I am feeling a little agitated. Ok, so I found out that on September 21, 2007 the release of Into the Wild will be coming to theatres, and then opening nationwide in the U.S. on October 5^th. What is this all about, you ask? His name is Chris McCandless, and—well let me just quote myself from my own blog to give you a bit of background:

One of the few books I’ve read in the past year that have had an impact upon my writing has been Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. It’s the story of a young guy from the East Coast who, out of college decides to drop out of established society and essentially become a ‘tramp abroad’ for two or more years. He spends most of his time hitchhiking across the country, getting odd jobs for spare cash, living on meager needs, and all the while meeting people along the way, (but telling him his name is ‘Alex’ or rather ‘Alexander Supertramp) and keeping those he meets at just the right emotional distance (I’ve done this too) where he has no expectations to fulfill. But his life ended in 1992 where he went to Alaska unprepared and with only a bag full of books, a ten-pound bag of rice, and ‘lived’ in this bus till he eventually starved to death at the age of 24. Once word got out about his death, Krakauer did a story on him in Outside Magazine, followed by this book Into the Wild. Click here to read my full post.

So now there is going to be a film, directed by Sean Penn. Here is the trailer. The reason I am a bit peeved is because no one seems to mention the fact that this kid made poor choices. The film, although I’ve not seen it yet and so I probably shouldn’t bitch about it (but will anyway) from what I gather, the film seems to be stressing this idealistic attitude of “getting out of your comfort zone and taking risks.” Sure, great idea, you think. Why the hell not? But who is our example? A young guy who lived off the land for 2 years and ended up dead.

I think McCandless’ story certainly should be told, for I enjoyed the book very much and recommend it. I also don’t think he’s a bad guy, but probably was a very nice and genuine person (albeit juvenile and selfish). But I get annoyed with these folk who call this guy a hero. Most of us do not have the privilege of just dropping out of society and not owing up to our responsibilities because we don’t feel like it anymore. Also, McCandless is a rich, white kid who comes from a privileged family. He rebels against materialism, but I should also note that this is largely a thing rich people do. It’s like that line in Scorsese’s The Aviator when Howard Hughes tells Katherine Hepburn’s mother (after she’s told Howard that they as a family ‘don’t care about money’ and Howard’s response is, ‘because you have it’).

I’m all for taking risks in life and living it to the fullest and all that crap, (one of the reasons I’m a struggling artist and not an insurance salesperson) but I suppose now at the age of 31 and seeing how most can’t pay their mortgages and nor can most afford health insurance in the U.S. and how many Katrina victims are still living in formaldehyde-laced FEMA trailers and how in Iraq the citizens can’t even walk outside their homes without risking getting shot—it’s hard for me to celebrate these reckless ideals. For the same reason I despise New Age psychobabble for its shallow remedies (although I don’t despise Chris because I do want to see the film) I think that not acknowledging this guy’s foolishness is doing a disservice. Timothy Treadwell went to Alaska and got eaten by a bear and there was a film made about it. Dick Proenneke went to Alaska, built a cabin with his own hands, built the tools even, and survived because he was smart, intelligent, and most of all prepared—and he is talked about the least. Where is the film about Dick Proenneke?

I would love to go hiking across the country and see moose and elk and all those fury creatures and trees, but I need to get published first and…I’ve lost my point. Maybe I’m just wishing I were 20 again. Do I? Hell no. My 20s sucked. I am so happy to be over 30. Thank you 30!

Anyway, see the film…read the book…or not. Just think twice about calling Chris McCandless a hero. Although I do want to go to Alaska before I die, just not in the way he did.

Thoughts, anyone?

I’m depressed. Why? For the past ten months I’ve been having literary foreplay with a literary agent who told me she thought I was a ‘terrific’ writer, had excellent credentials and that she loved my work. She loved it so much that throughout this time, we spoke twice on the phone, and I shared with her 3 of my manuscripts. It seemed like she was pretty focused on having me as a client. That is, until last week when she told me no. Her reasons? She didn’t think she could sell my work to a major New York publisher, albeit admitting that it was a subjective opinion. So what did I do? I sobbed. I Moaned. I contemplated swallowing that entire bottle of Tylenol P.M. (Kidding). I bought a cheesy Hollywood movie on DVD that I spent too much money on, and ended up watching it as a means of trying to cheer myself up. Then I regretted buying it, despite sinfully enjoying it, throbbing head and all.

For the past four months, ever since I sent the 3^rd manuscript (in April is when I sent it) I’ve been saying how I just want to know her answer so I can move on. Yes or no? I thought that once I got it I would feel better, but now I only feel shitty. One of the things writers complain about is how they can never seem to find a literary agent who can recognize the quality in their work. But what do you do when you have that already, in addition to ‘excellent credentials’ (as she called them) and she still doesn’t sign you?

You go back to the beginning. Trying to get published is by far one of the most difficult things anyone can do. It’s like trying to get into Harvard medical or law school x 1000. Unless you are a celebrity or a media whore of some sort, the unconnected masses have to struggle like hell. I’ve come to the conclusion that the only way to get published and benefit in the short term is through luck. Quality (as I’ve shown) does not matter.

The agent told me I should submit to some small presses, one of which published a client of hers. I did. But again, getting accepted by a small publisher can be just as difficult as getting accepted by a large one. What really tires me is how few (meaning publishers) value the talent, only the ephemeral things like awards, who your publisher is, who blurbed for you. It does not matter if what you produce is shit, as long as you have these things. As proof, I’ll offer the fact that in his lifetime, Robert Frost won 4 Pulitzer Prizes for his poetry. I didn’t know that until I looked him up on Wikipedia. Does it matter? Now knowing that, is his poetry any better? Emily Dickinson was ignored in her lifetime. Again, does it matter now?

One of the things Woody Allen stresses in his film Crimes & Misdemeanors is how the thing people fear most is randomness. They don’t like knowing they have no control over certain things, and ultimately how success in life comes down to luck. Yes people will throw the whole ‘hard work’ and ‘talent’ thing in there, but that’s not what decides in the short term. I have those 2 things but I lacked the luck. So now I’m back to where I started: sending to a small press that will probably reject me, despite my ability to advertise on highly popular sites and the fact that my book(s) are not dull and pretentious, but actually insightful, fun reads if they actually read them.

I have not been lucky enough to push forward. My life remains a series of maybes and almosts. But despite the ass crack of life looming over me with ready-made shit, I still have hope as I look up from the bottom of the toilet. Appreciate that now, (the hope) because in five minutes that could (and probably will) change, for another dump always awaits.

By Jessica Schneider

http://jaschneider.blogspot.com/

PS- Michael asked me to link to my Ayn Rand post. Some interesting interviews with her you should check out, Mike Wallace (1959) & Donahue (1980).  

Well, I’m the exception on the rule I suppose:

The eldest children in families tend to develop higher I.Q.’s than their siblings, researchers are reporting today, in a large study that could settle more than a half-century of scientific debate about the relationship between I.Q. and birth order.

The average difference in I.Q. was slight — three points higher in the eldest child than in the closest sibling — but significant, the researchers said. And they said the results made it clear that it was due to family dynamics, not to biological factors like prenatal environment.

Researchers have long had evidence that firstborns tended to be more dutiful and cautious than their siblings, and some previous studies found significant I.Q. differences. But critics said those reports were not conclusive, because they did not take into account the vast differences in upbringing among families.

Three points on an I.Q. test may not sound like much. But experts say it can be a tipping point for some people — the difference between a high B average and a low A, for instance. That, in turn, can have a cumulative effect that could mean the difference between admission to an elite private liberal-arts college and a less exclusive public one.

Strangely, up until a certain age - 12 years - the younger siblings are more intelligent than their elderls. After this age, however, the situation changes. The question is why? Why are the oldest more intelligent - on average - than the youngest siblings?

One possibility, proposed by the psychologist Robert Zajonc, is that older siblings consolidate and organize their knowledge in their natural roles as tutors to junior. These lessons, in short, benefit the teacher more than the student.

Another potential explanation concerns how siblings find a niche in the family. Some studies find that both the older and younger siblings tend to describe the firstborn as more disciplined, responsible, high-achieving. Studies suggest — and parents know from experience — that to distinguish themselves, younger siblings often develop other skills, like social charm, a good curveball, mastery of the electric bass, acting skills.

If we just ignore the IQ part, I do recognize myself in the description of the youngest one(s):

This kind of experimentation might explain evidence that younger siblings often live more adventurous lives than their older brother or sister. They are more likely to participate in dangerous sports than eldest children, and more likely to travel to exotic places, studies find. They tend to be less conventional than firstborns, and some of the most provocative and influential figures in science spent their childhoods in the shadow of an older brother or sister (or two or three or four).

If I look at my own situation, I think that my sister was not very disciplined and did not value academic achievements much. In other words; I could distinguish myself from her, by doing well at school. She is more ‘homely’ and stable than I am though: she is perfectly happy taking care of the children, not living / traveling abroad, etc. I am the one who wants to travel, I am far more adventurous. Compared to my sister, I am also less stable - I constantly need something new, if I do not I get incredibly unhappy.

Furthermore - her strongpoint has always been that she is very social with people - people often call me charming, but she is the one people like. She is the compassionate and helpful one of the two. People often say that she is pure goodness (something of which no one has ever accused me of). She is the generous one, I am the greedy one. She is the compassionate one, I am the ‘tough’ and selfish one. She is the one who walks away from fights, I am the one who is looking for a fight every now and then. She is social one, I am the overly confident / arrogant one. On the other hand, I am a bit the clown of the family; entertaining everyone, making jokes and making a fool out of myself.

Lastly, I’d say, my goals are unconventional. From quite an early age, I was telling everyone who wanted to hear it that I would move to America, be successful there, marry a foreign woman, etc. My sister never said anything like that - she is happy where she is and wherever it is life will take her. She has never felt the drive to accomplish something ‘extraordinarily,’ I have always felt that I should do something that would distinguish me from the masses.

What are your thoughts on the article at the Times? Do you recognize your own situation in it?

Benjamin C. Bradlee is pretty satisfied with himself / his life:

Sometimes I am embarrassed at how satisfied I am with my life.

I’m 85 years old.

My doctor has just told me I’m in good physical shape. Actually, he said, “wonderful” shape.

I am surrounded by the people I love. I live in fabulous houses, spectacular enough to be featured in national magazines, yet comfortable enough for someone who values “comfortable” above “beautiful.”

My kids are healthy and apparently happy. And the same for my 10 grandchildren.

I work out in the woods, clearing brush with a tractor and three chain saws.

My wife of many years is a spectacular person, and a great partner.

I had a great ride as editor of a great newspaper. I was lucky enough to fight in a war I believed in and work in a profession I believed in.

I’m still ensconced at The Washington Post. Some people refer to me as a stop-on-the-tour of the paper, but I’m still there.

More satisfaction at the Washington Post.

Some of the comments:

1- Jacob Jozevz “Life is so beautiful with Eclati-On’s.:

“Hello Mr. Bradlee, et al;

Sounds like your still 55. And sounds like You don’t have a worry in the World, and that probably includes your “Poof-TIME a-gonna” so to speaketh.

Please Note that, Your Wife Sally, had my blog truncated or more like purged. Is My “Cosmic Feelings Faith” a/k/a ECLATARIAN, too much for her Atheistic tastes? Please excuse me.

“Be Healthy & ALL Be Well” And Sholom!”

2- Jennifer:

“How wonderful to be at that point in your life and be able to say….”I’m satisified.” I hope on my 85th birthday…I can say the same…Bravo Mr. Bradley!!”

Friendly right?

Well… there are more comments:

1- Anonymous:
“every other sentence starts with the
pronoun “I”….and the emphasis is on
external, professional achievements.”

2- dennizen:
“Anonymous, above at 11:32 had much the same reaction as mine. Is SUCH SHINING self satisfaction to be admired? Though I will say the Washington Post, when you were in charge, was not the neocon flacker it’s become.
You left much undone, tough, mostly concerning your fawning coverage of corrupt Israel.”

3- Norrie Hoyt:
“I agree with Anonymous and Denizen. See my comments about worldly “success” in Randall Balmer’s thread. Professor Balmer also seems to base his “satisfaction” and happiness on worldly accomplishments.

Trumpeting one’s affluence and comfort in a religious forum is unseemly.”

4- milahim:
“Its not where one is. Its where one is heading. In other words its the graph’s SLOPE.
Also, I’ve noted that the truly satisfied rarely toot their own horn.
Anyway, have a good one.”

What a bunch of sad, sad people. This man accomplished a lot. He worked hard to get where he is today. He worked hard to be happy. He was, most likely, asked to write a thanksgiving-kind of article… And the loving commenters at WP’s On Faith decide to attack the man. Jealous anyone?

Always annoys me greatly when people only want to hear about the bad things in life.

Guess what? Life is good. That’s right. It’s good. Let me piss those commenters off a bit more:
I am very satisfied with my life: I’ve got great parents, who’ll support me no matter what.

I have a good relationship with God.

I have a wonderful girlfriend who I love more than I thought I could love anyone.

I have a good, wonderful blog with active commenters.

I am getting (reasonably) good grades.

I have a great sister and brother-in-law who have two beautiful, healthy and intelligent girls.

Although I am a student, I need not worry about money.

I am looking forward to the rest of my life and hope to accomplish a lot: to be inspired and to inspire.

Life is good.

On a more serious note: of course, everyone has his or her own problems, but it doesn’t hurt to look at what’s going well. There are struggles, there are problems, but sometimes we focus so much on those problems that they become all we see.

And that, is a major mistake. There is more to life than problems, there is more to life than darkness.

Thoreau: “Man and his affairs, church and state and school, trade and commerce, and manufactures and agriculture, even politics, the most alarming of them all, - I am pleased to see how little pace they occupy in the landscape. Politics is but a narrow field, and that still narrower highway yonder leads to it. I sometimes direct the traveller thither. If you would go to the political world, follow the great road, - follow that market-man, keep his dust in your eyes, and it will lead you straight to it; for it, too, has its place merely, and does not occupy all space. I pass from it as from a beanfield into the forest, and its forgotten. In one half-hour I can walk off to some portion of the earth’s surface where a man does not stand from one year’s end to another, and there, consequenctly, politics are not, for they are but as the cigar-smoke of a man.”

An essay by Norman Ball, published at Dan Schneider’s Cosmoetica (edited) about the three US soldiers who were kidnapped in Iraq.

Stalin once said- in prescient anticipation of the personal interest story- kill one man and it’s a story; kill one million and it’s a statistic. People seem oddly unfazed when yet another American GI dies in Iraq. Kidnap a soldier however (or in this case, three) and all hell breaks loose. So how does a kidnapping ‘out-outrage’ a fatality? Perhaps it’s because dead GIs don’t tell tales whereas captured ones possess boundless propaganda value. They can cry, say ‘mommy’ to their captors, curse John Wayne. Their script has fallen into the hands of the enemy. Suddenly the opportunity exists to be edgy and compelling like an off-off-Broadway play. Who, with a shred of power, likes an unscripted surprise?

Communiqués between nations are hashed out with excruciating care. Indeed, no government relishes the speaking role of unknown content. Someone could veer precipitously off-message or get converted by a strange truth-bearing light. You can hear the sigh of relief rising up from the higher echelons of government with each duteous death- the solitary Death March into complicitous oblivion.

Keep the kids alive however and they’re still ‘in play’ beyond the admonishing stares of their four-star keepers. Damn it all! Why can’t they just kill them like a good upstanding enemy would? Asynchronous dicks! Where’s Cornwallis when we need him? What fresh new plot twists will they throw at us? Will we be consistent? Will we be believable? How does our hair look? Will we flub our lines? How cruel indeed to protract our charade, to prod it for veracity! Verily how we doubt ourselves. Leave us then to captain our own follies. We will fail in due course. Thank you and good night.

It’s a fascinating question, isn’t it? Why does the public care more about kidnapped soldiers than about, well, dead soldiers? The reason, in my opinion: the kidnapped soldiers are, one, still alive, and, two, we don’t know what is happening to them. They could be killed by now, they could be killed one hour from now, they could be tortured… there’s too much we don’t know.

At least, that’s my 2 cents.

Yesterday, Ed Morrissey talked with Nader Elguindi, author of My Decision to Live for Ed’s program at Blog Talk Radio. Ed explains at his blog: “Today on CQ Radio (2 pm CT), we’ll talk to Nader Elguindi, who has authored a book that details his experience in overcoming adversity and devastating physical injuries to requalify as a US Navy submariner. Titled My Decision to Live, Elguindi has directed all proceeds to benefit the Walter Reed Medical Center, where he now works as a peer counselor. I’ve been looking forward to interviewing Elguindi for a while now, and this should be a fascinating hour.”

Go and listen to it, very inspiring.

It has been storming here, in the north of the Netherlands, all day long. It doesn’t rain, nor is it extremely cold, it’s just… storming. Despite this, what we humans call, ‘bad’ weather, I had to take the dog, a chubby black labrador retriever, out for a walk.

During the walk - the dog nervous, at times almost flying - I saw a sea gull trying to fly over the road. It wanted to go from one pasture to another. The problem: it had to fly head first into the wind.

The brave sea gull passionately tried to get there. Up and down it went, hovering, proceeding three feet, before being blown back again. The sea gull got tired, that much was clear, but refused to give up.

I could not but cheer for it. “Come on boy (or girl), you can do it. Clap those wings, come on. Fly baby, fly.” The sea gull gave it another try, a last, desperate attempt, before landing on the road, and walking the remaining distance to the other pasture.

“There’s a lesson in all of this”, I thought to myself. What was it? Never give up? Don’t think too difficult? I looked at the pasture the sea gull just left. Then at the other one. Back again to the first one.

“What the hell did he leave it for?”

My thesis is that the world was made to serve us. My thesis is that we are not just living in the world, we are above it. My thesis is that the spirit world is the ultimate world, higher than the material world. In our true essence we are spirit; Spirit created us and Spirit created the world. Spirit is everywhere. Hence, the true essence of the world is spirit as well.

My thesis is that the material world is created to serve us. My thesis is that we are one with the world in its true essence: spirit. My thesis is that true man, man in his essence, is one with the world. For true man, there is no difference between himself and the universe. For true man, boundaries do not exist.

Swaraaj Chauhan forwarded me the following, inspiring story.

STORY NUMBER ONE

Many years ago, Al Capone virtually owned Chicago. Capone wasn’t famous for anything heroic. He was notorious for enmeshing the windy city in everything from bootlegged booze and prostitution to murder.

Capone had a lawyer nicknamed “Easy Eddie.” He was his lawyer for a good reason. Eddie was very good! In fact, Eddie’s skill at legal maneuvering kept Big Al out of jail for a long time. To show his appreciation, Capone paid him very well. Not only was the money big, but also Eddie got special dividends.

For instance, he and his family occupied a fenced-in mansion with live-in help and all of the conveniences of the day. The estate was so large that it filled an entire Chicago City block. Eddie lived the high life of the Chicago mob and gave little consideration to the atrocity that went on around him.

Eddie did have one soft spot, however. He had a son that he loved dearly. Eddie saw to it that his young son had the best of everything: clothes, cars and a good education. Nothing was withheld. Price was no object. And, despite his involvement with organized crime, Eddie even tried to teach him right from wrong. Eddie wanted his son to be a better man than he was.

Yet, with all his wealth and influence, there were two things he couldn’t give his son; he couldn’t pass on a good name and a good example. One day, Easy Eddie reached a difficult decision. Easy Eddie wanted to rectify wrongs he had done. He decided he would go to the authorities and tell the truth about Al “Scarface” Capone, clean up his tarnished name and offer his son some semblance of integrity. To do this, he would have to testify against The Mob, and he knew that the cost would be great.

So, he testified. Within the year, Easy Eddie’s life ended in a blaze of gunfire on a lonely Chicago Street. But in his eyes, he had given his son the greatest gift he had to offer, at the greatest price he would ever pay. Police removed from his pockets a rosary, a crucifix, a religious medallion and a poem clipped from a magazine.

The poem read:

The clock of life is wound but once
And no man has the power,
To tell just when the hands will stop
At late or early hour.
Now is the only time you own.
Live, love, toil with a will.
Place no faith in time,
For the clock may soon be still.

STORY NUMBER TWO

World War II produced many heroes. One such man was Lieutenant Commander Butch O’Hare. He was a fighter pilot assigned to the aircraft carrier Lexington in the South Pacific.

One day his entire squadron was sent on a mission. After he was airborne, he looked at his fuel gauge and realized that someone had forgotten to top off his fuel tank. He would not have enough fuel to complete his mission and get back to his ship. His flight leader told him to return to the carrier. Reluctantly, he dropped out of formation and headed back to the fleet.

As he was returning to the mother ship he saw something that turned his blood cold, a squadron of Japanese aircraft were speeding their way toward the American fleet The American fighters were gone on a sortie, and the fleet was all but defenseless He couldn’t reach his squadron and bring them back in time to save the fleet. Nor could he warn the fleet of the approaching danger. There was only one thing to do. He must somehow divert them from the fleet.

Laying aside all thoughts of personal safety, he dove into the formation of Japanese planes. Wing-mounted 50 calibre’s blazed as he charged in, attacking one surprised enemy plane and then another. Butch wove in and out of the now broken formation and fired at as many planes as possible until all his ammunition was finally spent. Undaunted, he continued the assault. He dove at the planes, trying to clip a wing or tail in hopes of damaging as many enemy planes as possible and rendering them unfit to fly.

Finally, the exasperated Japanese squadron took off in another direction. Deeply relieved, Butch O’Hare and his tattered fighter limped back to the carrier. Upon arrival he reported in and related the event surrounding his return. The film from the gun-camera mounted on his plane told the tale. It showed the extent of Butch’s daring attempt to protect his fleet He had in fact destroyed five enemy aircraft.

This took place on February 20, 1942, and for that action Butch became the Navy’s first Ace of W.W.II, and the first Naval aviator to win the Congressional Medal of Honor. A year later Butch was killed in aerial combat at the age of 29. His home town would not allow the memory of this WW II hero to fade, and today, O’Hare Airport in Chicago is named in tribute to the courage of this great man.

So the next time you find yourself at O’Hare International, give some thought to visiting Butch’s memorial displaying his statue and his Medal of Honor. It’s located between Terminals 1 and 2.

SO, WHAT DO THESE TWO STORIES HAVE TO DO WITH EACH OTHER?

Butch O’Hare was Easy Eddie’s son !

UPDATE
And a less romantic explanation.

In either case, it’s still a remarkable story.