Results of Ruminations

Many years ago, I wrote a video game essay " On Violence ". Looking over it, I think there's some interesting stuff in there. While I no longer put a lot of thought into a video game theory--in part because what seems pertinent and permanent is quickly outmoded and outdated as the industry grinds along--it was fun to see some of my older thoughts on how violence and video games works on a theoretical level. I can say that I'm older now, but though the wisdom is lacking, I see there are other areas about violence that need discussing. This, of course, pertains to the annual trudging through the trenches that I do with my sophomores, looking at how the World Wars came to pass. We've only started this unit, but there's already a bit of...dread, if not in them, then in me. So the so-called "necessity of the wars" comes into my mind. When my middle child was born, I used to read to him for a few minutes as he fell asleep. I picked Violence  by Slavoj ...

I find it disheartening that people use the term "politically correct" as a pejorative, or claiming that it has "gone too far." Like any movement, it has its ardent adherents who have more extreme takes on it, but the purpose of the concept is pretty straightforward: To consider people in their own terms. Here's my problem with refusing to be politically correct: It assert that the speaker's position is the default one, the correct one, the only one. "Why can't I call [insert minority group] a [term that is hurtful to the same group]? I've always called them [repeat the inappropriate term]! It's honoring the past of the [hurtful term]." Because there are people on the other side of that term, and what's being used is a linguistic reminder of disapproval. Native Americans, for example, are of manifold types, histories, locations, and experiences. If one must use a term to describe an enormous swath of the human experience, why insi...

There is an inherent poetry in a café (one that carries the accent over the e ), which is perhaps born more of reputation than merit. There is the gentle murmur of conversations and orders, a murmur not so different from the bustle of any other food service place, but one that feels different because it's weaving through the smells of coffee and breads, tucked between the cellophane-wrapped brews and twine-hugged gift baskets. The seats are all uneven--every one will wobble, almost as if they're custom ordered that way. Often, the wrought-iron tables have imbalanced feet, like a toddler walking after waking, or maybe a too-drunk friend as you designated-driver them from the bar to the car. The names are smug; they're foreign, yet familiar, and you have to practice to not  say "expresso" because then you'll sound like a twit. The prices are smug, too--you walked in here, so you're going to pay $2.95 for ten ounces of orange juice and crushed ice, and you...

Lately, I've noticed myself becoming crasser. My entire life, I avoided using stronger epithets than crap  or, when I was knee-deep in mission slang, I would throw around shiz  because it was scriptural and that was a thing we did. But I never said "real" swear words through my first thirty-two years of solar orbit. As of late, however, I've noticed my frustrations boiling over in the form of frothy word vomit that's muttered under my breath. I don't even swear loudly enough for it to be cathartic, which certainly raises the question of whether or not it's worth doing. But the point of today's writing isn't to chat about the fundamental absurdity of swearing--despite the fact it has an august and robust history --and instead thinking about why it bothers me that I'm swearing more. Or, rather, to poke at the concept of why I've started swearing in the first place. It comes from, I believe, a couple of things. One is certainly a greater u...