lastgreypoet

Let’s Have a Dialogue

[The other day, as I got bored writing an administrivia post about my comment policy, I created a dialogue with an imaginary internet denizen. I … kinda liked it. Or he did. Or the part of my mind that is that guy did. I’m not really sure. Probably this is not a psychotic break … right? Anyway, welcome back Internet Bob.]

INTERNET BOB: I HAVE A NAME NOW?

lastgreypoet: Yeah. You like it?

INTERNET BOB: I DUNNO. I THINK IT’S MAYBE A BIT TOO CUTE.

lastgreypoet: Nah. It looks good on you.

INTERNET BOB: I DO NOT GET YOUR SENSE OF HUMOR.

lastgreypoet: And that’s Reason A why you exist.

INTERNET BOB: YOU MADE A LIST? WHAT’S REASON B?

lastgreypoet: I kinda felt a need for a foil.

INTERNET BOB: REYNOLDS WRAP?

lastgreypoet: Nah. More like an épée.

INTERNET BOB: I DO NOT GET YOUR SENSE OF HUMOR.

lastgreypoet: Stop me if you’ve heard this one before …

INTERNET BOB: …

lastgreypoet: Okay. I’ll behave. Ish. What’s on your mind Bob?

INTERNET BOB: THINGS ARE AWFULLY UGLY ONLINE RIGHT NOW!

lastgreypoet: And this is different from any other day how, exactly?

INTERNET BOB: WELL, IT ALL SEEMS VERY PERSONAL RIGHT NOW, ESPECIALLY WITH THE RAGE BACK AND FORTH OVER THE ELECTION!

lastgreypoet: Yeah. I get that. It doesn’t have to be that way, though.

INTERNET BOB: NO? YOU THINK WE CAN MAKE PEACE WITH THE ENEMY?

lastgreypoet: Well, I suppose that depends entirely on how you’re defining “enemy.” I don’t see a bright future for a country divided into two halves constantly hating each other.

INTERNET BOB: SO, YOU DON’T SEE A BRIGHT FUTURE, IN OTHER WORDS.

lastgreypoet: Touché, Bob.

INTERNET BOB: STOP WITH THE FENCING JOKES ALREADY!

lastgreypoet: Oh. I didn’t realize you got those. I thought they went over your head.

INTERNET BOB: OF COURSE YOU THOUGHT THAT. YOU’RE A CONDESCENDING ASS.

lastgreypoet: I … have no defense for that.

INTERNET BOB: NO. OF COURSE NOT. WHY WOULD YOU? I MEAN, YOU BASICALLY CREATED ME TO BE A CARICATURE OF PEOPLE WHO ANNOY YOU ONLINE, EVEN — FUCK THIS — even to the point of having me write in all caps, despite how hard it is to read. You want a dialogue? Something even quasi-believable? Make me real, not a straw man.

lastgreypoet: Yeah. Okay. You were never intended to be exactly a straw man, just a slightly exaggerated version of, well, people who annoy me online. I thought by talking to you out loud like this, I could establish the concept that two people can have a conversation that isn’t all-rage, all-the-time, come to a common understanding, and move life in a more positive direction.

INTERNET BOB: Did this imaginary conversation end, perhaps, on a joke at my expense?

lastgreypoet: Probably.

INTERNET BOB: Look, I get it. This whole election outcome is weighing heavily on you, to the point that you’re back at the keyboard, feeling compelled to play writer-hero, in some sort of Quixotic dream that you’ll put just the right string of words together and someone will read them and go, “Oh. I never thought of it like that. I guess maybe I will rethink my entire worldview because Jon is good with words.” You know better.

lastgreypoet: I do. But I can’t get past the point of trying. “All that is necessary for evil to triumph …” and all that.

INTERNET BOB: You sure you shouldn’t write out the rest of that? I mean, you do still doubt my intelligence.

lastgreypoet: No. I don’t. At least, not at this point in the conversation. Besides, there’s always Google!

INTERNET BOB: Always with the jokes.

lastgreypoet: It’s laugh or cry, man, 24/7 for the past week.

INTERNET BOB: Fuck that. Talk it out. Pretend I’m the therapist you probably should have been seeing for the past decade. Or, better, pretend that I’m the people you really had in your head when the idea for this dialogue occurred to you. Talk. They’re listening.

lastgreypoet: …

INTERNET BOB: I can wai-

lastgreypoet: I love you.

INTERNET BOB: That’s it? That’s what you got?

lastgreypoet: No, that isn’t it. But that’s the important bit, the bit to get right up front. Trust me, it’ll be important to remember later. It’s why I said it on the eve of the election. Hell, it’s why I repeated it after the outcome became apparent, although I admit it was said a bit grumpily the second time.

INTERNET BOB: “I love you all. I’m really fucking disappointed with some of you right now, though.”

lastgreypoet: Yeah. That.

INTERNET BOB: You really believe it’s possible to be both? I mean, there are plenty of takes on this election that place the blame for Clinton’s loss squarely on that kind of condescending, I-know-what’s-better-for-you-than-you attitude for th-

lastgreypoet: Stop. I don’t care to hear yet another explanatory hot take, even in abbreviated form. Frankly, at this point that’s horseshit for professional politicos to sift. Not my bag. The why is of far less concern to me that the outcome itself and the ramifications thereof.

INTERNET BOB: Like, how are you going to look these people in the eye?

lastgreypoet: Yeah.

INTERNET BOB: Is that going to be harder or easier after what you’re about to write?

lastgreypoet: I really don’t know. There shouldn’t be any misunderstandings, though.

INTERNET BOB: Forever the optimist.

lastgreypoet: Shh. Just listen. Please.

I can assume you aren’t racist, misogynist, or some other form of bigot.

For real, not just the “blinded-by-white-privilege” version of not being those things.

I am left to believe you either didn’t notice these problem areas of the president-elect’s campaign, or you opted to ignore them because other policy issues mattered more to you.

Well, now we’re all stuck with the consequences. And as much as I really don’t want to dismiss certain details — like all the policy details — I’m willing to narrow focus.

Maybe you’re right.

Maybe he is just a guy who “tells it like it is,” and I don’t like hearing what he has to say.

Maybe the worst thing that will happen over the next four years (aside from everything, policy-wise) is that the presidency will be occupied by a pig, and I’ll just have to get used to that, same as you had to get used to the gentleman we had the last eight years.

But maybe you’re wrong.

If you’re wrong, as part of the political coalition that brought this to pass, own it.

If you’re wrong, but you aren’t racist, misogynist, or some other form of bigot, rise above those you’ve put in power and help deliver a better, more equal freedom to everyone.

If you’re wrong, stand by me, and fight oppression.

Administrivia: Eating the Elephant

[Administrivia posts exist to tell you what I think about what I write. Writing about writing, I guess. Not necessarily boring, but not necessarily essential reading, either — unless you care about things like how and why I run lastgreypoet.com, in which case you should click on the administrivia content label and make sure you’re all caught up.]

—–

If you aren’t familiar, the old saw goes: “How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.”

That isn’t a metaphor, and this isn’t a political post. (Not today, anyway. Later.)

This is a list, for me and you. A list of objectives and things that are on my mind as I emerge from a long funk and get back to work. A list of obstacles and my plans to overcome them.

1. It’s lastgreypoet, not lastgreypundit. While I certainly reserve the right to write in any fashion on any topic, I need to remember that my forte is less analysis/longform/serious and more musing/essayish/whimsical. The motto “wit, whimsy, and ruminations” will remain.

2. You’ve probably heard “the perfect is the enemy of the good” or maybe “don’t make it perfect, make deadline.” It doesn’t have to be perfect. (Huh. I should have put this one at the top of the list, now I think of it. Look at me, not revising!) I have always struggled with this. I will continue to struggle with this. I will cringe when I realize how much better something might have been … but I will let that go and move on to the next set of words.

3. I struggle with depression/anxiety. Maybe I’ll talk about that some time. Just keep it in mind if I disappear unexpectedly for a time.

4. Quotations. I used to always use them atop my newspaper columns, even though an editor friend called ’em a crutch and distraction from my words. Eh. Blame Joel Rosenberg. I learned the technique reading his fantasy novels. Or blame Robert Aspirin, for the same reason, only he did it earlier. (He also had a habit of making quotations up for comedic effect. And he punned like a villain.) I’d gotten out of the habit when I started lastgreypoet.com, but I dusted off the technique the other day for “My Dog Died” because it felt right. Going forward, I’ll let those feelings be my guide.

5. On a similar note: Fuck form. It may not have shown, but I spent an awful lot of time worrying over uniformity of length/appearance/pattern/tone across pieces. Even when I “loosened up” it came in the form of structural patterning (Wordless Wednesday/Caturday/Sports Sunday). I’m done with all that. I’ll write each piece the way it needs to be written, then I’ll be off to the next one.

6. Which brings me to movement. Like a shark, not a clam. Actually, no. Squid. My totem. Swift movers, but also capable of lying around if needed. Adaptable. Comfortable in the depths. Ready to fuck you up with ink when the situation calls for it.

7. You don’t have to be a liberal to like it here, but I’m not going to go out of my way running after some false sense of balance to try to please everyone who comes in the door. Related to that, it’s not exactly coincidental that I went back to the keyboard in the wee hours of the morning America voted to go back to “being great again.” In absolute candor, just between us, if you’d asked me Monday how I’d have reacted to that election outcome, I’d have told you to expect to find me in my cave, with writing the last thing on my mind. Life’s funny, though. Turns out, my anxiety is kind of a pushover, so long as I’m pushing with adequate rage. As noted above, that doesn’t mean it’s all going to be political. If you need an example, look no further than my November 11 post, “Remember, Remember …” Those are words I’ve wanted, needed, to get on a page for a very long time. This was the year.

Administrivia: Don’t Read The Comments

—–

I’m not Jim Wright, demi-god of the sea, who petrifies his enemies then carves their heads into beautiful bowls, all without spilling a drop of his whisky.

Nor am I John Scalzi, who wields the Mallet of Loving Correction with judicious glee before turning back to more important pursuits like cat photography.

My comment policy, while sharing something in spirit with theirs, is a bit different.

Comment moderation is ON, and anonymous commenting is OFF.

Does that makes sense? How about a Q&A? I bet that would help.

I HAVE TO REGISTER TO POST? WHAT IS THIS?

It’s easy, is what it is. You have to either be signed into a Google account or an account from one of several other online services. (I honestly can’t keep up. They’re listed for you on the comment box, though.)

I figure if you have an internet connection and the web savvy to get here, you probably have access to one of those services. If not, email me.

MODERATION? WHAT IS THIS, A DRINKING SUPPORT GROUP?

No, but we might talk about alcoholism some other time.

Moderation means your comment goes to me for approval before it hits the site.

EVEN AFT-

Yes, even after you went to all the trouble of remembering your AIM password to log in.

In practical terms, this means there will be a delay before your comment shows up. How long depends on what I’m up to.

If it’s a typical day, I’ll get the email ping, and if time allows I’ll read and approve a reasonable comment in short order. Then again, your comment might hit at a bad time (such as a time when I haven’t been writing much and you’re hitting up an older post and wanting to start a discussion but it turns out I’m wallowing in a cave).

YOU HAVE A CAVE?

I have a fondness for metaphor.

LET ME BACK UP TO THAT BIT ABOUT “APPROVE A REASONABLE COMMENT.” WHAT?

If your comment meets my standards of decency, I’ll allow it.

(Trolls, professional devil’s advocates, and assholes I went to high school with may find themselves disappointed with said standards.)

FREE SPEECH!

That isn’t a question, but you are welcome to speak freely in whatever public space you find yourself. This isn’t a public space. I realize it may be confusing, given that it’s publicly accessible, but that’s not the same thing.

Think of like this: No shoes, no shirt, no minimum IQ or sense of decency, no service.

Actually, scratch that. I don’t care what you’re wearing (or not wearing). If you’re a decent human who isn’t so dumb as to get on my last nerve, I’ll probably let you in.

WAIT A MINUTE, YOU MENTIONED SENDING YOU AN EMAIL, BUT I CAN’T FIND AN EMAIL ADDRESS ANYWHERE ON YOUR SITE!

Well spotted. You might just clear the aforementioned minimum IQ requirement.

WHAT ABOUT FACEBOOK? TWITTER? CAN I COMMENT THERE?

If you know me there, be welcome.

DID YOU REALLY HAVE TO WRITE THIS Q&A LIKE A CONVERSATION BETWEEN YOURSELF AND AN IMAGINARY YELLING INTERNET DENIZEN!?

No, but it was more fun that way. Nice use of “denizen,” btw. I dig that word.

STOP COMPLIMENTING YOURSELF IN THE THIRD PERSON AND GET BACK TO WORK

Betting on a Lame Horse

VALERIE: Bye-bye, boys!

MIRACLE MAX: Have fun storming the castle!

VALERIE: Think it’ll work?

MIRACLE MAX: It would take a miracle.

— dialogue from The Princess Bride

—–

Recently, I wrote a post slagging on the Electoral College.

Now, when I wrote that, it was mostly just a way of venting, of expressing frustration with our quaintly antiquated (but enshrined in the Constitution so 100% applicable) system of electing presidents.

In the intro, I wrote, “I know who won the election based on the rules in place and agreed upon prior to voting. I am not advancing protest, vote contesting, ‘he’s not my president’ talk, etc. No do-overs.”

I wanted to get that bit out of the way so I could proceed to my point, which was to express frustration while making a few horses jokes along the way.

I purposefully didn’t go into some of the worse aspects of the Electoral College, such as its association with slavery and the Three-Fifths Compromise. (If you don’t know that history, hit Google, or start here. I warn you, it’s depressing reading.)

Upon reflection, I would now like to shift focus to “the rules in place and agreed upon” rather than “not advancing protest, vote contesting.”

Turns out there is a way to fight the result.

It’s incredibly unlikely to succeed, but I don’t believe the odds against success should stop us from doing what is right, nor from advocating others with the opportunity do the same.

As I write this, the election’s popular vote totals have Clinton ahead by ~575,000 votes.

But those are just people, and all we care about is the Electoral College, and Trump won that.

Only he didn’t.

Well, more accurately, he hasn’t won the vote yet … because it has not yet occurred.

Although we’re accustomed to tallying the electoral votes based on the how the states voted and considering that the end of it, the members of the Electoral College do have to actually meet and cast ballots of their own. Those are the ones that really count. This happens December 19.

At that time, if tradition is followed, each state’s electors will all vote for the presidential candidate who won their state’s popular vote.*

But the thing is, they don’t have to.

Most states don’t bind their electors to vote for their popular vote winner, and even those that do seem to only punish with fines. (Frankly, if a fine would be a barrier to performing the act of conscience I’m about to describe, that person would never listen anyway.)

So, how to change the result of a projected Electoral College outcome where the winner is not the same as the popular vote winner? Easy, ask the electors to follow the will of the people and vote for the popular vote winner instead.

Crazy, right?

Yes. Quite.

About as crazy as betting on a lame horse with a history of never leaving the stall when the race starts.

Each party selects electors with loyalty to the candidate as the prime (only?) consideration, so these aren’t exactly people likely to change their minds, and we need at least 21 to turn from Trump to Clinton in order for this to work.**

There have only been a handful of “faithless electors” across the entire history of presidential elections in this country, and most of those were either accidents or minor acts of protest.

But even those few occurrences demonstrate that the Electoral College vote is not sacrosanct. It can change, if the will is there, if the case is made, if the stakes matter enough.

If you are an elector in one of the states pledged to Trump, you can vote Clinton instead.

The rest of us can ask, nicely, persistently, that those folks do just that.

Sign here.

—–

* Well, except for those in Nebraska and Maine, who vote on other criteria. I know, I know. Shut up. This is complicated enough. Stop with the details. (Turns out, you can job this motherfucker all sorts of ways, and most states just haven’t decided to do so. But that’s a topic for another day.)

**That number is based on projections as I write this (T 290, C 228). Those could change, but I’m not getting into recounts and other issues; one faint hope is all I can manage in this post.

Remember, Remember …

Everyday is everything.

If today isn’t a holiday where you live, it might very well be in someone else’s part of the world. And even if it isn’t a proper, the-banks-are-closed, light-some-fireworks occasion, you can bet there are still a dozen smaller observances, in honor of cats, or tacos, or a type of cancer.

It’s always someone’s birthday, and someone always dies.

Here in the States, November 11 is Veterans Day. Since 1954, anyway. Prior to that, it was Armistice Day, which was kinda like Veterans Day but with a name like that, veterans of wars other than WWI felt left out. Prior to 1918 and the formal end of the War to End All Wars, November 11 was, I guess, just a nice early autumn day.

On November 11, 1991, this date ceased to be anything for me but heartache.

My mother’s mother’s brother — great-uncle to me — was a month past sixty when he died that day, at home, alone in the house he had lived in most of his life. He had been my babysitter, my daycare, and my after-school watcher, a grandfather in all but name to a boy who had none.

He was my moral pole star, though I don’t recall realizing that before he died.

Certainly I loved him. He was the relative I said I’d go live with when my parents or my little sister got on my last nerve and I threatened to run away. He was who I was excited to talk to about my day at school, or my newest action figure, or my plans for this year’s Halloween costume.

If I had wanted to grow up, he probably would have been who I wanted to grow up to be.

Everyone loves and everyone loses people they love, and any day can be a sad day when the pain wells up and the memories comfort you but also make you just a little angry because the world is cruel and the only fair thing about life is that it ends for everyone.

Any day can be a dark day, but I can’t avoid November 11.

I had stayed home sick that day in 1991, and I remember standing at the bathroom sink that evening, a wet washcloth growing cold in my hand, when my parents told me about the call from a concerned neighbor, and asked me to watch my little sister while they went to make sure everything was okay.

I knew then what they weren’t telling me, and the funeral followed three days later.

I can no longer distinctly remember 1992 or 1993. They blur together. I was home sick from school on one of them, and I walked through the day in a fog on the other, and on both I visited the cemetery in the evening and spent time at his grave.

By 1994, I was two hours away at college, the day fell on a Friday, and I drove home after my last class, in time to reach the cemetery by dusk because it mattered very much to me that I be there, that I see the cold gravel six feet over his bones, that I whisper a few words, as though the dead have ears.

I drove back that night, having not stopped to see my living family, or even tell them I had been there.

Through the rest of college, I responsibly kept to my school commitments and made no further pilgrimages, instead making it my habit that day to decline dinner or game night invitations, to be alone, to walk a wooded trail, to sit and listen at nature, to ponder the dead.

Over the years that followed, I sometimes walked alone in woods or through a cemetery near where I lived at the time, I visited his grave the brief years I lived back home, I never left my bed the years I got sick, and I loved my wife for leaving me to myself every November 11 of our marriage.

Once I assembled a desk, just to occupy my mind with a simple task.

Last year, I cooked a meal he used to make, following his techniques as best I remembered, down to cooking in cast iron and brewing teeth-achingly sweet tea to wash it down. I have since learned this is a custom on the Day of the Dead, and that unintended similarity is pleasing.

This year I write.

For the first time, I am able to put twenty-five years of mourning into perspective, by putting it into words, then putting those words into the world.

Every year is different, except every year I wonder whether this is the last time I will feel this.

A hundred people die every minute of every day. I can find no statistics on how many leave echoes, or how long those echoes persist, or whether it is my particular madness that every year I make myself listen for the echoes of November 11, 1991.

Quiet, now; I am concentrating.