The right way to do things.

You know me, so you know how much I care about humor. And humor, especially the self-effacing sort, in the face of serious matters, is even more prized. So, then, you can imagine how pleased I am to share with you the URL for the National Stuttering Association: www.westutter.org

Please, National Stutterers, tell me that you chose that URL with a knowing grin on your face. Please tell me that it's not just a brilliant accident. I want so badly to believe!

The end of an error.

I can't keep up this charade. Since mid-May, I have been trying to be a vegetarian, and sometimes succeeding. For weeks on end, I would not eat meat. But then I would. That's no problem, necessarily; the crime lies in continually professing to have converted to vegetarianism while admitting to periodic lapses. As my "lapses" have grown more frequent, I feel more and more the liar whenever I say (outloud or inwardly) that I am a vegetarian. Even "I am trying to be one" seems disingenuous these days. And you know how I feel about disingenuousness. So no more! I am no longer "trying to be vegetarian." Now I am "not eating meat for every single meal." (After all, why should I treat meat any better than vegetable?!)

Yours,
Chris Hubbard the Amoral Corporate Dupe

A possible future for our country.

Note: I really, really, really, really really really, sincerely really really, genuinely honestly really really truly madly deeply really really fervently really hope not.

Do doctors doctor?

I really don't think that doctors doctor.

Progressives: don't let up.

I know we are all just hoping against hope that McCain is not elected in the fall, and terrified that he will be, and feeling like Barack Obama's smile is so infectious, and that Michelle Obama would be the best first lady ever. I am right there with you. But please listen to Naomi Klein and realize that Barack Obama and the Democratic Party are far from perfect, and we need to hold them accountable. She is much more articulate and informed than I, and proves it in this interview:


http://www.youtube.com/v/_e4daR54iIQ&hl=en&fs=1
(brought to my attention on onegoodmove.org)

Not so deadly.

Dear Mr. Rick Warren,

I don't know that I want to admit what my worst sin ever is, but my most recent one would have to be the sin of gluttony. Or was it greed? Or both? They always seem to run together, don't they? Gosh, I'd love to see someone fit all seven into one. That would be something! In any case... my sin of gluttony? I ate a slice of pizza. Not just ANY slice, though, and not just ANY pizza, either! The pizza had a thin crust, with a tangy marinara sauce and cheese, and the toppings? Oh, the toppings! Spicy elk sausage. Jalapeños. Cranberries. Feta cheese. Spicy elk sausage, jalapeños, cranberries, and feta cheese!! That was the pizza. As for the slice? It was sitting alone on the plate, the rest of the pizza having been quickly devoured by me and my bandmates. I stared at it and felt conflicted; I shared my concerns with our guitarist. I told him that, a few days earlier, I had been talking to my friend Will, and had mentioned that the band would soon be playing at this pizza establishment that sold, among others, this amazing spicy elk sausage/jalapeño/cranberries/feta pizza. Actually, I think I only remembered the elk sausage and cranberries. Still, Will was intrigued, and I told him that, if I could, I'd save a slice for him, bringing it back to Portland from McCall, Idaho.

But at that moment, with the last slice lying so vulnerably in front of me, I felt myself losing control. I asked my bandmate for guidance.

"Eat it," he said. Clearly he had no sympathy for my internal conflict.

"I'm sorry, Will, I'm sorry!" I cried, but my cries were muffled by pizza.

Possible things to say to Will (who reads this blog) when I see him:

- "I didn't think you'd like the jalapeños." LIE! I'm pretty sure he would have liked it more.
- "It wouldn't have been very good after sitting in the car for a day." IRRELEVANT! Will deserves to make that evaluation himself, doesn't he?
- "I lost it in a game of chance." EPIPHANY! Life is the ultimate game of chance. Whoa...

In truth, I have no excuse. I'll just say to him, "Will, I'm sorry that I am a greedy, gluttonous, jealous, slothful, vain person with a lust for pizza. Can you ever forgive me?" Stay tuned next week for his equally verbose answer!

Ratios.

Men run faster than women, both at 100m and at 26 miles (marathon distance). But is the gender gap any different at different distances? What would you guess?

Women's 100m world-record time/Men's 100m world-record time = 1.08256

Women's marathon world-record time/Men's marathon world-record time = 1.08827

That seems remarkably similar! Obviously, the sample size is as small as it can get, but the numbers are interesting.

Note: The two fastest 100m times by women are suspect. The first, 10.49 by Florence Griffith-Joyner in 1988, is often considered to have been wind-aided (with a malfunctioning wind meter at the event). The second, 10.65 by Marion Jones in 1998, was at altitude (more than 1000m above sea level). In addition, Flo-Jo was suspected of using performance-enhancing drugs, and Jones has admitted to it. The fastest time, then, that is considered completely legitimate is 10.73 seconds by Christine Arron of France, in 1998. The ratio of that time to Usain Bolt's (insane, but so far legitimate) 9.69 seconds is 1.10733 -- a larger difference than in the marathon.

Do brokers broker?

Yes, brokers broker.

Do soldiers soldier?

Yes, soldiers soldier.

Permanence.

I have just (as of Friday) moved into a house where I will be living for the next month and a half. In the grand scheme of things, 45 days is not long, but at this period in my life, it seems almost extravagantly so. I am sleeping in a bed with sheets that I own, and eating food that I keep on a shelf designated for me. I can't be kicked out at the whim of my host. It is luxurious.

The house is in a swell neighborhood called Brooklyn, here in lovely Portland, OR. It is on the border of a residential neighborhood and an industrial sector, and late at night we hear blasts from truck horns as they signal to each other. I imagine that I am on an ocean cruise ship and that they are passing freightliners.

The illusion of privacy.

Dear you all,

In a little while (a few weeks, a few months, maybe a few years), I think I'm going to restrict access to this blog. So when that time comes (or sooner), just let me know if you want permission to read it, and I'll most likely grant it. Because I like you.

Chris