ThomStratton.com

As the kids and I had the day off yesterday we accompanied my wife in her volunteer work at the local animal sanctuary. I was assigned to clean out water bowls and troughs in a certain section. The first order of business was a wading pool that the geese like to swim in. As I was working on emptying it so I could scrub it out I would be visited by various pairs of geese. I couldn’t tell if they were cussing me out for taking their water away or for not hurrying faster in replacing it, but they clearly weren’t happy with me. But for all the reputation geese have of being ornery and territorial, they didn’t bother me. They would waddle up right next to me to where I could have petted them had I cared to risk it, but they didn’t do anything more than squawk.

It was the same with the roosters in the first pen I cleaned. They did their own thing, sometimes passing right next to me, but not really caring that I was there. The same could not be said for a white duck in the next pen. He took an immediate dislike to me, and would attack at every opportunity. At first I tried to fend him off because I didn’t care to find out if he could actually hurt me. But after he got through my defenses and attacked the cuff of my jeans and pecked at my hiking boots I decided he wasn’t much of a threat.

I found, however, that my ego was not taking it so well. Who did this fowl little creature think he was taking me on? Couldn’t he tell I was much bigger and stronger than he was? Couldn’t he tell I was showing great restraint in not retaliating with more than a nudge with the foot? Indeed, couldn’t he see that he was making it incredibly difficult not to hurt him by accident? No, this duck was clearly not respecting my size or authority. Nor was he being particularly grateful for the clean water I was trying to provide him. Ornery little critter!

Eventually the duck became distracted with some mud that seemed to be yielding something rather tasty. I was able to get their wading pool cleaned and refilled, at which point they (there were several ducks in the pen, but he was the only one that gave me any notice) ignored me entirely. After I moved on to the next pen I realized I had missed one water bowl in the duck’s pen. I went back to empty it, clean it, and refill it. While I cleaned it my little irritant returned, but it appeared he was mainly interested in the mud I created when some of the water spilled, so I focused on cleaning.

Next thing I knew his orange bill came darting in and grabbed my finger. It surprised me more than anything; surprised that he’d caught me off guard, surprised that it didn’t hurt at all. As aggressive as he was, he really couldn’t do anything to me.

It strikes me as fascinating: of all the animals on the farm, including a fair number with far pointier beaks or other sharp parts, the only one that wanted to attack me was the one that couldn’t really hurt me. They even have emus there, whose kicks can put someone in the hospital. They have several horses, large pigs, and a couple of massive long-horned cattle who could crush you entirely by accident. But no, it’s the harmless little duck you’ve got to watch out for. (There’s also a turkey that seems to have taken a shine to me, but…that’s another story entirely.)

I could, of course, draw all sorts of parellels to humans, especially humans on the Internet. But I’ll let you think about it yourself if you’re so inclined. I’m pretty sure we all have ducks and little dogs in our lives.

So, is happiness found in the journey or in the destination?

My non-profound answer would have to be: D. All of the above. Happiness can certainly be found in the journey. I found plenty to be happy about during my two years of unemployment a while back. There were also some doggone miserable days, but it was by no means two solid years of pain. As tough as it was at times, it was actually a fairly good time in many ways.

But I do have to admit that there’s a certain amount of happiness to be drawn from in having “arrived” at the end of that period of unemployment. The memory of that time makes it easier to be happy now and appreciate what I have. I still have my bad days, certainly, but I can’t say I’m in a big hurry to go back to that time, either.

On the other hand, I’ve never had much luck in finding happiness in the destination when the destination is “things”. I was so sure getting this new laptop would make life more enjoyable. And it did, for a day or two. Now it’s just “the family computer” and nothing particularly special. When it comes to things, I’d have to side with Spock who said that having is not as satisfying as wanting.

But relationships are another matter entirely. When it’s the right relationship, being in the relationship is more satisfying and happiness-inducing than pursuing that relationship. There have also been friendships that caught me by surprise. I didn’t really realize it was headed that direction until suddenly it was there. Oddly enough one of the longest and most fulfilling relationships of my life came about from my simply fulfilling a church assignment to visit a family in the neighborhood.

In my current job happiness has been a mixture of both journey and destination. Certainly I like where I am more than where I was with the company. But then I’m still on a journey, too, and at present that journey itself is rather enjoyable. I’m glad I am where I am, and I enjoy what I’m doing, but I can also imagine things getting even better.

So I’m not sure I know the answer to the original question. Is happiness found in the journey or the destination? I think it ultimately depends on the traveler.

Last night I was paying the bills and updating the budget while listening to dramatic soundtrack-style music. My daughter happened to wander by and teased me about how my music didn’t really match with what I was doing. Being in a silly mood (which is most of the time) we quickly imagined the movie trailer concept for dramatic bill-paying:

CUE: Ominous music

EXTERIOR SHOT: Wide pan of L.A. skyline

NARRATOR: In a world spiraling out of control…

EXTERIOR SHOT: Wide shot of people rioting

EXTERIOR SHOT: Flight of military helicopters making a pass over a city square

NARRATOR: …one man…

 …must restore balance…

INTERIOR SHOT: Tight shot of fingers typing frantically on keyboard

INTERIOR SHOT: Tight shot of Thom’s face, computer scree reflected in glasses

NARRATOR: …to his checkbook.

SFX: Quicken cash-register sound

INTERIOR SHOT: Man’s hand holding receipts in the foreground, background of woman cleaning litterbox

THOM (Voice-over): Just tell me! Tell me what category these go under!

Anyway, you get the idea. There’s just no such thing as “epic budgeting.” (Even Congress manages to make it pathetic, unfortunately.)

The reality is that that vast majority of our life just isn’t all that dramatic and, truth be told, we’re happy to keep it that way. At the same time it’s a little too easy to forget that it’s not usually the epic, dramatic decisions that shape the course of our lives so much as the little, mundane ones. Do I yell at my kid about their grades, or do I have a quiet conversation and hope it sinks in. Do I stop and help my wife with the dishes or do I go bury myself in the computer?

Nor do we usually solve life’s problems in a single, dramatic battle. You don’t fight your doppleganger id atop a construction crane towering over the skyline and, if you win, suddenly become a more patient parent. No, it’s usually something accomplish gradually, day by day, choice by choice–so gradually we may not even realize we are changing. But we are changing, day by day, choice by choice, whether we want to or not. To channel Yoda, choices lead to actions, actions lead to habits, habits lead to…well, that depends on our habits. Hopefully not to suffering.

Daily life is not epic. There is nothing particularly interesting about most of what we do. Most of us have to just accept that our lives would never make good movies–even Austin Bay would have a difficult time packing in enough explosions to make my life exciting (and I’d rather he didn’t try). On the other hand, we each have some control over our own script. If we don’t like the part we’re playing we can create a character arc for ourselves that transforms us into what we want to be. Just be prepared for it to take a while.

Lives are built one day at a time.

I’m probably the last person you would expect to review a TV show, but you’ll probably note that this one is rather old. My daughter got it on video from a friend of hers, and I’m watching it along with her and her brothers.

Avatar – The Last Airbender is set in an earth-like oriental-themed world where the four elements can be bent to serve humans through “bending”. There are four main nations, one for each element, and for a long time they were in balance and at peace. This was partly due to the existence of an Avatar, a person who can bend all four elements to his/her will. Like the Dalai Lama, the Avatar is reborn into someone new each time, and they are able to access those collective memories from time to time. But a hundred years ago the Fire Nation began a quest to conquer the other nations, and just at that crucial time the Avatar disappeared.

It turns out that the Avatar at the time was a twelve-year-old acolyte air-bender, and hadn’t been the Avatar for very long–not long enough to have actually mastered the other three elements. In trying to flee his destiny he got stuck in a storm, plunged into the ocean, and frozen, along with his flying bison. They are found in the present by a brother and sister from one of the water tribes, and together they go on a quest to help Aang, the Avatar, master the three other elements and stop the Fire Nation. They are at first opposed by Prince Zuko, son of the current Fire Lord, but his plot arch goes in a different direction when he falls out of favor with his father.

The result is a series that, though aimed at kids, is surprisingly complex. There is comic relief aplenty (usually at the expense of poor Sokka, the only non-bender in their adventuring party), but there is considerably amount of depth as well, and some rather poignant and touching moments. For me, often more fulfilling than the adventures of Aang and his friends, is the side-plot of Prince Zuko and his uncle Iroh. This is perhaps because Zuko’s is the character arch with the farthest distance to cover, but also because Uncle Iroh is such a likeable character, both jovial and wise, powerful and yet secretive. Their interactions are quite enjoyable to watch.

(As a side note, I just found out that the voice of the Fire Lord, Ozai, is Mark Hamill.)

We’re only part way into season two of three, but I’m quite invested in seeing the series through. For a Cartoon Network show, I’m finding it not too campy or predictable to enjoy. I also enjoy the frequent animal “mashups”, such as the sabertooth moose lion in a recent episode (whose baby is absolutely adorable!) and the turtleducks.

For an American attempt at anime style, it’s a pretty good story. It’s steeped in Asian culture and folklore, and the fighting styles of the four elements are based on actual martial arts styles. I won’t say you get smarter just watching it, but the setting does seem to possess more weight than that of your average cartoon series.

As I said, I’m enjoying it, and I’m glad my daughter’s friend chose to give it to her.

Anyone who knows me knows I have a low opinion of government efficiency, to the point that I’m surprised when an encounter with any government agency goes well. But, being aware of my biases, I recognize that I ought to provide counter-arguments when I find them. And I have one!

Behind our house is a “collector street”, a two-plus-turning-lane road that helps feed traffic to major arterial streets. It is separated from the various neighborhood backyards by a 6-foot cinderblock wall. On our side of the street the wall has been stuccoed over. On the other side it’s bare block. Next to each wall is a sidewalk and a grass strip, with trees planted at intervals. It’s rather nice, as roads go.

Sunday morning, while out walking my dog, I was dismayed to find that taggers had visited our neighborhood during the night. About every 20-30 feet on both sides of the street, in gray or purple spraypaint, they had left their mark on the world.

We live a block from the high school, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. And that probably explains why I didn’t pay more attention when I heard a group of teenagers moving along the street the night before, taking an inordinately long time. I was suspicious enough to look out the window, but when I didn’t see anything (we have several large maple trees screening our house from the road–and vice versa) I left it alone. Lesson learned.

I remembered having heard about a hotline or something being set up to report graffiti, so when I got home I started googling (or binging, in my case) and eventually found an online contact form for reporting graffiti. Now, if there is one thing I have less confidence in than calling and leaving a message on some department’s voice mail, it’s filling out generic contact forms. But I did it, providing as much detail as I could, and submitted it. Though I had included my email address in the requested field, there was no confirmation email.

When I got home from work Monday evening I checked my email, half-expecting to have received some sort of response akin to “Core Control is aware of the problem.” Sure enough, I had an email waiting for me from an unfamiliar name from my city’s domain. It was rather brief: “Thank you for reporting this. I will take care of it today.”

Yeah right.

But on the off chance they were not over-promising and under-delivering, I went to look out my back window. Sure enough, gone. Not just painted over. Gone.

Wow!

I’m not sure how much of my taxes goes to my city government, but that’s one part I’ll be paying with a smile from now on. I expected they might send someone around within a week or two to paint over it in some generic color that would look nearly as bad as the original graffiti. I did not expect next-business-day service and for the tagging to disappear nearly without a trace. Did they hire Harry Potter or something?

So I do have to continue to amend my bias. Not all government is bloated, inefficient, and wasteful. Some of it, at least on the local level, is awesome!

I’ve got little of substance to say today, other than I hope your day goes well. I don’t know what your weather is like, but we had some very nice weather over the weekend. This was fortunate, since I was camping out in it with my boys one of those nights. I also got to take several walks in it yesterday. Spring on the cusp of summer can be a beautiful time of year.

I got to watch “The African Queen” with my sweetheart over the weekend. It’s an interesting entry on Humphrey Bogart’s resume. It’s a bit of an odd role for him, at least when weighed against his other well-known roles in “Casablanca”, “The Maltese Falcon”, or “Key Largo.” The reason it sticks out, however, is precisely that. It’s different. He inhabits Charlie Allnut as comfortably as he does Sam Spade. I’d swear he even changed his facial structure for the part. But no, he was just a good actor. And as for Katherine Hepburn…well, she’s Katherine Hepburn. They just don’t make them like that any more, and it’s our loss.

I also made some more progress on “The Lies of Locke Lamora”, a book I’m struggling to determine how I feel. I’ve nearly abandoned it on several occasions, but it still manages to keep me interested enough to keep going. My reading last night suggests that I’ll lose my ambivalence soon, though. Either it’s going to insult/offend me enough to finally give up, or it’s going to finally get good enough to justify the investment in getting to this point. Considering the main character got a case of the stupids, I’m not placing any bets. After criticizing other people for not listening to their most intelligent advisors, he then turns around and does the same thing with his own gang. So far I’ve not seen any indication that the author recognizes the hypocrisy. Perhaps it will come later. Perhaps I’ll never make it far enough to see.

My writing has picked up a little in the past few weeks. I’ve been progressing more rapidly, and it seems as though having a more vague outline is serving me well. I like where things are going, in any case. I just wish I could go faster.

Anyway, thank you for your indulgence of my rambling today. I started two other posts and ended up putting them aside, as my ideas aren’t fully baked yet. Perhaps you’ll see them later in the week. Perhaps you won’t.

In the mean time, have a great day!

I ran across this interesting article today: Do boys make good babysitters?

A few key points:

Only through talking to other moms did I become aware that our choice to hire boy sitters was considered controversial, if not outright naïve — and it wasn’t because males are less nurturing or less trained as caretakers. Online forums reveal an army of parents and professionals who draw a hard line against male sitters, suggesting that boys never be allowed to babysit: “The sex drive in teenage boys is too strong,” says one detractor.

Does this potential for abuse mean all teen males should be ruled out as babysitters? Society frowns upon profiling — be it racial, gender or anything else — so how has this judgment against male babysitters become not only pervasive, but acceptable in our culture?

While the incidence of babysitter molestation is higher for boys than girls, it’s important to note that, according to the 2001 issue of the Juvenile Justice Bulletin, only 4.2 percent of reported crimes against children under 6 were committed by caretakers while 53.5 percent were by family members. Strangers also surpassed sitters in crimes against young children.

There’s another stereotype out there I’m sure you’ve seen: The girl babysitter that spends the entire night on the phone with her friends while watching TV and essentially ignoring the kids she’s there to watch. How is this an improvement? As the article goes on to explain, you need to carefully screen anyone who watches your kids, regardless of gender.

This really is an unfair slam against boys. Are we really supposed to believe that boys are out-of-control animals? And even if that were true, how is bombarding them with that assessment supposed to help? If that’s what you tell them they are, then what incentive do they have to become anything else?

We sweep it under the rug by convincing ourselves that boys aren’t interested in babysitting anyway. And perhaps many aren’t. They’d rather make their money working fast food or mowing lawns. But many girls aren’t interested in babysitting, either, and these days it’s hard to prove they’re any less sex-obsessed.

Why do we stigmatize boys only? We tell boys they’re little better than animals or rapists-in-waiting, and yet what are we doing for girls? We’re making sure they can get free birth control, abortions on demand, and mounting campaigns against “slut-shaming”. What message is that sending, exactly? That we want them to be just as bad as we’ve convinced ourselves boys are? Well, if we really want to “correct” that inequality, then let’s go for the whole package and stigmatize girls as unfit to babysit, too.

That’s not the world I want to live in, but at least we’d be more “equal”, which is clearly more desirable than sense these days.

Okay, everyone! Joke time! Leave your best clean joke in the comments! I’ll start:

It’s a busy afternoon in the local saloon, when suddenly a man bursts through the swinging double doors. He hurries up to the bar. “Bartender, give me a double-shot of whiskey, and make it fast! Black Bart is coming to town, and I don’t intend to be here when he gets here!” The bartender pours the drink for the man, who bolts it down and dashes back out the door.

A few moments later another man bursts into the saloon and hurries to the bar. “Bartender, pour me a double! Black Bart’s coming to town, and I don’t want to be here when he gets here!” The bartender pours him his drink, he swallows it down, and runs out the door.

A few minutes after that the patrons hear heavy bootsteps outside on the boardwalk. A huge mountain of a man with long, scraggly hair and a massive scar down one side of his face slowly walks up to the swinging doors and flings them open so hard they fall off the hinges. He stalks slowly up the bar, spurs jingling with every heavy step. “Bartender,” he growls, “give me whiskey. A bottle of whiskey.”

“Y-y-yes sir!” the bartender stammers, shaking in his boots.

The big man bites the top off the bottle, spits it on the floor, then proceeds to guzzle down the entire bottle of whiskey. He slams the empty bottle down on the bar.

“C-can I g-get you an-nother, sir?” the bartender dares to ask.

“Ain’t got time,” the big man growls. “Haven’t y’heard? Black Bart’s coming to town, and I don’t want to be here when he gets here!”

Okay, your turn!