Mate-less

I’ve managed to acquire all the creature comforts I could want in my new house but something major is still missing from my life here: mates.

I need to make some new friends. Everyone I meet in town is friendly but none of them are really my friends.

Spending the last few weeks cooped up with the NPR has given me a sense of urgency in finding someone my own age to hang out with. I guess countlessly shouting “put on a damned pair of socks, do you want to die of pneumonia!?” has begun to wear me out and make me long for a companion I don’t have to mother all the time.

Last night I had the bright idea of going to the local pub known as “The Famous Grouse.” (How the grouse became famous is unknown, but most people go in for the drinks, not the history.)

When the NPR and I first arrived in town, we didn’t have beds in the new house so we rented a room at the Grouse. It was the NPR’s birthday so I bought her a slice of cake from the restaurant and, because she couldn’t find and candles, the proprietress stuck a little paper umbrella in the cake. When I went to the bar last night she made my day by saying, “Hello, Kelly!”

It’s nice to be remembered by name.

A young blond who looked no older than 16 asked what I was drinking. I told her I wanted a “Jack and Coke” and was a little confused when she brought me a small pitcher of coke and an empty glass. A few sips of the stuff made it clear that there was no alcohol involved. I didn’t want to hurt any feelings so I just took a seat on a sofa by the fire place and made several furtive glances around the pub.

In one corner was a table of older men in woolly sweaters. One of them was wearing his ‘winter shorts.’ At another were two middle aged men drinking beer and dropping the f-bomb a lot. At one of the other tables, a well-dressed man sat alone sipping his beer and playing with his cell phone. I didn’t have any portable electronic devices to give me the air of casual indifference so I went over to a table in the lobby and picked up a copy of the horse magazine called, “New Zealand Studs.”

I now know more than I could ever want about stallion bloodlines and frozen sperm.

After about two-and-a-half glasses of syrupy sweetness I decided to go in for some wine. “I need something with a little alcohol in it,” I told the lady at the bar.

“We’re not allowed to serve spirits in jugs,” she said.

“Ah, yes, well I think there was some confusion,” I said. “I asked for a ‘Jack and Coke’ and I think all I got was the coke. I’d like to try some wine now, I think.”

I saw the male bartender grin to himself as the lady told the girl who had served me of her mistake.

“I’m so sorry,” the girl said. “I thought you said ‘a jug of coke.’”

“That’s alright,” I said. “I did kind of wonder at getting that much Jack and Coke for only $6.50.”

I got the house Merlot from the second bartender who asked how my daughter had enjoyed her birthday.

It’s so nice to be remembered.

I went back to my quiet corner and resumed a half-hearted perusal of “New Zealand Studs.” (If the studs in question had been of the Homo sapiens variety, I would have been far more engaged.)

Not long after this, my PhD supervisor came through with her family and said hello. I felt rather sheepish at being discovered all alone next to a half-drunk jug of coke and partially hidden behind a horse breeding magazine, but she didn’t seem to notice.

I downed the rest of the Merlot in a rush and exited the bar without any new mates to speak of.

Tonight I’m going to the pub in Prebbelton as it is slightly larger than the Grouse and boasts a live DJ.

I’ll be going solo tonight without the aid of “New Zealand Studs” so wish me luck.

New Zealand: The Doctoral Candidate Years

I didn’t want to jinx the whole process but I’ve been jumping through hoops for the last year to get here and it finally happened. I am now in a PhD program at Lincoln University in New Zealand. I am doing comparative case studies between the Maori and Mapuche and I just met with my advisors today.

The NPR has been registered at the local high school where she will be sporting a “winter kilt” as part of her daily uniform.

We arrived here on her 15^th birthday and were greeted by snow flurries and icy rain. Since arriving, I’ve managed to locate the nearest Indian restaurant, join the local library, acclimate to driving on the wrong side of the road and familiarize myself with centigrade, kilometers and centimeters.

Yesterday the NPR and I got up close and personal with some lemurs at the local wildlife park. We saw some kiwis in their nocturnal house and I chased after some wallabies while the NPR laughed at my inability to coerce them into a photo op.

We have almost completely settled into our small house here in Lincoln Township and are just awaiting a wi-fi hook up. The house came with a sofa, desk and a couple of chairs. It smelled faintly of expired mouse when we moved in but that has been eradicated by several overzealous Glade air fresheners which take their scenting duties very seriously.

Several people have asked if I’m Canadian and I’ve since learned it’s because the Canadians become rather irate if someone mistakes them for American so people around here try to play it safe.

Although it’s really cold out, several men in town still wear shorts and show off their pasty legs. Everything else on them makes sense; sweaters, waterproof shoes with wool socks. I guess that’s how you prove your mettle as a Kiwi male.

They are laying down a new broadband line in town and I stepped out of the house one morning to find a bunch of blue-jumpered young men milling about in my yard. When I returned from running errands two of them were sprawled out in my grass while the rest were sipping on something hot from their thermoses. They don’t speak to me but as soon as I go into the house they become very lively in their conversations. I guess I’ll have to go to the local pub if I want to be spoken to.

Inspiring Image From WWII

I love this image because it shows a strong woman doing "a man's job." I think it's important to have images like these whenever there are people around us who doubt our abilities or want to impose limitations on us. Three cheers for Rosie the Riveter!

Bankers and Loan Sharks: Best Friends For Ever

An article in today's New York Times explained how banks have teamed up with Payday Lenders  to give them access to borrower's accounts.

Payday Lenders have been outlawed or heavily regulated in several American states so they have taken to setting up shop in other countries and doing business online.

Now, thanks to the cooperation of  greedy douchcwads many of the country's banking institutions, the lenders can operate beyond the reach of U.S. law and the local banks can collect a small fortune in overdraft fees.

JP Morgan Chase, Bank of America and Wells Fargo will aid the lenders in getting their payments by allowing them to draft their fees directly out of the client's account. When other payments don't clear because the account has an insufficient balance, the bank reaps a fee (around $30) for each transaction that bounces.

I still remember when my old bank tried to charge me $8 a month for the "privilege" of keeping my money with them. I closed the account.

I'd like to remind anyone reading this that banks are only required to hold on to a portion of the money we give them. With the fractional reserve system they can lend out the majority of the money we deposit and charge borrowers interest on it, thereby growing their money supply.

The fact that banks played it fast and loose with our money before and later had to be bailed out by the government doesn't help the matter.

Are you angry yet? You should be.

He's Gone

When I was 12 I took up ice skating with my best friend Katie who moved to Alabama from Michigan. It was Katie who informed me that scoring in hockey is referred to as "a goal" and not "a touchdown." I was always grateful for this lesson.

In those days I wore a lot of brightly colored (mostly neon) spandex. This didn't escape the notice of one of the boys who worked at the rink and he took to calling me "Clash."

I would be sitting down, resplendent in my white tracksuit jacket with the neon patches on the sleeves, and struggling to tighten my laces when he would breeze by singing, "Claaa-ash."

I would then make a show of rolling my eyes or tossing my long hair.

His name was Danny Nunnelley and he was four years older than me. He dark hair and cheeks that would turn rosy in the cold air of the rink.

Aside from being devastatingly good looking, Danny was a kind person who was universally liked by everyone at the rink.

As my first crush, he had the dubious honor of being the object of my overwrought affections.

I agonized over not making myself look like a fool in front of him and often made a fool of myself in the process.

I strained the limits of my friendship with Katie by making her recount the painstaking details of any interactions between us that she had witnessed.

I dedicated many an hour to pining over Danny. He was the best imaginary boyfriend I ever had.

By the age of 14, all my skating clothes were in the colors of black, gray and more black. When I pointed this out to Danny, he just shrugged and said, "You're still Clash."

As time went by, we spoke less and he stopped calling me Clash. He was still friendly but there were other things going on in his life.

Whenever I skated in a competition my mother would always buy a video tape of my performance. These poorly lit, amateur-ish productions provided entire minutes of viewing pleasure for my mom and came with the added bonus of being re-playable so she could inflict them on visiting friends and family members who made the mistake of asking, "So, is your daughter still figure skating?"

My favorite of these was a video made during a competition at my home rink. In it, I have just skated to the center of the ice and am waiting for my music to start. Suddenly, in the background, Danny wanders into view and pauses on the other side of the plexiglass. He stands there watching me for a moment before shuffling off to the Zamboni room.

I used to play this part of the tape over and over again.

Years went by and the old ice rink was eventually closed down. I moved to California. Life went on.

Earlier this evening I learned that Danny passed away in Dallas, Texas on October 14, 2011.

I can't articulate the grief I'm feeling at the moment.

I begin to remember so much, so clearly.

I suppose its like this when you you've irrevocably lost someone you held dear in your childhood.

I guess the world was worth a little more to me when an old friend like Danny was still in it.

I thought of him when we played this song in our middle school band class and I'll think of him still when I hear the tune:

Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the flow'rs are dying
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh, Danny boy, oh, Danny boy, I love you so.

And if you come, and all the flowers are dying
If I am dead, as dead I well may be
I pray you'll find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me
And all my grave will warm and sweeter be
And then you'll kneel and whisper that you love me
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

Protecting the Guilty

I quickly become livid when I hear that sexual abuse cases have been prosecuted "in house" at some institutions. 

Today, I watched Jorge Ramos grill a Catholic clergyman about the pedophile scandal in the church. 

In the past I've read about universities forming boards or committees to handle rape allegations on campus.

I always wondered why the proper civilian authorities weren't consulted in these cases. 

I learned from my own experience with rape in the military how it's easier to control the organizational image when the authority to judge and punish is left up to those who have the strongest vested interest in silencing the victims. 

The Catholic Church claimed authority in handling the issue of pedophilia and their version of doing so involved denying the truth and transferring the abusers to other parishes were they could continue to prey on young children.

Recently, a blog post outing the sexual misconduct of a 105-year old Zen teacher led to a lengthy article being published in the New York Times. Several of Joshu Sasaki former pupils came forward to talk about how his sexual advances ruined their lives.

According to the article:

"Susanna Stewart began studying with Mr. Sasaki about 40 years ago. Within six months, she said, Mr. Sasaki began to touch her during sanzen. This sexualizing of their relationship “led to years of confusion and pain,” Ms. Stewart said, “eventually resulting in my becoming unable to practice Zen.'"

One of the resident monks, Bob Mamosser had this to say:

“What’s important and is overlooked is that, besides this aspect, Roshi was a commanding and inspiring figure using Buddhist practice to help thousands find more peace, clarity and happiness in their own lives. It seems to be the kind of thing that, you get the person as a whole, good and bad, just like you marry somebody and you get their strengths and wonderful qualities as well as their weaknesses.” 

"Aside from the groping, Roshi Sasaki was a pretty cool guy"-says some dude who was never molested by him.

I love how insisting that someone let you fondle her boobs is lumped in the same category as a husband leaving the toilet seat up. 

"The witnessing council, which wrote the report, has no official authority. Its members belong to the American Zen Teachers Association but collected stories on their own initiative, although with a statement of support from 45 other teachers and priests." 

Oh good. An internal body with no legal authority has decided to make a report. Meanwhile, grandpa bad touch has escaped prosecution as have the people who protected him.

As in the case of most serial abusers, this man was an opportunist who used his power and authority within this organization to get away with repeated sexual assault. He had vulnerable young women who were isolated from mainstream society at his beck and call and he made the most of it.

Whenever they expressed their discomfort with his actions thing like this happened:

"Several women said that Zen can foster an atmosphere of overt sexism. Jessica Kramer, a doula in Los Angeles, was Mr. Sasaki’s personal attendant in 2002. She said that he would reach into her robe and that she always resisted his advances. Surrounded almost entirely by men, she said she got very little sympathy. “I’d talk about it with people who’d say, ‘Why not just let him touch your breasts if he wants to touch your breasts?’ ”

Forget your councils and focus groups. What these situations need are trained professionals from outside the organization who can arrest and convict these monsters. 

The truth will get out and when it does, these organizations will have to answer for protecting the perpetrators instead of the victims. 

The Amazing Russian Dash Cam

If there is one good thing to have come out of the high levels of corruption in Russia, it's the dash cam.

In order to avoid false injury claims, bribery and other nonsense, many Russian auto owners have installed car cameras as a means of self-defense.

The first cam video I saw showed a Russian airplane crashing into an overpass and sending debris flying into passing traffic.

The owner of the dash cam stays silent the whole time. The sound of screeching brakes and crunching metal can be clearly heard but not a peep comes from the driver.

In Soviet Russia, plane lands you! Sorry. Couldn't help myself.

The next video was of a van passing on a two lane highway and losing control before slamming into a truck and ejecting a baby onto the road. Miraculously, the baby was unharmed and quickly scooped up by its father. Once again, the driver with the dash cam remains silent.

Who are these people?!

Yesterday, the internet was treated to some amazing dash cam footage of a meteor streaking through the sky over Chelyabinsk, Russia and once again, the owner of the dash cam remained underwhelmed.

He does utter some words, but sedately as if it's no big thing that a bright object is hurtling towards the earth from space.

I speak limited Russian so I can only imagine what he said:

"Hmm. A fireball. Now was that a left or right on Moskva Street? Hell if I know."