Love Essay

I made a deal with a friend not long ago that we would swap stories about what we thought love was. It seemed a simple enough thing to do, and I was confident that I could find a few minutes to pound out an essay that would cover my end of the deal. Like me, this friend shares a need to write things down. She prefers to use poetry as a medium, which I think makes it easier, but that’s just my opinion. She was quick in fulfilling her end of the bargain. Her writing was heart-wrenching and immediate, sometimes violent and strangely erotic. Woe unto us, though, who prefer to try and pigeonhole everything through prose; the whole “love” thing is too elusive. As I try to write my “love” essay, I find myself wishing I was better at poetry. But, mechanics be damned. I’ll try.

If I could write in this blog what love is so that every person who read it knew and understood exactly what I was saying, well, I wouldn't be sitting in a crappy apartment writing essays that almost nobody reads. I don’t have the talent to cover such an all encompassing subject. “I love my mom. I love that movie. I love shrimp fettuccine alfredo”. How in the world would I begin to explain it to someone who didn’t know what it meant? More importantly, I think, how could I explain it when I’m not sure what it is myself? Anecdotes always work well, so I’ll hide behind that, and I’ll just stick to the adult occurrence. My teen love stories will have to wait.

I was married when I fell in love, and it wasn’t with my wife. I have heard older people say they fell in love with their spouses only after marriage, and it worked out great for them. Things don’t work that conveniently for me. No, as usual, there is always a giant monkey wrench floating about, waiting patiently to enmesh itself in my workings when I need it the least.

On the most mundane of errands, I inadvertently, unexpectedly, and blissfully fell in love with a complete stranger in about three minutes. When I saw her, I was immediately struck (blinded) by how beautiful she was. To be fair, I have seen lots of beautiful women, but this one was different. Of course, she was standing right in front of me, which helped; it’s tough to fall in love with a magazine picture, although I have seen others do it. But anyway, this girl literally took my breath away. I felt as though I were in another dimension. It was as if I could see, really see, for the first time. I was in my neighborhood liquor store buying bourbon like I did all the time, and yet, I was worlds away, my transportation courtesy of the new clerk.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Lush walks into liquor store, sees half-way decent looking girl, and has love fantasies. In a cynical (realistic) way, you’d be right. But this is a love story, so go with it.

Our short conversation was all business, I think. We may have chatted briefly about the weather or the gift boxed Jack Daniel sets or the man in the moon. I don’t remember, and it didn’t matter. I knew, in one instant, that I would be able to listen to her talk about anything. Anything at all. For as long as she wanted. And while she spoke, it would be as if I were in a dream, and her voice would be both an hypnotic soundtrack and a river that I could float away on, forever.

Quite (too) abruptly, our short transaction was over, and I was back in my car. I had to go home. To where my wife was. And I don’t think I’ve ever felt so guilty in my life. I actually took the long way home so I could try to gather my thoughts, once so neatly kept, so organized, so…predictable. Hadn’t I stood up, in front of my family, and professed to God and everybody, that I loved my wife, and would cleave to her and no other? Oh, this was bad. Very bad. All I had done was go to the liquor store to buy a bottle of bourbon, and now I was in love with another woman. Wait, not in love, but I knew I could love this woman, much more than I ever did my wife. I knew, for the first time, what love really was: It was the desire to hang on every word, to get lost in the smile and to scream and fight no matter the cost to myself in order to keep the smile in place. It was the feeling of utter relaxation. It was a calm that inspired abandon I had never known, and wanted so badly, no matter what I had said to anybody before I met her. It all happened in about three minutes, and there isn’t a day that has gone by since that I haven’t thought of it.

Did I lust after her? You bet I did. But it was more than just the physical act that I wanted. I wanted to be as close to her as two people can be. I wanted to lose myself in her, and I knew it would an ecstatic, delirious experience, with my only hope being that maybe some of whatever magic she had would shine on me, if only for a moment. I imagined it would be like touching the face of God, and I don’t care if that’s blasphemy.

When I had finally gathered my wits, I went home. I didn’t mention to my wife that I had fallen in love at the liquor store.

Remember the floating monkey wrench? It came back. Through an odd series of events, my wife became good friends with the clerk of my dreams. And (I couldn’t make this up), they had the same name. She would visit on occasion, and there just isn’t enough bourbon in the world to make that scene comfortable. I remember sitting in my kitchen with those two women and realizing that I had never felt so secretive and yet so exposed in my life. I had to be very careful about any vocal inflections when speaking their names. When I spoke to my wife, her name sounded like I was spitting out a poppy seed, but when I spoke to the clerk, it sounded like a symphony. I had to be very careful to make sure that what was going on in my head didn’t make it out of my mouth.

I could go on and on, trying vainly to describe how I felt. Suffice to say that I have never felt so strongly for a woman.

There’s no happy ending to this story. I eventually discovered that my wife had been involved in more extramarital affairs than I wanted to hear about. The beautiful clerk is married, and we do speak from time to time.

In case you’re wondering, I did have the chance to tell her how I felt. In a desperate act of foolishness, I told her I would build her a house with my own hands and love her children and devote the rest of my life to making her as happy as she could be. Bless her heart, for she was very gentle in letting me know that she did not feel the same way, which leads me to wonder: Did I know from the beginning that I could not have her, and is it that fact which made her so appealing? Would things have been different had she felt the same for me, which is to say, would it have lasted? I’ll never know, and yet, I am still grateful to her for making me feel like she did. It felt like love for me, and it was good.

Epilogue:

I’ve been working on this essay for nearly five hours, and every time I re-read it, I realize how much more there is I could say to try and describe how I felt for the clerk. It will take everything I have to resist the temptation to revise it…again. I’m tired, and at this particular moment, my opinion (subject to change) is this: Love, for me, anyway, is beautiful but clumsy: Just when things are almost fixed, she drops the stupid wrench.

I have since tried to extend the same amount of fervor I felt for the clerk to subsequent women, and I am sure that I have loved them, although it was different, and, I might add, unsuccessful. I wanted so desperately to feel the same way the clerk made me feel; I tried to make it happen, and it didn’t. There’s a word to the wise.

Doctor, Heal Thy Arrogance

I have a great deal of respect for doctors. I don't respect them because they're better than me; they are people too, subject to the same human foibles as all of us struggling to live the life that is our blessing (or curse). They have been to school to learn how to try and heal what ails us, or at least, make our illnesses easier to deal with. We pay them (handsomely) to benefit from their knowledge. We, as patients, are ignorant when it comes to the complexities of what it is that makes a body stay alive, or how to fix it when it's broken. We are not, however, stupid, and do not deserve to be treated as such. Nothing makes me angrier than paying a person to disrespect me. I have a couple of anecdotes to share that illustrate my point.

A few years ago, I was living in Holland, Michigan, which is, by any stretch, a very conservative area. The nicotine patch was a brand new treatment to help smokers stop smoking, and it was available only by prescription. Now, despite my extended nicotine addiction, I have had no health issues; I didn't even have a regular doctor, because I never needed one, and I still don't. I had insurance, so money wasn't an issue. (The story gets a little weird here, but I swear it's true) One day while bent over drying my ankles after a shower, I was attacked by what I call a "ninja" sneeze. I never felt it coming, and it nearly crippled me. Somehow, I pulled a muscle in my neck, and I was unable to move my head to the left at all. I couldn't even drive safely. I tried to tough it out for a couple days, thinking it would go away, but it didn't. A friend suggested a physical therapist, so I went to one. He said he thought he could help me, but that I needed to see a physician first (he recommended one), which brings me back to the doctor. I thought as long as I was there for my neck, I would ask about the patch.

The doctor's waiting room had no literature save for bibles and other religious tracts. The walls had needlepoint bible quotes. As I sat in the waiting waiting room, I hoped that this guy would use traditional medicine instead of asking Jesus to take time out from his busy day to fix my neck and help me stop smoking. As I mentioned, Holland was a very conservative place; it was against the law to mow your lawn on Sunday. When I got in to see the doctor, I could tell right away that it was going to be a bad visit. I am not festooned with tattoos like a circus freak, but I have a few, and all of them are devils. At the time, I also had a ponytail over three feet long. The doctor looked at me as if I were Satan himself. He put on rubber gloves to feel my neck, presumably to keep any evil from seeping out of me and into his pores, corrupting his soul. As he spoke, he was curt, and, in my opinion, his tone positively dripped with disgust, as if talking to me was a loathsome chore, a test, even. I had experienced that sort of thing before with many people, particularly overtly religious ones. They were very quick to judge on appearance alone.

So I asked him about the patch, and I could have sworn he was miffed that I dared ask a health question unrelated to my current visit, like I was getting a "two for one" deal. He snapped at me, and said, "Quitting smoking is a very important decision. I need to know that you're serious about it, so why don't you come back in two weeks, and if you still want to quit, we'll talk about it". I said, "I am serious. That's why I asked you". He said, "Two weeks", as if daring me to make another appointment. Apparently, this guy thought that the Hippocratic Oath only applied if the patient fit his ideal of what a person should be. We both snorted at each other, and I left, never to return.

My next example of medical snootiness happened just the other day. To be fair, this guy was a vet, and my cat was the patient, but as you will read, it is another example of a doctor who is too big for his britches.

My cat developed a growth on the side of his head. I had no idea what it was; for all I knew it was cat head cancer. I took him to see a vet, convinced that this was going to be, at best, a "bad news" visit, and at worst, a one way trip for the cat. The vet (female) took one look at the cat and said it was a follicular cyst, very common and of no danger to the cat's health. In short, it was an ingrown hair. Since I am a poor struggling writer, I didn't have the money to have it removed, but said I would come back when I got it. I finally went back this week, and asked if the doctor remembered me from the visit a month prior. The receptionist said they had changed doctors, but that the new one would look at it and tell me how much it cost. The price was right, and I gave the OK. It only took about ten minutes, and I didn't hear any yowling, so I assume the cat was fairly comfortable during the removal. But just like the people doctor in Holland, we had an issue unrelated to the original visit.

The vet told me that my cat was way too skinny. "A bag of bones" was his phrase. I started to tell him that I have had the cat for 13 years, and he's ALWAYS looked like he does now (he was fully grown when I got him, so I have no idea how old he really is). The vet interrupted me with a tone that thinly disguised his belief that I was somehow derelict in my pet owning responsibilities. A gaggle of nurses (?) nodded in agreement, and chimed in that there was something very wrong with my cat. Again, I tried to explain that he has always looked the way he does now, and, interrupted again, I got the "He's been sick for years", with the distinct implication that I knowingly allowed the cat to suffer all this time. He quickly added that for another $150, he could do some blood work and see what kind of medicinal regimen the cat should be on, which, of course, would mean a monthly prescription (read: expense) for the rest of the cat's life. I put my cat in his carry case and left, promising to return, but I won't.

Don't get me wrong; I love my cat. But he is the same cat today that he was when my ex wife dragged him home one day so long ago, and he has never acted like a sick cat. Ever. He's lived a long time, and he won't live forever, no matter how much medicine (or money) I give. I don't think he's broken, so I'm not going to try and fix him.

The point of these two stories is this: We, as patients, are the customers. We are the kings. We are the ones shelling out the money, so why is it that we have to pay to be humiliated? I mean, c'mon! I can get that for free just about anywhere. It seems to me that listening when another person is speaking is the most basic consideration, so why do some doctors, in spite of their advanced degrees, not understand that? Why do they act like they're doing you a huge favor by speaking down to you with their hand in your pocket?

In all fairness, I do not think all doctors are buttheads. On the contrary, I have, due to a very painful motorcycle accident, dealt with a great many kind, considerate doctors, and would, as a whole, classify them as good. But those rude, snooty ones really get under my skin.

Sports Aside

I am not what you would call a sports fan. No baseball, no football (American or otherwise), no racing (if that's really a sport), no jai alai. Because I'm old, I will confess to watching a bit of golf now and then, as long as there are no Star Trek reruns on. However, I do have one sports weakness: hockey. It came about quite by accident. I had come home from working in a factory at 3am, and plopped in front of the TV, as it was very cold outside, and I had a nice warm bottle of bourbon handy. A quick perusal of the channels showed nothing of interest, which, for the most part, is to be expected from television. Realizing I needed to remove my boots, I stopped clicking (completely randomly, mind you) on a hockey game. It could have been anything, an infomercial, the Jesus channel, or maybe Telemundo!, but it happened to be hockey.

Anyway, there was nothing on, and I was in no hurry to surf anymore, so I slurped my bourbon and tried to remember if there was anything constructive I could do. My attention was caught by the TV; the crowd was roaring, and I looked up to see what the fuss was about. It was a hockey game, and I don't like sports, but I had an epiphany at that moment. I watched men on ice skates chase a frozen piece of rubber around, and was completely awestruck by the speed and agility with which they moved. But, the most surprising thing of all was the amount of control they had over what was going on. Anyone who has ever walked or driven on ice knows that it's a tricky thing, but these guys had it down. So I watched to see what would happen. A goal was scored (beautifully), and the crowd cheered, which is what you would expect in a sporting event. But just a couple minutes later, it got even better. (Remember, as this transpired, I hadn't watched a televised sporting event in probably 25 years).

I thought I would watch for a few more minutes to see what happened. Play continued for a little longer, and then, the commentators started chattering excitedly about something going on that wasn't on camera. The picture cut to a different view of the arena, and there stood (circled) two opposing team members, gloves off and ready to duke it out. On ice skates. They grabbed and tried to pummel each other, somewhat effectively, for about a minute. The crowd roared, and when the referees separated them, they both skated off, a bit bloody and obviously winded. And I was hooked.

Before I get accused of being a Neanderthal, let me say this: I am repulsed by the thought of anybody dying in a war. If all wars were fought with fists on ice skates, well, there wouldn't be any body bags, and Purple Hearts would be awarded based on the number of stitches incurred instead of missing limbs. I would be more than happy to debate war stats to hockey ones; the "hockey is too violent" argument just doesn't work.

I, of course, have a favorite team, and even though I've left the frozen north, I still root for them when I can. I love hockey. Go Red Wings!

Mea Culpa

In today's essay, I find myself in the unfortunate and embarrassing position of having to apologize to my (few) readers. I have done you a disservice. I am guilty of the very act that I took Josh Wolf to task for in an earlier essay, namely, that I posted and opined on a subject without presenting all of the facts. It is humbling and shameful when you realize that you are the pot that calls the kettle black. I have no excuse save laziness, and for that, I sincerely apologize.

In my previous post about the "Great Global Warming Swindle", I professed loudly and proudly that the documentary dispelled myths about man-made climate change, but after some more research, I have discovered that many of the scientists featured in the documentary have come forward to say that they were taken out of context, and, literally, duped into appearing in the film. In addition, there are charges of outright lying, lying by omission, and tampering with the data used in the film to ensure that it projects the results desired. You can read just a few of the refutations here, here, and here. In a nutshell, all of these links offer compelling evidence that the documentary filmmakers are guilty of the very thing they accuse the global warming movement of, and, perhaps worse.

I'm no scientist (which should be obvious), but it seems to me that the scientific method of analyzing raw data should produce the same results no matter who examines it. That is to say, scientists like to try and equate the method to "just the facts", much like, say, algebra. With all knowns and all variables in place, there can be only one correct answer. How is it, then, that different groups come up with different answers? And more importantly, whom are we, the non-scientists, to believe?

In any case, we should be able to believe those who claim to show all sides of the story and let us decide for ourselves which side to believe. Throughout history, it has been shown that scientists have often manipulated (or ignored) data to substantiate their theories, with raging debates to follow. This is a good thing, in a way, because it ultimately forces the truth to come out. In the case of writers (or bloggers), however, it is vital to present ALL facets of a story to stimulate and inform the reader.

Again, I was guilty of a knee-jerk reaction, and blurted about a topic I did not bother to research. I don't believe this is the same as purposely lying or leaving information out, but the end result is equally detrimental. If I had done my homework, I would never have touted the documentary the way I did. I still think it's interesting, and as I mentioned, it should be debated so we can eventually come to a consensus on how our presence affects our planet. But for me to believe that we humans have not had a negative impact on the ecology of this planet was a lazy, selfish mistake. In the future, few readers, I will do my best to make sure I know what I'm talking about before I shoot my mouth (keyboard) off. Please accept my apology.

An Inconvenient Movement

Are you a thinking, rational person? Are you scared of the apocalyptic predictions of the earth's climate? Do you want to see one of the founders of Greenpeace and a host of respected scientists, many of whom are listed on the IPCC report on global warming (who have resigned in protest and asked that their names be removed from the report) utterly refute the "theory" of global warming?

Click the title of this essay to see a documentary that, for some strange reason, hasn't been broadcast repeatedly on every major network. Hmmm...I sense another political rant coming about this manufactured issue that has been propagated worldwide as truth. The global warming movement, championed by Al Gore is not a fact. It's a business, no, a cult, masquerading as science.

If you live on this planet, you owe it to yourself to watch this documentary. It's just over an hour long, but it will stick with you for a long time.

UPDATE: As of 16 April, the link for this video doesn't work. I (fortunately) downloaded it, and will try to paste it here with a working link.

Josh Wolf, Journalist

Josh Wolf, jailed for refusing to turn over film footage shot at a violent demonstration in which he was a willing participant, feels he has been wronged by the government. Citing journalistic shield laws, he also believes he should not have to testify to possibly witnessing a number of criminal acts, and feels he should not have to turn over raw tapes that may or may not contain video evidence of the commission of said crimes. The U.S. Attorney General wants to see the tape to determine for itself if it contains any evidence of criminal behavior. Wolf says, "The Assistant U.S. Attorney said the government has the duty to see if anything suspicious occurred, and then determine if there's a crime. That's not a world I want to live in." Fair enough. Let's try that scenario a different way.

Let's say I'm a self-styled journalist with no real training who belongs to a radical group that vehemently opposes, say, Josh Wolf's parents. I go to a demonstration outside his house with the intention of filming my masked fellow believers protesting, then violently attacking his house and family. Although I do not have film of the actual attack on his mother, who suffered a fractured skull, there is a possibility that there could be evidence, unbeknownst to me, somewhere on my raw tape that identifies a perpetrator, or that the police believe I personally know who the culprit is. I manage to leave the scene without being questioned by the police, and later, post edited clips of the demonstration on my web site. When asked by the police to turn over my tape, I refuse. Do you think Josh Wolf would be comfortable with my refusal to hand the tape over to the government to be screened for possible evidence of criminal behavior? Would he defend my right to keep my fellow demonstrators out of harm's way by claiming journalistic shielding? Would people set up web sites calling for donations to fund my defense and demand that I be held free of any liability because I'm a journalist? Would the Society of Professional Journalists award me the title of "Journalist of the Year"? If not, why not?

Josh Wolf calls himself an anarchist. Merriam-Webster defines an anarchist as "1 : a person who rebels against any authority, established order, or ruling power. 2 : a person who believes in, advocates, or promotes anarchism or anarchy; especially : one who uses violent means to overthrow the established order." In an interview from jail with Kevin Sites, Wolf says he feels "safe" in his incarceration. He says he is not housed with violent offenders, but he does say he is inconvenienced by not being able to access the internet. And he doesn't seem very happy with the food either. Isn't that a shame? Isn't that inconvenient? Isn't it a bit incongruous to espouse violence and then be thankful that you're not exposed to it? I don't think for one second that Josh Wolf would last very long among really ruthless and violent people, and make no mistake: There are a lot of them, and I suspect they would chew Josh Wolf up and spit him out. Literally. At the ripe age of 24, he would have you believe that he has a better grasp of the real world than most, and that anarchy would be preferable to our current system. I say throw him down with the hard core criminals, and let him see the consequences of a world with no rules. There's a reason we have prisons for people who don't like to follow the rules of civility.

In the above mentioned interview, Wolf seemed very enamored with the word "basically". Let's use that. Wolf is out of prison now, because, basically, he buckled, and he basically betrayed his convictions by turning over the tape the government wanted. Apparently, the mean old government, in its endeavor to try to protect all citizens from violence, and to hold those who do commit it accountable, basically broke Wolf's steely resolve by denying him access to a computer and giving him lunches he didn't like.

In the same interview, Sites repeatedly asked Wolf which side he was taking, either journalist or activist, and Wolf, basically, refused to answer the question. He talked a lot, but never answered the question. Many years ago, long before Wolf was born, I studied journalism, and I was taught that a good reporter will get the answers to the "5 w's and the h", which, of course, are "who, what, where, when, why and how". Wolf, the journalist, couldn't or wouldn't answer a simple question, one that any first year journalism student would know is vital to the story. (Sites, by the way, showed great patience by not saying "Answer the ******* question"!) Anyway, maybe now that he's out of jail, instead of milking his pseudo fame, he will, basically, go back to school to learn what a real journalist does: Cover ALL the aspects of the story and let the reader decide what is relevant.

For the record, this blog is my opinion; I, basically, do not claim to be a journalist.

Political Rant Vol. II

In my previous political rant (23 Feb), I bemoaned the fact that Americans seem to elect presidents based more on their personal appeal than their stance on the issues. This, of course, is perfectly understandable. A person with a wooden personality is much less likely to sway the hearts and minds of the voting public than a skilled orator with a firm grasp on the principles of rhetoric. Often, it's not so much what they say but how they say it. It still boils down to style over substance, and that's something that, in my opinion, really needs to change. I don't hold out much hope for it, though.

Today's rant has to do with another aspect of politics, namely, the American political party system. Anyone with even a smattering of civics knowledge knows that our various parties each select and run the candidate they feel best represents them. Conservative Republicans generally represent business and traditional thinking, while Liberal Democrats tend to want to be a voice for "the little guy", and ensure that everyone gets a piece of the American dream. In an effort to ensure that all candidates have a chance, we also have the Green Party, the Libertarians, and even the communists. In theory, this all sounds very fair. As a young boy, I remember hearing from any number of sources that the beauty of America is that anyone born here has a shot at being president. Age and experience, however, have proven to me that this is not the case. America does not have a multi-party system, and it is not just the Republicans and the Democrats either. There is only one party: It is the party of money.

Just this week, many Democratic hopefuls either announced or were expected to announce the amount of money they have raised thus far (with 20 months to go until election) to fund their race to the White House. Those candidates who fail to raise enough capital are doomed to defeat, in that they will not be able to afford to get their message to the voters. Now, a case could certainly be made that their message isn't the one the bulk of voters want to hear. If, however, they happen to be independently wealthy, well, they might still have a shot, a la Ross Perot. The fact remains that if you do not have money, you cannot be the president.

It is a candidate's stance on the issues and their experience that should be on the minds of the voters. Innumerable cases of beltway corruption are sure to leave a bad taste in the mouths of voters, and it should. However, not being in tune with the inner workings of politics should send up a red flag for voters. Do we want a commander-in-chief who has never worn the uniform? As a veteran of an infantry battalion, I would not want someone who has never volunteered to place himself in harm's way for his country to decide to send others there. Likewise, I'm not sure I'd want a president that has served one term as a senator or governor to be at the helm of the most powerful government on the planet.

I don't care if Barack Obama is black. I do care, however, that he is a first-term senator with a voting record that hardly fills one page, and I am concerned that between himself and Hillary Clinton, they have already raised nearly 16 million dollars more than ALL presidential candidates combined at the same point in an election just four years ago. Neither Obama nor Clinton is a veteran.

I don't care if Mitt Romney is a Mormon, and that shouldn't be an issue, but trust me, it will be. I do care that he has limited political experience, having served only one term as the governor of Massachusetts. And again, he is not a veteran. He is, however, by any stretch, a rich man who donated 6.3 million dollars to his own gubernatorial campaign, at the time a state record.

I hope today's civics lesson is clear.

Nice Word...Don't Bite

I've been trying to write a short story that's really giving me a hard time. The problem stems from controversial subject matter. If a person writes a story that portrays (what society thinks is) criminal behavior in a favorable light, and a reader emulates that behavior with dire consequences, is the author liable for the outcome?

Since the dawn of time, the oral, and later, written word has been positively rife with tales of deceit and murder, yet we do not hold the authors responsible for the deceit and murder that continues to this day. Mafia stories glorify the "made" man. Tarzan killed black men for sport, and don't even get me started on the Bible. But, if I write a story about a truly good, moral thing that happened to occur while under the influence of certain illegal substances, will I be accused of promoting irresponsible behavior?

It's easy to say that writers should take a "critics be damned" attitude, and write what they feel is important. Last time I checked, though, the only writers who said that had already established themselves or died, only receiving recognition for their genius post mortem.

If I were to write a story about how cool it is to sniff spray paint fumes from a paper bag and hang around a day care center leering and barking at children, I'd be vilified. If I wrote that contracting AIDS through unprotected sex was a remote and unlikely possibility, any number of groups would accuse me of, at best, ignorance, and at worst, promoting genocide.

The human condition needs to be told, because we all learn from and inspire each other, whether we relate good deeds or bad. With that in mind, I think I'll finish the story I'm working on and hope for the best. I'm sure I flatter myself by worrying about it. What Jim Fixx did for jogging, I intend to do for reckless behavior.

Oh...wait.

Retirement Horror Vol. II

My last "retirement horror" post dealt with the dangers of not investing properly. Being old and broke is the stuff nightmares are made of. This essay isn't nearly as serious, but it is terrifying nonetheless. I cannot provide in this essay, as I did in the previous one about retirement, links to concrete sources to validate my argument. I can, however, provide eyewitness testimony to an event I witnessed last night that should scare the socks off anyone who spends time wondering how retirement might be.

I visited my parents this past weekend at their winter home near Tampa, Florida. They, like many others, winter in a retirement community; you cannot buy a home there unless you're at least 55. To be fair, it seemed like a very close-knit group of people living there. Since my folks don't smoke, I stood outside when smoking, and there was a nearly constant parade of retirees walking in the warm Florida weather, and without fail, every person that walked by smiled and/or waved and said "Hello", or "Good Morning". I learned from my folks to be gracious and gregarious, so I of course returned their greetings. I felt a little guilty though, because my parents had told me that there were a lot of "walkers" in the park, and I immediately pictured a horde of old people looking for all the world like zombies, lurching aimlessly about the neighborhood. I'm happy to say that the people I spoke to were all very nice, and were obviously enjoying themselves. You might ask, "Where's the horror in that"?

Since the members of this community are so social (presumably because they can afford to have little else to do), they invent all sorts of reasons to congregate with alarming frequency. Last night, they held a birthday party for everyone, complete with cake and ice cream and, as an added treat, they had a musical revue featuring several residents who called themselves "The Choralettes". Each had a red sparkly vest with a bow tie; they were dressed like an old fashioned barbershop quartet (sans moustaches), and they sang show tunes and Frank Sinatra and a Rogers & Hammerstein medley. Songs from their youth. Again, where's the horror in that? Were they, for the most part, horribly off-key? Yes. Did the mere 40 minute show seem like a grinding, inexorably tortuous lifetime? Of course, but they were old people, and I expected that. But as I watched this performance, I suddenly saw in my mind's eye a sight that made my skin crawl.

In an absurd (and wholly understandable, I think) moment, I saw my own retirement community, and it was very unpleasant. Instead of blue-haired geriatrics dressed like an organ grinder's monkey, I saw a crowd of aging hippies, complete with bald pates and scraggly ponytails, dressed in black pleather vests straining to complete "Stairway to Heaven". I saw 70 year old women, frail with age, stooped over to compensate for the weight of their breast implants. (The sight of a woman that age with boobs that still stand up like a 20 year old's really disturbed me). Instead of cake and ice cream, it was hash brownies and jell-o shots. The emcee told sort-of-dirty jokes that nobody found offensive, and instead of golf shirts and blouses, clothing consisted of tye-dyed jeans and plaid maxi skirts.

The actual scene I was watching was surreal; the imagined one was downright hellish.

I'm not sure if I'll live to retirement age, and my lapses into imagination tend to convince me that maybe it's best if I don't. I believe that if you plan for the worst, you'll never be disappointed, and I cling to that philosophy in the hope that I'm right. Retirement looms large, though, and I worry about it. A lot. But you know that.

Students Beware!

Since I started this blog late last year, I have tried very hard to not let it become a bully pulpit from which to rant about anything that makes me angry or to complain about my personal life. A quick perusal of the blogosphere will show that there's enough of that already. I think it's all well and good that there are blogs that describe the minutiae of someone's life, and I'm also sure that it's very therapeutic to jot down thoughts, but I just don't feel the need to put my personal crises out for all to see. For the most part, nobody cares what I had for breakfast or how my relationships are going. I try very hard to write about things I consider relevant, things that perhaps someone else can identify with and maybe, just maybe, draw some inspiration from.

Having said that, today's essay concerns the paradox of needing a college education in today's world juxtaposed against the real world's apparent desire for experience over schooling. To be blunt, I am fairly baffled that a BA means little to many employers. It doesn't matter if you have a degree in something if you have no "real world" experience. For instance, I have a degree in English with a specialty in composition. Anyone who has been to college knows that it is very difficult and time consuming (not to mention outrageously expensive) to EARN a degree in a chosen field. I chose English/Composition because I love to write, and I can think of no other job that would afford me the opportunity to get paid doing what I love to do. But do you think I can find a job doing it? I spent countless hours studying all styles of writing. MLA. Chicago. APA. Not only did I study them, I studied them under the tutelage of doctorate level professors, published authors and instructors with concrete, first hand knowledge of what to do and what not to do in order to succeed. And, if I might toot my own horn, I did very well at it. Yet every single job I apply to wants to know how much experience I have. Did they not read my resume? Do they think that degrees in composition are handed out willy-nilly to anyone who can afford it?

In almost every cover letter I write, I make sure and include the following line: "Anyone who knows anything about writing knows that in order to earn a degree in composition, one must do a good deal of writing". Doesn't my four years of seemingly endless hours producing reams of papers count for anything? Isn't that experience?

Let me digress for a moment. When I was 18 years old, I went to work in a 7up factory in Flint, Michigan. It was my first "real" job, and I of course had to start at the bottom of the ladder, as a general warehouse laborer. Except for a three year stint in the Army, it was the only job I had for nearly 20 years. In that time, I worked very hard, and eventually made it to supervisor of both the Quality Assurance and Maintenance departments. Anyone who has worked in a factory knows that it is not easy. Wait, I need to clarify that: It is not easy to do the same job, day after day after day for 20 years. Being tied to a machine or even supervising those tied to machines is a living hell. Some people do it for an entire career, operating the same machine every single day of their working lives, and good for them for being able to stand it. There's no doubt that I made decent money, but the sheer ennui of the job felt like very slow suicide, not to mention a waste of my life.

I applied for a managerial position, but was told I could not advance any farther because I did not have a college education. Fair enough. I took three years off and, by virtue of my hard work, finally earned a degree (University of Michigan). And now, firmly set in middle age, I cannot find a job writing, because I "have no experience". I have been around the world (thanks to the Army), and I have seen things that most people will never see, done things most will never do, and, crazy as it sounds, I remember it all. I have worked on both sides of a union, I have worked on farms, I have stood guard in the one of the most inhospitable places on the earth, I have even worked on a garbage truck (that's another essay). I have made presentations to boardroom executives and interviewed janitors to make sure I was able to produce training manuals that all audiences could understand, yet I do not have enough experience to write marketing material. How hard can it be?

I suppose the main point I'm trying to get across is this: Do not assume that a college degree is a ticket to an enjoyable, well paying job. I made that mistake, and I would save others that pain if I can. I often find myself wishing I had never gone to school, that I had stayed in the factory and relied heavily on alcohol to keep me from remembering that a monkey could do my job. No matter how bad it was, it was better than trying to convince a twenty-something job recruiter that experience, especially as it relates to writing is gained not only through work but life as well.

Abducted Infants and Missing Editors

I have company, so I'll be brief. I have seen the film of the woman who abducted an infant in Lubbock, Texas. As it happened, every time I saw the tape, I was in a place where I could see a television, but couldn't hear the sound. The main points of the story were clear though; an infant was taken. Today, on a whim, I checked the status of the story, and saw that the baby has been found, and arrangements are being made to return it to the parents. The title of this short essay is a link to the story as reported from News 8 in Austin, Texas. Notice the last sentence of the story. Apparently, both the hospital staff and the channel 8 news team are asleep at the wheel and need to be alerted before any more damage is done.

TV Wasteland Vol. 1

I've tried to start this essay several times, but I kept getting hung up on the first line. Now that I don't have that to worry about any longer, I can go right to it. I try not to watch too much television. For starters, it's way too expensive, and, in my opinion, there's just not that much quality programming. There are, however, a few shows that I will watch, and maybe one day I'll let that slip here. But this installment (the first in what I hope will be a series) has to do with commercials. There are good ones and bad ones, and in deference to those in advertising, they caught my attention, so they're doing their job. Some make me laugh, and some make me angry, but almost none of them make me want to buy the product. As I watch them, I always wonder how much thought went into them, and I imagine a boardroom where the advertisement has been screened, and then given the green light to air. I wish I could be there at some screenings to either laud them for their insight and creativity, or excoriate them for pandering to fear or worse, portraying inappropriate behavior as normal.

I have a friend who thinks I read way too much into commercials, but I think he's not taking into account how much time and money goes into advertising. Billions of dollars go into advertising, and comprehensive research is conducted to precisely identify the myriad audiences of consumers. It's perhaps the biggest overhead any company has, and, as far as I know, entities that spend billions of dollars expect results. Some, I think, are right on the mark as far as having a finger on the pulse of the purchasing public. Others, however, would do better if they would just send me a few million dollars, and for that money, I would make sure that their plea to buy would be heard by an adoring audience. How would I do that? I'd make sure that whoever was making my ads knew and understood their audience.

The Good: Verizon Wireless
In this advert (for my UK readers), an everyday husband and wife are seated in a rather 50s-ish kitchen when their teenage daughter strolls through. The father asks her if she's going to meet a friend later, and the daughter, completely straight faced, says, "I don't know...let me call her", and proceeds to pantomime a phone with her thumb and pinky. She begins "talking", in a completely unsarcastic manner that positively screams sarcasm. The camera cuts to the father, who is staring at her as if she's unbalanced. We can plainly see that she wants a cell phone. We quickly change scenes, to a different room, with the daughter still talking on her imaginary phone in the background; the father's face is in the foreground so we can see his consternation. The daughter, carrying on her "conversation", says, "Hold on...there's someone on my other line", and she then pops her forefinger out and says, "Hello?" The expression on the father's face is priceless.

The entire mood of this commercial is relaxed, in that it doesn't overtly beg the consumer to buy for a full 30 seconds. (There are lapses within the commercial that do that, but I'm just concentrating on the acting part of it.) There is not a parent in this country who would not immediately identify with the interaction between the parents and the child. It is clever and (as much as I hate the word), cute. The daughter is clearly sending a message that she knows her father can't ignore, but she is not rude or disrespectful. The father is a stereotypical, eyes-rolling parent of a teenage daughter who more than likely will give in. This commercial has that rare ability to be very funny without seeming like it's trying to be. If only some of the tripe that passes for comedy between the commercials would pick up on that, maybe television would be a better place.

The Bad: KFC
In this one, a teenage boy of about 13 is on the phone to his mother from a friend's house. He tells her where he is, and wants to know if he can stay for dinner, anxiously adding that the friend's parents are home (the friend's mom is in the background, placing a bucket of chicken on the counter). We don't hear what the boy's mother says, but he is obviously more than a little disappointed as he huffs just a bit and rolls his eyes. He then turns to the friend's mom and fairly whines, "She doesn't believe me". Friend's mom takes the phone, and inquires, "Carol?", so we know they know each other on a first name basis. Friend's mom reiterates the boy's story, saying that they are all there, and it's OK if the boy stays. As she does this, though, she is putting her arm around the boy and, presumably steering him toward the dining area, looks at him as if to say, "What the hell is wrong with your paranoid mother? Sheesh!" The boy smirks back at her with a look of agreement.

I had to think for a little while before I could put my finger on what was wrong with this commercial, and it finally dawned on me that chicken was the last thing on my mind after seeing it. I was much more drawn to the fact that the friend's mom was polite on the phone while making faces and pretty much mocking the other mom in full view of the son, who, by expression, agreed. I couldn't help but picture the unseen mother as the crazy lady in the neighborhood. It's as if the friend's mom was doing the poor boy a favor by keeping him away from his own home; life is much better at theirs. Oh, and they have KFC too. Friend mom is far too busy secretly mocking those who trust her to cook something herself. This one left a bad taste in my mouth.

The Ugly: Quizno's
This one is a re-hash of an earlier campaign to showcase the difference in the amount of meat between a Quizno's sub and a Subway one. The guy who says, "Prime rib...it's the uber meat" just set the dork acceptance movement back 30 years. I had a real beef with this one.

For as prevalent as commercials are, I can't find links to specific ones on the internet, or I would most certainly provide them. If anyone can find them, please let me know and I will post them. I would be remiss if I didn't say how much I like the Geico caveman ad campaign; it wouldn't surprise me if it spins into a series. And if you think I read too much into commercials, run a Google search on "geico caveman racist". Lotsa fun stuff there.

Political Rant

Although I'm not sure that it qualifies as an adage, I've always felt that the public discussion of religion and politics is taboo, because both subjects are, to me, anyway, deeply personal and as such, are no one else's business. Religion, of course, is completely subjective, so discussing that with anyone is akin to mental masturbation. Politics, however, is a bit different, in that I believe the voters must do all they can to become informed on the issues at hand and cast their vote accordingly. If the playing field were level, this would make perfect sense, but it's not. As a result, when deciding on political candidates, I use this rule: I do as much research as I can on each, and then I decide which one I'm most comfortable with when they lie to me. Simple, huh?

Politicians are a very strange breed, in my opinion. I'm no conspiracy nut, but I must confess to being immediately distrustful of anyone who WANTS to be the president. It amazes me that people flock to their candidate believing that he (or she) is the ONLY one who can lead us on the right moral path and save us from the certain depravity of their opponent. We spend countless hours and millions of dollars to elevate them to the highest office in the country, and when the goal has been achieved, we then exhaust every effort to tear them down for making the decisions we put them in office to make.

For instance, I liked Bill Clinton. I was really comfortable with him lying to me. Of course he inhaled. Frankly, I'd prefer that the person who makes the drug laws has had some experience with drugs. That he was having an extra marital affair was a shining example of his fallibility. I am in no way excusing his behavior, but I do understand it. Being the most powerful man on the face of the earth would, I suspect, be a source of stress, and he is just a man, no matter how much we want to hold him to a higher standard. One could argue that he asked for scrutiny by wanting to be president, which is valid. Again, though, if you follow people who WANT that kind of scrutiny, and who KNOW that they are prone to the same foibles as every other person, you must accept it when they do not measure up to impossible standards.

I was following the John Edwards blogging snafu last week. It seems he hired Amanda Marcotte of the blog Pandagon to write for his campaign blog. With article titles like "You'd Think a Douchebag Could Get More Pussy Than This", it would seem that Edwards either didn't read any of her work before hiring her, or didn't realize that many people find language like that objectionable, to say the least. In another article concerning birth control (which I believe has been deleted by Marcotte), she referred to Mary (of virgin birth fame) as being impregnated with the "sticky white goo" of the Holy Spirit. There's a difference, I think, between satire and insulting, even mocking the religious beliefs of millions of Christians. As noted, I am not going to discuss my religious beliefs, but what in the world made Edwards think that this is the style of writing he wants to use to project his ideals and promote his candidacy? Do we want to give him the power to wage war when we already know that he's not paying much attention to details?

Discussions of religion and politics are arguments waiting to happen. I suspect that even among Christians, the image of God that each person has is different from that of the person sitting next to them in the same church. As for politicians, they break the cardinal rule of trying to be all things to all people. Remember Lamar Alexander? He ran for the Republican nomination for president in 1996 and 2000, proclaiming himself to be a "man of the people". He used an SUV instead of a tour bus, and wore a red flannel shirt to show how down to earth he was. The trouble was, Alexander was far from average, as far as income. When asked by a skeptical reporter how much a gallon of milk and a dozen eggs cost, he was overheard by several witnesses telling an aide "I need to know the price of a gallon of milk and a dozen eggs. I need to know right now". A man who doesn't know the price of two staples that nearly every American uses on a daily basis is not a man of the people. He dropped out of the race soon after.

If we as a people do not cut ourselves off from the aphrodisiac of the cult of personality, we will forever have leaders who promise more than they can deliver. Why do we believe these men will behave like anything other than, well,...men?

Addiction!

I have been smoking cigarettes regularly for 30 years. I know it's not good for me. I have quit several times, and one of these times, it will stick. I've tried the gums and rubber bands, and even the patch, which I'm sure would be more effective if i could stick it on my mouth. It's a tough habit to break. Non-smokers, though, naively think it's simply a matter of will power, and only weaklings allow themselves to be controlled. My retort? Basic training in an infantry battalion is a matter of will power, and I did that. Believe me, it takes more than will power.

But, I didn't start this essay to rant about me. I saw a commercial today for a nicotine gum, I think, or maybe it was a pill. In any case, the gist of the ad is this: "I've tried the gum (or pill) many times, and nothing seemed to work. That's because I (as if this were a an isolated case) have AN ADDICTION to nicotine". The demeanor of the actor implies that the addiction makes them special, unlike, say casual smokers, and that they need a special tool to help them overcome their unique problem. Fair enough. I'll admit it's an addiction. The funny thing, though, was that I saw this commercial during one of those idiotic voyeur shows like "Maury", (to which I find myself strangely attracted sometimes). The subject matter of the show was people with eating disorders. In particular, all the guests were morbidly obese. They were addicted to food.

I've gone without nicotine, and for the first few days, things can get pretty weird. It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for every other person in the world going out of their way to piss me off. But food? How can you say you're addicted to food? That's like saying you're addicted to oxygen. I'm not picking on overweight people (there but for the grace of God go I), but is it really fair to say a person can be addicted to food? One can certainly eat too much, but we have to eat something.

I don't have to smoke, but I have to eat. The whole ordeal, with the commercial and the subject of the show seemed really incongruous to me. I'd write more, but I have to have a snack.

Retirement Horror

I love horror movies. All kinds of 'em. Cheesy (Hammer films), really scary (Exorcist, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Silence of the Lambs); I'll even watch the most insipid films, out of sheer morbid curiosity (Monsturd, about a killer...uh...turd...really). But just tonight, I watched what was possibly the most frightening thing I've ever seen captured on film. On the PBS show "Frontline", I watched an expose on the state of the 401(k) retirement plans in the United States, and I was truly shocked and frightened by what I saw.

The link to the show is provided, so I won't run it down for you. I will, however, say that if you have to work for a living, you had better make sure that your retirement plan is going to pay off for you when you need it. The bottom line of the show is that most people who are in a 401(k) plan (80%) don't realize that it is not going to be sufficient until it is too late, and then the weeping and gnashing of teeth will begin. You'll be grinding your teeth to try and chew your tears, because that's about all you'll have to eat after just a couple years of retirement. Of course, you can always get a side job, but do you really want to spend your golden years working at the golden arches?

80% is a lot. And that number only includes those who opt to get into a plan. According to the show, upwards of 40% of the working public do not even enroll in their company's plan. It's easy, I think, to dismiss these poor schmucks as foolish, and boy won't they be sorry when it's too late. It's at that point though, when they realize their folly, that the horror lies. Allow me to offer an analogy that may seem simplistic and ridiculous, but if you think about it, the parallels are unmistakable.

In 1846, 87 presumably decent people, led by George Donner, left Missouri, bound for what they thought were the riches of California. They took what they thought they would need for their journey. Unforeseen pitfalls, however, left them stranded in the Sierra Nevada mountains, where they had to resort to cannibalism to survive. Of the original 87, only 46 endured the ordeal.

You might ask what this has to do with properly managing your retirement fund. Only this: If you do not plan for your financial journey, you run a huge risk of not surviving, or worse. I use the Donner Party story to illustrate what people are capable of. Make no mistake: The have-nots will not sit idly by and rue their foolishness for not being prepared. They will take what they need by any means necessary. Does this mean that the smart investors need to stockpile weapons as well as money? You tell me. Now, I don't necessarily think that a class war is coming, but I wouldn't completely count it out. Come to think of it, "Night of the Living Dead" would have been a good analogy too.

So, whether you like the Donner Party story or NOTLD, or even Aesop's "Ant and the Grasshopper", if you don't plan for your retirement NOW, you can either brush up on sayings like, "You want fries with that?", or you can practice stealth techniques like dumpster raiding and dodging bullets. I thought this story was terrifying and I really needed to rant about it. Thanks for listening!

So I'm Lazy

I see it's been quite some time since I've posted last. I doubt that it makes much difference, since I don't think anyone reads this. Apparently, it's been long enough that we've moved beyond the beta stage, and I've had to re-create my account. So, in order to test things for myself, I'll rant just a bit.

On the new sign in page, I see there's an ad for "You Tube". I've seen a few videos on this site, but not many. I have seen enough, though, to know that being "punked" or "served" or "owned" are words used by any idiot with a camera who thinks that capturing people doing stupid things is somehow entertaining. The fighting vids are the absolute worst. Here's a word to the wise: Having your ass kicked is no fun, and watching someone else getting theirs kicked is, well...depressing. If you find that sort of thing entertaining, you are a sorry person with absolutely no trace of self worth. Call me corny, but it seems to me any budding "film maker" could find something better to do with their gigabytes than to film morons proving that evolution still has a long way to go.

OK, that's it for now. I'm sure I'll find my soapbox again for another rant soon.

Is It Real?

I stumbled across this website quite by accident, and at first glance, I found it impressive. It seems so surreal, so Orwellian, and yet, I found myself wondering if it is true. Mind you, I'm not the "black helicopter" conspiracy fanatic that seems to populate a good deal of the blogger population but it really struck me as believable. I still need to look into it further, but I post it here (for my legion of readers) for further consideration. You be the judge. More on this as it develops.

Zoetrope

Just in case anyone is interested, I found this site (founded by Francis Ford Coppola) that purports to offer guidance/assistance for budding writers, and also offers the chance for would-be screen writers to have a chance at having their submissions viewed by Hollywood muckety-mucks. So far I haven't seen any fees for their contests, so that's a good sign.

Every writer hopes to have an audience for their work, and this site could be just the ticket. If you've been keeping up with the "new" stuff coming out of Tinseltown, you know that they must be dying for something original. Advertisements for the new movie "The Covenant" look suspiciously like an updated "Lost Boys", and "The Black Dahlia" is a remake. Now, there's nothing wrong with retelling a good story. The trick is, of course, to tell the story in such a way as to make it relevant and interesting, so much so that the reader doesn't realize that he/she has read it before.

So good luck to those who decide to submit. They have a contest for short stories (easily made into screenplays) going on with a deadline of 2 October for submissions. I have one I want to submit, but like a doting parent, am afraid to let it go out on its own. Hopefully I'll conquer that fear.

Virgin

Yes, it's my virgin post. I think I'm the only one who will read it, which is a shame because unlike most virgins, I neither bled nor cried my first time, so it's not a horrible mess put out for all to see. I need to thank blogger "The Cat Bastet" and her blog "Citadel of Stars" for unknowingly giving me the impetus to start my own. From time to time I will get on and post (rant) about whatever happens to be tickling my fancy at the time. Meanwhile, I will spend some time trying to figure out how this thing works, and more importantly, how I can use it to my advantage.