But sometimes I find an article in a serious newspaper (note I didn't say real) that feels like it would be at home in the Onion, or I would be proud to have thought of it an put it on Fact Checked.  Politico delivered such a headline just today.

Joe not a licensed plumber

This will only make sense if you watched the last Presidential debate.

If it is other people's chickens coming home to roost, it can mean them suffering the consequences of their own actions. Say, if they wronged someone and did not act as if they cared about the hurting of that someone. It would seem that they are the one who escaped without the hurt, when in fact years later, sometimes 10 years later, they realize that they have not escaped any of the hurt at all.

Such as in the game of love. The BIG L........ A woman is so in love with a man that she will do just about anything for him, or go through anything for him. Sometimes even humiliation. Love can disguise all wrongs, at least for a time. But only for a time. Eventually that woman takes what is left of herself and walks away from it. Just walks away, crying and hurting like she never has before. She is sure that she gave all of herself, though she is left feeling as if she never, ever was enough. She is wondering what, oh what exactly, is wrong with her?

Her soul feels torn for a time after. Eventually that tear heals over and she goes on. She goes on to another life, another love, though it is never the same. No two loves can ever be the same.

There are more hurts, more indecisions, more relationship changes. Plenty of loves can be had, but only a few are worthy. They all are not right. Not perfect as no one is perfect. Some come close, very close.

She comes to a time in her life where she does not depend on another's love for her self importance. She knows herself by now, knows what is important to her and to her life. She won't settle for anything less. Anything less is a waste of her time.

That is when the chickens come home to roost. That is when they see what they should have seen years ago. That is when they know what they should have known before. When it is too late. When it is way too late. That is when the chickens will come home to roost.

A 15-year-old American schoolgirl might be labelled a sex offender after using her cellphone to distribute nude photographs. Of herself. To her classmates. “The Licking Valley High School student, whose name was not released, faces felony charges in Licking County Juvenile Court...

Oh Lord, I wish I wasn't kidding.

A: 

I’m not sure the role of the United States is to go around the world and say this is the way it’s got to be. I want to empower people. I want to help people help themselves, not have government tell people what to do. I just don’t think it’s the role of the United States to walk into a country and say, we do it this way, so should you. We went into Russia, we said here’s some IMF money. It ended up in Chernomyrdin’s pocket. And yet we played like there was reform. The only people who are going to reform Russia are Russians. I’m not sure where the vice president’s coming from, but I think one way for us to end up being viewed as the ugly American is for us to go around the world saying, we do it this way, so should you. I think the United States must be humble and must be proud and confident of our values, but humble in how we treat nations that are figuring out how to chart their own course.

October 11, 2000 -- Wake Forest University -- George W. Bush

¹ It goes without saying that they weren't. Nike has pulled some brassy stunts over their existence (lifting Minor Threat album artwork wholesale for an ad campaign, for example), but this is one of the funnier ones. The actual sponsor, Converse, eventually wound up getting bought out by Nike in the end. If we had a time machine, perhaps we could go back to 1984 and tell them both not to bother with their campaigns, since they'll wind up sharing a parking lot in 20 years.

² This probably comes up more often in my conversations than it should since I knew someone who actually got said tattoo.

As for audio, I could record some of the really loud construction that's going on now and try to set up something that's like "Have you been getting tired of this sound in Evanston? On Sunday morning, it finally ended," and switch to audio of happy people biking, bicycle bells, etc.

Also, a really interesting angle of this story to me is that it is illegal to bike on Ridge normally, so this event strikes me as kind of ironic. Coming from an almost hysterically bicycle-friendly town in Colorado, I always feel like Evanston is a difficult place to safely and legally get around on a bike, and I'd like to see what the Evanston Bike Club has to say about inaugurating a street they'll never be allowed to use again.

Here's the information about the event on the City of Evanston Web site.

Yes, America...now you can't blame the people of America for being American. It's really not their fault and you have to say that given the way history panned out, we've been pretty nice to them despite the way they've shat on us. I don't understand the whole Independance Day/Thanksgiving stuff...because i'm not American...but i'm pretty sure some of it has to do with killing a lot of British people, which you have to say is pretty unfair, a bit like a 20 stone boxer fighting a 3 year old girl. I mean, America is huge and has loads of people in it...we're just this tiny little Island. As the years went on they continued to take the piss out of us, taking sole credit for winning World War 2 single-handedly and all by themselves with no help from anyone...(and breathe)...being one of their most famous boasts...and we let them...probably because we owed them money, or something like that. America is, essentially, a bigger version of Britain, only with a lower average I.Q; again, not their fault, it's all to do with the TV they make. They're also quite, well, fat, hardly surprising given the wealth of oil they've enjoyed plundering from their land. Oil is oil...you can run your 7 litre engine car with it, or cook chips (fries) in it...both are going to have an effect on your weight, although i find that funny too given that they all care so deeply about trainers - i'm guessing they're so proud of their range of footwear they don't want to get them dirty walking to the greengrocers to buy fruit and veg...another reason why they're so round. Fair's fair though, we're told here that we should eat 4-6 small meals a day rather than one or 2 large meals as it gives our body time to digest and process the food in small doses and thus reduces the amount we store...I guess in the copy of the memo we sent to America, we missed out the word "small" after "4-6"...and perhaps the bit about not making those meals last an hour each...and that you're supposed to do exercise in training shoes, not look pretty in them.

We gave America comedy, though, and they took that baton and ran (ok, so they didn't run because they can't because they're so fat) with it and they've been better at it than us for a while. Let's face it, if the people of England elected Peter Andre as our Prime Minister, it still wouldn't be as funny as George Bush Jnr and we all enjoyed Bill "I didn't inhale and i definitely did not get a blow job off my fat secretary" Clinton. We even invited him to do a stand-up comedy tour of our Universities, although we were funnier there because we promoted it as a series of "lectures"...

America also has R&B, which is the funniest form of music ever created and a very clever joke as it contains neither rhythm nor blues. They also gave us Kid Rock, which is their special comedy take on what we know as cockney rhyming slang. If they'd only elect a President with the name Mary Dunt, we'd all be rolling in the aisles, saluting their comedy genius.

America also has the KKK, or as we know it over here, "Going to Church". And, bless them, they're even trying to play football, "Major League Soccer" as they call it. It's the only sport they play that has a World Cup or World Series that doesn't involve just American teams, which again is comedy genius. That's right, the world champions of American Football are....American!!! Brilliant.

Now I have some American friends, and friends who now live in America, and they're ok. Contrary to popular myth, they do "get" irony...consider this statement; there are intelligent Americans who live in America...surely an entirely ironic existence...surely, so It's unfair to say they don't get it...and you know, we must feel for them a little, because in the playground bullying stakes, the best put-down they can summon for us is that we have bad teeth...yeah, my teeth might be bad but i'm not so fat that i can't see my dick when i look down towards my feet...top that, fat boy and get back to your KFC family bucket...which is, like, your mid-morning snack...and then try and squeeze back into your 62" waist jeans if you can...you walking gravy boat lardy wobbly fatty chip-pan licker.

America is, however, not without it's problems, despite the rosy picture i've painted for you and to highlight some of these problems, please welcome back to my stage, Radio DJ and professional conspiracy theory peddler (which is a compliment) Alex Jones...

Only In America

Its a strange quest this lifetime of mine, one filled with irony and life lessons till the brim.  Each corner I turn lies wait a pouncing tiger just waiting to teach me a new move turning me into kung fu panda on steroids before my very eyes.  Oh how I wish I could be that panda some days and know all the moves, have the strength of soul to perfect them to the "T"

Some days that pass by I find myself the kung fu master only to wake up the next day and find I've forgotten the moves. The irony of being is found in so many ways.

I love unconditionally, I love fully but I when another person tries to love me to the same level I get scared, nervous and on edge as if they are the tiger not I.

I give unconditionally; I give my last cent to the person who needs it and sometimes to the person who doesn't.  I do it without them knowing and sometimes with them aware, either way I give with out thinking.  If someone else tries to give to me I refuse it or worse yet I tell them that I can't accept their gift for they shouldn't and can't spend on me even if it is in love.

I support others whole heartedly, I cheer leader them and throw the pom poms around with much fan fair, I help them through difficult times, offer both my shoulders to cry on and help them in any way I can. If someone tries to help me, support me, I get nervous, scared, stubborn and well I tell them I can do it alone.

I can listen to others for hours about their troubles, their life and their highs, it doesn't bother me, I actually prefer it.  I don't find it easy to talk about me, my problems, my life or my highs. They just happen and most often than not I "process" them first before I talk about any of them at all.

I know why each irony is there, black and white if you prefer.  Its so clear as day what the night is that lies beneath each word.  I don't obsess but I do know and understand.  Each day that passes me by I struggle with those four ironies of which I am sure there are many more, a constant inner fight to do away with the taught reactions, the learned behaviours and habits.

I try but some days are harder than others, some moments in time I take that step backwards in order to take the two forwards. I hurt people when I do and that makes the one step backwards turn into 10, it hurts the deepest parts of me when I hurt others, it breaks off a chunk of my heart and throws it in the fire of torment.  I hate doing that and knowing that I do by the actions I carry out turns the irony of being me into a glorified mess of catastrophic proportions

Sometimes the lessons we need to learn in life can make us feel like over used punch bags, sometimes though they are just teaching us how to put the shards back together again. Like Humpty Dumpty all over again we become stronger, wiser and most definitely more gray!

Serving an ultimatum to the Centre on the Sri Lankan Tamil problem, an all-party meeting in Tamil Nadu, convened by chief minister M Karunanidhi, on Tuesday warned that all MPs from the state would resign en masse, if the government failed to halt the war in the island nation within two weeks.

Quite compassionate our politicians are, they didn't issue such generous notices when Gujarat was burning, when churches across India were being rampaged, when serial bomb blasts were tearing the country apart every few weeks. Is it not war? Within our country? Is it not your responsibility too?

With due respect to Sri Lankans, who don't deserve to live with violence either, dear leaders, WE elected you. Take care of us too...

I am as tired as a zombie with insomnia. I mean seriously, I am sitting here, my eyes slowing falling trying to find something mildly entertaining to write on this thing, and guess what....I have nothing!

So, I am going to leave this computer. And find the strength to write my English homework. As much as I love Mr Shakespeare, he made things too damn complicated. I mean, couldn't he have made just one play slightly more straight forward? You know a little less irony, tortology, oxymoron, antithesis crap and a little more simple, direct. Blunt.

Apparently not.

-J.P

http://samraj.wordpress.com/2007/07/11/classroom-rants/

And boy, I just found another definition of irony. The subject (Global Sourcing and Business Development) which I was so frustrated with is the closest one to my current job. Ha. I wouldn't have dreamt of it then. I can now remember the old Sahib droning on about EXIM norms while I was ranting away to glory. There were about 10 students in class. The usual 3-4 guys taking notes in front of the prof. The rest of the guys playing around, sleeping or chattering at the back. And me, who had to sit in just for attendance and was just bored. I didn't hate the subject. I just didn't find anything to love about it. So, I just started questioning my very existence. Not in the universe or something. Just my existence in that class. And voila, a half-baked rant was born.

Now, I'm talking sourcing, development, strategy and stuff like that for more than half my waking hours. Life's like that. You think something's shit and it might just turn out to be something you like. And you will be reminded of the irony so that you just stop and think - "Life has a weird sense of humour !!"

So my only attended show for my virginal Pop Montreal experience (due to poorness) was Hot Chip last Wednesday at Metropolis on St. Laurent.  Honestly I was just really slow on the uptake - I checked out the full program the second day of the festival and realized one of my favourite Canadian up and comers Mardeen were playing an amazing east-coast focused show the night before.  I would've foregone a few cartons of Tropicana to see them for sure.

Hot Chip definitely didn't disappoint, although the $6.25 domestics did.  They played all of the singles, all of the goodies, and the live drummer made a massive difference overall.  Well played HC.

One thing that gets to me at times (among a lot of hipster bands) is the suffocating amount of irony.  The lead singer was wearing a unabomber-inspired white coveralls, those late 80s dad rapist glasses, and looked like Screech's long lost penpal.  On one hand I do appreciate that the rock and roll mould is being broken, and that nerdy dudes are getting laid, but it's the amount of "coolaloof" that comes with this irony that I dislike.

"And I Was A Boy From School" was the highlight, and they encored with a tasteful version of Sinead's "Nothing Compares 2 U".  Not a bad choice at all.  First time at Metropolis too - pretty much the best venue I've been to along with the Opera House.  Perfect size for crowd energy and intimacy, classy, nice balcony, plus the Montreal crowd never disappoints.  Montreal 1 (million).

By AHMED QURAISHI

Tuesday, 14 October 2008.

AHMEDQURAISHI.COM

ISLAMABAD, Pakistan—Two bearded, traditionally dressed Afghan men stopped the conversation, excused the CIA director, rolled out their rugs, and prayed loudly in one corner of the spy chief’s ultra-secured office in Washington, D.C. The director watched quietly until the two Mujahideen finished and rejoined the meeting.

The setting appears impossible today. But that was 1983. And director William Casey was not appeasing extremists. He was simply doing whatever a nation must do to protect its supreme national interest.

In Pakistan, we are still reluctant to firmly state our national interest. That is why the in-camera briefing in the Parliament failed to tell the truth. The briefing was not that of a military given to politicians. It was a briefing by a PPP-led government, reflecting PPP policies. The military officials were not representing themselves. They are an organization subordinate to the elected government, bound by its policies. Military officers giving the briefing conducted themselves as such. Not more and not less.

There is no question that the military cannot take the lead in making public some harsh truths if the government is not prepared to own the consequences, especially regarding the role of some of our allies in fostering secessionism and terrorism inside Pakistan as part of a wider strategic objective. There is also the question of protecting intelligence sources. Pakistan woke up late to the reality of how Afghanistan has turned into a base of operations to destabilize Pakistan. The effort to counter that will not figure in any public briefing, especially if the government in power is not interested in focusing on this.

The briefing was more about a PPP effort seeking to firmly align Pakistan behind Washington’s war in Afghanistan. The Americans want Pakistan to stop seeing India as the enemy and focus instead on American interests. That was the briefing’s objective. And that is why Pakistanis are seeing a sudden mushrooming of expensive newspaper advertisements ‘owning’ the war, seven years after the war actually began. The parliament, by most accounts, did not hear how Washington is drastically changing the strategic outlook in the region in a way that is detrimental to Pakistani interest. There was no discussion about American plans to formalize an expanded Indian intelligence and military presence in Afghanistan, the effort to cut Pakistan’s ability to influence the future of Kashmir, the near-total Indian control over our waters, or the efforts to reduce Pakistan’s ability to protest Indian involvement in future joint patrols of Pak-Afghan border, which is also on the cards.

What the parliamentarians and the nation should have heard is what the British ambassador in Islamabad recently heard from a lady Member of Parliament. In brutal honesty, she told the ambassador there are three wars in the region. One is America’s war against the Afghan resistance. Second is Pakistan’s war against the militants fighting our nation. The third is the low-intensity, undeclared war against Pakistan itself, which takes the shape of exporting terrorism to our country from the Afghan soil with the final aim of cutting Pakistan to size to fit in with Washington’s larger view for the region.

This is not about going to war with America, as some U.S. apologists in Pakistan say. This is about retaining some of our interest and not completely toeing the U.S. line. We should not accept Indian hegemony in Afghanistan on American shoulders. We also should not accept Indian control over our waters. But the current Pakistani government is not taking up these issues. And there is reason to believe that some quarters in Islamabad have gone too soft when it comes to Pakistani interest. Three years ago, a Pakistani military school war-gamed over the question of India’s Baglihar Dam. Civilian and military officials were divided into mock governments that wrestled with the future prospect of India stopping the water flow in Chenab. An assertive mock government went as far as using Pakistani air force to strike down the Indian construction on the river after the collapse of the water treaty with India.

How is the government responding to these challenges? President Zardari has an assurance from India it will not block Pakistan’s water. Prime Minister Gilani has an assurance from United States it will not violate Pakistani sovereignty. But water blocking continues. So do the violations of our western border. And it must have been embarrassing for President Zardari to warn the Indian prime minister on the water jam after his controversial statement – adopting the American line – that India poses no threat to Pakistani security.

The Americans are our friends. But Pakistanis should remember that the biggest campaign spreading anti-Pakistani feelings worldwide continues unabated for several months now, led by unnamed quarters in United States. Such demonizing of Pakistan, its people, its defense institutions and its image is unprecedented. The Americans don’t dare play these games with the Saudis, the Egyptians and the Turks because these countries do draw a line in the sand. It is an irony that this government’s ambassador to Washington is concerned about anti-Americansim in Pakistan but doesn’t have the stomach to say a word about rampant anti-Pakistanism in some U.S. quarters.

Let’s not mince words about Pakistani interest: We have no interest in eliminating the Afghan Taliban. That is not our job and it should not be confused with eliminating the fake Taliban or the ‘Pakistani Taliban’ who are armed and supported from the Afghan soil and exclusively assigned to fight Pakistan. America is least concerned about protecting Pakistan’s back in Afghanistan. Why should Pakistan reciprocate?

About a block before the scene of the crime, I slowed to let a car turn into a parking lot. I heard tires squeal and looked into my rear-view mirror to see a large truck rocking to a stop just a few feet behind me. The driver was talking on his cell phone. I breathed a sigh of relief, thankful he hadn't hit me, and gave the driver my most evil of all evil eyes, which I'm sure he couldn't see. Go figure.

A block later, I was not so lucky. I crossed through an intersection and slowed to let a car turn into the gas station on the corner. I was at a complete stand still when I heard the squeals...

And then the crash.

Or maybe it was more of a crunch.

Okay, a crash and a crunch.

After the natural delayed reaction of "Oh crap, he hit me! The loser hit me!", I managed to assess the damage. I'll spare you the gory details (Choo would appreciate the privacy), but it was bad. Very VERY bad. Go figure.

And my neck was already throbbing. So this is what whiplash feels like... I thought. Not recommended.

An hour later, I was sitting in the back of an ambulance with an EMT buckling me into a big white neck brace. It was definitely not something I had planned on wearing--and, needless to say, it completely clashed with my outfit. Go figure.

I sat there thinking about it all and somehow managed to see the irony in the situation. Murphy must have been working over time. Think about it:

-Six weeks to the day that I took ownership of my shiny new car (aka Choo), it sat on the curb crunched on both ends.

-The car that hit me was huge. A big Dodge Ram. A manly man's car. And yet it was painted sparkly purple. And the driver quite obviously uses more hair gel than I do. He was no manly man. Heck, I'm not sure he was a man at all.

-The third party (the woman driving the car in front of me that Mr. Purple Truck pushed me into) was swearing left and right in one sentence and praying out loud to Jesus in the next.

-That same woman was still complaining about all the terrible damage to her car. Yep, that busted tail light was pretty bad. Better pray some more.

-I had taken this route so I could get my Friday Chai Latte fix. That same Chai Latte was now splashed all over my dashboard and dripping on my floor mats. Some fix.

-I knew I would be visiting the ER at least once over the next couple of days, I knew I would need to show proof of health insurance, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to (I'm a new employee and while I do have insurance, the card confirming this fact had not yet arrived in the mail).

I should have been mad. Really mad. My new Choo had been pummeled. I was injured. I had no idea how to go about the whole insurance game because I have never been in an accident before. The man who hit me was on the phone with his significant other (which gender, I do not know), ignoring everything and everyone involved as if he were an innocent bystander, not the guilty party. And the woman was still swearing (Side note: I've never heard someone swear while praying before. It's quite interesting). Any or all of this would have made most people very very angry.

I have no idea why I wasn't. Delayed reaction, maybe.

Anywho, the ER experience wasn't all that bad--although it took me much longer on account of my missing insurance card. The following day was equally as long. I was instructed to come back to get the neck brace removed and had to go through the whole insurance debacle again because there was a diffrent nurse on duty. But I made it. In pain and very tired, but I made it.

When I got home, my mail had arrived. And guess what was there.

My insurance card. Go figure.

Analyzing relationships has been a pastime since I was a child. In contrast to my chasing after things to make sense, in “The nearest Dream recedes — unrealized — ”, by Emily Dickinson, the poet analyzes loss without the formula of cause and effect. The poem gets inside the reader's emotion, where logic has its own rules.

The nearest Dream recedes — unrealized — 

The Heaven we chase—

Like the June Bee — before the School Boy — 

Invites the Race — 

Stoops — to an easy Clover — 

Dips — evades — teazes — deploys — 

Then — to the Royal Clouds

Lifts his light Pinnace — 

Heedless of the Boy — 

Staring — bewildered — at the mocking sky — 

 

Homesick for steadfast Honey — 

Ah — the Bee flies not

That brews that rare variety!

We are all “the School Boy” invited by desire, “Homesick for steadfast Honey — ” of perfect marriages, jobs, financial security, you name it.  We all seem to be hardwired for the tantalizing prospect of faultless achievement, “the Royal Clouds”. 

If I lash out at someone over everyday irritants, or become unduly critical, it's a sure sign I am unable to grasp the truth of this poem.  Perhaps it's because, sadly, I have left out the "we" of our universal yearnings, “The Heaven we chase—”, thinking I am inadequate. 

If I am bogged down in fruitless self-loathing, I will not feel the joy in the poem or myself. The poem itself realizes the dream of leaving us less alone, less offended by imperfect accomplishment, tapping into what everyone knows instinctively but cannot always access on our own, that “Ah — the Bee flies not/That brews that rare variety!”

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