I know, it sounds deadly dull. May as well watch grass grow. Ahh, if only there were grass to watch right now. Sighhhhh....
But there is plenty of snow still, and I was parked yesterday with a big bank of it a few inches in front of my car. It was only mid morning, but still warm enough for melting. I dragged out my Kindle and started trying to read. Something out of the corner of my eye kept distracting me. Finally I put it down to see what it was.
Little bits of the bank kept dropping, just enough for a now-it's-here-now-it's-not flash of motion. I wasn't actually watching the snow melt. From the side the dripping was hidden inside the snow bank. But bits kept getting undercut as their support melted, and they dropped.
Never having actually thought about it before, I simply assumed an even melt and a smooth top surface. But that's not how it happened. Fantastic shapes were being left behind, resembling those tiny sea horses which look like a twig full of leaves. If they stuck up above the bank enough, drips were visible from their low points. While I kept waiting for those to fail and fall, others bits were dropping away quite regularly, at a frequency of about 1-2 per second over the area directly in front of my car. I never managed to be looking right at one as it fell, just caught the motion while I looked somewhere else. I found myself wishing someone, somewhere (well, right here, actually) had a video camera capable of shooting a frame every few seconds and putting it together in a movie to accent the drama.
But since I neither have one of those nor know someone who does, I'll just settle for it melting away. Soon, please.
Friday, March 14, 2014
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Getting Into Prison
I'm talking about getting in by choice here, the kind where you can get out the same way.
Mostly for me that means a job connection, and that's usually medical. I have delivered meds for some inmate to most of the prisons, even some jails, in the area. Sometimes this means via the front door. It may mean a stop at the first guard desk, passing meds and paperwork via a drawer which was the only access past bullet-proof (I assume: very thick) glass.
Occasionally it has meant delivering boxes of something other than meds, and this has meant clearing the security to get into the dock area. At the Oak Park Heights maximum security prison, there's an intercom outside a tall gate topped with razor wire. But that's only a single gate. Others have double gates, where you drive past one, wait for it to close, and then the other one opens. Shakopee has no fences, just a guard shack and a lift bar across your lane. Perhaps women are considered less dangerous?
Whichever prison, and however I access it, they all have one thing in common: intimidation. I find myself hyper-aware of my need to "seem" innocent, to subvert my personality to erase any hint of humor during my "on campus" time. Nearly always the prison staff is polite, even friendly. I still have absolutely no wish to offend any one of them in any manner whatsoever. My only feeling of protection is my uniform. Its anonymity is my friend. After all these years, I am growing more comfortable with the situation, but it has never felt normal. Even in a facility housing the most dangerous of inmates, I have never encountered one, and they have never been what I've found intimidating. Even if I had, the simple and ubiquitous rule of keeping cars locked seemed adequate protection.
There is another way to get into prison, and that is as a visitor. I have two kinds of experiences with that. Let me tell you right out that I will in no way identify the person I was visiting, nor the facilities.
The first was a county facility. This one was fairly easy to get into, but the visit was limited to phones on either side of a glass wall. Security consisted of filling out information in a log book, about one line worth, and showing ID. Somebody checked the ID and returned it later. I'm sure some people were weeded out during the process, were they foolish enough to show up with the wrong kind of criminal history.
This would have been an evening visit on a week day. Every so often a few of us were allowed past a locked door, told which place to sit to wait for "our" inmate to be called up to the visitors area. I don't recall a time limit, but the situation itself worked to limit the visit. There's only so much visiting that can be done under those circumstances. Access in and out seemed to depend on staff availability, requiring two to be available at the same time. Out was a bit easier, if memory serves: always reassuring.
The second was a state facility. Access had to be planned for well in advance. First was filling out a form and mailing it in. It included my identification, as well as my reason for wanting to visit. Apparently not just anybody was allowed in. After all that was checked out, I received a letter letting me know that I was added to the inmates list of approved visitors. I was also told how I could and could not behave during the visit, what I could or couldn't bring ( always dropped off at the front desk, never handed directly to the inmate), and was even given a dress code I needed to follow. Some parts of that were logical: dressing modestly, for example, in a facility where no sexual activity was allowed, at lest officially. Why flaunt what they couldn't have? Other things were head-scratchers: why no flip flops? It's not like they could be used as weapons.
This was never an impulse visit, stopping by after work. It had to be planned for, at least partly because these visits were in-person, sitting around a table. No glass walls. Touching was allowed, although always under the watchful eyes of two security guards. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Entry was into a large comfortable lobby. Restrooms were available, and it was wise to use them before the visit, for there was no further access while the visit lasted. After signing in at the guard station and turning over your driver's license, you were to remove outerwear, cell phones, purses or wallets, and pocket contents and lock them away. Your key was kept with your license by the guard until your exit. Any gifts for the inmate were left with the guard for inspection and, if you followed their rules, later sent on. If you brought, say, a CD of DVD, it would be watched in its entirety first.
Once all that was taken care of, and your ID and signature matched to the approved list, you passed through a metal detector. Glasses, belt buckles, and other small items might trip it, but generally returned to the visitor. Your hand was then stamped just like in a nightclub, not for reentry, but to prove you were the individual allowed out. To be sure, after stamping you put you hand under the UV light to make sure it stuck. This might be another reason for no inside access to restrooms.
Finally all clear, you were allowed, with a guard, to pass through the first locked door, down a small hallway until it closed, then through a second door. You were led to the visitors room, also locked. Your inmate was allowed in via a locked door on a different side of the room. Usually it was a 2-3 minute wait for them to arrive.
Waiting gives you time to observe the room. Scattered round tables with chairs fill the inside. Usually a few are occupied. A bookshelf containing board games sits along one wall. Tiny pencils are allowed for keeping score where appropriate. A guard desk holding two guards at all times sits along one wall, slightly elevated for visibility. Artwork and signs with facility rules line the walls. At the facility I visited, we were informed that some indefinite time in the future, a pop machine had been approved for use, though I wondered how visitors could use it if money had to stay outside.
Visits could be lengthy, usually by families rather than individual visitors, and were in person. Touching was allowed. One could hug or hand-hold if appropriate. If you ran out of conversation, there were always the games. You couldn't bring in pictures with you to show how much somebody had grown or a latest hairstyle, but they could have been dropped off earlier for the inmate to see after your visit.
There happened to be a lockdown for an inmate count while I was there. Announcements were made that it would happen in x minutes, so people could relocate as necessary. The head count matched, so after 5-10 minutes the announcement came through that it was over and movement allowed again. The inmate had to leave the visitor area for meals, giving a natural end to the visit. I'm not sure what adjustments would be made if visits overlapped mealtimes.
Leaving had to be announced to the guards ahead of time, so that your escort had time to arrive. Three locked doors, a hand scan, and you were out in public space again, ready to clear out your locker, get back your ID and anything your inmate wanted to send home with you, visit the restroom, and best of all, go home. No matter how awful the weather may have turned, fresh air never felt so good.
Mostly for me that means a job connection, and that's usually medical. I have delivered meds for some inmate to most of the prisons, even some jails, in the area. Sometimes this means via the front door. It may mean a stop at the first guard desk, passing meds and paperwork via a drawer which was the only access past bullet-proof (I assume: very thick) glass.
Occasionally it has meant delivering boxes of something other than meds, and this has meant clearing the security to get into the dock area. At the Oak Park Heights maximum security prison, there's an intercom outside a tall gate topped with razor wire. But that's only a single gate. Others have double gates, where you drive past one, wait for it to close, and then the other one opens. Shakopee has no fences, just a guard shack and a lift bar across your lane. Perhaps women are considered less dangerous?
Whichever prison, and however I access it, they all have one thing in common: intimidation. I find myself hyper-aware of my need to "seem" innocent, to subvert my personality to erase any hint of humor during my "on campus" time. Nearly always the prison staff is polite, even friendly. I still have absolutely no wish to offend any one of them in any manner whatsoever. My only feeling of protection is my uniform. Its anonymity is my friend. After all these years, I am growing more comfortable with the situation, but it has never felt normal. Even in a facility housing the most dangerous of inmates, I have never encountered one, and they have never been what I've found intimidating. Even if I had, the simple and ubiquitous rule of keeping cars locked seemed adequate protection.
There is another way to get into prison, and that is as a visitor. I have two kinds of experiences with that. Let me tell you right out that I will in no way identify the person I was visiting, nor the facilities.
The first was a county facility. This one was fairly easy to get into, but the visit was limited to phones on either side of a glass wall. Security consisted of filling out information in a log book, about one line worth, and showing ID. Somebody checked the ID and returned it later. I'm sure some people were weeded out during the process, were they foolish enough to show up with the wrong kind of criminal history.
This would have been an evening visit on a week day. Every so often a few of us were allowed past a locked door, told which place to sit to wait for "our" inmate to be called up to the visitors area. I don't recall a time limit, but the situation itself worked to limit the visit. There's only so much visiting that can be done under those circumstances. Access in and out seemed to depend on staff availability, requiring two to be available at the same time. Out was a bit easier, if memory serves: always reassuring.
The second was a state facility. Access had to be planned for well in advance. First was filling out a form and mailing it in. It included my identification, as well as my reason for wanting to visit. Apparently not just anybody was allowed in. After all that was checked out, I received a letter letting me know that I was added to the inmates list of approved visitors. I was also told how I could and could not behave during the visit, what I could or couldn't bring ( always dropped off at the front desk, never handed directly to the inmate), and was even given a dress code I needed to follow. Some parts of that were logical: dressing modestly, for example, in a facility where no sexual activity was allowed, at lest officially. Why flaunt what they couldn't have? Other things were head-scratchers: why no flip flops? It's not like they could be used as weapons.
This was never an impulse visit, stopping by after work. It had to be planned for, at least partly because these visits were in-person, sitting around a table. No glass walls. Touching was allowed, although always under the watchful eyes of two security guards. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Entry was into a large comfortable lobby. Restrooms were available, and it was wise to use them before the visit, for there was no further access while the visit lasted. After signing in at the guard station and turning over your driver's license, you were to remove outerwear, cell phones, purses or wallets, and pocket contents and lock them away. Your key was kept with your license by the guard until your exit. Any gifts for the inmate were left with the guard for inspection and, if you followed their rules, later sent on. If you brought, say, a CD of DVD, it would be watched in its entirety first.
Once all that was taken care of, and your ID and signature matched to the approved list, you passed through a metal detector. Glasses, belt buckles, and other small items might trip it, but generally returned to the visitor. Your hand was then stamped just like in a nightclub, not for reentry, but to prove you were the individual allowed out. To be sure, after stamping you put you hand under the UV light to make sure it stuck. This might be another reason for no inside access to restrooms.
Finally all clear, you were allowed, with a guard, to pass through the first locked door, down a small hallway until it closed, then through a second door. You were led to the visitors room, also locked. Your inmate was allowed in via a locked door on a different side of the room. Usually it was a 2-3 minute wait for them to arrive.
Waiting gives you time to observe the room. Scattered round tables with chairs fill the inside. Usually a few are occupied. A bookshelf containing board games sits along one wall. Tiny pencils are allowed for keeping score where appropriate. A guard desk holding two guards at all times sits along one wall, slightly elevated for visibility. Artwork and signs with facility rules line the walls. At the facility I visited, we were informed that some indefinite time in the future, a pop machine had been approved for use, though I wondered how visitors could use it if money had to stay outside.
Visits could be lengthy, usually by families rather than individual visitors, and were in person. Touching was allowed. One could hug or hand-hold if appropriate. If you ran out of conversation, there were always the games. You couldn't bring in pictures with you to show how much somebody had grown or a latest hairstyle, but they could have been dropped off earlier for the inmate to see after your visit.
There happened to be a lockdown for an inmate count while I was there. Announcements were made that it would happen in x minutes, so people could relocate as necessary. The head count matched, so after 5-10 minutes the announcement came through that it was over and movement allowed again. The inmate had to leave the visitor area for meals, giving a natural end to the visit. I'm not sure what adjustments would be made if visits overlapped mealtimes.
Leaving had to be announced to the guards ahead of time, so that your escort had time to arrive. Three locked doors, a hand scan, and you were out in public space again, ready to clear out your locker, get back your ID and anything your inmate wanted to send home with you, visit the restroom, and best of all, go home. No matter how awful the weather may have turned, fresh air never felt so good.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Who Do You Believe?
OK, "whom". Whatever.
Last Valentine's Day there was a duplex fire in Minneapolis. It started on the second floor. The residents were a widowed father and his seven children. When wakened, he gabbed two of his children and jumped out the window. The stairs were fully involved by then, preventing him from returning to rescue the other five, although he tried. Those five children died. The two daughters he rescued are recovering. He himself was just recently released from the hospital, and the funeral was finally held, with a lot of community support.
Information about the cause is dribbling out in pieces. The duplex was recently updated with regards to some fire regulations, and was relicensed by the city. The cause has not been determined, though a lot of indications point to a space heater in the living room which had been used for several days. It now looks like a melted puddle of metal.
The father reports his living space was cold. Radiators were not working, and in order to help keep his family warm, he used both the space heater and kept the oven on. The kids were still bundled up while spending time at home.
The father says he complained to the landlord about the lack of heat. The landlord says he never heard about it. He says/he says.
Whom do you believe?
Last Valentine's Day there was a duplex fire in Minneapolis. It started on the second floor. The residents were a widowed father and his seven children. When wakened, he gabbed two of his children and jumped out the window. The stairs were fully involved by then, preventing him from returning to rescue the other five, although he tried. Those five children died. The two daughters he rescued are recovering. He himself was just recently released from the hospital, and the funeral was finally held, with a lot of community support.
Information about the cause is dribbling out in pieces. The duplex was recently updated with regards to some fire regulations, and was relicensed by the city. The cause has not been determined, though a lot of indications point to a space heater in the living room which had been used for several days. It now looks like a melted puddle of metal.
The father reports his living space was cold. Radiators were not working, and in order to help keep his family warm, he used both the space heater and kept the oven on. The kids were still bundled up while spending time at home.
The father says he complained to the landlord about the lack of heat. The landlord says he never heard about it. He says/he says.
Whom do you believe?
Friday, February 28, 2014
SSDD
Tomorrow is March. I guess this year that means there are only five more months of winter left before we start the next one.
We're in the process of ending yet another Polar Vortex, meaning that we can start the day well below zero and still totally mess up traffic with another snowfall. Some days it means we can last the whole day below zero as well, and still mess up traffic with ice, snow, and drivers with absolutely no learning curve.
Today I started off by doing a 270 on a corner where a 90 is all that's required. Go ahead, call me an overachiever. Also call me lucky in that the oncoming car stopped several yards away from me. I had taken the corner slowly, I'd thought, and only began to feel marginally better when everywhere I drove today the road ice seemed slicker than as recently as yesterday, with no discernible reason. After all, yesterday the high was 2, and by some major effort, that was above zero. There should have been nothing in that - like melting - which would have left ice slicker, but there it was. Everybody else thought so too. Road ice, walking ice, didn't matter. Dangerous, we agreed.
I caught a run out to Eau Claire late morning. Not only was it profitable, it also meant I was heading east and away from the approaching snowfall. Only, maybe not so much away from it as into it, as it turned out. Rather than doing the posted 65 on the freeway, I was doing 50 by the time I neared my destination. The roads went from dry, to dark (wet) parallel lines, to white in the middle of those lines, to finally just white by the time I started back.
In fact by then everything more than about 3 blocks away was white. I settled in for a solid 45 and white knuckles, resigning myself to keeping the cruise control off, not knowing what might be ahead needing a faster reaction that it would allow. I also resigned myself to being passed by everybody.
The only vehicle I passed was a grey one lying rubber side up in the median, engine still running, just a few miles east of Menomonie. It had probably passed me earlier. I noted two other things as I passed. There was no snow sitting on top of it, though it was coming down heavily. Must have been a recent event. I also noted not only was there nobody walking, sitting, or standing outside the vehicle, nor tracks of somebody who may have left the car, but there was also no trail I could spot of the car's path to that location. No tracks, no dent gouged out of the snow bank, nada. It may as well have well floated down with the snow under a parachute, except for the lack of an obvious parachute.
Have I mentioned the need for mental games to keep one's self alert on long halls in stressful conditions?
I decided to believe that visibility was so poor that I just hadn't seen - no, not a parachute, silly - any tracks. Heck, for all I know, there might have been three or four more vehicles like it that I'd passed but not seen for the snow.
Perhaps you wondered why I mentioned my 270 earlier in the day. I had cause to remember it at this point in my trip. It gave me pause to wonder if perhaps I make a habit of being too judgmental of my fellow drivers. While they pass me doing what I consider an unsafe speed (by definition, anything faster then me) I note them by anticipating their possible impending accidents and cursing those same accidents for requiring me to be hyper-alert avoiding what, it turns out, so very seldom actually happens. And I'd proved I can manage to send my own car in unexpected directions as well.
As I was musing this idea and white-knuckling back toward the metro as still the slowest car on the road, the radio hit the half hour mark and started listing a few spots with recent road closures. 35 in Lakeville had just reopened, after clearing a multi-car and multi-semi accident off the road. And they had just closed 94 in the Menomonie area after multiple accidents there.
Nope, let's not give those other drivers too much credit, eh?
We're in the process of ending yet another Polar Vortex, meaning that we can start the day well below zero and still totally mess up traffic with another snowfall. Some days it means we can last the whole day below zero as well, and still mess up traffic with ice, snow, and drivers with absolutely no learning curve.
Today I started off by doing a 270 on a corner where a 90 is all that's required. Go ahead, call me an overachiever. Also call me lucky in that the oncoming car stopped several yards away from me. I had taken the corner slowly, I'd thought, and only began to feel marginally better when everywhere I drove today the road ice seemed slicker than as recently as yesterday, with no discernible reason. After all, yesterday the high was 2, and by some major effort, that was above zero. There should have been nothing in that - like melting - which would have left ice slicker, but there it was. Everybody else thought so too. Road ice, walking ice, didn't matter. Dangerous, we agreed.
I caught a run out to Eau Claire late morning. Not only was it profitable, it also meant I was heading east and away from the approaching snowfall. Only, maybe not so much away from it as into it, as it turned out. Rather than doing the posted 65 on the freeway, I was doing 50 by the time I neared my destination. The roads went from dry, to dark (wet) parallel lines, to white in the middle of those lines, to finally just white by the time I started back.
In fact by then everything more than about 3 blocks away was white. I settled in for a solid 45 and white knuckles, resigning myself to keeping the cruise control off, not knowing what might be ahead needing a faster reaction that it would allow. I also resigned myself to being passed by everybody.
The only vehicle I passed was a grey one lying rubber side up in the median, engine still running, just a few miles east of Menomonie. It had probably passed me earlier. I noted two other things as I passed. There was no snow sitting on top of it, though it was coming down heavily. Must have been a recent event. I also noted not only was there nobody walking, sitting, or standing outside the vehicle, nor tracks of somebody who may have left the car, but there was also no trail I could spot of the car's path to that location. No tracks, no dent gouged out of the snow bank, nada. It may as well have well floated down with the snow under a parachute, except for the lack of an obvious parachute.
Have I mentioned the need for mental games to keep one's self alert on long halls in stressful conditions?
I decided to believe that visibility was so poor that I just hadn't seen - no, not a parachute, silly - any tracks. Heck, for all I know, there might have been three or four more vehicles like it that I'd passed but not seen for the snow.
Perhaps you wondered why I mentioned my 270 earlier in the day. I had cause to remember it at this point in my trip. It gave me pause to wonder if perhaps I make a habit of being too judgmental of my fellow drivers. While they pass me doing what I consider an unsafe speed (by definition, anything faster then me) I note them by anticipating their possible impending accidents and cursing those same accidents for requiring me to be hyper-alert avoiding what, it turns out, so very seldom actually happens. And I'd proved I can manage to send my own car in unexpected directions as well.
As I was musing this idea and white-knuckling back toward the metro as still the slowest car on the road, the radio hit the half hour mark and started listing a few spots with recent road closures. 35 in Lakeville had just reopened, after clearing a multi-car and multi-semi accident off the road. And they had just closed 94 in the Menomonie area after multiple accidents there.
Nope, let's not give those other drivers too much credit, eh?
Internet Shopper
I've gotten quite used to ordering things on the internet. EBay was the start, engaging me enough at times to set my alarm for a 3AM auction end to be there at the finish. That was only for some very special snuff bottles where the seller was in Australia and the strategy was to lie in the weeds and pop up with a last minute bid, faking out other unlucky bidders.
I don't do that any more. Oh, I still hit eBay when appropriate, but I don't lose sleep over it. Amazon.com became my next go-to site, and currently is where most of my purchases come from, if free Kindle books can be considered a purchase. I've also wandered here and there when I can't find the rare item at either of the first two sites.
Last night when checking the Phoenix weather forecast, I saw an ad that intrigued me. Nevermind for what exactly, except that it was a dietary supplement I'd never heard of before. It was time to do some research. If it did what it claimed, it would be well worth the price. After about an hour, I found out all sorts of contradictory things, research puporting to show results and opinions that it wouldn't work because nothing does. There were also studies about which formulations work and which don't, which are independently sampled to see if ingredients are as claimed, and whatever else might be written about the product.
The upshot is I decided to give it a try. The particular company offers a money back guarantee, and Consumer Reports said they tried it and got a hassle-free refund.
There was a form to fill out. Then there was a link to PayPal to pay, and I've used them a lot. Next I was sent back to the order page to finalize the order. This consisted of about six web pages of special offers, either a "don't you want more of this for a special price?" or a "Don't you also want this other similar thing?" kind of offer. They were so persistent that I started to wonder if I were ever going to get to bed. Eventually, though, I finished and got my email receipts from both the product company and PayPal.
This morning there was an interesting follow-up. I received a call from an area code I didn't recognize. To my surprise it wasn't a wrong number. At least not in the traditional sense. It was a call from the company I ordered from. The woman started by telling me that there was an error in the on-line order, meaning it was going to have to be finalized over the phone, and they were very sorry for it. To apologize to me for the bother, they were going to give me a free bottle. Of course this would be after I bought another one.
Now mind you, the reason I ordered the precise quantity I did last night is that I figured it would be enough to tell me if it worked or not. It was easy to turn down deals for additional bottles because I'd thought out how much I wanted before ordering.
Of course she was blathering on and on and I waited her out a bit. I figured she had to breathe in at some point, even though she was demonstrating enviable lung capacity, and finally, breathe she did. I interrupted her schpiel. "So, you're telling me that your website messed up and as a result you want me to buy two more bottles?"
I suspect there was a little hint of something in my tone to give her the hind that this was a not altogether welcomed idea. She asked me if I had gotten an online receipt. When I replied I had, both from them and from PayPal, she mumbled a quick couple of words about receiving my stuff in three to five business days and hung up.
Apparently my order was now magically finalized. Oh lucky me.
Time to go back to BookBub to see what the latest free e-book is.
I don't do that any more. Oh, I still hit eBay when appropriate, but I don't lose sleep over it. Amazon.com became my next go-to site, and currently is where most of my purchases come from, if free Kindle books can be considered a purchase. I've also wandered here and there when I can't find the rare item at either of the first two sites.
Last night when checking the Phoenix weather forecast, I saw an ad that intrigued me. Nevermind for what exactly, except that it was a dietary supplement I'd never heard of before. It was time to do some research. If it did what it claimed, it would be well worth the price. After about an hour, I found out all sorts of contradictory things, research puporting to show results and opinions that it wouldn't work because nothing does. There were also studies about which formulations work and which don't, which are independently sampled to see if ingredients are as claimed, and whatever else might be written about the product.
The upshot is I decided to give it a try. The particular company offers a money back guarantee, and Consumer Reports said they tried it and got a hassle-free refund.
There was a form to fill out. Then there was a link to PayPal to pay, and I've used them a lot. Next I was sent back to the order page to finalize the order. This consisted of about six web pages of special offers, either a "don't you want more of this for a special price?" or a "Don't you also want this other similar thing?" kind of offer. They were so persistent that I started to wonder if I were ever going to get to bed. Eventually, though, I finished and got my email receipts from both the product company and PayPal.
This morning there was an interesting follow-up. I received a call from an area code I didn't recognize. To my surprise it wasn't a wrong number. At least not in the traditional sense. It was a call from the company I ordered from. The woman started by telling me that there was an error in the on-line order, meaning it was going to have to be finalized over the phone, and they were very sorry for it. To apologize to me for the bother, they were going to give me a free bottle. Of course this would be after I bought another one.
Now mind you, the reason I ordered the precise quantity I did last night is that I figured it would be enough to tell me if it worked or not. It was easy to turn down deals for additional bottles because I'd thought out how much I wanted before ordering.
Of course she was blathering on and on and I waited her out a bit. I figured she had to breathe in at some point, even though she was demonstrating enviable lung capacity, and finally, breathe she did. I interrupted her schpiel. "So, you're telling me that your website messed up and as a result you want me to buy two more bottles?"
I suspect there was a little hint of something in my tone to give her the hind that this was a not altogether welcomed idea. She asked me if I had gotten an online receipt. When I replied I had, both from them and from PayPal, she mumbled a quick couple of words about receiving my stuff in three to five business days and hung up.
Apparently my order was now magically finalized. Oh lucky me.
Time to go back to BookBub to see what the latest free e-book is.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Religion Getting In The Way 2
I knew I forgot one.
Uganda just passed new legislation resulting in prison terms just foe being homosexual. Defending it against widespread protest from other societies, it was claimed that the US had been meddling in their affairs, obviously unwelcomed. I, of course, dismissed that out of hand.
Until I heard otherwise. Our radical evangelicals have sent contingents over there trying to persuade Ugandans of the horrors of homosexuality, an obviously evil "lifestyle choice". So why the reaction in favor of their desires simultaneously with actions favoring them? Because the opposite contingent has been at work lobbying their cause in Uganda too. Their combined efforts have left Uganda with this awful legislation and resentment of interference.
It occurs to me how odd it is that the aim of stopping homosexual activity is supposed to be met by long years of prison time, possibly even life sentences. After all, we all know that nothing like that ever happens to people segregated in single-sex populations behind bars, right?
Uganda just passed new legislation resulting in prison terms just foe being homosexual. Defending it against widespread protest from other societies, it was claimed that the US had been meddling in their affairs, obviously unwelcomed. I, of course, dismissed that out of hand.
Until I heard otherwise. Our radical evangelicals have sent contingents over there trying to persuade Ugandans of the horrors of homosexuality, an obviously evil "lifestyle choice". So why the reaction in favor of their desires simultaneously with actions favoring them? Because the opposite contingent has been at work lobbying their cause in Uganda too. Their combined efforts have left Uganda with this awful legislation and resentment of interference.
It occurs to me how odd it is that the aim of stopping homosexual activity is supposed to be met by long years of prison time, possibly even life sentences. After all, we all know that nothing like that ever happens to people segregated in single-sex populations behind bars, right?
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Religion Getting In The Way
There have been several news stories recently which I've wanted to comment on. I finally took another look and discovered that they had something in common.
There was a Pentacostal clergyman who handled poisonous snakes as part of the service. He believed his faith would keep him safe even if he was bitten. He had survived bites before this. When a timber rattler bit him recently, parishioners called 911. He and his family declined treatment. Within a couple hours, he was dead.
Now just how do you tell the guy that a stupid snake just told him that by his own definition his faith wasn't good enough? And beyond the simple fact of his death, just what does that kind of message do to somebody?
Apparently, the message is not enough to keep his son from following in his daddy's footsteps. Not only is the son now handling those same snakes, including the timber rattler which killed Daddy, he also states he will refuse medical treatment if and when he gets bit.
I guess the message was a bit too subtle.
* * * * * *
Arizona, lovely as it is, manages to elect some weird ones. The latest law garnering publicity allows those who are holding "sincerely religious beliefs" against homosexuality to refuse to serve them in their businesses. It's a broadly written law, allowing almost any kind of bigot to claim religious reasons to deny service. If my particular brand of religion finds, say, women showing their hair in public to be grossly sinful, I can demand they cover up or leave. If I think somebody is promiscuous by whatever definition, I can deny service. If I think they fail to, say, honor their parents properly, I can deny service. If I judge them sinners for having the wrong kind of religion, or worshipping on the wrong day of the week, or eating the wrong foods, or using the wrong kind of birth control, or wearing the wrong kind of skin, or not expressing the right kind of humility in my presence... well, you get the picture.
I get to decide how sincerely held my own beliefs are, and use them to abuse others. It's entirely subjective, making it as nonsensical and dangerous as Florida's Stand Your Ground Law. That one says I get to decide how much of a threat that other (brown, doncha know) person is, and thus can justify killing them before they have a chance to... attack me with music? skittles? popcorn? a sidewalk?
The claim in favor of the Arizona law is that it provides religious freedom. Rather, it provides religious bullying. My ancestors came over here, in part, to get away from other folks telling them how to worship, what to believe. Your right to religious freedom stops at trying to coerce or punish me into following the same one. Just like your right to swing your fist ends just before my nose. Nothing about serving another person who wishes to use your business just like everybody else does is any form of denial of your religious beliefs. If you can't tolerate the Jew, gay, brown, Muslim, or whatever person at your lunch counter, go find another line of work. By all means, believe whatever you please. But go find another line of work.
And while you do, ask yourself, "Who would Jesus hate/bomb/shoot?" Or is that one too subtle for you too?
* * * * * *
MPR has been doing a great job of sticking with, uncovering data, and reporting the Catholic priest sex abuse scandal locally, despite the continued obfuscations and downright lies by the archdioces. At every turn, something new has been heaped on the pile.
One offending priest has been "retired", and getting what amounts to extra payoffs each month to support him in a quite comfortable lifestyle. When forced by the courts to reveal a list of "credibly accused" priests, a small list was offered with lots of restrictions on it: they had to be still alive, in the state, etc. And of course there were no current offenders. After rumors surfaced that there was a list of 33 priests, completely denied by the archdioces, investigation revealed that there were multiple lists, totaling 70! One priest's internet searches for child porn has just been revealed.
Yesterday morning my radio alarm story kept me riveted in bed before details finally drove me out of it. (Well, that and my bladder too, but....) A mother who wished to remain anonymous told about what happened to her children. Yes, children. A good Catholic, she has a large family. While she was employed full time in the church office, over the years three of her sons were abused by the priest in a small trailer just outside the office she worked in. Two of her sons, in turn, turned around and abused their younger siblings. Her five-year-old daughters, which she described as "cuddle bugs", suddenly became very clingy. She described a scene where they begged to accompany her when she was just going to the store. She was trying to back the car out of the driveway while they were clinging to the door handles, until their older brother "helpfully" removed them and took them into the house.
Are you feeling sick yet?
Her family is now in therapy. The story became public because those bills are no longer being paid for by the church. The church made a statement that they are merely "behind", partly due to staffing problems.
Oh, did I mention that this employee-mother has had her hours cut to part time?
Her final comment in the report was a lament on how the church was spending more time and effort on protecting the business of the church rather than ministering to the flock. As the reports keep piling up, I have to marvel that there still is a flock to minister to.
There was a Pentacostal clergyman who handled poisonous snakes as part of the service. He believed his faith would keep him safe even if he was bitten. He had survived bites before this. When a timber rattler bit him recently, parishioners called 911. He and his family declined treatment. Within a couple hours, he was dead.
Now just how do you tell the guy that a stupid snake just told him that by his own definition his faith wasn't good enough? And beyond the simple fact of his death, just what does that kind of message do to somebody?
Apparently, the message is not enough to keep his son from following in his daddy's footsteps. Not only is the son now handling those same snakes, including the timber rattler which killed Daddy, he also states he will refuse medical treatment if and when he gets bit.
I guess the message was a bit too subtle.
* * * * * *
Arizona, lovely as it is, manages to elect some weird ones. The latest law garnering publicity allows those who are holding "sincerely religious beliefs" against homosexuality to refuse to serve them in their businesses. It's a broadly written law, allowing almost any kind of bigot to claim religious reasons to deny service. If my particular brand of religion finds, say, women showing their hair in public to be grossly sinful, I can demand they cover up or leave. If I think somebody is promiscuous by whatever definition, I can deny service. If I think they fail to, say, honor their parents properly, I can deny service. If I judge them sinners for having the wrong kind of religion, or worshipping on the wrong day of the week, or eating the wrong foods, or using the wrong kind of birth control, or wearing the wrong kind of skin, or not expressing the right kind of humility in my presence... well, you get the picture.
I get to decide how sincerely held my own beliefs are, and use them to abuse others. It's entirely subjective, making it as nonsensical and dangerous as Florida's Stand Your Ground Law. That one says I get to decide how much of a threat that other (brown, doncha know) person is, and thus can justify killing them before they have a chance to... attack me with music? skittles? popcorn? a sidewalk?
The claim in favor of the Arizona law is that it provides religious freedom. Rather, it provides religious bullying. My ancestors came over here, in part, to get away from other folks telling them how to worship, what to believe. Your right to religious freedom stops at trying to coerce or punish me into following the same one. Just like your right to swing your fist ends just before my nose. Nothing about serving another person who wishes to use your business just like everybody else does is any form of denial of your religious beliefs. If you can't tolerate the Jew, gay, brown, Muslim, or whatever person at your lunch counter, go find another line of work. By all means, believe whatever you please. But go find another line of work.
And while you do, ask yourself, "Who would Jesus hate/bomb/shoot?" Or is that one too subtle for you too?
* * * * * *
MPR has been doing a great job of sticking with, uncovering data, and reporting the Catholic priest sex abuse scandal locally, despite the continued obfuscations and downright lies by the archdioces. At every turn, something new has been heaped on the pile.
One offending priest has been "retired", and getting what amounts to extra payoffs each month to support him in a quite comfortable lifestyle. When forced by the courts to reveal a list of "credibly accused" priests, a small list was offered with lots of restrictions on it: they had to be still alive, in the state, etc. And of course there were no current offenders. After rumors surfaced that there was a list of 33 priests, completely denied by the archdioces, investigation revealed that there were multiple lists, totaling 70! One priest's internet searches for child porn has just been revealed.
Yesterday morning my radio alarm story kept me riveted in bed before details finally drove me out of it. (Well, that and my bladder too, but....) A mother who wished to remain anonymous told about what happened to her children. Yes, children. A good Catholic, she has a large family. While she was employed full time in the church office, over the years three of her sons were abused by the priest in a small trailer just outside the office she worked in. Two of her sons, in turn, turned around and abused their younger siblings. Her five-year-old daughters, which she described as "cuddle bugs", suddenly became very clingy. She described a scene where they begged to accompany her when she was just going to the store. She was trying to back the car out of the driveway while they were clinging to the door handles, until their older brother "helpfully" removed them and took them into the house.
Are you feeling sick yet?
Her family is now in therapy. The story became public because those bills are no longer being paid for by the church. The church made a statement that they are merely "behind", partly due to staffing problems.
Oh, did I mention that this employee-mother has had her hours cut to part time?
Her final comment in the report was a lament on how the church was spending more time and effort on protecting the business of the church rather than ministering to the flock. As the reports keep piling up, I have to marvel that there still is a flock to minister to.
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