I have tried to watch parts of both National Conventions, but in both cases the sis-boom-bah rah-rah-rah atmosphere pretty much did me in. Often I found myself hitting the mute button when I couldn't take anymore of a particular speaker -- and always when some new singer started screaming at us (why have entertainment?!) -- I'd turn to my book, or my dinner, or even slip into the study to write some more at my computer, until a check of the screen showed me that somebody new had taken the stage. Then I'd give the new speaker a couple of minutes, to see if something new was being offered, or if it was the same old same old. For example, at the Democratic Convention I felt that far too much time was given to speakers in support of women's rights. Thought we should have heard from just one pro-choice advocate (and one who would not keep using the word abortion, as that word is such a button-pusher -- Democrats who do not favor abortion can live more easily with the word 'pro-choice' than they can with the 'a' word), rather than a parade of women who kept assuring us that we women could lose our right to choose if Romney is elected. Polls have made it clear that such social issues are low on the list of priorities for most Democrats, and even for most Republicans, though not necessarily for many Fundamentalist Republicans.
And there were lots of Hispanics -- often women -- as well as blacks, who all emphasized how various policies of President Obama have benefited the group they belonged to. Frankly, if I were a white male Democrat I think the Convention would have almost had me feeling left out! We needed to hear from more of those "white bald men," that one commentator said made up the Republican base. There have to be some of those guys among the Democrats, too!
I was impressed by all the Hispanics speaking at the Republican Convention, virtually everyone of them an illustration of the Successful American Dream. But of course, most Hispanics in this country are no more Big Success Stories than are most whites, and I felt like the plight of regular Joses was as missing from the Republic perspective as that of regular Joes.
Indeed, David Brooks, the conservative commentator who joined the PBS Newshour anchors Judy Woodruff and Gwen Iffil at both conventions, and whom I in general respect and admire as a highly intelligent, articulate, and reasonable, not fanatical, conservative, made the statement at one point that he felt the Republican Convention had been too individualistic, and I agree with that completely. The Democratic Convention then bent over backwards to emphasize the opposite concept, that of success-through-cooperation. This is not a bad concept to emphasize, but I got tired of hearing it. Especially since, as stated by both the commentators Shields and Brooks, and some of the people interviewed outside the convention hall, what is most on most people's mind right now is the economy, and the President's plans for same. We needed to hear more about those issues. The successful bail-out of the automobile industry is a good story, but it's too bad there couldn't have been more such stories; that one got sort of played into the ground.
I didn't watch the much-admired speech by Michelle Obama, because I feel I already "know" President Obama to the extent I need to know him. I already admire his intellect, his courage, his integrity, his idealism combined with pragmatism, his coolness under fire. I don't need to have him "humanized" for me by his loving wife. But I was very glad I caught Bill Clinton's speech. It was invigorating and inspiring -- as well as frequently amusing -- while at the same time answering some of those questions that hadn't been answered, or even addressed, by anyone else so far in the convention. Clinton took on the issues of our national debt -- which got a great deal of play at the Republican Convention, but almost none at the Democratic, even though polls show many Americans are very concerned with lowering the debt -- he took on the question endlessly asked by the Republicans: are we indeed better off than we were four years ago (individually, maybe not, but as a nation, given how bad things could have been, yes) -- and he gave some specific examples. And he took on various lies of the Republicans, particularly those of Paul Ryan, and shredded them. He surely helped the Obama campaign enormously with that speech.
And I discovered Elizabeth Warren! Her speech was a pleasure to listen to. She struck me as a tells-it-like-it-is lady with class and a heart. We will surely be hearing more from her.
In a little while we will be hearing from President Obama himself. He has a history of giving terrific speeches. Let's hope this one is a doozy. And then, thank God, the Convention nonsense will be over.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Nature, being delightful
There is a particular plant that is quite prevalent in this neck of the woods, and which I dearly love. In fact, year before last when I was arranging to have new plants installed in the flower beds on either side of my little front stoop, I wanted some of these plants, but the landscape fellow talked me out of it, assuring me that they grew from little bushes into big trees in no time at all, and would quite overwhelm my little house. So I've had to content myself with enjoying those I pass on my walks around my neighborhood, or as I drive to and from work.
The plant is Viburnum opulus Roseum, or the snowball bush. Big, white, round blossoms, that do, indeed, look like snowballs, beautifuly contrasted against a leafy green background. They appear in early summer and usually begin turning a dull pink in early September. When you've got some pink blossoms and some white on the same bush, it makes me think of the scene in Alice in Wonderland, when the Queen's gardeners are busy painting the rose trees. It looks like they've been called away in the middle of their work.
This year, for some reason, the snowball bushes began turning early, by the middle of August (because it's been so dry?). When I noticed this, I kept telling myself I must remember to take my camera when I went to work, so I could stop and take a picture of a completely white plant, on either the inbound or return trip. And of course I kept forgetting. When I finally remembered, this past weekend, I discovered that the battery on my camera was dead. And it was the weekend before payday; no discretionary funds for camera batteries.
And now, alas, it's too late; there isn't a bush left that is all white. I've missed my chance to get a picture of these beautiful bushes while they are in their most Fairy Kingdom stage. So, as I did with the picture of Ford's Theatre, I must again make do with a picture that someone else has produced. We'll call this Something That Gives Melody Pleasure.
The plant is Viburnum opulus Roseum, or the snowball bush. Big, white, round blossoms, that do, indeed, look like snowballs, beautifuly contrasted against a leafy green background. They appear in early summer and usually begin turning a dull pink in early September. When you've got some pink blossoms and some white on the same bush, it makes me think of the scene in Alice in Wonderland, when the Queen's gardeners are busy painting the rose trees. It looks like they've been called away in the middle of their work.
This year, for some reason, the snowball bushes began turning early, by the middle of August (because it's been so dry?). When I noticed this, I kept telling myself I must remember to take my camera when I went to work, so I could stop and take a picture of a completely white plant, on either the inbound or return trip. And of course I kept forgetting. When I finally remembered, this past weekend, I discovered that the battery on my camera was dead. And it was the weekend before payday; no discretionary funds for camera batteries.
And now, alas, it's too late; there isn't a bush left that is all white. I've missed my chance to get a picture of these beautiful bushes while they are in their most Fairy Kingdom stage. So, as I did with the picture of Ford's Theatre, I must again make do with a picture that someone else has produced. We'll call this Something That Gives Melody Pleasure.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Hooray for the land of four seasons
Sunday, Labor Day, today, the first three days in over two months during which I have not had to turn on my air conditioners at all. In fact, this evening I'm sitting at my computer wearing long pants, rather than shorts, for the first time in over two months -- it's chilly! And I am so happy; fall is on the way!
We had a very unusual summer, day after day of warm, dry, sunny weather. Very little rain. There were a couple of weeks in there when the humidity was a typical summer-in-Maine high, but many more days when the humidity was relatively low. It was the perfect summer to spend a week vacationing in Maine. Some years I feel so sorry for the tourists, because there are so many rainy days. But this year not only were the tourists happy, but all the many businesses that cater to tourists in one way or another, have to have been happy, too.
But me? Alas, I just endured the summer, as I always do. For one thing, in my little granite stone library, completely without insulation...or air conditioning...even if it wasn't all that hot outside, it could be absolutely miserable inside, by the early afternoon. Which is why we again went to Summer Hours this year, being open in the morning every day, rather than opening at 2 p.m. three days of the week, as we normally are.
But even released from that hot little oven each day by two p.m., what I usually did was just rush home to hide out in my air-conditioned house. It is a true curse to be so... allergic!...to heat. My goodness, especially in these days of global warming! In the past it's scotched the idea of trying to teach English in the various countries that were in the market for such teachers, because those countries...in southeast Asia, in South America...were hot and humid. The places that get touted online as The Cheapest Countries to Retire To...the countries of Central America, for example...are also hot and humid. The lucky people of the world are the ones who aren't bothered by such weather. The rest of us live in Maine, and eagerly await the fall.
We had a very unusual summer, day after day of warm, dry, sunny weather. Very little rain. There were a couple of weeks in there when the humidity was a typical summer-in-Maine high, but many more days when the humidity was relatively low. It was the perfect summer to spend a week vacationing in Maine. Some years I feel so sorry for the tourists, because there are so many rainy days. But this year not only were the tourists happy, but all the many businesses that cater to tourists in one way or another, have to have been happy, too.
But me? Alas, I just endured the summer, as I always do. For one thing, in my little granite stone library, completely without insulation...or air conditioning...even if it wasn't all that hot outside, it could be absolutely miserable inside, by the early afternoon. Which is why we again went to Summer Hours this year, being open in the morning every day, rather than opening at 2 p.m. three days of the week, as we normally are.
But even released from that hot little oven each day by two p.m., what I usually did was just rush home to hide out in my air-conditioned house. It is a true curse to be so... allergic!...to heat. My goodness, especially in these days of global warming! In the past it's scotched the idea of trying to teach English in the various countries that were in the market for such teachers, because those countries...in southeast Asia, in South America...were hot and humid. The places that get touted online as The Cheapest Countries to Retire To...the countries of Central America, for example...are also hot and humid. The lucky people of the world are the ones who aren't bothered by such weather. The rest of us live in Maine, and eagerly await the fall.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Counting Your Blessings Department
I was just watching the last half of the appalling documentary, I Was Worth 50 Sheep, which some of you may have seen. Basically it's about the traditional Afghan practice of selling young girls when a family is broke. This particular film follows the story of 16-year-old Sabere, who was sold to a man in his 50s when she was all of 10 years old. She was both wife and slave to him for six years -- during which time she was frequently beaten, talked to constantly as though she were lower than a dog, and had four miscarriages, as well as a forced abortion when she was seven months pregnant -- before she finally escaped, and made her way to a safe house in Mazur.
The film is also concerned with the plight of Sabere's half-sister. Her mother had had to remarry after the death of her husband, Sabere's father, in order to avoid the shame (and destitution) of widowhood. She and her second husband -- who was, as tradition dictated, a cousin of her deceased husband -- also had a daughter. The husband, who had lived in and been deported from Iran, had heavy debts which he could not pay. He "had no choice," but to sell his daughter. When he said this, during one of the interviews with him, I let out an unamused laugh. "You had no choice," I said sarcastically to the screen. "What if selling your own daughter were not socially acceptable -- that wouldn't be a choice -- you'd have to figure something else out!" The father had made a deal with the buyer -- who was also a much older man -- that he and his wife would be able to keep their daughter with them until she was 15 -- when, according to the father, she would be "old enough" for marriage -- and instead of receiving the sheep all at once they would receive 10 a year.
The "drama" of the film had to do with the fact that Sabere, with the help of the people at the Safe House, was trying to obtain a divorce from her husband, while at the same time the stepfather was trying to fend off representatives from the man he had sold his daughter to, who were saying the buyer no longer wanted to wait; he wanted little Farzane now.
Watching something like this reminds us of something we all know, but prefer not to dwell on: while women in western industrialized nations have made great strides toward fair treatment and equality with men over the past century, in many parts of the world they have value only as slaves, as someone a man can kick around when he's feeling angry at the world, frustrated perhaps by his bad luck, or a bad day, someone he can always feel superior to. The stepfather, who kept insisting he did not want to have to give his daughter to the man who had bought her, nonetheless lay around on his cushions-on-the-floor barking "Bring me some tea," "Bring me a glass of water," to the three women who lived under his roof. Nary a please, nary a thank-you. He did go out most days and try to sell some pens that he had, inevitably without luck. But he didn't really hustle at all, didn't do whatever he could to feed and protect his family; he just metaphorically scratched his head and said, "I don't know what to do." If ever there was an example of a loafer, waiting for a miracle to save him, this was it.
At the same time, there is no denying the crushing poverty of places like Afghanistan, the lack of jobs. The United States and various international agencies have been trying for years to improve this situation, to help "develop" the economy of the country. But an "Asian Voices" segment I was watching recently on PBS stated that too much of the intended help has been poorly thought-out, poorly organized, and ineffective. This is one reason I have been so supportive of the Central Asia Institute, begun by Greg Mortenson. Despite the controversy that arose around Mortenson at the beginning of this year, it has seemed to me that the organization has done a better than average job of working with locals to bring schools -- that oh-so-important commodity, education -- to the impoverished familes in the hinterlands of both Pakistan and Afghanistan. Effective aid.
We all know that too much of the aid money, from our government, and that of other countries, that was supposed to go towards Afghanistan's economic development, has instead gone into the pockets of various government officials and their families; and this is of course maddening. But do we stop trying to help? Do we throw the country back into the hands of the Taliban (the man Sabere was married to was a member of the Taliban). What to do, what to do...
The film is also concerned with the plight of Sabere's half-sister. Her mother had had to remarry after the death of her husband, Sabere's father, in order to avoid the shame (and destitution) of widowhood. She and her second husband -- who was, as tradition dictated, a cousin of her deceased husband -- also had a daughter. The husband, who had lived in and been deported from Iran, had heavy debts which he could not pay. He "had no choice," but to sell his daughter. When he said this, during one of the interviews with him, I let out an unamused laugh. "You had no choice," I said sarcastically to the screen. "What if selling your own daughter were not socially acceptable -- that wouldn't be a choice -- you'd have to figure something else out!" The father had made a deal with the buyer -- who was also a much older man -- that he and his wife would be able to keep their daughter with them until she was 15 -- when, according to the father, she would be "old enough" for marriage -- and instead of receiving the sheep all at once they would receive 10 a year.
The "drama" of the film had to do with the fact that Sabere, with the help of the people at the Safe House, was trying to obtain a divorce from her husband, while at the same time the stepfather was trying to fend off representatives from the man he had sold his daughter to, who were saying the buyer no longer wanted to wait; he wanted little Farzane now.
Watching something like this reminds us of something we all know, but prefer not to dwell on: while women in western industrialized nations have made great strides toward fair treatment and equality with men over the past century, in many parts of the world they have value only as slaves, as someone a man can kick around when he's feeling angry at the world, frustrated perhaps by his bad luck, or a bad day, someone he can always feel superior to. The stepfather, who kept insisting he did not want to have to give his daughter to the man who had bought her, nonetheless lay around on his cushions-on-the-floor barking "Bring me some tea," "Bring me a glass of water," to the three women who lived under his roof. Nary a please, nary a thank-you. He did go out most days and try to sell some pens that he had, inevitably without luck. But he didn't really hustle at all, didn't do whatever he could to feed and protect his family; he just metaphorically scratched his head and said, "I don't know what to do." If ever there was an example of a loafer, waiting for a miracle to save him, this was it.
At the same time, there is no denying the crushing poverty of places like Afghanistan, the lack of jobs. The United States and various international agencies have been trying for years to improve this situation, to help "develop" the economy of the country. But an "Asian Voices" segment I was watching recently on PBS stated that too much of the intended help has been poorly thought-out, poorly organized, and ineffective. This is one reason I have been so supportive of the Central Asia Institute, begun by Greg Mortenson. Despite the controversy that arose around Mortenson at the beginning of this year, it has seemed to me that the organization has done a better than average job of working with locals to bring schools -- that oh-so-important commodity, education -- to the impoverished familes in the hinterlands of both Pakistan and Afghanistan. Effective aid.
We all know that too much of the aid money, from our government, and that of other countries, that was supposed to go towards Afghanistan's economic development, has instead gone into the pockets of various government officials and their families; and this is of course maddening. But do we stop trying to help? Do we throw the country back into the hands of the Taliban (the man Sabere was married to was a member of the Taliban). What to do, what to do...
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Life's little annoyances
The supermarket needs a fast check-out line with a sign that says "For REALLY impatient people who are REALLY in a hurry & who DEFINITELY have 14 or fewer items & who can pay WITHOUT complica-tions." And it should only be staffed by cashiers who are REALLY fast; none of this la-de-dah-I've-got-all-the-time-in-the-world business; none of this chat-the-customer-up-show-him-how-friendly-you-are business.
As you can no doubt surmise from the above I just returned from the supermarket where once again I found myself in a "fast" check-out line that was anything but. When I first got in line the other two fast lanes that were open were just as long; but then two others were suddenly opened up, and all the people behind me and at the ends of the other two lines swarmed to the new opportunities. I couldn't join the swarm without trampling over the people in the line next to me.
And then, as I stood there, I saw that all the other lines, new and old, were moving forward steadily, whereas my line had not moved an iota since I got in it. The couple at the front of the line evidently had a payment difficulty -- credit card wouldn't approve the payment or some such nonsense. And the little cashier was of the slow as molasses in December variety, so that even when the first couple finally got their difficulties straightened out and departed, plastic bags in hand, it took forever for her to take care of the next customer, and the next (behind whom I stood). Although it has been my experience that as soon as I change lanes, that lane freezes, and the one I was in originally suddenly grows wings, I finally couldn't take it another minute, especially when I saw that one of the new lanes was now completely empty, had taken care of all the people who had been behind me, and then some. I walked briskly over, plopped my environmentally-friendly bag of groceries down and began emptying it, was briskly tallied and re-bagged by the efficient cashier, and walked out of the place just half a minute before the women who had been behind me in the original line.
I know that my impatience is one of my least attractive -- and most noticeable -- attributes. I suspect that the gods that be throw slow check-out lines, along with slow cars on the roads, in my path, to test my patience, to (presumably) encourage me to develop greater patience. I keep telling them this is a complete waste of everybody's valuable time. This is a character flaw I don't even seem inclined to try to curb. Whenever I am doing something I don't want to do -- like drive, like stand in line at the supermarket or the drug store, like cook -- I am impatient to just get this over with. But the indifferent cosmos rolls on at its own immutable clip, and I am left to fume and be rude if given half a chance.
That's life.
As you can no doubt surmise from the above I just returned from the supermarket where once again I found myself in a "fast" check-out line that was anything but. When I first got in line the other two fast lanes that were open were just as long; but then two others were suddenly opened up, and all the people behind me and at the ends of the other two lines swarmed to the new opportunities. I couldn't join the swarm without trampling over the people in the line next to me.
And then, as I stood there, I saw that all the other lines, new and old, were moving forward steadily, whereas my line had not moved an iota since I got in it. The couple at the front of the line evidently had a payment difficulty -- credit card wouldn't approve the payment or some such nonsense. And the little cashier was of the slow as molasses in December variety, so that even when the first couple finally got their difficulties straightened out and departed, plastic bags in hand, it took forever for her to take care of the next customer, and the next (behind whom I stood). Although it has been my experience that as soon as I change lanes, that lane freezes, and the one I was in originally suddenly grows wings, I finally couldn't take it another minute, especially when I saw that one of the new lanes was now completely empty, had taken care of all the people who had been behind me, and then some. I walked briskly over, plopped my environmentally-friendly bag of groceries down and began emptying it, was briskly tallied and re-bagged by the efficient cashier, and walked out of the place just half a minute before the women who had been behind me in the original line.
I know that my impatience is one of my least attractive -- and most noticeable -- attributes. I suspect that the gods that be throw slow check-out lines, along with slow cars on the roads, in my path, to test my patience, to (presumably) encourage me to develop greater patience. I keep telling them this is a complete waste of everybody's valuable time. This is a character flaw I don't even seem inclined to try to curb. Whenever I am doing something I don't want to do -- like drive, like stand in line at the supermarket or the drug store, like cook -- I am impatient to just get this over with. But the indifferent cosmos rolls on at its own immutable clip, and I am left to fume and be rude if given half a chance.
That's life.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
A page from history
I mentioned recently that I had made a trip to Washington, D.C. to attend the graduation from law school of my goddaughter. I wasn't able to do much sightseeing on that trip, but one place I did visit, that I'd long wanted to visit, was Ford's Theatre, where President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated on April 14, 1865.
My hotel was in China Town, just a few blocks from the theatre, so I could easily walk over. If you order tickets online, they cost $2.50 a piece, but there are a number of free tickets available on a first-come-first served basis each day, and I got one of those at the box office, then had to go stand at the end of the line waiting to be let in. They count people entering, and when the numbers equal seating capacity, entry is cut off until the next tour time. You're (politely) herded into the theatre -- can sit upstairs in the lower balcony, or downstairs in the orchestra. There's a very interesting talk by a Ranger -- the site is part of the National Park Service -- about not just the events of that night, but what came before and after, as well. One of the interesting tidbits of information he supplied: in the 1860s the comfortable seats we were sitting in were not in place. There were straight-back wooden chairs, which people were at liberty to move around. "You could see some of your friends over there," the Ranger said, "And just pick up your chair and move over to join them."
He also mentioned the fact that the President and his party arrived about 30 minutes into the play -- which was apparently not unusual -- and that, when it was realized that President Lincoln had arrived, the play stopped, and the audience stood up to applaud him. He acknowledged the applause, then went on to the Presidential box with his wife and guests. Listening to this I was thinking, "How disruptive of the play!"
After the Ranger's talk, as people were filing out, I walked down to the stage to get a look at the theatre from that perspective. From my seat back under the overhanging balcony it had seemed very small, intimate, but from the stage I saw that there were two balconies, and it wasn't really all that small.
I had found it very moving, looking at the box where President Lincoln was sitting when he was shot. But later I picked up a brochure in the lobby, and learned from it that the building was turned into offices for the Army Medical Museum and Library not long after the government took it over in 1866 (it was closed immediately after the assassination); part of the interior collapsed in 1887, killing a number of people, and had to be rebuilt, after which it was used as a government records warehouse. The Lincoln Museum took the building over in 1932, but it looked nothing like the old theatre inside. It was only following restoration, which finally took place 1962-1967, that the place come to look more or less as it had looked in 1865 (except for the seats. :-) )
Thus, I suppose it could almost be argued that this is essentially a theme park, since virtually only the front outer wall of the building is original. But the restoration was very well-done, meticulous in its attention to historical detail, and the history lessons provided are fascinating.
My hotel was in China Town, just a few blocks from the theatre, so I could easily walk over. If you order tickets online, they cost $2.50 a piece, but there are a number of free tickets available on a first-come-first served basis each day, and I got one of those at the box office, then had to go stand at the end of the line waiting to be let in. They count people entering, and when the numbers equal seating capacity, entry is cut off until the next tour time. You're (politely) herded into the theatre -- can sit upstairs in the lower balcony, or downstairs in the orchestra. There's a very interesting talk by a Ranger -- the site is part of the National Park Service -- about not just the events of that night, but what came before and after, as well. One of the interesting tidbits of information he supplied: in the 1860s the comfortable seats we were sitting in were not in place. There were straight-back wooden chairs, which people were at liberty to move around. "You could see some of your friends over there," the Ranger said, "And just pick up your chair and move over to join them."
He also mentioned the fact that the President and his party arrived about 30 minutes into the play -- which was apparently not unusual -- and that, when it was realized that President Lincoln had arrived, the play stopped, and the audience stood up to applaud him. He acknowledged the applause, then went on to the Presidential box with his wife and guests. Listening to this I was thinking, "How disruptive of the play!"
After the Ranger's talk, as people were filing out, I walked down to the stage to get a look at the theatre from that perspective. From my seat back under the overhanging balcony it had seemed very small, intimate, but from the stage I saw that there were two balconies, and it wasn't really all that small.
I had found it very moving, looking at the box where President Lincoln was sitting when he was shot. But later I picked up a brochure in the lobby, and learned from it that the building was turned into offices for the Army Medical Museum and Library not long after the government took it over in 1866 (it was closed immediately after the assassination); part of the interior collapsed in 1887, killing a number of people, and had to be rebuilt, after which it was used as a government records warehouse. The Lincoln Museum took the building over in 1932, but it looked nothing like the old theatre inside. It was only following restoration, which finally took place 1962-1967, that the place come to look more or less as it had looked in 1865 (except for the seats. :-) )
Thus, I suppose it could almost be argued that this is essentially a theme park, since virtually only the front outer wall of the building is original. But the restoration was very well-done, meticulous in its attention to historical detail, and the history lessons provided are fascinating.
There is also a museum in the basement that can be visited in the other kind of visit that is possible (talk-in-theatre-plus-visit-to-museum), but the time slot I was in allowed only the former, which was actually all right with me. My biggest disappointment was that I couldn't get a good shot of the exterior, which is very handsome indeed, because of where the sun was. So I've borrowed from the experts.
I was glad I went.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Going where no one has gone before
My friend Joey was asking me what I thought of the space program. Was I for it, or did I think it was a waste of money that could be put to better use here on planet Earth. I told him I was very much for it, but I have to say, I'm not that enthusiastic about all this exploration of the planet Mars.
Curiosity has now been deposited safely on the planet's surface -- certainly no mean accomplish-ment. Imagine: the NASA folk were able to build and direct by remote control a space ship that would travel over 100 million miles and then gently deposit the latest rover on the surface of another planet. Very impressive indeed.
But...for what purpose? To see if they can find more and better evidence that there may have been life on that planet at one time. But I can't see the point in that. If there was any form of life in some distant past, it was certainly in the microbial category. Finding evidence of that is hardly going to answer the question that they keep mentioning in the newscasts these days: are we alone? We already know we are alone in our own solar system, as far as life forms in any way approaching our own go. We have to look way, way beyond our own backyard, so to speak, to find the answer to that big, looming question. And I personally think that is what we should be spending those billions of dollars, and all that scientific know-how, on: developing ways to get beyond our solar system. That and figuring out ways to colonize those foreign bodies within our solar system where humans could possibly live, in a controlled environment, since our own planet is rapidly becoming too crowded.
After all, humans have always moved on when the area where they were became too crowded -- not enough resources to support their numbers -- have always explored what was over that rise, beyond those mountains, across that sea. I feel space exploration is just an extension of that, though it is far more difficult, and expensive, than crossing those mountains or that sea. But I don't think we should be wasting our time trying to figure out if there was some primitive form of life on Mars -- or anywhere else -- once upon a time. What is the place like now? What would it take for humans to be able to land on these places, and spend any time on them?
President Obama's space exploration policy, which he outlined in 2008, includes the statement that he "endorses the goal of sending human missions to the Moon by 2020, as a precursor in an orderly progression to missions to more distant destinations, including Mars." So do I. Let's get on with it.
Curiosity has now been deposited safely on the planet's surface -- certainly no mean accomplish-ment. Imagine: the NASA folk were able to build and direct by remote control a space ship that would travel over 100 million miles and then gently deposit the latest rover on the surface of another planet. Very impressive indeed.
But...for what purpose? To see if they can find more and better evidence that there may have been life on that planet at one time. But I can't see the point in that. If there was any form of life in some distant past, it was certainly in the microbial category. Finding evidence of that is hardly going to answer the question that they keep mentioning in the newscasts these days: are we alone? We already know we are alone in our own solar system, as far as life forms in any way approaching our own go. We have to look way, way beyond our own backyard, so to speak, to find the answer to that big, looming question. And I personally think that is what we should be spending those billions of dollars, and all that scientific know-how, on: developing ways to get beyond our solar system. That and figuring out ways to colonize those foreign bodies within our solar system where humans could possibly live, in a controlled environment, since our own planet is rapidly becoming too crowded.
After all, humans have always moved on when the area where they were became too crowded -- not enough resources to support their numbers -- have always explored what was over that rise, beyond those mountains, across that sea. I feel space exploration is just an extension of that, though it is far more difficult, and expensive, than crossing those mountains or that sea. But I don't think we should be wasting our time trying to figure out if there was some primitive form of life on Mars -- or anywhere else -- once upon a time. What is the place like now? What would it take for humans to be able to land on these places, and spend any time on them?
President Obama's space exploration policy, which he outlined in 2008, includes the statement that he "endorses the goal of sending human missions to the Moon by 2020, as a precursor in an orderly progression to missions to more distant destinations, including Mars." So do I. Let's get on with it.
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