Explications and factifications 'round his explanations of his "feelings"

Last Wednesday while watching a tribute to George Carlin, they ran a clip of his take on post traumatic stress syndrome.
The theme of the bit was the euphemism.
WW1 called it "shell shock".
WW2 called it "battle fatigue"
Korea it was ummm. "mission fatigue" (sic)
Anyway now they're calling it "post traumatic stress syndrome"

The punchline was "maybe if they still called it "shell shock" we could get some care for the soldiers who suffer it".

This brought tears to my eyes and I was almost sobbing.
Even though I've never suffered anything like it and have no need of any kind of care or support.

But then, on thinking about my historical reading, I remembered that in WW1 it was often just called "cowardice" and the cure was shooting.
Even after the war, many of these "cowards" were tried an sentenced to death.

It was WW2 that saw the last "coward" shot.

And now, in the latest New Yorker I read an article about tinnitus.
Tinnitus is a ringing in the ears, often caused by exposure to loud noises.
Rock stars get it.
Heavy equipment operators get it.

The Army now considers it a disability.

So George, brilliant as he is, is full of shit.

And my reaction was totally inappropriate.

A similar thing happened while watching a DVD about Saint Pete Seegar and his mission to get folks together for the healing of the worlds self inflicted wounds.
Yeah though he healed the Hudson river, we still managed to have the Bush years.
So, community for the good of humanity is just as ineffective as...as...well, prayer.

A musical weekend, this last.
Simple Measures at the Chapel on Fri.
A good show, a bit over priced.
Meredith was trying not to like it but enjoyed the music nontheless.
The guitarist, notwithstanding his obvious talent, was not Jimi Hendrix.
Jimi Hendrix did not have bar lines in his music.

Then Saturday, we watched the Pete Seegar DVD, wherein I experienced some of those "feeling" thingies mainly when I heard Joan Baez's voice and Bob Dylan's raw earthy sound.
Taking me back to my salad days in LA where I was a hobo-class itinerant wrench for an auto repair shop.
There was no dressing on that salad.

Sunday We visited a social highland neighborhood of Seattle for a performance of the Philharmonia Northwest's orchestra.

Brahm's piano concerto and Beethoven's eighth symphony.

The Brahms was loud ameliorated by even more loud.
I don't especially like Brahms, it's all a bit too mushy for me.
Too much like he was writing solely for the purpose of not being Beethoven.
Which is pretty much like writing music without writing music.

Something I can do accidentally.

The Beethoven was Beethoven, soft, loud, sweet, silly, bombastic, subtle, ridiculous,
profound, all repeated in every bar.

Then, later that same day, at the book group meeting, we discussed the movie "Lars and the real girl" wherein Lars cures his post traumatic stress syndrome and that of his entire community by encouraging all to play with dolls.

The movie was good, the discussion was good, the food was good, and I remembered to bring the chips and beer.
Although every body in the group drinks wine.
I've got nothing against wine, I just feel it incumbent on me to honor my blue-collarness with the appropriate libation.

And also use high flying rhetoric to try to distance myself from that social position.

See ya later, pal.