There's something about maps that fascinates me. I don't know when it started or, for that matter, why, but I collect maps as much as I can. Unlike some, I actually sit down and peruse them from time to time just for the fun of it.
Maps tell a story beyond just giving directions. They possess within them history above all. They certainly possess geography. But they can reveal things that are quite personal as well.
When I look at a map of Spain, I remember certain trips I took during my year abroad. I search for Arriondas, where I had a meal of bread, cheese, strawberries and a Coke in lieu of a bottle of wine. I look for Tossa de Mar, one of my most favorite places on the planet. I search out the tiny northwestern village of Cariño, where I took an all-day trek in a bus so that I could mail a letter to our Mother and get its post stamp. I trace the roads I road in cars or buses, search out rail lines and reminisce about the times I spent in places. Finding Pedraza reminds me of the wild puente I experienced there eating roast lamb. I go southeast and find El Saler, where I snuck into a five star hotel hard against the Mediterranean, then glance northwards to see where I spent the night in a phone booth. Then I go back to the north and Santillana de Mar, where an Irishman bought me beer after beer in thanks for rescuing him from the awkward attempt to order dinner.
I find a map of Ireland and look for the jetty that juts out into the bay beside Dublin against the Irish Sea. Our uncle and I took a long walk there once. I find Cong and Ma'am's Cross and remember the wild beauty that is Connemara. I go back east and look for Skerries, where our uncle's typical control of the situation was trumped by a pair of distant relatives whose Arsenic and Old Lace routine proved too much for our uncle's seminarian training.
I find the United States maps and look for Iowa City, then search out all the routes I used to ride on my bicycle. I try to pinpoint scenic vistas along the routes, remembering how they impressed me enough on my ride that I later went back in a car and photographed them. I search for Door County in Wisconsin and look across Lake Michigan to Traverse City, two of my favorite places to visit. I search the Upper Peninsula and remember how it awed the young boy I was then.
Kentucky's relatively new to me, but I still search out the maps and look for Carter Caves and the Natural Bridge. I remember the lush countryside that ultimately provided me with my girl. I go further southeast and remember the majesty of the Smokies and the Cumberland Gap, wishing I'd wussed out and let Karen drive so I could sightsee more. I find Cowpens, South Carolina, and remember how close we came to being able to visit my first Revolutionary War site. Now I look at the Florida map and trace our trip from Pensacola to Destin.
I go back across the pond and find Coimbra, the college town with so much history in Portugal, then struggle to find Entroncamento, the rail hub where I got off to switch trains. It reminds me of how sunny it was then, how young I was with my life ahead of me, and how I wondered if I'd ever return to visit. I go north along the coast, searching for the site of that photograph I took of the fisherman's chapel on the beach against the Atlantic. Then there's Oporto, where I engaged in my only act of drunkenness in Iberia. Farther north still in Spain is Santiago de Compostela and the mislabeled Finisterre, which conveniently ignores the spur of Portugal farther south that is well past Finisterre's claimed location.
I enjoy books about maps. The Island of Lost Maps wasn't something I could exactly emphathize with, but it did keep me enthralled. How the States Got Their Shapes, although it's been panned, is another book I want to read. And recently Maphead came out, which has caught my eye. From what I've read about the book, I may not enjoy every chapter in it, but I do want to read it.
How maps are made intrigues me. I can't figure out how cartographers were so accurate prior to the advent of satellites. Nautical maps blow me away; how can one be so certain about what lies beneath the waves? Nautical maps, in addition, have just as much history as do topographical maps about land.
That there are people out there that can't read maps amazes me. I could understand not being able to calculate altitudes or depths based on maps, but not knowing which way is north on a map puzzles me.
I'm sure it's the inner nerd in me that cherishes maps so. I hit upon a way to get maps cheaply and called or wrote various state and country tourist bureaus asking for tourist packages and always made sure to ask for highway maps. Cheap, I know, but it works.
And I have plenty of maps to satisfy my love of map reading.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Friday, February 22, 2013
Best sporting events
(WARNING: This post contains graphic sports crappola content and its viewing may be harmful to some readers)
February 22, 1980, is, as far as I'm concerned, the greatest day in American sports history. Thirty-three years ago, truly amateur American hockey players beat the questionably at best amateur hockey players from the Soviet Union to whom, a mere ten days before, they'd lost 10-3. The humiliation of that game hardly portended the result that would be obtained in Lake Placid.
Remarkably, there's no commerically available copy of the game of which I'm aware. I bought a copy of the game that someone transferred from the television telecast, and it's got an eerie quality to it as a result, but I try to watch it every year on the anniversary. And when I do, it brings tears to my eyes.
That got me thinking about other memorable events in American sports that I've witnessed. I wasn't around for Jesse Owens, Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, Jim Thorpe, Mickey Mantle and the like, so my sports experiences really only date from the late 1960's. But I've seen, either in person or on television, some pretty remarkable games. Here, then, is my personal list of the greatest American sports moments from roughly 1969 to the present day:
1. Miracle on Ice, Lake Placid, 1980: Rarely have I gotten this emotional over a sporting event. Even though it happened thirty-three years ago, I still cry when I watch that game. I can't skate, but I love hockey. I even have a replica jersey from this team.
2. Illinois beats Arizona in regional finals of NCAA tournament, 2005: I saw this one in person. Illinois came from fifteen points down with less than five minutes to go to take the game into overtime, where it defeated a very good and well-coached Arizona team. That it didn't win the national title still hurts. That was one great team with hardly any superstar players. It was if I went to a baseball game and a no-hitter was thrown.
3. USA beats Cuba to win gold medal in baseball at Sydney Olympics, 2000: Although we invented the sport, we're no longer the best country playing it. The team that went to Sydney had no stars whatsoever but was coached by the irrepressible Tommy Lasorda who made the team believe it could win. Sure, the Cubans probably took us for granted, but that's why they don't play the games on paper.
4. The Bears' run to the Super Bowl, 1986: I'm not much of a pro football fan, but I have to admit that the sheer dominance of the Bears' run was exciting. They shut out both their opponents in the conference playoffs, then only allowed ten points in the Super Bowl. That means they only gave up 3.3 points per game to the best teams in the league.
5. Greg LeMond wins the Tour de France by eight seconds, 1989: I'd gotten hooked on the Tour while I lived in Spain. When LeMond came back from fifty-eight seconds down to defeat Laurent Fignon in the last day's time trial, I was ecstatic.
6. The Cubs make the playoffs in 1984: Ultimately it spoiled faster than a rotten egg on a sidewalk, but for the first time in my lifetime, the Cubs made the playoffs. I'll never forgive Peter Uebberoth for what he did my Cubs. As an orphan of '69, I feel we deserved better.
7. Blackhawks win Stanley Cup in 2010: The 'hawks hadn't won the Cup since the year I was born. In the early 70's, they'd played the Canadiens' teams tough but lost each time in the Cup finals. That the team played so well throughout the season made them a joy to watch.
8. USA beats Canada to win hockey World Cup in 1996: We win so little in international hockey that to win this admittedly minor tournament was gratifying, all the moreso because we beat the Canadians on their ice to win it. They invented the sport, after all, and to defeat them was a feat unto itself.
9. Frank Shorter wins Olympic marathon, 1972: That he won the gold medal is all the more surprising since we've never had a winner before or since. Given the backdrop of the murders of Israeli athletes in Munich and the fact that Shorter himself is Jewish, his achievement is all the more remarkable.
10. USA beats Spain in semis of Confederation Cup, 2009: That we were even in the competition was a joke, that we advanced as far as the semis a minor miracle and that we beat the best team in the world in many decades -- perhaps ever -- is nothing short of the biggest miracle this side of the one on ice. Spain was and has been so dominant since that time that I still can't believe we beat them.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
February 22, 1980, is, as far as I'm concerned, the greatest day in American sports history. Thirty-three years ago, truly amateur American hockey players beat the questionably at best amateur hockey players from the Soviet Union to whom, a mere ten days before, they'd lost 10-3. The humiliation of that game hardly portended the result that would be obtained in Lake Placid.
Remarkably, there's no commerically available copy of the game of which I'm aware. I bought a copy of the game that someone transferred from the television telecast, and it's got an eerie quality to it as a result, but I try to watch it every year on the anniversary. And when I do, it brings tears to my eyes.
That got me thinking about other memorable events in American sports that I've witnessed. I wasn't around for Jesse Owens, Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, Jim Thorpe, Mickey Mantle and the like, so my sports experiences really only date from the late 1960's. But I've seen, either in person or on television, some pretty remarkable games. Here, then, is my personal list of the greatest American sports moments from roughly 1969 to the present day:
1. Miracle on Ice, Lake Placid, 1980: Rarely have I gotten this emotional over a sporting event. Even though it happened thirty-three years ago, I still cry when I watch that game. I can't skate, but I love hockey. I even have a replica jersey from this team.
2. Illinois beats Arizona in regional finals of NCAA tournament, 2005: I saw this one in person. Illinois came from fifteen points down with less than five minutes to go to take the game into overtime, where it defeated a very good and well-coached Arizona team. That it didn't win the national title still hurts. That was one great team with hardly any superstar players. It was if I went to a baseball game and a no-hitter was thrown.
3. USA beats Cuba to win gold medal in baseball at Sydney Olympics, 2000: Although we invented the sport, we're no longer the best country playing it. The team that went to Sydney had no stars whatsoever but was coached by the irrepressible Tommy Lasorda who made the team believe it could win. Sure, the Cubans probably took us for granted, but that's why they don't play the games on paper.
4. The Bears' run to the Super Bowl, 1986: I'm not much of a pro football fan, but I have to admit that the sheer dominance of the Bears' run was exciting. They shut out both their opponents in the conference playoffs, then only allowed ten points in the Super Bowl. That means they only gave up 3.3 points per game to the best teams in the league.
5. Greg LeMond wins the Tour de France by eight seconds, 1989: I'd gotten hooked on the Tour while I lived in Spain. When LeMond came back from fifty-eight seconds down to defeat Laurent Fignon in the last day's time trial, I was ecstatic.
6. The Cubs make the playoffs in 1984: Ultimately it spoiled faster than a rotten egg on a sidewalk, but for the first time in my lifetime, the Cubs made the playoffs. I'll never forgive Peter Uebberoth for what he did my Cubs. As an orphan of '69, I feel we deserved better.
7. Blackhawks win Stanley Cup in 2010: The 'hawks hadn't won the Cup since the year I was born. In the early 70's, they'd played the Canadiens' teams tough but lost each time in the Cup finals. That the team played so well throughout the season made them a joy to watch.
8. USA beats Canada to win hockey World Cup in 1996: We win so little in international hockey that to win this admittedly minor tournament was gratifying, all the moreso because we beat the Canadians on their ice to win it. They invented the sport, after all, and to defeat them was a feat unto itself.
9. Frank Shorter wins Olympic marathon, 1972: That he won the gold medal is all the more surprising since we've never had a winner before or since. Given the backdrop of the murders of Israeli athletes in Munich and the fact that Shorter himself is Jewish, his achievement is all the more remarkable.
10. USA beats Spain in semis of Confederation Cup, 2009: That we were even in the competition was a joke, that we advanced as far as the semis a minor miracle and that we beat the best team in the world in many decades -- perhaps ever -- is nothing short of the biggest miracle this side of the one on ice. Spain was and has been so dominant since that time that I still can't believe we beat them.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Response to TTGIAF
My sweetheart wrote a very touching post on her blog Technically the Glass is Always Full (I heartily recommend it) and included this passage about my putative quirks:
His constant need to know where the remote is. If it is lost, it as if the
world has gone off its axis.
The way he talks to the television during a sports crappola shows.
How he locks every door and turns out every light the moment he is finished
going through it or using it.
"I'm old and infirmed." "I could eat." "Be that as it may." "They can
pound sand."
The way he brushes his teeth (this will make him laugh)
The way he closes the slider blinds so hard I am surprised they are still
attached
Well, let's address them, shall we?
My world does not go off its axis if I can't find the remote, a/k/a the clicker. What does happen, or doesn't happen as the case may be, is that I can no longer operate the television because the manual buttons on the device are hidden in such a way that were I to use them, I might topple the 55" screen and shatter it in a million little pieces. I submit that this alleged mania I have for the clicker is only exceeded by my dear love's disdain for its whereabouts, oftentimes resulting in it being found in the cushions of the couch, between the bedding on the bed or -- and this is my favorite -- back behind the enormously heavy sleigh bed. That I'm concerned for its whereabouts is clearly a result of her disdain for its whereabouts and the resulting mayhem that comes from not being able to find it.
I'm not sure that the way I talk during sporting events is any different than the way most guys talk during sporting events, although I'm rarely approaching airplane decibels. That I react to the ups and downs of my teams' fortunes is only natural. Otherwise, why even watch the darned things?
That she finds my obsessiveness about locking every door and turning out every light when I'm done using it amusing is, in and of itself, amusing. This is a woman who will get down on the floor with a brush to brush the dog hair into piles so she can vacuum the floor. She will take glasses that were cleaned in the dishwasher but that have water spots on them and wash them again. She cleans so much she could qualify as a kosher rabbi if she were a man and Jewish. Yet my thoroughness with doors and lights amuses her. Mirror, Karen. Karen, mirror.
I don't have anything to say about what I say, really. I will just say this: I don't know. (That should make her laugh).
That I brush my teeth the way I do is directly proportional to the fact that my love has a phobia about foamy toothpaste. That is, if someone is brushing his or her teeth -- merely brushing them in a mature fashion, not acting like a wannabe member of the Jackass crew -- she has a coniption. And I understand that some people are just disgusted by certain things. I, for example, practically wretch at the smell of cooked eggs. I just find it funny she'd mention this.
Finally, the reason the slider blinds close so hard is that to get them to move, one must pull hard to release the catch. When it finally releases, there's barely enough time to stop it before it falls all the way to the bottom of the window. I'll admit, though, that it does make a racket.
That she loves me despite my obvious foibles humbles me. I know that I'm the fortunate one in this relationship. I actually try to improve my shortcomings, although she'd tell you I have a long way to go.
But I'm never giving up my Cubs, Blackhawks and Illini.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Well, let's address them, shall we?
My world does not go off its axis if I can't find the remote, a/k/a the clicker. What does happen, or doesn't happen as the case may be, is that I can no longer operate the television because the manual buttons on the device are hidden in such a way that were I to use them, I might topple the 55" screen and shatter it in a million little pieces. I submit that this alleged mania I have for the clicker is only exceeded by my dear love's disdain for its whereabouts, oftentimes resulting in it being found in the cushions of the couch, between the bedding on the bed or -- and this is my favorite -- back behind the enormously heavy sleigh bed. That I'm concerned for its whereabouts is clearly a result of her disdain for its whereabouts and the resulting mayhem that comes from not being able to find it.
I'm not sure that the way I talk during sporting events is any different than the way most guys talk during sporting events, although I'm rarely approaching airplane decibels. That I react to the ups and downs of my teams' fortunes is only natural. Otherwise, why even watch the darned things?
That she finds my obsessiveness about locking every door and turning out every light when I'm done using it amusing is, in and of itself, amusing. This is a woman who will get down on the floor with a brush to brush the dog hair into piles so she can vacuum the floor. She will take glasses that were cleaned in the dishwasher but that have water spots on them and wash them again. She cleans so much she could qualify as a kosher rabbi if she were a man and Jewish. Yet my thoroughness with doors and lights amuses her. Mirror, Karen. Karen, mirror.
I don't have anything to say about what I say, really. I will just say this: I don't know. (That should make her laugh).
That I brush my teeth the way I do is directly proportional to the fact that my love has a phobia about foamy toothpaste. That is, if someone is brushing his or her teeth -- merely brushing them in a mature fashion, not acting like a wannabe member of the Jackass crew -- she has a coniption. And I understand that some people are just disgusted by certain things. I, for example, practically wretch at the smell of cooked eggs. I just find it funny she'd mention this.
Finally, the reason the slider blinds close so hard is that to get them to move, one must pull hard to release the catch. When it finally releases, there's barely enough time to stop it before it falls all the way to the bottom of the window. I'll admit, though, that it does make a racket.
That she loves me despite my obvious foibles humbles me. I know that I'm the fortunate one in this relationship. I actually try to improve my shortcomings, although she'd tell you I have a long way to go.
But I'm never giving up my Cubs, Blackhawks and Illini.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
A gaggle of cords
As anyone who knows me knows, I'm cyber-challenged. I need idiot-friendly software, directions that even someone with only a basic understanding of English had a reasonable expectation of figuring out. Alas, such is not typically what I'm given.
But I'm not going to beat the same drum endlessly today. Instead, I'm going to wax frustrated about wires. Miles of wires, it seems. Given my present circumstances, I have a few creature comforts that I can use to make life bearable. I have my PC, a TV with no cable service, a light, a radio and my cellphone.
Well.
The PC has to be plugged in, of course, as does the TV, the monitor for the TV and the antenna for TV. Because I don't want a sudden thunderstorm's lightening to ruin my appliances, they must go into a power strip with a surge protector. So far, I'm up to five wires.
With my computer I have a mouse and a keyboard that have to be plugged into the back of my computer. I'm up to seven cords already.
But remember, I have an Ipod. My IPod must be recharged somehow, so I have a wire that plugs into the front of my PC to recharge it and to sync it with Itunes. Then there's the external hardrive that not only must be plugged into the computer but also into the surge protector. I've lost actual count, but I think that's another three cords, and we're up to ten.
Then there's the radio. It only has one cord that I plug directly into the wall because, well, it's a cheapie. But I also have to recharge my phone, so there's a cord for the recharger. That's another two more cords. I now have twelve.
But wait! I have an electric toothbrush and an electric razor. Add two more cords for a total of fourteen cords.
Yes, fourteen cords.
At my office, I decided it might be nice to have a little amplifying device for my Ipod so I could listen to music after hours. I'm looking at a tangled mess of cords that seem to amount to another four cords in and of itself. I got so frustrated with the number of cords that I left my phone recharger at the apartment, because even without it, I have a computer cord, the mouse and keyboard cords, a light, and the surge protector.
The only thing I'm missing is a post to which to hitch my horse's reins.
I understand how these things are all supposed to work, but I also remember that technology was supposed to make our lives easier. To some extent, they have. But they've also created another tangled mess of spaghetti that cancels out the ease technology creates.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
But I'm not going to beat the same drum endlessly today. Instead, I'm going to wax frustrated about wires. Miles of wires, it seems. Given my present circumstances, I have a few creature comforts that I can use to make life bearable. I have my PC, a TV with no cable service, a light, a radio and my cellphone.
Well.
The PC has to be plugged in, of course, as does the TV, the monitor for the TV and the antenna for TV. Because I don't want a sudden thunderstorm's lightening to ruin my appliances, they must go into a power strip with a surge protector. So far, I'm up to five wires.
With my computer I have a mouse and a keyboard that have to be plugged into the back of my computer. I'm up to seven cords already.
But remember, I have an Ipod. My IPod must be recharged somehow, so I have a wire that plugs into the front of my PC to recharge it and to sync it with Itunes. Then there's the external hardrive that not only must be plugged into the computer but also into the surge protector. I've lost actual count, but I think that's another three cords, and we're up to ten.
Then there's the radio. It only has one cord that I plug directly into the wall because, well, it's a cheapie. But I also have to recharge my phone, so there's a cord for the recharger. That's another two more cords. I now have twelve.
But wait! I have an electric toothbrush and an electric razor. Add two more cords for a total of fourteen cords.
Yes, fourteen cords.
At my office, I decided it might be nice to have a little amplifying device for my Ipod so I could listen to music after hours. I'm looking at a tangled mess of cords that seem to amount to another four cords in and of itself. I got so frustrated with the number of cords that I left my phone recharger at the apartment, because even without it, I have a computer cord, the mouse and keyboard cords, a light, and the surge protector.
The only thing I'm missing is a post to which to hitch my horse's reins.
I understand how these things are all supposed to work, but I also remember that technology was supposed to make our lives easier. To some extent, they have. But they've also created another tangled mess of spaghetti that cancels out the ease technology creates.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Valentine's Day
For me, every day is Valentine's Day. That's because I live with the love of my life, the most wonderful woman in the world. I know how lucky I am.
My girl is beautiful, physically beautiful. She's a spitfire with redhair, tall, curves in all the right places. She has the most beautiful eyes, the most graceful hands, and lips soft as rose petals. I'm so proud when we walk together because I know how envious other men must be.
Were her only attraction physical, this would be a superficial love story. But Karen's loveliness is deeper, far deeper, than her outer appearance. Karen is one of the kindest, most generous, most thoughtful people I've ever known. To put it simply, she's the best person I've ever known. She does the little things for people that are unexpected simply because she wants to make them smile.
She's patient. Anyone who knows me knows how difficult I can be. It's not that I leave the toilet seat up, throw my clothes on the floor expecting her to pick them up or expect her to make dinner for me. It's other stuff, stuff that for some people is far more difficult. She's no saint, as she'd readily admit, but she puts up with more than her fair share.
She has made our family fun and comfortable. Her love of bullies has brought us Sherman, Custer and Stonewall. She makes things right for our family and sees to it that everything is in its proper place.
She cooks better than anyone has a right to expect. The confections she bakes are the reason I'm not on the cover of GQ (well, that and the fact I have no willpower in the face of them...). She always looks for new and interesting recipes to try and then makes them better than how they were intended.
She is more resilient than anyone I know. Were one to listen to the number of maladies from which she suffers, it wouldn't be believed. Yet each day, almost without fail, she gets up and goes about her business with a smile on her face and a song in her heart. The only thing that belies that she's suffering is the she goes sleepless far too many times for her or anyone's good. Rarely, if ever, does she get crotchety or quarrelsome.
But more than anything, she loves me better than I have any right to expect. She always tells me how handsome I am. She always tells me how sweet I am. She gives me confidence and bucks me up when I'm down on myself. She's affectionate and sassy. She's younger than her years and always more fun than anyone alive.
There's little question why I love her so. She's the darling of my heart, the love of my life. I can't imagine life without her and wonder how I lived before I met her. I regret not having met her sooner and wonder daily how our lives would have been different if we'd been allowed to meet earlier in life. I will love her until beyond the end of time since I've loved her long before I was ever born.
Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart.
And thank you for loving me so well.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
My girl is beautiful, physically beautiful. She's a spitfire with redhair, tall, curves in all the right places. She has the most beautiful eyes, the most graceful hands, and lips soft as rose petals. I'm so proud when we walk together because I know how envious other men must be.
Were her only attraction physical, this would be a superficial love story. But Karen's loveliness is deeper, far deeper, than her outer appearance. Karen is one of the kindest, most generous, most thoughtful people I've ever known. To put it simply, she's the best person I've ever known. She does the little things for people that are unexpected simply because she wants to make them smile.
She's patient. Anyone who knows me knows how difficult I can be. It's not that I leave the toilet seat up, throw my clothes on the floor expecting her to pick them up or expect her to make dinner for me. It's other stuff, stuff that for some people is far more difficult. She's no saint, as she'd readily admit, but she puts up with more than her fair share.
She has made our family fun and comfortable. Her love of bullies has brought us Sherman, Custer and Stonewall. She makes things right for our family and sees to it that everything is in its proper place.
She cooks better than anyone has a right to expect. The confections she bakes are the reason I'm not on the cover of GQ (well, that and the fact I have no willpower in the face of them...). She always looks for new and interesting recipes to try and then makes them better than how they were intended.
She is more resilient than anyone I know. Were one to listen to the number of maladies from which she suffers, it wouldn't be believed. Yet each day, almost without fail, she gets up and goes about her business with a smile on her face and a song in her heart. The only thing that belies that she's suffering is the she goes sleepless far too many times for her or anyone's good. Rarely, if ever, does she get crotchety or quarrelsome.
But more than anything, she loves me better than I have any right to expect. She always tells me how handsome I am. She always tells me how sweet I am. She gives me confidence and bucks me up when I'm down on myself. She's affectionate and sassy. She's younger than her years and always more fun than anyone alive.
There's little question why I love her so. She's the darling of my heart, the love of my life. I can't imagine life without her and wonder how I lived before I met her. I regret not having met her sooner and wonder daily how our lives would have been different if we'd been allowed to meet earlier in life. I will love her until beyond the end of time since I've loved her long before I was ever born.
Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart.
And thank you for loving me so well.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Spanish lessons
As I've noted, I love the Spanish language. Admittedly, I have more training than most white Americans in the language and its nuances, but that doesn't mean I love it any less. Contrary to my childhood friend Greg, who once told me that although he loved photography taking a class in it lessened his enjoyment because it revealed the secrets behind the art, studying Spanish just made me love it more. I with I could study Irish and become proficient in it; I can only imagine how many more quirky nuances it has.
In any event, I thought today I'd talk about some of the quirkiness that is the Spanish language. It's a beautiful language -- mellifluous, lyrical, soothing -- that has it's rougher edges, to be sure: The a personal, ser v. estar, por y para, vosotros v. voseo. But those problems are typically glossed over by native speakers and, unlike the French, aren't picked apart because they're used imperfectly.
So today I'm going to highlight a couple of quirky -- perhaps even humorous -- oddities within the Spanish language.
The first one is the use of the word papa. Papa when spelled like that means potato. When papá carries the accent over the second a, it means father. Yet, when Pope Benedict announced his retirement this week, the Spanish-language newspapers carried the headline Buscan papa, or PopeSought. The typesetter didn't make a mistake; Papa, without the diacritical. For reasons too lengthy and obscure to go into here, Spanish uses papa and not papá when talking about the pope. Depending on your perspective, you could say the Catholic Church is headed by a potato.
The next involves the use of the word esposas. There are various ways to say wives, including but not limited too mujeres and esposas. Mujeres can mean women or wives, depending on context. Esposas means wives, typically, unless we're talking at police headquarters. Again, context will determine the actual meaning, but there esposas can mean either wives or handcuffs. Some might say the two are interchangeable.
The following involves words that aren't typically for mixed company. One of the idiomatic expressions used to say that one is tired is estar hecho polvo; literally, one is made into dust. It might sound a little funny, but when one thinks about it, we have similar phrases in English: I'm beat. In neither case is the expression literally true. An ellipsis of the phrase is hecho polvo, which is pronounced AYcho POLE vo. The problem arises when one is using that phrase and context hasn't been established. One of the euphemistic phrases used to say that one is getting laid is echar polvo. In the first person singular, it's pronounced exactly the same: AYcho POLE vo. It pays to listen closely sometimes.
A particular quirk is the pronunciation of the great artist Salvador Dalí's surname. Contrary to popular American opinion, Dalí and Dolly are not pronounced the same. Editors all over the country love to use Hello Dalí when leading an article about a Dalí exhibit or book. The problem is that the surname, correctly pronounced, is Dah LEE, not DAH lee. Americans tend to treat diacritical marks like suggestions when in fact they're helpful directions.
The final quirk is the pronunciation of Spanish surnames, which are routinely butchered. Virtually any surname that ends in -ez should be easy to pronounce with one simple rule: The accent never, ever falls on the syllable ending with -ez. The reason for that is simple: The -ez ending is a vestigial suffix from Arabic that translates to son of. Here are some pairings that show how similar yet how morbidly mistaken the pairs are often pronounced:
Peterson -- Pérez -- Son of Peter
Henderson -- Enríquez -- Son of Henry
Martinson -- Martínez -- Son of Martin
If you follow the pattern, the other surnames come out correctly:
Chávez -- Son of Chavo
Gómez -- Son of Gomero
López -- Son of Lope
As with English, the emphasis never falls on the last syllable; it's not Peet er SON, but PEET er son. Newsanchors and reporters everywhere get it wrong, yet it's so simple.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
In any event, I thought today I'd talk about some of the quirkiness that is the Spanish language. It's a beautiful language -- mellifluous, lyrical, soothing -- that has it's rougher edges, to be sure: The a personal, ser v. estar, por y para, vosotros v. voseo. But those problems are typically glossed over by native speakers and, unlike the French, aren't picked apart because they're used imperfectly.
So today I'm going to highlight a couple of quirky -- perhaps even humorous -- oddities within the Spanish language.
The first one is the use of the word papa. Papa when spelled like that means potato. When papá carries the accent over the second a, it means father. Yet, when Pope Benedict announced his retirement this week, the Spanish-language newspapers carried the headline Buscan papa, or PopeSought. The typesetter didn't make a mistake; Papa, without the diacritical. For reasons too lengthy and obscure to go into here, Spanish uses papa and not papá when talking about the pope. Depending on your perspective, you could say the Catholic Church is headed by a potato.
The next involves the use of the word esposas. There are various ways to say wives, including but not limited too mujeres and esposas. Mujeres can mean women or wives, depending on context. Esposas means wives, typically, unless we're talking at police headquarters. Again, context will determine the actual meaning, but there esposas can mean either wives or handcuffs. Some might say the two are interchangeable.
The following involves words that aren't typically for mixed company. One of the idiomatic expressions used to say that one is tired is estar hecho polvo; literally, one is made into dust. It might sound a little funny, but when one thinks about it, we have similar phrases in English: I'm beat. In neither case is the expression literally true. An ellipsis of the phrase is hecho polvo, which is pronounced AYcho POLE vo. The problem arises when one is using that phrase and context hasn't been established. One of the euphemistic phrases used to say that one is getting laid is echar polvo. In the first person singular, it's pronounced exactly the same: AYcho POLE vo. It pays to listen closely sometimes.
A particular quirk is the pronunciation of the great artist Salvador Dalí's surname. Contrary to popular American opinion, Dalí and Dolly are not pronounced the same. Editors all over the country love to use Hello Dalí when leading an article about a Dalí exhibit or book. The problem is that the surname, correctly pronounced, is Dah LEE, not DAH lee. Americans tend to treat diacritical marks like suggestions when in fact they're helpful directions.
The final quirk is the pronunciation of Spanish surnames, which are routinely butchered. Virtually any surname that ends in -ez should be easy to pronounce with one simple rule: The accent never, ever falls on the syllable ending with -ez. The reason for that is simple: The -ez ending is a vestigial suffix from Arabic that translates to son of. Here are some pairings that show how similar yet how morbidly mistaken the pairs are often pronounced:
Peterson -- Pérez -- Son of Peter
Henderson -- Enríquez -- Son of Henry
Martinson -- Martínez -- Son of Martin
If you follow the pattern, the other surnames come out correctly:
Chávez -- Son of Chavo
Gómez -- Son of Gomero
López -- Son of Lope
As with English, the emphasis never falls on the last syllable; it's not Peet er SON, but PEET er son. Newsanchors and reporters everywhere get it wrong, yet it's so simple.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Brits out
Piers Morgan is garnering a lot of attention in this country, and it's mixed at best. For me, Morgan is an intelligent and articulate person, someone adept at manipulating the system and unafraid of voicing his opinion. Were that all, he wouldn't annoy me so much. Add to it that he's a Brit and it's unbearable.
For me, this pretty well sums up my feelings about the Brits:
Actually, it goes further, when the conquest of Ireland started. But as this is focused on Morgan's meddling in American politics, it fits.
Morgan is not a US citizen. From what I understand, he's here on a worker visa. I know his schtick is to stir things up, but he really needs to keep his nose out of our politics. Unfortunately, he's only acting in accord with his genetic make-up.
Back when Bush and Kerry were vying for the White House in 2004, the Guardian ran what was called Operation Clark County asking its readers to send letters supportive of Kerry to voters in Ohio that it felt was crucial to the election. Incredibly, 11,000 readers wrote to Americans telling us this:
Don't be so ashamed of your president: the majority of you didn't vote for him. If Bush is finally elected properly, that will be the time for Americans travelling abroad to simulate a Canadian accent. Please don't let it come to that. Vote against Bin Laden's dream candidate. Vote to send Bush packing.
When it appeared that the Guardian's operation wasn't going to work, it's editor wrote:
The world will endure four more years of idiocy, arrogance and unwarranted bloodshed, with no benevolent deity to watch over and save us. John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald, John Hinckley Jr.—where are you now that we need you?
I don't for a second suggest that the Guardian or its readers should have supported Bush instead; in this country, at least until recently, our minds aren't controlled by the government. But when they feel it's their right to tell us how to live, how we should vote, how we should love our country -- them's fighting words.
I won't rely on all the old arguments that most Americans use. I prefer to use British behavior instead. Take this one:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RplzKlSlbR0
Yep, those are British fans booing the Star Spangled Banner after they sang their lungs out for their national anthem without any booing from American fans. Yet we're the ones who are guilty of flag-waving. Amazing.
The hypocrisy of the British is boundless. I'm sick to death of hearing their accents on our televisions and radios, sick of hearing about the royal family, sick of hearing about anything British.
This is not a perfect country or a perfect society, but it's mine. I was born here, reared here and will die here. I would die for this country in a second. It's highly imperfect but to date the best social experiment in the history of mankind, Plato be damned. Whether the Brits like it is immaterial, but they should respect it.
Then again, one thing the Brits aren't very good at is respecting other peoples and their cultures.
Well, that and dental care.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
For me, this pretty well sums up my feelings about the Brits:
Actually, it goes further, when the conquest of Ireland started. But as this is focused on Morgan's meddling in American politics, it fits.
Morgan is not a US citizen. From what I understand, he's here on a worker visa. I know his schtick is to stir things up, but he really needs to keep his nose out of our politics. Unfortunately, he's only acting in accord with his genetic make-up.
Back when Bush and Kerry were vying for the White House in 2004, the Guardian ran what was called Operation Clark County asking its readers to send letters supportive of Kerry to voters in Ohio that it felt was crucial to the election. Incredibly, 11,000 readers wrote to Americans telling us this:
Don't be so ashamed of your president: the majority of you didn't vote for him. If Bush is finally elected properly, that will be the time for Americans travelling abroad to simulate a Canadian accent. Please don't let it come to that. Vote against Bin Laden's dream candidate. Vote to send Bush packing.
When it appeared that the Guardian's operation wasn't going to work, it's editor wrote:
The world will endure four more years of idiocy, arrogance and unwarranted bloodshed, with no benevolent deity to watch over and save us. John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald, John Hinckley Jr.—where are you now that we need you?
I don't for a second suggest that the Guardian or its readers should have supported Bush instead; in this country, at least until recently, our minds aren't controlled by the government. But when they feel it's their right to tell us how to live, how we should vote, how we should love our country -- them's fighting words.
I won't rely on all the old arguments that most Americans use. I prefer to use British behavior instead. Take this one:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RplzKlSlbR0
Yep, those are British fans booing the Star Spangled Banner after they sang their lungs out for their national anthem without any booing from American fans. Yet we're the ones who are guilty of flag-waving. Amazing.
The hypocrisy of the British is boundless. I'm sick to death of hearing their accents on our televisions and radios, sick of hearing about the royal family, sick of hearing about anything British.
This is not a perfect country or a perfect society, but it's mine. I was born here, reared here and will die here. I would die for this country in a second. It's highly imperfect but to date the best social experiment in the history of mankind, Plato be damned. Whether the Brits like it is immaterial, but they should respect it.
Then again, one thing the Brits aren't very good at is respecting other peoples and their cultures.
Well, that and dental care.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Monday, February 11, 2013
Spangler in Spain
I just finished Anthony Beevor's The Battle for Spain, his revisited opus on the Spanish Civil War. Although not his fault, it was slow reading at times, mostly during the political chapters. There were so many different acronyms on each side that it got kind of confusing.
Be that all as it may, I love the country of Spain. Having lived there some twenty-five years ago, I fell in love with the country, its people, the language and the culture. I went to learn to speak Spanish better and came out, as the Spaniards called it, españolizado, or Spanish-ized.
I was very fortunate in my travels in Spain. Not only did I arrive some nine years after Franco's death, I moved into an hostal just a block away from the Cortes where two years before there was a coup attempt. Spain was not yet a member of the European Union and therefore had more lax travel laws. I was able to stay for nearly a year just crossing borders every six months and getting my passport stamped. Add to that that Spain had just competed in the Los Angeles Olympics and won the silver medal in men's basketball to the United States three weeks prior to my arrival and, for once in my life, my timing was pretty darn good.
In the fifty weeks I spent there, I travelled the length and breadth of the country. I lived in Madrid which, admittedly, wasn't as exciting as Barcelona, but it's centrally located and therefore easier for learning about the country. I visited Barcelona a couple of times, together with Sevilla, Córdoba, Granada, Valencia, Toledo and Segovia. But I got to see smaller hamlets like Pedraza, Cariño, Covadonga, El Escorial, Tossa de Mar and Santiago de Compostela as well. I rode trains and buses throughout the country, living like a Spaniard. I saw the Picos de Europa, the Costa Brava, la Alhambra, El Escorial, la Mezquita, the Mediterranean and the alleged Land's End. I ate their food, learned their customs and saw their culture firsthand, and I fell in love. Perhaps it wasn't at first sight, but it came quickly.
The purpose of my stay was to become fluent in Spanish, which I accomplished. But I learned how to be a minority. I learned how to fend for myself without a support network. I learned to move within a society that I knew very little about. I learned to make mistakes and recover from them. I learned to adapt. I learned so many things that I can't even list all of them.
Being younger, I also did some crazy things. I look back and wonder whether I was out of my mind, but I remember the times, I remember the situations and I smile at the memories. Getting in the middle of a crowd of unfamiliar people from different countries in Pamplona during the sanfermines, passing back and forth wine bottles, singing and calling agua, agua, at the people in balconies above us and then clapping when we were doused with buckets of water. Sitting with an Irish freemason in Santillana de Mar drinking beers under a starlit sky while he tried to get me to join the masons. Getting drunk in Oporto, Portugal, and having some Portuguese friends steal a giraffa for me.
Since my time there, I've read as many books in Spanish as I could get my hands on, taught Spanish whenever possible and watched stories about or set in Spain just to get my fix. Although I'm a dual citizen holding Irish citizenship, and although I've visited Ireland and hold that country near and dear to my heart, if I were given the choice, I'd live in Spain in a heartbeat. It's a lovely country, with incredible food, fantastic landscapes and awe-inspiring history. I can't wait to return to Spain.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Be that all as it may, I love the country of Spain. Having lived there some twenty-five years ago, I fell in love with the country, its people, the language and the culture. I went to learn to speak Spanish better and came out, as the Spaniards called it, españolizado, or Spanish-ized.
I was very fortunate in my travels in Spain. Not only did I arrive some nine years after Franco's death, I moved into an hostal just a block away from the Cortes where two years before there was a coup attempt. Spain was not yet a member of the European Union and therefore had more lax travel laws. I was able to stay for nearly a year just crossing borders every six months and getting my passport stamped. Add to that that Spain had just competed in the Los Angeles Olympics and won the silver medal in men's basketball to the United States three weeks prior to my arrival and, for once in my life, my timing was pretty darn good.
In the fifty weeks I spent there, I travelled the length and breadth of the country. I lived in Madrid which, admittedly, wasn't as exciting as Barcelona, but it's centrally located and therefore easier for learning about the country. I visited Barcelona a couple of times, together with Sevilla, Córdoba, Granada, Valencia, Toledo and Segovia. But I got to see smaller hamlets like Pedraza, Cariño, Covadonga, El Escorial, Tossa de Mar and Santiago de Compostela as well. I rode trains and buses throughout the country, living like a Spaniard. I saw the Picos de Europa, the Costa Brava, la Alhambra, El Escorial, la Mezquita, the Mediterranean and the alleged Land's End. I ate their food, learned their customs and saw their culture firsthand, and I fell in love. Perhaps it wasn't at first sight, but it came quickly.
The purpose of my stay was to become fluent in Spanish, which I accomplished. But I learned how to be a minority. I learned how to fend for myself without a support network. I learned to move within a society that I knew very little about. I learned to make mistakes and recover from them. I learned to adapt. I learned so many things that I can't even list all of them.
Being younger, I also did some crazy things. I look back and wonder whether I was out of my mind, but I remember the times, I remember the situations and I smile at the memories. Getting in the middle of a crowd of unfamiliar people from different countries in Pamplona during the sanfermines, passing back and forth wine bottles, singing and calling agua, agua, at the people in balconies above us and then clapping when we were doused with buckets of water. Sitting with an Irish freemason in Santillana de Mar drinking beers under a starlit sky while he tried to get me to join the masons. Getting drunk in Oporto, Portugal, and having some Portuguese friends steal a giraffa for me.
Since my time there, I've read as many books in Spanish as I could get my hands on, taught Spanish whenever possible and watched stories about or set in Spain just to get my fix. Although I'm a dual citizen holding Irish citizenship, and although I've visited Ireland and hold that country near and dear to my heart, if I were given the choice, I'd live in Spain in a heartbeat. It's a lovely country, with incredible food, fantastic landscapes and awe-inspiring history. I can't wait to return to Spain.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Thursday, February 7, 2013
MSM bias
(With this post, I do believe I qualify for syndication. Let the royalties flow...).
It should be obvious to anyone who follows this blog that I'm neither a Republican nor a Democrat. Karen hates when I say it, but I'm a Marxist: I'd never join a club that would have me as a member. I say that again not to annoy my love but to emphasize that I do not belong to any political party. That said, in the interest of full disclosure, I'm probably more conservative on some issues and more liberal on others. In effect, I'm human.
There is one issue, however, where I speak only as an American and not as a proponent of any political philosophy. The mainstream media ("MSM") has been coopted to the extent that it no longer is an impartial element of our society. The Fourth Estate has become a highly biased organ that sees as its role that of editor and advocate of the Democratic Party.
The problem with this is that in the United States, the press is supposed to be nothing more than an entity that informs the public. It can, of course, investigate the government and other private organizations and then tell the public the results of its investigations. But the basic function of the MSM is to gather news and relay it to the public without editorializing.
The MSM has changed over the last twenty years. Gone are the days of Murrow, Cronkite, Brinkley and Woodward and Bernstein who merely informed the public of stories. Nowadays, the MSM sifts through stories and determines what the public should and shouldn't hear. It participates in the news, becoming players that sculpt what's happening and helping put its own biased spin on it.
Lest anyone think this is a partisan argument in favor of the Republicans, consider that I'm not a devotee of Rush Limbaugh or Glenn Beck. I have, admittedly, turned to Fox News, but that's because NBC, ABC, CBS and others like the Clinton News Network are so appallingly liberal that I can't rely on them to learn anything.
A case in point is the attack on our consulate in Benghazi. The MSM parrotted the administration's story about the attack being a spontaneous demonstration for nearly two weeks after September 11. It never questioned facts that were in abundance that this was a pure terrorist attack. Not until after the election was there any concerted effort to pinpoint what actually happened. Then, when the outgoing Secretary of State testified before the Senate committee, her unresponsive responses were touted by the cheerleading press when in fact she didn't provide any answers. Meanwhile, four Americans' deaths are largely going unanswered. Were a Republican in the White House when this happened, the story would lead each nightly news broadcast.
The liberal New York Times then reported that four staffers at the State Department lost their jobs for their grossly negligent conduct relative to Benghazi. It later came out that the four in fact were merely transferred and are still being paid. This didn't come out on the MSM outlets, but they still won't report that.
The economy is in a sinkhole, yet Scott (the Traitor) Pelley reported that although the numbers suggested a worsening of the economy, we shouldn't worry because it may very well turn around (I'm paraphrasing). Since when was Mr. Pelley mentioned in the same breath as John Maynard Keynes? When did it become his job to not just report the news but to comment on it and tell us what to think?
The New Jersey senator Bob Menéndez is being investigated for allegedly dallying with underaged Dominican prostitutes that were provided for him by a fundraiser. Not only that, these allegations come on the heels of the revelation this his staff includes an illegal alien who has a sex crime on his record. How much do you think this made the network news telecasts?
Incompetence is incompetence. Impropriety is impropriety. Yet the MSM seems to believe that it's much ado about nothing. They schedule outrageously fawning interviews with the President that don't ask him any tough questions. They attack gun ownership when the facts belie the need to ban semi-automatic weapons because the President has decided it's his latest initiative. They laud him and show him giving speeches every night and pay him homage when in fact their job is to ask him penetrating questions to give the public the information it needs to know whether its elected officials are doing the job they were elected to do.
Even when it doesn't have to do directly with the current administration, the MSM sorts through the news it finds and decided which is worthy of being shown. For example, for as horrendous as the Sandy Hook shootings were, the MSM concentrates on demonstrations against gun ownership and dedicates all its airtime and print to the need to curtail the sale of guns. Meanwhile, it avoids all the statistics that show that semi-automatics are responsible for less death than handguns, all the stories showing how armed guards prevent worse massacres and all the speeches in favor of retention of Second Amendment rights, even those by parents whose children were killed at Sandy Hook, in favor of celebrities who come out against guns.
Ask yourself why this is. Ask yourself if the MSM would act accordingly were a Republican in the White House. Ask yourself what good this does for our society.
It might shock many to learn that I actually have quite a few friends with a liberal bent. One of them, a highly intelligent attorney, said after hearing about the lack of reporting on Benghazi that the MSM was letting the country down. He's absolutely right. The lack of questioning about decisions made, actions taken or not taken and misbehavior that would draw criticism were it of another color leads people to believe that things are as the MSM describes them.
This happened decades ago, albeit with much uglier rhetoric. It happened during a similar economic downturn with a country lacking national pride. The main character of this manipulation of news was Adolph Hitler, who was assisted quite ably by his minister of propaganda, Josef Goebbels. I risk treading into Godwin's Law territory, but President Obama is a master communicator who is being ably assisted by the MSM.
Just because we're common citizens doesn't mean we should stop thinking for ourselves. At the same time, the MSM should stop deciding what is worthy of being reported and what we don't need to know.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
It should be obvious to anyone who follows this blog that I'm neither a Republican nor a Democrat. Karen hates when I say it, but I'm a Marxist: I'd never join a club that would have me as a member. I say that again not to annoy my love but to emphasize that I do not belong to any political party. That said, in the interest of full disclosure, I'm probably more conservative on some issues and more liberal on others. In effect, I'm human.
There is one issue, however, where I speak only as an American and not as a proponent of any political philosophy. The mainstream media ("MSM") has been coopted to the extent that it no longer is an impartial element of our society. The Fourth Estate has become a highly biased organ that sees as its role that of editor and advocate of the Democratic Party.
The problem with this is that in the United States, the press is supposed to be nothing more than an entity that informs the public. It can, of course, investigate the government and other private organizations and then tell the public the results of its investigations. But the basic function of the MSM is to gather news and relay it to the public without editorializing.
The MSM has changed over the last twenty years. Gone are the days of Murrow, Cronkite, Brinkley and Woodward and Bernstein who merely informed the public of stories. Nowadays, the MSM sifts through stories and determines what the public should and shouldn't hear. It participates in the news, becoming players that sculpt what's happening and helping put its own biased spin on it.
Lest anyone think this is a partisan argument in favor of the Republicans, consider that I'm not a devotee of Rush Limbaugh or Glenn Beck. I have, admittedly, turned to Fox News, but that's because NBC, ABC, CBS and others like the Clinton News Network are so appallingly liberal that I can't rely on them to learn anything.
A case in point is the attack on our consulate in Benghazi. The MSM parrotted the administration's story about the attack being a spontaneous demonstration for nearly two weeks after September 11. It never questioned facts that were in abundance that this was a pure terrorist attack. Not until after the election was there any concerted effort to pinpoint what actually happened. Then, when the outgoing Secretary of State testified before the Senate committee, her unresponsive responses were touted by the cheerleading press when in fact she didn't provide any answers. Meanwhile, four Americans' deaths are largely going unanswered. Were a Republican in the White House when this happened, the story would lead each nightly news broadcast.
The liberal New York Times then reported that four staffers at the State Department lost their jobs for their grossly negligent conduct relative to Benghazi. It later came out that the four in fact were merely transferred and are still being paid. This didn't come out on the MSM outlets, but they still won't report that.
The economy is in a sinkhole, yet Scott (the Traitor) Pelley reported that although the numbers suggested a worsening of the economy, we shouldn't worry because it may very well turn around (I'm paraphrasing). Since when was Mr. Pelley mentioned in the same breath as John Maynard Keynes? When did it become his job to not just report the news but to comment on it and tell us what to think?
The New Jersey senator Bob Menéndez is being investigated for allegedly dallying with underaged Dominican prostitutes that were provided for him by a fundraiser. Not only that, these allegations come on the heels of the revelation this his staff includes an illegal alien who has a sex crime on his record. How much do you think this made the network news telecasts?
Incompetence is incompetence. Impropriety is impropriety. Yet the MSM seems to believe that it's much ado about nothing. They schedule outrageously fawning interviews with the President that don't ask him any tough questions. They attack gun ownership when the facts belie the need to ban semi-automatic weapons because the President has decided it's his latest initiative. They laud him and show him giving speeches every night and pay him homage when in fact their job is to ask him penetrating questions to give the public the information it needs to know whether its elected officials are doing the job they were elected to do.
Even when it doesn't have to do directly with the current administration, the MSM sorts through the news it finds and decided which is worthy of being shown. For example, for as horrendous as the Sandy Hook shootings were, the MSM concentrates on demonstrations against gun ownership and dedicates all its airtime and print to the need to curtail the sale of guns. Meanwhile, it avoids all the statistics that show that semi-automatics are responsible for less death than handguns, all the stories showing how armed guards prevent worse massacres and all the speeches in favor of retention of Second Amendment rights, even those by parents whose children were killed at Sandy Hook, in favor of celebrities who come out against guns.
Ask yourself why this is. Ask yourself if the MSM would act accordingly were a Republican in the White House. Ask yourself what good this does for our society.
It might shock many to learn that I actually have quite a few friends with a liberal bent. One of them, a highly intelligent attorney, said after hearing about the lack of reporting on Benghazi that the MSM was letting the country down. He's absolutely right. The lack of questioning about decisions made, actions taken or not taken and misbehavior that would draw criticism were it of another color leads people to believe that things are as the MSM describes them.
This happened decades ago, albeit with much uglier rhetoric. It happened during a similar economic downturn with a country lacking national pride. The main character of this manipulation of news was Adolph Hitler, who was assisted quite ably by his minister of propaganda, Josef Goebbels. I risk treading into Godwin's Law territory, but President Obama is a master communicator who is being ably assisted by the MSM.
Just because we're common citizens doesn't mean we should stop thinking for ourselves. At the same time, the MSM should stop deciding what is worthy of being reported and what we don't need to know.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Spangler quirks
I'm secure enough in my masculinity to hold Karen's purse when we're shopping and she needs to use both hands when she's trying to buy blouses or shoes or whatever. I man not look like the Marlboro Man, but I'm not Pee Wee Herman, either. In fact, I think I used to look like a combination of Alfred E. Newman, Richie Cunningham and Howdy Doody, and I still do, just with grey highlights now.
But there's no doubt that I'm not your typical he-man. I thought about this one day and was surprised at just how many things I don't do or have never done that are considered man-centric activities. The things I don't do or haven't done aren't because I have effeminate tendencies. They are things that either don't interest me or disgust me. If that makes me less of a man, so be it. But here's a partial list of stereotypical things that guys do that I've never done or don't have any interest in doing:
I've never been to a strip club. Why? I don't see the point.
I hate The Three Stooges. I don't see the humor.
I've never smoked a cigar. I love cigar smoke, but our Mother died from lung cancer brought on by forty years of smoking cigarettes.
I've never gone to Vegas for a guys' weekend. The main reason I've never done this is that I've never had the opportunity. The secondary reason I've never done it is because Vegas holds no interest for me.
I've never had a subscription to Playboy or Penthouse. I've bought the magazine, but I'm too cheap and private to have it delivered to my house. I am, in case anyone's wondering, blatantly heterosexual.
I've never ridden on a motorcycle.
I've never fixed a car beyond replacing wiper blades. Sure, I replaced headlights...but I even did that wrong after watching a YouTube video on the subject. This is probably causing my grandfather to spin in his grave, as he took apart and rebuilt a Model T when he was a teenager, he allegedly designed those contraptions that ferry cars on the backs of trucks or on trains. I hope he's not too ashamed of me.
I was never in a frat. In and of itself, that's not indicative of masculinity, but if you'd seen the frats that I did during college, you'd understand.
I was never much of a workout warrior. I didn't feel the need to bulk up and preen among the women at the gym. In that vein, I've never gotten cyclist's gear that makes it look like I'm trying out for the Tour de France. That's for two reasons: The first is they don't make the gear in my size and the second is that I think it's stupid. I'm not going to be going fast enough to gain that infinitesimal aerodynamic advantage that only lycra can provide.
I don't have any tattoes or piercings. I'm not a pirate.
I talk in complete sentences without grunting. Call it a character flaw.
My penmanship is legible. I remember a philosophy class I had in undergrad where I forgot to put my name on a paper. The professor, a small man with a large rabbinical beard, returned all the papers and then announced that he had one that had been submitted without a name but appeared to be in feminine writing. At the end of class I approached him, took a look at the paper and kindly told him that was my paper. Since I was twice his size he hastened to apologize for his comment about the style of the writing. I told him not to worry. I should have told him to blame the nuns.
I'm not a huge fan of heavy metal music. One would think with my hearing deficiency that would be the perfect genre for me, but there are very few heavy metal songs I appreciate.
I type with all ten digits. I'm not a hunt-and-pecker.
I can't play poker. I play chess. And I don't trash talk or smoke cigars when I play chess.
I don't like Budweiser beer. I'm not sure that's a barometer of masculinity, but I see guys drinking it at sporting events, so I assume it is.
In the same vein, I've never painted my face with my team's colors nor gone barechested at a sporting event in the middle of winter. I haven't even considered it.
I never thought Farrah Fawcett or Christie Brinkley was very attractive. To repeat, I am blatantly heterosexual.
I never went away for Spring Break. Frankly, I couldn't afford it.
I shake hands like I was taught growing up. I don't do elaborate or ethnic handshakes. Call me a fuddy-duddy.
I've never raced a go-cart. I don't fit in them.
I have no interest in bungee jumping. Or parachuting for that matter. But the idea of hang-gliding intrigues me.
I can cook passably but I'm not the greatest griller in the world. With most guys it's the other way around.
I've never hunted. But that's only for lack of opportunity.
I have no idea how to play craps or even why it's called craps.
I've never been to a stag party. Again, lack of opportunity.
When Miami Vice hit I was out of the country, but even when I returned, I never once considered rolling up the sleeves of my sportscoat or wear stubble on my face as a fashion statement.
I never owned a Starter jacket. When I heard that this was de rigeur at one point, I had to ask what a Starter jacket was.
Motorsports leave me cold.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
But there's no doubt that I'm not your typical he-man. I thought about this one day and was surprised at just how many things I don't do or have never done that are considered man-centric activities. The things I don't do or haven't done aren't because I have effeminate tendencies. They are things that either don't interest me or disgust me. If that makes me less of a man, so be it. But here's a partial list of stereotypical things that guys do that I've never done or don't have any interest in doing:
I've never been to a strip club. Why? I don't see the point.
I hate The Three Stooges. I don't see the humor.
I've never smoked a cigar. I love cigar smoke, but our Mother died from lung cancer brought on by forty years of smoking cigarettes.
I've never gone to Vegas for a guys' weekend. The main reason I've never done this is that I've never had the opportunity. The secondary reason I've never done it is because Vegas holds no interest for me.
I've never had a subscription to Playboy or Penthouse. I've bought the magazine, but I'm too cheap and private to have it delivered to my house. I am, in case anyone's wondering, blatantly heterosexual.
I've never ridden on a motorcycle.
I've never fixed a car beyond replacing wiper blades. Sure, I replaced headlights...but I even did that wrong after watching a YouTube video on the subject. This is probably causing my grandfather to spin in his grave, as he took apart and rebuilt a Model T when he was a teenager, he allegedly designed those contraptions that ferry cars on the backs of trucks or on trains. I hope he's not too ashamed of me.
I was never in a frat. In and of itself, that's not indicative of masculinity, but if you'd seen the frats that I did during college, you'd understand.
I was never much of a workout warrior. I didn't feel the need to bulk up and preen among the women at the gym. In that vein, I've never gotten cyclist's gear that makes it look like I'm trying out for the Tour de France. That's for two reasons: The first is they don't make the gear in my size and the second is that I think it's stupid. I'm not going to be going fast enough to gain that infinitesimal aerodynamic advantage that only lycra can provide.
I don't have any tattoes or piercings. I'm not a pirate.
I talk in complete sentences without grunting. Call it a character flaw.
My penmanship is legible. I remember a philosophy class I had in undergrad where I forgot to put my name on a paper. The professor, a small man with a large rabbinical beard, returned all the papers and then announced that he had one that had been submitted without a name but appeared to be in feminine writing. At the end of class I approached him, took a look at the paper and kindly told him that was my paper. Since I was twice his size he hastened to apologize for his comment about the style of the writing. I told him not to worry. I should have told him to blame the nuns.
I'm not a huge fan of heavy metal music. One would think with my hearing deficiency that would be the perfect genre for me, but there are very few heavy metal songs I appreciate.
I type with all ten digits. I'm not a hunt-and-pecker.
I can't play poker. I play chess. And I don't trash talk or smoke cigars when I play chess.
I don't like Budweiser beer. I'm not sure that's a barometer of masculinity, but I see guys drinking it at sporting events, so I assume it is.
In the same vein, I've never painted my face with my team's colors nor gone barechested at a sporting event in the middle of winter. I haven't even considered it.
I never thought Farrah Fawcett or Christie Brinkley was very attractive. To repeat, I am blatantly heterosexual.
I never went away for Spring Break. Frankly, I couldn't afford it.
I shake hands like I was taught growing up. I don't do elaborate or ethnic handshakes. Call me a fuddy-duddy.
I've never raced a go-cart. I don't fit in them.
I have no interest in bungee jumping. Or parachuting for that matter. But the idea of hang-gliding intrigues me.
I can cook passably but I'm not the greatest griller in the world. With most guys it's the other way around.
I've never hunted. But that's only for lack of opportunity.
I have no idea how to play craps or even why it's called craps.
I've never been to a stag party. Again, lack of opportunity.
When Miami Vice hit I was out of the country, but even when I returned, I never once considered rolling up the sleeves of my sportscoat or wear stubble on my face as a fashion statement.
I never owned a Starter jacket. When I heard that this was de rigeur at one point, I had to ask what a Starter jacket was.
Motorsports leave me cold.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Gambling, card playing and luck
According to some reports, a record $98.9M was bet on the Super Bowl in Nevada. I shudder to think of how much was spent not only nationally, but internationally.
Gambling is an addiction for some, a pastime for many. I've never been much of a gambler. I joke that if the lottery hits $50M, I'll bet $5, because for less than $50M, it's just not worth it to me. That may sound high and mighty, but it's actually part of my fight or flight mechanism.
Chance has rarely favored me. I'm not good at odds, I can't count cards, so it's something that's completing without my control. I don't like not having some say in the outcome of something. If it's a matter of my skill or knowledge, that's one thing, but where arbitrary chance dictates most of the play, I don't enjoy it.
When I was a sophomore in high school, my best buddy Jeff and I went to the county fair. We went to a booth that had this mini bowling pins set up much like they would be in a bowling alley. I think they were no more than eight or nine inches tall. From the ceiling of the booth was a miniature (to scale with the pins) wooden bowling ball hanging by a string. The object of this game was to take the ball at the head of the triangle of pins, swing it gently around the back of the triangle so that it would hit the front pin and bowl a strike. I tried it once and thought it was impossible. Jeff also tried it and got one strike after a few tries. The kicker, however, was that to win, one had to bowl ten straight strikes using this method. That seemed absurd to me.
Jeff wasn't fazed and jumped right in. Try as he might, he wasn't able to hit more than eight or nine in a row. I thought something was fishy because Jeff was getting eight or nine and then would lose. We were both too young to realize that the game was probably rigged. Eventually, Jeff had to borrow money from me because he owed the guy $63, a king's ransom to a fifteen-year-old. Although I can't confirm it, I believe it was at that moment that I swore of gambling.
I don't play poker; I can't even tell you the rules beyond a couple of hands. I don't know exactly what it means to call (Despite this, I love the movie Rounders; go figure). I don't know how to play craps. I barely understand blackjack. Roulette is a mystery to me. I don't understand some of the betting mechanisms used for sporting events. I wouldn't even know where to go to find a bookie.
So when people bet exorbitant sums on sporting events I just shake my head. Some say that it heightens their enjoyment of the game. As a former athlete, that just sounds absurd. I prefer trying to figure out the strategies being used by the rival squads and how to beat those strategies. I manage the games as if I were involved. That's where my enjoyment comes from.
Karen loves to play cards. Her family is a huge card playing group. They don't play for money, as far as I can tell, but they play it for hours on end and enjoy it wholeheartedly. They also play games with which I've only become familiar with recently. They've been playing them all their lives. My problems begin with knowing the rules, which escape me, but even when I seem to have a grasp of the rules, the deal always leaves me without any plays.
The same thing happens with Scrabble. Strategy and words are two things that interest me, yet I have to be one of the all-time worst players in Scrabble. If the goal of Scrabble was to get as many similar tiles as possible, I'd win every time. Here's a good sample of the kind of letters I'd get: K, U, T, T, P, D, M. Unless I can use a word from Tagolog, I'm out of luck.
So betting on sporting events seems to me to palpably stupid. People get so worked up about the outcome of games -- even certain events within a game -- and rightly so, because they ridiculously bet thousands of dollars and then lose. There's the horribly sad story of the Colombian soccer player who scored an own-goal in the 1994 World Cup that cost his nation a game and was murdered by angry gamblers after he returned to his country.
Give me chess or cribbage. Yes, there is an element of chance in each; chance determines who gets the first move in chess and cards are used in cribbage, but there is much more skill involved in each. And I would never gamble on either game.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Gambling is an addiction for some, a pastime for many. I've never been much of a gambler. I joke that if the lottery hits $50M, I'll bet $5, because for less than $50M, it's just not worth it to me. That may sound high and mighty, but it's actually part of my fight or flight mechanism.
Chance has rarely favored me. I'm not good at odds, I can't count cards, so it's something that's completing without my control. I don't like not having some say in the outcome of something. If it's a matter of my skill or knowledge, that's one thing, but where arbitrary chance dictates most of the play, I don't enjoy it.
When I was a sophomore in high school, my best buddy Jeff and I went to the county fair. We went to a booth that had this mini bowling pins set up much like they would be in a bowling alley. I think they were no more than eight or nine inches tall. From the ceiling of the booth was a miniature (to scale with the pins) wooden bowling ball hanging by a string. The object of this game was to take the ball at the head of the triangle of pins, swing it gently around the back of the triangle so that it would hit the front pin and bowl a strike. I tried it once and thought it was impossible. Jeff also tried it and got one strike after a few tries. The kicker, however, was that to win, one had to bowl ten straight strikes using this method. That seemed absurd to me.
Jeff wasn't fazed and jumped right in. Try as he might, he wasn't able to hit more than eight or nine in a row. I thought something was fishy because Jeff was getting eight or nine and then would lose. We were both too young to realize that the game was probably rigged. Eventually, Jeff had to borrow money from me because he owed the guy $63, a king's ransom to a fifteen-year-old. Although I can't confirm it, I believe it was at that moment that I swore of gambling.
I don't play poker; I can't even tell you the rules beyond a couple of hands. I don't know exactly what it means to call (Despite this, I love the movie Rounders; go figure). I don't know how to play craps. I barely understand blackjack. Roulette is a mystery to me. I don't understand some of the betting mechanisms used for sporting events. I wouldn't even know where to go to find a bookie.
So when people bet exorbitant sums on sporting events I just shake my head. Some say that it heightens their enjoyment of the game. As a former athlete, that just sounds absurd. I prefer trying to figure out the strategies being used by the rival squads and how to beat those strategies. I manage the games as if I were involved. That's where my enjoyment comes from.
Karen loves to play cards. Her family is a huge card playing group. They don't play for money, as far as I can tell, but they play it for hours on end and enjoy it wholeheartedly. They also play games with which I've only become familiar with recently. They've been playing them all their lives. My problems begin with knowing the rules, which escape me, but even when I seem to have a grasp of the rules, the deal always leaves me without any plays.
The same thing happens with Scrabble. Strategy and words are two things that interest me, yet I have to be one of the all-time worst players in Scrabble. If the goal of Scrabble was to get as many similar tiles as possible, I'd win every time. Here's a good sample of the kind of letters I'd get: K, U, T, T, P, D, M. Unless I can use a word from Tagolog, I'm out of luck.
So betting on sporting events seems to me to palpably stupid. People get so worked up about the outcome of games -- even certain events within a game -- and rightly so, because they ridiculously bet thousands of dollars and then lose. There's the horribly sad story of the Colombian soccer player who scored an own-goal in the 1994 World Cup that cost his nation a game and was murdered by angry gamblers after he returned to his country.
Give me chess or cribbage. Yes, there is an element of chance in each; chance determines who gets the first move in chess and cards are used in cribbage, but there is much more skill involved in each. And I would never gamble on either game.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Monday, February 4, 2013
Technology
Another Super Bowl, another Sunday watching movies. And we had more fun.
As I've often said, I'm not technologically adept. In fact, I'm quite cyber-challenged. Although I understand many of the concepts, the nuts and bolts and the how-tos leave me confuddled and frustrated. Many people have smart phones; I have a dumb phone. When we shop for phones, the salesperson extols the many features of what, to my understanding, is supposed to be a device for calling another person, when all I care about is whether I'll get good reception and if I'm going to pay an arm and a leg for it.
Don't even ask me about high-def television, Blu-Rays or surround-sound systems. They're all lost on me. I can't use a bluetooth device for the simply reasons that I can't stand using earbuds and the darned things won't stay in my ears anyway. Why I can't simply watch a DVD and have to upgrade to Blu-Rays for the enhanced experience is beyond me. I want to watch a movie, not savor an expensive wine.
(And while I'm at it, this whole notion of buying perishable potables for their subtle bouquets and delicately balanced flavors is also lost on me, but that's another blog post unto itself.)
There is, however, one item of the technological age that I embrace warmly. Although I'm no fan of Apple's service terms or it's sometimes obnoxious staff, the Ipod has made a marked difference in my work. There are tasks that were nothing but drudgery that thanks to the Ipod I get done happily.
Shoveling snow, for example, can be tedious, but when I strap on the Ipod and blast Genesis' Snowbound, what was work becomes a magical experience. I can't explain it, but I enjoy my work more when I can listen to my music. I remember one time shoveling snow at the ungodly hour of five o'clock in the morning, with the eerie early morning light grey with the hue of the snow, with my music blasting loud and strong, keeping me awake and energizing me as I lifted shovelful after shovelful of snow. I lost track of time as I pushed and lifted the snow off the driveway. When I finished, I almost didn't want to go in the house, preferring instead to listen to my music as the heat wafted off my now-wet head in the winter cold.
The same goes for mowing the lawn. Since I've never owned a riding mower, mowing the lawn can really be a pain. I had a lot with a half acre of land that needed to be mowed, and with the heat of the summer, it was really a thankless task. But with my Ipod, it was less painful than it used to be. The only thing I needed was the occasional drink and I was good to go.
I could even chop wood while using my Ipod. I have to be careful to make sure that no one is walking up behind me, but it's more pleasurable to listen to my tunes while I'm doing something that I already enjoy. It's like being able to play basketball while listening to my music.
I'm sure that I could improve my usage of the Ipod. I've already figured out how to thread my earphones through my shirt so that they won't catch on any of the tools I'm using. Sure, every once in awhile I turn off the Ipod with my thigh, but that's about the only nuisance I have to deal with. The Ipod has made certain chores much more enjoyable than they used to.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
As I've often said, I'm not technologically adept. In fact, I'm quite cyber-challenged. Although I understand many of the concepts, the nuts and bolts and the how-tos leave me confuddled and frustrated. Many people have smart phones; I have a dumb phone. When we shop for phones, the salesperson extols the many features of what, to my understanding, is supposed to be a device for calling another person, when all I care about is whether I'll get good reception and if I'm going to pay an arm and a leg for it.
Don't even ask me about high-def television, Blu-Rays or surround-sound systems. They're all lost on me. I can't use a bluetooth device for the simply reasons that I can't stand using earbuds and the darned things won't stay in my ears anyway. Why I can't simply watch a DVD and have to upgrade to Blu-Rays for the enhanced experience is beyond me. I want to watch a movie, not savor an expensive wine.
(And while I'm at it, this whole notion of buying perishable potables for their subtle bouquets and delicately balanced flavors is also lost on me, but that's another blog post unto itself.)
There is, however, one item of the technological age that I embrace warmly. Although I'm no fan of Apple's service terms or it's sometimes obnoxious staff, the Ipod has made a marked difference in my work. There are tasks that were nothing but drudgery that thanks to the Ipod I get done happily.
Shoveling snow, for example, can be tedious, but when I strap on the Ipod and blast Genesis' Snowbound, what was work becomes a magical experience. I can't explain it, but I enjoy my work more when I can listen to my music. I remember one time shoveling snow at the ungodly hour of five o'clock in the morning, with the eerie early morning light grey with the hue of the snow, with my music blasting loud and strong, keeping me awake and energizing me as I lifted shovelful after shovelful of snow. I lost track of time as I pushed and lifted the snow off the driveway. When I finished, I almost didn't want to go in the house, preferring instead to listen to my music as the heat wafted off my now-wet head in the winter cold.
The same goes for mowing the lawn. Since I've never owned a riding mower, mowing the lawn can really be a pain. I had a lot with a half acre of land that needed to be mowed, and with the heat of the summer, it was really a thankless task. But with my Ipod, it was less painful than it used to be. The only thing I needed was the occasional drink and I was good to go.
I could even chop wood while using my Ipod. I have to be careful to make sure that no one is walking up behind me, but it's more pleasurable to listen to my tunes while I'm doing something that I already enjoy. It's like being able to play basketball while listening to my music.
I'm sure that I could improve my usage of the Ipod. I've already figured out how to thread my earphones through my shirt so that they won't catch on any of the tools I'm using. Sure, every once in awhile I turn off the Ipod with my thigh, but that's about the only nuisance I have to deal with. The Ipod has made certain chores much more enjoyable than they used to.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Friday, February 1, 2013
Personality tests
I'm starting a new job soon, and I've been invited to participate in a meeting with a business coach. As part of the meeting, we will all be filling out a personality analysis form that is similar in intent to the (in)famous Briggs-Meyer test. Karen's a big fan of the Briggs-Meyer test; she says she's done them for both of us and that they're dead-on. They may well be for all I know.
I don't disagree with taking the test, per se, although I think they typically make a lot of assumptions from the answers givne. And they may be right more often than they're not. The problem I have is that in answering the questions, there is too much room for interpretation and not enough leeway for the respondent to answer.
Take this example. The instructions read thus:
Read carefully each group of 4 phrases. Circle "M" by the phrase that MOST describes you. Then circle "L" by the phrase that LEAST describes you. Remember only ONE MOST and ONE LEAST for each group.
Well, that sounds easy enough. The only other data the form requests is the gender of the respondent and the respondent's name.
Then there are the groups. I'm going to randomly choose a couple of groups to illustrate my point.
M L Confident, courageous, fearless
M L Inspiring, influential, enthusiastic
M L Does not resist, submits easily
M L Avoids attention, modest
Let the parsing begin. I could easily circle M or L for any of them, given the situation. How on God's green earth I'm supposed to zoom through all the potential situations and tabulate which one of the four has the most responses and has the least is beyond me. I'm confident, courageous, fearless, influential and modest. I avoid attention, but I submit easily when Karen wants something...at the same time, I'm not courageous when it comes to standing near the window on the observation deck of the Sears Tower. In fact, I'm positively wussy, and with the advance of age it gets worse. I don't think I inspire anyone, and I'm not particularly enthusiastic in a general sense. At the same time, I'm enthusiastic about Spain and Spanish, Ireland, sports, reading, chess, eating and the three generals.
Let's take another group:
M L Confronting, challenging
M L Adjustable, able to change
M L Unruffled, indifferent, casual
M L Cheerful, unworried, playful
Well. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's confronting and challenging things and people. I wrote a letter so forceful one time about the wretched service Karen and I received at a restaurant and within a few months, it closed down (I don't think my letter had anything to do with it, but it's nice to think it did). I lived in Spain for a year; I can adjust and change when necessary. But when I'm told to change and I disagree with the change, I'm positively stubborn. I'm unruffled, indifferent and casual to a fault; at times I'm so casual it comes off as rude. I'm not particularly cheerful, I'm only worried when there's cause to worry -- I'm not unnaturally fretful -- and I like to think I'm playful. At times, Karen has to tell me to grow up I'm so playful.
So how do I answer? I have no earthly idea. It's not just that I'm preternaturally argumentative and trained in the art, but I'm not engaging in that here; I truly don't know how I'm supposed to give a true answer and how anyone is supposed to make the correct choice and then someone else is supposed to derive a personality description based on these inherently flawed tests.
Long before I'd even heard of Briggs-Meyers, I'd often thought about signing on to serve as a test subject for a psychology class in college. I wanted to do it for two reasons: Beer money and to see if anyone could figure me out. I doubted and still do doubt that anyone would be able to accurately describe me and all my neuroses.
I'm sure those in the mental health or sociology communities have put a lot of thought and study into this. I just think that the ultimate conclusions involve smoke and mirrors and much as art and science because there are too many assumptions that are built into these tests.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
I don't disagree with taking the test, per se, although I think they typically make a lot of assumptions from the answers givne. And they may be right more often than they're not. The problem I have is that in answering the questions, there is too much room for interpretation and not enough leeway for the respondent to answer.
Take this example. The instructions read thus:
Read carefully each group of 4 phrases. Circle "M" by the phrase that MOST describes you. Then circle "L" by the phrase that LEAST describes you. Remember only ONE MOST and ONE LEAST for each group.
Well, that sounds easy enough. The only other data the form requests is the gender of the respondent and the respondent's name.
Then there are the groups. I'm going to randomly choose a couple of groups to illustrate my point.
M L Confident, courageous, fearless
M L Inspiring, influential, enthusiastic
M L Does not resist, submits easily
M L Avoids attention, modest
Let the parsing begin. I could easily circle M or L for any of them, given the situation. How on God's green earth I'm supposed to zoom through all the potential situations and tabulate which one of the four has the most responses and has the least is beyond me. I'm confident, courageous, fearless, influential and modest. I avoid attention, but I submit easily when Karen wants something...at the same time, I'm not courageous when it comes to standing near the window on the observation deck of the Sears Tower. In fact, I'm positively wussy, and with the advance of age it gets worse. I don't think I inspire anyone, and I'm not particularly enthusiastic in a general sense. At the same time, I'm enthusiastic about Spain and Spanish, Ireland, sports, reading, chess, eating and the three generals.
Let's take another group:
M L Confronting, challenging
M L Adjustable, able to change
M L Unruffled, indifferent, casual
M L Cheerful, unworried, playful
Well. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's confronting and challenging things and people. I wrote a letter so forceful one time about the wretched service Karen and I received at a restaurant and within a few months, it closed down (I don't think my letter had anything to do with it, but it's nice to think it did). I lived in Spain for a year; I can adjust and change when necessary. But when I'm told to change and I disagree with the change, I'm positively stubborn. I'm unruffled, indifferent and casual to a fault; at times I'm so casual it comes off as rude. I'm not particularly cheerful, I'm only worried when there's cause to worry -- I'm not unnaturally fretful -- and I like to think I'm playful. At times, Karen has to tell me to grow up I'm so playful.
So how do I answer? I have no earthly idea. It's not just that I'm preternaturally argumentative and trained in the art, but I'm not engaging in that here; I truly don't know how I'm supposed to give a true answer and how anyone is supposed to make the correct choice and then someone else is supposed to derive a personality description based on these inherently flawed tests.
Long before I'd even heard of Briggs-Meyers, I'd often thought about signing on to serve as a test subject for a psychology class in college. I wanted to do it for two reasons: Beer money and to see if anyone could figure me out. I doubted and still do doubt that anyone would be able to accurately describe me and all my neuroses.
I'm sure those in the mental health or sociology communities have put a lot of thought and study into this. I just think that the ultimate conclusions involve smoke and mirrors and much as art and science because there are too many assumptions that are built into these tests.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
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