Being and Batty

Some scientists say there is at least a 20% chance that we are residing in a simulation run by hyper-intelligent aliens. If they are correct, that means odds are, at minimum, one-in-five that you and I are simulacra, deluded into thinking we are “real.”  Elon Musk puts the odds at far better than 50/50 that we are denizens of a rather complex version of Galaga. 

When you dream, perhaps those sheep are electric.

Tie this into the “one-electron universe” theory (posited by physicist John Wheeler to fellow physicist Richard Feynman during what could have been one of the worst phone sex chats of all time) that “all electrons and positrons are actually manifestations of a single entity moving backwards and forwards in time,” one must ask, “are the alien video game programmers extremely lazy, extremely efficient, or both?”

Is death “Game Over” or do we level-up?   

While humans are capable of pondering such questions, and science might one day provide answers, assuming we are not annihilated by ourselves or some external force (a hard re-boot, indeed), it still amazes that for all of our technological advancements over the past, call it century, our human faculties in some regards remain quite limited. 

From a communications perspective, we are still bound by fallible senses and minds that misperceive.  We fail to discern cues.  We ensnare messages delivered to us by others, even those who speak the same language and those we know well, in a web of our own past experiences or expectations or emotions, thus distorting their meaning.  It is as if each of us walks around with a Tower of Babel lodged somewhere near the cerebral cortex.

Sure, telepathy might resolve some ambiguities.  That said, it will be prone to create new challenges. We all saw “Scanners.” 

I suppose we will have to make do with some form of mindfulness, to hope to see the world as it is (as real or artificial as it may be) and, from there, hear what others are saying as they intend the words to be heard.  Hopefully, that will enhance our understanding of one another.  Thus, while our time is finite, as “tears in the rain,” we might stand a chance at being more connected with our fellow humans (or replicants, whichever you prefer).

Stay tuned, as more will follow.

Loss and Father's Day Eve

The ineluctable peril when writing about loss is that it has been done.  A fresh take on a multi-billion-year phenomenon is rare.  Yet, here goes nothing, or more fittingly, the absence of something.

My Co-, well, Religionists?  Practitioners?  Whichever.  They speak about impermanence, that change is a constant.  Physicists, as a lot, tend to agree.  Yet cannot the same be said of change in the specific form of loss? 

All of us face loss in one form or another.  Loss of youth, of innocence, (eventually) of life.  These are the mortal locks of human existence.

The challenge is understanding, within the limits of knowledge, perceptions, and physical abilities, how to deal with loss.  Railing against it is a popular option, as is mourning.  Acceptance is much harder to embrace, depending on the type and severity of loss.  For there is always hope, sometimes rational, oft times not, that what was lost can be found once again.  This might be a form of hope and/or a manifestation of self-delusion.

Case in point, I “lost” my Dad in 2016.  Yet, in a truer sense of the word, he was lost to me before I was even born.  He served in Vietnam and, from what I am told, it took a horrific toll on his psyche.  Those who knew him said he did not truly “return” home insofar as the Jack Booms who resided in Metro Detroit in the late 1960s and afterwards was not the same Jack Booms who lived there prior to being shipped off to Indo-China.

The Jack Booms that I knew was one who was struggling, with varying degrees of success, with several maladies that fell under the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) umbrella.  And his “remedies” were rarely helpful and frequently self-administered.   These behaviors, of course, helped expedite his separation and eventual divorce from my Mom, with both events occurring in the latter half of the Carter Administration.  But I digress.

By the time he passed, I had (for the most part) accepted his lack of presence in my life.  Frankly, I was surprised to be contacted and told that he was in failing health.  I had anticipated that I would simply hear from someone, one day, who would be the bearer of the news that “Your father died.”  As it turned out, I had about four months, at the very end, from when I learned of his deteriorating condition to when he “shuffled off his mortal coil.” 

But in a way, as we had extremely limited contact from 1982 to 2016, his loss was accounted for, it was “baked into the cake” to use that horrid cliché.

That said, I heard he became a different person…more thoughtful and compassionate.  I am not certain precisely what caused this change in him, but I understand that his presence in the lives of others was warmly greeted.  He helped others as they faced their own losses, and was a true friend to them.

The more challenging losses, in my estimation, are those that are self-inflicted.  The loss of a relationship (friendship or otherwise) through neglect, or gross stupidity come to mind.  And not knowing how, or if, such losses can be repaired can cause the mind to fold in on itself.  Wondering.  Anguishing.  Hoping.  At times, doing our best to heal the wound.  Yet some solutions may be forever unobtainable, no matter how quickly or bravely we race into the breach.  Sometimes, we create the circumstances that are beyond our control.

Kierkegaard wrote, “life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”  Of course, Jay Gatsby said, “Can’t repeat the past?  Why of course you can!”  On the whole, Kierkegaard had a better handle on reality, although both the man and the character died young.

In any event, when considering loss and its impact, it would be wonderful to be able to go back and undo what was done…or at least to fast forward past the pain to see how it is resolved.  Yet time moves, in this universe at least, at its own pace and in its own direction, regardless of our motives, feelings, and actions.

All we can do as sentient beings is to live and learn, and to appreciate both.  And to hope that mindful words and deeds can help us avoid potential losses, and help us deal with actual ones.

So, to Dad, I would say, “Thank you” for the lesson on loss.  It is probably the best counsel you ever imparted.  And it is appreciated, truly.

Stay tuned, as more will follow.

Slats: A Non-Origin Story

“Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again”

I am oft asked about Slats, my mentor (of sorts).  A recurring theme is, “Why didn’t he make it Big?”  “He could have been a James Carville, a Paul Tully (n.b.: look him up), a Lee Atwater (twisted, evil little freak that he was, he was a Talent); much better than that ghoul Bob Shrum.”  Yes, I have heard it all.  

Over the course of many besotted (in the archaic sense of the word) evenings, and some afternoons, both during and after my tenure at his company, I was able to piece together his arc.

You see, during the course of every conversation in a public place, Slats’ eyes would invariably wander to the nearest woman (or women) that he found attractive. This is hardly an unusual behavior for a heterosexual man of his (or any other) generation.  But it was not the glances there were the issue, it was the pursuit, which dominated a great deal of his time, off hours and on.

An obsession is a thought; a compulsion is an act.  When it came to sex, he possessed both the “O” and the “C” with a fervor that younger men found admirable…and more mature men recognized as problematic.  It became clear, to me at least, that he was pursuing something, and not someone…and that whatever feeling or state of being he sought, he would never catch it.  He believed, as he implied in moments of extreme candor, that his world could be made whole again, if he just met the right Someone (even when he was already married).  In his mind, he was <this> close to finding the One.  That whatever was denied him in the past would be restored. That his pain would be forever salved.

He did (rarely) find someone wonderful, yet he always seemed to bungle it, for reasons which I can scarcely fathom and I guess he may never comprehend…even in his dreams when the lies we tell ourselves are stripped away.

“Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping”

Of course one can never know what it is truly in the mind of another.  Message producer/message recipient…even in ideal situations, there is always static that impedes communication, to say nothing of the unambiguous fuck-ups in both word and deed.  But at some point, perhaps during the late hours during moments of solitude and despair, the idea of More (see: Schopenhauer) festered.  And it, perhaps, drove him.  Political consulting, a former passion of his, became merely a means to an end.  He was good enough, and better than most, when he applied himself.  Yet he was never fully “present” as the Vipassana folks say. Not 100% mindful.

“And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence”

And as he got older, I saw more of a feral desperation in his eyes.  An existential angst that was growing more intolerable as he sought to reconcile his fears with his place in the universe.  A fear that he would never be who he was supposed to become.  A fear that he would not only never be content, but that his troubles would become insurmountable.  That the choices he had made were demanding payment in full.  And even when he managed to make a correct decision, a self-destructive impulse would foil his better instincts.  This drove people, good people, away from him.

“In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone”

Of course, he labored in an era where prose and poetry meant more than data analytics.  Campaigns like Fred Harris ’76 were of a time and place, long before the rise of Big Data, back when Pat Caddell was idealistic, and not too far removed from college.  Segmentation overtook the craft.  And even bearing in mind some brutal campaigns in the early days of our Republic, it feels as though campaigning, and governing, have become coarsened.  Perhaps more transparent, but less illuminating.

'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp”

Slats may be a living fossil. A T-Rex in a post-Cretaceous world.  Out of place, out of time. Eyes full of regrets and the “angel’s share” from a single-malt.  He must know, by now, that his number will probably never be called. He persists but with a creeping world-weariness that is veering into nihilism.  A few short years, perhaps, until the Flash and the Void.

“When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night”

Which, of course is why I bring up Slats MacCune, a living tragic figure and monument to another era. His obituary is already written, yet he draws breath.  The only variable is how Act III concludes, and when.  And then applause, and Fin.

“And touched the sound of silence.”

A Very "Special" County Executive Preview

From the Desk of S. MacCune

Political Consultant (Ret.?)

Licensed Alpaca Broker

Phrenologist (Blue Belt)

I admit that my connection to Howard County is attenuated. So when the proprietor of Spartan Considerations asked me to pen a Guest Column, my first question was, how much cash on the barrelhead?  JB launched into some bullshit about the spirit of public service; which I knew meant the “thrifty” bastard wasn’t going to part with Dime One.  After reminding me how many times he picked me up from various Eastern Seaboard airports over the years (as if I can drive my Alfa across the Atlantic), I generously agreed to volunteer my talents for this assignment.      

Although I taught JB everything he knew, or could hope to know, I did have two more questions before I could write this piece:  Who are these people and can I write as I talk?  On the former, he gave me the low-down, on the latter, he said “sparingly.”  Fucking A right. 

So, here is my learned perspective on the County Executive race, which I guess is what passes for hot action in certain [square] circles.  Soak it in.  Soak it ALL in.

Incumbent:  Allan Kittleman.  Look, my read is that Gov. Hogan may not run for re-election, in which case AK (Note: do they call him AK?) looks like a decent gubernatorial candidate.  Moderate in personality if not in policy or appointments, he profiles well for a Republican seeking statewide office in Maryland…and by 2018, what’s left of the Establishment Republican Party might be looking hard at folks like AK to keep the hordes from burning down the rest of the barn.  But let’s say he runs for re-election, he starts with a 42% base in a bad GOP cycle and 45% in a good one.  Given his history, he is unlikely to lose in a blow-out but national trends and unforced errors could send him packing after one term.

Possible Challengers (those receiving the most mentions)

Dr. Calvin Ball. Second Council District.   Democrat.  Well-known, well-liked, and well-respected Council Member.  Big on financial literacy (Note: with Education as the most salient issue in HoCo by a country mile, how important is the financial literacy point of differentiation within the larger Jobs/Economy matrix?).  Former community organizer.  Represents a large chunk of Columbia.  Also an educator (See earlier note re: education).   From what I hear, he’s held the “presumptive frontrunner” slot since mid-November of ’14.  There was no primary last time around for CE.  Will that hold a second time around?  I would be skeptical.

Mary Kay Sigaty.  Fourth Council District.  Democrat.  West Columbia + some parts South.  Has emerged as a big Downtown Development advocate over the course of her tenure on the Council. Faced challenges from Slower Growth advocates in her backyard.   Visible on TIF funding to grow downtown Columbia even further (note:  I wasn’t aware the area by the Columbia Mall was blighted, did a dumpster overflow once?).  Qualified for CE? Sure.  Rationale for her candidacy yet?  Not so much from what I hear.

Bill Woodcock.  Oakland Mills. Democrat.  Long-time activist in Democratic party politics? Check.  Knows public policy and how government services are administered? Check.  Willing to take the fight to the GOP nominee and make a case for a progressive governing vision?  Check.  An outsider choice?  Apparently. 

Other Potentials…(not mentioned as often, but the names pop up…)

Jen Terrasa.  Third Council District.  Democrat.  Southern/Eastern HoCo.  High profile in recent months with a differing take on the need for TIF funding for Downtown Columbia.  JB passed along some speculation about JT possibly being Annapolis-bound at some point.  Who knows. 

Note: no wonder why JB writes less these days.  Almost 600 words in.  I am parched for lack of Aberlour.  

Courtney Watson.  Former First District Council Member, former Board of Education Member.  Standard-bearer for the Democratic Party in ’14 as the CE nominee.  Ran into a buzz-fucking-saw of an election year.  Would have won in 8 out of 10 election cycles.  Retains high Name ID.  Serious policy wonk.  Does she want a re-match? 

Delegate Clarence (the Doc) Lam.  Conventional Wisdom is that Annapolis is a better fit…although not necessarily the House of Delegates. According to observers, look for a shake-up in the D12 Slate for ’18.

Ken Ulman.  Former CE.  Might be a loophole allowing him to seek a third term.  US Grant thought about it, Teddy Roosevelt wanted to, as did Woodrow Wilson.  Didn’t work out for them, and some think it might be tough sledding for Ulman if he went down the Comeback Lane.

Tom Coale.  Attorney.  Ellicott City booster.  Whispers but the smart money is on a big PASS for Coale in ’18.  Maybe Annapolis down the road or a County office in a future cycle.

So all of this is third hand anyway.  Speculation and musings from Maryland’s Heartland. 

Let’s see who reads this far.  What does JB write? “Stay tuned as….” Screw it, who wants an alpaca?  They make great pets.  They eat Combos, no muss, no fuss. Email me. Let’s make some moves.