Now: we have a house. Weird.
Next: everything in this hovel must be packed into small boxes by 9AM Saturday.
The fun continues.
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September 02, 2002
Now: we have a house.Now: we have a house. Weird. Next: everything in this hovel must be packed into small boxes by 9AM Saturday. The fun continues.
I must also mention that,I must also mention that, while the aforementioned fun continues, Astonished Head will be a bit thin. There's much to do...packing...phone calls...more packing...and packing. But: once the move is complete and I can find a phone jack that works, I will regale my readers with tales of homeowning horror. And all the usual blather, of course. September 05, 2002
I'm a Lileks fan. Really.I'm a Lileks fan. Really. But today, he's just irritating. Characterizing the thought processes of certain people who might be bothered by the fact that "there hasn't been a day" that he hasn't thought about September 11, he writes, "They can’t stand people who won’t let go of 9/11. Once they washed the ash off their car it was over for them; why can’t it be over for everyone?" First things first: James Lileks, like 99.9% of the rest of the country, watched the events of September 11 on a television, in the safety of his home, perhaps with friends and loved ones close by. The fact that he has a really excellent widescreen television with surround sound doesn't put the intensity of his experience in the same category as anybody who had to "wash ash off their car." It doesn't put his experience in the same category as my own, which consisted of washing ash off my body at the end of an eight-mile walk from downtown Manhattan to Queens with thousands of other evacuees. And it doesn't put it in the same solar system as the experience of the wounded and the families of the dead. Which is a bit snarky, I realize. But Lileks thinks about September 11 every day because he chooses to do so. He doesn't live or work in New York. He's in Minnesota, which is most probably not a target for anybody anywhere in the world except, perhaps, for haters of Garrison Keillor. He's not forcibly reminded of that day. He will never be propelled back to that day by a random odor. He doesn't have to walk by the hole in the sky of downtown Manhattan, or look into the pit from his office windows. His memories can only be of watching video footage. He's got a choice, and what he has chosen is to dwell, to replay his memories of watching television, and to look at his daughter and think of the children on board those planes. There is a certain tendency in this country to fetishize trauma. I'd blame it on the media, but the media wouldn't do it if the people didn't watch, read, and listen, so I'll blame it on the people instead. September 11, of course, is not the "trauma" of Jon Bonet Ramsey, or a summer "epidemic" of kidnappings. It's historical trauma, horror on a scale never before seen in this country. It's important that the rest of the country remember these events. People want to empathize and show their support, and that's a good thing. I'm not saying that Lileks is making an emotional fetish out of September 11. But he is wrong to put people who were so close that they had to "wash ash off their cars" in the same category as people who think that there’s "something unhealthy about thinking about 9/11" and were in, say, Berkeley. Lileks is bitching about people who think he's being indulgent, who "can’t stand people who won’t let go of 9/11." I've got news for him: there are many people in this city who want nothing more than to "let go of 9/11," and are unable to do so. I, like many others here, are indeed "bracing" for the first anniversary. And our reasons are different from the reasons that Lileks and his presumed audience have. I want it to be over. All of the "Concerts for America," the "Special Live Coverage," the tributes, the speeches. That's for the rest of the country, the ones who need something visual or aural to remind themselves, whose memories of that day don't feel real, intense, or emotional enough, or don't seem to measure up to the monumental nature of the terror. Last night I saw the ad for NBC's planned "all-day" coverage, with Tom Brokaw, and I thought: Great. Just what we need, all-day coverage...just like on September 11, when we had all-day coverage, and all-night coverage, for days on end. Way to send us all back, Tom. So, James: Empathize. Remember. Put your daughter on one of those planes in your mind, if you choose. But don't tell me that I shouldn't be sick of hearing other people's thoughts and musings about September 11, particularly those of people who weren't there. I've been hearing about it, and looking at it, and smelling it, for 359 days. I've had enough.
A reader writes: "Funny, IA reader writes: "Funny, I had written a note to Lileks saying I agreed that a lot of people in this country are too quick to expect everyone to have gotten over it [...] But now I agree with you, too. I think all of this hair-tearing is really an attempt to FEEL something, because they don't FEEL that they are FEELING enough about it. And I want to shout at them, Guys, it's NOT something to be jealous of! It's not COOL to be a victim's family. It's awful, more awful than any of us can imagine, even those of us who were close enough to feel personal danger from the thing and to have post-traumatic symptoms, and the whole shebang. There's an onion layer, and people who lost loved ones are in the inner layer, or maybe the rescue workers are in the inner layer, whatever, and people like you and [your coworkers] are in the next layer, and then people like me who saw it and had someone down there we were terrified for, and then those further uptown, and so on. It's not status; it's nightmare, it's trauma. I don't understand these histrionics. Everybody just chill, it's not a hysteria contest, where everyone has to pretend to be the most noble by showing that they have the very most compassion about it. It sucks. It's death, mass murder, and these are not things to be posed for, or jockeyed into position. That's what pisses me off about all the movie stars being interviewed so they can get points for emoting. I know people are sick and get a thrill out of looking at accidents on the road, but this is way beyond the poor taste exhibited in that oddball human quirk." September 06, 2002
A Man. A New House.A Man. A New House. The Final Frenzy Of Packing Begins. In Theaters Now. One of the things that must be packed up is this computer. In fact, I'm packing it right now. When next I write, it will be from lovel September 12, 2002
Moved in. Not unpacked. Spackling.Moved in. Not unpacked. Spackling. Refinishing floors. Getting up at 5:45 AM to catch the bus. Very. Tired. More later. September 13, 2002
Now I sit in anNow I sit in an upstairs room, surrounded by boxes, my monitor perched on a cardboard monitor stand provided by U-Haul. I'm inhaling polyurethane fumes from the freshly-sealed floor downstairs. There are crickets outside, mumbling in the dark. I'm exhausted. I'm home. I escaped. Almost. I still cling remora-like to the economic shark: my job is in the city. But now, when I come home, I'm not still in the city. The air here is cooler, cleaner. There's more green; we've got a bunch of trees on our little plot, including a big honking maple out front. And I'm still within walking distance of good Chinese food. The nearest movie theater is a drive-in (one of the few remaining in operation in the country). I escaped. I escaped! Ha! Take that! Now to shower and bed. Soon: unstoppable blather. September 15, 2002
Back before I started AstonishedBack before I started Astonished Head, when I was regularly perusing Andrew Sullivan's site and exploring the links he includes there, I swore that, should I ever create such a site of my own, I would never talk about my toilet. I couldn't conceive of how plumbing could become worthy of even a passing mention. That was before I bought a house. Now, I can well conceive of how plumbing might become worthy of mention. Mainly because it's expensive. That being said, I'm still not going to talk about my toilet. That's where I draw the line. I'll talk about my cat, my medication, my nighttime psychoses and my dreams, but never will I ramble on about my porcelain. I will say, however, that after an intriguing match decided in less than four rounds, I have installed a new bathroom faucet. I mention this because it is an excellent example of the old "for want of a nail" adage. The previous owners did not replace a washer in the hot water faucet. This caused the faucet to leak onto the sinktop whenever it was used. This water often overflowed the lip of said sinktop, slid down the side of the vanity, and pooled onto the linoleum. Eventually, the linoleum glue gave up the ghost, and the water seeped into the subfloor. The wood began to rot. The damp wood attracted carpenter ants which, while the sworn enemies of termites, do their own sort of damage. They built a small village. Now, the subflooring is soft, and will need to be replaced, which I will do myself to save hundreds of dollars in labor costs. Cost of the original washer? 15 cents. Now: dinner, and bed, in preparation for many hours' worth of bus time. September 16, 2002
According to my statistical elves,According to my statistical elves, Astonished Head is a morning read for most folks, with a smaller number checking in at lunchtime...or, if they're on the West coast, first thing in the morning. Traffic dropped off markedly at the end of August, but then shot back up in September, which is astounding because I've had nothing of import to say for going on three weeks now. Yes--that does assume that I have indeed had important things to say at other times. So sue me. I theorize that people were on vacation in August, from which it follows that the site gets read in the workplace. Shame! Wasting your employers' valuable money. I am contributing to the manufacture of poor quality cars and inferior-style electronics. Things are still a mess here at Peapod. But the living room floor, she is shiny. Satin, actually. The last of the polyurethane fumes have dispersed, and Bob the Cat seems only marginally dimmer than she was before the staining/sealing process began. If I can dig out my reference books, I will soon have a fascinating piece about Minoru Yamasaki and why the Islamists were so bloody offended by our gleaming towers. As you might expect, the reasons go back thousands of years. What else is new?
Meanwhile, Andrew over at theMeanwhile, Andrew over at the aptly named 68.81.138.3 thinks that terrorists want to blow us up because they haven't appreciated the quality of our cheap luncheon meats. September 17, 2002
So. Iraq is going toSo. Iraq is going to allow the unconditional return of UN inspection teams. I'm sure it will go well. Harried UN Weapons Inspector: What's this piece of equipment over here? And so forth. September 18, 2002
Holy linkage, Batman! Stephan atHoly linkage, Batman! Stephan at VodkaPundit and the monkeys at World Wide Rant have linked to yesterday's Iraqi espresso funniness. Sigh. I feel like I'm getting an important phone call while I'm in the shower the morning after a party at my house. I'm a mess, the house is a mess...this place just isn't ready for visitors. At least Blogger has finally gotten its act together enough so that when readers click on the link, they'll actually see the post in question. Of course, then they have to click on the HOME link to get to the site itself, but that's my own fault. Stupid frames. Ergh. I need coffee. Speaking of Iraqi funniness, Andrew Sullivan caught this bit of fluff from the info-aether yesterday, courtesy of London's Evening Standard (I'd put the link in, but the Standard's site seems to be undergoing some sort of paroxysm): "And the Arab League's ambassador to London, Ali Muhsen Hamid, gave the first indication that the inspectors might not be allowed the unfettered access required when he said they could inspect only 'military sites'." I think that'll work fine, actually. As we all know, Sadaam likes things neat and orderly. He keeps all the military stuff in the military sites. All the torture equipment in the torture sites. No need to look for WMDs anywhere but at the military sites...after all, weapons of mass destruction are military stuff, and Saddam couldn't stand having them in, say, a hospital or a school. That would be like keeping his Hummels on the same shelf as his Beanie Babies. September 19, 2002
And now: the results ofAnd now: the results of a VodkaPundit/WorldWideRant mention: yesterday, traffic jumped from 58 hits the previous day to 879 hits. That's nearly what I've been doing in a month. Thanks Stephen! Thanks Andy! Hoo-hah. So: welcome, new folks, thanks for stopping by. If any of you are inclined to poke around further, the Archives link is over there on the left. I'm out of coffee, though, and all I've got for snacks is a stale Krispy Kreme. Many apologies.
Swell. I just got bootedSwell. I just got booted offline because I didn't *70 before dialing into my POP--thus leaving me vulnerable to Call-Waiting Bootoff--and discovered a voicemail message from my girlfriend. She's working in the city today, and apparently there's a bomb threat on Houston Street between LaGuardia and Mercer, where her office is. It must not be too serious, because although they've closed down Houston to traffic, they're letting pedestrians stroll about. But still: this is the first day since we've moved here that she's been in the city and I've been here, so, of course, some yahoo threatens to blow up her street. So she's sitting around, waiting for the police to decide what to do about the situation. It's probably nothing. Which means that every effort should be made to find the prankster, and bring him to my house, so that I can beat him about the head and neck with the bar I'm using to pry the moldings off of the living room walls. It's a Stanley Wonderbar, about a foot long, flat, heavy, with notched ends like a crowbar. I think it would be suitable for breaking some teeth, a nose, and--in conjunction with a hammer--perhaps removing a finger or two, so that he'd be less inclined to go about pushing telephone buttons and making false terroristic threats that upset people I love. Then, I think, a good whack to the scrotum. I'm assuming testosterone here, which is, all things considered, probably a reasonable assumption to make. This right here is one of the main reasons--regardless of how I feel about their government's 5,000-year-old-mindset--I have sympathy for the average Israeli. You could be a Peace Now demonstrating Arab-loving Jew, get on a bus to go buy some lemons, and still get turned into a smoking corpse riddled with ball bearings. In addition to the deliberate evil of human intention that underlies such an act, I find that there is the additional component of evil Fate, akin to the natural evils of hurricane, flood, and earthquake. It is as though the terrorists have yoked their human consciousness to the random destructive evils of the world, and by so doing have surrendered themselves to the same sort of primordial chaos which various gods sundered into light and darkness as their first acts of creation. The irony is palpable. The terrorists claim to serve the all-creating Allah, yet their activities echo the time before creation, when all was disorder. They've given up the one thing that makes them human: rational, creative action. Idiots.
As I was saying: idiots.As I was saying: idiots.
Even the terrorists are assumingEven the terrorists are assuming that we'll do the smart thing and profile airline passengers based on their resemblance to the ethnic makeup of the participants in every recent terrorist attack against American interests. But wait: perhaps I'm being too hasty. Perhaps Mineta and the rest of the fearful PC-suckups are more clever than anyone imagined. Anticipating al-Qaeda's use of blonde lactating women and 80-year old grandmothers, they elected to focus their airport security efforts on those groups instead. American bureaucrats: we grow 'em smart here.
Apparently the Houston Street areaApparently the Houston Street area has been given the all-clear. Another possibility is that someone accidentally left a briefcase or backpack by a bus stop or some such thing. In which case, the person still must be found and brought to my house, but will only receive a mild rap to the forehead with the flat part of the Wonderbar, for being a dumbass.
As someone who's at someAs someone who's at some risk for melanoma himself, I think this is a great development: they've created white blood cells in a lab, then injected them into cancer patients, with reportedly startling effectiveness. In one case, the amplified lymphocytes essentially gobbled up two pounds' worth of tumor. But the AP headline--Cancer Cells Killed In Test Therapy--immediately conjured up in my mind's theater a group of scientists wearing white coats in their high-tech lab, enthusiastically smashing dozens of petri dishes with big hammers while a spokesperson explains: "We felt that a simple, basic approach would produce better results than more complicated therapies, so we went after the cancer cells with brute force." September 20, 2002
Back on September 5, AfghanistanBack on September 5, Afghanistan President Hamid Karzai survived an attempt on his life, largely because three members of the US Special Forces assigned to his security detail killed all three of the would-be assassins. That was the same day that a car bomb exploded in Kabul, killing six and wounding dozens. I mention this now because of a photograph I saw on the cover of one of the New York dailies. It depicted one of the soldiers who had taken out the assassins, apparently discussing the incident with other members of his team. Around his head, he wore a traditional Afghan headdress, somewhat like a turban but loosely wrapped, so that tousled hair poked out its top. Usually, we see our soldiers clean-cut and smooth-faced, but this soldier, in keeping with the customs of his hosts, was sporting a thick beard. Not Mullah-thick, mind you, but getting there. He was shirtless, his broad chest crossed by the strap that held a lethal-looking, snub-nosed machine gun close to his hip. A smooth, fat egg of a grenade was tucked casually into his waistband, hanging by its spoon, next to a .45 snug in its compact leather holster. And he was big: the arm that lightly gripped the machine gun was a thick hamsteak, and his shoulders were equally thick and broad, tapering down to a fit waist. At the time the photograph was taken, he had just recently put down one or more armed men intent on killing the President in his charge. But here he was, relaxed, one foot up on the low bumper of a military vehicle, one hand gripping his gun, the other gesturing in conversation. Beneath the thickening beard I could see clear eyes and a small, slightly upturned nose that seemed out of place, given his heavy armament and his foreign surroundings. Altogether, he looked competent, dangerous and--by virtue of his clear pale skin and his rusty-brown hair and beard--undeniably American. Over the next few days, I came to wish that I had followed my impulse and bought that newspaper, so that I could show this soldier to you instead of describing him. Because, seeing him, I became filled with an inspired confidence. My conviction that Bin Laden had been grievously, stupidly mistaken about our troops' capabilities and their resolve grew to become completely unshakeable. I realized that my tax dollars had helped to train this man. My country had provided abundant, nourishing food for him while he grew up, so that now he was strong and fit, a force to be reckoned with. My culture had helped to raise him, to shape his talents, to provide him with the skills needed to defend the leader of a distant land. He is defending that leader solely because that man represents a glimmer of hope for freedom, representative democracy, and the reconstruction of a nation torn by 20 years of war and religious tyranny. In short: he is the face of military spending. Not night vision goggles, or undetectable aircraft, or ambitious, pork-filled projects that the military neither wants nor needs. That young man is part of the true engine that powers the American military machine. I'm glad he's fighting for us. I'm proud to be in a country that produces such people. I pray that he, and all the others like him, will return home safely.
The very definition of aThe very definition of a minor annoyance: returning to behold your freshly-painted living room wall to discover that a dozen gnats, small flies, and no-see-ums decided to land on the bright white paint before it dried. The corner of a paper towel and a second coat tomorrow should solve the problem. Idiot bugs. Me no like. September 22, 2002
Sometimes I am amazed bySometimes I am amazed by my own inanity. Him: Fit and in fighting trim. Facing death and danger. In Afghanistan. And yet, somehow, we end up within mere paragraphs of one another. Maybe it's the beards. Yeah, that's it: we both have beards. Sheesh. September 24, 2002
The word for today isThe word for today is Yurch, which is onomatopoetic in that it perfectly describes my state of bodymind this morning. Persistent ear trouble has left me partially and hopefully temporarily deaf, the wrenchings of my new schedule have rendered my brain highly susceptible to cascading neuron failure, and the onset of fall allergies has further degraded my mental capacity. My sinuses are packed with cotton and glue. I need a haircut and a dehumidifier for the basement. My cat is much too fat and there's too much beer in the refrigerator. In addition, I think that the ghost of Howard Hughes is trying to contact me regarding a box of gold coins that he stashed somewhere in Utah. All of this makes it very...difficult...to...concentrate. That is why I'm wearing the tinfoil hat. I probably shouldn't have downed all of that cough syrup, though. It�s messed up the vertical hold on my eyeballs. Inna gadda davida, baby...oh...yeah...sing...it...*hic* September 25, 2002
This morning, I puzzled outThis morning, I puzzled out the final leg of my new commute when I remembered that there is a ferry that leaves from the Hoboken train station and arrives at the World Financial Center, a five-minute walk from where I work. This ferry was part of the flotilla that evacuated untold thousands from downtown Manhattan on September 11. I don’t recall exactly when, but the last time I took the ferry I was going to fly kites in Liberty State Park, across the river in New Jersey. I fly stunt kites, and I would try to trace the downtown skyline with them, moving them up and around the twin towers, back and forth in the wind. After I arrived at the dock, I decided to take a walk through the Winter Garden, the spacious glass atrium that nestles between the two towers of the World Financial Center and formerly connected to the twin towers. I walked across the new marble supplied by Campolonghi Italia of Montignoso, Italy, and installed by Pierro Marrai and his crew of marble craftsman. The damage was extensive, and the work required immense. But they said they’d open by September 11, 2002, and they almost made it. The Winter Garden opened to the public last week, on September 17. This morning, the new glass overhead is fresh and clean. There are 16 towering palm trees in the atrium, and at first I thought that they had survived the massacre of last September, but no: they were too clean, their bark too smooth, their fronds too brightly green. Replacements, then. But, for the most part, the lustrous space was as I remembered it. Then I reached the new glass façade, designed by Cesar Pelli, who also designed the original atrium. The expanse faces West Street, and Ground Zero. I paused there. Ground Zero seems small, now, and the towering wreckage is a memory. It has returned to its origins, transformed into a construction site. The transportation hub beneath the World Trade Center was busier than Grand Central, and they’re working to rebuild it. PATH service from Jersey City should be restored by the end of 2003, and there are immense cranes working in the empty foundation, raising the steel beams of the new station into place and knitting them to the battered sides of the seven-story retaining wall. That damage is all that tells the tale of the site’s terrible origin: instead of finished, smooth concrete, massive chunks of the retaining wall’s top edge are missing. The entire surface is studded with tie-rod locks, stabilizing the cracked walls. As much as I respect him, I think Giuliani is wrong to call this place a grave, and to say that nothing should be built here. Graves and graveyards are silent. They have bodies in them, and a monument for each. No work is done there, except for the digging of holes in the earth and the maintenance of the grounds. Ground Zero is now the antithesis of that. The bodies are gone. The tomb of wreckage has been removed and carted away. Hallowed ground? Yes, of course. But today, for the first time, I looked upon that expanse of emptiness without a knot in my stomach, or a lump in my throat. The place is now a hive of activity. There are cranes, and heavy loaders, and workers wearing bright orange vests. There are neat piles of construction materials and gleaming stacks of new steel beams. The support structures of new buildings are rising from the now-smooth floor of the foundation. And I smiled, just a bit, with satisfaction. Ground Zero is rapidly becoming a testament, not to the depravity of suicidal fanatics, but to the resilience and ingenuity of America and her citizenry. September 26, 2002
Very light on the printedVery light on the printed slovos today, my droogies. I must rearrange many boxes into a more habitable warren, and install the giant hamster wheel. In the meantime, if you're bored, go here and play with the puppet: "It's momentarily diverting!" says local farmer Joss Wibble. September 27, 2002
From Drudge, we hear theFrom Drudge, we hear the welcome news that we now have the permission of Tom Cruise and Steven Spielberg to go to war with Iraq. That's crucial, because a little-known amendment to the Constitution indicates that no military action may be taken by the United States without the explicit approval of Mr. Cruise and Mr. Spielberg and the provision of imported sparkling water for their staffs. On the other hand, intelligence maven Barbra Streisand apparently has extensive evidence that Iraq was in no way involved with the destruction of the World Trade Center. Furthermore, she holds exhaustive dossiers on the corrupting influence of several obviously evil industries on the Bush administration. She also watches The West Wing every week. I pity Dick Gephardt, caught between the constitutionally-mandated powers of the Cruise-Spielberg dyad and Streisand, widely regarded as the most down-and-dirty information monger since J. Edgar Hoover. She's already taken a swipe at him by cagily revealing that at the beginning of his political career he changed his name from the mushy mouth-feel of "Gebhardt" to the more assertive and electable "Gephardt." He'll have to pick sides carefully: Cruise abd Spielberg might end his political career, but if he's into into pederasty, self-flagellation or some other perverted activity, Streisand could make things very ugly for him. Developing... September 30, 2002
The following is the textThe following is the text of a letter I have sent to Joe Grizzanti, the owner of the Warwick Valley Winery: Dear Mr. Grizzanti, After spending some time picking apples this past Saturday, my girlfriend and I headed up to Warwick Valley Winery, intent on stocking up on hard cider and Chardonnay. I asked a woman working in the Winery shop, who I was later told is named Harriet, if the apple brandy was in stock. Alas, it was too early in the season for such things. We had met Harriet before, when we visited the Winery in the February off-season. My girlfriend and I continued making casual conversation, during which we mentioned that we had recently moved to the area from New York City, prompted in large part by the events of last September. Apropos of nothing, Harriet offered the following: “They [terrorists] do bad things, we do bad things;” that I “had to admit” that the September 11 massacre was a “brilliant maneuver;” that America had been “asking for it for a long time;” and that one “has to be dispassionate” when considering the attack. I was less then three blocks away when the first tower fell. Stunned, I told her that I found it difficult to be dispassionate about the attack, because I was there. Undaunted, Harriet repeated her belief that a dispassionate response was the appropriate response. The conversation ended shortly after that. Despite my initial inclination to leave immediately, we picked up a few bottles of cider and Chardonnay, then headed home. There are a host of arguments to be made against drawing moral equivalency between America and the Islamic terrorists, against the ‘appreciation’ of acts of mass murder and destruction, and against the appropriateness of such acts as a response to American foreign policy, misguided and cruel though that policy sometimes is. None of these arguments serve the purpose of this letter, which is simply to tell you the following: I found Harriet’s comments deeply offensive, all the more so because she tossed them into a casual conversation. That leads me to believe that her opinions were likewise casual and ill-considered. To voice such opinions to a customer was entirely inappropriate. Given the winery’s proximity to the city, sooner or later she will say something similar to someone who has lost a friend, parent, or loved one. I doubt that their response to such cold-blooded dismissal of their loss will be “dispassionate.” The Warwick Valley Winery’s employees are, of course, free to indulge in moral idiocy if they so choose. This is America, after all, which means that I am also free to deny the winery any of my future business. This is regrettable, because the 2001 Chardonnay is especially fine, and the hard cider is a true find. But I’m willing to make that admittedly small sacrifice to insure that I will not be giving any financial support whatsoever to someone who believes that the murder of 3,000 Americans is “brilliant.” Sincerely, Ian Wood
Andrew Sullivan paints a typicallyAndrew Sullivan paints a typically sharp portrait of exactly the kind of thinking I that encountered this weekend at the winery. I dropped him a line, including the text of the above letter, to remind him that it's not just the pundits and the politicians who spew such ideas. It's a small thing, really, and in the larger scheme of things this opinion of a winery employee matters little. But it's the unthinking espousal of such ideas that spreads them, virus-like, and it seems to me that the proper thing to do is object to them wherever they are found.
A reader writes, "...I mean,A reader writes, "...I mean, what's the result you're really aiming for, to point out this person's wrongheadedness to her, her bosses, or to the community? If it's to the community, then I wouldn't include names; they're not what's important. Are you after the individual or the idea? I also don't see why the Winery (which presumably doesn't stand for the sentiment expressed by its salesperson) should suffer because she said something stupid. As you pointed out, it's not one of the owners who's spouting off. Unless you're trying to get her fired for saying something inappropriate, I don't see why the letter to the owner is your response." Good point. I'm not sure, either. I suppose that my thinking was this: once the owners confront Harriet with the loss of the millions of dollars in Chardonnay revenues that I would have provided, the sacred light of Reason would dawn in her addled head, causing her to change her mind, have the maximum enlistment age requirement waived based upon her now-impassioned recognition of the justice of the American cause, go to Baghdad, and put a sniper's bullet into Sadaam's eyeball. In reality, she will probably be confirmed in her conviction that the Ashcroftians are continuing to take over America, and perhaps spend the evening serenely contemplating the aesthetic pleasures to be found in watching burning people fall to their deaths from 100 stories. "Brilliant!" I told myself that when I wrote about this little incident I would write an introverted piece, not an extroverted one. So this must be the introverted bit. I'll be honest: people who believe stupid things and then proudly proclaim their beliefs piss me off. (That's actually the root of all my neuroses, because sometimes I believe stupid things, and tell everyone, and then when I've realized my folly I have to take medication to keep my skull from splitting open, or to avoid repeats of that unfortunate incident with the monks and the turbot in Basque country.) Usually, I find such people either easily dismissed or worth the time and effort of further discussion. But in this case, Harriet's armchair political spouting is the equivalent of finding the parent of a toddler shopping at Babies 'R' Us and announcing, Hey, I think having anal sex with children under five is a really sensual thing; I mean, you have to appreciate that the deviance is a real commentary on where we are as a society, and besides, children are sexual beings, you know. You can have a fully developed, coherent philosophy undergirding such a statement, but that doesn't make you right and it doesn't make the topic fit for off-the-cuff conversation with strangers. If you say such a thing without such a level of thought, then you're depraved and stupid. I suspect that Harriet's thinking doesn't have that degree of sophistication.. I didn't engage in any real debate with her, but the glibness with which she recited the same lines of repugnant babble that I've heard elsewhere tells me that there's not a lot going on upstairs. So, yes: she offended me. She pissed me off. I wanted to get back at her. One on one: you spew your crap in my direction, I spew it right back at your boss and make you uncomfortable. I doubt that she'd be fired. Hell, maybe her boss is a pot-smoking-tie-dye-wearing-I-levitated-the-Pentagon-man-make-love-not-war-bubbleheaded-hippie-vinter-assface. I don't know. It just seemed to me, as I wrote that letter, that there ought to be a consequence when you take public aesthetic satisfaction in evil. We shouldn't lock people up, or burn their books, or any of the other things that utopians of various stripes have tried over the years. But why should I let her think that it's OK? Why should anybody? The goal isn't to change the minds of people who think like that, it's to let them know that the values of our society do not include an appreciation of the "brilliance" of an act of mass murder. Think what you like, but don't expect people to applaud your poseur-Buddha dispassion. If she was Stockhausen, the German composer whose comment that the September 11 attacks were "a work of art" caused such a fuss a year ago, I might have more consideration for her. But that's because Stockhausen, creator of nearly three hundred works of music, also had this to say by way of explanation: "In my work, I have defined Lucifer, the cosmic spirit of rebellion and of anarchy. He uses his high degree of intelligence to destroy creation. He does not know love. After further questions about events in America, I said that such a plan appeared to be Lucifer's greatest work of art. Of course, I said the designation 'work of art' to mean the work of destruction personified in Lucifer in the context of my other comments, this was unequivocal. I cannot find a fitting name for such a 'satanic composition.' In my case, it was not and is not my intention to hurt anyone. Since the beginning of the attack onward I have felt solidarity with all the human beings mourning this atrocity. The journalist in Hamburg completely ripped my statements out of context, which he had not recorded in its entirety and used it as a vile attack against my person and the Hamburg Music Festival." See, now? There's thought, there. There's reasoning. No "America had it coming." No "You've got to be dispassionate about these things." I can almost guarantee you that Harriet wouldn't say a damn thing in her defense that I haven't already heard a thousand times from Chomsky, Sontag, and the rest of their flaky fellow-travellers.. And Stockhausen's comments were not made casually to a stranger who had simply come into his shop to buy a song, who was happy to finally be away from the city, picking friggin' apples. For that reason alone, I wrote that letter. And that's good enough for me.
And, of course, the versionAnd, of course, the version of the letter that I sent off to Sullivan is embarrassingly full of grammatical errors and typos. Ah well. If past experience is any guide, tomorrow will be another day. 
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