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Apologies to Doc Searls and friends

My apologies to Doc Searls for defaming his good name with my unwarranted attack upon him, and my injudicious use of “sexist” in reference to his statement.

And I apologize to three fellow webloggers for getting on their case, and asking them, in quite strong terms, to drop this whole thing: Jonathon DelacourMike Golby and Dorothea Salo. I started to indulge in friendship censorship, and that’s wrong. In particular, Jonthon was extremely careful with seeing both points of view on this issue, as well as kind and generous with his understanding of what led me to my remarks; Mike tried to lighten the situation, to find the humor in it; and Dorothea was a staunch defender, of me, of my concerns, and of the principles behind which good debate occurs. Not one of the three deserved me getting in their face about this issue.

Sometimes one gets hurt and lashes out. The only problem with lashing out, though, is people can weary of it, and then one is left alone.

(Doc has a couple of current postings on this, but his permalinks aren’t working so you’ll have to go to his weblog and scroll.)

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Serendipity all over again

When I wrote the previous posting, “How Green is my Valley”, I referenced both my old hometown, Kettle Falls, Washington, and a posting by Loren, otherwise known as In a Dark Time. At the time that I read Loren’s weblog, he had mentioned that he was going to be writing a new posting about a county in Washington that’s threatening to shut down it’s library system.

Well, when I checked a bit later to read this new posting, (sorry, no permalinks), Loren started it off with a link to the New York Times Article detailing the story. So I click on it…

…only to find that the county that is trying to shut its library system to save tax money is none other than Stevens County, the county where I grew up. And the byline for the article reads “Kettle Falls, Washington”. In case you’re wondering, no I had not read this article previously; in fact, I choked on a diet Coke when I opened the article page from Loren’s site.

Did I happen to mention to you all that I live in a perpetual state of serendipity? This strangely accidental and beautifully symmetrical happenstance, is a perfect introduction into a new series of weblog postings I plan on writing over the next week: Coming of Age in John Birch Country.

So, stay tuned over the next several days as I introduce you all to the town and county that would shut its libraries to save some bucks. Join me as I explore the gold mines, the racism, the buried money, and the tragedies, legends, and beauty of a small town located forty miles from Idaho, forty miles from Canada, and forty years out of time.

BTW — I knew the Frostad’s.

Update: Nothing like having MeFi going after Kettle Falls and Stevens County. This is almost like opening up MetaFilter and finding them discussing your Mom or Dad or grandparents. What’s interesting is that many of the thread sound more like past citizens of Kettle then myself…

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Love’s in the air

Seems as if love’s in the air in blogdom. It started with Jeneane’s declaration of simple love and continued with AKMA’s wonderful reaffirmation of his love for his wife, Margaret.

Mike’s newest Sandhill Trek interview is about love, and encompasses some of his best writing to date, in my opinion. And Jonathon asks a question:

I wonder whether some people are better equipped to love than others, or simply more skilled at it, or got better lessons in loving (or studied more seriously), or does it just—as the cliché suggests—come down to working at it?

Are we born to love? Or is it an acquired skill?

Love. Makes the world go round and then turns it upside down, like a roller coaster, and some people stay in the cart for the ride and others fall out, and it hurts like hell when you hit the ground.

Love. Lots of talk about love. Should we talk about love? In a comment attached to Jonathon’s post, Stavros writes:

I’ve always felt that the real thing is cheapened by talk, and prostituted by poetry.

Yeah, lots of talk about love. But I have nothing to contribute about love, so all I can do is link and move you along to others with something to say.

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Happy birthday to my fowl partner

Every day in weblogging is made a little brighter, and a little screwier, by the presence of Stavros the Wonder Chicken. And I’m proud to count him as one of my closest friends. In a couple of hours, Stavros will be celebrating his birthday. Happy Birthday, dearest!

(That dearest was purely platonic. Honest. Really. Cross my heart. I have no lustful thoughts for StWC. Well, none that I’ll admit to in public.)

Stop by, write him a birthday comment, give him a link, drop him a little trackback love. Be sure to fluff his feathers while you’re there — he likes that.

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Touching the Untouchable

At what level of discourse will I step over the boundary of comfort? I came close with the postings on anger, but thankfully, we were able to box these in with an objectively intellectual viewpoint that pushed the topic safely and correctly back into manageable bounds.

So now, let us up the ante on human emotions and see if words can truly strip away all context and feeling and pain until nothing else is left except a black and white description of an act.

In a posting today, Jonathon talks about attending a Japanese film festival and the increasing discomfort of the audience when the expert who introduces the film abruptly stops speaking about Japanese morals from an ‘intellectual’ perspective, and begins to speak of them from an experiential one.

This expert, Donald Ritchie broke the taboo’d boundaries of an intellectual discussion with a story based on humor, and real life, and actual sensuality. And the elite, the intelligencia, reacted in open and overt hostility. Jonathon writes:

But for the majority of his listeners he had already said far too much. The forced atmosphere seemed to choke off any further questions and soon the audience was filing out, a restrained silence replacing the excited chatter that followed most screenings.

I found Jonathon’s posting to be eerily timely and apropos for me because I had spent last night and this morning wrestling with whether to talk about Gene Kan.

I wanted to talk about Gene because if nothing else, we owe him that. And I didn’t, because I was brought up in a society where one doesn’t do certain things. Such as get angry. Such as admitting going to a Japanese brothel.

Such as talking about suicide.

Gene Kan killed himself. He was 25 and he took a gun and he killed himself. He did not have an “accident” as the Sun spokesperson described. And we can’t bury his final act with a recitation of all of the accomplishments of his very short life.

Gene’s final act is one few of us would contemplate; yet it is the one act – the only act – over which any of us could have ultimate control. To deny this act is, in many ways, to deny the actor.

I said earlier that I was angry that Gene had killed himself, and I am. Incredibly angry. But I’m also angry that we’ve euphemized his suicide, boxed it in with platitudes, and reduced it to a sound bite.

Kent (fishrush) found Gene’s last resume (thanks Kent), which I’ve copied to the bottom of this posting. Read it.

Gene Kan

Summary:

Sad example of a human being. Specialising in failure.

1990-current Failure specialist

Executed numerous technical, commercial and personal
projects, typically resulting in failure.

References available upon request.

And that’s all I have to say, now.