I don’t really get into politics too much. I don’t have the time or energy to follow every single candidate’s nuanced positions. Frankly, I think I am like the vast majority of Americans who make their decisions on who to vote for either on the way to the polling place, or actually inside the polling booth. That said, watching what little news I get, I am happy to see that one of my heroes and a fellow Chicago Boy is getting a lot of attention these days…
Month: January 2008
Kick in My Door, Get Shot.
Recently, incidents in which police raids target the wrong house and result in the death of an occupant or an officer have begun to receive more attention. Paramilitary tactics developed to surprise, disorient and rapidly subdue heavily armed and violent drug suspects backfire horribly when employed against the law abiding.
These incidents hit home for me because I’ve actually come very close to experiencing such a raid.
“Getting to Know Your Shrapnel”
A woman in Israel who was injured in a terror bombing in 2002 blogs her observations (via SondraK, via Steve):
Unless the shrapnel is causing damage, doctors will leave it where it is. Unfortunately there appear to be some differences between “causing damage” as defined by doctors and “causing damage” as defined by the average layman. For instance, many doctors do not define shrapnel which makes one’s face numb in parts and lumpy to the touch as “causing damage”. One doctor concluded his examination of my face with a cheerful “Zeh lo catastrof”, this isn’t a catastrophe. On the bright side, I am using this experience to force myself to pick up that essential, Israeli trait: the ability to argue with ANYBODY, including one’s doctor, even if the doctor is a neurosurgeon who might be called upon later to do very delicate surgery on one’s face. In the meantime, however, my shrapnel has been classed as “mostly harmless”, a good chunk of it is still in me and I should be setting off metal detectors for years to come. Theoretically, the average terrorist should have an easier time getting into the Central Bus Station than I will (more on that later).
Raymond Carver by Lish, Raymond Carver by Raymond Carver
I often tell an anecdote during my intro to lit course: it is of a conversation with my freshman English teacher. I told him, earnestly, that I’d chosen to major in English; he asked why. I blurted out that it was because I liked people. Then paused. I knew that wasn’t really it – I’m actually kind of a bitch and don’t always like people. But I do find them fascinating. That was the reason I went into literature. My more linguistically minded sons-in-law and daughter love words – where they came from, what they mean. But I liked character and plot. Haven’t we always? We share that love for narrative across cultures and millennia. That is human nature.
Bad Design
I usually carry my cell phone in my trouser pocket. My previous cell phones were non-folders and occasionally made calls on their own even though I used the “key lock” feature. (One phone dialed 911. I found out about it because a 911 dispatcher called back to ask if I was OK.) So I made sure that the next phone was a folding model.