Wednesday, June 8, 2016

20 Minutes of Action. . .

I presume that by now, most of you have heard of the 'Stanford Rape Case', in which the judge sentenced the convicted defendant to six months prison time for raping a young woman when both of them were drunk at a party.  Some of you with really good memories might recall an experience I had of jury duty for a rape trial, that has some touch points with the story in question.  Suffice it to say that I am not sympathetic to the idea that drunk girls are fair game for men with erections.

Truth to tell, this case pokes me at another, personal level.  I've never mentioned it here, but I'm also the father of a rape victim.  One of my daughters (and you'll forgive me if I decline to say which one) was flat-out brutally assaulted by a guy who left her unconscious on the sidewalk for some other guy to find and drop at the ER (and 'drop her' was pretty much what he did, dumping her out of his car and driving away; fearful, I guess, that he might come under suspicion himself. . .what a prince, eh?)  She used to have her grandmother's nose, but it's harder to tell that now.

See, the thing that both of my 'personal' encounters with rape have in common is this - the idea that the woman - the victim - was stupid, and brought it on herself.  In the jury case I sat on, she went to the perp's house after midnight and helped him kill a 12-pack.  Not smart, I'm sure we'll all agree.  BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN SHE DESERVED TO BE RAPED!!!  My daughter was walking alone in an awful part of town, after midnight.  Again, not smart.  BUT SHE DIDN'T DESERVE TO BE RAPED BECAUSE OF IT!!!  Each of those men, and the young man at Stanford, had a choice - do I rape this woman, or not? - and each of them chose to rape.  It wasn't a wink-wink, nudge-nudge, boys-will-be-boys moment.  It was rape.  They took those women and used them.  Treated them not like persons, but like things - like toys for their own gratification.  Each of them had the choice to behave like a man, or like an animal, and they all chose 'animal'.  Sexual intercourse is designed to be a wonderful, beautiful thing, uniting a man and a woman at the most intimate, personal level possible this side of Heaven.  But these jackasses just TOOK that intimate, personal part of the women they raped, USING the women - persons, made in the Image and Likeness of God - who were made to be loved, and never to be used.

I could go on and on.  I would hope I don't have to convince any of you that rape is evil.  But I am a father, and a husband, and a brother, among the many relationships I have in my life, and I try to take seriously my duty to take care of the women in my life (if that makes me hideously, hopelessly anachronistic - deal with it).  I have utter sympathy with the guy in New York who killed the man attempting to rape his wife, and the fact that that husband is defending himself from manslaughter charges is yet another marker of our culture's descent into insanity. . .

I am a father.  And almost more appalling than the Stanford rape itself is the young rapist's father trying to make light of his son's actions - all 20 minutes' worth of them.  You, sir, are a pathetic excuse for a father.  Your job is to instill strength of character in your son(s), not to wink and nudge them for their boyish hijinks - which, incidentally, came at the expense of ANOTHER HUMAN BEING, who wasn't put on this earth for the sake of your son's gratification.  Jackass.  Look, I understand a father's concern for his son's long-term well-being, and the deleterious effect of carrying a rape conviction around with you, and being on a sex-offenders' registry.  But shit, son - DON'T GO RAPING WOMEN, AND THIS STUFF WON'T HAPPEN TO YOU.  Once you start raping women, my ability to help you (to say nothing of my willingness) is seriously curtailed.

And I won't say anything about Judge Six-Month, beyond saying that his place in Hell is right next to Dad's, and a thorough bitch-slapping would do him good. . .

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Look, I understand that the whole 'Sexual Contract' is screwed up, and that securing a woman's consent doesn't forestall her from changing her story when regret sets in later (which, in its crass and utilitarian way, nudges young men toward a more traditional approach to sexual morality, and away from the Revolution; but I digress. . .)  I am sick to high heaven of men trying to make like rape is no big deal.  I'm a man too, and I don't think like that (and in fact, young Mr. Stanford Rapist was subdued and turned in by a couple young men who don't think like that, either), and I resent being painted with the same brush as those jackasses.  And I don't want them anywhere near my daughters, or my sisters, or my wife. . .

This rant is hereby concluded. . .

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(add, 10June)

And, to no-one's surprise, Elizabeth Scalia says it better than I do. . .

Thursday, May 19, 2016

In My (Blog-)Life. . .

Ten years ago today, I made my first entry into BlogWorld.  For those of you who are interested, you could follow the link to my old blog in the sidebar, and check it out (here is a link to the first month's posts).  Honestly, the first post itself was pretty. . . lame.  But it wasn't long before I was developing the themes which have been more-or-less running bits throughout the life of both of my blogs.

I originally posted under the pseudonym of Desmond Jones, cleverly lifted (if I may say so myself) from the Beatles' song, 'Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da', with its main character Desmond Jones and his happy union with his wife Molly, and their 'couple of kids running in the yard'.

My blog-life has actually had four distinct phases.  The first ran from May-August of '06, at which point I took a brief 'break', when it felt like I was putting too much effort and attention into my blog at the expense of other, more important things, like taking care of my family (which was really ironic, since a large proportion of my blogging material has pertained to the joys and heartbreaks of marriage and family life).

That 'break' was short-lived, and by September, I was back at it, maybe even more actively than before.  I like to think of this as sort of the 'golden age' of my blog; a disproportionate number of my favorite posts come from this period.

By the spring of '07, though, things were feeling a bit out-of-hand again, and so I shut my blog down again.  This time, I stayed gone for over a year, although I continued to visit and comment on the blogs I'd gotten to know in my months of blogging.

The third phase of my blog commenced in the summer of '08, when I started my blog back up for the third time.  And I've stayed more-or-less active ever since. . .

At the end of '09, I stopped posting to my original 'Running In the Yard' blog, and opened this current blog, dropping the pseudonyms (at least for Jenn and me; the kids have retained their original birth-order/gender designations).  I just moved to 'The Yard Next Door'; same blog, really, just dropping the mask a tiny bit.  And I've been here ever since.

Anyway, here we are, ten years on.  I've enjoyed blogging, most especially the friends I've made here, and the interesting people I've met (to the extent I can say we've actually 'met', or become friends).  Once, in the fall of '08, a few of us who live in the Upper Midwest got together face-to-face for a weekend in Indianapolis, which was fun.  I'd love to meet more of you all, and maybe I will. . . or, you know, maybe not.  We will see what we will see. . .

Blogging sort-of 'peaked' a few years ago (probably a year or two before I moved 'next door'; ironically, around the time of our face-to-face in Indy), and now there's just a few of us hardy hangers-on from the 'Old Days' (mainly over-50 geezers by now).  I honestly don't know how many more years I'll keep this blog going; for the past year-plus, the activity level around The Yard has been pretty low.  But I suppose, as long as I keep coming up with stuff to blog about and stories to tell (or, you know, re-tell), stuff will keep popping up here.  Until it doesn't.

Thanks to all of you who keep showing up to read my stuff (God only knows why); and especially those of you who take the time to leave a comment now and again.  I've really enjoyed it. . .

Ten years. . . Man, who knew? . . .

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Continuing on the theme of Retrospection (and just because I'm that kind of generous), I'm gonna give you all links to my most popular posts, or at least the ones with the most page-views. . .

Back to the Drawing Board, I Guess

The Best Man I've Ever Known

Place Names In Michigan

Another Book Post

John Chrysostom for Christmas

I Am a Nazarene

With My Body, I Thee Worship

And one from my old blog. . .

Growing Up In the 60s

Thanks for visiting. . .

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

An Old-Fashioned Blog List

In honor of my upcoming 10-year blogging anniversary (a month from now), I thought I'd go all 'Blast From the Past' and post one of those checklists that were common as dirt back in the early days of my blogger-hood.  I'm borrowing this one from my blog-friend Skip, who posted it a couple months ago, though I'm pretty sure he borrowed it from someone else.  It came to him as a 'Bucket List', and some of the items on it are indeed bucket-worthy; others, not so much.  I'm just gonna call it

Have You Ever. . .

(X) Shot a gun
( ) Been Tased – This is supposed to be a Bucket List item??
( ) Been Arrested
( ) Gone on a blind date
(X) Skipped school
( ) Watched someone die – I was with my dad within an hour of his death, but he slipped away when I wasn’t there
(X) Visited Canada
( ) Visited Hawaii
( ) Visited Cuba
( ) Visited Europe
( ) Visited South America
( ) Visited Las Vegas
( ) Visited Central America
( ) Visited Asia
( ) Visited Africa
(X) Visited Florida
(X) Visited Mexico
( ) Seen the Grand Canyon in person – does it count if I saw it from an airplane?
( ) Flown in a helicopter
( ) Drag raced your car - if you knew the cars I've owned, you'd understand. . .
(X) Served on a jury – more of ‘em than I wish I had. . .
(X) Been lost – but not very, and not for long. . .
(X) Traveled to the opposite side of the country – I'm tempted to ask, 'opposite in what sense, exactly?' . . .
( ) Visited Washington, DC
(X) Swam in the Ocean – Both the Atlantic and the Pacific; and all five Great Lakes!
(X) Cried yourself to sleep
(X) Played cops and robbers
(X) Played cowboys and Indians
( ) Recently colored with crayons – depends what you mean by ‘recently’, I suppose. . .
(X) Sang karaoke
(X) Sang a solo or duet
(X) Paid for a meal with coins only – does anyone remember those 'vend-o-matic' places from back in the '60s?
(X) Made prank phone calls
(X) Laughed until some beverage came out of your nose
(X) Caught a snowflake on your tongue
(X) Been a parent – Still am, actually. . .
(X) Had a dog
(X) Had a cat - alas. . .
(X) Been skinny-dipping - Heh; yup. . .
(X) Been fishing
(X) Been boating
( ) Been downhill skiing
(X) Been water skiing – not sure any of those who saw me would actually call what I did 'water skiing' but I did get up on the skis for a few seconds; maybe even a whole minute. . .
(X) Been camping in a trailer/RV
(X) Been camping in a tent
(X) Driven a motorcycle
( ) Been bungee-jumping (/ ripcord jumping / rappelling) - does falling while rock climbing count?
(X) Gone to a drive-in movie
( ) Done something that could have killed you – unless commuting 80mi in a blizzard counts. . .
(X) Done something that you will regret for the rest of your life – Regrets, I’ve had a few. . . 
( ) Rode an elephant – This would be incredibly cool; but alas, no. . .
( ) Rode a camel
( ) Eaten just cookies or cake or ice cream for dinner
(X) Drank your dinner
(X) Been on TV
( ) Stolen any traffic signs – thought about it once, but. . . no
(X) Been in a car accident
( ) Been in the Hospital or ER in past 24 months - not  in the past 24 months
(X) Donated blood
( ) Gotten a speeding (or any other type of) ticket in the past 12 months not  in the past 12 months
( ) Gotten a piercing
( ) Gotten a Tattoo – Does it count if my kids have gotten piercings/tattoos?
(X) Driven a manual transmission vehicle – I was in my 50s before I even owned an automatic. . .
( ) Ever owned your dream car – Not sure what my dream car would be, but whatever it is, I’m pretty sure I’ve never owned one. . .
(X) Been Married – And most blissfully so  ;)
( ) Been divorced
(X) Fell in love
( ) Fell out of love
(X) Paid for a stranger's meal
(X) Driven over 100 mph
( ) Been scuba diving
( ) Written a published book/story/poetry – I’ve had (non-fiction) articles published, but no stories or poetry. . .
( ) Eaten snails – They need an entry here for caviar. . .
( ) Eaten Haggis
(X) Taught a class

Sunday, March 20, 2016

Madness. . . Madness. . .

Oh, we had such high hopes this year. . .  There was no over-archingly dominant team this year, and my Spartans had been on quite a roll, winning 13 of their last 14 games heading into the NCAA tournament, winning the Big Ten conference tournament, and grinding out tough wins against good teams in the final two games.  So we were eagerly looking forward to the NCAAs.  Honestly, this looked like our best chance in years to win the championship.  Unlike most of Coach Izzo's previous teams, it would have been disappointing not to make at least the Final Four.  This was Coach Izzo's best chance in years to win his second championship, and the stars seemed to be aligning perfectly.

We simply had no mental framework for losing in the first round.  I still can't quite believe we did.  It was all set up so perfectly for us.  Oh, I was a little concerned about the possibility of meeting Virginia in the Regional Final, especially since we'd eliminated them from the last two NCAAs, and they would certainly be extra-motivated to play us the third year in a row.  And I wanted no part of the possibility of seeing Purdue for a third time this season, since we'd split two grinding, gruelling games during the season.  But I never imagined we'd lose in the first round. . .

But we did lose.  In the first round.  Hats off to Middle Tennessee.  They played a tough, gritty, fearless game against us, and they simply couldn't miss, it seemed.  They smacked us in the face right from the opening tip, running out to a 15-2 lead in the first five minutes of the game, and forcing us to play catch-up the whole game.  We slowly clawed our way back into the game; twice, late in the game, we pulled within a single point, but each time, Middle Tennessee made the big plays, hit the key shots, made the clutch steals, and we made the crucial, excruciating turnovers.  And when the final horn sounded, we had lost the game.

To put the game into context - this is the 32nd year of the 64-team format for the tournament.  That means there have now been 128 games between 2-seeds and 15-seeds (and there were a lot of us who thought we 'should have' been a 1-seed; you'd be very kind not to rub that in our faces).  The 15-seeds have now won eight of those 128 games.  This was one of the biggest upsets in the history of the tournament.  But I have no basis for complaining; it was just our turn in the barrel, I guess.  If it wasn't my Spartans on the losing end, I'd smile, and shake my head, and mutter to myself about how crazy and unpredictable the tournament is, and this is why they call it March Madness, and so forth.  But wow. . . when it's our turn, it just stings.  Or makes you numb.  Or both at the same time.

If I step back, it almost looks like we got caught in some crazy weird vortex of fate (I don't really believe in the whole 'vortex of fate' thing, but, you know. . .).  Of the 32 winners of first-round games this year, ten of them - almost a third - are double-digit seeds:  two 10-seeds, three 11s, two 12s, a 13, a 14 and a 15.  I don't ever recall anything remotely close to such a massively crazy convergence of upsets in the same tournament.  And however it happened, my Spartans got caught in it.

(*sigh*)

Maybe next year. . .

To quote from The Bridge on the River Kwai:  "Madness. . .  Madness. . ."

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But hey, at least our women won. . .  ;)

Sunday, February 14, 2016

Long-Stemmed WHAT?

This is a re-post from many years ago (seven, to be precise), on my old blog, which I thought you all might enjoy. . .

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Jenn and I have never been particularly big on Valentine’s Day. We’ve tended to view it as pretty much an over-hyped ‘Hallmark holiday’, designed to sell candy and greeting cards. And we’ve figured that really, it’s much better if we spend 365 days a year finding ways to express our love and commitment to each other, than it is to ride in on a white horse every February 14th to say what, honestly, we should be saying (albeit, perhaps not in quite such extravagant form) all the time.

But, maybe that’s just us.

I did get in trouble once over Valentine’s Day, though. My birth-mother, as it turns out, is a HUGE fan of Valentine’s Day. And so, when the first V-Day after our reunion rolled around, and I gave it my typical blasé non-observance, she was pretty upset with me, and told me so. I mean, how hard would it have been for me to send her a card, or some candy hearts with cheesy ‘romantic’ messages stamped in them, expressing the true depth of my feelings for her, right?

So, I didn’t make that mistake again. The following year, I was in the card shop a month ahead, searching for the perfect V-Day card. And I found it. On the front, it had an old photo of a gnarly, scowling old gentleman, standing behind a chair on the lawn. The caption read, “Here’s your damn Valentine”, and inside it said, “Now sit down and shut up.” Jenn wouldn’t let me send it to my mother. But I still have it in my files, to this day (I swear I still have it; I was gonna scan it for y'all, but I couldn't immediately lay hands on it).

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We have occasionally had a bit of fun with V-Day observances, though. Many years ago, when we were married only a few years, I was in my office, working, on Valentine’s Day, when I got paged to the receptionist’s desk by the front door, so everybody in the office could hear it. When I got there, there was a long white box sitting on the desk – the kind that long-stemmed roses often come in. “Your wife was just here,” said the receptionist. “She said she couldn’t stay, but she left this for you.”

Curious. . . Jenn is definitely not the sentimental sort. She used to pooh-pooh it when I brought her flowers, but over the years she's grown more appreciative of the thought, and the effort (and the flowers are nice, after all). Anyway, getting roses for me would be way out-of-character for her.

I picked up the box. It was heavy. WAY too heavy for flowers. What the heck? So I set the box back on the desk, and opened it, to see what in the world it could possibly contain, that was so heavy.

And I saw six cans of beer, laid end-to-end. A linear six-pack.

Sometimes, you know, there are just no words. . .

I married a great, great woman. . .

Sunday, February 7, 2016

Divided By a Common Language. . .

OK, this is a story which I tell with some frequency, on the general theme of the sometimes-humorous (or is it humourous?) things that happen when British English-speakers try to communicate with American English-speakers (and vice-versa). . .  (I could also refer you to my reply-comment to the Brighton Pensioner in the comment-space attached to this post). . .

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A business-woman I know was travelling to London on business.  She was met at the airport by a gentleman who worked for the company on which she was to call the following day.  Said gentleman drove her from the airport to her hotel, and then, by way of making arrangements to pick her up in the morning and convey her to the office at which meetings were to take place, he asked her, "Shall I knock you up about eight, then?"

Absolutely true story. . .

Friday, January 22, 2016

It's Still Personal. . .

Today is the 43rd anniversary of the Supreme Court's decision on Roe v. Wade, so I'm giving you, one more time, a (lightly edited) re-post of my 'Abortion' post.  It's one of my better items, if I may say so myself; perhaps even the best I've ever done. Whether or not it was my best, though (by whatever standard such a question might be decided), the topic resonates with me at a deeply personal level. . .

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Sometime when I was in college, the realization dawned on me that, as an adoptee, I had been somebody’s ‘unwanted pregnancy’ once upon a time. And in the fullness of time, especially once Jenn and I married and began having children together, that became one of my strongest motivations to search for my birth-mother – I wanted to thank the woman who, though I had never met her, had carried me in her womb for nine months, and seen me through to the beginnings of my life in this world. (And just as an aside, for me as an adoptee, even such a basic concept as that I'd been carried in someone's womb once-upon-a-time could be disconcertingly abstract).

Along with that realization, I came to understand that, all things considered, I was probably fortunate to have been born before 1973 and Roe v. Wade. I had never particularly staked out a firmly-held position on abortion (My pre-voting-age self was probably mostly ‘pro-choice’, without having given it much thought), but once I understood that, had I been conceived in another time, I would have been a pretty likely candidate for abortion (white college women abort roughly 98% of their ‘unwanted pregnancies’), the question took on an entirely different, and personal, aspect.

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I recall a conversation I had with my birth-mother some time after our reunion in 1989. She was talking about her life as a pregnant-and-unmarried woman in the 1950s, and how difficult it had been for her, and she said something like, “I just wish I’d had the choices that women have today.”

I nodded sympathetically. . . until the penny fell all the way to the bottom.  Ummmmm. . . you understand, right, that we're talking about ME here? I mean, we’ve had a really, REALLY happy reunion, and both of us are glad for the opportunity to know each other, and our respective families. If you had exercised the ‘choice’ you’re alluding to, none of that would be even a remote possibility. You might still wonder who I’d been, but without any possibility of ever knowing. . .

She understood. Not that she was wishing that she’d aborted me; only that she’d felt so trapped when she was pregnant, and wished that she’d had anything at all she could have done about that. Now, I could understand how trapped she felt. Frederica Mathewes-Green has written and spoken insightfully about women who “want an abortion the way an animal caught in a trap wants to gnaw off its own leg” (and I would highly recommend her book which is the source of that quote; it's an utterly unique book, just for her refusal to take part in the standard shouting matches.).

And I get that. I have the utmost compassion for women who are pregnant when it is nigh unto catastrophic for them to be so. All three of my daughters have been there, and not so very long ago. And my heart ached for each of them, wishing there was something, anything, that I could do to make it easier for them. . .

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But, back in 1955-56, that was ME in my birth-mother’s belly. No mere clump of cells, or a faceless ‘fetus’ (honestly, as we sit here, you and I and every other human being are living, breathing clumps of cells; but of course, we're much more than that, and so we were in our mothers' wombs, as well) – it was me, with my own genetic code, distinct from my birth-mother's (or my birth-father's). And if my birth-mother had had an abortion, it was me who would’ve died.

And the ripples go out from there. My adoptive parents might’ve adopted someone else; who can say? But they wouldn’t have adopted me. My classmates and friends and Little-League teammates could scarcely be said to have missed me – how do you miss someone who, as far as you know, never even existed? – but something of the life we shared together would never have happened. Jenn would most likely have married someone else (I mean, she’s an amazing woman; she'd have had guys standing in line for her); but she wouldn’t have married me (and who can say how that might have gone for her?). And our children would never have come to be – her children, if she had any, would be someone else entirely (I've occasionally gotten a chuckle from the thought that I'm the personification of the 'population-control' movement's worst nightmare - an 'unwanted pregnancy' that turned into eight more mouths to feed). . .

And so it goes. In fact, those of you who were born after 1973, have you ever wondered how many children who might have been your friends or classmates or Little-League teammates, or heck, husbands or wives, were never allowed to be born? Cold statistics tell us that, in the US alone, the number would be on the order of 60 million or so by now (roughly the population of California and New York combined) - a fifth again of the population of our country (worldwide, the number would be many times that).  Do you ever wonder who those people might have been?

But just to cite a number misses the point. What music was never made, what literature was never written, what cures for which diseases never came about, for want of the men and women who might have done those things, but were never allowed to be born?

And even still - to talk in terms of 'who might have done what' misses the point, too. It's not so much that, eg, the late Steve Jobs (an adoptee like me) was so worthwhile for what he did, but that every human life is intrinsically valuable in-and-of-itself. And 'humanity-at-large' benefits from every one of its members, whether they 'accomplish anything' or not. Certainly, we've all benefitted from the fact that Steve Jobs, or Beethoven, or anyone else, were born and not aborted. But we'll never know, in terms other than bloodless, colorless statistics, what 'humanity-at-large' has lost for those tens of millions who were never born. . .

My point here is not to guilt-trip any woman who has ever had an abortion; my heart absolutely goes out to those women, for they, too, have had violence done to them; they've been sold a bill of goods, given a false promise. I only hope to put a more ‘human’ face on the question, and challenge anyone to think of ‘unwanted pregnancy’ not as a ‘problem’ with an easy technological solution, but as something real, and human, and flesh-and-blood. And life-and-death.

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I don’t think my birth-mother is terrible for wishing she’d had more choices available to her.  Honestly, on one level, it’s easy for her to say; she’ll never bear the cost of having chosen otherwise (but, to be utterly clear - the very last thing I mean is to trivialize what it cost her for me to be here).

No, I actually think she’s pretty cool; as birth-mothers go, she’s definitely one of the best, and I am as happy as I can be that we’ve known each other for all these years. I understand how trapped she felt 60 years ago, and I absolutely appreciate, and am utterly grateful for, the sacrifice it was for her, for me to be here today. It’s personal for her in an entirely different, but analogous, way to how it’s personal for me. And I understand that.

Existence itself is a gratuitous gift, the only fitting response to which is gratitude.  I am as grateful as I can be for my life, my family, my wife and children, and all of my friends, including those of you who are reading this; for existence in this rich and fascinating Universe, and for the Hope of the World to Come.  And none of that could ever have come to pass for me, if I'd been snuffed out before I could be born.

So you see, it's personal - it involves persons, created in God's image and likeness, with inherent worth and dignity not conferred on them by any other human being. Mothers and fathers and children - persons, one-and-all. And my birth-mother is one of them. And so am I. . .

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And here's a link to a 1974 short story by Philip K. Dick (whose stories inspired films like Blade Runner and Total Recall).  Probably not his best-known story, but eminently worth reading. . .

The Pre-Persons, by Philip K. Dick

I'd love to know what you think of it. . .