Common Sense / Horse Sense

One of my coworkers, a fellow about my age, likes to harp on the foolishness of academics compared to regular folks like (apparently) himself. “Went to college,” he says complacently of some of the students, “but didn’t learn a thing.” It’s true, he’s a practical person, with technical training and some college, and I envy him the knowledge he has that I don’t. But then, I feel the same way about everyone who knows something I don’t, which is just about everybody. I wish I could open the hood of a car and know everything my father could know by looking and listening and poking around in there. He could also hunt and fish, grow vegetables, do carpentry and painting, and more – any number of practical, useful things that I never applied myself to learn. My coworker has a lot of the same skills and knowledge, and he reminds me sometimes of my father. (He also reminds me of my younger brother, who is more like our father in this respect than any of the rest of us).

But I’ve learned to be skeptical about “common sense”, as so many people call it. I’ve pointed out to my coworker that “common sense” sometimes means “what everybody knows,” and what everybody knows is often false. And non-academics don’t necessarily have good sense: I’ve known too many people who got no further than high school, yet can’t hold a job, won’t walk out of abusive relationships, can’t pay the rent even when they have money, to believe that lack of education makes you smarter. What you learn in school is something else; it doesn’t take other knowledge away from you. It may be useful for other ends, or it may be an end in itself.

My coworker recently told me that the Constitution forbids the income tax, for example – a fairly popular myth among the Real People, I’ve found, but a myth nonetheless. (Article I, Section 9, of the Constitution declares that “No capitation, or other direct, Tax shall be laid, unless in Proportion to the Census or Enumeration herein before directed to be taken”, and the Sixteenth Amendment explicitly grants to Congress the power to lay and collect income taxes; but even more telling, my coworker seemed to have trouble grasping that amendments alter the Constitution, and can override its provisions.)

He also told me that Charles Darwin wrote that if any biological unit smaller than the cell were ever discovered, his theory of natural selection would collapse beyond repair. I can’t say for certain that Darwin never wrote this, but thanks to the power of the Internet I could search the full text of two different editions of The Origin of Species, and the few references I found to cells don’t say anything like this. I found, though, that Darwin did say something similar on some other topics – but this was a rhetorical move he used before showing that his theory could explain what his critics might think it couldn’t explain.

To his credit, my coworker acknowledged, when I told him what I found in Darwin, that he’d probably remembered things wrong. As I get older, I find that I have to go back and recheck what I think I remember, because my memory is so faulty. I’m not sure that’s necessarily a function of age, though, as anyone who spends time around children will recognize: their memories are also highly porous and distorting. At most it’s just a result of trying to remember things I read forty or more years ago – hardly surprising that I don’t remember it accurately at such a remove.

I don’t have much common sense, and that seems like a good thing to me. I’ve found so often that what was obvious to most people was not obvious to me (and vice versa), and that I did well to trust my intuition, because what was obvious to most people was frequently false. It was obvious to most people, when I was growing up, that Negroes were not the same as white people and couldn’t be equal; it was obvious that women and men were fundamentally different -- and women just naturally couldn’t throw a baseball or fix an engine or be a philosopher, while men just naturally couldn’t cook or clean house or change a diaper; it was obvious that homosexuals were at best weird, doomed creatures who could never be happy. It was obvious that we were in Vietnam because our allies there had asked us to help them defend themselves against Communist aggression, and it was obvious that Americans who criticized that war were at best misusing the precious freedom of speech Americans have (but should never use); at worst they were dirty Reds who wanted Ho Chi Minh and Castro to invade and conquer America without firing a shot. More recent obviousness can be left as an exercise to the reader, I hope, though you might practice on this amazing bit from one blogger’s recent attack on another blogger:

It [“the important battle before us”] is about slowing down the Radical neo-conservative ultra Imperalists in our current government. And that battle is won by defeating the Republican party.

It is about winning the class war in
America by defeating the Republican party.

It is about defanging the racist, sexist, corrupt Republican party and bringing our soldiers home. PERIOD

“Common sense” is sometimes also called “horse sense,” but that would be the kind of sense that makes horses run back into a burning barn.

Common Sense / Horse Sense

One of my coworkers, a fellow about my age, likes to harp on the foolishness of academics compared to regular folks like (apparently) himself. “Went to college,” he says complacently of some of the students, “but didn’t learn a thing.” It’s true, he’s a practical person, with technical training and some college, and I envy him the knowledge he has that I don’t. But then, I feel the same way about everyone who knows something I don’t, which is just about everybody. I wish I could open the hood of a car and know everything my father could know by looking and listening and poking around in there. He could also hunt and fish, grow vegetables, do carpentry and painting, and more – any number of practical, useful things that I never applied myself to learn. My coworker has a lot of the same skills and knowledge, and he reminds me sometimes of my father. (He also reminds me of my younger brother, who is more like our father in this respect than any of the rest of us).

But I’ve learned to be skeptical about “common sense”, as so many people call it. I’ve pointed out to my coworker that “common sense” sometimes means “what everybody knows,” and what everybody knows is often false. And non-academics don’t necessarily have good sense: I’ve known too many people who got no further than high school, yet can’t hold a job, won’t walk out of abusive relationships, can’t pay the rent even when they have money, to believe that lack of education makes you smarter. What you learn in school is something else; it doesn’t take other knowledge away from you. It may be useful for other ends, or it may be an end in itself.

My coworker recently told me that the Constitution forbids the income tax, for example – a fairly popular myth among the Real People, I’ve found, but a myth nonetheless. (Article I, Section 9, of the Constitution declares that “No capitation, or other direct, Tax shall be laid, unless in Proportion to the Census or Enumeration herein before directed to be taken”, and the Sixteenth Amendment explicitly grants to Congress the power to lay and collect income taxes; but even more telling, my coworker seemed to have trouble grasping that amendments alter the Constitution, and can override its provisions.)

He also told me that Charles Darwin wrote that if any biological unit smaller than the cell were ever discovered, his theory of natural selection would collapse beyond repair. I can’t say for certain that Darwin never wrote this, but thanks to the power of the Internet I could search the full text of two different editions of The Origin of Species, and the few references I found to cells don’t say anything like this. I found, though, that Darwin did say something similar on some other topics – but this was a rhetorical move he used before showing that his theory could explain what his critics might think it couldn’t explain.

To his credit, my coworker acknowledged, when I told him what I found in Darwin, that he’d probably remembered things wrong. As I get older, I find that I have to go back and recheck what I think I remember, because my memory is so faulty. I’m not sure that’s necessarily a function of age, though, as anyone who spends time around children will recognize: their memories are also highly porous and distorting. At most it’s just a result of trying to remember things I read forty or more years ago – hardly surprising that I don’t remember it accurately at such a remove.

I don’t have much common sense, and that seems like a good thing to me. I’ve found so often that what was obvious to most people was not obvious to me (and vice versa), and that I did well to trust my intuition, because what was obvious to most people was frequently false. It was obvious to most people, when I was growing up, that Negroes were not the same as white people and couldn’t be equal; it was obvious that women and men were fundamentally different -- and women just naturally couldn’t throw a baseball or fix an engine or be a philosopher, while men just naturally couldn’t cook or clean house or change a diaper; it was obvious that homosexuals were at best weird, doomed creatures who could never be happy. It was obvious that we were in Vietnam because our allies there had asked us to help them defend themselves against Communist aggression, and it was obvious that Americans who criticized that war were at best misusing the precious freedom of speech Americans have (but should never use); at worst they were dirty Reds who wanted Ho Chi Minh and Castro to invade and conquer America without firing a shot. More recent obviousness can be left as an exercise to the reader, I hope, though you might practice on this amazing bit from one blogger’s recent attack on another blogger:

It [“the important battle before us”] is about slowing down the Radical neo-conservative ultra Imperalists in our current government. And that battle is won by defeating the Republican party.

It is about winning the class war in
America by defeating the Republican party.

It is about defanging the racist, sexist, corrupt Republican party and bringing our soldiers home. PERIOD

“Common sense” is sometimes also called “horse sense,” but that would be the kind of sense that makes horses run back into a burning barn.

Last day in Bali (Kuta)

We arrive in Kuta from Lovina in the afternoon. We decide to stay in Poppies lane 2 because at first we could compare it from Poppies lane 1, theres much better guest house and much cleaner and more options on poppies lane 2.
After check in we went for lunch at Kuta beach food court


Because its too hot so we decide to eat inside the food court. Its not so busy hours so theres not really that crowded. But i could see that this place could be packed in certain hours.



We went to Discovery Mall first to look up some clothes but then, euuuhhh.. a bit pricey there !!
So we end up shopping in Matahari (yay!). On the way to Discovery mall i saw the huge sling shot. I glance at Peter, and he say "NO". I laugh hard, i love this.... hahaha but i didn't try it.. just look at peoples who dare enough to do the sling shot... its so high !!! fun !


Kuta at night... this is what i call night life ! its feels like i'm in phuket but with indonesian language ! bars with loud music... motorcycle.. cars .. tourist.. cafe.. all the lights and sound.. also the sound of the wave on the beach.. ahhhh.. i could stay here forever... i don't feel strange why lots of expatriate want to live here...


When passing Hard Rock Cafe i see this (sorry its blurry picture) "And in the end the love we take is equal to the love we made" Beattles. Cool !


We went dining at Food Court in Kuta beach. Listening to music and i order coconut... yums...



We went back to the hostel at nearly 10.30 pm. Too tired..... Early morning its raining.. and we went to the beach...




We had our last morning walk at beach to see sunrise.. its not the best spot.. but its our last walk on the beach. Its raining really hard last night. We headed to Kuta beach from Poppies lane 1.


Theres few morning surfers already at beach (isn't they feel cold some how?)
Some food vendors sold hot coffee, tea and some locals food. We just walk until the edge of the beach, passing the discovery shopping mall.


The beach is dirtier because theres lots of garbage on the shore. Few people do their jogs, and some with their dogs.
And its raining for a while.. suddenly we saw this two beautiful rainbows very near at beach.
Its a good vacation.. ended beautifully..
We just sat down for a while to enjoy the "not so crowded" beach. Kuta beach well known with crowded beach bums and aggressive vendors. But this early morning you wont see them much (vendors and the beach bums).


Seeing two rainbows at the same time not the first time for me, but still.. its Kuta beach Bali double rainbows... hehehe its different...
Before 11.30 am i pack my thing and, i feel really sad. My vacation in Bali have to be ended. I grab my backpack and walk to the Kuta beach, looking for a cab. Peter staying for few more days. And we said our good bye as i got my taxi.
Thanks to him, my travel is quite interesting. Bali is the absolutely a place for relax with your friends, and yes, would be very romantic place to go with your love one (hehe...)
Oh God.. its just so sad this have to be OVER....
I really enjoy the vacation, 10 days seemed not enough for Bali. I will come here again... thats my promise...





hikss.. hikss... byeeeee bali !!!!!!!! i'll be right back !

Back to rug hooking, a major revision on the web site is done.

Sorry I haven't posted in a while. I wanted to get to a milestone on my website progress and it took longer than I thought it would. The structure behind my website is done. I will be revising and moving the "old" pages to the new format, one by one. In the meantime, all the old pages are still available. For the next two weeks I will be preparing for Cedar Lakes rug camp. Hope to see you

Day 8 :The attack of Lovina baby jelly fish !

I feel like i don't want to wake up and just stay on bed. Now starting to feel bit tired, its been 8 days on my vacation, hell of fun is how i describe it !
I woke up because i heard the swimming pool cleaned, and someone swim after that...
Last night we swim until almost 10 pm ! just having fun hehe because its hot too and feels good in the water with stars above.. quite romantic too. From the restaurant we could hear someone sing, laughs music, etc.

I don't want to woke up but i feel hungry. So, dragging our self to the restaurant we had breakfast with pan cake with hot tea/coffee. I like Ubud breakfast much better...
Peter ask what to do today, i said clearly "WE snorkeling" and he seemed not really agree with the idea. Until we finish breakfast we haven't decide what to do (well.. i did already decide). Sit by the swimming pool, i ask again for snorkeling, Peter just didn't say anything. I ask the shop owner in front of the Hotel for a snorkeling trip and she said that would cost us Rp 40,000,- per hour per person. And then i ask what about 2 hours? she said that would be Rp 100,000,- i said i'll come again to pick my friend.
I went back and explain to Peter that lying down next to the pool on the pool bench. And then i realize he's not listening me !! and he sleep ! aaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwww !!!!
So i think okay, i'll do this my self, he could sleep here, and i went snorkeling by my self ! but when i went to the room he suddenly wake up ! (grrrrr!)
Peter then finally decide to join the snorkeling trip, but he said Rp 100,000,- too expensive because the boat only took us to one snorkeling point and just wait for us. Okay he made his point.. he is right... Peter suggest to find other boat with lower price.
But as when we leave the hostel, the boat owner already at the gate and calling us (oppss!) we try to pretend we don't hear but the wife is running to us. So i stop and said we want lower price, we want Rp 100,000,- for two hours for two person. And i add.. i pay this by my self too, so Peter not paying for me.. and i ask her not to give me expat price just because i am with one of them...and then she said okay.. (hehehe).
The husband show us the fin and the mask. Peter fin fits perfectly.. mine a llitle bit too small ! but not really matter i think... I also request for a safety jacket, for precautions.. then i decide to wear it. Its indonesia.. hehe you should prepare for everything hehehehe... I also don't feel like i want to really swimming.. just want to "float" and look down under.
So we went to the boat.. its a beautiful day, sky are blue clear, the sun shine, no wave and no wind.. its perfect for snorkeling !


The boat that we use is quite different then the boat that we had in Jambi (yeah.. haha for sure) its small but its "deep".


The boat owner said he will take us the the snorkeling site which is 15 minutes from our beach. When we arrive there several boats with tourist heading that way, and when were finally there theres more tourist doing snorkels. I could see the snorkels and their head over the water. I am so excited !!!


Our boat just perfect because it had stairs to go to water... i short of worry before i see the stair because i think i could climb up the boat after jumping to water because its so high ! But then theres ladder.. hehe i am cool !
We start to snorkel at 8.30 am. Peter down first.. me.. still struggling with my life jacket (stupid...stupid..stupid !!). After finally find out which rope goes where and wich flip goes to what direction, i finally join Peter.
More fish.. bunch of small fish with different colors. Ohhh this is soooo what i want !
We see something new.. well at least i thought i am the only person who notic ethe "BLUE STAR FISH" yesss its blue not red like i ever saw in Thailand !
Fishes is more in here, but most of them are same.... i see NEMO or the clown fish too.
I feel relax to see lots of fish.. and garbage like plastic wrapper on the bottom of the sea.. can't stop thinking how stupid Indonesian could be (i am indonesian that feel shame of my self). The plastic wrapper could cause the reef die and not colorful again.
I see reef shape like brain too.. hmmm...
We ask to the boat owner before we jump off.. do they find shark here (Peter ask). And he said yes.. sometimes but not big (i imagine big white sjark with razor sharp teeth..oohhh no) and he laugh and said its only on certain months the shark went here... and its not the time we were snorkel (fiuhhhh hehehe).
The fish in Bali is.. "shy".. hehe not like fish in Andaman Sea, they will come close to you.. hehehe.. but these fish just swim and short of wondering, why were following them !
Almost 2 hours we swim, and then suddenly i feel something "bite" my feet !!!!
And then my arms, and my neck. I call Peter and said something bite me, and leave small red itchy marks. Peter look down and he said theres plenty of baby jelly fish near where i swim !!
I look down and i did see one of them ... euuuhhhhh !!
We swim to the deeper area, no jelly fish.. but the wave quite big that i swallow some of the sea water (yuck). The reef is more beautiful, but its not that crystal clear there. I see more tourist come and go, and it does bit crowded cause i crash with other people twice.
I get tired and swim back to the boat, Peter still swim around the boat. He said the jelly fish sting his lips, hahaha ! poor guy ! hehehehehe....
We went back to the beach .. and i feel my tummy not too good, i think because of the sea water that i swallow, and my tummy is hungry....
We went back to hotel and clean our self, and then went to the warung to have our lunch.
Oh i am happy today.. even though theres some minor attack.. and its not from a shark hahahaha !

Human Rights and the Olympics

A student I work with told me the other day that he was giving a speech on human rights and the Olympics for a class, focusing on China’s maltreatment of Tibet. That jarred something in my memory, and I asked him what he thought about poor and homeless and politically suspect people being cleared from the streets of cities where the Olympics have taken place in the past. Or about big areas being razed so that new stadiums and playing fields and Olympic Villages can be built. In the end I went to the library to find Dave Zirin’s Welcome to the Terrordome (Haymarket Books, 2007), which I read last summer, for its meaty chapter on the politics of the Olympic Games.

Sports, you may remember, are not a great interest of mine. But ever since Noam Chomsky freaked out some of his fans in the 1980s by speaking critically about the distractive function of commercial sports, I’ve been paying a little more attention. (Those remarks won Chomsky a shocked mention in the Village Voice’s sports page – it’s one thing to criticize American imperialism and Big Business making obscene profits in other realms, but Sport is holy even to many progressives.) Montreal is still paying for the 1976 games it hosted, over thirty years later, and Greece went into deep deficit to pay for the 2004 Athens games.

Then there’s

the web of temporary martial law that accompanies every Olympics. Already in Britain, and in Beijing as they prepare for the 2008 Games, we are seeing a familiar script replayed every two years, with only the language changing. Political leaders start by saying that a city must be made “presentable for an international audience.” Then the police and security forces get the green light to round up “undesirables” with extreme prejudice [133].

As examples Zirin cites “the jailing of thousands of young Black men in the infamous ‘Olympic Gang Sweeps’” in Los Angeles in 1984, using a 1916 law enacted to suppress the Wobblies; the Atlanta Games of 1996, where “officials razed African-American-occupied public housing to make way for Olympic facilities”; Athens in 2004, where psychiatric hospitals were stuffed with the homeless, and “Greece actually overrode its own constitution by ‘allowing’ thousands of armed-to-the-teeth paramilitary troops from the United States, Britain, and Israel into their country” (134). He then devotes several pages to the repression in Mexico in 1968, when hundreds of students and workers were gunned down by security police shortly before the games. “In China,” he adds, “where human rights and trade union organizing are a daily battle in normal times, the government will at the very least use the Olympics to crush even mild dissent” (138).

And I’m sure I don’t need to mention the 1936 games in Hitler’s Germany? Avery Brundage, then

the president of the U.S. Olympic Committee … personally set out to quash a rising din of protest. He met with Hitler in Berlin, where they shared smiles and handshakes for the camera. Brundage returned to the States with tales of a new Germany that treated Jews and other national minorities with exceptional care. He dismissed the anti-Hitler rumblings as the work of a communist conspiracy. … As late as 1941, he was praising the Reich at a Madison Square Garden America First rally [127].

His fondness for Hitler didn’t keep Brundage from becoming the President of the IOC, a post he held until 1972. It’s worth reading Zirin’s entire chapter on the Olympics, and indeed the whole book.

It’s an odd paradox. The Olympics bring repression with them, but they’re a useful platform for drawing attention to repression. Governments woo the Olympics in order to distract world attention from their misconduct with Riefenstahlian spectacle, yet that very visibility makes them vulnerable to exposure. Will anyone be very surprised that George Bush and Kim Jong-Il are on the same side in this controversy? There was violence as the torch passed through Seoul, but no disturbances are likely to mar its passage through Pyongyang. Despite Avery Brundage’s declaration that “The cardinal rule of the Olympics is no politics,” the Olympics are political through and through. I’m glad that people are using the Olympics to make noise about China’s abuses, though these abuses aren’t confined to Tibet. Given the history of the Olympics, though, I wonder whether resistance to the games themselves isn’t a better idea.

Human Rights and the Olympics

A student I work with told me the other day that he was giving a speech on human rights and the Olympics for a class, focusing on China’s maltreatment of Tibet. That jarred something in my memory, and I asked him what he thought about poor and homeless and politically suspect people being cleared from the streets of cities where the Olympics have taken place in the past. Or about big areas being razed so that new stadiums and playing fields and Olympic Villages can be built. In the end I went to the library to find Dave Zirin’s Welcome to the Terrordome (Haymarket Books, 2007), which I read last summer, for its meaty chapter on the politics of the Olympic Games.

Sports, you may remember, are not a great interest of mine. But ever since Noam Chomsky freaked out some of his fans in the 1980s by speaking critically about the distractive function of commercial sports, I’ve been paying a little more attention. (Those remarks won Chomsky a shocked mention in the Village Voice’s sports page – it’s one thing to criticize American imperialism and Big Business making obscene profits in other realms, but Sport is holy even to many progressives.) Montreal is still paying for the 1976 games it hosted, over thirty years later, and Greece went into deep deficit to pay for the 2004 Athens games.

Then there’s

the web of temporary martial law that accompanies every Olympics. Already in Britain, and in Beijing as they prepare for the 2008 Games, we are seeing a familiar script replayed every two years, with only the language changing. Political leaders start by saying that a city must be made “presentable for an international audience.” Then the police and security forces get the green light to round up “undesirables” with extreme prejudice [133].

As examples Zirin cites “the jailing of thousands of young Black men in the infamous ‘Olympic Gang Sweeps’” in Los Angeles in 1984, using a 1916 law enacted to suppress the Wobblies; the Atlanta Games of 1996, where “officials razed African-American-occupied public housing to make way for Olympic facilities”; Athens in 2004, where psychiatric hospitals were stuffed with the homeless, and “Greece actually overrode its own constitution by ‘allowing’ thousands of armed-to-the-teeth paramilitary troops from the United States, Britain, and Israel into their country” (134). He then devotes several pages to the repression in Mexico in 1968, when hundreds of students and workers were gunned down by security police shortly before the games. “In China,” he adds, “where human rights and trade union organizing are a daily battle in normal times, the government will at the very least use the Olympics to crush even mild dissent” (138).

And I’m sure I don’t need to mention the 1936 games in Hitler’s Germany? Avery Brundage, then

the president of the U.S. Olympic Committee … personally set out to quash a rising din of protest. He met with Hitler in Berlin, where they shared smiles and handshakes for the camera. Brundage returned to the States with tales of a new Germany that treated Jews and other national minorities with exceptional care. He dismissed the anti-Hitler rumblings as the work of a communist conspiracy. … As late as 1941, he was praising the Reich at a Madison Square Garden America First rally [127].

His fondness for Hitler didn’t keep Brundage from becoming the President of the IOC, a post he held until 1972. It’s worth reading Zirin’s entire chapter on the Olympics, and indeed the whole book.

It’s an odd paradox. The Olympics bring repression with them, but they’re a useful platform for drawing attention to repression. Governments woo the Olympics in order to distract world attention from their misconduct with Riefenstahlian spectacle, yet that very visibility makes them vulnerable to exposure. Will anyone be very surprised that George Bush and Kim Jong-Il are on the same side in this controversy? There was violence as the torch passed through Seoul, but no disturbances are likely to mar its passage through Pyongyang. Despite Avery Brundage’s declaration that “The cardinal rule of the Olympics is no politics,” the Olympics are political through and through. I’m glad that people are using the Olympics to make noise about China’s abuses, though these abuses aren’t confined to Tibet. Given the history of the Olympics, though, I wonder whether resistance to the games themselves isn’t a better idea.

INSPIRATION FROM THE COUNCIL ON CONTEMPORARY FAMILIES ANNUAL CONFERENCE

Thank goodness for the Council on Contemporary Families -- a group of scholars, researchers, and clinicians who care about all families and who respond to the right-wing marriage movement's attacks on family diversity. One highlight of the just-concluded annual conference: A paper from RAND researcher Jui-Chung Alan Li reporting findings, using a large data base, that divorce does not cause behavior problems in children. How silly does the vice-president of the right-wing marriage movement group Institute for American Values sound when she responds by saying: "What he's doing is controlling for so many things he's making the effects of divorce disappear"?? It is precisely because the marriage movement does NOT control for many other factors that they can blame all of our social problems on the decline of life-long heterosexual marriage. The CCF conference also featured unabashed feminists! That shouldn't be news, but all too often is when it comes to family policy discussions. Congratulations to Amy DePaul, who received one of the CCF media awards. Feminist bloggers Deborah Siegel and Veronica Arreola were inspirational. By following Veronica's blog, I learned that a paid sick leave bill has been introduced in the Illinois legislature. It defines "family members" to include anyone the employee has lived with for six months. That's moving us closer to valuing all families...although I still would like a state to adopt the definition of "family member" in federal law, which includes "any individual related by blood or affinity whose close association with the employee is the equivalent of a family relationship." If the federal government can allow its employees to care for their families however they define them, why not states and private employers as well??

Day 7: Lovina (Love Indonesia)

Night before.....

I need beach.. i love beach.. never see beach for past 8 months. Peter live next to the beach.. no he not fond of water that much (uuughhhh !!)
I said i want to go to Amed.. well it doe have to made long turn to go to Amed and the price could cost is about Rp 200,000 per person. I want to stay and snorkel and just sit next to beach.
I know its going to be hot (Peter don't like it). He short of said its not a very good idea...
Hmmmm....

I sleep.

Next morning (this morning), i woke up.. Lovina is the next destination. First he said he don't really like the idea (again !), because he ever went there and its not that much to see !
I said there's dolphins.. and i could snorkel.. we could ride motorcycle around again.. i don't like crowded beach like in Kuta. And i want beach (INSIST!).
Peter said okay... (hahaha!).





We do a short walk again this morning to directions that we never pass before, but not the far one like yesterday. We went to a temple inside the park. But because theres several people praying we don't think its a good idea to go inside the temple.



We went to the bust station at 1 pm, and enjoy the ride for like 2 hours with lots of chips from the market.

I feel quite sad had to leave Bedugul honestly. Its very romantic place, quiet and i like the fresh air, and the view.. the best ! with mountains and lake and rice fields and trees ! awesome !



The road to Lovina from Bedugul is speachless... beautifull.. the road is small and lots of curves, up and downs.. its short of remind me of the road to Kerinci mountain.
We enjoy the ride listening to my cellphone mp3, and see lots of pretty scenery. I just think once again, i should go back here someday !
We arrive at Lovina perama bus station nearly 3 pm. We don't know where to go. When we arrive the bus driver said that we have one free lunch. So we eat our lunch. Not really enjoy it because there's plenty people offering accommodation while we chew our lunch. Well.. Peter seemed have no problem with that... hehe i like to see when he eat.. really enjoy it !
This one guy offer a hotel, with swimming pool and very next to the beach. Its seemed very nice hotel. I look at Peter eyes and give sign (what do you think?) and he short of wisper in Indonesia (its cheap, and seemed nice). He ask for the brochure. A guy from our table said the hotel does look nice. Its 2 km from Lovina beach.
I said to Peter its okay, Lovina would be looks like poppies but less crowded, and he said up to me. So we said we want to see. So the guy with his friend get our bags and their motorcycle.
Peter goes first with that guy friend, and i ride with another motorcycle.


I amazed with the pool. Not so big.. but the atmosphere so relax ! the room not so small.. but yes.. they do tell lies said it could be lower than Rp 100,000,- (they said could haggle until Rp 75.000,-) but once again.. its okay.. i could stay here for months !!


After check in we went for short walk around the hotel. We find internet cafe and check our mails. After that we take a rest and have dinner in one of the small warung (stall) infront of the hotel. Hotel foods quite expensive.. we already guess it.


That night finally i could eat something with Bali taste. I eat mixed seafood that cooked inside banana leaf with balinese seasoning and white rice. While Peter had tuna cooked the same way like my food. Its yummy ! And the price is fairly cheap too ! and clean !
After dinner we decide to take a swim at our hotel swimming pool. Enough to burn some of our energy that lefted..

ps.. sorry for the feet pictures it was mine ! (hehehe)

Day 6: Bedugul (Market-Botanical Garden)

Last night is cold !! Thanks God we ask for extra blanket yesterday from the room boy !
But i like it, i wake up very early at 5.30 am. See sunrise from window, the fog still softly down from mountains. The lake view is amazing. I just sat in front of window for few minutes. Peter seemed still sleeping.
Last night we walk quite far away. I wont mind because the weather is good, and its quite cold. Walking in Bedugul street not that nice because the street had no path for pedestrian. So its quite risky to walk at night next to a street that quite busy with big trucks and cars passes away with high speed. And its worse because it doesn't have street light !


I could see the Ulun Watu temple floating on the lake at night, stars are amazing, no clouds !
We eat in small "warung", actually we ask them to wrap our dinner cause were planning to eat it later we're too full with Peter b-day cake yesterday, also lots of strawberries ! Peter said his parent have strawberries too on their backyard. We just drink coffee and tea at the warung.
We eat in front of our room porch, looking to the lake... its dark but you still could see the lake (oh i wont forget it !). Dinner is good, we talk a lot. I wear my scarf and jacket, its quite cold. And no mosquitoes (horray !!). I eat nasi goreng for Rp 8000,- its nice. Peter had his "nasi campur" with meat. But we think the first nasi campur that we eat on the stall next to the street is the best, and cheap !! and its all halal cause i could see there's plenty moslem at Bedugul.
We agree this is the best place that we went beside Ubud. Just sit infront of the porch and see lake and feel the wind.. so mind freshing !
I went back to bed again until breakfast time. But i feel happy because i could see the sun rise in Bedugul... its as amazing as i thought that i can't stop smiling. Sun rise in here is different than any other place. And plus.. i don't know when will i see it again !
Today after breakfast we went to Botanical garden. Its passing the market, so we get another pack of strawberries for snack. Botanical garden is HUGE !


Peter said it was nothing to compare with the one in Ubud. The ticket for each of us is Rp 7000,- The park was build at 1959 and first its only for coniferous plant and the size of the park "only" 50 hectare's area, but now its grow to 157,5 hectare's. The plants also more various, also the "animals" (like insect or small animals) . This park partner with Indonesia Government research institution (LIPI). This park placed in mountains area with height 1250-1450 meter above the sea level become the vegetation of east indonesia tropical plants (haha its on the map that they gave us !).


Not long from the entrance i read the map that they gave us.... there's guest house. Peter said we should look up for the guest house cause he really like this park.


One of the guest house room price is Rp 100,000,- and the other is Rp 125,000,- so we ask the entrance officer about the guest house, and she call someone and ask us to wait at the guest house. We see the room is so small ! the Rp125.000 had shared living room with TV and all of the room had shared bathroom outside. And i said to Peter.. no way i want to stay there because the bathroom is at outside the room and shared !
Then we ask about the other "VIP" guest house and they said its a very new place. So we walk to the new bulding at the corner of the park.


The room is amazing ! its all brand new, we're the first to stay in the room, there's only 4 rooms that ready to use. The bedding all furniture are brand new ! hahaha !
The room are Rp. 300,000,- per night. And we like it !


We went back to Ashram to collect our things. We only had less than 20 minutes to pack our things and check out ! we're in rush ! we're check out right in time. We have lunch on the first warung that we saw. The food still as good as we eat the very first time, and cheap. With huge luggage we walk back to Kebun Raya Bali to check in.
This time when we said we want to check in to the guest house we don't have to pay the entrance fee again. After check in and got our room key we get rest a while, Peter need to wash his cloths, and i fall a sleep ! hahaha !


We eat our lunch and went to have "short walk" (thats the first intention) around the garden. Its was 2.30 pm. The park is huge !


You could feel the huge difference between the air in here with Ubud and Kuta. And walk within this trees, and green bushes are amazing. The park also so clean !

Nebraska

Another book review for Gay Community News, published in the April 30-May 6, 1989 issue. As I feared, Whitmore died between the time I wrote the review and the time it appeared in print. Rereading the review now, I wonder if I should reread Nebraska, but I really have little interest in stories which pile on the misery for no evident reason except, I suppose, to show the author's High Artistic Seriousness. Happy endings and happy people are like, so gay, y' know? For this reason I've never gotten very far with Dennis Cooper, Scott Heim, and other gay writers like that. It's not that I object to unhappiness, even misery, per se, nor to characters devoid of affect; but I don't get what these boys are driving at. I guess it's just a blind spot of mine, and again, I have no idea why my editor sent me the Whitmore books. Hell, I couldn't even come up with a flip header for the review.

And then it occurred to me that Nebraska would make a great Coen Brothers movie, or a movie by any filmmaker who shows his or her High Artistic Seriousness by tormenting the characters mercilessly. "As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods. They kill us for their sport," King Lear lamented. No, dear, that's playwrights and moviemakers and edgy gay novelists.

Someone Was Here: Profiles in the AIDS Epidemic
by George Whitmore
New York: NAL Books, 1988
224 pages
$17.95 hardcover

Nebraska
by George Whitmore
New York: Grove Press, 1987
154 pages
$15.95 hardcover

I've been reading George Whitmore's articles in the gay press for years and always found them intelligent, interesting, and well-written. (Also sometimes wrongheaded and infuriating, but that's gay journalism.) So I wasn't too surprised when I found a book by him displayed in the window of my usual local bookstore. Nor was I too surprised that Someone Was Here had originated as an article in the New York Times Magazine; whatever my differences with the Times, it represents a level of professionalism that Whitmore has certainly achieved. On the other hand, the Times also represents a self-consciously haut-journalese style that absorbs the prose style of any writer in its path, and Whitmore is no exception. Most of Someone Was Here could have been written by almost any competent journalist, and that's a shame, as proven by the book's epilogue, where the tone abruptly shifts: Whitmore acknowledges that not only is he gay, he has been diagnosed with AIDS himself. Up to this point the book has consisted of omniscient-narrator third-person accounts of people with AIDS and their families and helpers; now Whitmore suddenly appears in the midst of these people, shipping parcels to Houston for one of his subjects, visiting and holding a small HIV-infected child named Frederico whose parents both died of AIDS. Perhaps the rush of involvement the reader suddenly feels compensates for the detachment of the previous two-hundred-odd pages, but it also throws that impersonality into uncomfortably sharp relief. Thanks to writers like Whitmore as well as to the Names Quilt and other projects, AIDS is becoming a plague with a human face; we are -- to a perhaps unprecedented degree -- enabled to know its victims not just as statistics but as people. Someone Was Here is interesting, intelligent, and worth reading as an object lesson in the difficulty of playing chicken with an epidemic: we can't get too close, but we have to get as close as possible, for all our sakes.

Nebraska, Whitmore's second novel, was published a few months before Someone Was Here. It's a strange little book. This time we have a first-person narrator, but his voice is not the author's: a twelve-year-old Nebraskan named Craig McMullen, who has been run over by a truck and lost a leg. It would be going too far to say that his family is in trouble; rather, they are classically 1950s' lumpen-Midwestern. Dad is a handsome drunken Irish redhead, violent when present, but mostly absent. Mama works at "Monkey Wards", her body swelling from the ankles up. Grandpa, an old railroad man, lives with Grandma in a ramshackle house he built himself, one room at a time. Sister Betty becomes a cheerleader, sister Dolores grows up too fast. Uncle Wayne, Mama's baby brother, comes home after his discharge from the Navy, waiting for a call from his friend the Chief; the two of them plan to open a garage in California as soon as they can get the money together.

But there are delays, punctuated by mysterious long-distance phone calls from the Chief, and Wayne stays on. Coming home one night after a drinking bout, he helps the convalescent Craig change his sweat-soaked pajamas, and briefly touches the boy's scrotum. A few weeks later the highway patrol brings Wayne home, though without arresting him. Not surprisingly to a gay reader with any knowledge of the period, it turns out that Wayne was discharged dishonorably from the Navy for homosexuality; that the Chief, his lover, has rejected him out of guilt; and that Wayne has been cruising the rest stops. After Craig has been manipulated into claiming that Wayne "interfered with" him, Wayne is committed to a mental hospital for electroshock. Craig is sent to live with his grandparents. His father, who has been living in Denver and has given up booze for Jesus, suddenly appears and kidnaps him, but Craig escapes. His father then returns to Denver and blows out his own brains with a shotgun.

Twelve years pass. After Grandma's funeral, Craig goes to California to pick up Uncle Wayne's trail, hoping to understand what happened to him. He finds him living with the Chief, handsome and well-preserved, but regressed emotionally to pubescence -- to Craig's pubescence, in fact.

Nebraska reminded me somewhat of Alice Walker's The Color Purple, with its attempt to make a kind of poetry out of demotic speech, its merciless depiction of bigotry, cruelty, and madness. But Whitmore isn't interested in the kind of lyricism Walker achieved, nor does he offer more than a hint of her hopeful vision of redeeming love; in this he more resembles Raymond Carver, the poet and short-story writer who wrote stark, painful tales of human isolation. Imagine a cross between the two, then: more vivid than Carver's bleached-out, gray-scale snapshots, less optimistic than Walker's tormented but loving epic, but with all their power and then some. I hope Whitmore is as much a survivor as Craig, because I think he has important books in him, and these two are just a taste of what he could give.

Nebraska

Another book review for Gay Community News, published in the April 30-May 6, 1989 issue. As I feared, Whitmore died between the time I wrote the review and the time it appeared in print. Rereading the review now, I wonder if I should reread Nebraska, but I really have little interest in stories which pile on the misery for no evident reason except, I suppose, to show the author's High Artistic Seriousness. Happy endings and happy people are like, so gay, y' know? For this reason I've never gotten very far with Dennis Cooper, Scott Heim, and other gay writers like that. It's not that I object to unhappiness, even misery, per se, nor to characters devoid of affect; but I don't get what these boys are driving at. I guess it's just a blind spot of mine, and again, I have no idea why my editor sent me the Whitmore books. Hell, I couldn't even come up with a flip header for the review.

And then it occurred to me that Nebraska would make a great Coen Brothers movie, or a movie by any filmmaker who shows his or her High Artistic Seriousness by tormenting the characters mercilessly. "As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods. They kill us for their sport," King Lear lamented. No, dear, that's playwrights and moviemakers and edgy gay novelists.

Someone Was Here: Profiles in the AIDS Epidemic
by George Whitmore
New York: NAL Books, 1988
224 pages
$17.95 hardcover

Nebraska
by George Whitmore
New York: Grove Press, 1987
154 pages
$15.95 hardcover

I've been reading George Whitmore's articles in the gay press for years and always found them intelligent, interesting, and well-written. (Also sometimes wrongheaded and infuriating, but that's gay journalism.) So I wasn't too surprised when I found a book by him displayed in the window of my usual local bookstore. Nor was I too surprised that Someone Was Here had originated as an article in the New York Times Magazine; whatever my differences with the Times, it represents a level of professionalism that Whitmore has certainly achieved. On the other hand, the Times also represents a self-consciously haut-journalese style that absorbs the prose style of any writer in its path, and Whitmore is no exception. Most of Someone Was Here could have been written by almost any competent journalist, and that's a shame, as proven by the book's epilogue, where the tone abruptly shifts: Whitmore acknowledges that not only is he gay, he has been diagnosed with AIDS himself. Up to this point the book has consisted of omniscient-narrator third-person accounts of people with AIDS and their families and helpers; now Whitmore suddenly appears in the midst of these people, shipping parcels to Houston for one of his subjects, visiting and holding a small HIV-infected child named Frederico whose parents both died of AIDS. Perhaps the rush of involvement the reader suddenly feels compensates for the detachment of the previous two-hundred-odd pages, but it also throws that impersonality into uncomfortably sharp relief. Thanks to writers like Whitmore as well as to the Names Quilt and other projects, AIDS is becoming a plague with a human face; we are -- to a perhaps unprecedented degree -- enabled to know its victims not just as statistics but as people. Someone Was Here is interesting, intelligent, and worth reading as an object lesson in the difficulty of playing chicken with an epidemic: we can't get too close, but we have to get as close as possible, for all our sakes.

Nebraska, Whitmore's second novel, was published a few months before Someone Was Here. It's a strange little book. This time we have a first-person narrator, but his voice is not the author's: a twelve-year-old Nebraskan named Craig McMullen, who has been run over by a truck and lost a leg. It would be going too far to say that his family is in trouble; rather, they are classically 1950s' lumpen-Midwestern. Dad is a handsome drunken Irish redhead, violent when present, but mostly absent. Mama works at "Monkey Wards", her body swelling from the ankles up. Grandpa, an old railroad man, lives with Grandma in a ramshackle house he built himself, one room at a time. Sister Betty becomes a cheerleader, sister Dolores grows up too fast. Uncle Wayne, Mama's baby brother, comes home after his discharge from the Navy, waiting for a call from his friend the Chief; the two of them plan to open a garage in California as soon as they can get the money together.

But there are delays, punctuated by mysterious long-distance phone calls from the Chief, and Wayne stays on. Coming home one night after a drinking bout, he helps the convalescent Craig change his sweat-soaked pajamas, and briefly touches the boy's scrotum. A few weeks later the highway patrol brings Wayne home, though without arresting him. Not surprisingly to a gay reader with any knowledge of the period, it turns out that Wayne was discharged dishonorably from the Navy for homosexuality; that the Chief, his lover, has rejected him out of guilt; and that Wayne has been cruising the rest stops. After Craig has been manipulated into claiming that Wayne "interfered with" him, Wayne is committed to a mental hospital for electroshock. Craig is sent to live with his grandparents. His father, who has been living in Denver and has given up booze for Jesus, suddenly appears and kidnaps him, but Craig escapes. His father then returns to Denver and blows out his own brains with a shotgun.

Twelve years pass. After Grandma's funeral, Craig goes to California to pick up Uncle Wayne's trail, hoping to understand what happened to him. He finds him living with the Chief, handsome and well-preserved, but regressed emotionally to pubescence -- to Craig's pubescence, in fact.

Nebraska reminded me somewhat of Alice Walker's The Color Purple, with its attempt to make a kind of poetry out of demotic speech, its merciless depiction of bigotry, cruelty, and madness. But Whitmore isn't interested in the kind of lyricism Walker achieved, nor does he offer more than a hint of her hopeful vision of redeeming love; in this he more resembles Raymond Carver, the poet and short-story writer who wrote stark, painful tales of human isolation. Imagine a cross between the two, then: more vivid than Carver's bleached-out, gray-scale snapshots, less optimistic than Walker's tormented but loving epic, but with all their power and then some. I hope Whitmore is as much a survivor as Craig, because I think he has important books in him, and these two are just a taste of what he could give.

Day 5: Ubud-Bedugul (Peter b-day !)

At night before i went to the hostel owner when Peter had shower. I ask them where i could find a bakery very near here. They ask the occasion, and i explain its Peter b-day tomorrow and i had no time to get anything for him except this b-day cake. He told me over and over he dislike celebrating birthday party. But for me.. i always like surprise.. good one of course !
The son seemed really excited, he said he will get it for me. I gave him some money and told him he have to put that on fridge so i could give Peter early b-day surprise at breakfast.
I don't know what time he will get the cake, but suddenly Peter want a bottle of beer and he explain, he always celebrate the b-day at night before the b-day because he said his b-day exactly at holidays that celebrated in Australia with big parade etc.
Got really jumpy every time he check the fridge that i offer him to check the beer my self !!
But i didn't see the cake until we went to sleep. I start to worry !
And this morning, aaaaawwwwww ! i wake up late AGAIN !! when i went for breakfast i see the son owner and ask, he said the cake still at the bakery (what?!!). And he said after breakfast he will get it for me.
Peter doesn't know about this, so i smile every time i see his face, and giggle ! (i can't really hide things...)
Right before we check out, i got the cake.
Peter ask what is in the box.. and i said.. its surprise for you. Its a birthday cake !


I am afraid he get disappointed. Or he don't like celebrate b-day as he said.. i can't really know what he feels that time.
As we walk to the junction where we should wait for the shuttle bus, he ask about the cakes, and if we could peep the cake.. hahah we did.. and its chocolate cake.. its smell yummy. And its not blackforrest as i told the owner son not to.. good ! because i think.. Peter work in bakery, he must taste or made good blackforrest.. so lets made something common but original tho...
When i see his eyes.. i see he is quite surprise.. not surprise but quite not really expect i will give him the cake, and i like it !
We get to shuttle bus and went to perama. We leave Ubud at 11 am.
The trip to Bedugul is very nice. We see lots of beautiful scenery. And also few durian vendors next to street.
The bus stop in a hostel next to the market. Me and Peter very excited to see the market, lots of strawberries !!
We had to walk about 200 meters to the hostel that i want to stay, Ashram. The room price is Rp 125.000,- per night including breakfast and the view from the rooms is amazing !! We're taking the "Murai" Rooms, on the top of the hill. But have to remind people that allergies with stairs better not to take this room. Its hell of stairs !! (but for me its much worthed !)
Its facing Bedugul lake and from the room you could see the Uluwatu temple (click image and zoom in !).



We went to market after get rest for a while. The market pretty small.. they sold mostly fruits and souvenirs. Peter really interested in buying some vanillas to mix with his bali coffee. But after haggling the price still bit too expensive. We buy lots of strawberries and few fruits. We also got our self a durian with price Rp 15. 000,- finally my first durian in Bali ! we also get the marquissa and several chips from cassava.
We decide to eat it on the small hut next to the lake while the sun is set. Several guys still sitting patiently fishing infront of the lake.



So we sit and enjoy the birthday cake with strawberries that we bought from market... it does not feels really like holiday that i wanted ! its a good day too !

Silence Equals ... ? Anyone? Anyone?

Silence did not kill Lawrence King. He was shot to death in his classroom by another teenaged boy for the crime of effeminacy. Nor did silence kill Simmie Williams Jr., who was shot to death while wearing a dress a couple of weeks later in Florida.

Silence did not kill Matthew Shepard. Fists, boots, blunt instruments killed him. In fact, Matthew Shepard is not the best choice as a victim of silence. His murder was featured prominently by the national heterosexual media, and has been the subject of a play and a made-for-MTV movie. Fans of the gay philosopher Michel Foucault should appreciate the irony.

Also, Shepard was openly gay, though one of his gay friends tried to closet him posthumously in Time Magazine. In my own life, it's difficult to say whether more gay people or more straight people have tried to stuff me back into the closet. When I came out in 1971, though, I was struck by the hostility of most gay people I met toward openly gay people in general, not just to me. But even nowadays, many gay people hate openly gay people, romanticizing the closet and arguing that it takes more courage to stay there. Being openly gay, in their eyes, is the easy way out.

Being silenced is not a serious problem for me, not anymore, thanks to my truculent personality (which discredits me in many gay people's eyes), my verbal articulateness (ditto), and my three decades of visibility in Bloomington (double ditto). If only I would let the professionals handle gay visibility for me! It’s not a job for an amateur without proper training.

Silence did not kill Harvey Milk. Four bullets killed him, fired by Dan White in his office in San Francisco City Hall.

Silence did not kill Rebecca Wight. Three bullets killed her, fired by Stephen Ray Carr as she lay with her lover Claudia Brenner (who was also seriously wounded) in a tent on the Appalachian trail.

Silence did not kill Allen Schindler. His fellow sailors smashed his head against a porcelain urinal. The Navy tried to lie about his murder by claiming that he fell and accidentally hit his head. Thanks to the determined efforts of Schindler's mother, the Navy's lie was exposed. Yet many gay people want to join the military, the House of Lies.

Silence did not kill Charlie Howard. A little mob of high school kids drowned him by throwing him off a bridge into a river, even though he told them he couldn't swim. He was on his way home from a gay discussion group, which in many gay people’s eyes is a silly waste of time. Why talk to other gay people in a bright, well-lit room when you could be snubbing them in a half-lit bar?

Today the National Day of Silence was observed at Indiana University. Paradoxically, a high-visibility Kiss-In was among the scheduled events, though I suppose technically a kiss is silent. It wasn’t so long ago, though, that the campus gay organization defended not having kiss-ins because they were gross, scandalous, and gave GLBTQ+ π people a bad name.

I’m very ambivalent about the whole thing. After awhile such an event loses its specificity, as people try to hang everything they possibly can on it, forgetting the original impulse and meaning. Why not observe the Day of Silence with speeches, noisemakers, and I don’t know, fireworks?

From another angle, even symbolic silence is, to my mind, less valuable than breaking silence. That could be related to my generation: we who were inspired by Stonewall and its aftermath weren’t interested in gay people being silent anymore. Twenty years later, Queer Nation showed that making noise was still necessary. And a few years ago, when the NDOS was first getting a foothold here, I noticed a sign-up table staffed by two straight girls who spent the whole time chattering about their boyfriends. Having straight people shut up for a day about their sexuality, now, that would be something. It would be educational for them to hesitate for a moment before exercising the privilege they have. As far back as the seventies (and probably further) some heterosexual bigots were starting to opine that the Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name had become The Neurosis That Won’t Shut Up. No, dears, that’s heterosexuality you’re talking about.