Category: General

Picture stolen shamelessly from Digby’s post on Hullabaloo.

Picture stolen shamelessly from KagroX’s post on dKos.


I’m proud to be a liberal, progressive, Democrat today.

This was the first vacation in a long time where I my debts did not increase significantly.

In fact, my total debt only increased by $38.00 because of my vacation.

The rest of the money I spent was all cash I’d saved for the trip. Or, like the plane tickets I “purchased” with frequent flyer miles, wasn’t even out-of-pocket money at all.

Through it all my bills and other expenses all continued to be paid on time and in full.

And I have money for my day-to-day expenses until my next paycheck.

Is this all a sign of financial health? At the least it means, to me, that I’m well on my way to finally getting the whole “money problem” solved. 42 isn’t too late to learn this stuff, is it?

One of the guiding principles of my life is consistency. Rules, laws, ethics and morals, in my eyes, should apply to the largest group possible. If the sauce is good for the goose, then the gander should find it just fine, too. No exceptions. Or, realistically, few exceptions, and then only for practical or material reasons.

I have no problem admitting I’m wrong on matters of fact. Ask my friends. I do it all the time, and I hold in very high esteem those who can do the same (which is one criteria I use for choosing my friends, as well as my intellectual heroes).

But I hate admitting an error on matters of principle.

Doesn’t that seem like a contradiction?

Facts are not open to debate. That’s what makes them facts. Facts are directly observable, empirically documented, events about which there is no question. They’re measurable, precise. Maybe I’m not challenging myself by sticking to the facts? I mean, that’s kind of easy, right? Fact: diamonds are hard. Water is wet. Horses have four legs. Duh. Easy-peasy.

Principles… are personal, more often than not. Even when groups of people all agree to abide by certain principles, there can be honest disagreement about the principles involved, and their priority, and how they’re interpreted and applied to actual people, places and events. Even in the most extreme cases, principles are… messy. Complicated. They’re not black-and-white – they have shades of gray. Charcoal gray.

Like – murder. Murder is wrong, almost everyone can agree with that statement. But there are times when murder is… less wrong. There are many who believe that killing someone can actually be a righteous event. There’s disagreement on when killing someone is actually to be called “murder” in the first place. I’m just touching on many of the complex issues surrounding the whole idea of murder, but hopefully you can see my point. A simple, binary declaration of “murder is wrong” may be nice in theory but it’s a map that doesn’t even begin to cover the actual landscape. In fact, it’s nearly useless as a map except in the broadest sense: I’m going to try to avoid killing other people today.

But what if I’m driving and hit a pedestrian? Regardless of the legal definitions and outcomes, I believe I would feel immense guilt, due to my principles. Guilt that may not be assuaged by the legal process, or the assurances of my friends and family that it was all a terrible accident.

I would find it difficult not to go from thinking “murder is wrong” to “I killed someone” to “I am wrong for killing someone”.

And, again, that’s the simplest case, one of the few clear-cut examples of morality that human life can offer. What about other, lesser moral values? Lying? Cheating on a relationship? Theft?

So much to think about. What do I value and what are the boundaries on those values?

Is consistency the best approach to matters of principle? When does consistency become a demerit, rather than a gain?

Can I, this late in life, begin to achieve some… flexibility?

Just a quick note – I renewed the domain registrations for bamoon.com, brian-moon.com, and lunarobverse.com today, via a French firm called GANDI (I think it’s all in capitals because it stands for something in French; not sure), for another year.

So my site is safe for another year of blobbing. I should do something with the other two domains, though. Someday.

This morning, at 6:30 AM Eastern Time, I was sitting on the hotel shuttle bus, waiting to be taken to the airport.

With me on the bus were 10 members of a high school football team from Anchorage, along with 3 team coaches, along with all of our respective luggage.

The driver asked us where we were going, to determine which terminal at Newark Liberty International Airport to deliver us.

Thirteen boys and men answered geographically: “Alaska.”

One man answered airliner-ly: “Alaska.”

There was a brief moment of comedy while that all got sorted out, in the vein of Abbot and Costello.

Last, quick post before I head off for Times Square.

A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to ring in the new year with …

ONE MILLION PEOPLE.

1. I’m standing at the Long Island Rail Road station in Jamaica, Queens, New York, having arrived in the tri-state area via airplane about an hour previous. It’s about 8:30 PM. I’m waiting for my connection to Glen Head, New York. I’m tired and out of sorts. I’ve only been in New York once before in my life. I’ve got a messenger bag (with the logo of a Seattle radio station on it) and a giant piece of luggage.

   And a guy, tall, dark chocolate skin, sweater and jeans, walks up to me, ticket in hand, staring at the signs, obviously lost and confused. He spots me and approaches. “Is this the train to West Hempstead?” he asks me.

   I shrug. “Dunno. Sorry.”

2. I”m in Greenwich Village, crossing Houston (which is pronounced locally as “HOW-stun”, hands tucked in my pockets, my eyes hooded by my baseball cap, scarf wrapped around my face against the wind. It’s 9:30 PM or so, dark and cold, but this neighborhood is filled with people. The odors from dozens of restaurants fill the air and delight my nose, overpowering the smell of car exhaust.

   I’ve heard people call Portland’s NW 21st Street “Portland’s Greenwich Village” but now that I’ve seen the real thing, the comparison is not appropriate. The real neighborhood is much much more interesting. Maybe in another 100 years Portland’s will approach it.

   A couple pauses, he tall and blandly handsome, she short, thin, dark-haired, Roman nose, crossing the opposite direction from me. I glance up, smile softly, keep walking. She pauses and turns to me. “Is Bleeker Street this way?” she asks, pointing in the direction I’ve just come.

   “Yeah,” I say, in my best New Yorkian accent, “It’s one blawk up.” I surprise myself with how easily the accent, and the directions, come. And they’re both accurate.

   “OK, thanks!” And they scamper off like puppies.

3. Later that same night, I’m walking west along Canal Street, having tried, and failed, to find Ground Zero (I just didn’t go far enough). I guess I should have asked for directions…

   Another generic hip urban couple in their black wool coats, male and female, are walking in the direction from which I came. She looks at me and asks, “Is Little Italy this way?” The boy tugs on her arm and avoids looking at me, his masculinity threatened by having to ask, even by proxy.

   “Sorry, I got nothin’. I’m a tourist, too!” I say with a smile. They walk away.

4. I’m scrambling down the stairs at Penn Station, Saturday afternoon, trying to catch the New Jersey Transit train that will take me back to the airport, and eventually my hotel. It’s the New York Coastal train (I believe) and all I know is that it stops at Newark International Airport, where I can catch a shuttle to the Hilton.

   An older lady, in her late 50s or early 60s, bottle-blonde hair, coming down the stairs with me, looks at me. “Is this the train to Secaucus?” She pronounces it with the accent on the first syllable.

   “Uh, I’m not sure. I’m just taking it to Newark. Sorry.”

   She nods and looks around for a porter or conductor as we reach the bottom of the stairs and the train platform. I hustle onboard and stand near the door.

   The first stop after Penn Station was Secaucus. I saw her get off there. After all the directions I’ve given it’s nice to see that some folks do reach where they’re going, after all.

Up ’til now I’ve been staying at David and Jackie’s house in Glen Head, NY, as I mentioned before.

From here on out, though, I’ll be spending lots of time in Manhattan. My plan from here on out is this:

• Friday night: Spend as much time in Manhattan as possible.
• Saturday pre-dawn: take last train back to Long Island and crash in David’s basement. Sleep ’til noon.
• Saturday noon: Pack. Say goodbyes to David and Jackie and their kids.
• Saturday afternoon: Leave David and Jackie’s place with baggage. Take the train to Newark, NJ and check in to the airport Hilton. Leave baggage in room.
• Saturday afternoon and night: Take train to Manhattan and do everything I can (no specific plans)
• Sunday pre-dawn: Take train back to hotel. Sleep and rest up for another night of partying.
• Sunday afternoon: Go back to downtown with just my cell phone, some cash, and my camera.
• Sunday 5:00 PM: Arrive in Times Square for the New Year’s Eve party. Get checked through the police barricades into “The Pen” (the blocked-off area at 45th and Broadway).
• Sunday 5:00 PM – Past Midnight: Be locked into one spot for over 7 hours as part of a crowd of a million people. Watch the musical acts and watch the ball drop at midnight.
• Sunday around midnight: text and call everyone I know to scream “Happy New Year” at them.
• Sunday until 4:00 or 5:00 AM – wander around the City if I can, staying awake all night long.
• Sunday around 5:00 AM – take the train back to the hotel and check out.
• Sunday 7:45 AM – My flight leaves EWR – Newark International Airport for SEA – Seattle and the end of an awesome trip.

Watch for me on the teevee… I’ll be dressed in black (duh!).

Hello, from Glen Head, New York. I’m currently using the computers at the hotel my sister is staying at, the Glen Cove Mansion, which was apparently an Army hospital during World War II (that’s what my brother-in-law claims).

I hadn’t realized how far Glen Head is from the City. I’d planned on spending most of my time in the City, thinking it was a short train ride away. It’s actually about a 45-minute train ride, and a $13.50 round trip ticket on the weekends. About double that during the week. So I’ve only spent one day wandering around Manhattan.

I’d post more details and pictures, but I’m not using my computer and it’s like using someone else’s hands. I’m frustrated and hungry and there’s only the vending machines here for food. This morning I ran 5-6 miles, then went back to the house I’m staying at (my friends David and Jackie, who are the perfect hosts), intending to walk to this hotel to join up with the rest of the family, but either I didn’t listen or my sister didn’t tell me how far away it was. On the way there, I’d decided I was going to find a coffee shop along the way and park my butt and surf and blog a little. Also I needed food – all I’ve eaten today was a muffin and a small handful of chocolate-covered almonds.

But just as I found a coffee shop (a Starbucks, actually) my brother-in-law showed up to pick me up and take me to the hotel. He was trying to be nice, but he was basically foiling my desire to use my own computer and to eat. Argh. He meant well, but still…

Tomorrow we’re going in to the city to see a show; the plan is to see Spamalot, the Monty Python-inspired musical. For that, I will be able to endure my family (I say that with love!).

Happy Holidays to all of my readers…

Had to go to the DMV to renew my driver’s license. Pick a number and wait until you’re called.

I got the best number ever.

When the lady finally called the number out, I was watching. Her expression was priceless. It was the polar opposite of mine; she looked as though she’d lost some game that DMV clerks play. She hated that number and was loathe to call it out, but she had to. After watching this brief resignation and fear play out across her face and in her body language, she forced herself to look bored and to say the number as though it was just another number, and not a number whose unique properties gave it a whole ‘nother meaning.

Since I had been flirting with the cute blonde sitting across from me, with my secret knowledge of the number resting in my pocket, I knew that a braver man would have played up having gotten this number, out of all possible numbers.

I wanted to hold the number aloft, and shout as though I had won some lottery (as, indeed, in a small way, I had), and strut, boldly, saying with pride and enthusiasm the number over and over again. “Yes, yes, that’s me. I’m the one. I’m next. You, the awesome girl with the curly hair, have you heard? I have this number. If you’d like to share in my good fortune, perhaps after our sojourn in this dreary place of paperwork and bureaucrats, we could escape to another place to discuss luck, and numbers, and how they interact.”

Alas, I only approached the counter as I normally do, with a half-grin on my face, as if I knew many things but could not share them lest I break through to the other side.

Because this license is good for eight years, when next I renew it I will be a half-century old.

Which connects with the fact that for the past six months I’ve been growing my hair as long as possible – so that I may immortalize this look, this full head of hair look, for the next 2922-some days.