Warbonnets. Amongst other things.
I’m still gleefully cackling and wriggling in my chair. My wife cocks her head around her monitor and gives me (another) a hard-stare. Its means ‘seriously, shut-the-fuck-up’. But I figure I’ve already passed through the veil. She’s in the middle of quite a serious Teams meeting. Usually this is my cue to don headphones and dial up the volume to something my Health app will later chide me for. This morning my Airpods hit me with their death-rattle and so I’m forced into spectator mode… which is usually awful. Tier one finance jargon is the sunset of all the goodness you’ve accrued thus far in your day.
This morning though, she has to (repeatedly) refer to two employees of this company (that she consults for). From what I can deduce is that they went on some sort of training and now there are points that can be allocated, or something. Its some sort of employment equity thing. In any event their names are Goodnews and Cushy-lush1.
I almost projectile spew my coffee.
 I have no idea if its spelled like this. But phonetically that’s what it is.
Its quite mean-spirited to laugh at someones appellation, but right now I’m in fully ensconced in my little moment. I think its more the juxtaposition of amusing words in quite a severe business context that has me so cheerful. Cushy-lush especially. It makes me ridiculously happy to imagine these corpo-wonks having to inject such delightfully droll vocabulary into their otherwise grave meetings. Har har.
Of course this all means I’m not really concentrating on my work… and (quite arbitrarily) decide to hedge one of my currency positions with CHF. Swiss Franc he adds after some thought and not Congestive-Heart-Failure. Its not normally a pair I trade and I try do the currency conversion back to Sterling in my head.
Math. My only weakness. (along bullets obviously)
I end up completely cocking it up and taking on way more risk than I’d wanted to. And then (as is the way of the currency trader when they’ve made a mistake) I get stopped out two candlesticks later. For my sins I wipe out my profits for the week.
Well done Joey! (C’est la vie?)
*drums fingers on his desk*
I’m suddenly reminded of an episode of Startalk… which was Neil Degrasse Tysons tv-show. (several years ago) National Geographic I think. Richard Dawkins was his guest that week. (I’ve been smashing Lions mane into my facehole and have started having weirdly above average recall… which I’m totally crediting the mushrooms with)
Maybe I can find a transcript instead of giving a mangled recollection from memory (while much improved, its not, and unlikely to ever be photographic)
Richard Dawkins – It’s a very good point. And it’s more than just that. I think there’s also a kind of unwarranted pride in being bad at mathematics. You will never hear anybody saying how proud they are at being ignorant of Shakespeare, but plenty of people will say they are proud of being ignorant of mathematics.
Neil Degrasse Tyson – Or if they don’t use the word ‘proud’ they’ll say ‘I was never good at math, ha ha ha’ – they’ll chuckle about it. Like it’s a joke.
Richard Dawkins – Yes. There was a piece in one of the British newspapers where a science writer – I think a science journalist – was lamenting the fact that many people in Britain think it takes one month for the Earth to orbit the sun, and the editor inserted there ‘Doesn’t it? – Ed’. So he was saying, ‘I’m the editor of a national newspaper, and of course I don’t think it really takes a month – but nevertheless it’s OK to make a joke about being ignorant of this elementary point of astronomy’, which you would never, ever do about confusing Byron with Virgil or something like that-
Neil Degrasse Tyson – Or ever be proud of such a thing.
As a defense I offer up that my willingness to self-deprecate my inability to multiply numbers is because, at least according to Maxwell Maltz (who wrote Psycho-Cybernetics2) I have a poor self-image. Or maybe its self-worth (because I’ve added it up wrong, I laugh)
Which… *sigh* might also be true. MOVING RIGHT ALONG.
 A book whose title nowadays, is a … I want to say homonym. But that’s not write. (see what I did there) Its a self-help book. But I don’t think that’s necessarily apparent as we (or at least I) would interpret this title differently now as opposed to when it was published. (which I think was in the 60’s). Its actually pretty good.
I used to love Neil Degrasse Tyson. And Richard Dawkins, he adds after a several moments staring at his keyboard. I find Neil impossible to listen to now. His persona has become anathema to me. Like using a cheese grater on my inner-child. (I don’t know if he’s changed… or if its me. I still like all the other physics-astronomy dorks though, so there’s that)
And Richard, *makes a guttural grunting noise*… has recently given me a serious crisis of faith. (another one). I sigh and poke at his (recent-ish) interview with Piers Morgan (who I find usually find to be quite a grim and mostly loathsome individual who I sometimes, much to my chagrin find myself agreeing with) with the pointy end of my apple pencil.
What the fuck was that? I despair and do my rag-doll gesticulations to underscore my perplexity. This is not the fearless Dawkins of yore…
Richard Dawkins is my hero. And along with Christopher Hitchens have likely been the two writers who have most affected the trajectory of my life. Some might say from upwards to steeply downwards. Ha! But really to watch this was… well, it really hurt me.
In any event I’m filing this tragedy away at the back of my mind… and pulling a dusty tarp over it. It can live there with my parental-issues, femme-fatales and other unresolved trauma. Lets just pretend it didn’t happen and focus on all the good times!
For the record. The treatment of Salman Rushdie is a massive weeping festering wound on the codex of values that the denizens of ‘western’ democracies supposedly believe in. It makes me super angry that almost everyone in a position of influence that could call bullshit on this, either didn’t or have been (metaphorically) castrated.
I mean the downside is, after expressing your opinion, you get stabbed in the face by some crazy Islamist at a book signing with a pair of scissors. So there’s that. I’m not sure I’d like to go on Piers Morgan and challenge the loonies to ‘have a go’ (so maybe I’m being a bit harsh). Hitch would taken a swig out of his hip flask, fired up a cigarette (taken a long draw) and swung for the bleachers. At least I like to imagine he would have. In his best British. I like to believe he would have never been cowed by anyone. But then again, being dead, I can ascribe all manner of super powers on him.
In other news I finally watched something on tv again. (this might be the first thing I’ve watched all year) Mixtape on Netflix. 1999 Girl finds dead parents mix tape and quest ensues to glean meaning for said tape. Slash teen coming of age movie.
Wait let me link the trailer.
I was in the mood for something cheerful I guess. And… eh… nostalgic maybe? Really is was the soundtrack that piqued my interested, and stopped the endless side scrolling of suggestions on my nearly dormant profile.
They are right though. Mixtapes were a huge commitment on the part of the maker. I used to make mixtapes for the girls I liked. And they were deeply considered.
Most of the songs on this particular tape were slightly before my time. Late eighties punk-rock. Maybe even a little on the obscure side. One song in particular sent me down quite the rabbit hole. Linda Linda by the Blue Hearts. (An eighties Japanese punk band!)
I think I just wanted to share it for posterity. (and because I think they are genuinely cool… in a weird cross cultural way that I can only grasp at). Although I do wonder if the lead guitar (of any band these days) could wear a faux Plains Indian Warbonnet and get away with it without accusations of cultural appropriation?
As a side note, if I could, I would wear that to grocery store.
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