If you believe the critics, public schools can’t teach the ABC’s because of the Killer B’s: bullies, bureaucrats, and broken-down buildings.
I worry more about efficiency.
Today’s public school is a marvel of modern organization: a beehive of activity.
But where are they hiding the honey?
In my elementary days, things weren’t nearly as neat and tidy.
I remember, as a child, arriving at school everyday with a delicious sense of dread. I remember hushed accounts of spanking machines, and teachers that were odd, unusual, even spooky – at least to my literally untutored eyes. I will never forget one particularly sweet matron – a third grade teacher who honestly, earnestly believed in elves. So maybe I am romanticizing a time that was not exactly the golden age of education.
Perhaps.
Certainly today’s teachers are better educated than ever before, and deserve to be considered ‘professionals’, and paid accordingly.
But I am worried that we are squandering their skill, and surrendering our children to – heaven forbid, the statisticians!
A week ago Wednesday was my son’s first experience with that sausage-maker known in Massachusetts as the THE MCAS – and, coincidentally, was also the last day of his first journey through The Lord of the Rings.
Mary read the entire Lord of the Rings to him, out loud, every night (for the most part) over more than 100 days.
Nothing, I think, could be more stimulating to his brain, and important to his ‘development’, than to go along on that Journey with Tolkien.
At times he was exhilarated.
At times he was in tears.
There were occasions when he was angry, with the author and the world.
Who was this man called Strider?
Who were those dark riders?
Why did Sam choose to stay in the shire, while Bilbo and Sam and Gandalf, sailed away to the Havens?
But then, you may never have had the pleasure of reading The Lord of the Rings. Certainly though, you have felt the thrill that great writing, or travel, or a chance encounter can produce: that jolt of current down your spine?
It is the intensity of our experiences, I believe, that forge our character – not the accumulation of information.
You want facts, try a phone book.
A phone book is an efficient transmitter of facts.
A phone book however, does not have complexity, and is short on emotion. A phone book offers little in the way of adventure, and requires absolutely no imagination.
Like the MCAS.
I’m concerned that the MCAS getting in the way of our children’s education.
Are we forgetting about the joy of learning because the focus is on developing the skill of testing?
Is the entire educational experience being slowly boiled down to a series of rubbery, tasteless, tests?
Try and imagine your favorite book, reduced to a list of names of characters, incidents of plot, and other abstract facts. That would be like coming home from a cross-country trip, with nothing but snapshots of highway signs to tell the story.
Exit 3, Tom Bombadil.
Exit 7, The Orcs
Exit 17: The Eye of Sauron.
That is what I fear our focus on testing, our obsession with grades, and our panic about college admissions, is attempting to do: reduce the educational experience to its least common denominator.
I don’t fault the teachers.
The teachers I know are valiantly trying to fight the power. If they had their way their classrooms would be colorful, vibrant places full of mystery and magic, and adventure.
But they are up against a society that is content to feed their children, calorie-free canned experiences – and then expects teachers to somehow fill in the blanks.
It’s impossible.
I think we need to choose. Either school should be an enriching experience that awakens young minds to the possibilities of the world – and trusts them to choose their own path in their own time, or it can be a training camp – a rehearsal for the drudgery that awaits them.
I am, of course, using a thick, broad brush to make a point.
Drudgery doesn’t necessarily await all those who attend public schools – far from it.
The MCAS is not the Eye of Sauron, keeping an unblinking watch on the slaves of public education.
But at the very least the eye of the student is being jaundiced by our focus on what we like to call ‘results’.
If we train their minds, but fail to exercise their emotional musculature, we should not be surprised when they perform well on the standardized tests, but collapse at their first encounter with the unpredictable world that awaits them.
When the last words of The Lord of the Rings were left dangling in the air, Patrick was not happy. He couldn’t understand why the ‘Fellowship’ could not stay together. He yearned for a sugary ending but was given - even in this epic fantasy, something bittersweet instead.
Evil was defeated, for now, but the Shire did not escape unscathed.
Lives were lost, and even for those that survived there were scars, aches, and remorse that would not fade with time.
In the end Patrick didn’t have pictures.
In the end, he didn’t have any so-called facts.
When the story was over, he didn’t even receive a fancy certificate.
After 1100 pages all Patrick had was an unrecognized hunger: an emptiness in his gut that could not be satisfied by any standard fare.
I just hope that all of this testing, leaves some room for that.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
A Homely Refresher
Paranoia is, of course, our most valuable natural resource.
Without paranoia we would be Switzerland.
Not that there’s anything wrong with Switzerland.
Paranoia fueled our western expansion.
Paranoia sunk the Maine!
And paranoia, for the most part, re-elected a President who wasn’t qualified to manage the local Burger King, much less a country.
Not that there’s anything wrong with managing a Burger King.
Just that I think I should be pre-excused for saying that the end is near, and China is its name.
I’d like a pre-emptive pardon for my paranoid ramblings.
Need more evidence of paranoid delusions before you let me off the patriotic hook?
How about this: I like the idea of America in the Avis spot: you know, we’re number two, so we try harder.
I’m not a hater, I love America. But I think I’d even like it too, if we showed a bit of humility.
Even if you think we’re still sitting pretty, you have to admit that it’s hard being the leader of the free world, the richest nation, and the inventors of both baseball and Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots.
I think it’s about time someone else stepped up to the plate: and who better than the Chinese?
Walmart had their chance, and they blew it.
India has potential but is – I will come right out and say it, too English.
Australia has the right attitude, but that’s about all.
China’s got it all.
They’ve got more Walmarts than, well, Walmart.
They’ve got more potential mall rats than India.
They’ve got more attitude than Australia too – but they keep it to themselves.
And most importantly, the Chinese want it too – they want it real bad.
They’ve got an ancient porcelain chip on their shoulder.
At one time – a few thousand years ago, China had the title but, ironically, no one outside of China had a clue.
You’ve got to feel for all those old empires, don’t you: the Persians, the Macedonians, the Egyptians - and the Chinese? They all had their turn at ruling the world, but that was long before the World Wide Web – so who knew.
And there was something about that old title too, ‘Ruler of the Known World’: it had a kind of built-in asterisk; kind of like adding, ‘relatively speaking’ to every compliment.
You’re damn good looking – relatively speaking.
Your breath’s not bad – relatively speaking.
You rule – relatively speaking.
Today, America still is the Undisputed World Champion – and we’ve got the Gold Nuclear Warheads to prove it. But our time is running out.
We’re doing the Ali rope-a-dope, but taking shots in all hemispheres.
If this were baseball, we’d be the Yankees: a lot of trophies in the case, but with a bloated payroll full of overblown egos.
The other nations respect us sure, and hate us at the same time.
But they won’t have America to kick around, for too much longer.
The handwriting – or should I say, calligraphy, is on the wall.
Green Tea is the key.
At least Green Tea is the source of my paranoia.
Not the tea itself, but the secret message on the packet the tea comes in.
Remember when we used to laugh at the silly misspellings that the Japanese would make, on the packages their cute little transistor radios came in?
Remember when anything cheap, brightly colored, and plastic had a ‘Made in China’ imprint, somewhere underneath?
Today, Pacific Rim countries, like China and Japan, provide us with most of our cars, most of our electronics, most of our dishes, most of our take-out food, and – for me, nearly all of my daily required dosage of paranoia.
You would think that they could afford to pay someone to learn to speak and write English – so that they could correct the silly misspellings and odd phrases that appear on products made there, and sold here.
Actually, they can afford it.
American businesses now spend millions training their employees on their culture – so that we can sell more to them.
The difference is that we’re concerned that we will be left out of their markets, and they aren’t – concerned that is.
How do I know this?
Paranoia, pure and simple.
I know because the nice people at the new Chinese restaurant told me.
Well, they didn’t exactly sit me down and lecture me on international business, but they might as well have.
On the packet of green tea that was dropped into the bottom of my take-out order were a series of Chinese calligraphic symbols, and underneath, a translation - of sorts.
Green Tea, the label suggested, has a “Fragrant Aroma”.
Green Tea is also, the translation noted, a “Valuable Gift”.
Green Tea has - a third phrase promised, a “Mellow Taste”.
And finally, Green Tea is, the packet concludes, a “Homely Refresher”.
I laughed at that final attribute.
I laughed first because, at least in part, the phrase was silly: an obvious mistake.
I laughed as well at the oddity of the phrase, ‘homely refresher’.
I kidded my wife: “you”, I said to Mary, “are a homely refresher”.
“You’re refreshingly homely”, she countered.
We both laughed, but then it hit me.
“Homely Refresher” was not a mistake.
It was purposefully left as is, as a message to all Chinese that, economically at least, they don’t have to care anymore.
Now they can act like Americans have, for the last fifty years.
We don’t bother to learn other languages – we expect them to learn ours!
We never could bother to learn their customs and traditions – we expected them to know ours!
But the worm has turned.
Now they have the numbers, the cash, and a culture that we are scrambling to understand.
China - FYI, has a history that goes back before the Yankees won their first pennant.
China had immigration problems before we had people on this continent.
The Chinese actually managed to build a giant wall at their border – three thousand years before we started ours, to keep out undocumented Mongolian farm workers.
It didn’t work either, but it’s a big tourist attraction today.
And word is that they’ve been working on that old wall, working on it at night: adding steel reinforcement bars, infra-red surveillance cameras, razor wire, and more.
When asked what they were up to, a Chinese official said that these were just ‘aesthetic improvements’. Pressed further, he said that they were just addressing some ‘safety concerns’. Put on the spot, he acknowledged that it was part of a national plan to modernize China, to be more competitive in the world economy.
The plan was called, he said, “A Homely Refresher”
Hey, even paranoid people are right – some of the time..
Without paranoia we would be Switzerland.
Not that there’s anything wrong with Switzerland.
Paranoia fueled our western expansion.
Paranoia sunk the Maine!
And paranoia, for the most part, re-elected a President who wasn’t qualified to manage the local Burger King, much less a country.
Not that there’s anything wrong with managing a Burger King.
Just that I think I should be pre-excused for saying that the end is near, and China is its name.
I’d like a pre-emptive pardon for my paranoid ramblings.
Need more evidence of paranoid delusions before you let me off the patriotic hook?
How about this: I like the idea of America in the Avis spot: you know, we’re number two, so we try harder.
I’m not a hater, I love America. But I think I’d even like it too, if we showed a bit of humility.
Even if you think we’re still sitting pretty, you have to admit that it’s hard being the leader of the free world, the richest nation, and the inventors of both baseball and Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots.
I think it’s about time someone else stepped up to the plate: and who better than the Chinese?
Walmart had their chance, and they blew it.
India has potential but is – I will come right out and say it, too English.
Australia has the right attitude, but that’s about all.
China’s got it all.
They’ve got more Walmarts than, well, Walmart.
They’ve got more potential mall rats than India.
They’ve got more attitude than Australia too – but they keep it to themselves.
And most importantly, the Chinese want it too – they want it real bad.
They’ve got an ancient porcelain chip on their shoulder.
At one time – a few thousand years ago, China had the title but, ironically, no one outside of China had a clue.
You’ve got to feel for all those old empires, don’t you: the Persians, the Macedonians, the Egyptians - and the Chinese? They all had their turn at ruling the world, but that was long before the World Wide Web – so who knew.
And there was something about that old title too, ‘Ruler of the Known World’: it had a kind of built-in asterisk; kind of like adding, ‘relatively speaking’ to every compliment.
You’re damn good looking – relatively speaking.
Your breath’s not bad – relatively speaking.
You rule – relatively speaking.
Today, America still is the Undisputed World Champion – and we’ve got the Gold Nuclear Warheads to prove it. But our time is running out.
We’re doing the Ali rope-a-dope, but taking shots in all hemispheres.
If this were baseball, we’d be the Yankees: a lot of trophies in the case, but with a bloated payroll full of overblown egos.
The other nations respect us sure, and hate us at the same time.
But they won’t have America to kick around, for too much longer.
The handwriting – or should I say, calligraphy, is on the wall.
Green Tea is the key.
At least Green Tea is the source of my paranoia.
Not the tea itself, but the secret message on the packet the tea comes in.
Remember when we used to laugh at the silly misspellings that the Japanese would make, on the packages their cute little transistor radios came in?
Remember when anything cheap, brightly colored, and plastic had a ‘Made in China’ imprint, somewhere underneath?
Today, Pacific Rim countries, like China and Japan, provide us with most of our cars, most of our electronics, most of our dishes, most of our take-out food, and – for me, nearly all of my daily required dosage of paranoia.
You would think that they could afford to pay someone to learn to speak and write English – so that they could correct the silly misspellings and odd phrases that appear on products made there, and sold here.
Actually, they can afford it.
American businesses now spend millions training their employees on their culture – so that we can sell more to them.
The difference is that we’re concerned that we will be left out of their markets, and they aren’t – concerned that is.
How do I know this?
Paranoia, pure and simple.
I know because the nice people at the new Chinese restaurant told me.
Well, they didn’t exactly sit me down and lecture me on international business, but they might as well have.
On the packet of green tea that was dropped into the bottom of my take-out order were a series of Chinese calligraphic symbols, and underneath, a translation - of sorts.
Green Tea, the label suggested, has a “Fragrant Aroma”.
Green Tea is also, the translation noted, a “Valuable Gift”.
Green Tea has - a third phrase promised, a “Mellow Taste”.
And finally, Green Tea is, the packet concludes, a “Homely Refresher”.
I laughed at that final attribute.
I laughed first because, at least in part, the phrase was silly: an obvious mistake.
I laughed as well at the oddity of the phrase, ‘homely refresher’.
I kidded my wife: “you”, I said to Mary, “are a homely refresher”.
“You’re refreshingly homely”, she countered.
We both laughed, but then it hit me.
“Homely Refresher” was not a mistake.
It was purposefully left as is, as a message to all Chinese that, economically at least, they don’t have to care anymore.
Now they can act like Americans have, for the last fifty years.
We don’t bother to learn other languages – we expect them to learn ours!
We never could bother to learn their customs and traditions – we expected them to know ours!
But the worm has turned.
Now they have the numbers, the cash, and a culture that we are scrambling to understand.
China - FYI, has a history that goes back before the Yankees won their first pennant.
China had immigration problems before we had people on this continent.
The Chinese actually managed to build a giant wall at their border – three thousand years before we started ours, to keep out undocumented Mongolian farm workers.
It didn’t work either, but it’s a big tourist attraction today.
And word is that they’ve been working on that old wall, working on it at night: adding steel reinforcement bars, infra-red surveillance cameras, razor wire, and more.
When asked what they were up to, a Chinese official said that these were just ‘aesthetic improvements’. Pressed further, he said that they were just addressing some ‘safety concerns’. Put on the spot, he acknowledged that it was part of a national plan to modernize China, to be more competitive in the world economy.
The plan was called, he said, “A Homely Refresher”
Hey, even paranoid people are right – some of the time..
Daylight Spending
I don’t know about you, but I’ve already spent my extra daylight savings.
Tuesday was a bit gloomy, at least around here – and I wanted to go to the Cape to take some pictures: so I spent the whole wad that afternoon.
Easy come, easy go!
Spending that daylight, I was reminded of the big tax breaks we’ve all been receiving over the last four or five years.
It’s nice to get the check - $400 I think it was, last time: but if you blow a tire, or crack a filling, it goes pretty quick.
And you pay a pretty big price – all told, for your little check.
That is, to give back that extra $400 to everybody, the government has to make some serious cuts in their budget.
You get your filling replaced, but a school in Arkansas goes without a new roof, and a road in Maine is left unpaved, and an AIDS Clinic shuts down in Tucson.
Are the two – federal taxes and daylight savings, related?
Consider the source.
I tend to look at all of these governmental ‘gifts’, with a bit more than a dose of skepticism.
At best, I think, the government is guilty of a lack of imagination.
At worse, well, I’ll leave that to you.
Now my idea of daylight savings goes a bit further than the tinkering we are recovering from this week.
This is the computer age: everything –from battleships to stuffed animals, uses computer chips today.
With all that digital technology it seems both possible, and preferable, for time to be measured in relation to the actual amount of sunlight available to – not rationed out in bits and pieces.
First of all, and to avoid confusion, my idea is to have two different kinds of time (at least at first): Schedule Time, and Experiential Time.
Schedule Time would be the same, everywhere, for everyone – though allowing of course, for differences based on time zones: so planes could schedule their trips, and buses could be there to meet them, and people could make reservations at restaurants and then break them.
That’s Schedule Time.
But then there’d be Experiential Time – which would be based on the way that we experience time.
In Experiential Time (ET) high noon would always be in the exact middle of the ‘day’ – when the sun is directly overhead, and the number of minutes of so-called daylight before and after noon would be based on the number of minutes of daylight actually available to you at that longitude, at that time of year.
In the winter the days would actually be shorter.
In the summer the days would actually be longer.
An hour of day in the summer might be 65 minutes long.
An hour of day in the winter might be 55 minutes long.
Experiential time would not be measured at night – that is, after the sun sets and before the sun rises. The overall length of night would be all that matters – and that would change, depending on the usual factors.
My sense is that once adopted – in no time at all, experiential time would be the only time.
And from there we could move on, to better uses of the time available to us.
We could, for example, have an official ratings potential for days, based on the expected weather, the amount of sunlight, and other seasonal and/or cultural details.
If the forecast called for a highly rated day, with perfect temperatures, low pollen counts, a sky with only the occasional wandering cloud - and this happened to be the time of year that wild strawberries were ripening in the fields – both work and school would be cancelled.
If the forecast called for a reasonably good day – by most measurements, and this was the anniversary of the day you got your first tattoo – take the day off!
Instead of notices of cancellations scrolling by at the bottom of your television, there would simply be a short note: take tomorrow off, and enjoy!
If, on the other hand, a day was expected to be particularly bleak - regardless of what day of the week or time of year, or even if it was your 50th anniversary, school would be in session, and everyone would have to go to work.
Of course there would always be the possibility of the odd, unexpectedly good day – which we would miss out on, but that would be unavoidable.
This wouldn’t simply change sleeping habits, it would change lives.
There would be no summer vacation because people would be enjoying themselves throughout the year.
Of course there would be those who try and take advantage of the situation – working on days that everyone has off. But there would be ways of dealing with these anti-social types.
Pay rates – for example, would be pro-rated based on the quality of the day.
Those working on good days would receive far less than those working on gloomy days.
It’s just common sense – and it would be infectious.
Instead of giving people meaningless tax breaks, maybe we’d give them the things they need to enjoy life, and go from there.
Health Care would be free.
Gasoline would be free.
Education would be free.
Electricity would be free.
The things we need simply to survive – the government would provide: isn’t that the way it is supposed to be?
In turn we would work hard – on those less than perfect days, and with no worries, we’d probably be more creative, more productive and - as a nation, a lot easier to get along with.
Have you noticed? Lately we’ve been pretty cranky – nationally speaking.
I don’t think that – as a nation, we’re getting enough sleep.
I don’t think that, nationally speaking again, we have enough time off.
Sorry Ben, Daylight Savings Time – no matter how much you tinker with it, doesn’t really do much of anything for anybody.
If we’re going to save daylight – or cut taxes, let’s make it worthwhile.
Not just a few minutes, here or there.
Not just a few dollars – tossed at us from Air Force One.
Otherwise, what’s the point?
Tuesday was a bit gloomy, at least around here – and I wanted to go to the Cape to take some pictures: so I spent the whole wad that afternoon.
Easy come, easy go!
Spending that daylight, I was reminded of the big tax breaks we’ve all been receiving over the last four or five years.
It’s nice to get the check - $400 I think it was, last time: but if you blow a tire, or crack a filling, it goes pretty quick.
And you pay a pretty big price – all told, for your little check.
That is, to give back that extra $400 to everybody, the government has to make some serious cuts in their budget.
You get your filling replaced, but a school in Arkansas goes without a new roof, and a road in Maine is left unpaved, and an AIDS Clinic shuts down in Tucson.
Are the two – federal taxes and daylight savings, related?
Consider the source.
I tend to look at all of these governmental ‘gifts’, with a bit more than a dose of skepticism.
At best, I think, the government is guilty of a lack of imagination.
At worse, well, I’ll leave that to you.
Now my idea of daylight savings goes a bit further than the tinkering we are recovering from this week.
This is the computer age: everything –from battleships to stuffed animals, uses computer chips today.
With all that digital technology it seems both possible, and preferable, for time to be measured in relation to the actual amount of sunlight available to – not rationed out in bits and pieces.
First of all, and to avoid confusion, my idea is to have two different kinds of time (at least at first): Schedule Time, and Experiential Time.
Schedule Time would be the same, everywhere, for everyone – though allowing of course, for differences based on time zones: so planes could schedule their trips, and buses could be there to meet them, and people could make reservations at restaurants and then break them.
That’s Schedule Time.
But then there’d be Experiential Time – which would be based on the way that we experience time.
In Experiential Time (ET) high noon would always be in the exact middle of the ‘day’ – when the sun is directly overhead, and the number of minutes of so-called daylight before and after noon would be based on the number of minutes of daylight actually available to you at that longitude, at that time of year.
In the winter the days would actually be shorter.
In the summer the days would actually be longer.
An hour of day in the summer might be 65 minutes long.
An hour of day in the winter might be 55 minutes long.
Experiential time would not be measured at night – that is, after the sun sets and before the sun rises. The overall length of night would be all that matters – and that would change, depending on the usual factors.
My sense is that once adopted – in no time at all, experiential time would be the only time.
And from there we could move on, to better uses of the time available to us.
We could, for example, have an official ratings potential for days, based on the expected weather, the amount of sunlight, and other seasonal and/or cultural details.
If the forecast called for a highly rated day, with perfect temperatures, low pollen counts, a sky with only the occasional wandering cloud - and this happened to be the time of year that wild strawberries were ripening in the fields – both work and school would be cancelled.
If the forecast called for a reasonably good day – by most measurements, and this was the anniversary of the day you got your first tattoo – take the day off!
Instead of notices of cancellations scrolling by at the bottom of your television, there would simply be a short note: take tomorrow off, and enjoy!
If, on the other hand, a day was expected to be particularly bleak - regardless of what day of the week or time of year, or even if it was your 50th anniversary, school would be in session, and everyone would have to go to work.
Of course there would always be the possibility of the odd, unexpectedly good day – which we would miss out on, but that would be unavoidable.
This wouldn’t simply change sleeping habits, it would change lives.
There would be no summer vacation because people would be enjoying themselves throughout the year.
Of course there would be those who try and take advantage of the situation – working on days that everyone has off. But there would be ways of dealing with these anti-social types.
Pay rates – for example, would be pro-rated based on the quality of the day.
Those working on good days would receive far less than those working on gloomy days.
It’s just common sense – and it would be infectious.
Instead of giving people meaningless tax breaks, maybe we’d give them the things they need to enjoy life, and go from there.
Health Care would be free.
Gasoline would be free.
Education would be free.
Electricity would be free.
The things we need simply to survive – the government would provide: isn’t that the way it is supposed to be?
In turn we would work hard – on those less than perfect days, and with no worries, we’d probably be more creative, more productive and - as a nation, a lot easier to get along with.
Have you noticed? Lately we’ve been pretty cranky – nationally speaking.
I don’t think that – as a nation, we’re getting enough sleep.
I don’t think that, nationally speaking again, we have enough time off.
Sorry Ben, Daylight Savings Time – no matter how much you tinker with it, doesn’t really do much of anything for anybody.
If we’re going to save daylight – or cut taxes, let’s make it worthwhile.
Not just a few minutes, here or there.
Not just a few dollars – tossed at us from Air Force One.
Otherwise, what’s the point?
Chump Change
You heard the news?
Yes, it’s true.
I appreciate the advice, but I already have a plan.
Sure, $287 million is a lot of money, but it’s just money: I won’t have any trouble spending it.
I’ll do things my way though, and start off slow.
Everybody runs off and buys a half-dozen cars, a new house or two, a boat – stuff like that.
But I’ll start with the things that are really important.
The things that really separate us from the rich.
Like drips.
The first thing I am going to do is have a plumber in to fix the drips.
Where the other half lives – or so I am told, it’s very quiet.
Mostly because they don’t have drips.
A bigger well too.
A sure sign of my middle class status is the well pump coming on, every time someone flushes the toilet.
From now on, whenever anybody ‘goes’, no one will know.
I guess that means more toilets, too.
And showers: I want one of my own – just mine. And I know, from experience, the only way that you have something of your own, is when everyone else has their’s too.
Of course I’ll have to bring the plumbers in when it’s dark, in unmarked vans – which means overtime.
But I can’t risk anyone seeing a plumbing truck in my driveway for a month or so. That’s a sure sign that I won the lottery. And if anyone guesses, I’ll need another bathroom too, for guests.
So okay – what’s that come to? About $50,000?
Peanuts!
Next the house. Not a new house, an improved house.
I’ve still got the 10x12 deck that came with the house. It would be nice to have a new deck, a bit bigger, with some built in-amenities. Nothing too fancy, just a little more room to maneuver. In fact, I hate grass, so I think I’ll just surround the entire house with deck, maybe a few big flower pots, one of those all-season fireplaces, and a lap pool. No, not a lap pool, one of those tide pools, where you can practice surfing or being swept out to sea.
Nothing fancy, just a nice deck. About $75K.
Drop in the bucket!
And you know something – now that I can afford it, I want to invite those poor raccoons back in. Put a few doggie doors in both sides of the attic, and build them a little play area. Maybe some close circuit infra-red cameras so we can watch them at night
I’m sorry. Mary’s giving me a dirty look, and she’s right. I got carried away there. Forget the raccoons, at least for now.
What about a room of my own – or better yet, a little cabin out back, where I can work undisturbed (or not work, undisturbed). Nothing fancy, just a room, with a toilet and shower – nice sound system, satellite dish.
I can buy one of those pre-built garden shacks, and have it dressed up a bit: a little landscaping, a few shrubs for privacy, a nice stone walk. Then again, maybe it would be nice if it could be used by guests too: relatives we don’t like but can’t turn away.
Figure on about $100,000, give or take.
Chump change!
Mary’s signaling me from the couch, and she’s right again.
Before I go putting in a little shack in the backyard, I might want to address some of the other shortcomings of our present abode.
It would be nice to have a doorbell that works. Now we can afford to splurge on chimes that play ‘Satisfaction’.
We’re going to need a new roof, too. Now we can have any color we want.
Shingles. And not just the ones that need replacing – all of them!
A garage, where we can hide the cars that usually end up on blocks in the backyard.
Security system, to keep out the relatives.
A new refrigerator.
That’s another sign of real money – a fancy refrigerator. Rich folk always have oversized refrigerators, filled with fresh produce, a bottle or two of champagne, and space.
You know somebody is doing alright, when you look in their refrigerator and there’s space.
I want one of those oversized, silver ones, too big for the kitchen. I want one that dispenses water, and beer, and whipped cream.
And paint!
No, not a refrigerator that dispenses paint, just paint!
No, not just paint: an actual painter – a pro to go over all the places where I made a mess of things.
And new carpet too.
Not the durable kind that stands up to wear and tear – the fuzzy, thick, colorful kind that folks that really can’t afford it worry about staining.
Better yet, oriental rugs that you really shouldn’t walk on, and hardwood floors made from rare trees that you’re not supposed to cut down: a lot more not to worry about.
And a boat.
Not in the house.
And not to actually put in the water either: just for show. Something to stick alongside the garage, and annoy the neighbors. (Another place to stash the relatives, too!)
Sorry Mary.
But we haven’t even spent a million dollars.
At this rate we’ll never run out of money.
We could spend $2 million a year, for fifty years, and still have more money than most of our neighbors.
Okay, so maybe I will buy a car, or two.
I just want a Karman Ghia: probably can find a rebuilt one for $20,000.
Mary will probably get that BMW SUV.
I’ll get Bobby another one of those 79 Volvos that he used to drive, and just keep getting it fixed when it breaks down. Or maybe we can get him his own mechanic, so he doesn’t have to bug us every time he has a little accident.
Patrick won’t be driving for another 8 years, so he can have a horse.
The relatives?
We’ll get them all AAA Plus.
And we’ll get them other stuff, too. Or better yet, we’ll let them have our old stuff, every year. The old refrigerator. The old BMW. The old TV, and so on.
With our money it is almost an obligation to replace everything every year.
But I don’t want to go crazy.
I just want to smooth things out a bit.
Quiet things down.
Make things smell better.
Sleep a little later.
$287,000,000 should do the trick.
Yes, it’s true.
I appreciate the advice, but I already have a plan.
Sure, $287 million is a lot of money, but it’s just money: I won’t have any trouble spending it.
I’ll do things my way though, and start off slow.
Everybody runs off and buys a half-dozen cars, a new house or two, a boat – stuff like that.
But I’ll start with the things that are really important.
The things that really separate us from the rich.
Like drips.
The first thing I am going to do is have a plumber in to fix the drips.
Where the other half lives – or so I am told, it’s very quiet.
Mostly because they don’t have drips.
A bigger well too.
A sure sign of my middle class status is the well pump coming on, every time someone flushes the toilet.
From now on, whenever anybody ‘goes’, no one will know.
I guess that means more toilets, too.
And showers: I want one of my own – just mine. And I know, from experience, the only way that you have something of your own, is when everyone else has their’s too.
Of course I’ll have to bring the plumbers in when it’s dark, in unmarked vans – which means overtime.
But I can’t risk anyone seeing a plumbing truck in my driveway for a month or so. That’s a sure sign that I won the lottery. And if anyone guesses, I’ll need another bathroom too, for guests.
So okay – what’s that come to? About $50,000?
Peanuts!
Next the house. Not a new house, an improved house.
I’ve still got the 10x12 deck that came with the house. It would be nice to have a new deck, a bit bigger, with some built in-amenities. Nothing too fancy, just a little more room to maneuver. In fact, I hate grass, so I think I’ll just surround the entire house with deck, maybe a few big flower pots, one of those all-season fireplaces, and a lap pool. No, not a lap pool, one of those tide pools, where you can practice surfing or being swept out to sea.
Nothing fancy, just a nice deck. About $75K.
Drop in the bucket!
And you know something – now that I can afford it, I want to invite those poor raccoons back in. Put a few doggie doors in both sides of the attic, and build them a little play area. Maybe some close circuit infra-red cameras so we can watch them at night
I’m sorry. Mary’s giving me a dirty look, and she’s right. I got carried away there. Forget the raccoons, at least for now.
What about a room of my own – or better yet, a little cabin out back, where I can work undisturbed (or not work, undisturbed). Nothing fancy, just a room, with a toilet and shower – nice sound system, satellite dish.
I can buy one of those pre-built garden shacks, and have it dressed up a bit: a little landscaping, a few shrubs for privacy, a nice stone walk. Then again, maybe it would be nice if it could be used by guests too: relatives we don’t like but can’t turn away.
Figure on about $100,000, give or take.
Chump change!
Mary’s signaling me from the couch, and she’s right again.
Before I go putting in a little shack in the backyard, I might want to address some of the other shortcomings of our present abode.
It would be nice to have a doorbell that works. Now we can afford to splurge on chimes that play ‘Satisfaction’.
We’re going to need a new roof, too. Now we can have any color we want.
Shingles. And not just the ones that need replacing – all of them!
A garage, where we can hide the cars that usually end up on blocks in the backyard.
Security system, to keep out the relatives.
A new refrigerator.
That’s another sign of real money – a fancy refrigerator. Rich folk always have oversized refrigerators, filled with fresh produce, a bottle or two of champagne, and space.
You know somebody is doing alright, when you look in their refrigerator and there’s space.
I want one of those oversized, silver ones, too big for the kitchen. I want one that dispenses water, and beer, and whipped cream.
And paint!
No, not a refrigerator that dispenses paint, just paint!
No, not just paint: an actual painter – a pro to go over all the places where I made a mess of things.
And new carpet too.
Not the durable kind that stands up to wear and tear – the fuzzy, thick, colorful kind that folks that really can’t afford it worry about staining.
Better yet, oriental rugs that you really shouldn’t walk on, and hardwood floors made from rare trees that you’re not supposed to cut down: a lot more not to worry about.
And a boat.
Not in the house.
And not to actually put in the water either: just for show. Something to stick alongside the garage, and annoy the neighbors. (Another place to stash the relatives, too!)
Sorry Mary.
But we haven’t even spent a million dollars.
At this rate we’ll never run out of money.
We could spend $2 million a year, for fifty years, and still have more money than most of our neighbors.
Okay, so maybe I will buy a car, or two.
I just want a Karman Ghia: probably can find a rebuilt one for $20,000.
Mary will probably get that BMW SUV.
I’ll get Bobby another one of those 79 Volvos that he used to drive, and just keep getting it fixed when it breaks down. Or maybe we can get him his own mechanic, so he doesn’t have to bug us every time he has a little accident.
Patrick won’t be driving for another 8 years, so he can have a horse.
The relatives?
We’ll get them all AAA Plus.
And we’ll get them other stuff, too. Or better yet, we’ll let them have our old stuff, every year. The old refrigerator. The old BMW. The old TV, and so on.
With our money it is almost an obligation to replace everything every year.
But I don’t want to go crazy.
I just want to smooth things out a bit.
Quiet things down.
Make things smell better.
Sleep a little later.
$287,000,000 should do the trick.
No Snow to Speak Of
I’ve got nothing to say – and I blame it on the weather.
Not just any, or all weather – our weather: this half-assed excuse for a winter, specifically.
Don’t look surprised: I’m just like you. My thoughts are not my own. I am – as the psychics like to say, just the conduit.
Did you ever notice that the psychic channelers always seem to be channeling princes and emperors, great warriors or priests?
Did you ever notice that when, under hypnosis, people remember their past lives – there’s almost always a person of great wealth, rank, or significance in there someplace?
Not me.
When I channel for this column I usually bring forth news of squirrels in the attic – literally, or wells that won’t pump, or what kind of candy the kid brought home Halloween night.
I channel the average, everyday stuff that we all deal with – but hopefully with an interesting slant, a different perspective.
And what inspires me is the average and the everyday.
But not today.
Today, this week, this month, I have been suffering from poor reception, from a stuttering imagination, from a lack of inspiration because for the past thirty days the average and the everyday have been absent from these parts.
Maybe they’ve gone on vacation.
Look around you.
You call this weather?
Is there anything more inspiring to the imagination than a sudden blanket of white?
When the landscapes that we know so well suddenly disappear, and the background sounds that we expect to hear are muffled, and the schedules that we usually maintain are unavoidably altered, it shocks the system and stirs our thoughts.
And at a time of year when we instinctively crave anything that can awake us out of our stupor – weather is oftentimes our best and only friend.
But we haven’t had any – any weather that is.
At least not ‘round here.
Oh sure we’ve had a taste of rain, a snap of cold, a smattering of sleet, and a sheet or two of ice: but no snow to speak of.
The weather people would argue of course: they’d bring out their charts and cite the statistics.
According to the statistics we’ve had a few inches, here and there.
But that’s not snow, it’s the Dandruff of the Gods: and they’re not sure what’s going on either.
They’re up there, on Olympus, scratching their heads.
It’s not just me either – all of the so-called news has been affected.
People aren’t really interested in Anna Nicole Smith – they’ve just got nothing better to think about.
My youngest son is out there now – not in the Bahamas, in the backyard I mean: out back trying to scrape up enough of that dirty, crusty stuff to make a dandruff man.
“Can you come out and play in the snow with m”, he asked?
“If there was snow to play in, I would”, I promised, but I was not going to get down on the ground and grovel around, pretending.
Of course there are plenty who would.
Of course that’s what they’ve been doing down in Florida, and now in California, and soon in the Bahamas: groveling around in the dirt, trying to scrape up enough stuff to make a story.
Sad to say, the Anna Nicole story is like the weather we’ve been having: hardly enough news there to measure.
And now that the story – and the poor woman herself, have been lying around for more than a week, it’s gotten a bit dirty, a bit crusty too.
That’s the genius of Andy Rooney on Sixty Minutes: somehow he turns what annoys him, into the subject of his weekly ‘column’. Somehow what annoys him, amuses us.
But Andy’s secret is – I imagine, that he is amused by what annoys him too: he actually revels in his own annoyances.
I just can’t manage the same enthusiasm for what bores me.
I can’t manage to find inspiration, in its lack.
So, we’re moving.
Taking a vacation of sorts.
We’ve rented a house up near Syracuse, New York. The owners were left in the lurch, when the last tenants moved out giving no notice at all.
The house is fully furnished. The refrigerator is full. The previous tenants pre-paid for six months of satellite TV.
And they’ve got enough inspiration piled up, to last at least until June.
I’m bringing my own shovel: stay tuned.
Not just any, or all weather – our weather: this half-assed excuse for a winter, specifically.
Don’t look surprised: I’m just like you. My thoughts are not my own. I am – as the psychics like to say, just the conduit.
Did you ever notice that the psychic channelers always seem to be channeling princes and emperors, great warriors or priests?
Did you ever notice that when, under hypnosis, people remember their past lives – there’s almost always a person of great wealth, rank, or significance in there someplace?
Not me.
When I channel for this column I usually bring forth news of squirrels in the attic – literally, or wells that won’t pump, or what kind of candy the kid brought home Halloween night.
I channel the average, everyday stuff that we all deal with – but hopefully with an interesting slant, a different perspective.
And what inspires me is the average and the everyday.
But not today.
Today, this week, this month, I have been suffering from poor reception, from a stuttering imagination, from a lack of inspiration because for the past thirty days the average and the everyday have been absent from these parts.
Maybe they’ve gone on vacation.
Look around you.
You call this weather?
Is there anything more inspiring to the imagination than a sudden blanket of white?
When the landscapes that we know so well suddenly disappear, and the background sounds that we expect to hear are muffled, and the schedules that we usually maintain are unavoidably altered, it shocks the system and stirs our thoughts.
And at a time of year when we instinctively crave anything that can awake us out of our stupor – weather is oftentimes our best and only friend.
But we haven’t had any – any weather that is.
At least not ‘round here.
Oh sure we’ve had a taste of rain, a snap of cold, a smattering of sleet, and a sheet or two of ice: but no snow to speak of.
The weather people would argue of course: they’d bring out their charts and cite the statistics.
According to the statistics we’ve had a few inches, here and there.
But that’s not snow, it’s the Dandruff of the Gods: and they’re not sure what’s going on either.
They’re up there, on Olympus, scratching their heads.
It’s not just me either – all of the so-called news has been affected.
People aren’t really interested in Anna Nicole Smith – they’ve just got nothing better to think about.
My youngest son is out there now – not in the Bahamas, in the backyard I mean: out back trying to scrape up enough of that dirty, crusty stuff to make a dandruff man.
“Can you come out and play in the snow with m”, he asked?
“If there was snow to play in, I would”, I promised, but I was not going to get down on the ground and grovel around, pretending.
Of course there are plenty who would.
Of course that’s what they’ve been doing down in Florida, and now in California, and soon in the Bahamas: groveling around in the dirt, trying to scrape up enough stuff to make a story.
Sad to say, the Anna Nicole story is like the weather we’ve been having: hardly enough news there to measure.
And now that the story – and the poor woman herself, have been lying around for more than a week, it’s gotten a bit dirty, a bit crusty too.
That’s the genius of Andy Rooney on Sixty Minutes: somehow he turns what annoys him, into the subject of his weekly ‘column’. Somehow what annoys him, amuses us.
But Andy’s secret is – I imagine, that he is amused by what annoys him too: he actually revels in his own annoyances.
I just can’t manage the same enthusiasm for what bores me.
I can’t manage to find inspiration, in its lack.
So, we’re moving.
Taking a vacation of sorts.
We’ve rented a house up near Syracuse, New York. The owners were left in the lurch, when the last tenants moved out giving no notice at all.
The house is fully furnished. The refrigerator is full. The previous tenants pre-paid for six months of satellite TV.
And they’ve got enough inspiration piled up, to last at least until June.
I’m bringing my own shovel: stay tuned.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Experienced Applicants Only
It’s not Iraq, or Darfur, not the price of gas, or global warming: as we begin the last two years of the George W. Bush Presidency, the most important issue facing our country is the experience, or lack thereof, of our next President.
As I write this I am watching President Bush conduct a news conference and I am filled with conflicting emotions.
One part of me despairs at our President’s obvious inability – six years after his original election, to communicate clearly on the important issues of our time.
Another part of me cannot help but like the man – and sympathize with his predicament.
Asked to explain inconsistencies in the manner in which his administration is pursuing the war in Iraq, he stammers, fidgets, and seems about to drown in his own tormented rhetoric.
When no one throws him a life-line, like a student surprised by being called on by the teacher, he makes a joke: when that breaks the tension, he makes another. It’s the highlight of the news conference.
There was a movie, recently, about a comedian elected President: look for it soon, on DVD.
Unfortunately, the American people can’t do the same: its experiences like this, which make a Parliamentary system look very appealing.
But my point is not that we should remove him from office but, rather, that he never should have been elected in the first place.
Even President Bush’s most ardent opponents – myself included, would have to admit, by now, that he’s a nice guy. If a group of friends were arguing over what to do on a Saturday night, George would be the ‘decider’.
Even his most ardent supporters would have to admit – by now, that he doesn’t have what it takes to be President, and see that, after 9-11, his lack of experience made him an intellectual captive of his more experienced White House advisors.
It wasn’t just 9-11 either. It wasn’t just Iraq. On almost every serious issue that he has faced, President Bush’ lack of experience has cost us dearly.
Without a world view, he assessed Russian President Vladimir Putin on a personal basis, and concluded they could be ‘buds’. Today Putin rules Russia like a 13th Century Tsar, assassinating opponents, intimidating neighbors, and arming our adversaries.
With a misguided sense of where his personal and public lives could, or should intersect, he allowed religions zealots to suppress American scientific and medical research.
Most importantly, without real executive experience – and I am including his so-called ‘ownership’ of the Texas Rangers, and his several failed oil businesses, he was forced to rely for advice on Vice President Cheney.
Vice President Cheney may be the single strongest argument for making experience the greatest factor in choosing who is elected President.
No one votes for Vice President, the pundits say: but perhaps we all now understand that, when you vote for someone with little or no experience, you are in effect voting to give great power to those around them.
Very few Americans had even heard the names Pearle, Wolfowitz, Libby or Bolton before President Bush was elected. But they know them now, and regret having made their acquaintance.
It’s no excuse. Call him what you will - the ‘decider’, the ‘commander in chief’, W or Shrub, he may not know what he is doing, but he is the President.
He may not accept the buck, but it’s stuck to his desk.
And we elected him.
Senators and Congressmen have begun to call the Iraq War one of the greatest foreign policy blunders in the history of this country, but I think it pales in comparison to the blunder in 2000: President Bush’s election.
American’s are taught from childhood that ‘anyone’ can be President, but we need to realize that not everyone should have that opportunity.
Can we at least have some minimum standards?
Can those who seek the Presidency, at the very least, be able to say that they have dedicated their lives to the service of others: their lives, not the last two years, or a summer internship with one of dad’s contributors.
As young man – the record indicates, President Bush showed no interest in public service of any kind. He was ‘born again’ in religion, and in politics, and so came in to the White House with all the ignorance and fervor of the recently converted.
America cannot be governed by faith alone.
Lord knows they have tried, for six years, and it has been a disaster.
Would it really have been any different, if someone else were President?
Republicans like to ridicule Al Gore – but their attacks are usually based on personality, not capability.
Would an ‘official’ Gore Presidency have kept the planes from crashing in to the towers on September 11th? Probably not.
But there is a high likelihood that a Gore Presidency would have resulted in the defeat of the Taliban, and the capture or death of Osama.
Would a Gore Presidency have prevented the collapse of Enron and the loss of its employees’ retirement funds? Probably not.
But there is a high likelihood that it would have saved the American people the billions wasted on overpriced gasoline - because of a more stable oil market (with no Iraq war), and have put America far ahead in the research in to the causes and cures of Global warming.
Would a Gore Presidency have been able to end the suffering of the people of Darfur? Yes.
With America able to commit more resources, and unafraid to do so because it was not already spending half a trillion dollars, bogged down in Iraq, Darfur’s pleas for help would not have gone unanswered.
I am not announcing my support for Al Gore.
I am simply questioning the rationale that says that ‘anyone’ can be President.
I am questioning as well, assertions like Barack Obamas – whom I admire, that all you need is enough experience to know things must change.
You don’t have to be a Senator to know that.
Anyone can be a critic.
But it takes a mixture of superior intellectual skills, years of hands-on experience, and demonstrated commitment, to lead – at any level.
Shouldn’t our President have an excess of those qualities and experience?
Don’t you want a President who can both speak from the heart, and make himself understood?
Don’t you want a President who takes the job seriously, even before things go wrong?
Don’t you want a President who doesn’t need on the job training?
It’s not Iraq, or Darfur, not the price of gas, or global warming: the big issue facing America today is where to find someone who has what it takes to be President.
As I write this I am watching President Bush conduct a news conference and I am filled with conflicting emotions.
One part of me despairs at our President’s obvious inability – six years after his original election, to communicate clearly on the important issues of our time.
Another part of me cannot help but like the man – and sympathize with his predicament.
Asked to explain inconsistencies in the manner in which his administration is pursuing the war in Iraq, he stammers, fidgets, and seems about to drown in his own tormented rhetoric.
When no one throws him a life-line, like a student surprised by being called on by the teacher, he makes a joke: when that breaks the tension, he makes another. It’s the highlight of the news conference.
There was a movie, recently, about a comedian elected President: look for it soon, on DVD.
Unfortunately, the American people can’t do the same: its experiences like this, which make a Parliamentary system look very appealing.
But my point is not that we should remove him from office but, rather, that he never should have been elected in the first place.
Even President Bush’s most ardent opponents – myself included, would have to admit, by now, that he’s a nice guy. If a group of friends were arguing over what to do on a Saturday night, George would be the ‘decider’.
Even his most ardent supporters would have to admit – by now, that he doesn’t have what it takes to be President, and see that, after 9-11, his lack of experience made him an intellectual captive of his more experienced White House advisors.
It wasn’t just 9-11 either. It wasn’t just Iraq. On almost every serious issue that he has faced, President Bush’ lack of experience has cost us dearly.
Without a world view, he assessed Russian President Vladimir Putin on a personal basis, and concluded they could be ‘buds’. Today Putin rules Russia like a 13th Century Tsar, assassinating opponents, intimidating neighbors, and arming our adversaries.
With a misguided sense of where his personal and public lives could, or should intersect, he allowed religions zealots to suppress American scientific and medical research.
Most importantly, without real executive experience – and I am including his so-called ‘ownership’ of the Texas Rangers, and his several failed oil businesses, he was forced to rely for advice on Vice President Cheney.
Vice President Cheney may be the single strongest argument for making experience the greatest factor in choosing who is elected President.
No one votes for Vice President, the pundits say: but perhaps we all now understand that, when you vote for someone with little or no experience, you are in effect voting to give great power to those around them.
Very few Americans had even heard the names Pearle, Wolfowitz, Libby or Bolton before President Bush was elected. But they know them now, and regret having made their acquaintance.
It’s no excuse. Call him what you will - the ‘decider’, the ‘commander in chief’, W or Shrub, he may not know what he is doing, but he is the President.
He may not accept the buck, but it’s stuck to his desk.
And we elected him.
Senators and Congressmen have begun to call the Iraq War one of the greatest foreign policy blunders in the history of this country, but I think it pales in comparison to the blunder in 2000: President Bush’s election.
American’s are taught from childhood that ‘anyone’ can be President, but we need to realize that not everyone should have that opportunity.
Can we at least have some minimum standards?
Can those who seek the Presidency, at the very least, be able to say that they have dedicated their lives to the service of others: their lives, not the last two years, or a summer internship with one of dad’s contributors.
As young man – the record indicates, President Bush showed no interest in public service of any kind. He was ‘born again’ in religion, and in politics, and so came in to the White House with all the ignorance and fervor of the recently converted.
America cannot be governed by faith alone.
Lord knows they have tried, for six years, and it has been a disaster.
Would it really have been any different, if someone else were President?
Republicans like to ridicule Al Gore – but their attacks are usually based on personality, not capability.
Would an ‘official’ Gore Presidency have kept the planes from crashing in to the towers on September 11th? Probably not.
But there is a high likelihood that a Gore Presidency would have resulted in the defeat of the Taliban, and the capture or death of Osama.
Would a Gore Presidency have prevented the collapse of Enron and the loss of its employees’ retirement funds? Probably not.
But there is a high likelihood that it would have saved the American people the billions wasted on overpriced gasoline - because of a more stable oil market (with no Iraq war), and have put America far ahead in the research in to the causes and cures of Global warming.
Would a Gore Presidency have been able to end the suffering of the people of Darfur? Yes.
With America able to commit more resources, and unafraid to do so because it was not already spending half a trillion dollars, bogged down in Iraq, Darfur’s pleas for help would not have gone unanswered.
I am not announcing my support for Al Gore.
I am simply questioning the rationale that says that ‘anyone’ can be President.
I am questioning as well, assertions like Barack Obamas – whom I admire, that all you need is enough experience to know things must change.
You don’t have to be a Senator to know that.
Anyone can be a critic.
But it takes a mixture of superior intellectual skills, years of hands-on experience, and demonstrated commitment, to lead – at any level.
Shouldn’t our President have an excess of those qualities and experience?
Don’t you want a President who can both speak from the heart, and make himself understood?
Don’t you want a President who takes the job seriously, even before things go wrong?
Don’t you want a President who doesn’t need on the job training?
It’s not Iraq, or Darfur, not the price of gas, or global warming: the big issue facing America today is where to find someone who has what it takes to be President.
Friday, February 16, 2007
The Woman Who Fell to Earth
Who do you love?
In Northern Italy, a short distance from Romeo & Juliet’s Verona, they have unearthed what they believe to be – or very much want to believe, to be, undying love.
In a grave, in the cold earth, they have found two skeletons that appear to be embracing: that they believe to have been locked in each others’ arms for five thousand years.
But they have to run a few tests, to be sure.
When pressed they admit they are not yet completely confident that the bones they have found, are of a man and a woman.
When not pressed their eyes shine as they describe the lovers.
The stories of the discovery give short shrift to the observation – usually buried far down on the page in the accounts that I have read, that ‘he’ has an arrow or two sticking into his back, and ‘she’ an arrowhead, lodged in her hip.
Yet still, somehow, for some irrational reason, the archaeologists believe this to be a couple, embracing – and not evidence of a primitive divorce.
I suppose archaeologists are, at heart, romantics.
They are, to be specific, people who have given their lives to a science – of sorts, that presupposes there is something of value to be found in what the world has chosen to discard, or nature swallowed whole. They believe that they can find, in a sense, meaning – simply by digging in the dirt.
They really believe they can see, in this tangle of bones, evidence of love.
Funny isn’t it, how love is easier to see in the past, or the future, than it is in the present.
Perhaps the distance in time allows us to make of these two piles of bones, what we will.
We cannot easily be envious of bones without flesh.
We cannot be angry at the unknown dead.
So instead we make lovers, fashioning them with the same sweet wistfulness that a child uses to sculpt a snowman, or a sandcastle, or a mud pie: with the same hopefulness with which a son or daughter presents their latest masterpiece for placement on the refrigerator door.
Here and now though, above ground, in our maturity, we are at best pragmatic when it comes to judging others.
Here in the 21st Century, we are not nearly as forgiving to those around us, who find themselves in difficulty.
In this here and now, the discovery of bones is at first, a crime scene, and the cry that goes out is not the sigh of love but, rather, the grating squeal of anger too long suppressed.
Here all missteps seem to fall into the category of crime and punishment – not necessarily in that order.
Here, at almost at the same time that these ancient lovers are being unearthed, we have the pitiful story of The Woman Who Fell to Earth.
Hers is a love story too, though, isn’t it? After all, what is it that could drive someone forward from childhood, despite all of the obstacles, toward the almost impossible goal of becoming a female astronaut, but love?
Maybe not romantic love, but love nonetheless: of the sky, of the stars, of reaching out to the heavens. And of course such a love was doomed to end in tragedy because, despite everything we have learned we will never learn to fly, on our own.
We begin life on the ground, and then instinct urges us forward, onto our feet and then, into the air.
What separates us is how high we can learn to jump.
What we all have in common is, the fall that must eventually come.
I don’t think you would argue that she had a greater distance to fall than most of us.
There are only so many ships to the stars, and only so many seats on those ships, and so many others waiting for their turn.
The heights that she strove for were finally achieved, but then what?
It is the old story of the aging athlete, or the has-been actor, or the strung-out musician, though the story is almost always about a man.
So why is there so little sympathy for her?
Instead the talking heads on television and radio – and their new cohorts on the blogs, sling arrows at this poor woman.
Instead of asking how this could have happened to her, we seem to be asking how this could have happened to us: we are insulted by her failure.
It seems unimaginable that she could have sunk so low, after flying so high.
There must be something wrong with NASA’s screening system, the pundits proclaim.
The only problem I see is that she was human.
I can imagine myself in her place.
Sure laugh, and say, ‘oh, so you wear diapers too when you go out to stalk someone’.
Go on, get it out of your system.
Get it out of your system and then try and imagine too – it’s not difficult, how you would fare if all that you had lived for suddenly evaporated – like early morning fog, and you stumbled and found yourself in a spiritual grave, alone.
Chilled to the bone.
Would you panic?
Would you grasp at any chance of escaping that pit, take any hand offered?
Who do you see in that pit, in that Italian grave?
What do you see in the shape of those bones?
Why can we find love in the dirt, and yet find it so difficult to shed a tear for a real, live woman?
Who do you love?
What will they say about your bones, in 5000 years?
In Northern Italy, a short distance from Romeo & Juliet’s Verona, they have unearthed what they believe to be – or very much want to believe, to be, undying love.
In a grave, in the cold earth, they have found two skeletons that appear to be embracing: that they believe to have been locked in each others’ arms for five thousand years.
But they have to run a few tests, to be sure.
When pressed they admit they are not yet completely confident that the bones they have found, are of a man and a woman.
When not pressed their eyes shine as they describe the lovers.
The stories of the discovery give short shrift to the observation – usually buried far down on the page in the accounts that I have read, that ‘he’ has an arrow or two sticking into his back, and ‘she’ an arrowhead, lodged in her hip.
Yet still, somehow, for some irrational reason, the archaeologists believe this to be a couple, embracing – and not evidence of a primitive divorce.
I suppose archaeologists are, at heart, romantics.
They are, to be specific, people who have given their lives to a science – of sorts, that presupposes there is something of value to be found in what the world has chosen to discard, or nature swallowed whole. They believe that they can find, in a sense, meaning – simply by digging in the dirt.
They really believe they can see, in this tangle of bones, evidence of love.
Funny isn’t it, how love is easier to see in the past, or the future, than it is in the present.
Perhaps the distance in time allows us to make of these two piles of bones, what we will.
We cannot easily be envious of bones without flesh.
We cannot be angry at the unknown dead.
So instead we make lovers, fashioning them with the same sweet wistfulness that a child uses to sculpt a snowman, or a sandcastle, or a mud pie: with the same hopefulness with which a son or daughter presents their latest masterpiece for placement on the refrigerator door.
Here and now though, above ground, in our maturity, we are at best pragmatic when it comes to judging others.
Here in the 21st Century, we are not nearly as forgiving to those around us, who find themselves in difficulty.
In this here and now, the discovery of bones is at first, a crime scene, and the cry that goes out is not the sigh of love but, rather, the grating squeal of anger too long suppressed.
Here all missteps seem to fall into the category of crime and punishment – not necessarily in that order.
Here, at almost at the same time that these ancient lovers are being unearthed, we have the pitiful story of The Woman Who Fell to Earth.
Hers is a love story too, though, isn’t it? After all, what is it that could drive someone forward from childhood, despite all of the obstacles, toward the almost impossible goal of becoming a female astronaut, but love?
Maybe not romantic love, but love nonetheless: of the sky, of the stars, of reaching out to the heavens. And of course such a love was doomed to end in tragedy because, despite everything we have learned we will never learn to fly, on our own.
We begin life on the ground, and then instinct urges us forward, onto our feet and then, into the air.
What separates us is how high we can learn to jump.
What we all have in common is, the fall that must eventually come.
I don’t think you would argue that she had a greater distance to fall than most of us.
There are only so many ships to the stars, and only so many seats on those ships, and so many others waiting for their turn.
The heights that she strove for were finally achieved, but then what?
It is the old story of the aging athlete, or the has-been actor, or the strung-out musician, though the story is almost always about a man.
So why is there so little sympathy for her?
Instead the talking heads on television and radio – and their new cohorts on the blogs, sling arrows at this poor woman.
Instead of asking how this could have happened to her, we seem to be asking how this could have happened to us: we are insulted by her failure.
It seems unimaginable that she could have sunk so low, after flying so high.
There must be something wrong with NASA’s screening system, the pundits proclaim.
The only problem I see is that she was human.
I can imagine myself in her place.
Sure laugh, and say, ‘oh, so you wear diapers too when you go out to stalk someone’.
Go on, get it out of your system.
Get it out of your system and then try and imagine too – it’s not difficult, how you would fare if all that you had lived for suddenly evaporated – like early morning fog, and you stumbled and found yourself in a spiritual grave, alone.
Chilled to the bone.
Would you panic?
Would you grasp at any chance of escaping that pit, take any hand offered?
Who do you see in that pit, in that Italian grave?
What do you see in the shape of those bones?
Why can we find love in the dirt, and yet find it so difficult to shed a tear for a real, live woman?
Who do you love?
What will they say about your bones, in 5000 years?
Friday, February 09, 2007
I-Pod, Therefore, I Am
I-Pod, therefore, I-Am?
I-m not sure.
I am sure that I am nothing if not an opportunist or, perhaps, an I-Opp.
I know, as Marvin Gaye sang, ‘what’s going on’.
I-do.
Or rather, my I-Know knows, what the download is, fo’ shizzle.
To put it bluntly: The Gadj rule - or rather, the I-Gadj rules.
Totally!
But knowing and, well - to be blunt, profiting, are totally di-fizzle.
And the I-Opportunist in me cannot sit I-diddly by, while others hi-diddle-diddle off with the jack.
So I have come up with my own line of I-Thangs, that an I-freak will not be able to do without.
Actually, just one I-Thang.
I call it, the I-Gone.
What’s it do?
Ah, there’s the rub. What sets the I-Gone apart from the other-I’s out there, is how little, I does.
When others are immin’ and textin, and uploadin, the I-Gone is, for all I-tents and purposes, silent.
When others are watching re-runs of movies that were made for a 400 square foot screen, were re-broadcast on a 30” screen – and are now showing on an eyeball distending 6” screen, the I-Gone is in a kind of permanent sleep mode.
When others are Blue-rayin’ and Berryin’ the Black, the I-Gone is far removed from your service area.
Actually, the real I-dea is that the I-Gone has no service area, or that – to put it in philosophical terms, every one else’s service area is outside of the I-Gone’s, and vice versa.
As they say in New England, you can’t get here, from there.
I-Gone.
Do you see the poss-I-bilities?
What would you pay for this one of a kind, revolutionary product?
$100, $500, $1000?
Wait, there’s more.
Only through advanced, evolutionary, genetic engineering was this non-technological breakthrough possible.
Thousands of years ago, humans were unable to remove themselves from the world in which they found themselves.
Thousands of years ago you were permanently, and irrevocably subject to the vagaries of your pathetic existence.
If a mammoth or a saber tooth or a six-foot mosquito dialed up your number, your number was up!
It took thousands of years for man to be able to remove himself physically, from those vagaries, and just when it was safe to take a quiet walk, alone, in the woods.. someone had to go and invent the cell phone.
Suddenly you could be reached, wherever you were, whatever you were doing.
The same cycle of invention and de-invention continued, for years.
As soon as someone invented Tivo - which allowed you to take back control of your life from the television, someone else invented a way to take television with you, everywhere you went.
Just when four-wheel drive seemed to liberate us from the constraints of the paved road, SUVs let everyone in on it.
But the I-Gone ends all that.
The I-Gone is the only gadj of its kind that has a built-in disconnect.
Got Bluetooth? Sorry, no connection.
Got USB? Sorry, there’s no place to stick it.
Gone infra-red? Whoops, the I-Gone is not visible to the naked or any other I.
It’s a proprietary technology I call, NoWhere KnowHow®.
I cannot be reached for comment.
I cannot be reached.
And even if I could, I would not.
I-Gone.
What would you pay?
Hell, you paid $50 for some damn, newfangled mop.
You pay $100 a month just so you can take out of focus pictures of your out of focus friends and transmit them back and forth to each other.
There’s a price to pay, alright, but I am not sure if anyone is willing to pay it.
I am not sure how many people there are anymore, who value privacy, who believe in the benefits of quiet, and who are confident that – left on their own, they will still have something to say.
We tend to see ourselves only in the context of who we know, what we own, and how many others we can boast about it to - with a click of the mouse.
The great fear today seems to be, fear of invisibility.
But, in a world where almost nothing is private, true invisibility may be the ultimate acquisition.
That’s what I’m selling.
A gadj or state of gadgetry that is rare, unique, and, until today, very elusive.
It’s all about the unknown.
It’s the evolution of the species.
T’s the latest and the greatest gadj of them all.
I-Gone.
(Due to forces outside of our control, I-Thang, Inc., has been unable to ship sufficient quantities of the I-Gone to meet demand. In fact, we have not been able to ship any at all. A small number of I-Gone may be available on unknown dates, at unspecified super stores, or not. When rumors arise, suggesting that the I-Gone will be available on certain dates at certain locations, we ask that potential customers do not camp out or otherwise secure their position outside the rumored venues more than 24 hours prior to the rumored availability. Customers interested in the I-Gone may purchase gift cards for the future purchase of an I-Gone, in any amount, but this in itself does not guarantee the consumer the right to purchase the I-Gone if and when it becomes available, nor does it ‘hold’ a position in a virtual waiting list if and when the I-Gone ships. I-Thangs Inc., does however encourage consumers to spread rumors of the availability of the I-Gone, as this is an inexpensive way for the company to advertise.
I-m not sure.
I am sure that I am nothing if not an opportunist or, perhaps, an I-Opp.
I know, as Marvin Gaye sang, ‘what’s going on’.
I-do.
Or rather, my I-Know knows, what the download is, fo’ shizzle.
To put it bluntly: The Gadj rule - or rather, the I-Gadj rules.
Totally!
But knowing and, well - to be blunt, profiting, are totally di-fizzle.
And the I-Opportunist in me cannot sit I-diddly by, while others hi-diddle-diddle off with the jack.
So I have come up with my own line of I-Thangs, that an I-freak will not be able to do without.
Actually, just one I-Thang.
I call it, the I-Gone.
What’s it do?
Ah, there’s the rub. What sets the I-Gone apart from the other-I’s out there, is how little, I does.
When others are immin’ and textin, and uploadin, the I-Gone is, for all I-tents and purposes, silent.
When others are watching re-runs of movies that were made for a 400 square foot screen, were re-broadcast on a 30” screen – and are now showing on an eyeball distending 6” screen, the I-Gone is in a kind of permanent sleep mode.
When others are Blue-rayin’ and Berryin’ the Black, the I-Gone is far removed from your service area.
Actually, the real I-dea is that the I-Gone has no service area, or that – to put it in philosophical terms, every one else’s service area is outside of the I-Gone’s, and vice versa.
As they say in New England, you can’t get here, from there.
I-Gone.
Do you see the poss-I-bilities?
What would you pay for this one of a kind, revolutionary product?
$100, $500, $1000?
Wait, there’s more.
Only through advanced, evolutionary, genetic engineering was this non-technological breakthrough possible.
Thousands of years ago, humans were unable to remove themselves from the world in which they found themselves.
Thousands of years ago you were permanently, and irrevocably subject to the vagaries of your pathetic existence.
If a mammoth or a saber tooth or a six-foot mosquito dialed up your number, your number was up!
It took thousands of years for man to be able to remove himself physically, from those vagaries, and just when it was safe to take a quiet walk, alone, in the woods.. someone had to go and invent the cell phone.
Suddenly you could be reached, wherever you were, whatever you were doing.
The same cycle of invention and de-invention continued, for years.
As soon as someone invented Tivo - which allowed you to take back control of your life from the television, someone else invented a way to take television with you, everywhere you went.
Just when four-wheel drive seemed to liberate us from the constraints of the paved road, SUVs let everyone in on it.
But the I-Gone ends all that.
The I-Gone is the only gadj of its kind that has a built-in disconnect.
Got Bluetooth? Sorry, no connection.
Got USB? Sorry, there’s no place to stick it.
Gone infra-red? Whoops, the I-Gone is not visible to the naked or any other I.
It’s a proprietary technology I call, NoWhere KnowHow®.
I cannot be reached for comment.
I cannot be reached.
And even if I could, I would not.
I-Gone.
What would you pay?
Hell, you paid $50 for some damn, newfangled mop.
You pay $100 a month just so you can take out of focus pictures of your out of focus friends and transmit them back and forth to each other.
There’s a price to pay, alright, but I am not sure if anyone is willing to pay it.
I am not sure how many people there are anymore, who value privacy, who believe in the benefits of quiet, and who are confident that – left on their own, they will still have something to say.
We tend to see ourselves only in the context of who we know, what we own, and how many others we can boast about it to - with a click of the mouse.
The great fear today seems to be, fear of invisibility.
But, in a world where almost nothing is private, true invisibility may be the ultimate acquisition.
That’s what I’m selling.
A gadj or state of gadgetry that is rare, unique, and, until today, very elusive.
It’s all about the unknown.
It’s the evolution of the species.
T’s the latest and the greatest gadj of them all.
I-Gone.
(Due to forces outside of our control, I-Thang, Inc., has been unable to ship sufficient quantities of the I-Gone to meet demand. In fact, we have not been able to ship any at all. A small number of I-Gone may be available on unknown dates, at unspecified super stores, or not. When rumors arise, suggesting that the I-Gone will be available on certain dates at certain locations, we ask that potential customers do not camp out or otherwise secure their position outside the rumored venues more than 24 hours prior to the rumored availability. Customers interested in the I-Gone may purchase gift cards for the future purchase of an I-Gone, in any amount, but this in itself does not guarantee the consumer the right to purchase the I-Gone if and when it becomes available, nor does it ‘hold’ a position in a virtual waiting list if and when the I-Gone ships. I-Thangs Inc., does however encourage consumers to spread rumors of the availability of the I-Gone, as this is an inexpensive way for the company to advertise.
George Takes Us for a Ride
Let’s bring Bush’s ‘New Way Forward’ down to a level that we can all understand.
Do your best to forget the talking heads with their expert analysis, the interviews with the man on the street, the Senators and their Presidential strategies.
Imagine this, instead…..
George Bush is your teenage son.
America is the family’s old, but reliable station wagon.
Remember when George first got his license?
Remember how he made you take a picture of him at the registry, in front of the car, with the big ‘Mission Accomplished’ banner?
It was a big day. He was so excited. And admit it, you got swept up in all the excitement too: so much so that, later that same evening when he came to you with those shining eyes - asking if he could take the car to the lake, you consented.
Well, maybe not right away. You went through the motions.
“Who are you going with”, you asked?
“The Coalition of the Willing”, he said.
“What are you going to do”, you inquired?
“Spread Democracy”, he replied, with barely a hint of sarcasm.
“When are you going to be home”, you queried?
Early, George insisted.
Okay, you’d done the responsible thing, acted the concerned parent. Permission granted.
Then the call came at, what was it now, 12:45 a.m?
You heard a familiar voice telling you that they (funny how when there’s a problem it’s always ‘they’) ran out of gas, somewhere near Fallujah.
No biggie.
Oh, and they’ve had a small accident.
Alright.
Nothing to worry about, George insisted: he was just calling to let you know that they were going to be home a little later – and cost a few billion more, than he expected.
How thoughtful of him.
No biggie, you said again - out loud this time: but then why did you tell a bit of a white lie to your wife? No sense worrying her, you rationalized. No sense losing any sleep over this.
Damn, you told yourself as you settled back down in bed, I am so reasonable, so calm, such a good Dad. This was, after all, to be expected. George had never taken the car out before, by himself.
Time passed quickly. The car was repaired: they even added sheet metal to the undercarriage to protect against IED. It drove like new.
Your little white lie succeeded and, as if on cue, George was back.
This time the shine was gone from his eyes, replaced it seemed, by a sense of entitlement.
He wasn’t asking for permission.
He had to have the car again because, well, they were all going on this trip – and they were depending on him.
George made it seem as if to deny him, was un-patriotic.
So off George goes again and, the next thing you know you’re being woken up again, a little later than the last time. Only it isn’t George on the phone, it was someone from the New York Times.
This time it’s more than a little fender bender. This time America is off the road, in a ditch, and two of the boys that were with him are in the hospital.
But George says it’s not his fault. There was a mystery car – came out of nowhere, crossed over into their lane, and would have killed them all if he hadn’t acted decisively. Not only is it not his fault, he is saying, he’s a hero.
The beer in the car? Not his.
The other guy? Didn’t stop.
The final tally? It could have been worse (something tells you it will be): $20 billion for the car repairs, $10 billion for the lawyer to keep his record clean, and an undisclosed donation to the Religious Right.
When the next request for the car comes, you tell yourself, you are going to be ready.
You have developed a few ground rules that will have to be followed: a time-table, benchmarks.
Where, by the way, you plan to ask, is the money Iraq was supposed to contribute to the cost of insurance, George?
But George is playing outside the lines.
Instead of asking you directly – he implements a new strategy. He goes to your wife, and plays on her fears. If he doesn’t get the car, he warns her, his social life will be ruined, he won’t be able to work, and he’ll be at the mercy of that French kid with the Citroen, whenever he needs a ride.
You know she doesn’t know half the story. You know she is basing her decision on information that she was either denied, or that has been modified because of what you might call, national security.
You really should tell her about the accidents and the injuries, and the beer in the car, but then it would become clear that you had been withholding certain facts all along.
So you shrug and turn away, and off George goes.
You’re damn lucky this time.
George is thrown clear of the accident, and has hardly a scratch on him. America though, is a wreck – and the insurance won’t cover the costs. Thank God George wasn’t at the wheel. At least he says he wasn’t driving. It was The Generals.
Whoever is responsible, there is a price to pay this time: George is grounded indefinitely, a lame duck. But he has at least two more years under your roof. Can you really keep him grounded for that entire time?
After only a few weeks, he comes to you, looking tired, sounding apologetic: you don’t know why, but he is making you nervous.
He makes a long and rambling speech, most of which you’ve heard before. He talks about the ‘others’, the ‘mystery driver’, the Generals, and his regret at what happened to the family car.
“Mistakes have been made”, he tells you, adding that he takes full responsibility.
Not legal responsibility. Not financial responsibility. Full responsibility?
He’s learned his lesson.
Not your lesson, his lesson.
“I’m a changed man,” he says, “with a brand new plan: A New Way Forward!”
Things will be different this time, George promises, keeping his head down but holding out his hand with the palm turned up.
He wants the keys.
Do your best to forget the talking heads with their expert analysis, the interviews with the man on the street, the Senators and their Presidential strategies.
Imagine this, instead…..
George Bush is your teenage son.
America is the family’s old, but reliable station wagon.
Remember when George first got his license?
Remember how he made you take a picture of him at the registry, in front of the car, with the big ‘Mission Accomplished’ banner?
It was a big day. He was so excited. And admit it, you got swept up in all the excitement too: so much so that, later that same evening when he came to you with those shining eyes - asking if he could take the car to the lake, you consented.
Well, maybe not right away. You went through the motions.
“Who are you going with”, you asked?
“The Coalition of the Willing”, he said.
“What are you going to do”, you inquired?
“Spread Democracy”, he replied, with barely a hint of sarcasm.
“When are you going to be home”, you queried?
Early, George insisted.
Okay, you’d done the responsible thing, acted the concerned parent. Permission granted.
Then the call came at, what was it now, 12:45 a.m?
You heard a familiar voice telling you that they (funny how when there’s a problem it’s always ‘they’) ran out of gas, somewhere near Fallujah.
No biggie.
Oh, and they’ve had a small accident.
Alright.
Nothing to worry about, George insisted: he was just calling to let you know that they were going to be home a little later – and cost a few billion more, than he expected.
How thoughtful of him.
No biggie, you said again - out loud this time: but then why did you tell a bit of a white lie to your wife? No sense worrying her, you rationalized. No sense losing any sleep over this.
Damn, you told yourself as you settled back down in bed, I am so reasonable, so calm, such a good Dad. This was, after all, to be expected. George had never taken the car out before, by himself.
Time passed quickly. The car was repaired: they even added sheet metal to the undercarriage to protect against IED. It drove like new.
Your little white lie succeeded and, as if on cue, George was back.
This time the shine was gone from his eyes, replaced it seemed, by a sense of entitlement.
He wasn’t asking for permission.
He had to have the car again because, well, they were all going on this trip – and they were depending on him.
George made it seem as if to deny him, was un-patriotic.
So off George goes again and, the next thing you know you’re being woken up again, a little later than the last time. Only it isn’t George on the phone, it was someone from the New York Times.
This time it’s more than a little fender bender. This time America is off the road, in a ditch, and two of the boys that were with him are in the hospital.
But George says it’s not his fault. There was a mystery car – came out of nowhere, crossed over into their lane, and would have killed them all if he hadn’t acted decisively. Not only is it not his fault, he is saying, he’s a hero.
The beer in the car? Not his.
The other guy? Didn’t stop.
The final tally? It could have been worse (something tells you it will be): $20 billion for the car repairs, $10 billion for the lawyer to keep his record clean, and an undisclosed donation to the Religious Right.
When the next request for the car comes, you tell yourself, you are going to be ready.
You have developed a few ground rules that will have to be followed: a time-table, benchmarks.
Where, by the way, you plan to ask, is the money Iraq was supposed to contribute to the cost of insurance, George?
But George is playing outside the lines.
Instead of asking you directly – he implements a new strategy. He goes to your wife, and plays on her fears. If he doesn’t get the car, he warns her, his social life will be ruined, he won’t be able to work, and he’ll be at the mercy of that French kid with the Citroen, whenever he needs a ride.
You know she doesn’t know half the story. You know she is basing her decision on information that she was either denied, or that has been modified because of what you might call, national security.
You really should tell her about the accidents and the injuries, and the beer in the car, but then it would become clear that you had been withholding certain facts all along.
So you shrug and turn away, and off George goes.
You’re damn lucky this time.
George is thrown clear of the accident, and has hardly a scratch on him. America though, is a wreck – and the insurance won’t cover the costs. Thank God George wasn’t at the wheel. At least he says he wasn’t driving. It was The Generals.
Whoever is responsible, there is a price to pay this time: George is grounded indefinitely, a lame duck. But he has at least two more years under your roof. Can you really keep him grounded for that entire time?
After only a few weeks, he comes to you, looking tired, sounding apologetic: you don’t know why, but he is making you nervous.
He makes a long and rambling speech, most of which you’ve heard before. He talks about the ‘others’, the ‘mystery driver’, the Generals, and his regret at what happened to the family car.
“Mistakes have been made”, he tells you, adding that he takes full responsibility.
Not legal responsibility. Not financial responsibility. Full responsibility?
He’s learned his lesson.
Not your lesson, his lesson.
“I’m a changed man,” he says, “with a brand new plan: A New Way Forward!”
Things will be different this time, George promises, keeping his head down but holding out his hand with the palm turned up.
He wants the keys.
In the Direction of the Spin
There still doesn’t seem to be a sense of urgency, over here, with the war over there, in Iraq.
I suppose that’s just human nature, but it’s not justice.
Justice delayed, is justice denied.
Here, safe in our homes, we feel we have the time, if we wish, to look up that last quote.
We can take that last bite of egg, get up from the kitchen table, and wander off to the study – where we keep the book of quotations.
The change in routine arouses the suspicion of our spouse, but nothing more.
It is not a risky maneuver.
There are no snipers in the house.
Something the matter, she asks?
No, no, we reply, somewhat disingenuously, just wanted to look something up.
If only we could proceed at that pace, and accomplish something positive.
If only, as the car loses traction on the black ice, turns sideways, and hurtles toward the concrete abutment, we could open up the glove box, remove the informative booklet that the original manufacturer placed there – like the Gideon Bible in a hotel room, and leisurely thumb through its pages until we reach the section on how to handle a loss of traction on ice.
“Turn the wheel in the direction of the spin”.
Perhaps the State Police find the glove box open, the booklet open to the right page, lying on the roof of the overturned vehicle.
Perhaps two troopers make a macabre joke about ‘speed reading’.
Catholic philosopher’s believe that, even in a fatal car crash, the occupants are given one last chance to make their peace with God.
In the fraction of a second between the point at which the concrete pillar smashes through the metal door - and our life ends, Elizabeth Kubler-Ross taught that we can choose between good and evil.
Back at the breakfast table though, that decision is not as easy or, rather, not as urgent.
Death is either an abstract concept or a funny pages cartoon character, hooded, carrying an oversized scythe.
On the back of the newspaper there could be a full page advertisement, of sorts: a very large, bold headline, saying “Choose”, and beneath it, side by side, two boxes.
Underneath the first box, on the left, the word “Good”.
Under the second box, on the right, the word, “Evil”.
But there’s no rush.
We look around and, when there is no pencil or pen within reach, we simply turn the page, to the Sports section.
Through with the scores, we turn to the front page.
“President Ford died?” we exclaim, a bit too loudly.
Somehow we missed it.
The ceremony was held during the Meineke Car Care Bowl.
It was a busy week.
We had the family over on Christmas Eve.
We had our older son down from college, for a few days.
He’s a senior.
It’s hard to believe that four years have gone by already. In May he will graduate. The time has flown by or, rather, it has slipped away.
Disappeared.
I suppose, when you think you are doing the right thing, it is alright to let the time slip away: okay, to muse on the meaning of things.
But what if his dorm were on fire?
What if the people in Waterville were busy loading up their used cars with explosives?
You visit the campus during Parents Weekend and are amused at the students sleepwalking through the day: wearing their slippers to breakfast, hardly appearing to wake at all as they go to classes, to concerts, plays, hockey games.
What if the people of Waterville, wearing masks and dressed up as police, kidnapped entire classes of students, and took them off to the woods and beheaded them?
Would that catch our attention, create a sense of urgency?
You have to wonder.
The ‘shock and awe’ is over, and what remains is the clean-up.
We are not very good at the clean-up.
The President took his time too, cutting brush at the ranch, consulting with his advisors, reading his paper.
On TV the cameras caught him greeting the Iraqi Prime Minister. From a distance you could see his lips moving and you may have been able to make out the words: “turn the wheel in the direction of the spin”.
There was no time to waste before the war began, and now – well, now he’s got all the time in the world.
It’s sad.
I am reminded of the scenes from the film Woodstock, as the last revelers dragged themselves away, draped in mud-stained blankets, over a wasteland of trash, to the elegiac accompaniment of Jimi Hendrix’ Star Spangled Banner.
We start off so full of enthusiasm, but then we just seem to lose interest.
I think President Bush is counting on that.
I suppose that’s just human nature, but it’s not justice.
Justice delayed, is justice denied.
Here, safe in our homes, we feel we have the time, if we wish, to look up that last quote.
We can take that last bite of egg, get up from the kitchen table, and wander off to the study – where we keep the book of quotations.
The change in routine arouses the suspicion of our spouse, but nothing more.
It is not a risky maneuver.
There are no snipers in the house.
Something the matter, she asks?
No, no, we reply, somewhat disingenuously, just wanted to look something up.
If only we could proceed at that pace, and accomplish something positive.
If only, as the car loses traction on the black ice, turns sideways, and hurtles toward the concrete abutment, we could open up the glove box, remove the informative booklet that the original manufacturer placed there – like the Gideon Bible in a hotel room, and leisurely thumb through its pages until we reach the section on how to handle a loss of traction on ice.
“Turn the wheel in the direction of the spin”.
Perhaps the State Police find the glove box open, the booklet open to the right page, lying on the roof of the overturned vehicle.
Perhaps two troopers make a macabre joke about ‘speed reading’.
Catholic philosopher’s believe that, even in a fatal car crash, the occupants are given one last chance to make their peace with God.
In the fraction of a second between the point at which the concrete pillar smashes through the metal door - and our life ends, Elizabeth Kubler-Ross taught that we can choose between good and evil.
Back at the breakfast table though, that decision is not as easy or, rather, not as urgent.
Death is either an abstract concept or a funny pages cartoon character, hooded, carrying an oversized scythe.
On the back of the newspaper there could be a full page advertisement, of sorts: a very large, bold headline, saying “Choose”, and beneath it, side by side, two boxes.
Underneath the first box, on the left, the word “Good”.
Under the second box, on the right, the word, “Evil”.
But there’s no rush.
We look around and, when there is no pencil or pen within reach, we simply turn the page, to the Sports section.
Through with the scores, we turn to the front page.
“President Ford died?” we exclaim, a bit too loudly.
Somehow we missed it.
The ceremony was held during the Meineke Car Care Bowl.
It was a busy week.
We had the family over on Christmas Eve.
We had our older son down from college, for a few days.
He’s a senior.
It’s hard to believe that four years have gone by already. In May he will graduate. The time has flown by or, rather, it has slipped away.
Disappeared.
I suppose, when you think you are doing the right thing, it is alright to let the time slip away: okay, to muse on the meaning of things.
But what if his dorm were on fire?
What if the people in Waterville were busy loading up their used cars with explosives?
You visit the campus during Parents Weekend and are amused at the students sleepwalking through the day: wearing their slippers to breakfast, hardly appearing to wake at all as they go to classes, to concerts, plays, hockey games.
What if the people of Waterville, wearing masks and dressed up as police, kidnapped entire classes of students, and took them off to the woods and beheaded them?
Would that catch our attention, create a sense of urgency?
You have to wonder.
The ‘shock and awe’ is over, and what remains is the clean-up.
We are not very good at the clean-up.
The President took his time too, cutting brush at the ranch, consulting with his advisors, reading his paper.
On TV the cameras caught him greeting the Iraqi Prime Minister. From a distance you could see his lips moving and you may have been able to make out the words: “turn the wheel in the direction of the spin”.
There was no time to waste before the war began, and now – well, now he’s got all the time in the world.
It’s sad.
I am reminded of the scenes from the film Woodstock, as the last revelers dragged themselves away, draped in mud-stained blankets, over a wasteland of trash, to the elegiac accompaniment of Jimi Hendrix’ Star Spangled Banner.
We start off so full of enthusiasm, but then we just seem to lose interest.
I think President Bush is counting on that.
Foaming at the Mouth
There’s Soothing Aloe in my shaving cream, but I am not sure that I am getting the full effect.
I thought of leaving the shaving cream on for a few minutes, before I shaved – to let the Aloe do its thing, but I really haven’t got the time.
Besides, there’s nothing in the instructions, on the can, about giving the Aloe more time.
I’m worried, and not just about skin irritation.
I’m worried that the Aloe is hanging out with the wrong crowd.
I checked out the fine print: the Aloe is fifth in line, in its gang of ingredients.
Water is number one, followed by Stearic Acid, Triethanolamine (TEA), and Laureth-23.
Coincidentally, I used to date a girl named Laureth-23.
Anyway, in this particular can I am not sure if Aloe –even Soothing Aloe, feels comfortable speaking up.
When I was a lot younger, the guys I used to hang with were a bit uncomfortable with the soothing side of the emotional spectrum, especially in large groups.
It could also be that Stearic Acid, TEA, and Laureth, are simply not giving Aloe the opportunity to fully express herself.
When it comes to shaving cream – I am told, it’s all about the foam.
The Stearic Acid – a naturally occurring fat, is the foam’s foundation. The TEA whips it up. And Laureth-23 adds a final, if insincere touch.
Soothing Aloe?
My sense is that Soothing Aloe’s only real contribution - to this particular brand of shaving cream, is like that of an old jock selling insurance.
Hey, whether we want to admit it or not, fame is still a powerful tool in advertising’s arsenal.
There’s a reason why Buick pays Tiger, and Hanes pays Jordan.
The truth is that, if I had to choose whether to buy shaving cream from - say, my old girlfriend Laureth-23, or the well-known Soothing Aloe, it’s going to be Aloe almost every time.
That is of course, until it dawns on me that I am being taken for a ride, so to speak.
I don’t usually go around questioning the ingredients in the products I use. I take it for granted that they are there for a reason.
But if you can’t trust Soothing Aloe, it makes you think.
What ingredients can you trust?
Is there really any vanilla, in Vanilla Coke?
And even if Vanilla is there, is it just a token natural ingredient, there to give the others some cover: like Secretary of State Colin Powel, in the Bush Administration?
Or maybe I have the wrong metaphor in mind.
Maybe a product’s ingredients are like rabbits and flowers and silk handkerchiefs: the items hidden in the magician’s cloak, before he even starts the show.
Each ingredient has its own part in the show, and all contribute incrementally, to achieving the desired effect – to the magic.
Even so, given the way that it is billed on the can, Soothing Aloe is clearly supposed to be the big number, the rabbit out of the hat. So when the rabbit that emerges is a bit scraggly, or worse – the overall effect is less than stirring.
And when the magic is gone, you begin to question everything, even whether you are getting a good, close shave.
I am reminded of Rocky and Bullwinkle – a flying squirrel and a moose, respectively. They never had their own shaving cream, but they had their own show – a half hour cartoon, back when that was truly a radical idea.
They used to segue to commercial with a little 15-second cartoon, all its own.
“Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat,” Bullwinkle would say.
“Again?”, the flying squirrel would whine, with real exasperation.
And always - instead of a cute, harmless rabbit, an angry rhinoceros or a roaring lion would appear.
Rocky and Bullwinkle seemed to winking at the audience, saying, ‘we’re having fun now, sure, but sooner or later the fun has to end and accounts must be settled’.
Face up to it: everything, in our society, has a hidden price.
And that goes double for Soothing Aloe.
Column Ingredients:
Words: You know, words.
Laureth-23: 1. An emulsifier. The polyethylene glycol ether of lauryl alcohol. 2. An old girlfriend. Her family were abstract expressionists.
Soothing Aloe: A popular entertainer in 19th Century England, noted for her perfect complexion
TEA (Triethanolamine): Produced by ammonolysis of ethylene oxide. Neutralizes carbomer solutions to form gels. Neutralizes stearic acid to form anionic emulsions and acts as an alkalizing agent to control pH.
Stearic acid: A common, naturally occurring fatty acid, widely used as an inexpensive primary emulsifying agent. When neutralized with triethanolamine, it functions as a tremendous thickening agent. Its soap-like character enables it to penetrate the skin and to have emollient, skin-softening properties.
Sodium Laureth Suffate: 1. Laureth-23’s mother. 2. The sodium salt of sulfated ethoxylated lauryl alcohol. A high foaming, viscous surfactant, milder to the skin than sodium lauryl sulfate. Excellent cleansing agent for shampoos.
Original Humor: A short-lived froth that neutralizes old girlfriends, forms unattached emulsions, acts as a socializing agent.
I thought of leaving the shaving cream on for a few minutes, before I shaved – to let the Aloe do its thing, but I really haven’t got the time.
Besides, there’s nothing in the instructions, on the can, about giving the Aloe more time.
I’m worried, and not just about skin irritation.
I’m worried that the Aloe is hanging out with the wrong crowd.
I checked out the fine print: the Aloe is fifth in line, in its gang of ingredients.
Water is number one, followed by Stearic Acid, Triethanolamine (TEA), and Laureth-23.
Coincidentally, I used to date a girl named Laureth-23.
Anyway, in this particular can I am not sure if Aloe –even Soothing Aloe, feels comfortable speaking up.
When I was a lot younger, the guys I used to hang with were a bit uncomfortable with the soothing side of the emotional spectrum, especially in large groups.
It could also be that Stearic Acid, TEA, and Laureth, are simply not giving Aloe the opportunity to fully express herself.
When it comes to shaving cream – I am told, it’s all about the foam.
The Stearic Acid – a naturally occurring fat, is the foam’s foundation. The TEA whips it up. And Laureth-23 adds a final, if insincere touch.
Soothing Aloe?
My sense is that Soothing Aloe’s only real contribution - to this particular brand of shaving cream, is like that of an old jock selling insurance.
Hey, whether we want to admit it or not, fame is still a powerful tool in advertising’s arsenal.
There’s a reason why Buick pays Tiger, and Hanes pays Jordan.
The truth is that, if I had to choose whether to buy shaving cream from - say, my old girlfriend Laureth-23, or the well-known Soothing Aloe, it’s going to be Aloe almost every time.
That is of course, until it dawns on me that I am being taken for a ride, so to speak.
I don’t usually go around questioning the ingredients in the products I use. I take it for granted that they are there for a reason.
But if you can’t trust Soothing Aloe, it makes you think.
What ingredients can you trust?
Is there really any vanilla, in Vanilla Coke?
And even if Vanilla is there, is it just a token natural ingredient, there to give the others some cover: like Secretary of State Colin Powel, in the Bush Administration?
Or maybe I have the wrong metaphor in mind.
Maybe a product’s ingredients are like rabbits and flowers and silk handkerchiefs: the items hidden in the magician’s cloak, before he even starts the show.
Each ingredient has its own part in the show, and all contribute incrementally, to achieving the desired effect – to the magic.
Even so, given the way that it is billed on the can, Soothing Aloe is clearly supposed to be the big number, the rabbit out of the hat. So when the rabbit that emerges is a bit scraggly, or worse – the overall effect is less than stirring.
And when the magic is gone, you begin to question everything, even whether you are getting a good, close shave.
I am reminded of Rocky and Bullwinkle – a flying squirrel and a moose, respectively. They never had their own shaving cream, but they had their own show – a half hour cartoon, back when that was truly a radical idea.
They used to segue to commercial with a little 15-second cartoon, all its own.
“Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat,” Bullwinkle would say.
“Again?”, the flying squirrel would whine, with real exasperation.
And always - instead of a cute, harmless rabbit, an angry rhinoceros or a roaring lion would appear.
Rocky and Bullwinkle seemed to winking at the audience, saying, ‘we’re having fun now, sure, but sooner or later the fun has to end and accounts must be settled’.
Face up to it: everything, in our society, has a hidden price.
And that goes double for Soothing Aloe.
Column Ingredients:
Words: You know, words.
Laureth-23: 1. An emulsifier. The polyethylene glycol ether of lauryl alcohol. 2. An old girlfriend. Her family were abstract expressionists.
Soothing Aloe: A popular entertainer in 19th Century England, noted for her perfect complexion
TEA (Triethanolamine): Produced by ammonolysis of ethylene oxide. Neutralizes carbomer solutions to form gels. Neutralizes stearic acid to form anionic emulsions and acts as an alkalizing agent to control pH.
Stearic acid: A common, naturally occurring fatty acid, widely used as an inexpensive primary emulsifying agent. When neutralized with triethanolamine, it functions as a tremendous thickening agent. Its soap-like character enables it to penetrate the skin and to have emollient, skin-softening properties.
Sodium Laureth Suffate: 1. Laureth-23’s mother. 2. The sodium salt of sulfated ethoxylated lauryl alcohol. A high foaming, viscous surfactant, milder to the skin than sodium lauryl sulfate. Excellent cleansing agent for shampoos.
Original Humor: A short-lived froth that neutralizes old girlfriends, forms unattached emulsions, acts as a socializing agent.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Talking Through My Hat
The days of the hat are numbered.
I say this not because I dislike hats but because, on the contrary, I realize that I have become a hat person.
I have, I was surprised to recently discover, at least 23 hats in my possession.
Let me tell you a little story. When I was a child I had a particularly traumatic experience that resulted in a day off from school, spent with my mother – shopping, in Berlin, Germany.
Don’t get the wrong impression. I am not a child of wealth. I was not flown to Germany for this occasion. My father was in the Air Force and we were ‘stationed’ there.
In any case, concerned with my emotional state, my mother asked me if there was anything I would like to buy, anything. This, you should know, was before the age of $1500 EBay offers for Playstation 3. There were very few toys, at that time, which required loan approval before purchasing.
Mom was not taking a big risk.
Still, I knew that this was in all likelihood a one-time offer, and that I should take full advantage of it.
“Anything”, I asked her, looking for a firm commitment?
“Anything”, she said.
“Beatle Boots”.
I wanted a pair of the black, boot-like shoes with the elastic uppers, which the Beatles wore in ‘Hard Day’s Night’.
So off we went, in search of Beatle Boots.
Do I need to tell you that there were no Beatle Boots in all of Berlin? Do I need to tell you that, in all likelihood, there were no Beatle Boots in all of Europe?
What I need to tell you – my point, is that I am not what the trend watchers would call ‘an early adopter’.
I am in fact, someone who is behind the curve, off the edge, a trend-ender.
Not that I care.
It’s a safe and secure feeling, to be out of the loop.
When you are a trend-setter, on the cutting edge, and in the loop, you take a lot of criticism.
When you always lag a few steps behind the latest and the greatest, on the other hand, you get treated with the kind of patience reserved for the very old, or for small pets.
A trend setter may be considered ‘odd’, a trend-ender only ‘quaint’.
And trend-enders tend to be loyal longer. That is, those who are obsessed with the latest, often are the first to abandon their ‘love’, while those who come to the appreciation of a thing after a long and slow courtship tend to be faithful.
I love my hats: not with the hot, obsessive fervor of youth, but with the warm, enduring love of maturity.
The trend-setter may have two or three audacious hats that he, or she, wore every day for a few months. But I – as I told you, have at least 23 hats, which I only don when the mood is just right.
One of my favorite hats is a dark blue, all wool Tibetan that can be collapsed in to an almost normal look, or expanded, straight up, for nearly a foot. It’s a winter hat though, and I refuse to put it on unless there’s snow on the ground or the Dali Lama is in town.
I also have a wide-brimmed straw hat which I acquired at Sturbridge Village that I have only worn once – to the great amusement of friends and family. This is a hat that will probably always be out of fashion – which suits me just fine.
I have a beret, somewhere, though I haven’t seen it in years.
I have a gray wool Kangol that I have had a hard time wearing since I let my hair grow long. It still fits, but all that hair sticking out from each side is hard to live up to.
Of course I also have a number of baseball caps. My favorite, I think, is the one I got at my son’s college. It is an all-wool, old-style ball cap with a white felt ‘C” sewn on the front and no other adornment. It is a bit worn though, and not exactly clean – but it is the kind of hat that you are supposed to wear out and wear down.
I refuse, by the way, to purchase a hat that has been ‘pre-distressed’. I prefer to take the time to pick out a hat I really like and actually wear it. For that reason many of my hats are ‘like new’, and should last until hats are have regained their currency.
I did however, recently acquire a Red Sox cap that is designed to look like the style Ted Williams wore in his rookie year, 1939.
I am not sure exactly why, but I believe that there is an ethical difference between trying to make something new look old, and buying a new version of an old style.
Then again, I went ballistic when I heard about people paying $100 and more for classic Rock & Roll tee shirts that had been ‘re-created’. I used to have an old black ‘Who’’ tee shirt that I wore until it evaporated.
It’s existentially ‘in bad faith’ to pretend you were part of a trend that, in a real sense, has not ever completely disappeared from the marketplace.
A trend should have to be dead and buried before it can be brought back again, at a significantly higher price. To wear a new version of that old Who tee today would seem to me, ghoulish.
It is issues like that which would prevent me from becoming an early adopter – even if I cared to join their ranks.
A trend-setter cannot analyze: he or she has to be like a hermit crab. When the new styles come out, they must immediately jettison the old shell and put on the new one.
I am like an old bear looking for a new cave: I am not too concerned about the style, or the amenities, or the neighborhood. But after a few months of hibernation, I tend to become attached to the cave I have chosen.
I have become attached to my hats.
Trend-setters take note!
I say this not because I dislike hats but because, on the contrary, I realize that I have become a hat person.
I have, I was surprised to recently discover, at least 23 hats in my possession.
Let me tell you a little story. When I was a child I had a particularly traumatic experience that resulted in a day off from school, spent with my mother – shopping, in Berlin, Germany.
Don’t get the wrong impression. I am not a child of wealth. I was not flown to Germany for this occasion. My father was in the Air Force and we were ‘stationed’ there.
In any case, concerned with my emotional state, my mother asked me if there was anything I would like to buy, anything. This, you should know, was before the age of $1500 EBay offers for Playstation 3. There were very few toys, at that time, which required loan approval before purchasing.
Mom was not taking a big risk.
Still, I knew that this was in all likelihood a one-time offer, and that I should take full advantage of it.
“Anything”, I asked her, looking for a firm commitment?
“Anything”, she said.
“Beatle Boots”.
I wanted a pair of the black, boot-like shoes with the elastic uppers, which the Beatles wore in ‘Hard Day’s Night’.
So off we went, in search of Beatle Boots.
Do I need to tell you that there were no Beatle Boots in all of Berlin? Do I need to tell you that, in all likelihood, there were no Beatle Boots in all of Europe?
What I need to tell you – my point, is that I am not what the trend watchers would call ‘an early adopter’.
I am in fact, someone who is behind the curve, off the edge, a trend-ender.
Not that I care.
It’s a safe and secure feeling, to be out of the loop.
When you are a trend-setter, on the cutting edge, and in the loop, you take a lot of criticism.
When you always lag a few steps behind the latest and the greatest, on the other hand, you get treated with the kind of patience reserved for the very old, or for small pets.
A trend setter may be considered ‘odd’, a trend-ender only ‘quaint’.
And trend-enders tend to be loyal longer. That is, those who are obsessed with the latest, often are the first to abandon their ‘love’, while those who come to the appreciation of a thing after a long and slow courtship tend to be faithful.
I love my hats: not with the hot, obsessive fervor of youth, but with the warm, enduring love of maturity.
The trend-setter may have two or three audacious hats that he, or she, wore every day for a few months. But I – as I told you, have at least 23 hats, which I only don when the mood is just right.
One of my favorite hats is a dark blue, all wool Tibetan that can be collapsed in to an almost normal look, or expanded, straight up, for nearly a foot. It’s a winter hat though, and I refuse to put it on unless there’s snow on the ground or the Dali Lama is in town.
I also have a wide-brimmed straw hat which I acquired at Sturbridge Village that I have only worn once – to the great amusement of friends and family. This is a hat that will probably always be out of fashion – which suits me just fine.
I have a beret, somewhere, though I haven’t seen it in years.
I have a gray wool Kangol that I have had a hard time wearing since I let my hair grow long. It still fits, but all that hair sticking out from each side is hard to live up to.
Of course I also have a number of baseball caps. My favorite, I think, is the one I got at my son’s college. It is an all-wool, old-style ball cap with a white felt ‘C” sewn on the front and no other adornment. It is a bit worn though, and not exactly clean – but it is the kind of hat that you are supposed to wear out and wear down.
I refuse, by the way, to purchase a hat that has been ‘pre-distressed’. I prefer to take the time to pick out a hat I really like and actually wear it. For that reason many of my hats are ‘like new’, and should last until hats are have regained their currency.
I did however, recently acquire a Red Sox cap that is designed to look like the style Ted Williams wore in his rookie year, 1939.
I am not sure exactly why, but I believe that there is an ethical difference between trying to make something new look old, and buying a new version of an old style.
Then again, I went ballistic when I heard about people paying $100 and more for classic Rock & Roll tee shirts that had been ‘re-created’. I used to have an old black ‘Who’’ tee shirt that I wore until it evaporated.
It’s existentially ‘in bad faith’ to pretend you were part of a trend that, in a real sense, has not ever completely disappeared from the marketplace.
A trend should have to be dead and buried before it can be brought back again, at a significantly higher price. To wear a new version of that old Who tee today would seem to me, ghoulish.
It is issues like that which would prevent me from becoming an early adopter – even if I cared to join their ranks.
A trend-setter cannot analyze: he or she has to be like a hermit crab. When the new styles come out, they must immediately jettison the old shell and put on the new one.
I am like an old bear looking for a new cave: I am not too concerned about the style, or the amenities, or the neighborhood. But after a few months of hibernation, I tend to become attached to the cave I have chosen.
I have become attached to my hats.
Trend-setters take note!
In No Particular Order
Every year at this time we (meaning the collective we, who allow our lives to be controlled by what other people (other than we?) appear to think) make up lists of things that are allegedly the best or most significant of the past year.
If that was going to be the subject of my column this week you’d have every right to stop reading right here. After all, in terms of other people (meaning the others who are or at some point were on somebody else’s list of significant people) I don’t really qualify as one of the better or most significant people who every year at this time make up those lists.
But I’m not going to do that – not exactly.
Instead I’m going to list those things, people, events, and random occurrences that during the past year (or whenever I feel like it) had meaning for ME – meaning the actual me, not a royal me, or an omniscient me. Just me: an admittedly egotistical me who’s annual lists of the best and worst don’t usually coincide with the other’s lists.
Person of the Year
It’s unanimous. Once again it’s Mary, my wife. The bread winner, the bread
maker, the shake your money maker. I could go on, but she would kill me.
Beer of the Year
The Old Speckled Hen. It comes in those cans that have a nitrogen dispenser built in to the bottom, so you get a real creamy head. Man that was good, Bob.
Year of the Year
I believe we’re on a 35 year cycle. That is, fashion – in music, clothes, and the arts, repeats itself every thirty five years. So this year was really 1971, which was a very significant year for me. I was 16, the Stone’s Exile on Main Street had just come out, and my dad was in Vietnam sending home articles about the dangers of marijuana use.
Sports Event of the Year
It has to have been my first round of golf in ten years. I went out with two brothers-in-law and a friend, and managed a very respectable 126 at Waverly Oaks. If I continue to play once every ten years, I know I can get it down to the high 110’s or so.
Gadget of the Year
Heelies. I know the school custodians don’t like them, but I see them as a kind of crowd control device. Did you ever notice how kids with heelies are quieter than other kids? I’d be in favor of building heelie parks, where large groups of pre-teens could glide silently back and forth for hours and hours while their parents golf. I wonder if someone could invent gloves that light up and quietly hum when you softly clap them together?
Fast Food of the Year
I haven’t had any, but I like the idea of those bowls that KFC offers, layered with just about everything they make. I have this idea for a restaurant chain called “Left Overs”, where everything on the menu is meant to taste like leftovers. Everything would be made in advance, and put together later. Our slogan would be ‘Not Just Comfort Food, Left Overs!’
Car of the Year
My vintage 93 Escort Wagon. The back left door doesn’t open, the trunk is a bowlful of rusted water, it doesn’t even have a cassette player, loses traction in a quarter inch of snow, makes a god-awful whining, grinding noise if you don’t give it an hour to warm up, and smells like the inside of a Clean Harbors truck - but it starts up every morning and takes me across the bridge to the sanitarium.
Our old Camry came in a close second: it looks better than the Escort and drives well, but cost me over two thousand to keep on the road this year.
If my well had wheels it would have been the runaway winner.
Movie of the Year
My movie rating system usually does not go beyond three levels. At the bottom with one kernel of unpopped popcorn is Not That Bad, followed by two kernels of unpopped popcorn which translates to A Waste of Time, followed by three kernels, which are only given out to films that reach the pinnacle of my diminished expectations – Remarkably Bad. This year the film Lady in the Water received an almost unheard of four kernels of unpopped popcorn. It was, truly, Worse than I Expected.
Song of the Year
My rating system for songs, is similar to my rating system for movies. I’m really only interested in talking about songs I dislike. If I like a song, I don’t want to talk about it, I want to listen to it.
That said, Death Cab for Cutie’s morose and melodic I’ll Follow You Into the Dark is a remarkably indulgent embrace of meaninglessness. For no particular reason, with a muddled philosophical perspective, and with bright and cheery acoustic guitar accompaniment, this song looks forward to the day when the singer will gladly join a generic ‘love’ when her cosmic GPS malfunctions and she ends up spending eternity at a rest stop on the Afterlife Interstate.
It’s a Rod McKuen meets the Grim Reaper kind of song: MacArthur Park on the Day of the Dead.
I could go on.
Lord knows I could go on and on.
But I know you probably need as much time as you can find, for the other lists that the others are asking you to consider at this time of year: the disaster lists, the war lists, the signs of the Apocalypse list, and so on.
Somebody should be put in charge of making an official master list of lists, that busy people like yourself could consult at their leisure.
After all, at some point, we’ve got to stop making and reading lists, and start living again.
Put that somewhere on your list.
If that was going to be the subject of my column this week you’d have every right to stop reading right here. After all, in terms of other people (meaning the others who are or at some point were on somebody else’s list of significant people) I don’t really qualify as one of the better or most significant people who every year at this time make up those lists.
But I’m not going to do that – not exactly.
Instead I’m going to list those things, people, events, and random occurrences that during the past year (or whenever I feel like it) had meaning for ME – meaning the actual me, not a royal me, or an omniscient me. Just me: an admittedly egotistical me who’s annual lists of the best and worst don’t usually coincide with the other’s lists.
Person of the Year
It’s unanimous. Once again it’s Mary, my wife. The bread winner, the bread
maker, the shake your money maker. I could go on, but she would kill me.
Beer of the Year
The Old Speckled Hen. It comes in those cans that have a nitrogen dispenser built in to the bottom, so you get a real creamy head. Man that was good, Bob.
Year of the Year
I believe we’re on a 35 year cycle. That is, fashion – in music, clothes, and the arts, repeats itself every thirty five years. So this year was really 1971, which was a very significant year for me. I was 16, the Stone’s Exile on Main Street had just come out, and my dad was in Vietnam sending home articles about the dangers of marijuana use.
Sports Event of the Year
It has to have been my first round of golf in ten years. I went out with two brothers-in-law and a friend, and managed a very respectable 126 at Waverly Oaks. If I continue to play once every ten years, I know I can get it down to the high 110’s or so.
Gadget of the Year
Heelies. I know the school custodians don’t like them, but I see them as a kind of crowd control device. Did you ever notice how kids with heelies are quieter than other kids? I’d be in favor of building heelie parks, where large groups of pre-teens could glide silently back and forth for hours and hours while their parents golf. I wonder if someone could invent gloves that light up and quietly hum when you softly clap them together?
Fast Food of the Year
I haven’t had any, but I like the idea of those bowls that KFC offers, layered with just about everything they make. I have this idea for a restaurant chain called “Left Overs”, where everything on the menu is meant to taste like leftovers. Everything would be made in advance, and put together later. Our slogan would be ‘Not Just Comfort Food, Left Overs!’
Car of the Year
My vintage 93 Escort Wagon. The back left door doesn’t open, the trunk is a bowlful of rusted water, it doesn’t even have a cassette player, loses traction in a quarter inch of snow, makes a god-awful whining, grinding noise if you don’t give it an hour to warm up, and smells like the inside of a Clean Harbors truck - but it starts up every morning and takes me across the bridge to the sanitarium.
Our old Camry came in a close second: it looks better than the Escort and drives well, but cost me over two thousand to keep on the road this year.
If my well had wheels it would have been the runaway winner.
Movie of the Year
My movie rating system usually does not go beyond three levels. At the bottom with one kernel of unpopped popcorn is Not That Bad, followed by two kernels of unpopped popcorn which translates to A Waste of Time, followed by three kernels, which are only given out to films that reach the pinnacle of my diminished expectations – Remarkably Bad. This year the film Lady in the Water received an almost unheard of four kernels of unpopped popcorn. It was, truly, Worse than I Expected.
Song of the Year
My rating system for songs, is similar to my rating system for movies. I’m really only interested in talking about songs I dislike. If I like a song, I don’t want to talk about it, I want to listen to it.
That said, Death Cab for Cutie’s morose and melodic I’ll Follow You Into the Dark is a remarkably indulgent embrace of meaninglessness. For no particular reason, with a muddled philosophical perspective, and with bright and cheery acoustic guitar accompaniment, this song looks forward to the day when the singer will gladly join a generic ‘love’ when her cosmic GPS malfunctions and she ends up spending eternity at a rest stop on the Afterlife Interstate.
It’s a Rod McKuen meets the Grim Reaper kind of song: MacArthur Park on the Day of the Dead.
I could go on.
Lord knows I could go on and on.
But I know you probably need as much time as you can find, for the other lists that the others are asking you to consider at this time of year: the disaster lists, the war lists, the signs of the Apocalypse list, and so on.
Somebody should be put in charge of making an official master list of lists, that busy people like yourself could consult at their leisure.
After all, at some point, we’ve got to stop making and reading lists, and start living again.
Put that somewhere on your list.
First Footing
• Fresh!
• Best Used by December 31, 2007.
• From Scratch.
• No fillers.
• Like new.
• No, actually new.
• Unheard of!
• Newly minted.
• Still warm.
• Off the top of my head?
• Out of thin air.
• Working without a net.
• A leap of faith.
• Boldly going where no one has gone before because, well, it wasn’t there yesterday.
• A shock to the senses.
• A break from the past.
• Startling.
• Un-nerving.
• Out of the ordinary.
Sounds expensive, doesn’t it?
Ah yes, the New Year holds such promise.
It’s a do-over, a cosmic Mulligan, a last minute reprieve from the ‘Governor’, a get-out-of-jail free card, a pass go and collect $200 and moon the ticket taker as you fly by kind of feeling.
• A Gold Card with no limit.
• The key, as Willie Dixon sings, to the highway.
Or it’s hell.
• The Highway to Hell.
• No Exit.
In the play by Sartre, the lesbian loves the woman who loves the man who loves the lesbian – and they have only each other, for an eternity of New Years.
• A vicious cycle.
• A closed loop.
• A windowless room.
• A revolving door.
• A bummer man!
• The same old same old.
• A nauseating ride on a Merry Go Round and Round and Round.
In Scotland the old folks take New Years very seriously. They have a holiday, of sorts, that they call ‘First Footing’.
You know how it goes: if you get off on the wrong foot, if you get out of bed on the wrong side, if you step on a crack it’s not just your mother who is going to pay.
I was once riding as a passenger in the front seat of a Plymouth Valiant that turned up a hill in Braintree in to the last rays of the setting sun and one spear of sunlight caught the windshield at precisely the right angle so that it seemed to snare itself on a small, almost imperceptible gouge in the glass – probably where a small stone had glanced off it some time before, and the gleam caught my eye and, before I knew what I was doing – like a bullfrog snapping at a shiny lure a sadistic boy had dropped in front of it, I tapped the illuminated spot lightly with just the tip of my right index finger and the crack made a high pitched moan and instantly spidered out across the entire windshield.
Know what I mean?
Have you ever run out onto an icy pond and realized, at the last moment, that the ice is a bit on the thin side?
Have you ever heard the ice singing, like whales sounding the deep, and realized that what you were hearing was the sound of gaps, fissures, and imperfections in what you thought was a solid mass: the sound of its slow, but inevitable destruction?
That’s what can happen, the old Scots believe, if you don’t treat the New Year with respect.
Those first few hours of the New Year are fragile.
In the first dawning of January reality has just come out of the oven of the universe and needs a few weeks to cool and set up properly.
• Disturb it before it has set and, nothing good can happen.
• Walk on it too soon, and it will give way.
• Laugh too loudly and your appliances will begin to fail, one by one.
• Your well will run dry.
• Your tires will all go flat.
And so these superstitious folk make special preparations for the New Year, and for the first visitors who come to call.
They may never entertain another soul the rest of the year but the first person to come through their door in the New Year is treated like the prodigal son: lavished with gifts, given the best whisky to drink, the chair by the fire, even allowed to hold the remote.
They err on the side of caution.
Even paranoid people are not wrong all of the time.
Who knows who this visitor really is?
That first friendly face may hide a demon, in disguise.
Or an angel on the lam.
A neighbor they want to impress.
Treat him or her or it right and everything that follows will be dewy and fresh and sparkling, and you will feel the same the entire year.
Slip up and those visitors may never leave.
Do you have a friend, or a family member who happened to show up on New Year’s Day and has never left?
Or a stray cat that wandered in that day?
• Squirrels in the attic?
• Turkeys in the yard?
Did you have a good year?
Make sure you get off on the right foot.
• Best Used by December 31, 2007.
• From Scratch.
• No fillers.
• Like new.
• No, actually new.
• Unheard of!
• Newly minted.
• Still warm.
• Off the top of my head?
• Out of thin air.
• Working without a net.
• A leap of faith.
• Boldly going where no one has gone before because, well, it wasn’t there yesterday.
• A shock to the senses.
• A break from the past.
• Startling.
• Un-nerving.
• Out of the ordinary.
Sounds expensive, doesn’t it?
Ah yes, the New Year holds such promise.
It’s a do-over, a cosmic Mulligan, a last minute reprieve from the ‘Governor’, a get-out-of-jail free card, a pass go and collect $200 and moon the ticket taker as you fly by kind of feeling.
• A Gold Card with no limit.
• The key, as Willie Dixon sings, to the highway.
Or it’s hell.
• The Highway to Hell.
• No Exit.
In the play by Sartre, the lesbian loves the woman who loves the man who loves the lesbian – and they have only each other, for an eternity of New Years.
• A vicious cycle.
• A closed loop.
• A windowless room.
• A revolving door.
• A bummer man!
• The same old same old.
• A nauseating ride on a Merry Go Round and Round and Round.
In Scotland the old folks take New Years very seriously. They have a holiday, of sorts, that they call ‘First Footing’.
You know how it goes: if you get off on the wrong foot, if you get out of bed on the wrong side, if you step on a crack it’s not just your mother who is going to pay.
I was once riding as a passenger in the front seat of a Plymouth Valiant that turned up a hill in Braintree in to the last rays of the setting sun and one spear of sunlight caught the windshield at precisely the right angle so that it seemed to snare itself on a small, almost imperceptible gouge in the glass – probably where a small stone had glanced off it some time before, and the gleam caught my eye and, before I knew what I was doing – like a bullfrog snapping at a shiny lure a sadistic boy had dropped in front of it, I tapped the illuminated spot lightly with just the tip of my right index finger and the crack made a high pitched moan and instantly spidered out across the entire windshield.
Know what I mean?
Have you ever run out onto an icy pond and realized, at the last moment, that the ice is a bit on the thin side?
Have you ever heard the ice singing, like whales sounding the deep, and realized that what you were hearing was the sound of gaps, fissures, and imperfections in what you thought was a solid mass: the sound of its slow, but inevitable destruction?
That’s what can happen, the old Scots believe, if you don’t treat the New Year with respect.
Those first few hours of the New Year are fragile.
In the first dawning of January reality has just come out of the oven of the universe and needs a few weeks to cool and set up properly.
• Disturb it before it has set and, nothing good can happen.
• Walk on it too soon, and it will give way.
• Laugh too loudly and your appliances will begin to fail, one by one.
• Your well will run dry.
• Your tires will all go flat.
And so these superstitious folk make special preparations for the New Year, and for the first visitors who come to call.
They may never entertain another soul the rest of the year but the first person to come through their door in the New Year is treated like the prodigal son: lavished with gifts, given the best whisky to drink, the chair by the fire, even allowed to hold the remote.
They err on the side of caution.
Even paranoid people are not wrong all of the time.
Who knows who this visitor really is?
That first friendly face may hide a demon, in disguise.
Or an angel on the lam.
A neighbor they want to impress.
Treat him or her or it right and everything that follows will be dewy and fresh and sparkling, and you will feel the same the entire year.
Slip up and those visitors may never leave.
Do you have a friend, or a family member who happened to show up on New Year’s Day and has never left?
Or a stray cat that wandered in that day?
• Squirrels in the attic?
• Turkeys in the yard?
Did you have a good year?
Make sure you get off on the right foot.
The American Wii
I’ve got my Wii, but it wasn’t easy, or should I say, it wasn’t easii.
I struck out using the traditional methods of shopping – that is, going to the store and saying, ‘I’d like one of those, pliise’.
I’m pretty stubborn: I actually spent a week going from store to store, thinking that was how it was done.
The clerk at the Wal-Mart just laughed and turned awii.
The associate at Target actually looked a little perturbed.
The Geek at Best Buy looked furtively from side to side, and then gave me her business card.
“No problemii”, she whispered, then winked.
Humiliated and running low on gas, I gave up.
When I got home from my last attempt to physically shop, I went online and typed in the URL that the Geek had on her card.
A brand new Wii, in an unopened box, could be had for just $1100.
I passed.
The next morning I got up at dawn and drove Plymouth’s very own ‘Green Mile’: you know, the ten mile strip of national retail box stores that stretches from Long Pond Road, to Route 80, down Colony Place, and up to the Kingston border.
I was looking for the tell-tale signs that a Wii may have been spotted nearby.
The Five’s were totally Wii-less.
Circuit City and Wal-Mart were quiet, too quiet.
Best Buy was closed, but around the backside of the mall I found that Target was encircled by a long line of carefree teens, disoriented grandparents, and well meaning but late-arriving fathers – in that order.
Pathetically, I joined the line and waited for an hour until the official announcement that they had only 15 units to sell.
I felt like Marlon Brando in ‘On the Waterfront’: beaten down, left out in the cold, not even a contendah.
What’s a guy got to do to get one of those things?
Where was Karl Malden when you needed him?
I drove home and immediately called my Tech Guru, PeeVee: my sister’s thirteen year old son.
PeeVee was kind, though I sensed that he too was smirking, on the other end of the line.
Reluctantly, he told me about a special ‘bot’ that constantly scoured the Internet for Wii tracks, and reported every sighting via email.
“But you have to be quick,” he said, like a Vet delivering the bad news about old Fido, “or they’ll be gone.”
Despite PeeVee’s pessimism, I endeavored to persevere.
I logged on, signed up, and waited.
Five were spotted at Amazon.com, but before I could click on ‘Add to Cart’, that phrase disappeared, replaced momentarily (I swear) by “Too Slow, Old Fahrt”.
Seven were spotted at Best Buy’s Web Site, but when the page loaded the image wouldn’t click.
I rolled my mouse from top to bottom, hoping that they had left a minute section of the image clickable, but the pointer never changed.
Four were available on E-Bay, but the price was still above my pay grade.
After an hour of that particular torture, I was ready to give up.
A Playstation 2 could be had for cheap money, I told myself.
There were X-Boxes aplenty, stacked up behind the glass door.
Instead of giving up though, I made one last try.
I went on the ‘Black Net’, and used the illegal search engine “Gurgle”.
I typed in “Wii Wii Wii, All the Way Home”.
The screen went black, a synthesized fanfare sounded, and a web site that appeared to originate from Inner Mongolia appeared on the screen.
There was a picture of a Yurt – the round, portable home that nomadic Mongolians live in, and in the middle of the one big round room a family of five was playing video games.
…
So I got my Wii, but I think I got much more in the bargain.
It’s like I have a whole new familii.
I don’t see much of Lao-Tsi, his wife, or their three kids, but we stay in close touch as he travels the country, buying the hottest items.
I provide the cash, as needed.
He’s got it all over the competition – even well-to-do teens. He and his family can camp out for weeks, if need be, in their Yurt.
When the goods move to another store, or another mall, the Yurt and family pack up easily on to three ponies.
And with five family members, even being restricted to one Wii, or Playstation, or Elmo per customer, has no effect on our profitability.
I know a lot of people are upset that illegal immigrants are taking our jobs, using our services, crowding our schools.
But you’ve got to love a people willing to stand in line so you can stay home and play video games.
It’s the American wii.
I struck out using the traditional methods of shopping – that is, going to the store and saying, ‘I’d like one of those, pliise’.
I’m pretty stubborn: I actually spent a week going from store to store, thinking that was how it was done.
The clerk at the Wal-Mart just laughed and turned awii.
The associate at Target actually looked a little perturbed.
The Geek at Best Buy looked furtively from side to side, and then gave me her business card.
“No problemii”, she whispered, then winked.
Humiliated and running low on gas, I gave up.
When I got home from my last attempt to physically shop, I went online and typed in the URL that the Geek had on her card.
A brand new Wii, in an unopened box, could be had for just $1100.
I passed.
The next morning I got up at dawn and drove Plymouth’s very own ‘Green Mile’: you know, the ten mile strip of national retail box stores that stretches from Long Pond Road, to Route 80, down Colony Place, and up to the Kingston border.
I was looking for the tell-tale signs that a Wii may have been spotted nearby.
The Five’s were totally Wii-less.
Circuit City and Wal-Mart were quiet, too quiet.
Best Buy was closed, but around the backside of the mall I found that Target was encircled by a long line of carefree teens, disoriented grandparents, and well meaning but late-arriving fathers – in that order.
Pathetically, I joined the line and waited for an hour until the official announcement that they had only 15 units to sell.
I felt like Marlon Brando in ‘On the Waterfront’: beaten down, left out in the cold, not even a contendah.
What’s a guy got to do to get one of those things?
Where was Karl Malden when you needed him?
I drove home and immediately called my Tech Guru, PeeVee: my sister’s thirteen year old son.
PeeVee was kind, though I sensed that he too was smirking, on the other end of the line.
Reluctantly, he told me about a special ‘bot’ that constantly scoured the Internet for Wii tracks, and reported every sighting via email.
“But you have to be quick,” he said, like a Vet delivering the bad news about old Fido, “or they’ll be gone.”
Despite PeeVee’s pessimism, I endeavored to persevere.
I logged on, signed up, and waited.
Five were spotted at Amazon.com, but before I could click on ‘Add to Cart’, that phrase disappeared, replaced momentarily (I swear) by “Too Slow, Old Fahrt”.
Seven were spotted at Best Buy’s Web Site, but when the page loaded the image wouldn’t click.
I rolled my mouse from top to bottom, hoping that they had left a minute section of the image clickable, but the pointer never changed.
Four were available on E-Bay, but the price was still above my pay grade.
After an hour of that particular torture, I was ready to give up.
A Playstation 2 could be had for cheap money, I told myself.
There were X-Boxes aplenty, stacked up behind the glass door.
Instead of giving up though, I made one last try.
I went on the ‘Black Net’, and used the illegal search engine “Gurgle”.
I typed in “Wii Wii Wii, All the Way Home”.
The screen went black, a synthesized fanfare sounded, and a web site that appeared to originate from Inner Mongolia appeared on the screen.
There was a picture of a Yurt – the round, portable home that nomadic Mongolians live in, and in the middle of the one big round room a family of five was playing video games.
…
So I got my Wii, but I think I got much more in the bargain.
It’s like I have a whole new familii.
I don’t see much of Lao-Tsi, his wife, or their three kids, but we stay in close touch as he travels the country, buying the hottest items.
I provide the cash, as needed.
He’s got it all over the competition – even well-to-do teens. He and his family can camp out for weeks, if need be, in their Yurt.
When the goods move to another store, or another mall, the Yurt and family pack up easily on to three ponies.
And with five family members, even being restricted to one Wii, or Playstation, or Elmo per customer, has no effect on our profitability.
I know a lot of people are upset that illegal immigrants are taking our jobs, using our services, crowding our schools.
But you’ve got to love a people willing to stand in line so you can stay home and play video games.
It’s the American wii.
All I Want for Christmas
All I want for Christmas is, what: intellectual justifications, emotional rationalizations, and the big box of all-purpose excuses?
Those would be good, but I want more, a lot more.
I know, I know, I want too much. But what’s wrong with that?
Maybe if they had waited until Christmas to announce that Bolton was going to resign, that Rumsfeld was headed out the door, and that Frist’s Presidential campaign was over before it had begun, I might have been satisfied.
You know how it is with your kids: if you open up any presents early, they’re still going to want the same amount of presents under the tree. You’re not going to be able to argue with them reasonably, because the great gift of childhood is the absence of reason, or logic, from every facet of their lives.
And, to be perfectly frank, that’s what I really want for Christmas: that feeling that anything is possible, no matter what.
I want it not to matter whether I’ve been good or bad.
I want it not to matter if I’ve been naughty or nice.
And so it doesn’t really matter what I get: I just want the gift of feeling that I can ask for anything.
Okay, so I accept that this sounds a bit pathetic, a bit too much like the guy who suddenly wakes up on his fortieth birthday and has an uncontrollable desire for a Porsche. But I swear it’s not like that.
Maybe it’s like that new fangled laughter therapy.
I personally don’t think much of a bunch of middle aged people getting together on the beach and pretending to laugh.
I look at those people and think, laugh now, but as soon as you get home from your Laughter Course, the phone is going to ring and it’s going to be the police saying that your kid’s been picked up for speeding and..
I don’t think you can fake laughter.
I don’t think you can fake tears.
But you have to start somewhere.
For adults it’s easy to get out of the habit of laughing or crying, or asking for things we can’t afford.
But I think there’s a point in just asking.
I believe there is a value in understanding and then openly expressing your desires.
There may be nothing worse than losing touch with what you really want. Because if you do, and suddenly someone or something reminds you what it is you really want – you’re going to be angry and looking for someone to blame.
So I am going to make a point this year of asking - out loud, for things I really want: whether there’s any chance they’ll be in my stocking Christmas morning.
Ready?
I want a Karmann Ghia.
I once heard someone call it, the ‘poor man’s Porsche’.
But it’s less than that.
The Karmann Ghia is a kind of automotive transvestite.
It’s a Volkswagen Beetle trapped in a sport’s cards body.
It’s a slow, unsophisticated antique of a car, but I’ve always loved the way it looks. I like cheap things that are well made. Like a toy ray gun that makes a cool whirring noise and lights up: the Karmann Ghia is the toy raygun of cars.
I want to go to India – for at least a month.
Yes, it’s a mess of a country, with hundreds of millions of desperately poor people, a history so rich it makes ours look like the footnotes on a baseball card, and beauty that I fully expect would overwhelm me.
But I like being overwhelmed.
I’d like to record a blues album. I say this to my friends, fairly regularly, and they don’t take me seriously. But I have a feel for the blues, a passable voice, and friends that are musically gifted.
Instead of blowing a few hundred dollars on a few hours of golf, let’s get some studio time instead.
Which reminds me: I’d like to take saxophone lessons.
I once sat outside the Baltimore Civic Center and realized that the screech of tires that I heard echoing through the concrete city plaza where we were recovering from the intensity of the concert that had just finished, sounded very much like the notes that saxophonist Wayne Shorter had voiced earlier that evening.
The saxophone, I thought at that moment, was the voice of the world: it could sound like a woman in love, a man pretending not to be afraid, a car rounding a corner, or a distant rain cloud perforated by lightning.
Oh, and I’ll need a saxophone too.
Time Travel.
I want to go back in time to several places where I was not able to say just what I wanted, or express myself with sufficient clarity at a critical time: the places where I disappointed myself.
On the afternoon a few days before Christmas in 1975 - for example, when my mother first became sick and, lacking the proper words, I instead made her a grilled peanut butter and banana sandwich that she promptly threw up;
On the day of my best friend Mike’s wedding when, as Best Man, I was supposed to say something meaningful;
In Chestnut Hill, when Mary and I first decided to get married and I just took it for granted we would.
I guess I am philosophical enough to accept that I was young and stupid – once, but I’d still like the ability to go back and, at the very least, apologize for my lack of eloquence.
It would be nice, too, to have a little shack out back, in the woods behind our house, where I could devote myself more seriously to asking for things.
I’d like to tell my friends Mike and Patty how much I love them,.
I’d like you to know how sweet my friends Dan and Sally are.
I’d like to be better father, a better husband, and have the time to hike the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine.
Yeah, I know, I want a lot: but it feels good to want so much; it makes me feel like a kid, again.
Who could ask for anything more?
Those would be good, but I want more, a lot more.
I know, I know, I want too much. But what’s wrong with that?
Maybe if they had waited until Christmas to announce that Bolton was going to resign, that Rumsfeld was headed out the door, and that Frist’s Presidential campaign was over before it had begun, I might have been satisfied.
You know how it is with your kids: if you open up any presents early, they’re still going to want the same amount of presents under the tree. You’re not going to be able to argue with them reasonably, because the great gift of childhood is the absence of reason, or logic, from every facet of their lives.
And, to be perfectly frank, that’s what I really want for Christmas: that feeling that anything is possible, no matter what.
I want it not to matter whether I’ve been good or bad.
I want it not to matter if I’ve been naughty or nice.
And so it doesn’t really matter what I get: I just want the gift of feeling that I can ask for anything.
Okay, so I accept that this sounds a bit pathetic, a bit too much like the guy who suddenly wakes up on his fortieth birthday and has an uncontrollable desire for a Porsche. But I swear it’s not like that.
Maybe it’s like that new fangled laughter therapy.
I personally don’t think much of a bunch of middle aged people getting together on the beach and pretending to laugh.
I look at those people and think, laugh now, but as soon as you get home from your Laughter Course, the phone is going to ring and it’s going to be the police saying that your kid’s been picked up for speeding and..
I don’t think you can fake laughter.
I don’t think you can fake tears.
But you have to start somewhere.
For adults it’s easy to get out of the habit of laughing or crying, or asking for things we can’t afford.
But I think there’s a point in just asking.
I believe there is a value in understanding and then openly expressing your desires.
There may be nothing worse than losing touch with what you really want. Because if you do, and suddenly someone or something reminds you what it is you really want – you’re going to be angry and looking for someone to blame.
So I am going to make a point this year of asking - out loud, for things I really want: whether there’s any chance they’ll be in my stocking Christmas morning.
Ready?
I want a Karmann Ghia.
I once heard someone call it, the ‘poor man’s Porsche’.
But it’s less than that.
The Karmann Ghia is a kind of automotive transvestite.
It’s a Volkswagen Beetle trapped in a sport’s cards body.
It’s a slow, unsophisticated antique of a car, but I’ve always loved the way it looks. I like cheap things that are well made. Like a toy ray gun that makes a cool whirring noise and lights up: the Karmann Ghia is the toy raygun of cars.
I want to go to India – for at least a month.
Yes, it’s a mess of a country, with hundreds of millions of desperately poor people, a history so rich it makes ours look like the footnotes on a baseball card, and beauty that I fully expect would overwhelm me.
But I like being overwhelmed.
I’d like to record a blues album. I say this to my friends, fairly regularly, and they don’t take me seriously. But I have a feel for the blues, a passable voice, and friends that are musically gifted.
Instead of blowing a few hundred dollars on a few hours of golf, let’s get some studio time instead.
Which reminds me: I’d like to take saxophone lessons.
I once sat outside the Baltimore Civic Center and realized that the screech of tires that I heard echoing through the concrete city plaza where we were recovering from the intensity of the concert that had just finished, sounded very much like the notes that saxophonist Wayne Shorter had voiced earlier that evening.
The saxophone, I thought at that moment, was the voice of the world: it could sound like a woman in love, a man pretending not to be afraid, a car rounding a corner, or a distant rain cloud perforated by lightning.
Oh, and I’ll need a saxophone too.
Time Travel.
I want to go back in time to several places where I was not able to say just what I wanted, or express myself with sufficient clarity at a critical time: the places where I disappointed myself.
On the afternoon a few days before Christmas in 1975 - for example, when my mother first became sick and, lacking the proper words, I instead made her a grilled peanut butter and banana sandwich that she promptly threw up;
On the day of my best friend Mike’s wedding when, as Best Man, I was supposed to say something meaningful;
In Chestnut Hill, when Mary and I first decided to get married and I just took it for granted we would.
I guess I am philosophical enough to accept that I was young and stupid – once, but I’d still like the ability to go back and, at the very least, apologize for my lack of eloquence.
It would be nice, too, to have a little shack out back, in the woods behind our house, where I could devote myself more seriously to asking for things.
I’d like to tell my friends Mike and Patty how much I love them,.
I’d like you to know how sweet my friends Dan and Sally are.
I’d like to be better father, a better husband, and have the time to hike the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine.
Yeah, I know, I want a lot: but it feels good to want so much; it makes me feel like a kid, again.
Who could ask for anything more?
A Few Good Words
Got any good words that you don’t want other people to know about?
Come on, you can tell me.
I’ve got some of my own, that maybe I could show you, if you’re nice: and if I trust you.
I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.
Just a peek?
Oh no, I understand. I feel the same way. There’s so few good words left that haven’t already been, what would the word be – appropriated?
Conservative? No way.
Liberal? Yikes!
Insurgency?
Just a few years back, ‘insurgency’ was a pretty good word: nice shine, fairly rare usage, with a certain pungent tone that reminded me of the way Hoisin sauce sets off roast duck. Used to be that when you heard ‘insurgency’ your ears stood up, and your pupils dilated.
But then they took it, strapped it down, and beat it until it gave up its secrets – or what passed for secrets. And now, who the hell knows what insurgency is supposed to mean?
Language used to be the last frontier: a remote, vast plateau of natural wonders that seemed impossible to encompass in a single life. And maybe it still us, but like the thieves who cut down rare cacti to sell to garden centers or landscapers, some of our best words are being chopped down and burned on the bonfires of politics.
It’s not funny. It’s very serious. Remember the rainforest: we may be the first generation to see vast forests of language cut down, stacked up, and turned into what the British call ‘bumf’ (I got that word out of my secret stash)
How can this be happening?
Perhaps it’s for the same reason that there are people who still believe, wholeheartedly, that we never went to the moon – that government officials staged the landing on a soundstage in Hollywood.
Most of us haven’t experienced those distant worlds, or visited the outer realms of our own language, so we are vulnerable to the re-definers.
The re-definers?
I made that word up. Yeah, I could do better, but it does have a certain crass, direct quality I think, and that fits my purpose.
Re-definers are not interested in subtlety. They are not interested in using words for greater understanding but, rather, for a specific understanding.
They take words to the slaughterhouse, then grind them into hamburger, then add all sorts of fillers and seasoning until it suits their purpose.
So there is perhaps a certain irony that the latest word to be rounded up, is ‘hunger’.
God, I may be dating myself, but I can remember a time when ‘hunger’, the word, was almost as powerful as actual hunger: when mother’s scolded their children with stories of millions starving in India.
Of course that’s’ the point of language, isn’t it? Words are supposed to have power.
In time all words are stripped of their power, through overuse, or other cultural factors – and when that happens they are blown from our consciousness as easily as dust off the furniture.
But most words live for a great long time, for hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years, evolving with the times.
Hunger, of course, is an ancient word that has stood its ground (from the Old English ‘hungor’) – and a word that has survived for obvious reasons. How can the word disappear, when its meaning persists in our reality?
How is that possible?
And yet, according to a government report, hunger doesn’t exist.
According to the lexicologists in the Bush Administration 35 million Americans no longer are hungry but, instead, have “very low food security”.
According to former Banking Industry lobbyist Katie Coler – appointed by Bush to be an Undersecretary of the US Department of Agriculture, the intent was to end the confusion as to whether the numbers cited in their annual report on ‘Food Security” estimated the number of people who were actually hungry, or those experiencing difficulty ‘accessing’ food.
“I think it passes the common sense test,” Coler told ABC News, “in that it does identify there is a need, and we do recognize that there are individuals in this country who face need from time to time.”
So by “need”, we are left to wonder, does Coler mean hunger, or food insecurity?
And by “recognition”, does Coler mean the kind of recognition that we experience when we see a homeless person on the street, and step over them, or the kind of recognition that a ‘Food Insecurity Specialist’ has, when they are confronted with a large number of the shelter-challenged, and step over them?
And by ‘thumpin’ does President Bush mean to say his administration was rejected, or beaten, or repudiated? Or is he really a bit more sly than that, and in fact deliberately using a soft, colloquial expression, so he can shuffle his feet, and smirk and pretend that nothing serious has happened to him, and that nothing serious is going to happen to the 35 million hungry, or the 45 million uninsured, or the 150 million who owe more to the credit card companies than their parents every earned in an entire year?
Which brings us back to insurgency.
No, not the alleged insurgency of those poor saps in Iraq, but of the poor saps at home.
Insurgency, as in ‘active revolt’.
Insurgency, as in the sea, ‘rushing in’.
Insurgency, as in the need to reclaim our words – and our world, from the politicians and the marketers; the need to recognize what is going on, rise up, roll in, and wash away these ‘re-definers’.
Or maybe what we need is a civil war.
I guess it depends on how you define it.
Come on, you can tell me.
I’ve got some of my own, that maybe I could show you, if you’re nice: and if I trust you.
I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.
Just a peek?
Oh no, I understand. I feel the same way. There’s so few good words left that haven’t already been, what would the word be – appropriated?
Conservative? No way.
Liberal? Yikes!
Insurgency?
Just a few years back, ‘insurgency’ was a pretty good word: nice shine, fairly rare usage, with a certain pungent tone that reminded me of the way Hoisin sauce sets off roast duck. Used to be that when you heard ‘insurgency’ your ears stood up, and your pupils dilated.
But then they took it, strapped it down, and beat it until it gave up its secrets – or what passed for secrets. And now, who the hell knows what insurgency is supposed to mean?
Language used to be the last frontier: a remote, vast plateau of natural wonders that seemed impossible to encompass in a single life. And maybe it still us, but like the thieves who cut down rare cacti to sell to garden centers or landscapers, some of our best words are being chopped down and burned on the bonfires of politics.
It’s not funny. It’s very serious. Remember the rainforest: we may be the first generation to see vast forests of language cut down, stacked up, and turned into what the British call ‘bumf’ (I got that word out of my secret stash)
How can this be happening?
Perhaps it’s for the same reason that there are people who still believe, wholeheartedly, that we never went to the moon – that government officials staged the landing on a soundstage in Hollywood.
Most of us haven’t experienced those distant worlds, or visited the outer realms of our own language, so we are vulnerable to the re-definers.
The re-definers?
I made that word up. Yeah, I could do better, but it does have a certain crass, direct quality I think, and that fits my purpose.
Re-definers are not interested in subtlety. They are not interested in using words for greater understanding but, rather, for a specific understanding.
They take words to the slaughterhouse, then grind them into hamburger, then add all sorts of fillers and seasoning until it suits their purpose.
So there is perhaps a certain irony that the latest word to be rounded up, is ‘hunger’.
God, I may be dating myself, but I can remember a time when ‘hunger’, the word, was almost as powerful as actual hunger: when mother’s scolded their children with stories of millions starving in India.
Of course that’s’ the point of language, isn’t it? Words are supposed to have power.
In time all words are stripped of their power, through overuse, or other cultural factors – and when that happens they are blown from our consciousness as easily as dust off the furniture.
But most words live for a great long time, for hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years, evolving with the times.
Hunger, of course, is an ancient word that has stood its ground (from the Old English ‘hungor’) – and a word that has survived for obvious reasons. How can the word disappear, when its meaning persists in our reality?
How is that possible?
And yet, according to a government report, hunger doesn’t exist.
According to the lexicologists in the Bush Administration 35 million Americans no longer are hungry but, instead, have “very low food security”.
According to former Banking Industry lobbyist Katie Coler – appointed by Bush to be an Undersecretary of the US Department of Agriculture, the intent was to end the confusion as to whether the numbers cited in their annual report on ‘Food Security” estimated the number of people who were actually hungry, or those experiencing difficulty ‘accessing’ food.
“I think it passes the common sense test,” Coler told ABC News, “in that it does identify there is a need, and we do recognize that there are individuals in this country who face need from time to time.”
So by “need”, we are left to wonder, does Coler mean hunger, or food insecurity?
And by “recognition”, does Coler mean the kind of recognition that we experience when we see a homeless person on the street, and step over them, or the kind of recognition that a ‘Food Insecurity Specialist’ has, when they are confronted with a large number of the shelter-challenged, and step over them?
And by ‘thumpin’ does President Bush mean to say his administration was rejected, or beaten, or repudiated? Or is he really a bit more sly than that, and in fact deliberately using a soft, colloquial expression, so he can shuffle his feet, and smirk and pretend that nothing serious has happened to him, and that nothing serious is going to happen to the 35 million hungry, or the 45 million uninsured, or the 150 million who owe more to the credit card companies than their parents every earned in an entire year?
Which brings us back to insurgency.
No, not the alleged insurgency of those poor saps in Iraq, but of the poor saps at home.
Insurgency, as in ‘active revolt’.
Insurgency, as in the sea, ‘rushing in’.
Insurgency, as in the need to reclaim our words – and our world, from the politicians and the marketers; the need to recognize what is going on, rise up, roll in, and wash away these ‘re-definers’.
Or maybe what we need is a civil war.
I guess it depends on how you define it.
Pet of the Month
I’ll bet you didn’t know I own a penguin?
No, not the new Korean hybrid that gets 60 miles to the gallon: the half bird, half fish that is all the rage this year.
We call him ‘Stud’, which if you knew me, wouldn’t surprise you.
It has nothing to do with his procreative abilities, but came about in a typical round-about fashion.
The only penguin I knew, or at least knew of, before Stud, was Tennessee Tuxedo – a cartoon penguin from the Seventies, not a real one.
I can’t remember much about the cartoon, but when I hear the name Tennessee Tuxedo, the cartoon’s jingle replays in my brain.
So when he first arrived, and we let him out of his wooden box, and watched him amble about the house in what seemed a damn good imitation of the way John Wayne careened across the screen, Stud seemed the perfect name.
That is, like a thoroughbred, we named him Tennessee Stud, by way of Tennessee Tuxedo and John Wayne – and so ‘Stud’ for short.
Of course we liked the irony of the name too, as apart from his Wayne-like amble, Stud was decidedly un-masculine. Fish and birds have genders of course, but not in the same way that mammals do.
Know what I mean?
Actually maybe penguins can be masculine, but you wouldn’t think so.
You wouldn’t think penguins would make a good pet either, would you? Well, actually, they don’t.
But what makes a good pet does not necessarily make a popular pet.
Pets used to be companions, but I think that definition is passé, today. Now pets are like tattoos, or motorcycles, or painful piercings: a personal statement of general indifference to both the world at large, and other people in general.
What better way to say ‘screw you’ to the world, than by parading about with a strange pet that is no pet all.
Penguins are just the latest version of the Pot Bellied Pig, and the Ferret, and the Boa Constrictor.
Remember how cool it once was, to own a Constrictor? No?
When I was a boy, shy kids had Boa Constrictors. They couldn’t parade them about, but they could invite people into their rooms to watch as they fed them live rats.
Pets have always run interference for their owners. But in the past there was at least the illusion that pet owners loved, or admired, or appreciated their pets.
Not any more.
So anyway, whatever the cultural implications are, I’m excited to be the first one in town with his own pet penguin.
We’ve actually owned ‘Stud’ for a few years now, but we never used to tell anybody about him because we were concerned what they would think.
Now everybody wants to have their own penguin – and can’t.
It’s illegal, for the most part. You have to get a special permit, or run an aquarium, or a circus, or show proof you’re a working animator.
But our penguin Stud is grandfathered in: meaning that we got him before they had laws saying we couldn’t.
Kind of like Timothy Leary, doing LSD at Harvard before anybody knew anything about it.
I actually was thinking about naming our next penguin, if we could get one, Timothy, or Tiny Tim, or Tennessee Tim..
I actually started out thinking this column would be a kind of guide to having a penguin as a pet.
We’ve learned a lot since we got Stud
For the first few months we didn’t know that if penguins don’t get in the water for a long time, they get kind of mangy looking. We thought Stud was sick, but he was really just dirty, in a penguin way. All we had to do was get him his own little inflatable pool and, in a few weeks, he was back to his oily penguin self again.
And as an added bonus, we don’t have to take down the inflatable pools we buy every summer, when the cold weather hits. And now the grubs that live under it – in that moist, smelly mange that used to be uncut, waxy grass, along with the creatures that fall into the stagnant water, save us a lot of money that would otherwise go to feed Stud.
Fresh fish are way too expensive.
And most everything else we’ve tried to feed him – even bits of choice gristle left over after family barbeques, didn’t interest him at all.
He likes it live, and wriggling.
Once a neighbor brought over some live bait, put it in his pool, and sure enough he went right in after it.
But nowadays he’s kind of lackadaisical about his food.
I don’t know what age he is, in penguin years, but lately he has a permanent bored, stupefied, ‘I-stayed-up-real-late-watching-bad-movies’ kind of look.
I guess you can’t blame him.
My older son tells me that some of the local kids feed him Slim Jims and beer when we’re away for the weekend.
And apart from the occasional snow, his dirty little rubber pool, and the squeals of the neighbor’s twin two-year olds, South Plymouth is not very Antarctic-like.
To be honest, I don’t think Stud’s long for this world.
Maybe we’ll have one last neighborhood barbeque before the cold weather hits – so we can show him off. Then we’ll drive him down to the Long Pond landing, and leave the door open.
It’s really too bad.
Just when Penguins are hot, old Stud’s about to feel the Big Chill.
I’m thinking about getting a tattoo in his honor.
“Stud”, inked in a heavy, black, gothic font, right beneath the one I got when we came home from the Caribbean cruise and found “Art Gecko” had passed away.
I may be old and in the way, but I’ve always had cool pets.
No, not the new Korean hybrid that gets 60 miles to the gallon: the half bird, half fish that is all the rage this year.
We call him ‘Stud’, which if you knew me, wouldn’t surprise you.
It has nothing to do with his procreative abilities, but came about in a typical round-about fashion.
The only penguin I knew, or at least knew of, before Stud, was Tennessee Tuxedo – a cartoon penguin from the Seventies, not a real one.
I can’t remember much about the cartoon, but when I hear the name Tennessee Tuxedo, the cartoon’s jingle replays in my brain.
So when he first arrived, and we let him out of his wooden box, and watched him amble about the house in what seemed a damn good imitation of the way John Wayne careened across the screen, Stud seemed the perfect name.
That is, like a thoroughbred, we named him Tennessee Stud, by way of Tennessee Tuxedo and John Wayne – and so ‘Stud’ for short.
Of course we liked the irony of the name too, as apart from his Wayne-like amble, Stud was decidedly un-masculine. Fish and birds have genders of course, but not in the same way that mammals do.
Know what I mean?
Actually maybe penguins can be masculine, but you wouldn’t think so.
You wouldn’t think penguins would make a good pet either, would you? Well, actually, they don’t.
But what makes a good pet does not necessarily make a popular pet.
Pets used to be companions, but I think that definition is passé, today. Now pets are like tattoos, or motorcycles, or painful piercings: a personal statement of general indifference to both the world at large, and other people in general.
What better way to say ‘screw you’ to the world, than by parading about with a strange pet that is no pet all.
Penguins are just the latest version of the Pot Bellied Pig, and the Ferret, and the Boa Constrictor.
Remember how cool it once was, to own a Constrictor? No?
When I was a boy, shy kids had Boa Constrictors. They couldn’t parade them about, but they could invite people into their rooms to watch as they fed them live rats.
Pets have always run interference for their owners. But in the past there was at least the illusion that pet owners loved, or admired, or appreciated their pets.
Not any more.
So anyway, whatever the cultural implications are, I’m excited to be the first one in town with his own pet penguin.
We’ve actually owned ‘Stud’ for a few years now, but we never used to tell anybody about him because we were concerned what they would think.
Now everybody wants to have their own penguin – and can’t.
It’s illegal, for the most part. You have to get a special permit, or run an aquarium, or a circus, or show proof you’re a working animator.
But our penguin Stud is grandfathered in: meaning that we got him before they had laws saying we couldn’t.
Kind of like Timothy Leary, doing LSD at Harvard before anybody knew anything about it.
I actually was thinking about naming our next penguin, if we could get one, Timothy, or Tiny Tim, or Tennessee Tim..
I actually started out thinking this column would be a kind of guide to having a penguin as a pet.
We’ve learned a lot since we got Stud
For the first few months we didn’t know that if penguins don’t get in the water for a long time, they get kind of mangy looking. We thought Stud was sick, but he was really just dirty, in a penguin way. All we had to do was get him his own little inflatable pool and, in a few weeks, he was back to his oily penguin self again.
And as an added bonus, we don’t have to take down the inflatable pools we buy every summer, when the cold weather hits. And now the grubs that live under it – in that moist, smelly mange that used to be uncut, waxy grass, along with the creatures that fall into the stagnant water, save us a lot of money that would otherwise go to feed Stud.
Fresh fish are way too expensive.
And most everything else we’ve tried to feed him – even bits of choice gristle left over after family barbeques, didn’t interest him at all.
He likes it live, and wriggling.
Once a neighbor brought over some live bait, put it in his pool, and sure enough he went right in after it.
But nowadays he’s kind of lackadaisical about his food.
I don’t know what age he is, in penguin years, but lately he has a permanent bored, stupefied, ‘I-stayed-up-real-late-watching-bad-movies’ kind of look.
I guess you can’t blame him.
My older son tells me that some of the local kids feed him Slim Jims and beer when we’re away for the weekend.
And apart from the occasional snow, his dirty little rubber pool, and the squeals of the neighbor’s twin two-year olds, South Plymouth is not very Antarctic-like.
To be honest, I don’t think Stud’s long for this world.
Maybe we’ll have one last neighborhood barbeque before the cold weather hits – so we can show him off. Then we’ll drive him down to the Long Pond landing, and leave the door open.
It’s really too bad.
Just when Penguins are hot, old Stud’s about to feel the Big Chill.
I’m thinking about getting a tattoo in his honor.
“Stud”, inked in a heavy, black, gothic font, right beneath the one I got when we came home from the Caribbean cruise and found “Art Gecko” had passed away.
I may be old and in the way, but I’ve always had cool pets.
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