Synchronized Thinking

Synchronized swimming is when two or three, or seven hundred people jump in the water and do the same things:  make flower designs with their legs, stand on their heads at the bottom of the pool, imitate mermaid ballerinas, and generally splash around.  It’s like a flash-mob in the water -- kind of cool to watch, especially with the right camera work.  Though, the nose-clips and spitting tends to distract from the artistry.  Alas that it’s not a Winter Olympic Sport.

I, being a land-based mammal, never could do any of that.  I can swim, but don’t expect me to save anyone when the ship goes down.  I’m heading for the closest piece of flotsam and there shall I cling until rescued.  Boats are good – never had a problem with boats.  But when immersed in water, and my feet can’t touch the muddy bottom?  What’s left of my bowels tries to crawl its way to dry land, dragging the rest of me along for the panic-induced ride.

But that’s ok because there’s another sport, quite similar, and I do it with the best of them.

An example:  something happens in the world and that something is deemed newsworthy by the powers in charge of selecting newsworthy events for us to consider.  The closing segment of tha whilrd newz tanite goes something like this:  “And finally, a mother in the township of East-Ganglia expressed outrage today when not allowed to transport her trans-finless guppies to the local pet babysitting service.”  [image of outraged woman holding plastic sack of finless guppies].

Other examples include controversies about movies, music, and other priced venues of entertainment, usually a few weeks before said entertainment is slated to premier.  A bit like Jimmy Fallon appearing in dozens of commerials before Jay Leno's chair had the chance to cool.

The above segment lasts, perhaps, a half-minute.  Count to thirty.  That’s how much information the viewers at home have.  Hardly a blip on the radar, something to possibly notice in between bites of dinner.  It has nothing to do with the viewer at home.  But the next day, the story goes ‘viral’.  This is a suspect term.  Going viral is often not as virus-like as one might think.  But anyway, the viewer at home hears the story again the next morning over his crispy cereal.  This account includes no new information.

Yet, it must suddenly be important.  An outraged individual or small group of individuals must be tended to.  So, we turn on our radios to hear what the radio talk-people say about it.  We watch our news and read our blogs and choose, based on the ear we like to have tickled.  By end of day – we relax because an opinion on the so very important matter (typically one of two – either ‘fer it’ or ‘agin it’) has been accepted.

The thinking has been given to the public, not formed by the public.  There’s a difference.  But everyone goes around thinking they know what they think about the outrage-du-jour and the proposed legislation to solve it.

And that, my friends, is synchronized thinking.  We’ve been splashing around the water for some time now.

Waiting for the Orange Blossoms

I find something very human about the fact that a boat load of 52 Global Warming scientists on a discovery mission to help prove receding levels of Arctic sea ice were trapped by Arctic Sea ice and had to be rescued by Chinese helicopters.

For starters, where does one obtain a Global Warming science degree?  When I Google, 'BS Global Warming," I find many links, none of which lead to accredited universities.

Secondly, China is the world's largest polluter-nation and it was their helicopters, made in 100% non-OSHA, non-EPA approved assembly plants that had to get in there and airlift said scientists back to some warmer part of the planet.  Standing on principal, I expect the true believers stayed on board with the crew.

Those youngsters living for the ironic (the purposely bored ones with black, plastic-frame glasses, ugly clothes, hair shriven by dull left-handed scissors, the latest electronic gadgets, and a wall of awards for a lifetime of showing up) should be ecstatic.  I can see them now, giving one another knowing nods and raised eyebrows, sipping their organic fair-trade coco in their micro-fiber onesies, hoping mom doesn't come in and tell them to turn that gosh-darn music down in front of their friends.  I mean, they just got over the fact that they weren't the first generation to discover alcohol and sex; and now this?!

That right there is the price of admission to the human club in all of its sometimes wildly disappointing and often ridiculous glory.  Things like this tend to become lost in the twerk-induced marginalia of our modern lives.

Tonight, in this neck of the woods, the temperature is supposed to bottom out somewhere around seventeen below zero, and that's when the wind doesn't blow.  I spent two hours today shoveling snow and will do more tomorrow.  But I'm not saying Global Warming isn't real.  I don't know and in the big scheme of things I don't care.  All I'm hoping for tonight is that the power doesn't go out and what I do know is that orange trees still won't blossom in central Illinois.

Monroe Isadore

In which I grow perilously close to saying something political:

On September 8, 2013, 107-year-old Monroe Isadore, formerly of Pine Bluff Arkansas, was shot and killed by the police.  Mr. Isadore, I suspect you deserved better.

Before I say anything else, I completely understand a 107-year-old person is capable of pulling a trigger and of shooting someone.  I get that.  Thus, the defense of the police goes along those lines.  They were, perhaps, acting out of a protocol or a policy of some sort.  And hey, who doesn’t like a good policy or procedure?  They have their place and benefits.  This seems to be part of the problem, however, because a policy is little more than a way to avoid thought.  Someone enforcing a policy gets a pass and a purpose, all at the same time.  Going by the book is a way of saying, "I wasn't thinking.  I was doing what I was told."

Also, I wasn't there.  I don't know what when on.  But one thing I do know is that we will never hear  Monroe's side of the story.  That's the thing that happens when you are shot and killed, especially by the police.  Your side of the story goes in the casket with you.  Dead men tell no tales.  The sealed police records and the reluctance of the Pine Bluff Police Department to investigate the shooting help this.  Though now, a special prosecutor will investigate.

Apparently, the Pine Bluff officers were called in for an aggravated assault that had taken place in Isadore's home.   In his own home assaulted he them.  Can we think possible self-defense?  And, by the way, hat is off to Mr. Isadore.  I hope when I am 107 I can push two people out of my home if I don't want them there.  The two people were not initially identified, though they had the wherewithal to call the police.  I'm also wondering if they were bothering the man with something like a piece of paper they wanted him to sign, along the lines of, 'It's time for you to stop living by yourself?' and Mr. Isadore just wanted to be left alone and most certainly didn't want to sign that there piece of paper.  We'll probably never know.

Next, when the police arrived and made their presence known, Mr. Isadore shot through the door; fault, Mr. Isadore.  Shooting at the police is something few people live to regret.  The officers called the SWAT team, and what community can do without a SWAT team?  I'm smelling more policy.  The SWAT team is at the residence for some hours.  They use 'negotiating tactics'.  They use a sneaky-snake camera to see Mr. Isadore and that he has a gun.  They try gas.  They try more than one flash-bang grenade.  Mr. Isadore shoots, they shoot, and Mr. Isadore is killed with multiple gunshot wounds, inside his own home.

Again, I wasn't there.  But here are a few things I didn't read about the stand-off.  The two individuals in his home are not identified.  I'm thinking bureaucrats or people Mr. Isadore didn't like (perhaps I repeat myself).   The man had three sons and seven daughters, 27 grandchildren and etc…  As far as we know, the SWAT team did not call in friends or family of Mr. Isadore.  Nor did the SWAT team appear to want to miss supper because, after several hours, they resorted to the gas and the flash-bang grenades.  Why stay up late when you can flush him out?  Never mind the camera that could tell them when Mr. Isadore nodded off.  That would have been the perfect time for the SWAT Ninjas in their black armor and face-masks to subtly enter the residence and go from there.

Again, Mr. Isadore probably deserved better.  Then again, maybe at 107, this is a better way to go out than the nursing home.