>It was a newish Russian-made Tupolev 204-300 aircraft and a very smooth 90-minute flight accompanied with patriotic music and a video showing the heroic struggle of the North Korean people. The attractive flight attendants wore red suit jackets and white gloves.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>So much smoother than the less advanced Tupolev 203-299</b></span></span></span></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>We flew back to Beijing on Tuesday, December 22, a day after our original plan because of an incredibly thick fog. The flight back was on Air China flight 122, a Boeing 737. The flight attendants did not wear white gloves.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Again, thanks for being specific - but Tuesday was actually December 21st. I know, because it was yesterday. </b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Pyongyang airport is very small. It has only two or three flights a day to only a handful of destinations. This is not a very busy airport.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Thank you for the added clarification.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>CNN Beijing-based photographer Miguel Castro and I were covering the visit here of New Mexico Gov. Bill Richardson, a former U.S. ambassador to the United Nations experienced in Korean diplomacy. Sharon LaFraniere, a Beijing-based correspondent for The New York Times, was the only other journalist invited by Richardson and approved by North Korea to cover this trip.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Richardson was joined by his senior adviser, Tony Namkung, who's been to North Korea 40 times going back to 1990. He is very impressive with a wealth of knowledge about both Koreas, China and Japan. </b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>He is very impressive.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Also joining Richardson was Gilbert Gallegos, his deputy chief of staff; Gay Dillingham, chair of the New Mexico Environmental Improvement Board; and State Police officer Mo Arteaga.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Why were they there? And were they worth mentioning? </b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>The North Koreans took our passports, return flight tickets and cell phones upon arrival at the airport. They returned everything when we were about to board our flight back to Beijing.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>I think it's fair to say we all had an eye-opening experience. It was a roller coaster of emotions -- ranging from real fear of war on the Korean Peninsula to relief that the North had stepped back from the brink and even accepted some of Richardson's proposals.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Maybe Richardson had played a positive role in calming down his hosts, including the chief nuclear negotiator, First Vice Foreign Minister Kim Kye Gwan; the new Vice Minister for Foreign Affairs, Ri Yong Ho; the military officer in charge of the armistice and Demilitarized Zone, Major Gen. Pak Rim Su; and the country's Vice President, Kim Yong Dae.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>We arrived convinced the Korean Peninsula was on the verge of a war, the worst crisis since the 1953 armistice that ended the Korean War.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>I wouldn't call the armistice the crisis. I think the crisis was more to do with everything prior to the armistice. But that's just one man's opinion.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>This was my first visit to North Korea, though I had been to South Korea, the DMZ and China. </b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>And you've been to Kuwait, Iraq, Canada, even perhaps North Dakota. It is no less your first time in North Korea.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>When Richardson called me and asked me if I wanted to go with him, I immediately accepted and am glad I did. I have known him for 20 years going back to his days in Congress -- long before he became U.N. ambassador and energy secretary during the Clinton administration.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Because this is relevant.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>I was apprehensive going in, worried about whether I would actually get out. I was concerned that they would shut the airport if war erupted, and I would be stuck inside North Korea. I even began wondering about the prospects of driving across the North Korea-China border if necessary. Was that even doable?<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Driving from where, your jail cell?</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Every time I heard some martial music on North Korean television and radio, I wondered whether the regime was preparing the country for war. </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>I've covered wars and other dangerous situations over the years and usually go through a before, during and after cycle -- nervous before I leave about all the worst case scenarios; not all that worried while on assignment because my adrenaline is pumping and I'm in the midst of a big story; but wondering after the trip whether I should do it again.</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>And yet here we are.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Covering this story brought back memories of my early overseas assignments in the Middle East in the '70s and '80s: no internet, no cell phone, no Blackberry.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Because cell phones and Blackberrys were huge in the '70s and '80s. HUGE.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>I had a hard-line phone in my Pyongyang hotel room and could make outgoing calls to the United States at about $10 a minute. (No credit cards accepted; only cash and only crisp bills.) I could not receive incoming calls from the United States.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Well duh.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>They would not let us broadcast live via satellite but we took hundreds of still pictures and shot about eight hours of video which we are now going through. Get ready to see the best on CNN and cnn.com.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>I did get CNN International in my hotel room -- Zain Verjee, Anjali Rao and Richard Quest never looked better -- but no newspapers.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>They appreciate the plug.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Still, six days isolated without e-mail or a cell phone; it was quite a transition for me, but I sort of got used to it and even liked it. I had 983 e-mails waiting for me when I eventually got back to Beijing.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Wolf Blitzer says: "I'm important."</b></span></span></span></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>The hotel and elite restaurant food was very good, especially if you like Korean food. </b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>This is a foregone conclusion. I don't suppose they have many Irish pubs.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>I stuck with scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast; chicken soup and white rice and steamed veggies for lunch; and usually some grilled Korean chicken or fish for dinner.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>I'll take note.</b></span></span></span></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>We had North Korean officials with us all the time -- and I mean all the time. They spoke English well and were very intelligent, polite and even nice. </b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Polite AND nice.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>I never felt threatened. They had a job to do, and we understood. Let's not forget this is a communist, totalitarian regime.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>We were restricted as to where we could go, what we could film and to whom we could talk. They want to showcase the best and keep us way from the worst. We constantly pressed for more access and they sometimes relented. Sharon from The New York Times was especially persistent and her efforts occasionally paid off.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Still, we saw a lot of the North Korean capital and even managed to get into the countryside to see a huge apple and fruit-tree orchard where thousands of farmers work what the orchard director said were some 2.2 million trees. That number seemed exaggerated but whatever it was, it was impressive.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Once you get outside Pyongyang, you see very few cars on the roads. People are walking along the sides of the roads; some are riding bikes. It's eerie being in the only car on the road. This is a very poor country. <o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Even as we feared there could be a war, we were taken to a silk thread factory where 2,000 women work diligently. We rode the jam-packed subway system from Prosperity Station to Glory Station. We went shopping -- again cash only and only crisp U.S. dollar bills. They really don't like the old, wrinkled bills.</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Shopping in "the most dangerous spot on Earth" should be a story in and of itself, don't you think?</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>We spent one afternoon with well-dressed students at Kim Il Sung University and later at a foreign language high school where very bright 16-year-olds were learning English complete with American slang. I heard one student say: "That's very cool." He wasn't referring to the weather. </b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>So that's what "cool" means in slang. Thanks again for clarifying.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>We saw the computers at their national library. They were decent but not state of the art.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Ya' think?</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>There's a huge music room at the library where people can simply listen to CDs of great artists. When I was there, they played a Kenny Rogers song for me. He apparently is very popular here.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>They also took us sightseeing. We saw their Arc de Triumphe (supposedly bigger than the one in Paris); their huge stone tower (apparently taller than the Washington Monument); and their sports complex complete with indoor and outdoor stadiums and ice skating rink.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>I saw the North Korean girls' ice hockey team jogging one afternoon and briefly caught up with them. They laughed as I ran with them -- probably thinking who is this crazy foreign person carrying a little hand-held camera.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Ya' think?</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Later, when it looked like the North Koreans would retaliate for South Korea's live-fire military exercise, I thought of these girls and all the young people I had seen in North Korea. They seemed so vulnerable, and I worried about their fate if there were a war. I'm not embarrassed to say I got sentimental and emotional worrying about them and their counterparts in South Korea.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Huge pictures of the late Great Leader, Kim Il Sung, and his son, the Dear Leader, Kim Jong Il, were all over the place. I didn't see pictures of the next generation's expected leader, Kim Jong Un.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Electricity is a huge problem in North Korea. It was bitter cold outside. Indoor heat is at a premium. The students were in the classrooms wearing their warm overcoats. The rooms were not well-lit.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>There were no lights in the tunnels on the roads outside the North Korean capital.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Outsiders have been predicting its demise for 60 years, but I didn't get the impression this country was on the verge of crumbling.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>And yet - it's the most dangerous place on Earth.</b></span></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>We were not taken to the Yongbyon nuclear facility or their side of the DMZ even though we and Richardson repeatedly asked. The North Koreans pointed out this was an especially tense time. They said I could come back on another occasion and perhaps visit these places.<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Yes, "come see our Nuclear Arsenal at a more convenient date." You take them up on that Wolf.</b></span><b> </b></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>By the way, 2012 is going to be a huge year for North Korea. That's the 100th anniversary of the birth of Kim Il Sung. The North Koreans are preparing major events. Since they invited me back, I might go back then; maybe even sooner though I hope it won't be to cover a war. </b></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>See above.</b></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Did I mention that I'm worried about the children? </b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Among other things, yes.</b></span></span></span></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>I don't mean to downplay the serious undertones of this article. Yes, we should all be worried about the children. But can we do them some justice by learning to edit a little?</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b>Not that I'm not guilty of any of the above crimes. But then - I'm not writing for CNN either.</b></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><b>Stick to the anchor desk Wolf, it's what you're good at. </b><span></span></span></span></div><br />
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<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; font: normal normal normal 14px/19px arial; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 19px; padding-left: 186px; padding-right: 24px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><br />
</b></div>Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-2162636300655655422010-12-17T22:38:00.004-05:002010-12-18T00:01:59.178-05:00Remote Control MeltdownEvery November I sit down and make a Christmas list. This list comprises of three tiers:<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>1) Immediate family (those with whom I am in frequent contact).</div><div><br />
</div><div>2) Close friends</div><div><br />
</div><div>3) Coworkers and Other Peripherals (Yes, this is what it's called on my list. I've never told anyone that until now. And, if you are reading this and you are a coworker, please be advised that you probably fall into tier 2. This is a blanket statement.)</div><div><br />
</div><div>Tier 1 is where I will begin the focus of this post. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Every member of Tier 1 usually has a set list of five items that include (without being specific) "book," "movie," "snow globe," "appliance," etc... Naturally, my mother falls into Tier 1. And for some reason, every year I have a strange compulsion to buy her electronics. I seem to make it my personal mission to buy the woman who has little interest in state-of-the-art gadgets - the latest state-of-the-art gadgets. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Whereas others in Tier 1 normally have items on their list that include "new Bill Bryson" or "Polly Pockets," Mom's list usually comprises of items such as "upgraded shielded HDMI cables," "touch-screen iPod," and "wireless router." </div><div><br />
</div><div>This year, I decided to upgrade Mom to wireless TV. I plan to do this in stages, and I thought I would start simple. Stage one was to be a BluRay player with WiFi so she could watch her Netflix instantly without purchasing OnDemand movies or dealing with discs. I had a mission. I chose to accept. </div><div><br />
</div><div>During my annual Amazon Christmas buy-a-thon, (in which 85% of my Christmas list is purchased in a coffee-fueled frenzy on my bed in my pajamas - it happens every year) I ran across a net-ready BluRay player. It was a reputable brand and was well-reviewed. I added it to my cart. I might also mention that I tiqued the little "gift" box that means it will arrive in a cheap Christmas wrap-designed cardboard box with a ribbon painted onto it. The wrapping sucks - but at least the recipient, if delivered to their house, does not know what's in the box.</div><div><br />
</div><div>It did not come in said Christmas cardboard. It arrived in its manufacturer's box, and after work one day I found it on Mom's breakfast table in the kitchen. She had seen it, so I just asked her to close her eyes while I handed it to her again with a cheap bow on top. And while I was not at ALL interested in playing with it myself, I offered to hook it up to her on the spot. </div><div><br />
</div><div>That was when I discovered it required a WiFi receiver. Otherwise, I would need to drag an ethernet cable through the living room, down the hall, and to her router. This would not fly with Mom. </div><div><br />
</div><div>So a few days later I ventured into the mass hysteria that is Wal-Mart during Christmas season and bought her a wireless receiver. When I came home, I plugged it in. It didn't work. So I plugged it into my laptop, downloaded the necessary items, put in Mom's WiFi password, unplugged it, plugged it back into the BluRay - and it was online! </div><div><br />
</div><div>That was when I discovered that Netflix was not built in. Apparently, these things have to be built in. Sure, I could view Picasa - but why? Does anyone use that anymore? And AccuWeather - yes, I could turn on the BluRay player just to check the weather, because it's just so convenient. But - oh no - while in the cities list I could find Savannah, Columbia, or the other Charleston, there was no Charleston, South Carolina. And therefore no Summerville. Might I also mention there was a NORTH AUGUSTA? Oh - and there was YouTube. Yes, there could be hours of entertainment looking at videos of dogs riding skateboards - which can be done anyway on one of many items in this house. But no Netflix. Damn it all, I was determined to do this one thing for Mom for Christmas. If she would have little else from me, she would be able to watch movies on her TV at a moment's notice. </div><div><br />
</div><div>So I decided I would regift this BluRay to yours truly, and go out to find one that was Netflix ready. Today, I found such BluRay player. It was Netflix ready. In theory, it was also wireless-capable. (On later investigation, I discovered that the Best Buy associate who told me this was either lying or misinformed). But no worries - I still had the wireless receiver. Finally - Mom could watch her movies. My Christmas present idea would finally come to fruition. </div><div><br />
</div><div>So I hooked the thing up, and all was well with the world. Until the remote control didn't work. It didn't even work a little. No problem, I thought. It appeared to be a universal remote. Codes are easy to find. Well, not only could I not find the BluRay codes, I couldn't even find clear instructions on programming that remote. </div><div><br />
</div><div>So I called Geek Squad, as I purchased two years' protection. I was told to either take it back, or buy a universal remote. Feeling the need to purchase another cable anyway, I headed back out to Wal-Mart. On Friday night. A week before Christmas. I muddled through the mayhem and came home with a mackdaddy state-of-the-art universal remote. The thing can actually learn from other remotes. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I plugged it into my laptop via USB, and discovered that the website didn't like Safari. So I switched to Firefox. It didn't care for that either. So I opened up the slow, user-unfriendly, dusty Internet Explorer. I said "no" to all of its personalization demands, repeatedly told Yahoo that I didn't want its toolbar, navigated through the personal settings, and finally got to the right page. I finally got to the place where I needed to be. I entered the model number of the BluRay player, and it seemed to be fine. It was all too easy. I unplugged the remote, and could hear drumrolls in my head. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Guess what? </div><div><br />
It didn't work. </div><div><br />
</div><div>It can power the BluRay player on and off, can even switch between main menu and Netflix - but that's where the functionality ends. I can't even use the "enter" key. So I called Sharp support. Apparently, non-computer-related issues need to wait until Monday through Friday, 9am to 5pm Pacific time for human help.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Determined to watch Mom scroll through Netflix items at her leisure, I was not giving up yet. Last attempt - I decided to try to program the TimeWarner Cable universal remote's Auxiliary button. After not finding any BluRay codes for Sharp - anywhere - I downloaded the remote's schematic. It appears it was designed before Sharp had BluRay players.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Dismayed, I decided I would take the remote back to Best Buy on Sunday. Wish me luck. </div><div><br />
</div><div>After all this - maybe an hour ago - I sat down in the living room, defeated, scrolling through my friends' Facebook statuses. And one of them caught my attention. It was an update from an old friend who is a funeral director. This woman has perhaps the whip-quick sharpest sense of humor of anyone I know. She has always adeptly used this humor to express herself, and so when I saw the following, my frantic Amazon carting, frenzied Wal-Mart trips, remote control meltdowns and Best Buy excursions were put into perspective.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Recipe for the weepies: funeral of a friend + hearse with Bing Crosby on the radio + apparently not enough dosage of antidepressants = verklempt Bethy...".</div><div><br />
</div><div>Nearly two years ago my Dad died. I plan to write a post for him soon, when I get up the nerve. So now I can only ask myself - how did I forget?</div><div><br />
</div><div>Merry Christmas everyone. The remote control is not that important. </div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-67551379101053547462010-11-21T15:36:00.001-05:002010-11-21T16:04:59.032-05:00Here We Go...Okay folks, here we go... the prologue has been released. The Unborn Child arrives. Click on "Here We Go" to get there.<br />
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Again - it ain't that great - which is probably the best reason of all to put it out there and move on. If you do elect to read it, please feel free to critique as much as you like, via comments or email. I would like to try to use this as a learning experience, if nothing else.<br />
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Thanks for your patience, your time and your criticism. It's all much appreciated.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-25014856400592236142010-11-21T14:24:00.001-05:002010-11-21T14:28:57.230-05:00First Corinthians 13:11I've bored you all with rants and whines about The Devil's Footprints. I've promised to release it repeatedly. This is nothing new, I've been saying it to myself for years. But a few months ago, I finished it. And I hate it. Though I love it.<br />
<br />
I've struggled with defining what the driving force behind this story is. Is it about characters to whom a set of events is happening? Or is it about an event that people are caught in? Is it a set of ideas illustrated by a plot, or is it a story with a theoretical footnote? Somewhere in the debate, between self-proposal and self-rebuttal, I lost control over my own story.<br />
<br />
Was I squeezing in so much plot that I focused too precisely on the whirlwind sweeping away my heroes? Should I instead have drawn a concise picture of the whirlwind through the reactions of my characters? And should my characters by defined by their thoughts and actions, or by their reaction to their environment and relationship to the others? I'm just too close, too involved. It's a house that's been remodeled past the point of resembling the original structure. I look through the windows of the house, through the glass darkly and wonder what happened to the source material.<br />
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It's trapped me. I've spent years walking in circles, writing and rewriting characters who were doing exactly that. In many respects I illustrated much of my own theme by never bringing the thing to completion. I started it nearly fifteen years ago, and when I could have moved on to more serious projects, spent time polishing my writing skills, I've instead lingered on to the perpetually unfinished story I would never conceive of writing now.<br />
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As more and more ideas stack up behind the dam I've built, I realize now that it's time to open the sluices. Today I'll be setting up a blog for The Devil's Footprints. I'll publish the prologue this evening, and let that first part go, feed it to the eRiver and be done with it. As I let it go, piece by piece, it'll be gone. I can't go back and change it.<br />
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I don't know if it's good or bad. I'm not even sure if I care. Maybe I'll care again as I put it together, this childish plastic model that's been collecting dust in my closet. Once I hang it on the wall, I can admire it or use it to see how far I've come at a later date. My family will pin it to their refrigerators, and I will forever fight the urge to delete it.<br />
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By telling you that it's not good, I am not preempting. I am not fishing. I am stating a fact. But that I've worked so long on it, to its credit or detriment, is reason enough to put it out there.<br />
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It's time to put away childish things.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-45164185422683754872010-11-21T10:00:00.000-05:002010-11-21T10:00:26.722-05:00On Michael Vick's Miraculous Personal Turnaround<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPr9TJuG7bvK4KtLTFHV9MSkIVmpnuYrSLnvRpzPCD6OLxLaBhAp7nyeyHi7gs8lE-MtQVzFTcez4qP6TQ8XTiz5gvMok09FqUseZ9ubh6MGqXUjPXfytxWhc6rzIjaz2Rgzq_L6Dqjj0/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPr9TJuG7bvK4KtLTFHV9MSkIVmpnuYrSLnvRpzPCD6OLxLaBhAp7nyeyHi7gs8lE-MtQVzFTcez4qP6TQ8XTiz5gvMok09FqUseZ9ubh6MGqXUjPXfytxWhc6rzIjaz2Rgzq_L6Dqjj0/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Man's Loyal Best Friend<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>In August 2007, NFL Quarterback Michael Vick plead guilty to dog fighting charges. He was sentenced to prison, and lamented his financial losses.<br />
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The Poor guy, he's said to have lost everything. This includes his six luxury houses in Virginia, Georgia and Florida, and ten luxury cars. And of course he had Bad Newz Kennels, and all the extra needed income that provided. Yes, it's tough when economic realities force one to work a second job.<br />
<br />
Two years later, upon his release from prison, a "reformed" Michael Vick was signed on with the Philadelphia Eagles. He lamented the error of his ways, and is now showing a kinder, gentler Michael Vick, a Michael Vick that doesn't raise his middle finger to the fans who support him, shortly before being investigated for animal torture.<br />
<br />
Last night it was said to me that we shouldn't impose our cultural values on the cultures of others, that this is common in the deep south. It was said that in China, people eat dogs, that we can't pass judgment. Well, I happen to eat cows and chickens, so no, I do not pass judgment on a culture that eats dogs.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZozSXsIKbPpIfxpevhvQ-YE6EzOkMD9coPgjUKSKvd9JF-w61DGOiMukStEkpBLbeGEjm4CM1gzasdAgDiLoHOSF2s0TuZLrS1uFq1S8dMSD3CCH_vrE9WZ1Uh6iSX93yIy2fp9CQlKQ/s1600/dogfighting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZozSXsIKbPpIfxpevhvQ-YE6EzOkMD9coPgjUKSKvd9JF-w61DGOiMukStEkpBLbeGEjm4CM1gzasdAgDiLoHOSF2s0TuZLrS1uFq1S8dMSD3CCH_vrE9WZ1Uh6iSX93yIy2fp9CQlKQ/s320/dogfighting.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She Was Dependent On Her Owner</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But there is no excuse for torturing and maiming animals. Just as being in the deep south was never an excuse for beating or raping one's wife, or having slaves. It's not as if those in the deep south are never exposed to the rest of the world. And someone who had six houses and ten cars does not strike me as a victim of cultural one-sidedness.<br />
<br />
For anyone who is unsure about how dog fighting works, I'll give you a brief rundown. Puppies are brought in or bred from existing animals. Their aggression is fostered and nourished. Other animals, often stolen pets or animals taken from "free to a good home" ads are brought in as fodder. Their muzzles are duct-taped closed to prevent injury to the half-starved fighter-in-training. The dogs are let loose on the animal. In fortunate situations, death for the bound creature is fast. Not so for the champion dogs.<br />
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Anyone who does not believe that dogs experience emotion in a very similar fashion to us, has not spent a great deal of time around one. They can be loving, gentle animals. But as animals, (like us), they have an aggressive, survival-mode side. This serves its purpose when not domesticated, but not when harnessed for the sole purpose of gambling. <br />
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So Michael Vick raised these dogs, starved them, set them loose on smaller animals for training, then set them against each other and rival dogs, let them tear each other apart. He gambled on this. He placed money on the animals that depended on him for food and shelter. And he let them kill each other for the entertainment of others.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_Y7JT1bKTRE34nlZ5D709QCgzgO-90G0jmtZahqgs1Q4kUZFHuBILWJWZQ9zUm5SOr7nb2iudR4kYqCBNNqSBJV37wgpwD3KDhFotiKn1-AiL4ZIoMmVq9ewRWTbOT8pm3SW_83mHgo/s1600/michael_vick_dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_Y7JT1bKTRE34nlZ5D709QCgzgO-90G0jmtZahqgs1Q4kUZFHuBILWJWZQ9zUm5SOr7nb2iudR4kYqCBNNqSBJV37wgpwD3KDhFotiKn1-AiL4ZIoMmVq9ewRWTbOT8pm3SW_83mHgo/s320/michael_vick_dog.jpg" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Champion</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It has now been a little over three years since Michael Vick's conviction. He has said that what he did was reprehensible. He has apologized time and time again.<br />
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Clearly, those who follow football are impressed with his comeback and his fans are showing a remarkable ability to forgive and forget. Either that, or their memories are just very, very short.<br />
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So in three years, has Vick really and truly turned his life around? Does he regret the pain and suffering he caused so many animals?<br />
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Will Michael Vick prove to be a champion of animal rights and humanitarianism?<br />
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I won't hold my breath.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-72584558141479149322010-07-14T22:21:00.003-04:002010-07-14T22:33:47.981-04:00Labor Pains (My Unborn Child, Part II)With many apologies for being away from the blog for some time now, I thought I might explain why. As some of you who read this blog on a regular basis (by some I really do mean all six of you) know, I have another side project. When I have had a chance to write lately, I've focused on my <a href="http://willshealy.blogspot.com/2010/01/my-unborn-child.html">Unborn Child.</a> Now fully three-quarters the way through, (the farthest I've ever reached), I'm getting labor pains.<br />
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I've toiled over this thing for so long now, I have a hard time remembering much about this story in its original form. Eighty percent of the work I've done on it has been pondering, rethinking, re-plotting, and pondering some more. Very little of this time has actually been spent writing, until this past year.<br />
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As I've fleshed it out, it's evolved. You see, something happens when I sit down to write. I find myself completely immersed in the story. My laptop screen becomes a window through which I can dive into a different world. Outside noises either escape my notice, or, when they do, send me a foot in the air when they startle me. It's quite the zone - characters seem to act of their own accord, events happen that I didn't outline, and events that were outlined suddenly don't make sense as they unfold, so I let the story evolve itself. And then I close my laptop after a two or three-hour session, and reflect on the characters and the day's writing, and end up jotting notes right before I get into bed on what should be different. I spend the last few minutes of each night outside pondering it some more. I think about it on the way home from work. And then I sit down again, and these characters, who I think I know so well, go and do something completely out of character and I go back to the drawing board. It always seems as if they're in conflict with the outlines in my notebook.<br />
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But here's the thing - I don't actually think it's that good. I think I may have over-complicated it, over-thought it. I mean, it has its merits, it has its moments, but I've been working in it for too damn long. I'm now finishing it simply to see it through. And while I don't really think it's that great, it's still very important to me. I no longer have any intention of trying to publish it, at least in the traditional sense - if I were a visual artist, I wouldn't want to sell my first painting.<br />
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And let me be frank - this is a fantasy. It's not the wizard-fire dragon-breath kingdoms and swords type of fantasy, as it takes place pretty much in the here and now - but it's still fantasy. I refuse to make much use of the word magic, but there's plenty of magic. I didn't want there to be castles and dragons, but there are towers and creatures. I didn't want there to be monsters, but it has demons. I didn't want it to be a preachy morality tale, but it does have themes. I didn't want to approach my views of spirituality and let them influence the story, but if I'm to be honest, it's all about my views on spirituality. This is a collage of sorts of all my lives since those lost years in Columbia. I'm really not convinced I want to write fantasy after this, but when I started it that was what I wanted to do.<br />
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Jamie, David, Seamus, Marissa, and Nora; Marlan, Nikola, Amantha, Nikolas and Roia; Simon, Marcus, David, Patricia and Conroy - these characters have been with me for so long now I'm ready to let them go and live their lives on some page that does not exist in my brain. A few, such as Jamie, David, Michael and James have been in my head since the beginning. Others have jumped on the train as it hobbled along on broken tracks through the years. I'm ready to give them wings, as my Mom has said of my sister and me.<br />
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As I said, I have no real intention of publishing this, as it would need so much work as to be completely rewritten. But it will always be my first child. So how do I plan to give my baby wings? I'm going to blog her.<br />
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My goal is to have this done in October. To do that, my friends and family will have to understand that for a while, my child will come before trivia. I am going full steam ahead now, lungeing for the end of the tunnel. Once I think it's done, and then when I can finally declare it done, once and for all, I will create a separate blog for it. Once a week I'll post another segment. You can comment all you like, or you can remain silent and simply either enjoy it or laugh at it for the disjointed mess that I think it may have become. I'm okay with either, because this is my child, and even if it has a face only a father can love, it will always be mine.<br />
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Once it's over, I plan to begin writing seriously. I've discovered that this is what I want to do more than anything else in life. I can create a world and live in it freely and fully, even if only vicariously through my keyboard. But this work has given me more fulfillment than any job that generates a paycheck.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-38137192541233605042010-05-01T16:35:00.004-04:002010-05-02T10:49:58.794-04:00The Church and MeGreetings from the 'sphere! I'm sorry to have been absent for so long - I've experienced a renewed focus in my <a href="http://willshealy.blogspot.com/2010/01/my-unborn-child.html">Unborn Child</a> and have decided once and for all to get this thing out of me. I'm nearly a third of the way through, due in part to my self-imposed deadlines to get chunks of the story to a good friend for review, (and soon another good friend for literary critique - though he doesn't know it yet).<br />
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I've barely logged into Facebook, I haven't posted a Tweet for days, and even had a week off of my story this week to focus on my other love - trivia. But by tomorrow night I will be a third of the way through it - or at least the skeleton.<br />
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This story is largely about faith - the desire for faith, the need to believe, the rationalization of the equally terrible and wonderful aspects of life - not faith in any one specific direction, but a study on faith itself, and what it can create for us. And as this allegory exits my brain and orders itself on paper, it has started teaching me as well, as I look at this thing that's been in my head from an outsider's perspective.<br />
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This story has brought to the surface all the vastly opposing, contradictory feelings I have for the Church. And while I say Church as a single entity here, I know I'm making an enormous generalization - but Church is far easier to type repeatedly than the sterile term "organized religion."<br />
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The Church and I run hot and cold - we have had our differences, but periodically I find myself returning to it. It's always a new experience, sometimes boring, sometimes insightful, sometimes refreshing - but it's never the same experience twice, probably because what you get out of it depends on what you put into it. (There are those very faithful that will stalwartly tell you otherwise, but that's another blog).<br />
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Some of my earliest memories of having a religious experience occurred at Lutheridge. This is a Lutheran Summer camp that I attended from around 8 years old through high school. It was at this mountain retreat in North Carolina that I first learned to equate the Devine with nature. We were taught to see Holiness in sunsets and sunrises, in the freezing cold creeks of the Appalachian mountains to the white water of the French Broad River, to the simple hikes to our meals. We were taught to find love and warmth in song and dance, and to appreciate those feelings as a gift. Because of Lutheridge, I understood the idea of divinity manifesting itself to us all the time if we just stop and listen, as at sunset Vespers and Morning Watch in the cold, dewy grass of this mountain refuge.<br />
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This feeling of harmony with nature, this finding of God in that harmony was a stark contrast to Sunday church services with my Grandmother. There you were to stand when you were told to stand, sit when you were told to sit, sing when you were told to sing. During Sunday School we would make crosses out of popsicle sticks and hear stories of Jesus' miracles. There was no spirituality here, only what had always been done.<br />
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Then there were those times I was on my own, walking through the woods, playing in the Saluda River, biking for hours with nothing but me and my thoughts and the world around me seeming at a distance. It was during these times that I could sometimes stop for a moment and recall those feelings at Morning Watch - there was divinity in the air around me. This was always a passing feeling, and only a few times in my life has it completely overwhelmed me as it seems to do to so many every Sunday. But it is a joyous feeling, this communion with the spiritual. It can't be brought on, but it happens from time to time.<br />
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And yet, for sixth and seventh grade I attended a Southern Baptist private school. Here I was taught that other religions were wrong, and that we were to either try to convince them to join the "correct path" or to pity them for their looming trip to eternal fire and brimstone. As a child who was searching for something - anything - I was easily swayed by revival weeks and prayer corners with school officials. My desire to fit in and believe overwhelmed my fear of telling anyone I was raised Lutheran. I even remember how one day in class the Science teacher was briefly touching on the world's religions. The subject of Lutheranism was raised, and a student asked "What do Lutherans believe?" The teacher actually told her that she didn't really know. I am not going to get into the birth of protestantism and why they are called "Lutherans" - but let's just say that the exchange between the Baptist teacher and student was at least a little ironic.<br />
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But discovering around the end of my seventh grade year that I was likely gay, I knew that if I told anyone I would either be expelled, told there was no hope for me, or prayed with for hours on end - likely all three. God loves everyone, as long as you are born attracted to the opposite sex, was my stance as I got older.<br />
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I swung from near Zealot to near completely anti-church within a year. I was disgusted by the fact that I was gay, felt tremendous guilt over it, but simultaneously hated the church for furthering myths about who I was. I saw the church as a hateful, judgmental establishment, aimed at growing membership - as long as those people fit into their societies. (Why are there still "black" churches and "white" churches? This astounds me).<br />
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It was a few years later that I discovered the predominantly-gay Metropolitan Community Church. If I didn't fit into the "straight" churches, I surely didn't fit in here. I went to three sermons and backed out. This is another story for another blog.<br />
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It was shortly after my brief run-in with the MCC that I began going off and on to the Unitarian Church. For years this seemed to fulfill my spiritual needs - all was okay here, all was accepted, we were all on our paths to find God as we saw Him or Her. I went back and forth to the Unitarian church for years, until I came to the conclusion that it was like drinking non-alcoholic beer. It filled a need for community, but spirituality was reduced to intellectual exercise. To me, this is just as bad as dissecting the divine with bureaucratic Dogma.<br />
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Now, as the ELCA has decreed it okay for non-celibate, monogamous gay men and women to serve as pastors, I'm raising an eyebrow once again to the Lutheran church. I'm tipping my toes in those waters once more, and may even go to church soon. I have no desire to mold my spiritual beliefs to fit a system. Like any relationship, this will have to happen organically.<br />
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One question I haven't directly addressed here is this - do I believe in God? Without going into my explanation (which is my own and no one else's) I say yes, I do. I firmly believe in a divine presence. There is no doubt here.<br />
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I do not have this belief because I need it. I have it because I believe it. But I don't feel the need to justify it to anyone else. I don't feel the need to justify it with myself. I don't need to point out the perfection that is nature, that is our majestic universe, to illustrate logic or illogic in any direction. Logic is as pliable as faith. They can work with each other or against each other, and they can negate each other. So where spirituality is concerned I choose to throw them both out the window, and simply believe. Anything beyond that is simply filling in the blanks, and we're all quite adept at filling in those blanks.<br />
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The Church and I have some mending to do in our relationship. But with faith, all things are possible.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-32360462684641075692010-04-11T12:56:00.001-04:002010-04-11T13:00:39.195-04:00The Nanny State and The New PuritanismDame Edna was on CBS Sunday Morning last week. During the interview she referred to political correctness as "this new Puritanism." Such an incredibly on-target statement caught my attention, and reminded me of a blog I was planning to write several weeks ago, on the Nanny State. When Dame Edna made this remark, it struck me how interwoven these concepts are.<br />
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For anyone unfamiliar with the term, "Nanny State" refers to over-protectionism and parental-like interference on the part of a governing body. Some would argue that seat belt laws fall within this category, although it's my belief that seat belt laws save the state hundreds of millions in health care each year - in this situation I believe there is logic behind the Nanny, so I tend to agree that there should be a law. What would however fall under Nanny State laws are those that prevent one from getting a tatoo - or purchasing alcohol on Sunday - or smoking marajuana. These are victimless crimes, and these laws do nothing but press the will of some onto the lives of others.<br />
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Blue Laws, for example, are textbook Nanny. In fact, they're often the most insidious type of Nanny laws. These are revenue generating laws - the cost of licensing, fines, added taxes, all revenue generators disguised as Nannies so more people would support them. This is a double-edged hypocritical sword that pains me when people can't see through it.<br />
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The bar on trans-fat in New York restaurants; the proposition that cigarette smoking become illegal in one's own home; mandates that bars close at a specific hour; these are Nanny doctrines that threaten to propel our country into a day care. A prime example was raised when my mother, when in Australia, discovered a sign in my Aunt's house that dictated the proper way to evacuate one's bowels. Mom <a href="http://irissilk.blogspot.com/2010/03/australia-its-puzzle.html">blogged about this</a> recently. In her entry she brought up the idea that this is not something that needs to be taught. This is a basic human function that we do quite naturally without the help of an illustrated (yes, illustrated) flyer. This is the end-product of the Nanny State: a population made to feel dumbed down to the point of receiving instructions on basic human functionality.<br />
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So what does this have to do with the New Puritanism? Absolutely everything.<br />
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When did we learn to fear words? When did it become not okay to refer to a black person as black? (I could take this argue further and ask why we need to define anyone by their ethnicity anyway - "race" wasn't even a term used until relatively recently, and will hopefully phase itself out as we blend as a world population - but I digress). Why does one have to be "African American?" I would imagine many black people find this term offensive. And what of white people from the African continent who immigrate to the US? Are they referred to as African American? What of blacks who move here from a continent other than Africa? Are they African American? Or would they be, say, African-Canadian-American? Where is the line drawn?<br />
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Then there is the term "<strike>people</strike> persons of color." This is just ridiculous. This is as much defining a person by their ethnic background as referring to someone by their ethnicity before profession (i.e. African American Lawyer or Asian News Anchor." This falls into the same category as "my woman-doctor" or "male teacher." By using these terms as defining characteristics we're perpetuating the myth of our differences by nature of background.<br />
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Politically correct speech is harmful much in the same way as Affirmative Action is inherently racist. I am not a Gay American. I am an American. I am not a European Male. I am a male. Who I am - who any of us are are defined only by that - who we are. However, if we need to identify someone and utilize their physical characteristics to do so, that is entirely different. If I am referring to a black salesperson so that I can get their name from someone else, there are those who find this offensive somehow. It would be the same if I were to ask for the woman wearing pink.<br />
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And while we tiptoe around the correct terminology, we avoid real, honest conversation. We become so afraid of offending anyone at all that we purposely stunt our communication and feelings. We subvert those feelings and they fester. The only way an honest conversation will ever occur is if we're not afraid of our words.<br />
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This goes both ways. I could care less if someone calls me a faggot. They do not define me by their words. My three closest friends are Jewish, Black, and Hispanic. None of them would care if a derogatory term were used in connection with their names, because they do not allow the uneducated to define them by irrelevant characteristics. Why are more people not like this? Those that tiptoe around terminology and those that profess their proud ignorance through slang are on the very same page, as far as I'm concerned.<br />
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It's time to stop obsessing over our differences - it's time to discuss them when appropriate, and move on. We're all much more alike than we are different. Tolerance goes both ways. In order to expect the intolerant to learn the error of their ways, we need to not expect them to dance around the issue. Otherwise we'll never discuss the issue, and we'll never move beyond it.<br />
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If we avoid the serious topics by dressing them up in pretty words and remain terrified of offending someone, we are headed to a new Victorian Age, a Puritanical Nanny State that wraps its xenophobia in an ornate cloak of the enlightened. It's not enlightenment. It's fear.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-63594869614030635142010-03-27T16:48:00.003-04:002010-03-27T20:50:36.379-04:00What Hath God Wrought?Easter is coming. And in the wake of the Easter Bunny (it's a rabbit that lays eggs - does no one find this disturbing?) are the decidedly creepy and arguably malevolent peeps. <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">A Peep Is Born</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Peeps are not created. They are born. They are born of sugar, marshmallow, gelatin, and carnauba wax. Once the alchemy needed to fuse these ingredients into just the right proportions has been completed, the inanimate peeps are sent to a sealed vault where shadowy figures in dark robes incant what is necessary to breathe life into these little spawns. </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">Carnauba wax, incidentally, is also found in Turtle Wax, cosmetics and shoe polish. It's refined from a plant native to northern Brazil - I often wonder who decided to apply the compound to sugar, marshmallow and gelatin. Did they have a clue as to what they were unleashing?</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<b>A Wolf In Peep's Clothing</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">What we feed our children is an increasingly debated topic - and rightly so. We seem deaf and blind, almost willingly, to public knowledge of hormones, pesticides and other carcinogens that lace factory food. That a thing tastes good is no longer a good enough argument for its consumption. That these "foods" such as fast food with mass-produced,carelessly butchered meat, and hormone-laden, long-shipped produce are more inexpensive than fresh produce and organic proteins is the tragedy. Parents are practically cornered into providing unhealthy sustenance filled with such nefarious and addictive compounds as high fructose corn syrup and MSG. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Peeps, with their <strike>demonic</strike> friendly smiling faces, bright colors and cheerful packaging beckon the children to beg Mommy or Daddy to invite these ghastly menaces into their homes. They invade quietly. They sit in the cupboard, and they wait to be dispensed as a treat. The little Trojan horses can lie in wait for decades before showing any outward signs of aging. This beings me to my next point:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Peeps Are Forever</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I've read that peeps are practically indestructible. Given my <strike>fear of</strike> hatred<b> </b>for these little harbingers of sugar and destruction, I had no issues with spending $1.56 of my hard-earned cash to test out a few methods of dispensing of the terror-chicks, and while doing so possibly find their Achilles beaks. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It turns out they come in three-packs of rows of five peeps fused together, looking as if they're about to march into battle. I took out my first row of victims and placed them on the counter. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXdr4hf1KVnLkJrJ7L6HnWbH1xpd7lcHpZmPddSwux7v6g1AmuwSTwWvC58uwTMR1K_2naAYSVX7LmcS4D98ufXK0JdFL5Xz3REYrBgUX6khrWMDXats2NhpCv_33hQM0qkM2h5KM-Hqk/s1600/IMG_0060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXdr4hf1KVnLkJrJ7L6HnWbH1xpd7lcHpZmPddSwux7v6g1AmuwSTwWvC58uwTMR1K_2naAYSVX7LmcS4D98ufXK0JdFL5Xz3REYrBgUX6khrWMDXats2NhpCv_33hQM0qkM2h5KM-Hqk/s320/IMG_0060.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">They look innocent, don't they? Don't be fooled. They were designed that way. I pried the first one loose and decided my first test would be the microwave. What happens when you microwave a peep? I've heard it does nothing, but surely <i>something </i>must happen. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1XCSxla_rZTE69B-T8DuwJKg7iuCMsPYvBjZFcPNXchUrP7lyOt__lXskc8VosxtgpLa3vZa07XAo1jLSVuWE2XP9tipR5vypHwhXyyj4VgHDF3mS3VvPOMz3mP8ikzCJrhL3bSxy-aY/s1600/IMG_0061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1XCSxla_rZTE69B-T8DuwJKg7iuCMsPYvBjZFcPNXchUrP7lyOt__lXskc8VosxtgpLa3vZa07XAo1jLSVuWE2XP9tipR5vypHwhXyyj4VgHDF3mS3VvPOMz3mP8ikzCJrhL3bSxy-aY/s320/IMG_0061.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">There he was. I named this one Duke (after the arcade game Duke Nukem) and waved goodbye as I closed the microwave door and pressed 30 seconds. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNZE14tC1pbFUHgxQ2jtgvUoyGSzdww77jVrzZ_tzIr6mKiptR5CRwe2YL2OQt6U1SzS31RH_bYkus8V7E1QNWy5WQN8qu9eFnV5CD_mLPB8-ZCH9anV94p5OTiHapOU8854eP_V0B1Y/s1600/IMG_0063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNZE14tC1pbFUHgxQ2jtgvUoyGSzdww77jVrzZ_tzIr6mKiptR5CRwe2YL2OQt6U1SzS31RH_bYkus8V7E1QNWy5WQN8qu9eFnV5CD_mLPB8-ZCH9anV94p5OTiHapOU8854eP_V0B1Y/s320/IMG_0063.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">It began to grow after two seconds. Evading the possibility of a mutant peep on my hand, (or a really difficult mess in the microwave), I opened the door and removed it. The thing began to shrink back to its original size. Very little evidence was left to show its ordeal, though there were a few cracks that I'm sure, given time, would heal. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Next I decided to test solubility. I prepared three spice dishes with water, acetone, and rubbing alcohol. I placed a peep in each dish. (I made Duke watch). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcXzqry9wnCIKoDvUW923mRzqb-p2BIPdeq2WYjnGCtM-cS_GPcnm1I57r_ImOu5uFlCf9FcvLYnaeZ8bfW2W9xhQ5EgZdVG55BTVjQjPhSGzN6RJfclfzPMTbzruuGBSV3m9hKZiveiQ/s1600/IMG_0064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcXzqry9wnCIKoDvUW923mRzqb-p2BIPdeq2WYjnGCtM-cS_GPcnm1I57r_ImOu5uFlCf9FcvLYnaeZ8bfW2W9xhQ5EgZdVG55BTVjQjPhSGzN6RJfclfzPMTbzruuGBSV3m9hKZiveiQ/s320/IMG_0064.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">Guess what happened? Nothing, apparently. So I turned them upside down to review the damage to their undersides. There was none. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiklQYKp9IevvEjtypk4EndRIbggxHRi8uv93ZImWnVUCTBB-wqGIth1TUcepZBMFIyluupa9Jh_A8jYv2A8XpiZc8I0rHi0OOFIjmlXyc-f3kw-dZK2hPEoa6Wl2_va-UU1qzlF11iV78/s1600/IMG_0065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiklQYKp9IevvEjtypk4EndRIbggxHRi8uv93ZImWnVUCTBB-wqGIth1TUcepZBMFIyluupa9Jh_A8jYv2A8XpiZc8I0rHi0OOFIjmlXyc-f3kw-dZK2hPEoa6Wl2_va-UU1qzlF11iV78/s320/IMG_0065.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmv5ITUSnDkbP_kcn88EfyAdnV43dGNpZza5C9HFN0IoHRkRyEcsw9wEi31MG1RERdIH5qBuXbwjnQ40Mys4bOORE26s3NHK3z1UWYcrTJp5okqGYVkixY0SaU4yLx5JDCXSgvji8Znb4/s1600/IMG_0066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmv5ITUSnDkbP_kcn88EfyAdnV43dGNpZza5C9HFN0IoHRkRyEcsw9wEi31MG1RERdIH5qBuXbwjnQ40Mys4bOORE26s3NHK3z1UWYcrTJp5okqGYVkixY0SaU4yLx5JDCXSgvji8Znb4/s320/IMG_0066.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">I turned them back up and they all seemed to be staring at me, taunting me. Then I thought - chlorine!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghzMj_4pm2jRekPIDXJ9TZlZfeEnhVjoFhhQxgE7r8Q3MPoZUjseWv0b3iozwKjuiozlqQUqJJI5OAPp59bvnHcOavU1aoy0QTTaIUVmJ5HVMIk2817Dz1X9dGlsRBliZY03eIRNsFjJs/s1600/IMG_0068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghzMj_4pm2jRekPIDXJ9TZlZfeEnhVjoFhhQxgE7r8Q3MPoZUjseWv0b3iozwKjuiozlqQUqJJI5OAPp59bvnHcOavU1aoy0QTTaIUVmJ5HVMIk2817Dz1X9dGlsRBliZY03eIRNsFjJs/s320/IMG_0068.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Again, nothing. Peeps, it turns out, are adept swimmers. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So acetone, chlorine and alcohol have no discernible effects on peeps. Does anyone believe stomach acid or intestinal bacteria would have an effect? These harsh chemicals cannot dissolve these beasts - your body can't either. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>How To Stop Them</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I cannot think of a way to stop these malicious marshmallows other than to tear them apart, bury them and salt the earth. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> </b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Like so many items that line our grocers' shelves and calls us from the side of the road with happy colors and clowns, peeps are not food. I don't want to take the joy out of food, and understand parents often need food that is fast, easy and inexpensive. Let's just not fool ourselves (mega food manufacturers do that pretty well without our help) into thinking we are consuming food. General rule of thumb: if it comes wrapped in plastic and requires happy, fun, warm-fuzzy marketing, it should be little more than a rare treat. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">As human beings we are programmed to like food. We are programmed to know what's good and what isn't. If it takes chemicals to induce the right flavor, texture and aroma to entice us, or inviting plastic to catch our attention, then our bodies don't really want it. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I say it again - bury the peeps. Bury them, and salt the earth! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Happy Spring everyone.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-83828013319890472952010-03-21T16:03:00.000-04:002010-03-21T16:03:44.076-04:00Alan Schafer's Ghost Spotted In Charleston HarborIn the 1950's, <strike>con artist</strike> visionary Alan Schafer opened a beer stand just south of the North Carolina/South Carolina border. As Schafer's customer base grew and he added more and more attractions to his shop, the rest stop metastasized into what is now the campy, casually racist roadside attraction that is South of the Border. <br />
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Signs on I-95 touting South of the Border begin about a hundred miles in each direction. The signs pun "you never sausage a place" and read with what has likely become the cause of many a headache, "keep yelling kids, they'll stop!" Because of this <strike>annoying</strike> clever marketing and word of mouth, South of the Border is depressingly enough the first thing so many from the Northeast encounter as they enter South Carolina. <br />
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The attraction's mascot, Pedro, a physical monument to tasteless sterotypes, sports an oversized sombrero - he's the first thing you see as you enter the complex of adult entertainment shops, greasy spoons, and kitschy souvenir outlets. There is also a rusty roller coaster and an observation tower that allows you to climb up into the sombrero and see the beautiful countryside. It's a shame those who live in that countryside can't enjoy such a lovely view - at least not without the company of Pedro. <br />
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So shame on me for not paying closer attention to local news, but when a co-worker the other day mentioned the possibility of a male Statue of Liberty in Charleston Harbor, I thought he was joking. Sadly no. There is a proposal out there, (that thankfully appears to be sinking faster than the Naval vessels of Patriot's Point) to place a male version of the Statue of Liberty to welcome visitors to Charleston Harbor. The idea is to bring needed income to Patriot's Point (I wasn't kidding about the sinking vessels) and to <strike>sully</strike> become a companion to the original Lady Liberty. <br />
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And what's wrong with this? Well - everything. Charleston Habor's natural beauty and rich history already provide an enticing welcome to visitors arriving to Charleston by sea. It would do nothing short of destroy the landscape, in order to create another roadside attraction. <br />
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Lady Liberty was a gift to the US from France. She stands for everything on which this country was founded. She has welcomed visitors and immigrants since her construction. Her beauty is unmatched. Charleston Harbor has seen disease, disaster, and siege - and it remains, peaceful as ever. The idea of a contrived, plastic (in every sense perhaps except the literal) piece of South of the Border kitsch polluting our skyline is a slap in the face to both entities. <br />
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I'm grateful beyond belief that Mount Pleasant does not appear to be pursuing this outrage. The amount of money it would take the build the statue, (appx $150 million - and that's before it goes predictably over-budget) could be used to more effectively market Patriot's Point, effectively plan events on the USS Yorktown, or perhaps build a roadside attraction further into Mount Pleasant - where the only people who have to see it every day are those who choose to live East of the Cooper. <br />
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Lady Liberty does not need a husband, and South Carolina does not need another South of the Border.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-84277200180598231182010-03-20T14:58:00.001-04:002010-03-20T16:39:51.940-04:00My Sister - I Think I'll Keep HerMy sister recently posted an <a href="http://gamecockmama.blogspot.com/2010/03/my-brother.html">entry about me on her blog</a>. <br />
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Had you known the two of us fifteen years ago, you would never believe we could be friends, let alone post entries about each other on our blogs - nice ones, anyway. <br />
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Early memories of Mandy and me are mostly positive. If there was a storm outside I'd go to her room, knock on the door (if I didn't knock I'd get yelled at), wait for the reluctant "what" and crack the door. I would ask if I could sleep in her room, if that was okay. As a five year-old, (maybe I was four - not sure - we were living in Edenwood, which means I was no more than six) thunder and lightning gave me the jitters. I also remember at that age being afraid that an earthquake, tornado or atomic bomb (a babysitter once let me watch the Day After) would come and wipe us out at any time. My sister's room was a safe haven under a quilt and someone nearby who while couldn't really protect me from anything, made me feel better by their presence. <br />
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Reluctantly Mandy would let me sleep on the floor by her bed. Around age six I realized that sucked and stopped asking. Plus, she snored. And I was beginning to think that while I loved her - she was my sister after all - sometimes I couldn't stand her. This was the beginning of our troubled friendship. <br />
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There are so many stories, so many ups and downs of our relationship that I couldn't begin to tackle it all here. We had our struggles, and we had times of real friendship. Here are a few highlights. <br />
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As I got older Mandy became aware that I could fetch things: iced tea, cheese puffs, the television remote. And of course if I didn't she said would never speak to me again. I didn't really believe this to be true, but I also wanted to avoid a fight. I had very few friends at one stage, and I didn't care to be fighting with anyone at home. However, it was during that time that I overheard my sister standing up for me one day. It was all the reassurance I needed, for a while. <br />
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Of course, there was the time - never mind. I'm not going to mention the heat stroke and concrete stairs incident - (note to our Twitter friends - ask her about it). And there was the time I was ten and she was twisting my arm - it popped, and scared the bejesus out of her. She was on the verge of tears, unsure if she had broken my arm, bent it out of its socket, or what - but she was begging me not to tell Mom and frantically asking me if my arm was okay. It's amazing to me Mandy never noticed that I have a noisy body. It snaps, crackles and pops like a bowl of Rice Crispies whenever I do so much as walk. It always has. So when my arm popped, likely more to do with the fact that I was - you know, MOVING, than anything she did, and she panicked, I milked it for every ounce it was worth. <br />
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And then I started getting older, and maybe a little angrier. I realized I was pretty strong, and would hit back from time to time. But mostly she and I just avoided each other. She was the A-student, the athlete, the popular one, the normal one. I was the freak with green hair and piercings. She was the sweet one, the outgoing one. I was shy and never sure if I hated people, or was afraid of them. Secretly I was jealous of Mandy, and annoyed by her at the same time. Why was she so normal? <br />
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Our fights were fewer and farther between, but worse when they happened. It culminated in my throwing a brick in her direction (she claims I was aiming at her, but it has never been my intention to hurt anyone that badly, not even my sister). But, I think it kind of scared her, because there was a marked distance between us for a while. <br />
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But there were other times as well. As Mandy put, whenever we were really in trouble, or one of us needed the other, we were there. We knew we loved each other, and not just out of moral obligation. We shared secrets others don't know to this day. We're often the first person the other calls when a major event happens in our lives. (Although sometimes it's just because Mom's phone is busy or we can't reach her). That said, Mandy recently trusted me with something she had told no one else. It was that trust that made me realize how far we had come in our relationship. <br />
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Around the time I returned from England ten years ago, I realized Mandy and I had grown more alike than apart. We still have our differences, but are alike enough to know how to at least try and see things from the others' perspective. Over the past few years I've been able to say without a shred of doubt in my mind, that woman is my best friend. <br />
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See the thing about friends that makes them different from siblings is that you choose them. You forge the bond yourselves, of your own volition, and actively choose to be that friend. Siblings are stuck siblings. They are born that way. <br />
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Mandy and I were born siblings. But we chose to be friends. The fact that we were once so distant proves it. We each made an effort, because we share similarities that balance out the differences. We would never have seen those had we not proactively become friends. <br />
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Among other things, Mandy is strong-willed, intelligent, insightful, intuitive, and ever-evolving. She's creative and open-minded, at once a Southern girl who likes Country Music and NASCAR, and a party girl who manages to say things on Twitter that make me close my eyes, stick fingers in my ears and shout "lalalalala." (And I am no prude). <br />
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Mandy and I have so much to learn from each other, that maybe that's the strongest bond between us - we're evolving, and our shared history - as different as it may have been - does nothing but strengthen that bond. <br />
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After all we've both been through over the past 18 months, neither would have made it through it without the other. <br />
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Thank you sis. You've made it bearable. We'll always come through it unscathed, because we've always had each others' back. I think we always did.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-78595269870812912092010-03-17T19:45:00.003-04:002010-03-17T22:16:53.994-04:00Tell Me Again Why I Can't Have KidsQueer, Part 3<br />
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About 80,000 foster children go each year without being adopted. Many of these children float from foster home to foster home, never knowing if they're going to encounter a loving, supportive, (if temporary) home, or if they're going to find themselves a tax shelter and a source of state income for an abusive household. <br />
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The red tape one has to cut through to offer a child a loving home is a hurdle that can often prove who is and who is not willing to devote the time and energy necessary to become a parent. If that kind of proof were necessary before having a child naturally, we would be in a far safer - if far more bureaucratic - society. But then we would have the constant moral dilemma of deciding who will ultimately make good parents, and who should remain childless. But then - we're already doing that. <br />
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Some states maintain that unmarried people cannot adopt a child, while it is perfectly legal to raise a natural-born child as a single parent. These laws serve as thinly-veiled gay adoption bans. Only Florida has legislation specifically mandating that homosexuals cannot adopt - out homosexuals, that is. It's not a far-fetched idea that many have remained in the closet so that they may legally raise a child. And why wouldn't they? To many, the desire to raise a child is stronger than any other ideology they might possess. I can completely relate to this need, and while I would never base the beginning of my son or daughter's life with me on a lie, I would be lying if I said I didn't understand their actions. <br />
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In researching online, (yes, beyond Wiki), I've found four arguments to be the most common against gay and lesbian couples becoming parents. <br />
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The first argument states that gay parents may raise gay children. Well, they might, And they might raise straight children. I'm not going to waste my time or yours arguing why this doesn't make sense. Trust me that is doesn't. Blond parents do not adopt red-headed children who become blond by nature of their environment. <br />
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The second argument I ran into repeatedly is the religious argument. Assuming there is a religious argument against rearing a young person in a same-sex environment, I'm going to throw it out the window anyway. I'm not going to waste my time or yours on this one - if you would like to discuss this further, I'd be happy to in another post, because this is a posting (or series) in itself. Just ask. <br />
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The next argument is that children perform better later in life when growing up with both a male and female role model. Some studies have shown some evidence to back this up, but I would argue that out same-sex parents have not been around long enough to warrant a valid conclusion. Additionally, I find it hard to believe that these children would have no role models of the sex opposite their parents'. No family is completely insular - there will be friends, grandparents, aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters. Unless they live in a completely isolated environment and have no close relationships outside the "nuclear" family, then those children will have exposure to both sexes.<br />
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The fourth argument, which is perhaps the most common, and the only of the three to which I would grant some validity, is the argument of social isolation. These children would be picked on at school, looked down upon by the community, and on some level or another shunned. This is at least somewhat true, depending on where you live. But is this not a self-perpetuating cycle? The less exposure children and their families have to same-sex couples raising children, the more likely their suspicions are to take over their logic. No, I don't believe children should be raised as political statements, sacrificial lambs to social change - but I do believe that if we based all our major life decisions on the whims of the average bigot, social change would never happen. <br />
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Same sex couples may choose a more accepting community, or they may choose to keep the truth of their household a closely-guarded secret. Or, they may choose to live openly and freely, and in so doing teach their children by that example. And if they do turn out to be gay? They're not nearly as likely to despair over it. <br />
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Gay parents have a wonderful opportunity to raise children who are open-minded, accepting of change, embracing of diversity, simply way way of their environment. And if a gay couple is willing to overcome the stigma, red tape, scowls and growls that line the gauntlet they have to traverse? I believe these people have proven their devotion to raising a happy, healthy child. <br />
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And to those who would try to make these children and their parents miserable because of their own fears and misplaced anger - I say fuck 'em. Rise above it. So many of us have spent too long in the dark to subject future generations to that same darkness. It's time to learn from our mistakes. It's time to raise a generation prepared for the diverse country into which we're evolving. It's time to look back on the self-imposed dark ages of fear and intolerance, and rise above.<br />
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So ends part three. I may approach the subject again, but only when I find it relevant. After all, after everything I've written on the past three entries, that remains the largest goal of all - let's not place gays and lesbians on a pedestal, let's not further the debate. Let's make the debate irrelevant. Let's rise above it.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-68470702207702137032010-03-13T16:34:00.003-05:002010-03-13T21:34:02.709-05:00In Defense of MarriageQueer, Part 2<br />
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Should members of the same sex be allowed to marry? <br />
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Let's examine that question. Exactly who is doing the allowing? Who decides this for all of us? What a weighty decision that's on your shoulders, a lofty post on which you've decided to stand, when you make it your decision to make. <br />
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It's amusing to me when I hear questions such as "are we not opening the door for incestuous marriage and beastiality?" Those questions are at once laughable and hateful. This is all I'm going to say on that subject. <br />
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Why don't we begin with the word "marriage." What does it mean to you? Who gave you that meaning? Did it come from your church? In many cases it did, since marriage is largely a religious institution, at least in its origins. So shouldn't it be between you and your church whether you are allowed to wed in the eyes of your religion or denomination therein?<br />
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Then of course there's the argument that the government should not step in and decide for the church and the individual states - and everyone for that matter, that homosexuals be allowed to marry. I find it ironic that these same people appear to deem it okay for the government to tell us all, to tell every church what they're NOT allowed to do. The latter seems far more intrusive. Are these not the same conservatives who believe government should remain out of our personal lives? <br />
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For the sake of argument let's say this is a religious contradiction to you, the allowance of two men or two women to get married. Let's say that for some outlandish and far-flung reason this somehow threatens your marriage, or the institution as a whole. I'll pretend for a moment that this is a remotely logical argument. Okay, so what if we don't call it marriage? I for one, don't care what you call it so long as I may enjoy the same rights, and am not denied thus because of who I am, or because you have decreed who I am to be unacceptable in your world. So let's not use the word marriage. Let's call it a civil union. <br />
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And people still protest these unions, they still believe that it is their moral obligation to keep these rights from those who are not like them. <br />
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How does it threaten anyone? How has it become such a black or white argument? Do you believe more gay marriages will fail? I would argue that years from now the percentage of gay marriages that have worked where they are legal, will be similar to those of heterosexuals. A marriage is a marriage - the same rules apply. Are you still under the impression that this is some lifestyle choice? See my previous post on that one. <br />
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So why? Why is it so important for some to deny others the rights they enjoy? This is a civil rights issue as much as it is a religious one. As far as the law is concerned, religion should not be a factor. That in itself is unconstitutional. The factor that remains, large and looming, is fear. <br />
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All I can say to this, is get over it. I realize that social change takes time, that it's a lengthy, sometimes (needlessly) painful process. I'm just having a hard time remaining patient with that process, waiting and watching quietly while the debate goes on as to whether or not my basic human rights are valid. The hurtful undertone to these debates is that until the majority can be convinced that I am not a threat to the institution of marriage by my very existence and desire to marry, my rights will rest in the hands of the vocal minority. <br />
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And once I'm "allowed" to marry in my state? I want children. More on this to follow.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-18647979874029006622010-03-09T20:09:00.002-05:002010-03-09T20:18:51.445-05:00QueerPart One: My Lifestyle<br />
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I've danced around this topic numerous times, and while I don't want this blog go the way of the Ellen sitcom, (as I mentioned in a previous entry), I think it's time I tackle this one head on, and then be done with it. I was inspired by a fellow <a href="http://musingsof4madman.blogspot.com/">blogger</a> I follow. You should really pay him a visit, his blog is both interesting and entertaining, as well as insightful and well-written. I intend this to be my part of a conversation I would like to start with him. <br />
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To some, and especially to those who don't know me, this might sound like a pity-party, a woe-is-me, my-life-is-harder-than-yours sorrow piece. It's not. I had a hard time growing up, but many children have had far harder. I experienced pain, but I also had a loving family who tried to help. Not everyone has that much. I also know be grateful for running water, heat, air conditioning, and a roof over my head. I didn't want for much, so I'm not looking for anybody to feel sorry for me. I sure has hell don't. So as I write about whatever struggles I may have had, please know that I realize how much better I had it than the majority of the world. <br />
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I'm not doing this to prove a point, but rather to disprove a few. I'm probably not going to say anything you haven't heard before, but maybe I will. I hope just to say it from the perspective of someone who grew up gay, and who spent the majority of his adult life convincing himself that it was not an affliction, not a curse, and not a thing over which I should feel guilty. <br />
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I'm going to write this in three parts. This first entry is about the notion that homosexuality is a lifestyle - or worse, a lifestyle <i>choice</i>. In my second part I'll discuss my thoughts on gay marriage, and lastly I'll discuss my stance on homosexuals raising children. I feel that each of these topics lends itself to the next. I intend to point out how in the desires to live a productive life, get married, and finally to pass on one's knowledge and experience on to offspring are not desires that exist solely within those who find the opposite sex attractive. To think otherwise is nothing short of dehumanizing. <br />
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With that said, let's begin with this lifestyle I've chosen. <br />
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Let's begin with the assumption this was my choice, my decision to make. I was a male growing up in the South, who spent two years in a Southern Baptist school, and heard derogatory gay jokes from my closest family and friends on a regular basis. What would my reaction be? Logically, I would chose a gay lifestyle, right? Surely this wouldn't affect (or cause me to fear an effect on) my relationships with everyone I love. No, of course not - I could expect this thing happening to me that doesn't appear to be happening to anyone else around me to be understood and accepted immediately and universally. Why not chose this? It's fun to be different! <br />
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Unfortunately, no. I was years and years away from discovering that my being gay was for no one else to accept but me. The desire to fit in to society and be accepted is a basic human need. For some of us, the painful illusion is that acceptance will be denied us by everyone we hold dear. We believe our family may disown us and our friends may disappear. Sadly enough, for many it's not at all an illusion. I've known more than one gay person who has lost nearly everyone he or she has loved because they did not approve of their "lifestyle choice." For them, the unimaginably difficult, noble act of self-acceptance and honesty earned them the pain and isolation of late-onset orphanage. <br />
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I've lived with depression my entire life, and have learned to not let it interfere, not let it drag me back into those dark places I knew growing up. I've learned to stay above the water, and I've become an adept swimmer. But I wasn't born with those skills. As a teenager, I had no idea how to cope. I was learning to live with that nagging fear and doubt that seems to infest everything you do or think, that doubt that anyone who has lived with depression truly understands. I also had to struggle with the dread of one day telling my family that I would never get married, I would never have children, that I was a faggot. (While I believe marriage and children are a possibility, I didn't believe so at the time). I wondered for many years if I would simply remain single, let the truth remain unspoken, even though most would suspect. I thought that might just be easier and less painful for all involved. <br />
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At the age of 13 I was hospitalized for depression. I knew at this point that I was attracted to members of the same sex. I knew I was queer. And while wrestling with wondering why I was even put on this earth, I had the added weight of knowing that the basic animal function of reproduction was denied me. I can't fully describe here the feeling of believing you are a walking aberration, an accident, a flamboyant lispy "oops" of nature. <br />
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I was asked in the hospital if I was gay. Of course I said no. I was trying to learn to be happy, and if that meant putting this struggle on a shelf in the back of a dank closet somewhere, I was more than willing to do so. <br />
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Part of my learning to be happy was learning to embrace the inner freak. This was part of what lead me to self-acceptance later in life. I pierced my face, I dyed my hair, I sought out music that was different than everyone else's. Had I known swishing gay man during those formative years, I may have become one of the walking stereotypes I strain not to loathe. (As I know they're people too - and while I take no issue with effeminate men, if that is truly who they are, I do take issue with those who have adopted a persona in order to fit in to something - anything - while alienating others and making life more difficult for the quiet minority). I want to stress that people should be who they are, that gender and sexual preference are often mutually exclusive - but to pretend you're someone you're not helps no one - isn't that the point? I digress. <br />
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Embracing other subcultures and casting out anything top-40 or carrying the label as trendy enabled me to feel better about being different. I met other gay friends, I even helped a few come out, though I was not out to my family and lived under the flimsy but common guise of "bisexual." Bisexuality is easier to claim, because those who know you as bisexual believe that one day you may settle into a more mainstream life - marriage, with children. Through their eyes, you find comfort in that idea, you experience vicariously the possibility of normalcy. But it's just another lie. <br />
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In my late teens became a far left-wing liberal. (I'm a liberal still, but with a marked conservative streak). I embraced anything that would embrace me, and discarded anything that wouldn't. I avoided the church. I laughed at the notion of 2.3 kids and a lawn. Secretly, it was a thing that I wanted, but didn't think I could ever have, and therefore cast aside. <br />
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As I got older I was exposed to the gay clubs, drag shows and pink culture that for a while threatened to send me back into the closet with a baseball bat and an NRA membership. I once again wore the badge of "bi" as a defense mechanism. I didn't know who I was, but I was pretty sure by then I knew what I didn't want to be. <br />
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While I was in England I found a people who were far more accepting of gays and lesbians. It was simply a non-issue. It was then that I began to find peace with my - "lifestyle choice." When I came back to the U.S. I was on the road to not only accepting, but embracing who I was. No, I did not choose this. I fought it most of my life. And now I'm paying for it, in years lost and wasted in denying myself the experience of living life openly and freely. No one denied it for me but me. I wish I'd learned that when I was younger, but I was too busy wallowing in self-pity to realize I was wallowing in self-pity. <br />
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So this entry was supposed to be about my lifestyle. Why was that not the focus? Because there is no gay lifestyle. It does not exist. Just as there is no lifestyle for blonde people, or a lifestyle for people who like pork shops. There is no more gay lifetsyle than there is a single gay community or some clandestine gay agenda I keep hearing about. If there is one, I've been excluded. Maybe I should check my secret decoder ring. <br />
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We have those, you know.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-65949941266727434892010-02-20T13:31:00.008-05:002010-02-20T17:45:42.893-05:00My Black ThumbSometime in the early nineties, my parents left for England for three weeks. My sister was in Atlanta I think, or somewhere, and I was still in high school. I had the house to myself - just me, a big house, cable, and - LOTS of plants. <br />
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Mom had left me some instructions, but let's just say I wasn't the poster child for responsible teen. After about a week, all these plants started looking a little wilty and dry, so I decided I should act soon. Rather than reading the instructions, I just watered the hell out of them. My rule of thumb was to hold the hose in the pot until water ran out of the bottom. After half an hour of finding all the plants and watering them, I felt that I had accomplished something and likely returned to reading a book or playing video games. <br />
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A week later they were looking wilty again. So I repeated. And repeated just about every day until about five days before my parents returned to England. During that five days, about half the plants died. <br />
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After my parents somewhat recovered from the deaths of so many of their green pets, I decided I would learn to take care of a few. I really have no idea why I wanted to, I just did. So Mom got me a cactus and a few jade plants. I killed them. Then I decided I would try to take care of just one, and got a Venus Flytrap - I managed to kill it in less than three weeks. Then I tried spider plants. And I tried more Jade plants. And I got a Money Tree. Dead, dead, and dead. At this point I pretty much resigned to the fact that I am Grim Reaper of all Flora. I tried, really tried to take care of them, but it never ended well. With each one it was either too much water, too little water, not the right light...maybe it was moved too much, or it got some kind of fungus, or maybe it just caught a glimpse of me and lost the will to go on - I don't know. I just know that I kill plants, whether I want to or not. <br />
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Fast forward to 2000, and I'm working at Middleton Inn, a small hotel adjacent to Middleton Plantation. Among my other duties as a "concierge" (there is no other word - this was kind of the catch-all guest services position) was the responsibility of the plants in the lodge and lake house, and 55 Philodendrons - one in each guest room. <br />
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Fortunately the housekeeper took over plant duties, since she was probably concerned that they were losing their color and slooping in their pots. Apparently I was giving them too much water, though a measurement was given to me. I followed directions to the letter. I'm telling you, I am Death Of Plants. <br />
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Fast forward to last weekend. I'm house sitting for my Mom while she's in Australia and I look for a permanent place in Charleston. It had been two days since she left. I had just closed the door to the washer and stepped on something crispy and flaky. It was a leaf. I looked up and saw a dry, decaying greenish-brown thing that used to be a thriving plant hanging from the bay window in the kitchen. Then I noticed another plant on the breakfast table. And a cluster of them by the back door. As I scanned the room around me, I kept finding more plants. And you know, I think they saw me too. I could hear the theme to Psycho and the room seemed to turn red around me. <br />
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I was determined not to commit mass murder this time, so I began watering them. A few were already getting wrinkly at the edges of their leaves. The one in the window couldn't be rescued, but I think one of them is now beginning to bloom. Don't ask me what they are, if I learn their names it just hurts worse when they die. They're green. Sometimes they get bigger of you get them wet - that's my horticultural knowledge base in a nutshell. <br />
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Anyway, a few days later I was leaving for work. There's some clutter in the garage, and I generally don't pay much attention to what I'm walking around. I also have the habit of "zoning out" when I'm doing mundane things, especially if there are other things weighing on me - so I didn't notice I was walking past two hulky plants in the garage the whole time. These guys are huge. And they were dying. So I ran back into the house and filled up a pitcher of water. I've been watering them and watering them, but the soil feels dry as a bone even now. They're like two "Audrey-2's" (from Little Shop of Horrors) and they're not going to get better until I give them a sacrifice. I can almost hear them growling in the garage now as I type. Is it possible they want one of the other plants? Maybe that's why Mom has so many. Hmmm...<br />
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So the other plants are looking a little greener, and as I said, one is blooming. Maybe I've broken the curse of my black thumb. Or maybe it's just Stockholm Syndrome. Either way, wish me (and them) luck.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-47835776522075402142010-02-16T20:13:00.002-05:002010-02-16T20:47:08.777-05:00Sweetgrass Baskets and Ancient PiazzasI have a tattoo on my right arm. It's the Chinese character representing "change" placed in the center of a chaos rose. It has always stood for everything I believe, to my core - change for the sake of change, a reminder that nothing grows without changing. <br />
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So I moved from place to place, met new people, held new positions, and each time the last place I lived kind of faded into the backdrop. It was like when a baby, who has yet to master object permanence finds something new to distract her, and she forgets about the last object in question. It never occurs to her that the thing still continues somewhere without her attention. I can't tell you how appropriate this is in my situation. Charleston is still here. It moved on while I was moving on, in its own way. It's changed, it's changed dramatically in many ways, but its soul is static. <br />
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I've never moved to another city to get there. I've always moved to get away from something else, whatever it may be - more often than not, I realize in retrospect, that thing was usually me. It was always this change I was seeking, real change, always at the tips of my fingers. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow was a merciless, trickster-shapeshifter. I've never found what I was looking for, because I've never known what it was. So I settled for change, pure and refreshing, and purely escapist, as I spoke of in <a href="http://willshealy.blogspot.com/2009/12/about-face.html">another entry</a>. <br />
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So after coming South from New England, why did I want to stay? Why come back permanently? I didn't grow up in Charleston, I grew up in West Columbia. I only came here after I returned from England, and spent the first six months trying to find a way back to the River Thames and my Brit friends. Fast forward to the past nine months, and I was in Greenville waiting for a means to come back to Charleston. The means materialized, and here I am. I'm in the only place that has ever felt like home, but asking myself why. Why do I love it so much here? Why, of all the places I've seen and in which I've lived, all the places to which I've had the opportunity to move, did I want to come back here, almost desperately?<br />
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I'm not sure it's any one thing. It's so many thousands of little things. It's the strobing of the sun through Spanish Moss that hangs from the live oak tunnel as I drive down highway 61 past the plantations. It's the smell of low tide on the wind, and the hazy silhouette of the Cooper River Bridge as seen over the marshes of West Ashley. It's the cheap-production cheese of Lowcountry Live in the morning. It's the black water threatening to retake the roads down dark highways. It's the scars of earthquakes, fires and plagues, the very old fighting the very new with its last breath, and the refusal of a city twice-burned, leveled by hurricanes and twice under siege to simply fade away. It's a solid place, fortified by time and war, a city that refuses to change, but somehow embraces it at the same time. <br />
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I love walking along the battery with sweat stinging my eyes, the pavement hot enough to warm my feet through rubber soles threatening to melt. I live the shade of trees used to hang pirates in White Point Gardens. I love the market, that while never a slave market (that was located blocks away), serves as a gentle reminder, dotted by African-American women weaving Sweetgrass baskets, that Charleston is not and never will be Disney perfection. But it is perfection. <br />
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I love that the shrink-wrapping of tourism is a barely discernible taint on the character of a city molded by war and Malaria-ridden summers. I love lazy wide ceiling fans that beat blase' against the oppressive humidity on ancient piazzas. Yes, I even love August here. <br />
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There is something about this city that grabs you and doesn't let go, an undercurrent of spiritual bliss and harshness of reality, woven together like those Sweetgrass baskets in the market. <br />
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So maybe this is why I'm here. It never let me go. And maybe this is what I was looking for all those years of my *Detour. I think it doesn't matter why. What matters is that I'm home, and for the first time in my life I know that.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-47582507851746066812010-02-01T20:17:00.000-05:002010-02-01T20:17:08.594-05:00*Soup Recipe For The StrandedOkay, so I was lame this weekend. As compulsory as blogging may be for me some days, there are the occasional days when I'm not able to dedicate time to the blog. I do have a few somewhat legitimate excuses. <br />
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On Saturday I was at my sister's house for most of the afternoon celebrating my niece's third birthday. Having gotten into Summerville somewhat late on Friday and not being able to sleep, I was very tired, and had a nap after I left my sister's. <br />
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After my nap I went out to meet an old friend for drinks, and of course didn't sleep well, and got up on Sunday to run some errands - which took far longer than expected. Shortly after I was finished with those, it was almost time to go out to play some trivia. Lame or not, those are my excuses.<br />
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So, I missed out on Saturday's recipe and Sunday's * - and am going to attempt to combine them today. <br />
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I'll begin with the *story of the week. <br />
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<a href="http://www.wmctv.com/Global/story.asp?s=11910271&clienttype=printable">Passengers were left stranded at a Greyhound bus station this week in Memphis, TN during the Winter storm</a>. While some buses were running on schedule, a few others were delayed for as much as two days. Few to no updates were given to the stranded, and one woman was quoted by WMC-TV Memphis as saying: "They won't even talk to you in here. You ask them something and they're real snappy with you."<br />
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The icing on the cake however, was when Greyhound Security forced a woman to sit out in the cold to wait for her bus, as punishment for speaking negatively to reporters about the incident. The guard is quoted as saying that Greyhound "has that right." <br />
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So much for <a href="http://willshealy.blogspot.com/2009/09/failure-of-workforce-darwinism.html">workforce Darwinism</a>.<br />
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I cannot fathom the idea of requiring someone to wait out in the cold for an issue to be resolved - an issue that is the responsibility of the company's to resolve - for informing media about the situation. This baffles me. It speaks against every ounce of customer service I've ever learned. <br />
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While I understand that this individual is going to be disciplined, and that one might think it unfair to judge an entire operation based on the poor judgment of an individual - it was the company who placed the name tag on that individual. In a sluggish economy such as this one, you would think that the drawers of Greyhound's HR offices would be jammed with resumes. There is likely a waiting list full of patient, understanding, competent, customer-driven candidates. (Ironically, many of these candidates are likely taking the Greyhound instead of flying if they're between jobs). In this case, I believe it may not be unfair at all for blaming the operation. If someone is demonstrating this behavior now, as extreme as it is, I doubt it's a fluke, a bad day for the security guard affecting his or her behavior. It may be the homeless individual sleeping in the snow behind the station would have turned the negative situation into an opportunity rather than make it worse. I mean come on - she was speaking to a <i>reporter</i>. Hopefully there's a security position open in Memphis right now. It may be harsh, but I believe it's the security guard in question who should be out in the cold. <br />
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So, to the poor woman who had to wait for untold hours for a bus or a ride, out in the Winter storm, I dedicate this week's recipe.<br />
<b><br />
Leek and Potato Soup</b><br />
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You'll need:<br />
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2 Paula Deans (one Paula Deen = 1/2 cup butter)<br />
2 leeks, sliced<br />
1 Teaspoon Salt<br />
1/2 Tablespoon Black Pepper<br />
1.2 Teaspoon Paprika<br />
1 quart chicken stock<br />
1 tablespoon cornstarch<br />
1 tablespoon cold water<br />
4 cups russet potatoes, peeled and diced<br />
2 cups whole milk<br />
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Melt the butter in a large pot and saute the leeks until they're tender, usually about ten minutes or so. Pour in the stock. While it's coming to a boil, dissolve the corn starch into the water and then stir it into the stock.<br />
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Add the potatoes and boil until they're tender. Stir in the milk, salt, pepper and paprika, and let it simmer for about 45 minutes. You want the potatoes to be pretty much falling apart. <br />
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Enjoy with Vengeance (aka Vendange) Chardonnay and hot blueberry cobbler for dessert. (Blueberry cobbler recipe coming next week!) <br />
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There is little in the world better than a stodgy soup and a hot dessert during an ice storm! You can work it off tomorrow shoveling the driveway. <br />
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Or pacing back and forth in a Greyhound station.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-17763262730619760882010-01-28T20:18:00.006-05:002010-01-28T23:08:11.878-05:00Thank YouTo appreciate the good, you have to experience the bad.<br />
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The Charleston Marriott will be my fifth Marriott property. Prior to that (where hotels are concerned), I worked for Millennium-Copthorne and an independent. The best job (as far as enjoyment and camaraderie) was on the River Thames in England – it didn’t pay squat, but I had more fun there than anywhere else. I’ll come back to that on another entry.<br />
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As far as hotels – I’ve worked at a unionized property, where I was not allowed to cross-train or pick up shifts in other departments (the theory being, I was taking work away from others, even though they didn’t show up for their shifts – which they were allowed to do a few times a year per contract). Had there been a strike, I would not be allowed to return to work, and would likely miss rent. Mandatory deductions were taken from my already-Lilliputian paycheck. Yes, I will spew an entire blog on hospitality unions here very soon, but not today.<br />
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I worked at an independent property attached to National Historic Landmark, (the Inn was for-profit, and the Landmark was non-profit). So I could pick up banquet shifts and other sundry duties for 40 hours over at the Landmark, and 40 hours at the Inn, and they were not required to pay overtime. In fact, the operations director admitted this advantage to my boss, who – being my friend, later relayed that information to me. It was a stunning place to work, with a rich history and full of the best scenery one could ask for on the drive in. On the drive in mind you, at 5am (Spanish moss and live are only so nice at 5am). It was even nicer to see when one left, at around midnight some days. <br />
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Within my Marriott properties, I’ve had a variety of experiences. My first one was a boutique property than enabled me to cross-train in every department except accounting and engineering. We had a very close-knit group there – I lived with several of them. But then came the next Marriott property. I won’t go into too much detail, but it wasn’t always the most positive experience, though I adored our General Manager. Following that were nearly three years of probably my least favorite job of all time. To say communication was lacking and half the team were living in the mid-eighties would be an understatement. Morale was never more than slightly above that line that causes people to walk out and return later with weapons.<br />
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Then came Greenville. I won’t go into detail as to how I got there, (as I have in previous entries), but that’s irrelevant here. <br />
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When I first arrived in Greenville I immediately liked most of the people I worked with. However, after a few weeks, one of the team members exhibited signs that – well, that <a href=" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJx-uGRsiNU">perhaps that they were not quite the right fit for that particular position</a>. However, eventually they were – um – (I have to be careful here – but think doves at a wedding). After that happened, something amazing occurred.<br />
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[WARNING – STICKY SWEET SYRUPYNESS LACED WITH PLENTY OF CHEESE AHEAD - BE PREPARED FOR FALLING SAP]<br />
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The team had solidified. A new event planner was brought in as I was promoted, and she turned out to be not just a perfect fit for the department, but someone who is quickly becoming a good friend. Another sales manager was brought in as another coworker was promoted to our director, and those changes could not have been better. We gelled as a department better than I have experienced since the time on the boats in England – maybe a little more so. We’re a solid team, and it shows. <br />
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Outside of our department, we have a stellar front office, a talented banquet team, and a banquet manager who can run circles around any banquet manager I’ve ever known. This guy is truly gifted. Then there’s the kitchen, who has stepped up their game and their menus with a new Executive Chef (that started the week before me) who is the most even-keeled, mild-mannered, pleasant, (if a little sarcastic) culinary talent I’ve seen. I have never once seen that guy yell or lose his cool in front of others. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, but I’ve never seen it. And let me tell you, this food is amazing. It will lay to rest any preconceived ideas you may have about hotel food.<br />
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The restaurant staff is among the best I’ve worked with. It’s no wonder our scores are through the roof. <br />
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In a previous property, I worked under a General Manager who was a walking iron fist. He talked to people as if they were children, He humiliated department heads in front of their subordinates, and talked incessantly about how he studied other leaders, read books on leadership – (who, Machiavelli?) He bordered on completely dehumanizing at times, and voiced his political beliefs whenever he felt like it, in front of whomever he saw fit (Managing People 101 – don’t do that). He would yell at you with veins pumping in his forehead, and praise you in front of others when he found it politically advantageous. It was all very transparent, to pretty much everyone. It wasn’t respect he got from his team, it was fear. I saw two Executive Committee members in tears. I saw the most qualified, creative Event Manager with whom I have ever had the pleasure of working, nearly pull her hair out. It was a bad situation. To top it off, we rarely if ever made profit, and our guest satisfactions scores were consistently abysmal. <br />
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Let me compare that to the General Manager in Greenville. His door is literally always open, and when it’s closed, it’s for a meeting – and only for that amount of time. I can literally walk into his office and start talking away (a bad habit of mine) and he stops what he’s doing and listens. He’s respected across the hotel, and when he speaks, people listen. He commands the respect of the team by letting his feelings on a given situation be known without making anyone afraid of him. He gives constant feedback, both negative and positive, and in a way that lets you know that he truly understands the pulse of the hotel and the mood of the team. He is completely in touch, in every way. He’s open to new ideas, and solicits the creativity of the team and utilizes their input whenever possible. And here’s the thing – there’s no iron fist here, no one feels belittled or humiliated, and our satisfaction scores? As I mentioned before, they’re through the roof. <br />
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My department head, the Director of Sales, is incredible. She is a bit high-energy, perhaps a tad (see: majorly) ADD. She will text me at bizarre hours of the night – if I don’t respond, she doesn’t get upset, but she does look for a response around the time she thinks I should have woken up. This woman is working 24/7, and never asks anything of anyone that she isn’t prepared to do herself. Best of all, she’s become a friend as well. She is one of the best mentors I’ve had, as she truly understands the various nuances of her department. She has helped me to develop and foreword my career, and has done so as both a teacher and a peer. She is charismatic, has a wonderfully dark sense of humor, and genuinely cares for each member of our team. And if I have feedback on an opinion on which I differ? She listens to it, as she listens to all of us. Although we all understand that ultimately the big decisions are hers, we have never once felt as if we didn’t have a say in a given matter. We can give her our honest and frank opinions, and not feel that she will retaliate, and still have respect for her as our boss. Having managed a team, I can tell you that it is a rare and delicate balance – the difficulty of which those who have never managed people can never truly grasp.<br />
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Our controller is another great. This is not your typical bean counter. In fact, I’ve been living with him and his partner pretty much since I got here, and have gained two friends in the process. This is the first controller with whom I’ve worked who actually understands that he works in the hospitality industry. If you need money for something, he will ask the right questions, and then find a way to make it work. This is such a welcome change from the act of congress I used to have to wait for to get, say, pens. To top it off, I’ve never seen his door closed if he’s in the office.<br />
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The food and beverage director is as approachable as they come, and very much knows his field. He’s easy to work with (as long as he’s kept in the loop), and clearly has the respect and admiration of his team. <br />
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The housekeeping department is the friendliest, most cheerful group of rooms staff I’ve ever worked with. Along with the uniquely talented and colorful personalities of the housekeeping director and chief engineer, the rooms department is not the gloomy and downtrodden place I’ve seen in properties past. <br />
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I enjoy driving to work. I enjoy being there. And while I’ll never have a position that I enjoyed quite like the boats, this has been a very close second. <br />
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This property bent over backwards to keep me here when I was planning to return to Charleston several months ago. And though 2009 was probably one of the (if not THE) worst years of my life, the people at the Greenville Marriott got me through it, whether they knew that’s what they were doing or not. I lost a parent, I lost a partner. But as I get ready for my last full week before my transfer to Charleston, I realize now more than ever what I’m losing as I leave. <br />
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If the Charleston team is half as tightly-knit and talented as those in Greenville, I’ll be a lucky man. Back in the city that I love, but missing the colorful characters at the Greenville Marriott.<br />
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Thank you guys. I’ll miss all of you more than you know.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-66882475447694940732010-01-27T21:13:00.003-05:002010-01-27T22:51:39.476-05:00The Seven People You Meet At WorkI know, I know - if I really wanted to allude to the book, it would be "the five people you meet at work." But having worked in various industries and in various capacities therein, I've narrowed down the list of common archetypes to no fewer than seven. <br />
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Now I want to make it clear, I absolutely adore pretty much everybody I work with (a first for me). In fact, my current team may be the most talented group of individuals I've ever had the pleasure to work with. They are so much more than the personality types I'm about to lay out. In fact, another first is that none of the below characteristics fit any of them very well. And to be fair, most of these traits are not even present in my current hotel. But my current property is the exception to the rule.<br />
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So to follow are the seven people you have, currently, or one day will work with. They exist in nearly every setting I've ever experienced, and I'm sure you know each and every one of them very well. Sometimes one person may fit more than one archetype, and sometimes two or more will fit the same one. But here they are, in no particular order:<br />
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1) The Soap Star<br />
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There is always at least one. Perhaps they were late to work because their neighbor was going into labor, about to give birth to their clandestine love child by way of emergency C-section in the back of their car. It may be that they "accidentally" hit reply-all to an email and revealed someone said something negative about someone else. Perhaps they are in tears over the fact that a client called, angry because what was promised was not delivered - through complete fluke, and absolutely no one's fault (unless of course fault lay in another department).<br />
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There is never a dull moment with the soap star. Not only do they have an completely fantastic, beyond-belief story for every mundane story you have, but they also know every interesting or curious facet of everyone else's lives. It may be that a story, when first relayed to them was in fact quite boring - but once it gets processed through the spin-cycle of the soap star's brain, every glitch becomes a catastrophe, every insignificant event becomes a juicy milestone.<br />
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The soap star can be a good friend to have, and usually means very well. But it's best to give them something to chew on, or they'll seek it out themselves. Give them something about you to harp on, and usually they don't look any further. It's best to stay on their "good side" though - or you will be shot through the spin-cycle yourself, when you least expect it. <br />
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2) The Silo<br />
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This person knows their job, and knows it well. They've probably been in their position for a long time - long enough to figure out how to avoid relying on others for anything at all, except when absolutely necessary. Although you can rely on them for pretty much anything, they would prefer not to have to trust you enough to actually need you for anything. <br />
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They will sit in their office or cubicle, and generally work very hard. They refuse to go on group outings unless they feel it's mandatory, and will participate in as few extra-work activities as possible. Their job is important to them, but so is leaving work on time, and leaving work at work - which is probably very healthy.<br />
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The silo will be your friend, but it takes time to cultivate that relationship. <br />
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3) The Yoda<br />
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The Yoda has done every job in the department, and in some cases nearly every job in the building. They do not take sides, and are proficient at putting out most fires, if they feel so inclined as to get involved in your hurdles that they see as minor speed humps. <br />
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The Yoda could in fact run the department, or the entire operation, but I have yet to meet a Yoda who does. They have settled into their role, and when at home, they are at home. If there is a real emergency at work after hours, trust that if they felt the need to come in, would have the entire matter settled in a matter of moments. The Yoda can at any time become the Chuck Norris of any emergency. <br />
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You can confide in them with any piece of information, and know that it does not go past their office. You can come to them for help for any problem at all, no matter how tiny or immeasurably complex and if they deem you worthy, will have the answer to you in one sentence or less. It will likely be a pearl of wisdom you will hang onto for years to come. The Yoda knows you will eventually pass that wisdom on. The Yoda probably knows to whom you will pass it. <br />
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4) The Dr. Peter<br />
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Dr. Laurence J. Peter proposed in is 1969 book "The Peter Principle," that "in a hierarchy, every employee tends to rise to his level of incompetence." There is always one who fits this to a tee. They did so very well at their previous positions, that now they are trusted and required to do something very new, a task in which they are totally unqualified. <br />
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Unfortunately, the rest of the department will do it for them, until the Dr. Peter is fired or they leave. I've been fortunate enough never to work with one for very long, but not too long ago, (depending on how you define too long), I was subject to one of these people. They made life miserable for everyone. <br />
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They rarely admit that they do not know how to do their job. In fact, if they'd genuinely ask for help, or be honest about being unsure of something and willing to learn, they would slowly gain the respect of their peers. But the Dr. Peter is so interested in appearing authoritative in spite of their obvious shortcomings that the team usually works around them rather than with them.<br />
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I've also had the joy of inheriting a Dr. Peter as an employee. This individual had been doing the same job for - a long time (to protect the guilty, I am not saying for how long), but evaded dismissal in very creative ways. They maintained a positive personal friendship with the powers that be, and worked their fear of change and love of nostalgia to their advantage. They also did as little as possible that would involve any sort of risk, stayed below the radar at all possible times, and avoided taking responsibility for pretty much anything, or taking ownership of any situation in which they might fail. <br />
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Dr. Peter is probably the most aggravating of all the workforce archetypes.<br />
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5) The Cheerleader<br />
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You know this one. They break a daily sweat to ensure they embody each personality trait corporate culture teaches. Usually they're internal marketers of some kind, but more often than not, they're transparent to not only their peers, but their bosses in their perpetual attempt to be the teacher's pet.<br />
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They're at every fundraiser. In fact, they usually volunteer to make the posters and fliers, and are on (of not the sole member of) the planning committee. They raise their voices in agreement so often during staff meetings, that you half expect an "amen" and "hallelujah" after each Power Point slide has been presented.<br />
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They make the t-shirts for the bowling teams. They volunteer to take on special projects, (not that this is bad - but they do it every time) and will work long hours to ensure someone is impressed.<br />
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I'm not saying everyone who buys into corporate culture and works extra hours on side projects is a "cheerleader." In fact, being a cheerleader can be a good thing - so long it's done for the right reasons, and they recognize those times when the parameters need to be stretched, and the rule book needs to either be closed or re-written. The workplace archetype of which I'm writing here, does not know this. <br />
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Think Rain Man with pom-poms and an employee handbook in their back pocket. <br />
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6) The Expert<br />
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My sister recently blogged about this person, who was partly the inspiration for this post. <br />
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The Expert has done your job. The Expert has done your previous job. The Expert has long since mastered the job into which you're moving. They know your neighbors, and have done their jobs too. <br />
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They are champion name-droppers.<br />
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The Expert will stop to give you unsolicited advice on the most random of topics, for no particular reason. When they close their door, you just know they are Googling the details to some debate or interesting discussion they overheard in the next office. But they will never tell you that when they later casually bring up the topic over lunch. In fact, they will likely tell you the topic in question was the subject of their third Masters dissertation. <br />
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The funny thing about The Expert? Every single one I've ever had the dubious thrill of working with has either been fired or their position has been made redundant. <br />
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It's always fun to wait for a topic you're very familiar with to come up and let them dig their own hole before you correct them. But then, you know they'll just Google it later and revisit the argument some other time. <br />
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7) The Robot<br />
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This is the perfect employee. They contain none of the characteristics listed above. In fact, they instantly recognize each one, but will never tell anyone what they've seen in these people. No - they are above that. But they will never tell you that either, because they are humble. <br />
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This person is either a robot or an alien - but they are decidedly not human. They excel at their job, and they would likely excel at yours. But they would never admit that. <br />
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They do the best of deeds under the radar, offer quiet help to those around them, and never take undue (if any) credit. They appreciate corporate culture but do not preach it. They listen to gossip, (because they listen to everyone), but do not repeat it. <br />
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The Yoda quietly watches them, somewhat enviously. This person will be or already is either in charge of the entire operation, or multiple operations. If you do a good job, they tell you. If you do a bad job, they have a way of telling you that you quite possibly are the most incompetent person on the planet, and you will thank them for the advice. You suspect that they are worshiped in remote jungle societies.<br />
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I've worked with one of these in every position, and have always looked up to them, as everyone does. But I've always been a little too impatient to be this perfect member of the workforce. Like I said - I don't think they're really human, having come from the same planet as Martha Stewart, Anderson Cooper, and Meryl Streep. <br />
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So concludes my list.<br />
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There are many, many more common traits among coworkers, but generally, those traits mesh with one of the above. As I said, usually they're mixed and matched - multiple traits for one person, or more than one person with a single trait.<br />
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All except of course the robot.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821245972242396964.post-54312278924740666892010-01-26T21:57:00.001-05:002010-01-26T21:57:59.889-05:00Writer's Block?I wasn't going to post tonight. But it's Tuesday. I post every night except Monday and Friday. Last week when I neglected to do so, I had the same feeling each day that you might get if you don't check your work email, forget to brush your teeth at night, or accidentally put on odd socks and realize it after you get to work. (Okay, maybe the last part is just me). But it feels like you forgot to do the one thing that you really should have done, consequence or not. <br />
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This blog has become compulsory. I realize that now. So at around 9:30, when I finally gave up my fight to have a night off, I couldn't settle on what to write about. I was going to rant about Andre Bauer, but I think there's enough of that already. Besides, he's been providing Sandlappers with water cooler jokes and eye-rolling quotes for years now - I don't think he's even begin to build his crescendo of absent-minded, asinine, thoughtless quibbles. I'll wait until he spews a really, REALLY good one - because he will. <br />
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So then I was going to lash Scott Brown. But then I kind of played those chips in Facebook earlier, and I'm not in the mood to rehash my rant. Besides, I have no desire to turn my laptop and this blog into a political soapbox - at least not every day.<br />
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Of course, eventually I'm going to write about being gay - I mean an entire entry, as I have some things I'd like to get off my chest. But then, I'm not keen on this blog being steered in the direction of the Ellen sitcom. I'll save it for another time. <br />
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But I couldn't <i>not</i> blog. I just couldn't. A friend of mind once made an analogy (though not referring to blogging) about biting into a golden apple and having your teeth caught in place. It feels like that. It's a nagging sensation that you can't escape.<br />
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Is it writer's block? I couldn't settle on a subject tonight, and every time I did, I shot down the idea before the first sentence was typed. Sure, I have plenty to argue about, plenty to rant about, but I'm not in a ranting mood. Besides, nobody wants to hear me gripe yet again. <br />
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My Unborn Child, (hereafter referred to as the D.F. - for Devil's Footprints) on the other hand, has begun to kick. It kicks hard. I'm waiting for several hours of alone time with which I can really start cranking it out, (as I need alone time to really write). But I've been squeezing some things in here and there. By here and there, I mean that at the end of each night, I've been pumping out ten to twenty pages. But I want hours - and hours - to really devote to it. The longer I write continuously, the better I'm able to put ideas into words. It's like when you haven't typed in weeks, but after a few hours, you're up to seventy or eighty words per minute. <br />
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So I thought about putting some of it on here. No, and huh uh. I started to, but for some reason I feel far more exposed when someone reads my fiction than I do as I write this blog. Somehow, I can put out in the internets what I was feeling when I lost a parent, or how I struggle with my identity - but when it comes to writing what Jamie Riley, David Easterly, and Nora Ramsey (three main characters in the D.F.) are up to, I clam up. <br />
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Maybe the D.F. is still incubating. Maybe I'm afraid that if I expose it to the world before it's ready, it will die, drowned in my self-consciousness. So why do I not mind writing about political situations of which I am only half-aware, about feelings that I wouldn't necessarily openly divulge to my closest friends without the application of much Chardonnay, and yet - I don't want to share a made-up story?<br />
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I'm not sure if this is writer's block, or my brain telling me that I need to focus on the D.F. and get it out of my head for good. I'm not sure if I get more out of writing fiction than non-fiction. I have no idea why I feel so much more vulnerable having anyone else read the D.F. than a personal blog I put out there for all to see.<br />
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I don't imagine I'll answer any of these questions soon, but one thing is certain: For all the catharsis and emotional release I get from writing five blog entries, I get twice as much from writing a single page of fiction. After a few hours of writing I feel immensely better, as if I've just had a marathon workout.<br />
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But I'll continue this blog. I'll write it five times per week as often as I can, and hope that eventually, maybe as I get better at it - I'll start to get the same release here.<br />
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Thanks for listening. I'm hoping my "block" is cured by tomorrow.Will Shealyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00851508381886824029noreply@blogger.com2