Quondam Dreams

Thursday, July 26, 2007

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Reaction (sans spoilers)


Not the direction I'd have gone, but I wasn't driving.


Sunday, July 15, 2007

A Note To Be Slipped Under A Certain Washington Door

Yo, George -

Hi. It's us. You know, the people you pass in the hall every day? We're writing you this note because there's something you need to know, something everyone else in the world knows -- but no one wants to say it to your face because you can be such a... well, such a vindictive ass, frankly. That's why we're the ones writing this: Because even if you knew our names, you wouldn't be able to hold anything over us. (Not that we're signing our names. We may be brash, but we're not stupid.)

So, George, here's the thing:

Nobody likes you.

We took some polls, George. Surveyed the student body, as it were. And no matter what we asked, we got the same results: 70% of the people hate you; 20% of the people say they don't mind you you, but only because you've got them scared of what would happen if someone else were in charge; and we're pretty sure the other 10% are being paid by your dad. But, hey, you can lump those last two together and decide that 30% of the people think you're doing a good job. It's still a pretty sucky job approval rating.

Why do we care?

Because you're making us look bad.

Yep, that's right. We're worried about what other people think. So sue us. Heck, you probably will. And that's only going to make us look worse.

The people you have working for you will deny it, of course. That's why you have them working for you: Because they never tell you anything you don't want to hear. Anyone who does tell you something you want to hear finds themselves looking for new employment. It's like you read one of those "create your own reality" self-helped books and completely missed the point. Deciding that your desired reality is in effect doesn't mean that it actually prevails. You can say that things are going swimmingly all you like, and that you have the evidence to prove it. But if the best evidence you can muster is that things might be kind of starting to sort of maybe go well on eight out of eighteen points... yeah, not terribly convincing, no matter what your few remaining friends say.

To put it in terms you might understand: We're in the AL West, but no matter how you try to spin things, we're not the Angels. We're not even the Mariners. We're the Rangers. (Hey, remember the Rangers? You used to own a piece of them. We know some people in Texas who would like to have a word with you about that.) Let's be generous and say that you've halfway succeeded in eight out of eighteen at bats. By our calculations, that's a .222 batting average -- a couple of lucky hops over the Mendoza line. More to the point, that's a .222 winning percentage. That puts you four games behind the 1962 Mets. You can protest that we're not done with the season yet -- but, dude? This whole war thing has been going on for the equivalent of eight and a half baseball seasons.

George, we don't particularly like you, but we're trying to help you. As much as we don't like how you're representing us, we're even more scared of Dick Cheney. See, when you talk about how the executive branch of government has more pull than the others, it just sounds like you flunked your high school government class. When Dick Cheney talks about it, it sounds like we're all doomed -- especially when he starts trying to put himself above it all. It's like he's taken a nice, balanced system of rock-paper-scissors and turned it into rock-paper-scissors-bomb, and one guess which one he's throwing. (Um, that'd be the big-ass bomb.)

We don't really have any suggestions, except that you get off your high horse and stop insisting that anyone who doesn't agree with you, sucks. You can think that all you want, but when 70% of the people you're supposed to be working for and with think you suck for saying that they suck... it's not pretty. Trust us. You've been insulated pretty well up till now. We're going to make sure you're not anymore, even if it means we have to keep sneaking in and slipping notes under your door.

Sincerely yours,