Coupla Blurbs

Lose Your Lunch

Some asshole stole part of my lunch yesterday. The motive, I guess, is irrelevant, but I found myself hoping that I never feel the need to rummage through random lunch bags at work. To be fair, I have put (what I was told was) food in my mouth without knowing for sure that I was being told the truth. Many times, I have been surprised at how much I liked it. And a few times, I have had to excuse myself quickly. I tried a stuffed grape leaf once, courtesy of a co-worker from Bethlehem. I’ve never had a turd in my mouth before, so I don’t know what they taste like, but I’m pretty sure they couldn’t taste any worse. At least I tried it.

It’s one thing to try something new, and it’s quite another to surf strangers’ lunches in a factory refrigerator. Ever seen the internet picture of the guy and his girl sitting on a couch, smiling and carrying on their normal daily routine, unaware that there’s a huge jar of anal lube on the coffee table? (Here it is) Yeah, I figure it’s his spaghetti in the back. And that veggie tray? I think that belongs to the girl with the painted-on eyebrows who looks a lot like Morticia Addams would if she weighed three hundred pounds. I’ll eat tacos out of a truck any day. If I see a sign that says “Meat on a Stick”, I’ll probably try it. It would never occur to me to eat a stranger’s leftovers. Ugh.

Get What You Need?

I was standing in a checkout line at a grocery store the other day, and in front of me was a woman with a small child whose head must have been on a swivel. Her eyes led her neck, which darted from the cornucopia of candy (placed at child-eye level) to her mother, wordlessly pleading. I was pleasantly surprised that there was no wailing. I think that’s what made it so riveting. And as I stood there, I thought to myself that anyone with eyes could see through that kid and know that there was one, and only one thing on her mind: Butterfinger. A big one. I know that look. I know that feeling.

The mom utterly ignored the child’s mute plea. The child knew that a big Butterfinger was not in her immediate future, and to her, that meant she’ll never get one, ever!

Childish, yes, but I know that feeling too.

We always want what we can’t have, don’t we? Be it a candy bar or a car, an ice cream or a lottery hit, young or old, we all want what we know we have no chance of getting. We try, though, yes we do. It doesn’t matter if we’re using cow eyes to get a candy bar or flowers to get a girl; we reason that it would be perfectly rational to jump through flaming hoops over a bed of nails to get that thing we want, all the while knowing our efforts are futile. I don’t have any wise words to explain why we do it. I do know that the child I saw in the store will more than likely perform the same act at the next store, hoping for a different result. I hope she finds what she’s looking for. One of these days, maybe…

Don't Face the Music

Just recently, I’ve seen postings here and there (OK, on Facebook) for videos of so and so’s favorite song of the moment. I can’t begrudge them because they want to share a song that’s important to them at the time they posted it, but I still have a big problem with it. Not the intent, but the medium. I have a problem with videos and the glut of current popular musical artists in general. I don’t care what you look like, I don’t care who you’re married to, and wads of cash flashed in pictures of ridiculously opulent houses do nothing to convince me that I should spend my money on your “art”. Music is for my ears, not my eyes. Move me first with your talent, and if I’m interested enough, I’ll find a picture of you. Otherwise, I don’t care about you.


Am I a grumpy old coot? Maybe. Hear me out.

I must confess that I myself have sent out mass emails in a more than half drunken state, fully convinced that everyone who listens to the song will interpret it as I do at that moment. They will see the sheer wisdom and beauty that it evoked for me, and we will be blissfully united by the most imaginative of man’s feats. Of course, once I sober up, I realize that at least half of the recipients probably didn’t listen to it, and if they did, they didn’t have an epiphany. But I never sent a video, just the song. I wanted my contacts to listen.

The problem with video is that once you see it, you will always associate that song with the images that the video director wants you to see. By way of example, Tom Petty has a song called “Don’t Come Around Here No More”, and the video for it consists of the band members costumed as Carroll’s “Through the Looking Glass” characters, who end up slicing Alice (who has somehow become a giant cake) into pieces for dessert. If I had simply heard the song, I probably would never have thought of Alice, because it doesn’t say a thing about her. I don’t get it. What does Alice in Wonderland have to do with the singer admonishing a former lover to stay away? I guess with some imaginative license a parallel can be drawn, but I prefer to let my imagination reveal what the song has to say, not someone else’s. I always kind of liked the song, but once I saw the video, every single time I hear that song I see nothing but Alice the Cake getting cut up.

Somebody close to me said not long ago, that when you first fall in love, it seems like every love song was written with you in mind, and when you’re in the midst of a breakup, every sad song was written with you in mind as well. When I was younger, before videos, having a radio playing was a given no matter what the activity of the day was, be it work or home or school (yes, we used to be able to bring records in on Fridays and play them). If you were lucky enough to find some time alone, sitting around blowing your eardrums with Princess Leia-like headphones was the ultimate pastime. It was, IS, the greatest escape from real life. I still get giddy sometimes when I listen to my favorite songs, because whether they make me happy or sad, they help me to understand me, and that, my friends, will work for you too.

The true magic of music is that the same song can have completely different meanings when heard at different times. If you haven’t laughed and cried to the same song, you’re missing something, because it is your mood that sets the imagination stage, not what a director thinks it should be. There are enough people in your life that want to tell you what to think or do or say. Don’t believe them. My advice is, if you want to listen to music, LISTEN to it, don’t watch it, because you’ll never see yourself if you’re looking through someone else’s eyes.

For Loren

It wasn’t very long ago that someone close to me lost a child. The girl was 29, and there’s just no other way to say it: She died far too young. Like everyone involved, I was shocked to hear the news. I literally did not know what to say. She was a good person, and it seems that people like that are maddeningly few and far between. I will miss her. I write this not for her, but for her mother. I wish I didn’t have to write it. I really do.


What is there that anyone can say to a parent who’s lost a child? Somebody told me not long ago that, as a person who has no children, I don’t really know what love is. I could argue that point, but I mention it because I don’t think I’ve ever felt so empathetic for my friend, one of the nicest people I have ever met. I cannot imagine what that must be like, and I can’t put a value on how badly I wished I had some words that would help to ease the utter despair that she must have felt. The psychiatrists say that it is a uniquely human quality to want to help when we see another person in trouble, that it is innate in us to assist and comfort fellow persons, even strangers, but when it is someone close that’s hurting, it seems impossible to console them no matter how good our intentions. And those of us with some sense of decorum stand mute for fear of worsening an already awful situation, wanting to wail with and for them, knowing that there is nothing we can do to make things better. Yet, we’re powerless to console what must surely be inconsolable. And that’s really what death reminds us of, isn’t it? That we are not in control. That we are mortal.

When I heard the news about Rachael, I wanted to write something, but I couldn’t think of how to begin, let alone a theme that would tie all thoughts together in a way that would make sense. Her death was such a shock that nothing I could think of would be enough. Nothing was appropriate. And in the most serendipitous of ways, I saw something that completely captured everything I wanted to say. It was a bird. I saw it at the Honolulu Zoo, and I thought it was injured. It had a huge red splotch on its chest. I thought it had been shot. Then I noticed another, and another, and all bore the same mark. They strutted and preened and flew about (in their cage) looking fatally wounded, yet vibrant. It was as if they continued to live after having their hearts torn out. I’m not ashamed to say that I got a little mushy. Like a bolt, I thought of my friend’s loss, and experienced the tiniest fraction of her pain, and that was more than enough.

The bird in the picture carries on regardless of its horrifying appearance. As individuals, they had varying degrees of color and size for their marks, as if some were more immediately wounded than others. I don’t know if the marks change on the birds, but I hope that the stain on my friend’s chest fades with time. It won’t disappear, of course, but I hope that like the birds, she is able to go about the business of her life in spite of her having literally lost a piece of herself.

For my Friend: When my father’s father died, I watched him during the funeral, and he was stoicism incarnate. I knew he was hurting, but he was a rock. I’m sure he was stained though. I remember later in the evening, hours after the funeral, as we passed each other in his father’s house bursting into tears and hugging him, telling him that I didn’t think I could ever be as composed as he was when it came time for me to bury him. It was an awful feeling, but I can see how it could be worse. A person expects to bury their parents, not their children. Words are an utter failure for describing that experience. I think what I want to say is that grief is a very personal thing. For a parent, it must be a private hell built for one. I hope your time there is short. I know that you have seen the darkest of days, and I hope that it will help you to appreciate the bright ones that will surely come. No one deserves them more than you.

Bird info

Out of the Mouths of Fools

I have a friend who has a very specific mantra that he loves to repeat when trying to reconcile the absurdities we all face on a daily basis, such as when a driver cuts you off for no apparent reason or a fast food clerk who says something totally unrelated to the simple task of ordering a quickie meal. He says, “Jeff, you have to remember that ninety nine percent of the population is retarded.” Now, we all know in our heart of hearts that that can’t be true. However, there are times when I wonder if he’s right.
Now, before you think this is going to be an elitist diatribe about how much better I am than everyone else, or dismiss me as a sad little man heaping derision upon others to make myself feel better, hear me out. I want to present a few examples of people I’ve met recently in my travels that utterly defy my attempts to classify them as normal human beings. No one can say for certain what “normal” is, and I obviously can’t meet every person in the world, so there’s no way I can say that ninety nine percent are idiots, but I offer a few examples that really have me worried that my buddy is right.
Taco Hell
I don’t eat fast food much, not because I’m a health nut, but because most of it just tastes bad. Once in a while I’ll get a double cheeseburger and a drink (for about 2 dollars) when I have a long motorcycle drive, for instance, and I don’t want to be hungry. The meal itself isn’t satisfying in the way a good rib eye steak is, but it is adequate in that I’m not hungry while I’m riding and, hopefully, it was non toxic (at least in the short run). I really don’t keep up with fast food menu changes; I just hope that whatever it is that I order is the same as it was in years previous. So, it was with this blissful ignorance that I rolled into a Taco Bell not long ago (for the first time in a long time) to get a cheap, quickie lunch. I wanted a Mexican pizza. Now, I hate olives, so I told the girl behind the counter that I wanted one with no olives. She practically froze, and made a quick point of telling me that they were out of olives, and looked at me expectantly to see how I would deal with this information. I didn’t know what to say. I wouldn’t care if every olive on the planet was gone. I couldn’t understand why their lack of olives would impact my order in any way, so I said, “OK, I’ll have it without sour cream”, and that was what it took to get my order from her station to the back where it could be made. She took my money with a smile and busied herself with the next customer, satisfied that she had averted a fast food catastrophe. I wondered if I really wanted to eat there. Turns out the Mexican pizzas aren’t nearly as good as I remember them.
Snake Oil
I was working in Pontiac, Michigan, standing outside (in the cold), smoking. It was a factory of sorts, a union place where the talk among the employees is the same no matter where in the country I go, although in Michigan, it’s always worse. Generally, the conversations I overhear are comprised of a) How terribly inefficient the management is, b) Schemes to use the union to make the management look foolish, and c) What their plans are when they hit the lottery. Once in a while, though, you run across that person who carries himself as a genius among fools, a jailhouse lawyer-type whose sole source of self esteem comes from spouting big words to impress the gullible, words he hopes no one else in the vicinity will understand. It’s wrong to judge people by the way they look or dress, so I’ll leave his ridiculous attire out (ask me about it sometime), and stick to telling what he told me. He told me, in a matter-of-fact tone, with a straight face, that he knew how to cure cancer, all cancer. In fact, he said that he had built a machine out of ham radio parts that could do it, and sold it to a doctor who had no idea such technology existed. I wasn’t quite sure which tack I should take with my response, so I bought myself some time by asking how his ham radio machine worked against cancer. He told me that very specific radio waves will kill viruses, and that cancer is a virus, and that all cancers are caused by the same virus. I wanted to respond at this point, but he was on a roll, so I let him run with it. He went on to explain how the pharmaceutical companies have kept a lid on this stunning treatment since the fifties, silencing anyone who dares to retrieve and disperse this wondrous, vital news to the world, because like diamonds, if people knew the truth, they’d be out of business. Indeed, the medical and pharmaceutical companies are one and the same (controlled by the New Illuminati) who conspired years ago to keep people just a little bit sick all the time so they’d have to buy medicines. It’s the perfect scam, he said. People will always want to be healthy, and they’ll spend every last dime chasing that carrot, and the medicine men will be steering the horse. I was literally biting my tongue. The parting words from this character were that I should look up Royal Rife, the man who first invented the cancer killing machine. He said this as if it were a secret name to be spoken only among those who could be trusted. Well, after a very little bit of research, I found that Royal Rife was debunked and dismissed in the fifties. The “lost” knowledge that the smoking loony could, alone in his basement duplicate with Radio Shack components never really worked, and everybody knows that, except this guy. I wanted to ask him his opinion of the government’s role in the 9/11 disaster, but had to go back to work. I always love hearing that one.
Gay By Choice
I met a guy in California earlier this year who was a good guy to work with. Unless you’re independently rich, you have to work, and some jobs just plain suck. The trouble, though, with a crappy job, and perhaps what makes it even crappier, is the people you have to work with. A pedestrian job can quickly turn into a traffic jam of frustration and anger when dealing with morons, so it’s always nice to work with people I can at least get along with. This guy was extraordinary in that he expected the work to be done quickly and efficiently, but it was also important to him that his workers were as happy as could be considering the circumstances. We had to work, but we didn’t have to toil. Anyway, this guy thought it would be a good idea for us all to get together one Saturday night and call out for pizza and have a few drinks at his home, and generally socialize. We’re all transient workers, so it’s good now and then to have some camaraderie when we’re all a long way from home. When I arrived, most of the guys we were working with in LA were already there, eating and drinking and having as good a time as one can have when on the road. Our host was there, of course, and he was as affable as always. He was wearing a black t-shirt with a design and some words on it; I thought it was a concert shirt. When I spoke to him, though, and had a chance to read it, I noticed that it was a religious message and not a rock band shirt. I thought that was odd, because he never mentioned anything about religion; he swore and gossiped like the rest of us. He said he was a born-again Christian (as he sampled my wonderful vodka and fruit juice concoction), but that he didn’t proselytize to anyone who didn’t ask. Fair enough, I thought, and that was the end of that. He did, however, say the oddest thing a while later. He said that homosexuals, all homosexuals, chose the life they’re living. Since we were all friendly and we were all drinking, I told him that I didn’t believe it was a choice. In my opinion, you’re either gay or you’re not, Hollywood weirdoes notwithstanding. This subject, however, was one he was adamant about, and he wanted to explain why he thought the way he did. He reasoned that the only reason gays were gay was because they had a psychological problem, a deep-seated self loathing; their behavior is a manifestation of a cry for help. And then, of course, he said that all of those problems could be overcome if they would just give themselves over to Jesus. That was the end of the discussion for me. I’m not going to convince a vodka swilling, oddly discrete bible thumper of anything with logic. I am still friends with this guy, and I hope I get the chance to work with him again sometime soon. We won’t be discussing anything remotely religious, and he’s OK with that, so I am too. It’s just funny how sometimes even the people who seem relatively normal can come up with some real gems.
I have no doubt than an essay similar to this one describing my own foolish notions could be written. I’d do it myself, but that would make me a little…weird. The whole point here is that we all have our quirks and we have all said or done something that would make others question our ability to walk around without hurting ourselves. Sometimes, though, it’s good to run into people like I’ve described here. It makes me feel a little more normal, whatever that is.

Still Lurking About

Well how about that? This page is still up. I thought it would have been taken down due to inactivity. The last time I was here I promised road stories, but it turns out most of them are pretty boring. In fact, the things that stick in my mind from my travels are usually more like rants than commentary. Fortunately, I do enjoy ranting from time to time, and it will help me get back in the swing of writing. So, on a very light note, here are some observations on some of the people and places I’ve been seeing lately.

Motel Hell

I live in motels. Sometimes they’re fancy and sometimes they’re cheap, but it’s not the price of the motel that makes it better, it’s the feeling you get when you walk in and know right away that you can be comfortable there. It is intangible, elusive, and always welcome. I had a run of two motels in a row a couple months ago that were comfy, but the weird part was that both motels had furniture that looked (to me) exactly like cartoon characters, one from the past and one from the present. See the accompanying pictures and decide if I speak the truth or if dementia has begun.



I walked into a motel room in near Baltimore, a Marriot Courtyard I believe, and the sun streamed into a room that sprung from the pages of a storybook, with impossibly bright colors that covered the spectrum, yet did not seem out of tune. And right away, I saw it. The chair. The chair that struck me like a bolt. You just gotta love those moments when you suddently remember something long-lost, something from your childhood that evokes a rush of nostaligia that brings an instant smile and an inner warmth that has been missing since adulthood set in. Anyway, this cream (?) colored chair sat on a dark blue carpet that was wildy incongruous, yet very pleasing. As soon as I saw it, I remembered a book I hadn’t thought of in years (decades, actually). The book is titled “Put Me In The Zoo” written by Robert Lopshire in 1960, and it was a childhood favorite. (If you have never read it, I suggest you do.) The chair in that room looked exactly like the critter in the book; I never could figure out what kind of animal it was, but there it sat, in my room. Was it just me? Had months of motels worn me to the point where I was seeing imaginary creatures in the flesh, er, fabric? You decide. The picture of the chair is a little dark, but trust me, it was spot-on, so to speak.





I probably wouldn’t have thought the “zoo” chair so strange except that from Baltimore, I went to near DC and walked into a room with a chair that looked just like “Plankton” from Spongebob Squarepants. Two motel rooms with two cartoonish chairs in one day made me wonder if working on the road was starting to have unforeseen side effects. But, unlike the zoo chair, this one doesn’t take much imagination to see. In fact, if you can’t see it, maybe it’s you that has a problem.





Melting Pot

I’ve been a lot of places in the past few months, and every time I change areas, I always make it a point to try to munch on whatever the local culinary specialty is. For instance, I have to eat crab cakes when in Maryland, steak in Oklahoma, and tacos in Texas. Whenever I get to a new site, I find a local bar (duh) and ask the regulars which restaurant they think has the best food in town. I always specify that it’s not the price that makes it good, but the food. Because I’m a bit of a cretin, greasy spoon diners are often far more enjoyable than swanky, “dress up” places. Food presentation means little to me. Flavorful and unique are the qualities I seek, and if I can eat with a spoon, even better. I wish I could give a review of something I heard of in Texas, but my time there was short, and while I did have some AWESOME barbecue, I didn’t get to try the one thing that I had heard so much about: fried butter. Yes, I said fried butter. I think they’ll fry just about anything in Texas. I saw on various menus fried olives, pickles, jalapenos and cheesecake, but the only place to get fried butter was at the state fair, and I heard radio announcers describe the traffic around the fair as “nightmarish”, so I didn’t go. I did manage to get the lowdown on how one goes about frying and eating sticks of butter though. The process, according to the locals, is to take a frozen stick of butter, and roll it in a sort of biscuit dough, then plunge it into hot oil. When sufficiently cooked, the result is a nearly hot dog sized wad of crispy fried goodness that oozes buttery ecstasy. I had heard tales of fried Twinkies as well as fried candy bars (Milky Way, Snickers), but I wanted to eat what surely must be true ambrosia. Mark my words: I WILL eat fried butter before I die. I will.

Home and Away

For all of the different stuff I get to eat, the legion of restaurants can never duplicate the foods that one can only make at home. There is a great deal to be said for eating out, of course, not the least of which is being able to tell someone what you want to eat, wait for them to bring it to you, then leave the dishes when you’re done. I like that. But, there are some things (and we all have our favorites) that can only be made at home, or at least, in a motel room with a kitchen. I have yet to find a motel room with a real oven; twice I have been in a new place shopping, hungry, and bought frozen pizza because it looked good, only to return to my motel and remember that I have no oven. Motel maids must love it when I do that. But there is nothing like making what I want the way I want it made when I want it. It often reminds me that I’m a long way from home and the people I love when I sit and eat by myself, and that can be a drag, but a pile of macaroni and cheese can work wonders when you’re melancholy. I believe writing helps too, now that I think about it. I’m going to have to do it more often.

New Chapters

It’s safe to say that I haven’t written anything in a while. There are so many reasons for my lack of activity, and maybe one day, when I get them sorted out, I’ll write them down. So, since I’ve been gone for so long, let me bring you up to speed. I have a new job, one that involves seemingly endless travel. For now I’ll remain in the US, but I’m really hoping that something international comes my way. I’m both excited and apprehensive about traveling, but it is what must be done. For the record, I’m tripling my salary, so you can bet I’m going to find a way to make the best of it. (Some may call me a fool for doing it, and that’s why I chose my picture.)

I’m going to try and keep a loose journal filled with interesting tidbits about the different cities I visit. Just kidding. Mostly, it will contain rants about the things I didn’t foresee or the characters I’ll come across. As always, my entries will be light and fluffy in nature, unless something really poignant or amazing happens. If it does, I’ll get out my emotional words and try to convince you of a great truth that everyone already knows but may enjoy a reminder of. And on that note, I’ll start at the beginning.

I’ve seen several articles on blogs across the web discussing whether or not making friends becomes harder as one grows older. Some say it is and some say it isn’t, and I used to count myself among those who felt that good friends just get fewer and farther between the longer I live. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that I’ve been meeting good friends my entire life. I can’t complain about that. I can, however, complain about leaving them. So, for the first entry of my journal, let me start whining right off the bat and relate what is really the first step in my new gypsy life: leaving Florida.

Odd as it may sound, I really enjoyed my previous job. For the first time in my life, I didn’t dread going to work. Now, that’s not to say that what I did was heaven on earth, but for the most part, it wasn’t bad. I think, though, what made it not suck so much was the abundance of really nice people to work with. I’ve never had so much fun and gotten paid for doing it. Anyway, when I said I was leaving, it was arranged that on my last day, we would all go to a restaurant that most of us knew and really liked. That, I thought, was a nice gesture on their part, and lunch for us all one more time sounded like the perfect send-off. I was light-hearted and excited about the future, and I fully expected them to get me a card and some sort of trinket as a reminder of the time I spent there.

In a way it was a little awkward, since we had all become the best of co-workers, always sharing a laugh or a lunch, and sometimes even meeting at someone’s house for a barbecue (read: drinking party), so it’s not like we never socialized outside of work. We were friends, but not really close. I had convinced myself that yes, I was going to miss them and no, I probably won’t ever find such a fun place to work again, but we’re all adults and everything would go smoothly. And that’s what I was thinking when I opened the small gift basket on the table in front of me.

The sudden realization that I’ve been wrong, so totally, wonderfully wrong, is a feeling that I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of. I love the instant when it suddenly becomes crystal clear that the people I think I know prove themselves to be far more than I had ever imagined. I am at once elated and humbled in those moments; it is a euphoric beyond any drug, and the lowest low. All of life’s major turning points have their indelible memories, and my departure from Florida will always mean that in one final lunch with my friends I realized that I was kidding myself when I thought they were just friends. With one simple gift, they did what only good friends do: They let you know that they care about you more than you know.

But what, you may ask, was in the gift basket? Well, it was a pen, but not just any pen. It was a Cross pen, much like any graduate would (or used to) get. By twisting the body, you can have black ink, red ink, or a pencil. There’s even an eraser hidden on top. It’s not a cheapie plastic thing, but a very nice writing instrument, and up near the pocket clip, my name is neatly engraved in a gothic looking font that’s not too big or too small. It is sleek and elegant, not gaudy at all. It is the perfect gift, and they knew that, and suddenly I knew it as I looked across the table at my smiling friends watching me open it. That I’m at a loss for words is a condition that should happen more often, but I really went speechless over the pen. Well, the pen and the sensation that I was floating as I woke up to the fact that I was surrounded by people who cared about me and would miss me. If that’s not bittersweet I don’t know what is.

I won’t bore you with the fluff and stuff of me telling my friends how I felt; it was just as sappy as you might think. I also won’t bore you with a snoozy soliloquy about how much I miss them now that I’ve gone. So, the only thing left to do is to honor the gift and, more importantly, the warmth they’ve shown me by using (the idea behind) the pen to write down stuff that happens to me so they can read it, along with anyone else who cares to. With every entry to my blog from now on, I am proving myself worthy of having friends such as the ones I left behind in Florida. I know I’ll never be famous, but I hope they know that they helped me to get out of my slump and realize that while I may make new friends in the years to come, I will always remember the ones who thought so well of me. There are no words to express how I feel about them. I hugged the ones I could, and that’s the best I could do, but it’ll never be enough.

Who Loves Ya, Baby?

From the time we first become cognizant of our surroundings until the time we no longer know or care what goes on around us, there isn’t a person on the face of this earth who doesn’t, at one point or another, want to feel loved. From the first smack on the ass to the ringing cacophony that drowns out the sounds of the world for the last time, we have three basic needs: To eat, procreate, and if we’re lucky, to enjoy the warm feeling of being needed. There are countless people on this planet who go through their lives struggling just to eat, and to tell you the truth, it makes me want to moan out loud in empathy for their plight. For all of us who feel that way, the only thing that keeps us from completely breaking down is the sad but true knowledge that we cannot save everyone no matter how badly we want to. The fate of the hungry will have to wait for another essay, though, because I do not have the words for it right now. I may never have them. But I do have some for those of us who, by the simple accident of our birth, are blessed (as it were) with at least a chance to make our world a little brighter by giving more than we take.

You and I both know people who dart through life as if in a shadow, emotional vampires who suck all the fun out of every room they enter, leaving a wake of chaos and bewilderment everywhere they go. Indeed, we often idolize such people, and when they’re gone, we spend years, decades and even centuries trying to understand what made them do the things they do. How about that boyfriend or girlfriend, husband or wife that you thought was your soul mate whom you found screwing someone else? How much time have you spent trying to understand why they did the things they did? We tell ourselves that the people who hurt us have no clue what they’ve done, but we know that they know, and we know that they simply don’t care. Our feelings mean nothing to them, and yet we still wonder what we could have done to prevent the inevitable. In fact, given the chance, many of us would repeat the same behavior, hoping for a different result. Why do we do that? Because we are the same as them.

John Donne wrote “No man is an island, entire of itself...any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind...” The people who wear their hearts on their sleeves intuitively know this. They don’t need a degree in English or a thorough understanding of philosophy to understand that while there are those among us (too numerous to count and often infuriatingly frequent) who have no regard for anyone else’s feelings, they are still part of a collective consciousness that is the inherent and sole burden (or grace) that is the legacy of humankind. It is a yin and yang existence that we share. There are “good” people, and there are, in today’s vernacular, “haters”. How do we make sense of this? How do we not give up and take the easy road, joining the haters and ignoring all feelings but our own?

It’s not easy. I certainly can’t sit here and say that I have achieved nirvana and am as one with all living beings. In fact, I have no pedestal from which to proclaim the truth which will set all men free. But, I can offer a bit of humble advice: Before you go out and tell someone that you love them, make sure that you love yourself first. I don’t mean in a selfish, narcissistic way, but you have to be happy with you before you can be happy with someone else. Sounds easy, but it’s harder than you might think. If wishes were fishes we’d all have a fry, but wouldn’t it be nice if we thought before we said something that we knew would hurt someone else’s feelings? I don’t mean in the stupid overly PC world that we’ve become, but if we really tried to think before we acted, our world would be a better place. Pick your own cliché, but it all comes down to the golden rule.

I picked Telly Savalas as my title and theme because his iconic trademark line is one we should all think about. When you hear that line, your answer should be “me”. If it’s not, you’re in for a world of hurt. If you can’t give that answer, then rest assured that no one else will.

Zoot Suit

Good clichés stand the test of time because they offer kernels of truth in just a phrase or a sentence. There have been many phrases coined in the mint of experience that, while priceless, end up in the gutter, apparently too troublesome to bend over and pick up. In fact, there are a great many idioms that have been floating around for millennia, trying to impart an important lesson that we perpetually ignore. Not learning from the past does indeed condemn us to repeat it, but I suppose it’s the nature of the beast to keep getting burned before we stop sticking our fingers in the fire. I’ll be damned if I can explain why they haven’t disappeared from our vernacular due to obsolescence except for the simple fact that people have an uncanny ability to ignore things that are as plain as…well…the noses on our collective face. But, since I’m not on a serious rant this time, I’d like to share with you a cliché that I’ve always found relevant.

“Never judge a book by its cover” is a phrase that appears in varied forms in almost every language and culture on the earth. To judge something based solely on its appearance is just plain foolish, yet who among us isn’t guilty of it at one time or another. If you’ve never seen a picture of a naked mole rat, look here. Even the most ardent animal lover would be hard-pressed to fight the urge to kill it with fire if one wandered into their kitchen. Shakespeare said “The devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape,” so it’s probably best to remember that appearances are just that: appearances.

I really want to write about an extension of the book/cover saying that has been adapted to “clothes make the man.” I simply cannot fathom why so many people put so much importance on clothing. I have a personal stake in this, so hear me out. I like to wear overalls. They’re comfortable and practical. They cover everything that needs to be covered and if you get the right kind, they last for years. And yet, for all of their benefits, I suffer ridicule from all kinds of people for the fashion crime of being comfortable. I once dated a woman who said “You can never go out in public with me dressed like that.” I snickered, but she wasn’t laughing. She was serious. She was literally telling me what I could or could not wear. I knew how to dress myself by the time I was 7, so I didn’t need someone telling me how to do it. In case you’re wondering, that relationship didn’t last very long.

My current girlfriend isn’t a fan of my overalls either. She’s not as militant as the other, but I still get the “THAT’S what you’re wearing?” sarcasm, and I don’t get it. She bought me a shirt not long ago that was nice, but a little flashier than I would have bought, and I accepted it graciously. It was just a t-shirt, and it even had a skull on it, but it has a kind of “look at me” air to it that just doesn’t fit me. She raved about it, and said it looked good; it is evidently the height of t-shirt chic. She paid 50 bucks for it. For a t-shirt. I may not know much about fashion, but I do know that t-shirts don’t cost that much money. Hell, I can get a sack of them for ten. It’s probably a good thing that I never had children, because I would think nothing of having them wear potato sacks until they were old enough to dress themselves.

So I’m wondering, is it the look of the fancy clothes that fashionistas like, or is it because they cost so much? Does an outrageous price tag mean the clothes look better? Am I missing something here? Maybe I’ll just start telling the naysayers that I paid five hundred dollars for my overalls, call them cretins, and stick my nose in the air while I stomp off in a huff eating a tin of caviar that I had hidden in one of my many pockets.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.