Category Archives: Bar Codes

Stop Preaching and Start Talking: “The Lost Art of Argument”

Star Wars Bar

Most USAians think they are super smart.   It’s kind of like being sophomores in the history of the world.  We think we know everything.  We bragged about what our rambunctiousness produced. But now we stopped making stuff and we think that being a weasel is our way out of everything.  The new term for this weaselness is disinformation. And now we have retreated into bubbles babbling weasel phrases amongst ourselves in chat rooms.

Rudyard Lynch has a podcast called History 102. Rudyard is wise beyond his 24 years and approaches history from an anthropological angle.  I was listening to the latest topic that he discusses with his co-host Austin Padgett.  “Explaining the Age of Neo-Liberalism”.  They explore the breakdown of society and bemoan the reality that nobody talks to each other anymore.  Rudyard makes the observation “If you can’t talk about it, you can’t think about it.” These guys are addressing our current predicament of taking the same “facts” and coming up with two or more competing film stories.

One big reason for these muddled narratives is that we don’t engage in dialogue except amongst people who we agree with rather than at “a town meeting” or cafe or watering hole where one must look neighbors in the face and try to make a point and to try to see their point.  The French, on the other hand, have their cafe society. They do their duty as citizens by talking “politics”. (“Politics” is a discussion, not a shouting match, of the way we wish to live our lives and what we enjoy and what gives our lives meaning).  The French leave work and go out to a cafe and argue about life and art. They engage in conversation and often use dialectics in search of clues to the mysteries of life. Or at least that’s the way it used to be.  When I was in grad school, after play rehearsal we would go to a bar, order pitchers of beer and discuss how we would save the world through art.  When I did Off-Off Broadway theater in New York City, we would adjourn to Peter McManus’ Irish pub around the corner from the theater and argue about the choices our characters should make.  We loved to look at all the angles and the contradictions.

But somewhere along the line those personal confrontations became fewer and fewer and didn’t seem to translate into our public lives as citizens.  Historian Christopher Lasch in his book “Revolt of the Elites and the Betrayal of Democracy” has a chapter called “The Lost Art of Argument”.  In it he writes that “what Democracy requires is vigorous public debate, not information.  Yes, we do need information but information that is “generated only by debate.”  So, he takes the “information revolution” and turns it on its head.  Information in and of itself is worthless without being debated.  “Information, usually seen as the pre-condition of debate is better understood as a by-product.”

And how do we gather these clues?  By asking questions.  We take our ideas and subject them to somebody else’s arguments.  If we passionately engage with the eagerness to learn, we may instead of changing somebody else’s mind find that we have changed our mind.  So, we must listen carefully and be willing to challenge our own beliefs and to say “Maybe what I believe may be wrong.”  How exciting and far less dull than passively taking in information from some newspaper or from so pundit.

Lasch gives a shout out to the social historian Ray Oldenburg’s “The Great Good Place” and with Oldenburg mourns the passing of the local watering hole, the cafe, the hair salon, the soda fountain steps and other places between work and home where conversations used to flourish.  These were places like the soda fountain steps where kids listened to their fathers debate a local policy with vigor and good-hearted disagreement.  Those places where professions mingled as equals are hard to find in the suburbs, but they still exist in small towns and big cities.  I was lucky to spend many years in a small town where wisdom came from caring for cows and not from a book. Democracy dies if we hide in cul-de sacs furtively taking anxiety meds as we peer out of the drawn blinds or retreat to cocktail parties or book clubs where everybody is of the same class and tows the party line “Four legs good.  Two legs bad”.  So, I suggest this year that you get out and find a Cheers bar in your neighborhood or even better, a Star Wars bar and strike up a conversation with somebody who may see things differently than you do.  If you don’t have one of those, then go to the nearest town that has one and adopt it as your own.  And for heaven’s sake don’t get your information from a newspaper.  You can get your questions there though.

Weaseltown -An Homage to Scott Adams (Written in 2013 and revised 2026)

Weaseltown

“To err is human. To cover it up is weasel.” (Scott Adams).

And so, the author and cartoonist, Scott Adams lays out his explanation of how things are in our workaday world.  In his book “Dilbert and the Way of the Weasel: A Guide to Outwitting Your Boss, Your Coworkers, and the Other Pants-Wearing Ferrets in Your life” written way back in 2002, Adams explores “The Weasel Zone”.  This is the “gigantic grey area between good moral behavior and outright felonious activities. And “it’s where most of life happens.”

He adds, “Sometimes also known as Weaselville, Weaseltown, the Way of the Weasel, Weaselopolis, Weaselburg, and Redmond.” [reference to where Microsoft is headquartered].

“In the Weasel Zone everything is misleading, but not exactly a lie. There’s a subtle difference.  When you lie, you hope to fool someone.  But when you’re being a weasel, everyone is aware that you’re a manipulative, scheming, misleading sociopath.”

When the weasel knows that you know he’s weaseling, Adams feels it is a form of honesty–“a weasel form”.  Examples that he gives are that “No one believes the engineer that says he will explain things briefly. No one believes a contractor that says the job will be done in a week… No one believes a politician who says that large contributions don’t influence his decisions.”

Political writers have called this behavior in Washington, Japanese Kabuki theater signifying a lot of bluff and bluster but it’s all staged. Around 2008, the word kayfabe popped up which is a term for the unspoken art of fakery in pro-wrestling.

A therapist friend recommended a book called “Mistakes Were Made (But Not By Me) by Tavris and Aronson.  I read a couple chapters and then skimmed through the rest. The premise in “Mistakes” is that people use a lot of self-justification to defend bad decisions or hurtful behavior.  Another phrase for this is “cognitive dissonance”. 

But Scott Adams’ book is much more fun than the Tavris and Aronson book. He doesn’t pussy foot around.   Plus, it’s got cartoons

I don’t think those guys are Jungians. The physician, Carl Jung, saw that people were different as did many physicians like Hippocrates. It was a simple as that. People different from me aren’t bad, they are just different.  People are born with a certain kind of hardware, he reasoned.   They are maybe a MacOS or Microsoft Windows or some kind of Linux.  We are born with preferences in the way we take in information, how we make decisions based on that information and where we get our energy from i.e the outside world of people and places or by being alone with oneself.  As we grow up our family, friends and work act like software.  They enhance or inhibit our growth as a unique human.  Jung recommended working on our own strengths, our preferences until well into our twenties.  Then we should try to get in other people’s shoes and try to understand them from their point of view.  He called that individuation.  I call it growing up.

For the record, Adams is a critic of the Jungian psychological test known as the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator.  “The idea is that people can be categorized by personality type and you can work with them better if you take that into account.  Okay, I buy that. My quibble with the theory is that if you aren’t bright enough to know that people have different personalities, you’re asking a lot of the Myers-Briggs training to get you over the hump. My second quibble is that their personality categories don’t include weasel, moron, or flaming butt-hole.  I don’t know about you, but I rarely have problems with any other type of personality.”

This is exactly what my rancher husband says every time I talk about someone that displays no empathy.  I try to explain it by personality type or Asperger’s.  Rancher will say, “He’s just a”butt-hole”.  But rancher theory breaks down when his own friend displays butt-holeness.  “Oh, he means well,” or “he’s a good guy”.  See that’s what we hear every day on the news about politicians.  “He has good intentions, I’m sure”.  Really?  Really?  Well that gets into defending your tribe or being a particular male way of looking at friendship.  And that’s another essay.

So, this is where I’m supposed to come up with some uplifting idea or advice.  I learned this from Scott Adams too.  Adams advice is to embrace the inevitable and go weasel. (He may be winking a bit with this advice.) But I’m one of those who is still part of the resistance.  So here goes my uplifting advice: living in Weaseltown works for most people.  Again, to err is human, but to cover up the mistake is weasel.  They go with the flow. They talk themselves into a peaceful conformity. But for we few, we happy few who feel exhilarated by using curiosity and self-examination to discover the man behind the curtain, it’s time to put on our flippers and goggles because we need to get into that river once again and start swimming upstream as difficult as that may be. But we could also channel the Scott Adams of his book “Win Bigly: Persuasion in a World Where Facts Don’t Matter”” and try to persuade the others that the non weasel way might be the best way to get you where you’re going.

More of The Tao of Cow

Montana Storm

Cowboy Clay made this observation recently: “Montanans don’t get outraged. They get bothered.”

This was in response to my query about how I should feel about the latest documentary on the frontier called Kevin Costner’s ‘The West'”. The chapter on the Lewis and Clark expedition didn’t look like around here which is in the middle of Montana along the Yellowstone River. From the ranch, I can almost see where the expedition overnighted. They wrote that they had to use two trees to make one canoe, the trees being pretty scrawny and there weren’t that many of them. But in this retelling, the expedition seemed to be traveling through a lot of greenery and whole bunch of trees. It’s not like that here. So I tried to ask an AI where the locations were and couldn’t get an answer. I casually mentioned to rancher husband that I was rather outraged as a Montanan of thirty years that they didn’t get “where the plains meet the mountains” right. I was quite proud of my observation. That’s when he reminded me that Montanans are never outraged. They are bothered. And he added “Pilgrim” at the end to also remind me that I still had a bit of midwestern Puritan harumphing in me and that I had a ways to go to understand that Tao of Cow.

Where the Plains Meet the Mountain

“The Passing Art of Neighborliness” – Police Report from a Small Town July 2020

Nuts

Nuts – A Poem

I love the train. Maybe I will just ride it all week long.
Back and forth from wherever. Makes me less nuts.
Less glitches than flying although last week the train I take hit a man and killed him just North of Hudson, NY. What was he doing on the track at night?
Someone killed a squirrel in front of my house. I felt bad. Who else will mourn Mr. Squirrel. Just me and Mrs. Squirrel. The vultures came and there is just a splat this morning.
Did your plane get delayed due to the “flight planning software glitch”?
Is that what happened to Mr. Squirrel? A car avoidance software glitched?
Or was it murder?
Or was he just tired of looking for nuts?

Catskill Cassandra. April 1, 2019

Daphne in the Doghouse

The winds had howled louder than any pack of coyotes and wolves put together.  Those winds had taken the foot of snow that fell in the night and hurled it on to the last bit of road out of the ranch. As Daphne listened,  the howling began to morph into yelling.  Phrases like “Montana sucks in winter” and “You are crazy as hell and you’re not going to take it anymore, are you?” and, of course, “We gotta get out of this place, if it’s the last thing we ever do,” came screaming at her from outside.    MEMO0003

Earlier in the day, she had got out and got back albeit with a bit of maneuvering.  So she thought that 4 hours later it might still be possible to get out.  Of course, there was always the “upper gate”.  This is the gate next to the cattle guard which opens up into the North pasture that borders the frontage road.  Once thru this gate it’s fairly easy to ride over the rocky yet level field and go out another gate on to the frontage road.  This is never “drifted in”.  However, for 20 years Daphne has complained that the “gate” is impossible for her to close.  It’s really really tight.  She can get it open, but then can’t get the darn post back in it’s wire hoop. Plus she can’t open the barbed wire gate without shredding her good coat.  Since fashion is always more of a consideration that practicality, Daphne prefers to try to go out the main entrance.

But even Daphne had become practical in the last two weeks since the weather has been just terrible with snow drifting and temperatures in the teens and lower, demanding that she wise up.  So, she took to carrying a Carhartt canvas jacket in the front seat just in case she had to open the upper gate. She still couldn’t close the thing, but the cows are mostly way down the other pasture and rarely come up to this gate, so it’s safe to leave it open for an hour or two.

Even so, as Daphne neared the cattle guard and seeing that Cowboy Clay had not opened the upper gate, she decided to plow her way through the drifts.  Recklessly, she gunned the motor of the All Road and drove over the cattle guard and into the first drift which was a tad bit harder and less fluffy than she thought.  Her heart lept to her throat as the car came to a dead stop in the next drift. Continue reading

”Shit Happens” Example #2: The Blown Up Bull

Daphne hadn’t been in Montana long and had only been with Clay less than a year when the phone rang.

”Is Clay around,” said the man on the other line.

”No, he’s in town, “Daphne answered.

”Well, this is Soot and I was irrigating and saw that Clay’s black bull blew up.”

Daphne, for once, was at a loss for words.

“I’ll get ahold of him and tell him, Soot,” she murmured.

“Yeh, he don’t look too good,” Soot replied.

“Yeh, I bet, “ she sighed, “Well, thanks.”

She hung up the phone and called Clay.

“I’ve got some  bad news, Clay,” she cried, “Soot said your bull blew up!”

“Oh, shit,” he said.

”Who would do such a thing, Clay?

“What are you talking about?”

“Well who would blow up a bull?  A teenager?   Or did he step on a land mine and why would there be land mines?  Do you use dynamite to blow up tree stumps? Oh that’s stupid, ” she babbled.

”His dick blew up.  He didn’t blow up. He broke it breeding a cow and now it’s swollen.”

Oh,  I didn’t know you could break that.  Well is that better than being blown to smithereens?

“What do you think?”

“I guess not.”

“Shit happens.”

“Indeed it does.”

 

Bad Dudes

IMG_0935Woke up Monday morning to the news that two fugitives were holed up somewhere around Big Twig.  They were on the run and had abandoned their car and headed into the hills.  At around Noon, word was that they might be heading South on the Boulder Road.  That’s a mile from the ranch.

My husband, to be mild, is not an alarmist.  I’ve never seen him “jumpy” unless somebody comes up to him from behind.  He is one of the most laid back dudes I’ve ever met.  So when I saw him lock the door, I was a bit surprised.

“I don’t want to be alone here when you go out to feed (the cattle bales of hay),” I mewed.

With that he went into the other room and came back with the Colt.

“You can pull back on the trigger and it will fire.  But it will be hard to pull.  So you can also cock the gun and then pull the trigger, ” he said as he laid the gun on my desk.

I just stared at him. Continue reading

That’s Just Mean

IMG_1384

Daphne had been laying awake at break of dawn because Mr. Robin Redbreast had started his infernal tweeting even earlier.  She remembered listening to the rattling of the garbage trucks in New York City as they made their way down Columbus Avenue early in the morning when she had lived there many years ago.  She had gotten used to them and they rarely woke her up.  But Mr. Harbinger of Spring, was another story.  She had to resort to ear plugs to get a good night sleep.  She fell asleep wondering if the robin felt any ill will toward her or whether anthropomorphizing was ever a good idea.

But anyway it was time to get up and don her bathing suit, slip on a bathrobe and sandals, grab her beach towel and head to the 6AM water aerobics class in town. As she drove up to the city park, other women were getting out of their cars, also in long bathrobes, waddling their way up to the door of the tiny pool house like a gaggle of geese.

There were already a bevy of bathing beauties in the teeny pool. And soon the  class of nineteen ladies would fill it three quarters full.  As always, the usual gabfest was going on as they pumped their styrofoam dumbbells and did the Water Jog.  (The gabfest was what really attracted Daphne to the class as it was a great source of information on all kinds of news.)  The first topic was last night’s Jeopardy category of “The Simpsons” (way too hard unless you were a Simpsons’ fan or a crossword puzzle enthusiast) to the joy of eating hot dogs.

Daphne found the hot dog discussion particularly interesting.  These tough rural and ranch gals wanted little to do with sausages that they had not made themselves, normally from the elk they had shot in hunting season.  When Daphne had moved to Little Twig twenty years ago, she was surprised that her rancher husband ate every kind of meat except hot dogs and veal because he “knew too much about how they are made” to be comfortable with devouring those delicacies.  And these women too wanted no part of mystery meat.  Oddly enough, three of us had hot dogs yesterday for lunch.

Earleen said that she hadn’t had a hot dog in two years, but suddenly found herself buying and scarfing one down yesterday.  Gail said that sometimes a hot dog is the best thing on a hot day like yesterday.

The water aerobics instructor, Sharon, yelled out (and she had to yell over the din of the class’s chattering hot dog talk), “OK, let’s switch to the Bicycle!”

As Daphne started to bicycle sideways and swirling her dumbbells, she said, “I bought some organic hot dogs at the Community Coop” and ate one yesterday too.”

Gail snorted, “Organic?  A Hot Dog?”

Daphne said, “OK, it just says it doesn’t have anything too obnoxious in them and the cows are grass-fed.”

Gail said, “I’ll stick to my elk.  We put up 500 pounds last fall.”

“That’s a lot of sausage,” Earleen replied.

“Yup”.

Sharon yelled out, “Lawn Chair!” and the women started laying out flat and then tucking their tummies in.

Suddenly one of the Ospreys that live in the park swooped over the gals.  She was carrying a twig in her mouth.

“Look, they’re building a new nest on that telephone pole,” said Becky.

Earleen looked perplexed, “What’s wrong with the old nest on the other pole over there?”

“I heard that they lost their eggs in the hail storm last week,”Gail replied sadly.

“Yes, and then a bald eagle decided to take it for himself,” Sharon said indignantly.

“Well, that’s just mean,” Earleen retorted.

For once, the pool was quiet and all that could be heard was the swish, swish, swish of mermaids and their dumbbells.

Daphne quietly paddled in the opposite direction and wondered if her robin also “was just mean”.  “No”, she thought, “he just can’t help himself.  It was going to be a beautiful day in Big Sky Country and he just had to sing about it.”  And yes, what a warm and uncomplicated way to start the day.  Paddling around with big- hearted gals and determined ospreys.

 

Take This With a Grain of Salt

            December 27, 2014 (Revised June 2020)

TAKE THIS WITH A GRAIN OF SALT       December 27, 2014 (Revised May 2020)

It was now turning twilight and Daphne was bursting with cabin fever.  So, she donned her fur hat, jumped in the car, and drove through the softly falling snow.  It was dark by the time she arrived at the Best of Both Worlds Bar and Grill.  The neon light sputtered on and off as she climbed out of the car and into a foot of snow.  She tramped up to the door and enteredThis bar was where literary devices and characters hung out like the space creatures in Star Wars.  She loved this place.

A strange old coot, who was all ears, was sitting in his usual spot by the wood burning stove, rocking back and forth.  In a booth in the back a prairie dog was making scribbling away like usual.  He was busy  working on his masterpiece *“Notes from Underground”. There was a two-headed creature sipping a drink at the end of the bar.  Or was that a tow-headed woman?  Daphne’s glasses had fogged over.  Yes, of course, it was her friend Lara who seemed to have leapt straight out of the pages of Dr. Zhivago.  She was dressed all in white fur and looked like a vanilla éclair.  Daphne stomped her snow coated boots together to get the large clumps off as she walked into the room.   She slid on to the bar stool next to Lara. 

 “What’ll it be tonight, Daphne?” asked Claudia, the bar tender who had eyes in the back of her head (which never ceased to amaze Daphne.)

 “Oh, before I forget, here’s some fresh eggs.  I put them all in one basket, so be careful,” she warned Claudia with a grin.

Claudia turned around and smiled as she slid a bourbon in front of Daphne, “Victoria is back in town and staying at the hotel.  She’s upstairs.”

Daphne wrinkled her nose and said, “Oh, dear, she makes me crazy.  She’s got that monkey on her back.”

“Oh, so what’s her issue?” Lara asked, ” She an Alcoholic?  A Passive-aggressive?  A Democrat?”

“No, no, no, she’s got a real monkey on her back.  And he’s a pain in the ass.  He’s got a big chip on his shoulder. ” replied Daphne.

“Ah, now I’m with you, exclaimed Lara, “The real monkey on her back has a real chip on his shoulder. How does he keep it from falling off?”

“No, the chip part is a figure of speech; an idiom.   The chimp seems pissed off most of the time and that makes it down in the mouth which in turn makes it hard for Victoria to shake it off.”

“Maybe he was the black sheep of the family,” Claudia guffawed.

“Well, that’s probably the elephant in the room,” Daphne smiled as she meandered over to the front window.

[Sound of an elephant trumpeting and a monkey squealing.

A big blonde woman rushes in from the lobby with a monkey on her back.]

“I didn’t know the circus was in town, ” Daphne said as she looked out at the street.

“Are you talking about me or my monkey?” the blonde retorted.

“No, it looks like the circus has come to town.  There’s an elephant in the street,” Daphne frowned.  “Strange time of year for a circus.  The dead of winter,” she muttered. “Of course, technically the dead of winter was December 21st so we are a week past that, but pretty close.”

Whenever Daphne started to meander it was time for somebody to jump in and switch gears.

“Speaking of winter, has everybody made their New Year’s resolutions?” Lara declared.

“No, I’m still working on what I am thankful for.  I’m a couple holidays behind,” Daphne sighed.

Just then the door opened with a blast of cold air and Thor strode in.  He dropped his hammer and cried out, ” Good evening and almost happy New Year to you all,” he cried.  “What are we talking about?”

“Resolutions,” said Lara.

“Yes, I used to make the garden-variety kind of resolves such as quit drinking, exercise more…you know, the healthy deal,” Thor declared, “but now I don’t bother with it.”

“I was reading a blog on that very thing this morning,” Daphne said smiling.  “One fellow said that he decided the best thing to do was bundle everything up into one command.  His was “don’t be a dick”. 

“Then that would be a dic…tum, wouldn’t it?” Claudia mused in order to get everybody back on track.

“Did you see the size of that elephant’s dic…tum?” Thor said with a grin.

“So it’s not my imagination.  There is an elephant in the street,” Daphne declared.

“Yes, the circus is on their way south for the winter,” Thor replied.

“Maybe they could use my monkey and me,” Victoria reasoned.

Just then Curiosity came through the door.

“Well, I just killed a cat.  I didn’t mean to but it was raining cats and dogs and one of those darn cats bounced off the hood of my pickup.”

With that Daphne decided to put her coat back on and downed her drink,  It was time to call it quits before the Piper who had not been paid showed up and stole Thor’s thunder.

PLEASE CONTINUE WITH YOUR OWN LITERARY DEVICES. I’M ALL EARS.

* A bit of history: I stole this from Tim Monich who sent me a copy of a new translation of Dostoevsky’s “Notes from Underground” in 1997.  The inscription read “Happy Birthday, Di! (No this is not a biological study of Prairie Dog City).  Love, Tim.”  There is a tourist attraction in Grey Cliff, Montana called Prairie Dog Town where Tim had visited with his family when filming “Far and Away”.

 

P.S. I wasted almost as much time on this little piece as I did making my cow talk using “My Talking Pet”.  This is driving everybody nuts.  Montana entered Covid 19-Phase 2 (like Phase 3 in other places) this week, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything much different except Daphne can sit at a high top instead of at a booth at The Grand Restaurant and Bar.  She will be reporting on the evolution of seating arrangements soon.   Oh and, as of Monday, everybody who comes here no longer has to self-quarantine for 14 days.  But don’t tell anybody I told you.