The Noise From Afar

Back when I opened the House of Boogie for public consumption, my goals were clear: put forth a smattering of everything that floats between my ears in a semi-cognizant, relatively intelligent manner and be frank with myself as well as with whoever happened upon this space.

I've tried achieving that goal with as much exactitude as possible, and since a lot of what occupies my mind and my time is my other half, I try to honestly -- yet carefully -- expound on where my head and my heart are at with regard to her and I and the two of us.

However, for better or worse, a lot of what occupies the spaces not filled in with thoughts of our eventual cohabitation and beyond, is, for the most part, what's happening in the world, whether it's violence breaking out in nocturnal suburban France, anti-American demonstrations in Demascus, a roadside bomb injuring ABC journalists, or the eventual proliferation of portable nuclear arms.

So my silence to this point on the Palestinian elections -- the so-called "Hamas"-led revolution -- is a bit disingenuous on my part. It's been on my mind -- no, it's occupied a significant spot therein -- and while not addressing it has been in some way a lot easier than hitting it head on, I think it's somewhat necessary to address it herein now that it's "fresh." Part of what led me to this conclusion is a moral responsibility to myself to chronicle what's happening between my ears, true; but a large part of it is also a result of reading a friend's take on the situation. That friend, Trouble, contributed a very considered take on the situation (she's linked to the left at the World of Trouble) and I didn't feel right letting this historic, perhaps catastrophic change in my world pass without taking a gander and a swing.

This space, and its readers, would probably not take well to a brief history of the Middle East and its many complicated tenets of war, peace and tension, so suffice to say that the "Palestinians" are a group of devout Muslims who have dedicated themselves to rallying against what they claim is Israel's illegal occupation of Muslim holy land. The "plight" of these people is not as sad and unfortunate as is reported by most media outlets; if it were, their fellow Muslims would surely have absorbed them as a people long ago. Their existence as a people without a nation whose land was unfairly taken from them, incidentally, is what I refer to as complete bullshit. Neither here nor there, however: the bottom line is that they, essentially, believe Israel should not exist and in its stead should exist a Palestinian state.

This past weekend, the Palestinian people voted, largely, to expel the majority (three quarters) of the existing government -- led by the "Fatah" party -- and replace same with members of Hamas, which, depending on your world view, is an organization whose main goal is to eradicate Israel and its non-Muslim citizenry. This, of course, could be challenged by anyone who hasn't bothered to read the Hamas charter, which calls for the destruction of the state of Israel. So, noting that Iran's leader recently called for Israel's destruction, it seems that the pendulum has swung, yet again, to the mid-east governments to target Israel. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

It seems to me, with the election of Hamas, that there are two possible responses: either the Palestinian people were simply fed up and frustrated with the corruption and cronyism of the previously empowered Fatah party, or they were supporting the radical, violent call to arms presented by Hamas. The media, for the most part, has suggested the former is the case; I disagree. I think most Muslims, force-fed anti-Israel rhetoric from birth to grave, are happier knowing their government is actively committed to destroying the supposed occupier of their land and their birth-right. How else could there be legions of suicide bombers without this type of ideological egregiousness? The simple fact is that most Palestinians would rather be led by people pointing the finger at Israel for their squalid, simple lives than a government run by people who seemingly are negotiating with their forsworn enemies, for people that they've been told drink Arab blood, eat Arab babies and kill Muslims for pure glee.

The US, along with the EU and Russia, have indicated they will halt Palestinian aid until Hamas renounces violence and acknowledges the state of Israel. It's the right move, even if the outcome might be Iran and Syria contributing monies to the Palestinian government. It always struck me as hypocritical for the US and other Western nations to give monies to a government which, clearly, turned a blind eye to suicide bombers and attacks on civilians. So for Hamas to renounce violence and acknowledge Israel -- even if they were to do so, which I doubt -- would be more futile, empty lip service. Luckily, Hamas is comprised of people who are so fervent and so foolish, they would never willingly do either. So the lines are and continue to be drawn. There's more conflict on the horizon, and more blood will likely be shed.

At least the masks are off and we know who's on which side.

It doesn't relieve the tension or minimize the casualties; it does, however, give clearer perspective to what is happening and who is responsible. There may never be peace in our time on Israeli soil, but -- in a bizarre twist of events -- we can accept that there will be a state of Israel so long as there exists fervent, radical zealots who would rather die than accept Israel's right to exist, side by side, in the modern world. As we will soon see, the Hamas-led government will return its people to living as they did 3,000 years ago. A lack of sophistication, for sure, but more importantly, a lack of willingness to compromise and to move forward instead of remaining backward.

Sensory Overload

Getting in late and going to bed isn't quite what it used to be.

The last few days have been a juggling act, as per usual. A variety of matters, all up in the air, plus an ancillary deadline (not mine directly, but it's an office-wide deadline so it indirectly affects me) have been swirling in my head. On top of that, my mother and my sister left yesterday to see my grandmother and get her ready to relocate to NY. So aside from the emotional toll that's taking on all of us, the fact is my sister is out of town -- meaning, she's not in the office -- so all of her work and duties are landing, temporarily, on my shoulders. That's not too-too big a deal, since voicemail and e-mail can be checked no matter where she is. But there still remains the new assessments floating around, and that's a whole 'nother issue entirely.

Our long-term deadline is March 1st, so the clock is ticking -- I got screwed timing-wise and ended up having to miss a friend's birthday dinner last night. I'll likely end up being back in the office again tomorrow, but in the mean time, that's what is happening -- or not happening -- here. Kaia and I have a "phone" date later; it's gotten so bad, between her work schedule and mine, that we have to block out time to spend together, even on the phone. At some point, it occurred to me that whether we're three thousand miles away or in different rooms of the same apartment, having to make time for one another is a likely necessity. It's not the stuff of romance novels, but there's nothing more than I'd rather be doing than spending time with her; I'm beginning to understand that even when it's "easy" it takes work to feed and grow a relationship, whether it's next door or on the other coast.

Or as a friend of mine recently advised, "It sounds like you're married."

:-D

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?

On November 19th, 2004, my girlfriend -- visiting from San Francisco -- and I were at a party at HiLife in NYC when, on the bar's big-screen TV, ESPN showed tape of a brawl in Detroit between several Pistons players and Ron Artest, a member of the Indiana Pacers. Added into the mix a few drunk, mouthy Pistons fans -- one of which, as I mentioned in my original post herein, Artest clocked smack-dab in the nose.

Today is January 25th, 2006, and, to date, Artest -- through a combination of suspension, injury, and a complete lack of intelligence -- has, essentially, done nothing since that night in Detroit. After the suspension, he had some issues with his team and his teammates in Indiana (it was mutual) and as the 2006 NBA season commenced, he announced he wanted to be traded. The announcement, apparently, came after a "private" meeting between Artest and Pacers GM Larry Bird, during which Bird received Artest's assurance that he wanted to stay on the team and committed himself to help build a championship team. So, hearing Artest's public reversal understandably irritated Bird who advised him that Artest would soon get his wish. Within 24 hours, Artest publicly declared that he was -- essentially -- letting off steam but that he didn't actually want a trade.

As they say in porno movies, "too little, too late."

Bird, fed up and tired of catering to Artest's sine-wave personality, managed, as of yesterday morning, to arrange a swap of Artest and Peja Stojakovic with the Sacramento Kings. Except when it was announced that the trade was imminent, Artest -- through his agent -- indicated he wasn't interested in playing for Sacramento. This morning, after the media effectively and unanimously concurred that Artest manages to prove himself an even bigger moron each time his name appears in the news, Mark Stevens, Artest's agent -- hoping to spin this situation into something not akin to a complete PR disaster, tried digging his client out of a hole (quote courtesy ESPN.com):

"Ron Artest did not want to be traded to Sacramento weeks ago, and he does not want to be traded to Sacramento now.

"Basketball is Ron Artest's passion. In order for Ron to fully demonstrate his natural skills and abilities, to the best of his abilities, he not only must be in an environment that is conducive to his growth an development as a player, he must also ensure that his family is happy and content as well. Ron does not believe that will be the case if he were in Sacramento. Period. However, as mentioned earlier, Ron is deeply committed to the sport of basketball and desperately misses playing the game he loves. If the trade is made he will play for his new team, regardless of how he may feel about it."

(ESPN.com)

Perhaps it's time to get a new agent, Ron.

Over the last several months, I've expounded -- shamelessly or otherwise -- on a variety of athletes, including Artest, Terrell Owens, Marcus Vick and Barry Bonds. Aside from the fact that these are all black men playing professional sports (aside from Vick, who will be if his criminal record doesn't prevent him from doing so) at extremely high levels. I'm disappointed that each of these individuals, who are among the best in their respective fields, are all, for the most part, villified and criticized. Aside from Barry Bonds, whose suspected steroid use will -- in theory -- remain a question until (or unless) he decides to admit same -- these athletes have exemplified why mixing big money and big sports is an ever-increasing problem. As annual salaries and ticket and advertising sales inflate exponentially, athletes' egos grow and become larger than the team and, in some cases, the sport -- or so they think. But it is interesting that the first three men on my original list -- Artest, Owens and Vick -- all possess immense talent and yet all three have been or will be on the sidelines watching others play.

I'm not commenting on the obvious lack of intelligence demonstrated by these individuals; this problem goes beyond that. It is one of attitude, entitlement and politics. I am simply wondering when -- or if -- this problem will begin to be solved. Not only are athletes no longer role models -- unless Allan Iverson is, somehow, someone others should or could look up to -- but they are increasingly representing everything that is wrong with professional sports in every and any way they seemingly can. Personally, I don't even watch basketball anymore -- despite the fact I love the sport itself, it's become what Kaia's father rightfully described as "Televised Thuggery," and it's become boring. I just hope that more GMs and coaches like Larry Bird and Andy Reid get the opportunity and the authority to let players know that the team and the sport are bigger than the individual. What made athletes like Joe DiMaggio and Wayne Gretzky, among others, so great was that as talented they were at their respective sports, they each recognized their place within their sport and showed the respect for the sport and their teammates (as well as their opponents) that said institution deserved.

Today, we have athletes with their own websites, selling individually-branded merchandise without any team affiliation whatsoever. Until football, baseball and basketball become non-team sports, this problem will rapidly escalate and -- more importantly -- test fans' patience more than lockouts, strikes and ticket price increases ever could.

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?

High Stupidity in the Real and Virtual World

In a day, I come across plenty of stupidity. I work in New York, one of the largest cities in the world, so that -- fortunately -- increases my chances thereof. The fact that I deal with a variety of people who work for The City of New York doesn't hurt things, either. So all in all, I've managed to concoct a recipe for encountering mental midgets on a regular -- if not daily -- basis.

Now that we've got that cleared up, I have found that stupidity -- and my recognition thereof -- isn't and shouldn't be limited strictly to those dummies in my general vicinity. On the contrary -- I've found that there is a variety from which to choose, and in part, I like to take the time in this space to pay homage to those morons near and far who have managed, despite the odds against them, to catch my attention and who have excelled in their abilities to impress me with their sheer ineptitude, foolishness and/or overall lack of purpose.

The first candidate involves the story a friend sent me via e-mail; apparently a gentleman in San Diego was speeding and was caught speeding on photo-radar, those little cameras mounted on or near traffic lights designed to snap a photo of a car speeding or going through a red light, as an example. Apparently, this individual received a $40 summons for speeding and a photo of his car exceeding the speed limit. In response, said individual returned a copy of the summons with a photograph of $40. About a week later, he received his photograph, a copy of the summons and a photograph of a pair of handcuffs.

Needless to say, he paid the fine.

I actually don't necessarily think this individual is particularly stupid. First and foremost, any state or region that attempts to ticket someone for speeding and penalize them with a moving violation is, in my opinion, violating the law. If I am driving my brother's car and he and I look almost identical, why should he receive a ticket if it's my driving that is violating the law? In other words, why should anyone accept a penalty -- ie a moving violation, which results in violation points against an individual's license -- when they could simply and easily claim that their friend or family member was driving? Since there is reasonable doubt, there is no judge in the country who would be able -- willingly -- to implement that penalty.

Meanwhile, while this argument, I believe, has plenty of merit, I would also advise against taunting the police department, especially when the collection of monies is involved. What I've found is, whether we're talking about the fine for not wearing a seatbelt, a motorcycle helmet or simply going through a red light, is that it's not as much about safety as it is revenue. If the public is safe, that's all well and good; but is my going 62 miles an hour really going to endanger another 6.34 lives instead of following a diet of 55 miles an hour? The bullshit flies fast and furious no matter how fast you're driving.

The next instance of sheer stupidity involves Saturday night's UAB-Houston basketball game. During the game, Houston coach Tom Panders, who has a specific heart condition, became dizzy, fell to his knees and subsequently collapsed. At some point during this episode, the referees for the game assumed that Panders was mocking or complaining about them, so they issued him a technical foul. Subsequently, he was taken off the court -- wearing an oxygen mask -- on a stretcher. I certainly can't fault the refs' initial reaction to what they thought was mockery from a coach -- although Panders' name is far from the incessant, regular finger-pointing and mocking of a guy like Bobby Knight, as an example -- but once they saw the guy was undergoing a legitimate health crisis -- to the point that he might have died as a result of the episode -- it would have made a modicum of sense to, perhaps, rescind the technical foul call and delay the game for five minutes until order -- and, hopefully, Panders' health -- was reinstated.

Alas, no such luck. The referees refused to rescind the technical, despite all the evidence and logic suggesting that should be their course of action. UAB's "Squeaky" Johnson nailed both free throws, and UAB went on to win the game 82-79. If the two T's hadn't been rung up, it would have been a one-point game, thus proving the referees are not only blind, but stupid as well. It's one thing for a referee to claim "I didn't see it" -- it's another for him to be such an idiot that he saw it yet still managed to fuck it up.

Swish.

Last on today's stupid agenda is that stupidity which is sight unseen. I'm talking about quasi-spam and the idiots who chase it.

About two weeks ago, I made two attempts via e-mail to contact a friend I hadn't spoken to in some time. She moved twice and, as a result, cycled through two new e-mail addresses before settling on the west coast and choosing the cable bohemoth Comcast as her Internet Service Provider. Since she and I last spoke, she had given me her address, which we'll refer to as "comcastsucks@comcast.net." She had sent me something in November so I replied to that e-mail and that particular address. I spent the better part of a half hour researching something on her behalf, so once I was done, I -- despite evidence contradicting same here -- whipped up a well-thought out, organized, intelligent communication.

A few minutes after, I received a Comcast bounce message -- or so I thought. I re-sent the e-mail, taking care that the e-mail address was the same as that which she'd used to send me the e-mail in November. It was.

So I fired it off yet again, not sure what the problem was but, nonetheless, hoping it would not be an ongoing issue. Sure enough, I received the same bounce message.

Since I had already spent almost 45 minutes on this, I moved onto other things and deigned to return to the problem once I had the chance. That chance came, oddly enough, the next day, when said friend logged into AIM and I noticed her. I IM'd her immediately and told her what was going on, and sure enough, the e-mail address I'd used was indeed correct.

Looking back at the two "bounced" messages, I instead realized that they weren't bounce messages but messages indicating my IP had been blacklisted by Comcast. I'm not sure why, as I don't recall the last time I sent something even remotely resembling spam. No virii, no freaky attachments, and no mass e-mails originate from here, so I sent Comcast an e-mail -- as per their advice -- requesting they remove me from their so-called list.

12 hours later, I received a response therefrom in which they told me they'd received my e-mail request but since I didn't include an IP therein they couldn't remove me from their list. Apparently this process would have to occupy another 12-hour delay before it would be solved, if ever.

So I sent them a new e-mail with the IP asking them not only to remove me but also why they decided to include my IP in their list. I haven't received a response, and I don't yet know if I've been removed from their list. However, one thing I do know is that the process has taken at least 24 hours, and since it has not yet been resolved, it seems to be an ongoing morass of masturbatory futility.

So Comcast wins my award for Institutional Stupidity.

Now, lest ye assume I am simply condemning an evil, faceless, brainless, flatulent corporate entity without forethought, I think the fight against spam can and should be fought successfully. Moreover, I am all for companies taking new, novel approaches to fight spam and otherwise inappropriate internet traffic. However -- and this is where it really gets good -- I have a sneaking feeling that my provider contains one or more people who somehow pissed off the powers that be at Comcast, and rather than intelligently going in and blocking the individual(s) responsible, they blocked my ISP, and, subsequently, made it impossible for me to communicate legitimately with their customer.

I haven't yet advised my friend of Comcast's actions, but it seems clear to me that if I was a customer of theirs and was awaiting something important -- a business e-mail, or perhaps a response in connection with a job or an important personal matter -- that was blocked randomly by a company that bills me each month, that would be the last month I'd be a customer of that company. On the one hand, as a Comcast customer, I'm pretty sure it's nice not to have to deal with spam in any way, shape or form; however, it must be pretty difficult and aggravating knowing that at any given time, you might not be getting e-mail that you are expecting or not expecting.

So, encountering stupidity in its many guises, whether in person or in corporate form, is equally, and significantly, disconcerting. There is stupidity everywhere: in our government, our office, our supermarket, and even online. So rather than let it annoy, anger or frustrate you, be sure to let the offending moron -- be it a person, a company, or an entire nation -- know that you're aware they're of lesser intelligence and that their actions, while offensive, are only the by-product of their ineptitude and stupidity.

Or, as Robin Williams once quipped, "Joke 'em if they can't take a fuck."

Surreality Check

These days the skies are waning, the moon is blue and the soundtrack to my world sounds something like Air Supply dueting with Barry Manilow doing a cover of Metallica's "Enter Sandman."

If that weren't bad enough, there are a lot of extranneous distractions which are not only preoccupying my focus, but are weird in and of themselves. First, there is news that Leif Garret, ie former Tiger Beat cover-boy, was arrested for -- get this combo -- not having a subway ticket and carrying 'narcotics.' How many times do you jump a turnstile whilst carrying some smack and then get nailed by the cops?

Apparently once too often, in Leif's case. Oops.

* * *

Then there's the news that Clarence Ray Allen, who at 76 years and one day old, was finally executed by the State of California for a variety of crimes. Mr. Allen's attorneys tried to stay his conviction citing his advanced age and his failing health, which included diabetes, blindness, partial deafness and his use of a wheelchair. Apparently, Mr. Allen was (sic) in such awful health that he had to be injected a second time with the poison cocktail that eventually made his life a footnote.

The reason why I bring up Mr. Allen's execution -- aside from the fact that I am glad that this shitbird failed to convince The Termischwarzenegger that he was "too old to die," as his lawyers claimed -- is I was reading the commentary by the state on his pre-execution medical status and found same to be memorable (an understatement):

"Having suffered a heart attack back in September, Allen had asked prison authorities to let him die if he went into cardiac arrest before his execution, a request prison officials said they would not honor.

"'At no point are we not going to value the sanctity of life,' said prison spokesman Vernell Crittendon. 'We would resuscitate him, then execute him.'"

Way to value human life, Mr. Crittendon. I'm all warm n' fuzzy now.

* * *

Next up on the "Did They Really Say That?" Blotter: New Orleans mayor Ray Nagin described the rebuilding of the city in curious terms. Specifically, he said that New Orleans, pre-Katrina, was a 'chocolate' city and should remain that way post-rebuilding. He's gotten a lot of abuse over the ill-chosen remark, especially considering the entire text of his chocolate-related dialogue:

"'How do you make chocolate? You take dark chocolate, you mix it with white milk, and it becomes a delicious drink. That is the chocolate I am talking about,' he said. 'New Orleans was a chocolate city before Katrina. It is going to be a chocolate city after. How is that divisive? It is white and black working together, coming together and making something special.'"

It's not a white chocolate city; it's not a dark chocolate city. It's Shine-Olah with a shit cherry on top.

Good luck getting re-elected this year, schmuck.

* * *

Finally, the sign that the apocalypse is nigh, for sure, has to be the news from the Boston Legal set that William Shatner, aka Captain Kirk, will be selling his now-emitted kidney-stone on E-Bay for charity. He described it as the "ultimate piece of Star Trek memorabilia."

Is it me, or does it amaze everyone that William Shatner somehow manages to come off as an even bigger douchebag each time he's in the news?

Thanks, Captain. While he's at it, he should have demonstrated he was serious about raising major coin for charity by creating an E-Bay auction that offers the winning bidder a chance to kick him in the balls and duct-tape his mouth shut. That'd be far more valuable and an auction that would get a LOT of bids.

At least we wouldn't have to watch those irritating Priceline commercials anymore.

Shadows On The Wall

Watching Kaia's cab stutter-step into traffic, yet again, I prepared for another month without her. Around six last night, I walked back into my warm apartment, all the lights lit and everything neat, orderly and fresh. It felt cold and dark.

As I settled onto the couch to have some dinner and ruminate on her impending return to California, I picked up the phone to make sure she didn't forget anything -- which is Boogie-speak for calling her just because I missed her. I hit the memory menu button and thumbed to her mobile phone entry, and as the phone dialed, I heard no dial tone but instead her giggling on the other end. She'd beaten me to it.

We talked for a little while before I opted out to let her call her parents to let them know her flight was delayed by an hour by fog -- which, I opined, was the City's way of honoring their soon-to-be departing guest.

I popped on the television and found an on-demand movie to watch, "Million Dollar Baby." I'd never seen it, despite hearing lots about it; aside from the fact it won the Oscar for Best Picture, I had been meaning to see it because I'm convinced Clint Eastwood is one of the most gifted movie directors ever. However, because its subject matter -- euthanasia -- is dramatic and less than uplifting, I hadn't been eager to spend two-plus hours getting myself depressed. I've been dealing with enough personally that I didn't need any help getting there; but since I was sad to see Kaia leave, I figured I had some free time and wanted to keep my mind occupied, so I fired it up. I fell asleep soon after it started, but I wound up waking back up and restarting it about ten minutes in, so it's all good.

Regarding the film, I won't go into much detail here, because the less one knows about the movie prior to seeing it, the better. But I will say that I am amazed and impressed by Clint Eastwood's ability to present, film after film, such great movies. Since I saw "Unforgiven," and certainly long before that, I've always been a fan of his; but while the Dirty Harry movies were somewhat dumbed-down fare and the "Money" Trilogy ("The Good, The Bad and The Ugly;" "A Fistful of Dollars;" and "For A Few Dollars More") was a bit simplistic, he's been churning out, one by one, memorable, well-crafted movies. "Million Dollar Baby" was no exception. It was heartfelt, honest, poignant and staggering in its perfection and ability to explore the topic and the moment and the relationships between the few characters in the film. Morgan Freeman and Hilary Swank both turned in exceptional performances as well; but the film's message, and its bittersweet overtones, left me exhausted and exhilerated.

As the film wound down, I noticed Kaia's flight had arrived in San Francisco, so I called her before her plane even arrived at the gate. She hadn't slept much on the plane (and it was still, for her, three in the morning), she was just eager to get home and crawl into bed. We talked on and off for the next forty-five minutes between her exiting the plane and getting into bed.

The flaws of long-distance cell-phone communication aside, it was deja vu; just hours before, we could just coexist in the same space and not need to worry about reception, battery life, or geography in our snippets of exchanges, even if we were preoccupied with other things. Knowing we were going back to phone calls, e-mails, instant messages and voicemails suddenly clicked somewhere in my mind; and when I climbed into bed along with her, I caught the scent of her perfume on my pillows and it finally, solemnly hit me that I was in the dark, alone, on a rainy, thundering night knowing I wanted nothing more than to kiss her good night and the next morning we'd be waking up together.

As I've indicated in prior posts, the last two weeks were very mellow; we didn't do much running around in the aim of trying to see what "real life" will be like between us: coming home from work and cooking or ordering in rather than getting together with friends; errands instead of shopping excursions; and taking out the garbage instead of cabbing to Soho to window-shop. While it makes for less-than-enthralling reading, it made me happy to acknowledge, yet again, how effortless and easy it is for us to be together. If I'm repeating myself again I'll apologize, but it's so amazing and so gratifying to spend time with her and find myself smiling and content.

And as I surmised, the only negative was knowing it will be another month before we're in each others' space and doing those same, mundane, boring tasks. What I learned, or more accurately, confirmed, from this past couple weeks is that being with someone can be a good thing, but with the right person, the little things -- everything, actually -- is incredible. And the downside of that is how bad it feels knowing she isn't here with me now.

As I'm writing this, iTunes offered up John Mayer's "Love Song For No One," and I chuckled. I can spend the next month complaining about her not being here, but knowing she's "with" me is, for sure, far more satisfying than being with the wrong person or not having a significant other. So if I sound unappreciative or whiny, I apologize, as neither is my intention. I just like my life with her in it, and hate the spaces in between. I might get used to it, but I'm more hoping that I don't and that doing so will soon be unnecessary.

Or, put another way, time has a way of ebbing and flowing like the tide, and to enjoy the tide is to accept both the ebb and flow.