Ann Coulter

        Ann Coulter, a conservative commentator on several television networks, made a rude remark about President Obama during his third debate with Mitt Romney. She tweeted, "I highly approve of Romney's decision to be kind and gentle to the retard."

         An athlete in this year's Special Olympics, a man with Down's Syndrome, John Franklin Stevens, wrote an incredibly moving and articulate blog post, asking Coulter to reconsider the use of the word, "retard,"and to moderate her speech  - inviting her to attend the Special Olympics and to learn more about the disabled. Coulter then doubled down with her invective on Alan Colmes' Fox News Radio show on Thursday, lashing out at Mr. Stevens and others who were offended by her tweet.  Coulter dismissed her critics as the "word police."

        “Oh, screw them,” she said. “That’s what they feel I do? I feel they’re being authoritarian bullying victims.”

         I had a hard time understanding her. She takes such glee in causing emotional injury; she's like a teenaged "mean girl" - except she's fifty years old! At first, I thought that she had no empathy, an accusation that is commonly leveled at people on the autism spectrum. Her behavior is very different, however, so used Wikipedia to look up sociopathy.

        Wikipedia cites the International Statistical Classification of Diseases and Related Health Problems, 10th edition, from the World Health Organization, defines a related disorder, "dissocial personality disorder." It is "characterized by at least three of the following symptoms:
             1. Callous unconcern for the feelings of others.
             2. Gross and persistent attitude of irresponsibility and disregard for  social norms, rules, and obligations.
             3. Incapacity to maintain enduring relationships, though having no difficulty in establishing them.
             4. Very low tolerance to frustration and a low threshold for discharge of agression, including violence.
             5. Incapacity to experience guilt or to profit from experience, particularly punishment.
             6. Markedly prone to blame others or to offer plausible rationalizations for the behavior that has brought the person into conflict with society.

There may be persistent irritability as an associated feature."

          There you have it. Ann Coulter certainly has a callous disregard for the feelings of others, indeed, she has repeatedly taken pleasure in crushing the feelings of her political enemies and anyone who defends them or their ideas. In so doing, she has exhibited a persistent and gross disregard for appropriate behavior in a civilized society. She has never married and has no children although she has, by all accounts, been involved in a number of short-term relationships. She is incapable of feeling guilt about her words and actions and she routinely blames others in order to rationalize her behavior, showing a low tolerance for frustration, lashing out as she did in this case when she is corrected, however gently. I've never seen her offer physical violence but she is an emotional atomic bomb. And she certainly seems irritable, every time I've seen her on television (admittedly, not often, as I tend to change the channel to avoid hate-mongers).

        I'm NOT a psychiatrist. However, I don't need to be a biologist to recognize a female dog when I see one. It is my opinion, as a human being, that Ann Coulter is missing a large part (if not all) of her soul. I would pity her if she wasn't so poisonous and so influential. She may well be a sociopath. She certainly acts like one.

Then, my arms melted….

At a neighbor’s tag sale last week, I was reminded of an event from my work for Ace Frehley, which was reinforced by an internet meme today, so here’s my story.

Ace wanted to have the effects modified in the lit guitar. He only ever used a single pattern and sometimes, the controls got bumped while he was playing. He wanted them disabled. John and I drove down to Providence, Rhode Island, where KISS was playing that night. Once we got there, it was apparent that the smoker also needed some work. We hadn’t brought the special wire that it needed – the insulation on ordinary wires wasn’t sturdy enough for the temperatures inside the smoker so Teflon-coated wire was needed - but even it was damaged over time. The closest source for Teflon wire was back in Wilbraham, at Industrial Components Corporation, just down the road from us but a five hour round trip from Providence, and there wasn’t enough time to go back before the show! John called our neighbor’s son, Ronny, who was only too eager to pick up the wire and drive to Providence immediately if it meant that he could meet Ace and see the show from backstage.

Ronny arrived about two hours before show time – plenty of time for John to replace the wiring in the smoker. I couldn’t do anything with the lit guitar before the show as it had to be recharged and there wasn’t enough time to do it twice; Ace always wanted a full charge on the battery or the lights would die before the end of the song. I was hungry; I’d been hanging out at the venue since 10 AM and hadn’t eaten any breakfast before we left the house. It was dinner time and I wanted food! John had promised that we would get a good dinner (I wanted seafood) but there just wasn’t time to go and return before the show. I considered running out for a grinder but John pointed out the crew buffet in a nearby dressing room.

I found a paper plate and napkins, extracted a breast from one of the rotisserie chickens with my jackknife, selected a roll and buttered it to make a sandwich with the meat, and considered the available drinks. The pickings were thin; there were a few cans of Coke but I only drank Diet Coke. A full pitcher of orange juice was covered by plastic wrap and large plastic glasses were laid out nearby. I filled a glass, grabbed a handful of M&Ms from the bowl, and sat down to consume my dinner. 

Ace strolled in, asked me if the juice was freshly squeezed – it was. He poured himself a glass, too, grabbed some chicken, then left to get ready for the concert. I refilled my glass and dumped a handful of M&Ms into a napkin and returned to help John. He wasn’t hungry and asked where the juice came from. John had a piece of chicken breast, too, and informed me that he never consumed anything that wasn’t sealed – drinks in cans or processed snacks – at concerts. It was too late now, so I ignored his concern for the moment. I was wrong.

About 45 minutes later, I felt dizzy. Things didn’t look right. I’ve always seen lines coming from bright lights but the lines started to have more colored highlights. I also saw stop-motion effects, something I’ve never seen except when running a high fever. I knew that I’d been drugged. I went out to watch the concert. The bright lights were fun to watch but Ace, uncharacteristically, wasn’t playing well; he seemed to be tripping, too. I lay down across some chairs backstage for a while but eventually, the lit guitar had been used and Ace had switched to another guitar. I could go to work.

My arms were melting. I kept having to pick my hands up, off of the floor, and it was hard to hold tools and John told me to just pack everything up. I took the lit guitar home to fix it, but I only had a few days before the next gig, so I didn’t have enough time to make it a pretty fix.

Getting into the car, I was afraid that my arms would stretch so far I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands inside. I was sure my hands would be left on the ground, outside the car, and my stretchy arms would get run over by the tires - my hands would be amputated. How would I ever fix the guitar with no hands? John assured me that he wouldn’t let that happen and he got in and drove up home. I tried to sleep on the ride but all of the lights kept distracting me. I watched them with closed eyes. Eventually, we got home and went to bed. My arms were better the next day and I was able to start the guitar job.

I don’t remember exactly what was wrong with it but I think the microprocessor was acting up or not working correctly. After further consultation with John, I removed the entire microprocessor board and supporting devices, and replaced it with an octal counter and a few other components. An octal counter is a device that counts to eight, over and over again. Since the lit guitar had eight sections of bulbs (seven bars plus the border), and Ace only used the pattern that just marched the lit segments in order, lighting one chunk at a time from the neck to the base, then flashed the border, the octal counter was much simpler circuitry than the original microprocessor – a single (small) chip and a couple of components versus a circuit board full of large chips, half a dozen switches, and wires like a plateful of spaghetti. I didn't discard the board and still have the original circuitry in my collection of electronics.

There were a number of switches built into the side of the guitar, fastened by an aluminum bezel that I had made, years before; I removed all of them and covered the holes in the bezel with a single strip of black electrical tape. There wasn’t enough time for me to make up a new aluminum bezel before Ace needed the guitar back for the next gig.

So, when I ran into Ronny at his mother’s tag sale last week, he reminded me of the part he played in getting the smoker fixed. That and meeting Ace were highlights of his youth and no one ever believed him that they had occurred. He introduced me to his girlfriend and I reassured her that Ronny was not making it up. I’m not sure she believed me, either, but at least Ronny felt better that day. Then, an internet meme about acid today reminded me again of how my arms melted when I needed to work, which prompted this blog entry.

I don't understand

What does it mean when someone tells you that they are a “fashion photographer?” I met a very pleasant young man tonight and that’s what he told me. He had a friend and a model with him, helping him out in redecorating his new studio space. The model was a waif-like young woman with huge eyes and a limp handshake. They were nice enough but I could tell that they were utterly bewildered by me and what I do. The feeling was mutual.

The photographer showed me some photos on his iPad that he that he had taken; they consisted of dramatic poses by various models, often focusing on their facial features, particularly their overly made-up eyes. The contrast between light and shadow was particularly effective in creating drama but I thought that fashion photography was supposed to highlight clothing, not the model. I’ve seen similar poses in various magazines and I often don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking at - unless the picture is part of an ad. Then, the advertiser or accompanying text can give a clue if the product isn’t obvious.

But what am I supposed to make of the series of pretty young women with overly dramatic eyes, all wearing size zero clothing? A few were in filmy dresses, translucent skirts attractively billowing in a fan-induced breeze. Most were dressed in yoga pants and blouses – nothing interesting, the clothes just used to highlight their stereotypically model/whip-thin bodies. Nonetheless, I complimented him on the pictures; they were attractive. I just didn’t see what distinguished them in terms of fashion.

What IS a fashion photographer? I understand the photographer part, but what differentiates this “fashion” photographer from a portrait photographer? I don’t get it.