04 December 2008

Wordy Gurdy


“When ideas fail, words come in very handy.” Johann Wolfgang von Goethe said that, and I couldn’t agree more. I love words. I love the act of choosing words to write down. I love search for the perfect word to convey exactly what I have in my head. It doesn’t work as often as I’d like (bless you, Goethe), but I love it still. I know that sounds like the geekiest thing in the world, but if you’ve never agonized over word selection, I feel sorry for you. Now, before you think I’m going to try and choke some deep thought out of you with literary mothballs, relax. I just want to expound a bit on proper word choice, and what a nifty effect it has whether we realize it or not. Per Goethe, I want to show how more than one idea can be put across with the same words. And I’m even going to use a couple examples from our own time…Well, my time, anyway.

Anyone who knows me knows that I’m not a huge fan of the Eagles. They’re OK, and I don’t hate them, but they’re not one of my favorites. However, I have to bow (in private) at the clever use of ordinary words in the song “Hotel California” that has secretly fascinated me for years. If you don’t know that song, you’re either very young or you’ve been living under a rock since the mid seventies. Now before you dismiss me as an aging hippy trying to explain the allegorical undertones of a song that was released to a stoned yet appreciative audience, again I say, relax. I only want to deal with two lines to make my point, because that’s all I need. The lines are as follows:
They held the dance in the courtyard; sweet summer sweat
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.

Now that I think of it, the first line is only included for context. It is the second line that piques my geekiness. My consternation is only this: Does the word “some” in the line refer to the dance or the participants? Is it the dance that is impossible to forget, or are the dancers themselves the focal point? It works either way, doesn’t it? It is ambiguous as to what the subject of the narrator’s point of view is, and that’s what makes it so interesting, and so clever.

Let’s try another one, although this one is a bit different, in that I have no way to confirm the exact lyrics. The song is called “A Thousand Knives” by Ted Nugent, who has seen fit to not publish any official lyrics to what is, well, an obscure song. It was never a hit, so why the secrecy? In fact, why would anyone in the music business refuse to allow their lyrics to be printed? Call me crazy, but if you’re counting on your product being heard and understood by the consumer, it seems to me that your privacy issues are moot. In any case, the lines to the song in question are, as near as I can discern, as follows: “A couple lies/eyes are like a thousand knives; They cut in to you baby…” The reason for the “eyes/lies” slash is that I don’t know which word is the right one. As sung, it’s impossible to distinguish if he’s saying eyes or lies, and it matters which word is used because the meaning of the line depends on it. Is he singing about a look or a deed; either one can be as sharp as, well, a thousand knives, but we don’t know which it is.

The idea of picking out just the right word probably seems a bit esoteric to all except those who take delight in such a task, but it is all important. Readers have it easy, in a way, in that the words have already been chosen. But isn’t it just perfect when an author is able to throw them a curve by choosing words that can be taken in more than one way? The examples I’ve used are fluffy, I know, but they serve to make my point. Is it the dance or the participants? Betrayal or expression? Both work, but the meaning or the scene changes and that’s important. Goethe knew this, hence his observation. It’s hard sometimes to get an idea across on paper and those pesky words can serve a dual purpose by either communicating a thought clearly, or obscuring two or more ideas, causing endless speculation as to just exactly what the meaning is supposed to be. Fluffy examples? Yeah, but this has been going on for a long, long time.

Let’s get a bit meatier. Genesis 1:26 reads: “God said ‘Let us make man in our own image, after our likeness’…” (KJV) Can you see the pronoun problem here? “Us, our, ourselves.” Why not “me, my and myself”? Who, exactly, is “us”? I don’t want to get into biblical fallacies; I just want to know why the author(s) chose to use “us” instead of “me”. As a writer, I know that authors don’t choose words lightly. They know exactly what they want to say, don’t they? Forget for a moment that no one could have possibly been around to hear or know what God said before he created people. How could they have known his exact words? We’ll let that one go (although you should think about it), and try another biblical example where we get it straight from the source. There should be no problems with a direct quote. Right? Exodus 20:3 reads “Thou shalt have no other gods before me.” (KJV) Why, oh why, is this phrased like it is? As it reads, it sounds as if God knows there is competition, doesn’t it? If He is the ONE god, why would he mention others? It’s that “us” and “them” thing again. But, I’m not going too deep here. I just want to point out the importance of choosing the right word, because it matters.

I want to close with Goethe again by saying that the quote can be backed up with a myriad of examples, but not all ideas are obscured by words. There are plenty examples of prose that is as clear as crystal, and I believe we use those instances to help us to better try to explain the fuzzy ones. I found a perfect example of that in the oddest place: Behind a boiler at the 7up factory in Holland, Michigan, clinging to a rusty cabinet that hung over a lime-scaled sink was a little pink magnet, dusty and forgotten. It was small and cracked but legible, and it displayed letters floating in a bowl, like alphabet soup. The letters spelled “WORDS”, and beneath the bowl was this admonition: “Keep ‘em soft and sweet. You may have to eat them.” How about that? A great idea in just twelve words; no ambiguity here. I know, it’s not literature, but it conveys a message everyone can easily understand, and there is no greater goal for those who like to choose words.

03 December 2008

Crime and Punishment


I saw a video clip yesterday, and as I watched it, I realized how much different parenting is now than it was when I was young. I can’t find a link to the story anymore; I guess it’s really not that newsworthy, but here’s what happened: An Ohio mother placed her 12 year old son on a street corner and for two hours had him hold a sign that said “I am a thief and a liar” for stealing a cell phone, lying about it, and refusing to apologize once he’d been caught. (Yes, she watched him the entire time and no, she didn’t get the apology). There are those now calling for child abuse charges.

As usual, I’m going to tell you what I thought of that. Because I have a hard time growing up, I find myself on the sympathetic side of children when they’re being disciplined, mostly because I remember being in that position with alarming frequency. For a 12 year old, there can be no fear like the fear of having to answer for something you thought you were going to get away with but didn’t. The cold feeling in the pit of your stomach when you get caught red-handed and you instantly know, KNOW that the hammer is going to fall is a pitiful (and sometimes funny) thing to behold, but I didn’t see a trace of fear on what I could see of this kid’s face. “Frustrated Mom makes son wear humiliating sign in public” is the tagline for this story. I really hoped to see a repentant and embarrassed child, but I didn’t. I saw a kid who might as well have been wearing a burka lolling on a street corner being ignored by almost everyone, and in the end, not apologizing for his actions. Where’s the lesson here?

I don’t have any kids, so no one wants to listen to my child rearing advice, and for once, I don’t have any (well, not much) to dispense. All I can do, as usual, is relate another story and hope the similarities as well as the differences don’t go unnoticed by you, the discerning reader.

From a very young age, I knew the difference between right and wrong. If I was right, everyone was happy. If I was wrong, I was the only one unhappy. Very unhappy. Painfully unhappy. As you might guess, even though I knew the difference between right and wrong, it still took me many years to solidify the concept that not doing what I wasn’t supposed to do was a good thing. I remember one hot fall Illinois day when I was unhappy about being grounded. My brother and sisters could leave the yard at will, but I, like a dog with a shock collar, could not, for leaving the yard would incur the wrath of my mother, and that was never a good thing. Just the thought of her gritting her teeth while she growled my name was the stuff of nightmares. My siblings, who were well aware of my predicament made no efforts at modesty; they pointed and taunted and gleefully screamed their plans for the afternoon, all of which entailed leaving sight and earshot of our house. Through my despair I hoped that one of them would pity me and stay, but none did. They all left, and I was alone in the empty back yard with the sun silently blaring down.

For a while I sat near the basement door, listening to my mother’s sewing machine droning on in the cool house while I baked in the heat. I wasn’t allowed to go inside (none of us were) except to eat lunch and have a glass of grape juice at 10 and 3. I hated my situation, hated my mother and hated the whole world. And in a moment of clarity, I suddenly realized that America is a free country and by God, I can do anything I want to do! So I left.

It doesn’t really matter where I went or what I did. Suffice to say that I behaved like a kid who wasn’t grounded and it felt really good. I had been gone for two or three hours and was playing contentedly with my buddy Curt in his back yard. His mother had just brought us some Kool-aid and I had utterly forgotten, or maybe just didn’t care that I was on the lam.

It has been said that a person is never more alive than when they’re about to die; their senses are heightened and they are keenly aware of the brink they’re teetering on…and most say they like it. I can understand that. But, as with all good things, they can end most abruptly. As I sat in Curt’s back yard, a marauding monster seized and crushed my idyllic bliss. Like a slavering demon loosed upon the neighborhood, my mother parted the shrubs and came marching across the yard, paddle in hand, teeth grinding and eyes blazing. I was frozen with fear. I sat and watched with mouth agape as she approached, saying nothing, but positively exuding anger. She snatched me up with one arm and commenced to paddling me with the other. I had already learned that there was no sense in trying to use my free hand to block the stinging blows. Not only did it hurt like hell being paddled on the fingers, it only served to infuriate her even more. It took about fifteen minutes to walk to Curt’s house, and I hopped while she paddled me every step of the way. I cried from pain and fear, of course, but I also cried because I knew that I could have avoided the whole awful scene if I had just done what I was supposed to do.

The spanking wasn’t the worst part of my penance. School was just starting, and for two solid weeks I had to come straight home, take a bath, put my pajamas with cartoon baseball players on and get in bed until it was dinner time. I got to eat, and then had to go right back to my bed. I could hear my brother and sisters outside playing in the twilight. The first weekend of my sentence was the annual block party, and I spent all day Saturday in bed, listening to the entire neighborhood partying and laughing and doing the things that people who aren’t grounded get to do. It was awful. The important thing is that I learned my lesson. Of course I got grounded again, but I NEVER walked away again. I never tried to get out of paying for what I’d done, and isn’t that the goal of punishment, to remind us that everything we do has consequences to accept if we choose to flaunt the rules?

It seems to me that the kid in the video got off real easy. If it had been me and my mother, I would have been standing in my underwear holding the sign and screaming to every passing car that I was a thief and a liar, and I probably would have been bleeding somewhere. No, I think this kid, unless he really gets himself together, is prison bound. He reminds me of a kid I knew once who (finally) had to spend some time at a juvenile facility. I went to pick him up, hoping that he had learned something. In a nonchalant way, he said that being locked up wasn’t that bad; he had made some friends and the food was good. Exasperated, I asked him if the fact that he couldn’t leave had any effect on him, and he said he hadn’t really thought about it while he was there. Hmmm. He went to real jail later.

My point here is that humiliation and fear are very powerful motivators and should not be shunned as a way of punishment. In fact, I’m all for it. The world is a tough place and children should learn from a very early age that it does not exist to make them happy. In fact, I daresay that not punishing swiftly and firmly is like setting out a welcome mat for later strife. Do I think children should be beaten, battered or broken? Of course not. I do think, however, that to mollycoddle them and feign anger and impose “a stern talking to” or time out for their misdeeds is just as bad, if not worse than real physical abuse. If you start early, and I mean from birth, and let them know that choices have to be made and consequences have to be dealt with, they are playing and learning on a level field. Feeling guilty and humiliated is the first step; the second is to turn them into the catalyst for creating empathy and modesty. If done correctly, with assurances that the world isn’t ending and the lesson is learned, punishment will be needed less frequently. You know why? Because they’ll learn right from wrong with your guidance. You don’t have to be a parent to know that. It’s common sense, isn’t it?

26 November 2008

Holiday Blurbs

So much has been going on lately that I just haven’t had (or taken) the time to write, which is wrong. As you can tell from my title, I haven’t totally committed to one subject, so until I do, I’ll just jot down a few things that have been on my mind lately. I hope you enjoy them.

That Stupid Mating Game
It’s funny how sometimes, when we KNOW we shouldn’t do a thing, we do it anyway. Actually, it’s more sad than funny, but you know what I mean. We try to fool ourselves into thinking that this time it will be OK. And it just doesn’t matter how clear you think your head is because you can still fall into traps that you know you should avoid. I had a torrid one month affair with a woman recently who was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. Normally, girls like her don’t want anything to do with guys like me, but much to my surprise, she literally threw herself at me. I should have known better, but I got suckered by appearance. You already know how this story turns out: She was a self-centered bitch, and I totally put up with it. Now, in my defense, I knew it wasn’t going to last, but I sure wanted to ride that ride as long as it was open. But I knew, KNEW that it wasn’t a good thing and I did it anyway. It was a cruelty I inflicted upon myself, and I wonder when I’ll learn my lesson. I won’t drone on about skin deep beauty and all that while I whine about my own weakness. In fact, I’m happy to report that I did manage to find someone I can put up with who can also put up with me. I’ll spare you the smarmy details, but suffice to say that I am much happier with the inner beauty than I ever was with the shell. Things are really looking up on the romance front. More on that as it develops.


Our New President
What do I think of Barack Obama? I hope he does a good job, although I don’t expect anything less than business as usual. As I’ve said before, anybody who really wants to be the president must have something wrong with them. But, egomania aside, I hope he is as sincere as he comes across. The guy is a gifted speaker, and we all (should) know that charisma is what gets people elected, not “plans”. Right after he won the election, I checked out a huge white supremacy site to see what they had to say, and they were “temporarily down due to server overload”. The only people who could read the threads were members. I had to laugh, though, because the reason they gave was the recent “obamanation” at the polls. There’s nothing like having the wind taken out of your sails, and in some cases, it’s just hilarious. On a serious note, I really hope that they can go back and sulk without assassinating him. Nothing would convince the rest of the world that Americans are idiots than something like that. It’s scary to think that some people relish the thought of a race war; I really hope they can get with the times. Google “stormfront” to see just how far out of alignment some of these people are, and think real hard about how good it might be to have a gun.

I’m sorry to say I only had two topics for this installment. On the plus side, though, I did come up with an idea I want to ramble about; I’m drafting it right now. I know the suspense is unbearable, but I will post a couple things in the next few days. It’s finally holiday time, and with it comes some time to do nothing but what I want to do. Finally. Happy Thanksgiving.

18 September 2008

The M Word


I could have called this an advice column again, writing to tell nieces and nephews (and anyone else who would listen) about the joys and perils of falling in love, but seeing as I’ve had very little success in doing so, I’m afraid my words would ring rather hollow. Still, I was thinking about it today, for many reasons, and I decided that I wanted to pontificate on it anyway. Perhaps I should narrow my focus a bit from love in general to the dreaded “M” word, with the hope that some tidbits of advice (or at least a warning sign that I missed) will shine through.

In our time, marriage is a legal institution, but we all know that it dates back to, well, pretty much the dawn of civilization. In most cultures, religion also plays a key role in marriage. However, legal and moral issues aside, the fact of the matter is that almost universally, the contract of marriage involves two people who promise each other, their families and their gods that they will literally spend the rest of their lives together, forsaking, as it were, all others. That’s a tall order. Now, assuming that you are a good person who doesn’t lie to yourself, you’d better think twice before you agree to such a thing. We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t make mistakes or promises in the heat of passion; it’s so easy to do. We also know that half of all marriages (in the US) fail, so that means every other person you meet has failed to live up to a promise they made to someone they claimed to love. Remember that when it’s time to trust someone.

It sounds selfish to say, but each of us really needs to look out for number one. To put another before yourself is indeed a noble gesture and is, in my opinion, the hallmark of being a good human being. There’s nothing wrong with putting your heart out in the open, but make sure your display has an appreciative audience. If the one you love doesn’t treat you exactly the way you want to be treated, move on. It’s that simple. It’s easy to convince yourself that an off word or action from your lover is nothing more than a trivial shadow in an otherwise blinding light, something easily overlooked, but I can guarantee you that what seems like a bit of fluff now will turn into a giant carnivorous lint ball if you ignore it. I don’t mean to sound harsh, and I know that any good relationship is built solidly on a give and take foundation. The point is, only you know how you like to be treated, and a good potential mate will recognize that with little or no prodding.

Don’t get married because it’s convenient. Two incomes, even a lottery windfall won’t make a good marriage. If you feel pressured to get married, don’t. If your lover dangles the prospect of marriage like a carrot or (insert appropriate lure), don’t agree and get out as soon as possible. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that love pretty much equals trust. If you trust someone (see above warnings), and I mean trust them completely, then you’re on the right path. It’s easy to read those words and agree, but remember to watch for signs that they trust you as well; it only works if both sides of the scale are even. A lover that is overly jealous probably has someone else’s shoes under their bed when you’re not around.

I’ve only been married once, and of course, divorced once, but I like to think that I learned many lessons from it. I’ve had several chances to be married again, and I’m almost positive that my reluctance to do so was the root cause of the failed relationships, and that’s just wrong. Maybe I’m a dreamer, but if you’re going to get married, I think you had better be damned sure you’re getting married for the right reasons. Even if you think your boyfriend or girlfriend is the perfect human being (and crazy, cool love can make you think that), you need to stop and think. Really think. Percy Sledge says “loving eyes can never see”, and you’d better believe that’s the truth. (Look to right of screen on linked page for player)

I want to end on a positive note. I don’t want to be accused of being bitter. Marry the woman (or man) who makes you feel like you’re the most important person in the world. Don’t marry them for what they have because possessions will always be just that, and they will never make you happy. Don’t marry them for their appearance because that will fade. Marry the person who can see your flaws as you can see theirs and neither of you is uncomfortable with it. The Percy Sledge song warned of blind love; but if you can relate to this one, by Shades of Blue, then I am envious. When I can hear that song and know that it fits perfectly, I’ll try marriage again.

28 August 2008

Kindness of Strangers


I’m kind of a pack rat when it comes to keeping stuff. I sometimes keep things for years before I finally rediscover them, and toss them in the trash, wondering why in the world I kept them for so long. Empty booze bottles, for instance, used to turn up now and again, usually with some long forgotten memento scribbled on the label that seemed really important at the time. In most cases, I couldn’t even remember what my cryptic messages meant. It’s funny how some things that seem so important one day fade to the point that we can’t remember them at all. How many times have you said to yourself, “I’ll never forget this,” and then be reminded years later only to answer with a “Huh? What? Did we?” Good times.

Anyway, as I was going through some old papers not long ago, I came across something I thought I’d lost a long time ago. It was a letter from a stranger, to me, a letter from someone that I do not know, and to this day, have never met. It is without a doubt the oddest letter I have ever received, and I’m willing to bet it is the oddest one I will ever receive as long as I live. I’m so glad I found it because I was beginning to think it never really existed except in my mind. The letter came to me during the most tumultuous time in my life, a time when my usually routine world had gone completely and horribly askew…and I couldn’t remember a thing about it. The letter writer had helped me in my most desperate hour and wished me well; she spoke to me as if we had known each other for years, and offered advice as only a true friend can. Again, I have never met her. I don’t believe I’ve ever written of this (or at least, I can’t remember…good times, huh?). Here’s the story:

Now, in case you don’t know, there is a HUGE motorcycle party in New Hampshire every year. It is the oldest bike rally in the country and any old school biker will tell you that Laconia is second only to Sturgis; many like Laconia better. On Wednesday, June 13th, 1997 I had a motorcycle accident in Gilford, New Hampshire, just outside of Laconia. I don’t remember the accident. We were drinking at a bar called the Broken Antler. I was playing pool with a girl from Connecticut, and I remember being totally smitten with her northeastern accent. She was wearing a yellow midriff-baring tank top and she had great tits. I was winning, and I was hoping that maybe I’d get to take her back to the campground to see if things could get any better. I was having a great time. I was drinking, but I was not fall down drunk; my friends would never have let me ride if I had been. I was playing pool with the girl from Connecticut on Wednesday night…and then…

I woke up Sunday night. As soon as I opened my eyes, I knew something really bad was going on. My dad was there. My ex wife was there. I was in a hospital bed. My hands hurt really, really bad. My legs were on fire. Did I mention I was in a hospital bed? Not really sure how I got from the bar to here, where my dad was, I asked him, “What happened?” He said I had been in a motorcycle accident. I can’t tell you how shocked and embarrassed I was. I thought to myself, “I crashed my motorcycle? I don’t remember doing that!” I looked at my hands, which were throbbing, and they were swollen and bruised; I absurdly thought someone had put purple boxing gloves on me while I was asleep. I looked at my legs and they were both wrapped in a blue plastic bubble wrap kind of stuff that was really warm. And they hurt. Bad. Real bad. My father said I had broken both of my femurs and that I had survived a closed head injury that was so severe the doctors didn’t fix my broken legs for several hours because they weren’t sure if I was going to pull through at all. That’s why he was there. He had come to collect my body.

Months of excruciating pain followed; I have never been so down in my life. I couldn’t walk down stairs for four months. I couldn’t walk at all without a walker. I lay in a bed in my house, my prison, and cried alone in the dark. I cried because I hurt and because I couldn’t walk like a man and because I could hear my unfaithful ex wife cavorting downstairs with any number of boyfriends. It was awful. But, like all things, it passed, and within 8 months or so I was able to function by myself again. As soon as I could walk I threw my ex out. I had kept her around because I needed someone to help me, and I felt a little guilty for that, but one does what one has to do. But anyway, once I was up and around, I found the box where my dad had stashed all my belongings from the accident. It had languished in my garage, next to my broken motorcycle for nearly a year. Here was a pair of bloody jeans, there the remnants of every article of clothing I had been wearing, and all kinds of stuff that was familiar. It was my stuff, but from another lifetime. I looked at each thing and tried to remember why I had it, and some of it was a complete mystery. At the bottom of the box, though, was an envelope with no address, and I could tell when I picked it up that there was a note in it, and I could feel that it was several pages, folded up to fit. I took it out of the envelope and looked at it. It was printed and I did not recognize the handwriting. What follows is the letter, exactly as it was written:

June 13th, 1997
Dear Jeff –
Me and Ximius was ridin round aftah the weird beech slowded down totha nite and by gawd we went out ta see the guvnah on his eyeland afta werds on the way home and thar were this assident rite aftah the guvnahs place – well by gawd this wooman was a hoppin rownd and we seed lites and sumbody liftin a hed offen the side the road and we stopped and popped our skyroof opened and yelled hollered “Doyou knead help? and them didn’t answer – now Jeff – we knowd yew couldn’t ansah and we seed nother cah comin and was gonna hit us so we got going – now we did not speed or nuthin and we thunk – hell – we’s paking milk now and we wear short shorts and wiggle and put ginger bread and p-nut butter dog shits on bykes an all – take pichas of theese bykes – cuz we like em!! So we said hell – mebbe they don wan nobody ta know thet them packin licka but by gawd a DWI ain’t as bad as a ded guy so we wen fassass we could and fownd a poe leeceman and tole him bowt ya cuz we ain’t got no phone in cah – him took off and got help so fass you would beeleeve it – now we ustah be alkeeholic and we ustah ride byke too and we knowd bowt them DWI’s real close up like cuz we got one – long tyme ago but we got one sure as shit – we still drank a while afta but we was glad we could hep you – now ifn you kneed hep – we’d be glad to hep you – ain’t got nun money but we sureas hell live in NH and would hep you in court if necessary. hope we did right thang by yah and hope you ain’t mad none we is care about you guys and we hope yer byke ain’t ded none neetha – Hope them doctah’s down keel ya neetha – they’s bastads they ahe! We jis happened ta bein konkid and we’ll try to git this to yah otherwise we’ll send it to yer hometown!! Gawd bless ye – Paula (smiley face) 10 Shackford Rd Center Barnstead NH 03225 PS – helluva way ta git yer name in the paypa! try not drink none – drink sodee or milk – makes ya laff betta (smiley face) and feels reel goode! (smiley face)


(I think the letter speaks for itself, but just in case, here are a couple translations that may help clear up some confusion: “weird beech” = Weirs Beach, a popular spot on Lake Winnipesaukee where hundreds of thousands of bikers park during the Laconia bike week. “konkid” = Concord, the capital of NH.)

I couldn’t put a finger on how I felt after I’d read the letter, and now, 11 years later, I still can’t. I would like to meet Paula and Ximius and thank them in person for going out of their way to help a complete stranger. I want to tell them that in spite of my general disdain for humans, they represent a shining example of all that is good about people. It touches me that strangers showed concern for another, an unknown, and then took the time to hand write a letter, not knowing if the intended recipient was alive. I don’t know if anybody in New Hampshire reads this blog, but if you do, tell Paula and Ximius that I would like to meet them, or at least hear from them. I am forever indebted to them, and in particular, I want Paula to teach me to capture an accent in print as intimately and accurately as she does. Their thanks are long overdue. Thank you, strangers; thank you, friends.

12 August 2008

Jesus, I'm Thirsty!


Weddings, by and large, are happy affairs. Families are joined (so they say), and for the most part, ill feelings are put aside so that all guests can share a slice of the joy that is obviously being shared by the bride and groom. Weddings are so important that Jesus himself chose one to perform his first miracle (although it is mentioned only once in the entire New Testament, an odd thing considering it was the very first miracle, but a story for another time). And what did He do? Why, only the best miracle ever: At Cana, when a wedding party had emptied the keg, so to speak, He turned 6 thirty gallon jugs of water into the “best wine” of the night. I’ll tell you right now that if I saw somebody do that, you can be damn sure I’d follow them for the rest of my life. The point, of course, is that if alcohol at a wedding is good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me, and everybody knows that open bar weddings are the best. A case could be made, in fact, that to not emulate Jesus at a wedding is, well, a snub to the almighty. Say it ain’t so!

I went to a wedding this past weekend, and heard the phrase “in Jesus’ name” more often in six hours (over two days) than I’ve ever heard it in my entire life. At a rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding, I complimented the host on his collection of model cars. By way of making small talk after a mandatory prayer over catered Olive Garden, I said that it must have taken a great deal of patience to construct the hundreds of models he had on display throughout his home, and he responded by saying that he could not have done it without the blessing of Jesus, through whom all creativity and patience flows. Not five minutes later, one of my sisters complimented the man’s wife on her home, and, like a recording of her husband, she said that Jesus had seen fit to bless them with the house they own, and that they were very thankful. To hear them tell it, they had no talent or, for that matter, no control over anything that happened in their lives. Feeling rather out of place, I sat quietly, and realized that in the snatches of conversations I could vaguely overhear, all lips praised His name. I kept a careful yet discreet eye out for an aquarium filled with snakes; if I had seen one, I would have bolted. Jesus was manifest in all they did, and the only thing I could think of was “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”.

I was relieved when the wedding itself did not have any speaking in tongues, poisonous snakes or mason jars of cyanide. In fact, it was surprisingly short, with no kneeling or stinky incense. It was over in about 15 minutes, and before I knew it, I was standing outside in the Florida sun next to a cracker box church on a postage stamp parcel of land that had a huge “For Sale” sign in the driveway. Evidently, it is Jesus’ will that they move. In any case, we left the church and went to the reception which was being held in the clubhouse of a golf resort. Imagine my joy upon entering and seeing off in the corner the warm glint of sunlight reflecting off the smooth glass of liquor bottles, lined up neatly in a row and gently cooing my name. I sauntered right over (there was no line) and told the bartender I wanted a bloody mary that would blow my face off, and I’ll be damned if I wasn’t cut off before I started. It seems that the bar was closed at the request of the bride and groom. The people who claimed that Jesus ruled their lives had somehow seen fit to second guess Him and not allow alcohol at their wedding. Seemingly every aspect of their lives is ruled by scripture, yet Jesus’ first miracle is ignored, even hidden. Amazing.

Is this essay a knock on Jesus? No, it’s not. It is, however, a mild diatribe about those people who claim to know the will of God and have no problem foisting their beliefs on everyone they can. An argument could be made that the wedding day belonged to the bride and groom, and they should have the right to conduct their wedding as they see fit. Moreover, why would anyone attend a wedding if they knew it was going to be dry? Well, I didn’t know it was going to be dry. I didn’t know I’d have to sit so close to the bar I could smell it and not be able to taste it. And I am (obviously) flabbergasted at the audacity of people who pick and choose pet parts of the bible to follow while ignoring others, especially the born again New Testament evangelical crowd. Like I said earlier, if booze at a wedding is good enough for Jesus, it should be good enough for us mortals.

Do I have to have a drink to have fun? No. Do I have a drinking problem? No. As long as nobody tells me I can’t have it, I’m fine. I get to decide what I want to do, and as luck would have it, Jesus is on my side. So there.

23 July 2008

I'll Have the Racism With Nuts, Please


I have a friend with whom I have the most interesting conversations. We have a good deal in common and have spent many hours discussing everything from politics to religion to food to women to the stupid things we did while growing up, and although we often play devil’s advocate to each other, we are always civil and able to agree to disagree.

My friend is a black man who grew up in South Carolina; I spent half my youth in a lily-white Illinois farming community and the other half in a suburb of Detroit. We both have degrees and we are also both veterans. One of our favorite subjects is racism, and with America on the cusp of an historic presidential election, it’s never too far on the back burner to be easily moved front and center, no matter where the conversation starts. So you know, my friend is a republican, and in spite of his proud nature, he is not professing fealty to Obama. I believe he will make a choice based on rational thinking and not blind racial allegiance. As I’ve stated before, I always listen to all candidates, then vote for the one I’m most comfortable with when they lie to me. So, now that I’ve told you that, let me tell you this:

We were talking the other day, and my friend told me that he’s very keen to find “hidden” racism in everyday situations. I wanted to know how, given the virtual castration of political correctness, such a thing was possible. “It’s everywhere”, he said. I wanted a specific example. He cited Blue Bell ice cream, a very popular brand in the southern American states. “How”, I asked, “do they purvey discreet racism?” He said they have a package that contains both chocolate and vanilla flavors in one carton. The chocolate, he said, is divided right down the middle, separate from the vanilla. “Yeah”, I said. “So?” He said it’s not two flavors swirled together. It’s black on one side, and white on the other. I had a hard time suppressing a giggle here, but he went on to say that the company slogan was “Tastes like the good old days”, which meant that the presentation of the two flavors in the package was a subtle reminder of how wonderful America was when we had separate drinking fountains. I laughed out loud at this point, convinced that he was pulling my leg. We both eventually agreed that there really are people who would believe such nonsense, although I don’t believe that he totally discounts it. I shouldn’t be too hard on him, though. If I’m not mistaken, it was a white person who claimed the Virgin Mary appeared on a grilled cheese sandwich (that she sold ten years later for $28000 on Ebay).

I asked my buddy a few minutes later if he had been keeping up on a developing story here in Florida that involves a young woman currently in jail on suspicion of having something to do with the disappearance of her 6 month old baby girl. (I won’t go into details; you can read about it here.) We were looking at an internet article on the story which featured a large picture of the missing child. The missing white child. My friend opined that the story wouldn’t be getting the coverage it is if the missing child was black. I disagreed. In fact, through a grisly coincidence, I pointed out the case of the woman in Pennsylvania who was arrested last week for killing an 18 year old pregnant girl, cutting her unborn infant from her womb and taking it to a hospital, claiming it was hers. (Read details here) Both victim and perpetrator in that case were black.

My point should be obvious: horrific crimes get the attention they get because they’re horrific, not so the media can portray thugs or rednecks in a bad light. Whether you’re from the hood or from the trailer park, you are just as apt to commit an atrocity. No rational person wants to see an infant, any infant disappear. To hear of their slaughter is an anathema. If ever there was an innocent victim, it is the child caught in a maelstrom of adult emotion.

Do black people have a history of mistreatment? Of course they do, but so does everybody else. Name one race throughout history that hasn’t subjugated others (as well as itself) and I’ll kiss your ass. We’ve been hurting each other since time began, and until we learn to get along, we’ll keep on doing it. Bad people come in all colors, and they all leave the same red stain.

OK, that’s enough for now. Watch for an upcoming essay on news bias and religious intolerance. And with that, I think I’m going to have a treat: A bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup sounds like just the ticket. I don’t care about the presentation. Call me crazy, but food is for your mouth, not your eyes. And by the way, my dad makes the best ice cream in the world. So there.

07 July 2008

Devil May Care



Regular readers of this blog know that I often use this space to rail against the evil television. It can suck your life away, lulling you to the point where mindless drivel can seem like compelling entertainment. Like a drug, it is insidious in its ability to make something stupid seem fun; it’s a little devil on your shoulder telling you that Brett Michaels’ love life really IS interesting. As you may have guessed from the title of this essay, I use the “devil on the shoulder” analogy for good reason: The Prince of Darkness was on my television this past weekend. And I liked it.

I love horror movies, even bad ones, although I do all I can to avoid the tripe that passes for horror on the Sci-Fi channel. “Mansquito?” Flying half-man, half bug? Give me a break. No, the Sci-Fi channel isn’t very good…until they have their holiday “Twilight Zone” marathon. Then it’s good. I got sucked into it for a couple hours this weekend, waiting for the best episode of the series. “The Howling Man” (written by Charles Beaumont) is about a traveler who unwittingly unleashes Satan into the world. Lost in a storm, the traveler arrives at a monastery of sorts, populated by terse and less than friendly monks of an obscure order. They deny him shelter, and he collapses, earning a dry spot in spite of the monks’ inhospitable demeanor. Upon awakening, he hears a mournful howling and happens upon a haggard man in a cell who tells the traveler that he has been imprisoned unjustly for kissing a girl that the monk was sweet on. (I’m not making this up.) The traveler goes to the head monk (John Carradine) and demands to know why men of God have a prisoner that they’re trying hard to ignore. The monk tells the traveler that it is no man in the cell, but Satan himself, father of all lies. And that, of course, is the rub. Who’s lying, the crazy guy with beard in the cell or the crazy guy with the beard and the staff? The traveler listens to both arguments and sides with the prisoner. Now, the only thing barring the door to the cell is a “staff of truth,” not much more than a broomstick. There’s a window in the cell door that allows the prisoner to get an arm out. He could easily reach out the window, lift the bar and walk out, but he doesn’t. The traveler asks him why he doesn’t, and the prisoner utterly ignores the question, imploring the traveler to remove the bar…which he does. And, you guessed it, once freed the prisoner transforms into the classic Beelzebul, complete with goatee and horns. Before the traveler passes out (after being “zapped” by Satan), he realizes that he has been fooled. In an epilogue of sorts, we see the traveler years later, and he himself has captured the devil, after a couple wars and nuclear weapons proliferation, all consequences of his foolishness years earlier. He is explaining to a maid that he has the devil trapped in a closet and that she must not open the door (also barred by a “staff of truth” not much bigger than a pencil) while he is out. Does she let him out? Of course she does, and it starts all over again. Great stuff, huh?

My fascination with things macabre aside, I think what I like most about this story is the ease with which our hero is fooled. The concept of an evil presence is hard enough to swallow, but evil incarnate? Why, that’s just nonsense. Isn’t it? I once heard a priest say “The devil’s greatest trick is to make you think he doesn’t exist.” Now, I’m no logician, but there’s really no way to win an argument with that kind of reasoning. It’s akin to “everything I say is a lie.” In the words of the immortal William Dozier, “it’s a confounding conundrum!” It is the perfect story.

I’m digressing. I got to wondering why the devil would want to make you think he doesn’t exist. The obvious answer would be so that he could go about his malevolent business undetected, but what good is that? If he doesn’t get to laugh maniacally at the mortals he has corrupted and enslaved, why bother? By all biblical accounts (and there aren’t many), Satan just doesn’t figure in the big picture. In fact, he is mentioned only a few times in the old testament as Satan (a being), and should not be confused with Lucifer, a different entity altogether. In fact, it wasn’t until around the second or third century that he came to be considered by Christians as the antichrist. In spite of his popularity (?) today, he wasn’t a very big deal in the beginning. No wonder he’s so pissed off. But you know, the whole good versus evil thing just doesn’t work without him, and, much like God, we have created him in our image to explain away our responsibilities for acting like…God’s creatures. He is all of the things that are the worst in men and he bears the blame for all men’s sin. Research the etymology of the word “scapegoat”, and you’ll find one of his names. Nobody likes to have their name forgotten, and I’m sure the devil, full of pride, wants to be remembered.

I love the concept of Satan. I hope he lives on for centuries in films and stories. May we continue to keep him alive in our imaginations and invoke him to scare the shit out of children and the gullible. He frightens us for good reason: we can see ourselves in him. No matter how much we vilify him, we need him. In fact, I believe that he takes a great deal of delight in our aspirations of divinity. I offer this quote from Mark Twain: “But who prays for Satan? Who in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most, our one fellow and brother who most needed a friend yet had not a single one, the one sinner among us all who had the highest and clearest right to every Christian's daily and nightly prayers, for the plain and unassailable reason that his was the first and greatest need, he being among sinners the supremest?”

By thinking that we are above or different than he, by claiming a “golden rule” mindset but not living it, we prove ourselves to be that which we profess to hate. Rock on, Evil One.

21 June 2008

"So I'm Sittin' In This Bar..." Vol. I


In the past, I’ve written essays on the same subject, such as television. In fact, the last one I wrote only generated one comment, and it was from a relative who told me I needed to get a life. Thanks. Anyway, I decided to start another series, an idea I’ve been entertaining, but have never actually played with. I want to welcome you to my bar stories. I’m going to relate some of the things that I’ve seen in bars from all over the world. Some are recent and some are decades old. I hope you find them interesting.

So I’m sittin’ in this bar in Baltimore. I was in town for a week for work with several other people, and I wasn’t driving the car, and that sucks. If you’ve ever been traveling with a group, you know what I mean. Anyway, one of the guys who had been there before had a few places he wanted to show me, and this was one of them. I’ve been in a lot of bars. I mean, a lot, but I have never been in one like this. It was an old building. It was a banquet hall on one side and a tavern on the other. I noticed the sign when we pulled in the parking lot. It said “Welcome Class of 49”. Really. Anyway, we went in the tavern side and right into what might as well have been “The Shining”. The walls were cream colored and lit entirely with recessed lights, the kind where the lights are hidden by plaster balcony-looking soffits that spanned every wall a foot or so below the ceiling. In every corner, there was a large faux marble, urn-shaped planter with fake red flowers spilling out of it. There was a large U-shaped bar and an area at the bottom of the U that was behind us. It had four or five booths and as many tables, all covered with lace tablecloths. All the tables were populated with senior citizens dining quietly. In fact, it was the quietest bar I’ve ever been in. We sat at the bar and waited for the bartender, who had make up on like Morticia Addams and was dressed like Dean Martin, complete with an impossibly white shirt and a black bow tie and a black vest. She was young, but had a drastic, old lady hairdo stretched into a little bun. It was pulled back so tight on her head it made my teeth hurt. There were two large flat screen TVs behind her with no volume. When I ordered my drink every person in the room could hear it. I half expected to see a sardonic Jack Nicholson behind her shoulder raising a glass as the skin on his face fell off. I made some small talk with the guys I was with, and didn’t show my fear. They had a KENO game going and I spent three dollars for three games every three minutes so I could concentrate on the monitor and not have to look at the diners who were, I was sure, tossing bones on their plates that weren’t chicken. I actually won a dollar back and managed to finish my drink without any social interaction at all. I looked at the guys I was with who had the “another?” look and I said, “Nope, I’m tired, let’s go,” and we left. I didn’t feel safe until we got back out into the sunlight. As we walked to the car, we passed the entrance to the banquet hall where two elderly people were walking down the cement stairs. I said “Hello” as I passed and they said nothing. Yup. Got out of there before the sun went down and the monsters came out.

So I’m sittin’ in this bar in Holland, Michigan. If you’ve ever visited there, you know it’s a quaint, touristy place. If you’ve ever lived there you know it’s a haven for religious weirdoes who (at the time) decided it was necessary to have a law against mowing your lawn on Sunday. Really. Anyway, I’m sitting at the bar when this young girl walks in with a baby in a car seat, sits next to me and orders a rum & coke. She didn’t look old enough to drink, let alone have a kid, but there she was. The kid with the kid had phenomenal tits, so I overlooked her obvious stupidity. She was wearing a V-neck shirt with laces that were literally bursting. For one brief moment, I was jealous of the infant. If she was my mother, I’d breast feed until I was 20. Anyway, as is my usual custom, I waited for her to start talking to me, and of course, she did. We exchanged mild pleasantries and then she started talking about…something, but I don’t remember what it was. Call me a chauvinist, but I was not hearing a word she was saying. I “uh-huhed” when I was supposed to and it lasted for a while, but eventually, abruptly, I realized it was my turn to speak and I hadn’t been listening. Because I was an honest, non-thinking-ahead sort of fellow, I blurted out exactly what I was thinking. I said, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening. I was staring at your chest.” And just like that, she slapped me. The bartender looked over at us. I set my drink down and said, “Listen, Missy. If you walk with a neon sign around your neck that says ‘Don’t Look At This Sign,’ you’d better not be surprised when someone does.” She didn’t get it, but I had stopped listening again. She started calling me a pervert or something and I looked at the bartender, fully expecting to explain myself, but the bartender scooted up to where we were and put her finger in the busty girl’s face and told her to leave. Now. The girl got up, bitching, obviously angry, and I couldn’t help but notice how great her tits looked, shaking as she was fumbling with her purse and her baby. She stormed out the door and the bartender bought me a drink for my trouble. Ain’t life grand?

Stay tuned for more bar stories. I’ve been meaning to write more often and I will. You’ll have to pardon me when it’s fluffy stuff like this, but these are stories I enjoy telling.

18 May 2008

More From the Idiot Box

Way back last year I wrote a little blurb about hockey. (You can read it here.) It’s that time of year again and I’m watching the Stanley Cup playoffs. My team is doing well, although they have, of late, been nail-bitingly difficult to watch. I have faith that they will prevail. Go Wings! (I promise that’s my only hockey plug.)

We should all know that TV doesn’t cater to viewers, it caters to advertisers. It’s hard to find programs that aren’t produced with the sole intent of trying to sell you something, and televised hockey is no exception. Even though the teams playing have changed in the past two months, the commercials haven’t. As much as I love to watch this game, I can’t help but be disillusioned by the companies that bring them to me. Perhaps you’ve seen some of them. Watch out, because I’m getting on my soapbox.

The Good: See it here: Bridgestone Tires
In this commercial, a man and (presumably) wife are driving on a road through a forest when a squirrel that happens to be sitting in the path of the vehicle sees them, and begins to scream. Normally computer generated animals with human voices creep me out, but for some reason, this one is funny. Anyway, as the squirrel screams, other animals in the forest begin to scream, each with a different voice, and finally we cut back to the oncoming vehicle where we see the woman in the passenger seat screaming. We get a full 10-15 seconds of blood curdling howls. The man smirks and calmly misses the squirrel, putting an immediate end to the din. You’d think it would be annoying, but it’s just funny. Maybe you have to love horror movies to find screaming funny, I don’t know. If I’m not mistaken, this commercial first aired during the Stupor, er, Super Bowl, so I guess it’s old hat. Call me crazy, but as far as commercials go, it’s still welcome.

The Bad: Accuvue Contact Lenses
In this one, two men are playing what appears to be “backyard” football (American), complete with matching uniforms, which is kind of weird. One man passes the ball to another, who bobbles, then drops it. The man who fumbled the ball immediately takes off his glasses and blames them for his inability to catch the ball. Once he’s fitted for contact lenses, though, his game is perfect. Now, as a person who has worn glasses since the fourth grade, I can tell you right now that as long as they are on your face, not covered in mud or you haven’t had your prescription updated, you can see. The man in the commercial has his glasses on when he mishandles his catch, so it was in his hands. How, then, did his glasses make him drop the ball? That’s like saying “I was going to kick the ball but my ear was in the way.” What message does this impart? It must be the “What can I blame my shortcomings on” lesson. Ridiculous.

The Ugly: Edge Shaving Gel
There are so many things wrong with this commercial. In the first part of this advertisement, we are asked what makes this shaving gel feel so enjoyable. We zoom down to the size of a dust mite on a cheek that needs to be shaved where whiskers are the size of trees, and beautiful women with tanks on their backs like flame throwers are squirting white foamy aloe and moisturizers all over the whiskers, and, of course each other. I’m OK with a fantasy like that. Women in bathing suits lolling about in a sea of whipped cream isn’t a bad thought at all. But, as soon as that commercial is over, the next comes on for Edge gel, but this time the selling point isn’t the moisturizing aspect, it’s the aroma. In the same vein, we are shrunk again to see an army of beautiful women wearing jet-packs on their backs, blasting off. Trouble is, they are flying up a huge nostril. As they enter, the woman at the center of attention has a look on her face that can only be described as anxiously exhilarated; she can’t wait to get up that nose. In the next scene, there’s a dance party going on in the nasal cavity, complete with music and a disco ball shining a thousand lights on a red mucous membrane wall. I find myself scratching my nose every single time I see it. I know some people have a fascination with various orifices, but the nose just doesn’t strike me as one that a person can’t wait to get into. Whoever thought this was a good campaign is wrong. It’s snot. (Cue drum/cymbal crash.)

Like it or not, television is here to stay, and I suppose I should be grateful to it for providing me endless fodder for “rant” essays. I love to hate TV.

07 May 2008

Garden Party

I got lost right outside my door the other day. I was out sprucing up my patio, literally thinking about nothing when my attention was caught by an airplane floating across the sky. It was bright orange against a perfect blue sky, and I couldn’t hear its engines. In that second, I had one of those joyous moments when I suddenly remembered something I hadn’t thought of in years; it was like I could see the past like it had just happened. I remember my grandmother stopping what she was doing to run outside in her house shoes and shade her eyes so she could watch jets fly overhead. She literally marveled at them, and asked that she be buried in a cemetery near an airfield so the planes could fly over her forever. My siblings and I used to laugh when she stood outside in her smock and gawked at the jets. If there were more than two, she was convinced that the Blue Angels were overhead, and would look up in the sky and then back at us to see if we were looking, then back up in the sky, smiling the smile of a person in awe. There were no airplanes when she was a girl. She was born on a farm and bore my father on a farm; she never drove a car in her life. When I was a kid, Star Trek was my favorite television show. The people of the future, as I saw it, had the most wonderful gadgets anyone could think of. Not only did they have spaceships, they had communicators with which they could talk to one another instantly. They could record without film and transplant organs. Absurdly, I thought, “Wow.” I’ve turned into my grandmother.

I wouldn’t have had any of those thoughts if I hadn’t been outside in my little garden.

It’s a small patio with a few flowerbeds that, until last weekend, was populated only by weeds. Now it has freshly hoed (sandy) soil, a damp, earthy aroma, and seeds for impossibly colorful flowers that I hope are germinating as I write. But what it lacks in size it makes up for with a relaxed, cordial atmosphere. It is a place to let my mind flow freely. I can almost hear Louis Armstrong singing “What a Wonderful World” as I daydream, wondering if my flowers will look like the ones on the package. Nothing is urgent in the garden. Unless you’re an ant.

Even though I know better, I put out food for a couple stray cats that also seem to enjoy lounging about on the patio. Being outdoor cats, they don’t seem to be as dainty as indoor ones, and often scatter bits of food around the plastic plate I put out for them. I was on the patio, smoking and assessing the garden, wondering what sort of improvement I should make next, when something caught my eye. I had to look twice to make sure I wasn’t relaxing to the point of hallucination. As I watched, an errant piece of cat food, the size of a pea, maybe, was moving by itself across the bricks. A closer look revealed four tiny ants carrying what to them must have seemed like a miracle from the gods. As I looked, I saw a second piece of cat food being carried to a small pile of sand dug out between the cracks of the patio floor. It was only about eight feet from the cat food to the anthill, but I got to thinking that what they were doing was akin to four humans lugging a cupcake fifty yards wide to a cave twenty miles away. I had to smile as I admired the ants. I saw that they had reached the entrance to their home, but had encountered a problem: The piece of cat food was too wide to fit in the crack. They tried it from every angle but it wasn’t going to fit. I imagined myself as a great benefactor, and reached down, picked up the piece of cat food and broke it so the crumbs would fit the doorway. The ants scurried about when I put the pieces back down but it didn’t take them long to get the smaller loads delivered. As I watched, one of the stray cats wandered back and stepped directly on the ants’ receiving dock. I shooed her back, but she was persistent and came again, only this time, she must have smelled the tiny piece of food, because she inhaled it, ants and all, and crunched it away. She looked up, smacking her lips, oblivious to the frenzy she had caused among the ants. I put a little more food on the dish to distract the cat, and my cell phone rang. I talked for a few minutes and when I hung up the phone, I realized I was standing on the anthill.

In spite of the onslaught of technology, or perhaps because of it, there just isn’t anything like digging in the dirt, planting seeds, and daydreaming. No matter how bad we may think things are for us, they could be much, much worse. Giant monsters could appear in the sky, eat us and crush our dwellings, and never think once what they’ve done. Yup. I can get lost in my garden.

05 April 2008

From Beyond


I had a conversation the other day about ghosts. OK, to be honest, I butted into a conversation that was already going on about ghosts. One co-worker had said to another, “I think there’s a ghost in my new apartment. I turned off my alarm and fell back asleep, but suddenly, inexplicably, my bedroom light turned on all by itself!” The other person readily accepted this explanation, and proceeded to tell her own story of other-worldly hijinks, as if it is a common occurrence for the spirit world to help or hinder us as they see fit. I simply cannot sit idly by while topics like this are discussed. I try to mind my own business, but the temptation is too great. “Why,” I asked, “would a ghost take time out from his or her incorporeal activities to make sure you don’t oversleep?” The answer, of course, was that it was a “good ghost.”

Can I say for certain that there is no such thing as a ghost? No, but by the same token, we cannot automatically attribute peculiar happenings to the supernatural. There are, though, those who claim not an unseen visitor, but a visual apparition. You know somebody who tells that story, often made to seem more plausible because a child saw it too, and why would the little darlings lie, or, to be fair, make up a story? They stand firm in their belief that they “saw” a ghost, and no amount of logic or alternate (read: plausible) explanations will make them change their minds. I suppose if I saw one, I would change my tune, but until then, I stand firmly in the realm of the explainable, always keeping in mind that the person who tricks you the best is yourself.

Anyone who knows me knows I can’t get enough of horror movies, stories, and supernatural fiction, so it’s not like I’m unfamiliar with spooky stuff. There are times when I wish there were monsters. (One of my favorite fantasies involves gorgeous female vampires that look a lot like Elvira, but I don’t think I should write that down.) I can’t say I’ve seen a ghost, but there have been times I have felt that things just weren’t quite right, like I wasn’t alone. Every time this has happened, I’ve been outside. I hope, if I ever find myself wandering the earth after I’m dead, that I’m in a forest somewhere, and not trapped in some skittish girl’s bedroom. Anyway, there’s something about being in nature that lets me allow the possibility of ghosts, or at least, another consciousness. Just the other night, in fact, I witnessed a scene that, if ever there was one, infused me with the feeling of other-worldliness.

The sliding patio door of my (new) apartment faces west, so every night I get to see the sun go down. That may not seem like a big deal, but I’ve always been a bit partial to sunsets. So, a couple days ago, I walked past the slider just in time to see the sun go past the huge live oak tree it always shines on before it goes away. This, of course, was nothing new, but a couple minutes later, I walked into the bedroom of the apartment, which faces east, and was more than a little surprised to see the window lit up with the deep orange glow that only comes from a sunset. Well, now, as you can imagine, this just wasn’t right at all, so I walked back to the other room and went outside to see just what was going on.

When I stepped out onto my patio, it was the same view I always see, but it was lit from the wrong side. It was surreal and fascinating. Everything was as it should be, except it was wrong. What had happened was that the setting sun had illuminated a huge blanket of clouds that hung to the east; they looked like they were on fire. The reflected light from these clouds shone down upon my little corner of the earth and lit the dusk for a second time, except from the opposite direction. All the buildings, the trees, the grass, everything glowed in an unearthly seeming scene, except that it was earthly, the same scene I see every day…only different. It was like being high, only better. It lasted about ten minutes, the time it took me to have a smoke, and then it was over. Right as it ended, a cat meowed at my patio door. Still marveling at the backwards sunset, I let it in into the patio area and it wrapped around my legs, greeting me like I was an old friend. Weird, huh?

Perhaps what I saw is what people who see ghosts experience: They see the world, for just a moment, in a different way. Now, I don’t mean to imply that the weird lighting and the meowing cat were signs from Mr. Kitty (see previous post) stranded in feline limbo, but it was really weird. I still don’t believe in ghosts, but it did cross my mind. In any case, the nub of my gist, I guess, is that ordinary things seen in a different light have a way of firing the imagination. And that’s good.

18 March 2008

Dumb Animals



I watched a show about animal intelligence this evening, and it got me thinking. One story in particular, about dogs, featured a Doberman that had been living homeless, eating garbage and fending for itself. It was adopted by a woman who took it home and, after gaining its trust, noticed that it had a very odd behavior: It would arrange toys in very specific ways, and the woman, who was not a scientist, keenly noticed this trait and notified someone who did know about such things. After taking great pains to ensure the dog wasn’t coached or was being inadvertently cued by hovering humans, films of the dog showed that it did, indeed, place toys in carefully “thought out” arrangements. Triangles were a favorite, and straight, often parallel lines were also in the dog’s repertoire. Many times, the dog would place the toys (stuffed bears or frogs) in piles of three or four. You might say any dog could do that, but this particular dog would arrange the toys so that all would either be face up or face down. Random you say? Possibly. But the dog had a trick that, in my opinion, exhibited a human-like quality that is simply impossible to ignore. Here’s what happened.

Because the dog had been taken from a solitary life, the woman who adopted it had to have a good deal of patience, especially when it came to common human/dog interactive behavior such as petting. The dog was skittish at first with the woman, and wouldn’t allow her to touch him very much, but he did put his decorating skills on display. Gradually, the apprehension faded, and there came a time when the woman was able to put her arm completely around the dog, giving it a hug, as it were. The amazing arranging dog then added a new flair to its toy placement the very next day: The woman noticed that it had placed several toys in groups of two, and without fail, one of the arms of the random toys was wrapped around the other, as if hugging it.

It’s easy for humans to associate their emotions with that of a dog (Awww, he’s sad, or he’s thinking about dinner), but I found it utterly fascinating that a dog would manipulate its toys to mimic behavior. What was the dog trying to do? Communicate?

We just don’t give animals enough credit sometimes. The last line of the program, spoken about dogs, said “They know us far better than we know them”, and I cannot argue with that, but I wouldn’t confine it to just dogs. I believe the same can be said for cats, and I’ll make my case for it. As usual, I have to tell one story to tell another, so bear with me.

My cat died recently. I’d had him for fifteen years, but I have no idea how old he was. My ex wife brought him home one day, and he looked the same then as he did the day he died, albeit minus a few teeth. I won’t bore you with how wonderful he was; there were times when he pissed me off to no end. He wasn’t nearly as expressive as the artistic dog, but he got his points across. If I left for a week at a time for vacation, or even for a day or two, he would make his statement by pooping in the shower stall. Not a wet, messy spray, but one well-placed little turd left lying on the drain strainer told me that while he could fend for himself for a couple days, he didn’t really like it. He also didn’t like riding in the car, but he resigned himself to it and didn’t freak out. I don’t think he ever communicated as clearly, though, as he did in the last minutes of his life.

In spite of being clawless from the day I first saw him, he was an excellent hunter. He could dispatch mice, crickets, other cats, even dogs nearly 20 times his weight. (Well, not dispatch the dogs, but he could sure back them down.) If another animal was in his territory, he made it known who the top cat was.

It was both interesting and heart-wrenching to see him confront another cat as he lay dying. I’ll spare you my feelings at the time and instead share what I saw. I had taken Mr. Kitty to an emergency vet. He was obviously in great distress, and I knew what was happening. He lay on an exam table, awake but breathing laboriously. The vet had already examined him and confirmed that death was imminent. I agreed that she should give him a shot to put him to sleep, and then she would administer a lethal injection. As we waited for her to return with the first shot, a resident cat at the clinic, which obviously had run of the place, sauntered into the room. Mr. Kitty couldn’t see him (he was busy dying), so I didn’t do anything. Much to my surprise, the “house cat” (a huge animal) jumped right up on the exam table and went nose to nose with my cat. I thought, “Oh, great! He’s dying and he’s going to think he has to fight one more time,” but he didn’t. Mr. Kitty moved his front paws a little, and croaked out a meow, but the other cat just kept on sniffing him. And then, as I watched, both cats closed their eyes and shared a gentle nudge, as if one knew and sympathized with the other. The resident cat then curled up right beside mine, silently waiting, as if at a friend’s deathbed to wait for the final visit.

I was a mess while this happened, and when the vet finally returned, she pooh-poohed the mourning cat who got off the table, with a disgruntled look. She told me the needle she had would put him to sleep in about five minutes, and then she would come back and give him the real one. She injected him and then left us alone. I stroked Mr. Kitty’s head and tried to be soothing in spite of my halting voice. His breaths grew farther apart and within two minutes, he was dead. I sat there for another five minutes with my dead cat waiting for the vet, and when she came back, I told her I didn’t think he’d need the final shot. She felt his pulse, and said, yes, he was gone. I already knew that.

Did the cats share a moment of understanding? I don’t know. But I do know that it’s been a long time since I felt so moved, and we would be foolish to think that only humans are capable of sensing impending death, and more importantly, consoling (in their own way) the dying. I miss my Mr. Kitty, and I could write reams about what I feel when I think of him, but anyone who has ever had a pet already knows that story. We know that our pets (and, of course, family) will all die one day, any day. Just not today.

17 March 2008

Finally Back

I've been offline for six grueling months. It's been a living hell, although I did get lots of fodder for future entries. I've got a couple I worked on and should have up within a couple days. I don't know if anyone even checks here anymore, but I promise I'll be back in touch very shortly.