“Well, what do you think?” my dad asked as we pulled up to a big, white Spanish-style two-story house. He beamed with pride at the new home he’d found for us.
I ignored him and appealed directly to the only sane person in the family. “Mom, we can’t live here! This place is right in the middle of the worst part of Wentzville!”
“What’s wrong with it? It’s the biggest house in town,” Mom said.
“What’s wrong with it? Look! The main street goes right by the front yard! There’s railroad tracks right behind it. There’s a veterinary clinic next door and if the water tower falls, it’ll squash us!”
“Oh, yeah! I talked to the owner of the slaughterhouse across the street,” Dad interrupted, “and he said that they need part-time help over there. He said to send you over.”
“Slaughterhouse? There’s a slaughterhouse? I don’t want to live by a slaughterhouse, and I sure as hell don’t want to work there!”
“Language!” Dad said in his first-warning voice.
The only other houses on this side of the tracks belonged to Wentzville’s poorest citizens. We’d just been in Missouri for a few months and I was still trying to make friends and fit in at high school. So far, my friends all came from the class-conscious families at the ritzy development of Lake St. Louis. This house was a social disaster in the making.
My parents always rented off-beat places. The condo we were leaving was more of a furnished weekend lake retreat than a serious place to live. The owners had decorated it with beach furniture and all the African ceremonial masks they had picked up on safari. The masks scared the dog and drew doubtful looks from my friends.
“Why can’t we just stay in the condo?” I whined. “We were doing just fine there.”
“We’ve been over this. We told you that place was temporary. All the town employees have to live within city limits,” Mom answered, referring to dad’s job as city manager. “Besides, I seem to remember someone complaining about hating the last place because of all the masks."
“This might be the oldest building in town,” my dad said, but that idea didn’t sweeten the deal for me. “The railroad superintendent lived there and the town just grew up around it.”
“The shanty town, you mean.” I sulked all the way through the tour, wondering how I was going to deal with being the only white kid in a black neighborhood.
Mom eagerly showed me to my huge bedroom and the beautiful old armoire that came with it. I was unmoved. I remarked that the house must have been built before closets were invented.
My parents hoped that I would grow to love the place as much as they did, but things only grew worse in my eyes. Early Saturday mornings, truckloads of livestock lined up at the slaughterhouse, and the squealing woke me up. As soon as they killed the first pig, the rest of them screamed in terror, smelling death and sensing that their own end was near.
Several times per day, the railroad employees switched railcars right behind the house. The smell of diesel exhaust drifted over and when the containers crashed into each other, the sound was deafening. On kill days at the slaughterhouse, the smell of barnyard and blood kept us inside.
In those quiet moments when no trains chugged by and no animals were being slaughtered, we sat on the back balcony and looked at the middle class neighborhood across the tracks. I saw house after house of normal lives, distinguished only by paint color and brand of car in the driveway. It looked like heaven.
“You don’t want to live there,” my dad assured me, “that area is boring.”
Friday, September 12, 2014
I Wish We Could Dance All the Time
My sister is coming out to the veranda with her record player. That means we’re going to dance. I love to dance.
My mother always says that living in
My sister can’t put me on the table this time because she broke her arm when she fell out of the avocado tree next door. She’s always doing stuff like that. A few months ago, she broke her two front teeth while riding her bike behind the mosquito fogger truck. She said she couldn’t see the curb in the cloud.
My brother lifts me up to the table and my parents come outside, too. Mom is in her white shirt with buttons and the funny black pants that don't go all the way down. Dad is wearing his light brown uniform.
It’s a big veranda. My mom calls our house a cracker box, but it’s much bigger than that. Not as big as the colonel’s house down the street, but dad says that’s okay because colonels are rich.
My sister puts the needle on the record. It’s “Love Me Do”. It’s not my favorite, but it’s better than “Eleanor Rigby” or “Yellow Submarine”. I like “Yellow Submarine”, but you can’t dance to it. “Eleanor Rigby” scares me because she keeps someone’s face in a jar, and her father is always digging graves. That song is like a Frankenstein movie.
When the music starts, I wiggle around and throw my arms up the air like the kids on the Saturday morning TV show. My parents laugh and even my brother smiles. He never smiles. My mom says it’s because he doesn’t like school. Sometimes, Dougie takes the cat to the stairs and does spearmints to see if she will land on her feet when you drop her. He’s gone halfway up the steps so far but she lands on her feet every time. She doesn’t like it, though, and I think he’s mean. Mom says I have to start school next year. I hope it doesn’t make me mean to the cat.
But right now, I’m dancing and my sister is dancing. She’s really good. She almost looks like the TV kids, except for the broken arm. My parents are laughing and I laugh, too because everyone looks so happy. I try to wiggle my butt like my sister, and we all laugh even more. I wish we could dance all the time.
Walking Home
I can smell my mom's perfume as she leans over and pins a note to my sweater. It says, "Paul is allowed to walk home from school today." She signed it in her beautiful script. I can't read the writing. I only know what the note says because I asked her to write it. I love to walk home from nursery school. I have to think hard, though. One time I walked too far and a lady had to help me get home.
Straight down the street past the white fence with all the plumerias and bees. Turn at the playground. I don't know left or right, but I know which way. My house is the last one in a row of houses all connected together. We have a banana tree out front. We even got a bunch of bananas from it last year, but me and Cindy and Dougie ate them all before they even turned yellow. They were crunchy and sour. Dad was mad at us. He didn't get to eat any.
Mom drops me off at the nursery school in my blue sweater and buster browns. She's going to IBM school in Honolulu. She says she punches cards there. I don't know why she has to go there to do that, we have cards at home. Mom tries to smooth down my blonde cowlick, but it doesn't help. I squirm away and run to the playground. I see Nancy Green and I want to push her 'cause she makes me feel funny on the inside. I don't know why I do that. I don't push any other girls.
Mom says my school used to be a church. It's long and white and pointy on top. It's up on a hill with lots of grass all around so we can play Jack and Jill at recess. I love to roll down the hill, but when we're done, the grass makes me itch. The teacher is standing on the steps and rings her triangle bell for everyone to come inside. I never even got to push Nancy down.
This morning we're learning to make the letter 'P'. Big P. Little p. Big P. Little p. Five rows of P's. After that, we get graham crackers and grape Kool-Aid. I dunk mine, but I have to be fast, or the cracker turns to mush and falls in.
At recess, I push Nancy down three times. The teacher says that I have to find a nicer way to show Nancy that I like her. "I don't like her! I hate her! She's icky!" I tell the teacher.
"Well, if you hate her any more, you'll have to marry her," the teacher says. I don't understand the teacher sometimes.
We put our heads down after lunch and then we get to draw. I draw my cat Percy laying in the road in front of the house with cherries coming out of his mouth. I saw him just like that yesterday from my bedroom window upstairs. I told my mom and she made me stay inside while she looked. She came back after a while and said he was fine. I haven't seen Percy since then.
I walk home and stop to look at the plumerias and the bees. My sister comes here sometimes to make leis. I just like to smell them. I get on the teeter totter at the playground but it's not much fun alone. The next door neighbor's palm tree has two tiny eggs in a little nest made in the bark. Mom says that the mother won't come back if I touch them. Sometimes I worry that my mom will go to IBM school and never come back, so I don't dare touch them.
The Rest of The Story
All semester long, I sat next to Lindsay in biology. She was cute and fun and we passed notes and whispered constantly. She drew a picture of our bald, bespectacled professor dressed as Frankenfurter. I drew one of him dressed as a Trekkie, wearing the uniform and making the Spock salute.
Lindsay invited me to study for the final at the rented house she shared with two other girls. As we started to get down to business, her roommates came in singing “Happy Birthday” and carrying a twelve pack of beer wrapped in a bow. I had no idea it was her birthday.
After fifteen minutes and a beer went by, the roommates disappeared so I figured that it was time to get back to work. I opened my book and said, “Okay, I think we were reviewing chapter twelve.” But instead of reaching for her book, Lindsay lightly placed her hand on my thigh.
I raised my head, and Lindsay looked up and right into my eyes. The warmth of her hand traveled up my leg and the skin beneath her fingers began to buzz as if her hand contained a thousand tiny bees.
“Are you sure you want to do this now?” I asked, still worried about my grade.
“Do what?” Lindsay replied innocently, still holding my gaze.
“Um…well, not study.”
“Who’s not studying? I just don’t feel like reading right now. Why don’t you read it to me?” She said with a low, confident voice I’d never heard from her.
“Well, okay…let’s see, chapter twelve…” I looked back up at her and she still stared right at me.
“Okay. ‘Drosophila melanogaster, the common fruit fly, has long been used as a model organism in genetic experiments due to its short life cycle, which allows a new mating experiment every two weeks.’”
“Every two weeks?” Lindsay interrupted, “That doesn’t sound so frequent. How often do you think mating experiments should be conducted?” Lindsay shifted her weight a little, and her hand moved slightly higher up my leg. The tingling sensation spread.
“I don’t know, I guess it would depend on the lab partner... but two weeks is definitely too long.”
“What if you had the right partner?” She leaned in a little and her hand moved almost all the way up my inner thigh, just short of where I wanted it. I felt the growing anticipation just above her hand. The butterflies of a new lover danced in my stomach.
“With the right partner, I would have to conduct several experiments a day.” I focused on her mouth, her thick soft lips, now slightly parted. I ached to kiss her, but I wanted to prolong the game.
“Do you think you have that kind of…desire? That’s a lot of experiments... you’d have to be a very curious boy.” She moved a little closer. I could feel her breath with each word. Her hand move again, ever so slightly. The edge of her little finger barely brushed against me. My body twitched as a little bolt of electricity shot down my legs and up through my chest, right to the back of my head.
“I don't think I've ever been this curious.” I dropped the book and kissed her. I didn’t care about my biology grade any more.
A Day in The Life of an Insurance Man
I get the coffee started, flip on the computer and listen to my overnight messages. Only one, thank God. It's a weird one, though. One of my clients wants to sell off her Individual Retirement Account. I don't sell many of those, so I have to look up what to do before I call her back. It's Mrs. -------. She's one of my favorite customers, very sweet, so I kill some time chatting with her. I hang up in a good mood.
Coffee's ready. I trim my fingernails into the waste basket while reading my e-mail. Eight Nigerian scams, three internet lottery scams and four tips on increasing sales from my manager. His tips don't look any more promising than the scams. Hey! One from Tildy and one from Missy. Sweet! At least I won't be bored for the next five minutes. The day is good and getting better.
The phone rings.
"Good morning, ------- Insurance, can I help you?" I use my cheeriest voice.
The answer is a verbal right cross: "Why did my bill go up this month!?" No good morning, no identifying himself.
I overlook the rudeness and get his information.
"Well, sir, you added a second car to your policy six weeks ago. That caused the policy to increase by $220 per six months."
There's a pause on the line while he realizes how foolish he seems.
"You people send me a bill for a different amount every month. Why can't you get that bill straight?" His tone is even more hostile than before. Clients often call determined to rip me a new one and won't be dissuaded by mere logic.
"Well, let's see. You've changed your coverages once a month for each of the last six months. You've paid late every month for four months," I say as I scroll through his policy record. "You were canceled three months ago for non-payment and I jumped through some hoops to get you re-instated. Do you recall that, sir? Things like that tend to cause irregular payment amounts."
Sensing my mild sarcasm, the customer says, "Well, you make enough money off of me that I'm sure you don't mind."
"Actually, sir, I make about four dollars a month from you. I'll give you four dollars if you go find another agent."
He thinks I'm joking and laughs, then says a polite thank you and goodbye.
Turning back to my e-mail, talking with Missy reminds me how much I want to chuck it all and live in Europe. I browse through a few universities in London with master's programs in creative writing. Maybe. The misses will hit the ceiling if I bring it up. We've been over this, she'll say. We don't have any kids or pets or houseplants, so what's holding us, I'll say. Nothing will be decided.
The phone rings.
"Good Morning, -------- Insurance, may I help you?" My tone isn't quite as sweet as before.
"Yeah, I need a quote for two cars." It's an older gentleman. Phoenix is infested with retirees with nothing better to do than call for insurance quotes all day.
"Sure, no problem, sir. There's a ten percent discount for having both your home and auto insurance with us. Would you like me to quote your homeowners' insurance as well?"
"No, dammit, if you're auto price is good, we'll talk about the homes." Somebody is a cranky-pants today.
I take all the info and hang up to work on the quote. Ten minutes later, I call him back. "Yes, sir, it would be $450 for your two autos for six months. 10% less if you had a homeowners' policy with us."
"Four hundred and fifty dollars!?" he shoots back. "That's $900 a year!"
"Very good, sir." I reply flatly, leaving him to figure out whether I was being a smart ass.
Silence.
"That's WAY too high!" He finally blurts.
"Well, sir, many people pay more. How much are you paying now?" I ask.
"Three hundred and fifty dollars a year!"
"That is a very good price, sir. With that price, I'm surprised that you're shopping. How much were you hoping to pay?"
"Well...I just keep seeing these advertisements that make it sound like you're giving it away," he answers.
"Sir, $350 a year for two cars IS giving it away. But keep calling. Maybe someone will pay you for the privilege of insuring your cars. "
The old man hangs up.
Okay, let's see what Tits McGee is up to today.
Coffee's ready. I trim my fingernails into the waste basket while reading my e-mail. Eight Nigerian scams, three internet lottery scams and four tips on increasing sales from my manager. His tips don't look any more promising than the scams. Hey! One from Tildy and one from Missy. Sweet! At least I won't be bored for the next five minutes. The day is good and getting better.
The phone rings.
"Good morning, ------- Insurance, can I help you?" I use my cheeriest voice.
The answer is a verbal right cross: "Why did my bill go up this month!?" No good morning, no identifying himself.
I overlook the rudeness and get his information.
"Well, sir, you added a second car to your policy six weeks ago. That caused the policy to increase by $220 per six months."
There's a pause on the line while he realizes how foolish he seems.
"You people send me a bill for a different amount every month. Why can't you get that bill straight?" His tone is even more hostile than before. Clients often call determined to rip me a new one and won't be dissuaded by mere logic.
"Well, let's see. You've changed your coverages once a month for each of the last six months. You've paid late every month for four months," I say as I scroll through his policy record. "You were canceled three months ago for non-payment and I jumped through some hoops to get you re-instated. Do you recall that, sir? Things like that tend to cause irregular payment amounts."
Sensing my mild sarcasm, the customer says, "Well, you make enough money off of me that I'm sure you don't mind."
"Actually, sir, I make about four dollars a month from you. I'll give you four dollars if you go find another agent."
He thinks I'm joking and laughs, then says a polite thank you and goodbye.
Turning back to my e-mail, talking with Missy reminds me how much I want to chuck it all and live in Europe. I browse through a few universities in London with master's programs in creative writing. Maybe. The misses will hit the ceiling if I bring it up. We've been over this, she'll say. We don't have any kids or pets or houseplants, so what's holding us, I'll say. Nothing will be decided.
The phone rings.
"Good Morning, -------- Insurance, may I help you?" My tone isn't quite as sweet as before.
"Yeah, I need a quote for two cars." It's an older gentleman. Phoenix is infested with retirees with nothing better to do than call for insurance quotes all day.
"Sure, no problem, sir. There's a ten percent discount for having both your home and auto insurance with us. Would you like me to quote your homeowners' insurance as well?"
"No, dammit, if you're auto price is good, we'll talk about the homes." Somebody is a cranky-pants today.
I take all the info and hang up to work on the quote. Ten minutes later, I call him back. "Yes, sir, it would be $450 for your two autos for six months. 10% less if you had a homeowners' policy with us."
"Four hundred and fifty dollars!?" he shoots back. "That's $900 a year!"
"Very good, sir." I reply flatly, leaving him to figure out whether I was being a smart ass.
Silence.
"That's WAY too high!" He finally blurts.
"Well, sir, many people pay more. How much are you paying now?" I ask.
"Three hundred and fifty dollars a year!"
"That is a very good price, sir. With that price, I'm surprised that you're shopping. How much were you hoping to pay?"
"Well...I just keep seeing these advertisements that make it sound like you're giving it away," he answers.
"Sir, $350 a year for two cars IS giving it away. But keep calling. Maybe someone will pay you for the privilege of insuring your cars. "
The old man hangs up.
Okay, let's see what Tits McGee is up to today.
Bugwit Meets Bikers
“Hey, you!”
I tried to ignore the half –in – the bag fifty-something chick two stools to my right.
“Hey YOU!”
I kept my eyes on the TV behind the bar except for a couple of quick glances to my left, catching the eye of Tim, whose idea it was to come to this dive in the bad side of Columbus, Ohio. Who knew Columbus even had a bad side?
“YOU! Suckin’ on that Budweiser!” This time she reached over and grabbed my forearm, so there was no mistaking who she meant.
“OH! Uh…hi!” I stammered. This couldn’t be good. I just wanted to finish my beer and get out.
“Yeah, you, honey! I’m talking to you!” She settled down now that she had my attention and straightened back up. She had dark, frizzy, grey-streaked hair, a deeply lined face that was once attractive and a blue flannel shirt with the sleeves torn off. She looked me up and down and said “You’re a nice-looking man! Very nice. Somebody raised you right. You can sure tell that."
At first, I was relieved, thinking that all she wanted was a little light flirting. Then she finished her sentence:
“…not like THIS asshole!” and she leaned back so I could see the guy on her right.
On the stool next to her was a man who looked very much like Randall “Tex” Cobb, the boxer. He's best known for his role as the cellmate who wanted to rape Chevy Chase in Fletch Lives, or the biker from hell in Raising Arizona. He was probably 250 pounds, with a huge bulldog head. His hair was wild and bushy, as was his beard. A wide, fist-flattened nose was spread across his face like butter across a roll.
He looked at me like I’d just slapped his mother.
My friend Tim and I were Controllers-corporate accountants - for Borden. You know, Elsie the Cow. And we were in town for a big meeting where we were told our plants were going to be shut down; Tim’s in Seattle and mine in Minneapolis.
After the meeting, we went out to rip a new one in our expense accounts. We went to the Japanese restaurant where they cook everything in front of you. We ordered the shrimp, the lobster, the tenderloin and three sake samplers. We bought the special birthday fruit boat desert for each of the three couples sitting at the same grill with us. It wasn’t anybody’s birthday, but it cost forty dollars and came with a very old Japanese man who sang happy birthday. After a few sakes, we just had to hear it again and again. We managed to run up a $400 bill. Revenge was delicious, if not sweet.
After dinner, I thought playing pool and swilling seven-dollar Heinekens on Elsie’s dime would be just fine, but Tim reverted to his thrifty accountant mindset and insisted we go to the local Eagles club. He was a member of the Fraternal Order and wanted the free pool and three dollar pitchers of beer that were his right.
Finally I caved, and off we went in a cab through increasingly shady-looking neighborhoods until we arrived at what had to be the absolute rectum of Columbus. Boarded-up buildings and fire-gutted businesses surrounded the only two going concerns on the block: The Fraternal Order of Eagles and the biker bar next door.
We knocked on the door of the Eagles. A panel slid away, speakeasy style, and a voice said “We’re a private club! Go away!”
Tim held up his membership card.
“Well, come back in thirty minutes. We’re voting on officers for next year.” The panel slid shut.
Tim’s next great idea was to grab a beer at the biker joint next door while we waited. When I hesitated, he said, “Hey, bikers are great, man. That whole violence image is over-blown. Bikers are some of the greatest people you’ll ever meet.”
As we walked in, I became aware of how were dressed: me in pressed black slacks, a white oxford and expensive black loafers; Tim in khakis and a golf shirt. Everyone else was in black leather jackets with club colors. We pulled up a barstool and tried to keep to ourselves. That’s when the drunk woman started in on me.
“What the heck is a good-lookin’ kid like you doing in this shit-hole, anyway?” she continued. Tex burned holes in me with his half-lidded, bloodshot eyes.
I explained about the Eagles and nudged Tim to join the conversation, but he refused to acknowledge me or take is eyes off the TV, determined to stay out of it.
“How old are you, honey?” She asked.
“Umm…thirty five.”
“I don’t usually give away my age in bars,” she said, suddenly the coquette. She paused a moment to cough up a loogie and spit it on the floor. “I’ll tell you, but I would never tell this jerk.” She jabbed a thumb in the direction of Tex.
Tex’s eyes blazed at me. He started taking things out of his pockets and putting them on the bar. I had no idea what that meant, but he was getting ready to do something. Cigarettes. Lighter. Keys. More keys. Pocket knife. Pocket watch.
That reminded me. I looked at my watch. We had 15 minutes to go.
“Hey, Tim look! The Eagle Club’s probably open now!” I stood up and threw a five on the bar. “It was real nice meeting you…”
“Christine.”
“Right, Christine…but we have to go now.” I hustled Tim towards to the door and looked back to see if Tex was following us. When I did, Christine held her finger up, as if to stop me.
“Hey, I was going to invite you to be my date at my family reunion tomorrow!” She seemed genuinely sad that I was leaving.
“Sounds great!” I said, one hand on the door.
“It’s at the Courtyard Marriott by the airport!” she yelled after me.
“Can’t wait!”
Outside, Tim started for the Eagles Club. I saw a cab coming and grabbed Tim by the shirt and dragged him to the street where we blocked the taxi’s path.
Once we were safely in the back seat, Tim straightened his shirt and looked over at me, smiling. “Damn! She didn’t say what time to be there!”
"I don't remember her inviting you," I replied.
SLUT
I knew Janice from 6th through 8th grade. She was a grade ahead of me and two years older. I was informed of her reputation soon after moving into town. She was tall, thin and pretty, but didn't say much. There was something a little different about her, something in her personality. These days I would attribute it to depression or abuse of one kind or another. We didn’t know anything about those things back then; we just knew she was a slut.
I wanted to see her more, because I liked her and because I was a horny teenager, like everyone else who'd taken advantage of her. But this was Oklahoma
Sometimes, I would call her and she’d invite me over if her dad wasn’t home. We’d talk and eventually make out, and I’d gain a little in my sexual education. The next day, without me even saying or doing anything, she knew not to act like we were an item. She’d been a slut for a while by then. She knew the drill.
Occasionally, I overcame my social fear, or grew some balls if you like, and we’d go somewhere in broad daylight together. Still, I hoped I wouldn’t see anyone I knew. When we were finally spotted, I was teased mercilessly, accused of being in love with a whore. My friends recited the list of who had supposedly done what to her. Instead of standing up for her like I should have, I got back in line and ignored her again.
I didn’t see Janice again for a year – a chance meeting at a drive-in. She’d changed by then. She had short, greasy hair and dirty jeans. She was very stoned on Quaaludes and looked like hell. The last image I have of Janice is her blowing my best friend in the front seat of a rambler station wagon while I held the driver’s side door open, puking up my Bacardi and Coke. Passers-by stared first at me, then at the open sex taking place beside me. Three of our female friends sat horrified in the back seat, their eyes as big as frisbees.
I don’t recall ever seeing Janice after that, but I have thought of her often. I wonder if she loved me. I wonder if I broke her heart, whether she held out hopes that I would be different. I wonder if I contributed to her deterioration. Was I someone significant to her or just one more in a long line of guys who used her.
Still I think of Janice. She was beautiful. In spite of, and because they called her slut.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Afterglow
I lay still, breathing heavily, my heart beating strong. My arms envelope you and I feel the full length of your body against me. I'm sure I feel your warmth, but it’s my imagination, picking up vibrations in the air. You were never really there.
I dress and drive to the party. As I enter, men shake my hand and women kiss my cheek. I smell your musky fragrance on my skin and wonder if they smell it, too. But it’s my imagination. You were never there.
I feel myself tingling where you touched me. I feel the outline of your hand. My lips remember touching yours and my cheek recalls the tickle of your hair. I’m afraid that I shall become aroused. But it’s my imagination, because you never touched me.
I smile and make pleasant conversation and shake my head when agreement is called for. We talk about the independent voter turnout and prospects for the next election cycle. The new Congressman steps in front of the crowd to speak. We clap as he thanks us. I turn to smile at you, but you were never there.
I see my friend Mark. He has someone new, where he had no one before. She is very special, he says. They smile. They stand close together. They can’t bear not to touch. They are in love.
And you are gone, because you were never there.
Thanksgiving at Weezer's, Pt1
My aunt Louise, or Weezer as we call her, loves my dad I
suppose. So much so she managed tag along on my parents’
honeymoon. I don't think my mother has ever forgiven Weezer
for that. Weezer was 55 when she first married. I had met her
husband Bill on two prior occasions. He always came off as uncomfortable around kids
and a bit of a bully.
Now, as he opened his door to my mother, father and me, the sight of his pasty white face, roundish body and thin, oily, combed-over hair brought back my dislike for him. We stood in the foyer, suitcases in hand, exchanging uncomfortable greetings when we began to hear a strange muffled organ tune emitting from somewhere deep in the house. I gave my dad a puzzled look, which he returned.
“Is the phantom living beneath your home?” My father asked, smiling.
Bill rolled his eyes. “I guess you’d better go down to the basement and see her new organ.” He led us down the stairs where Weezer labored away at her big Wurlitzer. Two keyboard decks and lots of multi-colored switches seemed like too much instrument for her meager ability. The tune she was butchering was a morphine-slow version of Oklahoma
Weezer finished with a flourish and whirled around on her stool and threw hew arms in the air as if to say “Ta da!” We were slow on the uptake and missed a beat before clapping and complimenting her on her fine rendition.
As Weezer stood to greet us, Bill walked briskly to the back of the room and lifted the lid on the stereo console, which doubled as a bar. In seconds, a big-band record hit the turntable with a splat, followed by the scritch of the needle. Having pre-empted any further organ music, Bill moved on to the drink situation. He poured himself a scotch and one for my father. “Jeanne? What would you like?” he asked my mother.
Before she could answer, Weezer stepped in. “Oh, we don’t have time for drinks, we have things to do in the kitchen. Come on, Jeanne!” My mother slumped a little and headed up the stairs behind Weezer. She cast a longing look back at the bar as she went.
I plopped down in an modern avocado side chair a few feet in front of the stereo/bar and propped my feet on the ottoman. Bill turned to me and bent at the waist, literally looking down on me. “What’ll you have, young man? A Shirley Temple?” At sixteen, I was a bit old for a Shirley Temple, but still quite sensitive about my youth. He was baiting me, hoping to get a rise.
“Dad lets me drink beer, actually. I’ll have whatever you’ve got.” I took a risk. Dad let me share a beer sometimes, but I was hardly on help-myself privileges. But, my father didn’t like Bill much more than I did, so I hoped he would help me to stick that Shirley Temple remark up Bill’s ass. Bill looked at my father with raised eyebrows. Dad looked at me. I saw a little twinkle in his eye.
“Sure, give him a beer, Bill,” Dad said.
Bill pulled a Schmidt’s out of a small refrigerator and handed it to me. I saw beer glasses on the bar, but he didn’t offer. Bill gathered his drink and he and dad sat on the orange crushed-velvet sofa opposite from me. No one spoke for a moment.
“This some good, toe-tapping stuff, huh Paul?” Bill asked, as King Porter Stomp began to play. There was a hint of bluff in his voice.
“Yeah, it’s great,” I said. “I love Benny Goodman.”
“You actually like this?” He seemed disappointed. “How did you know it was Benny Goodman?”
“By the clarinet. No one sounds like him.”
Bill looked at me, dubiously. I sipped my beer and smiled to myself.
The doorbell rang, and I could hear Weezer’s sturdy shoes clomping along the hardwood foyer and greetings being exchanged.
“Oh, yeah. Louise invited a few guests,” Bill said.
“Guests?” Dad asked, approximating the tone in Bill’s voice.
“Yeah. Guests. Strays. People who don’t have anywhere else to go for Thanksgiving.”
“Well that’s nice of her,” I said.
“Nice of her, but it’s my food, isn’t it?” Bill shot me a look.
With that, my father and I went upstairs to see who had arrived. Weezer introduced us to Helen and Harriet, identical twin sisters. Despite being in their sixties, they were dressed in matching outfits - yellow turtleneck sweaters and calf-length red and orange fringed tartan skirts. They both wore short haircuts parted on the side and red plastic-framed glasses.
Weezer introduced us and I stuck my hand out to shake theirs.
“Ooh, isn’t he so polite?” one sister cooed to the other.
“And so cute! Don’t you love his hair?” answered the other.
“I’ll bet he’s smart, too,” Harriet, or perhaps Helen said. “Do you think he’s clever enough to get us a couple of glasses of white wine?”
“Oh, I’m sure he is,” answered Helen, or perhaps Harriet.
They both looked at me, expectantly.
“Um…no problem. I’ll bring it right out.” As I headed for the kitchen, I made a mental note to avoid the twins as much as possible. Mom was only too happy to pull the cork on one of the bottles of Blue Nun chilling for the meal. She poured two glasses for the twins and one for herself.
“Careful, Jeanne, we have a long night ahead of us!” Weezer said cheerfully as she took a tray of hors d’oeuvres out to the living room.
A rueful look from my mother followed her out the door. “I swear I’m going to kill her before the day is over.”
As I took the wine out to the twins, the doorbell rang again. Weezer opened the door to a shortish, plump woman her late sixties. Weezer introduced her as Catherine. She had a dyed blonde wash-n-set and a blue flowered knee-length dress. The pudginess of her face pushed in the outside edges of her lips, forcing them outward in a permanent fish-kiss pucker. She resembled Marion Lorne, the actress who played Aunt Clara on Bewitched, and her apparent befuddlement added to the similarity.
Bill asked if she would like a glass of wine, but she requested scotch instead. Catherine sat on the couch next to the twins. The three of them sat and looked at me sitting across from them in a stuffed lounge chair.
“That’s Paul, Louise’s nephew. Isn’t he adorable?” One of the twins asked. I lost all concept of which sister was which.
“Why, yes. I suppose so. What’s his name?” Catherine asked.
“Paul. That’s Louise’s nephew,” the other twin said.
“Oh…Is he related to you?” Catherine asked.
“No, he’s Louise’s nephew.” The other twin answered with no hint of irritation in her voice. The sisters seemed like they would be perfectly happy to continue this conversation until they all dropped from exhaustion. I picked up a magazine and pretended to read while really using it to block the line of sight between the three women and me. It wasn’t long before I was spotted behind my home-made camouflage and made to respond.
“Paul…Paul…PAUL!” First one twin called me before the other joined her in unison. The room went silent at the sound of the sisters saying my name in harmony. I had to put the magazine down and acknowledge them.
“Paul, would you be a dear and get us another glass of wine?” one of the twins asked.
“A glass of wine sounds wonderful!” Catherine said. “Peter, would you get me one, too?”She was looking directly at me, so I assumed that I was Peter. Bill and I both glanced down at
the scotch and soda that he had so recently brought for Catherine and noticed that is was
already empty.
I came back with three glasses of wine and kept on heading out to the door. I announced that I was going to take a walk and took my jacket off the coat rack. I closed the door behind me, relieved of the pressure of adult scrutiny.
.....
Colossus
A monolith, hewn from high Carrara,
From a fault-ridden corner of the quarry
Hauled great distance by wagon, sledge and barge
And left, neglected, in the courtyard
Of questionable acquisition
And suspect value
A deep crevasse ran through the core
Where others sought to shape it
The artist takes the challenge
And claims the difficult commission
And shelters the rough slab in the studio
Where they observe each other, estimating
The chisel carves into hard white flesh
As the splinters precipitate
And dust descends
Choking and chafing
The stone is hacked and gouged
Precious pieces fall away
Within, taking shape, a living thing
That feels every cut, every tooth, every rasp
The entombed being winces at every blow
Yet yearns to be set free from its form
The artist labors, yet loves the creation
And continues despite the struggle
But the wounds are so deep
And the dust so blinding
That in time, neither can bear
The presence of the other
Finally, the fatal flaw is exposed
And all progress ended
For one more mallet-fall
Would break the marble in two
So the canvas is covered
Over the half-completed work
The artist, resigned, says it matters not
For you were never beautiful to me
....
From a fault-ridden corner of the quarry
Hauled great distance by wagon, sledge and barge
And left, neglected, in the courtyard
Of questionable acquisition
And suspect value
A deep crevasse ran through the core
Where others sought to shape it
The artist takes the challenge
And claims the difficult commission
And shelters the rough slab in the studio
Where they observe each other, estimating
The chisel carves into hard white flesh
As the splinters precipitate
And dust descends
Choking and chafing
The stone is hacked and gouged
Precious pieces fall away
Within, taking shape, a living thing
That feels every cut, every tooth, every rasp
The entombed being winces at every blow
Yet yearns to be set free from its form
The artist labors, yet loves the creation
And continues despite the struggle
But the wounds are so deep
And the dust so blinding
That in time, neither can bear
The presence of the other
Finally, the fatal flaw is exposed
And all progress ended
For one more mallet-fall
Would break the marble in two
So the canvas is covered
Over the half-completed work
The artist, resigned, says it matters not
For you were never beautiful to me
....
Something to Look at
Since some are insisting upon returning here, here's something to look at when you come. :-)
Famous Birthdays
March 8, 1783 - Hannah Van Buren, wife of Martin Van Buren, eighth president of the U.S. [she died Feb 5, 1819 -- before he was elected president]
1841 - Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., jurist: associate justice of U.S. Supreme Court [1902-1932]; writer: The Common Law; died Mar 6, 1935
1888 - Stuart Chase, writer: Men and Machines, Power of Words, A New Deal [inspired Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal]; died Nov 16, 1985
1902 - Louise Beavers, actress; died Oct 26, 1962; Beulah Day, Imitation of Life
1909 - Claire Trevor (Wemlinger)Academy Award-winning [supporting] actress: Key Largo [1948]; Stagecoach, The High and the Mighty, The Mountain, Marjorie Morningstar, The Stripper, How to Murder Your Wife; died Apr 8, 2000
1921 - Cyd Charisse (Tula Ellice Finklea)dancer: Grand Hotel, Singin’ in the Rain; actress: Silk Stockings, Party Girl, Deep in My Heart
1921 - Alan Hale Jr.actor: Gilligan’s Island, Johnny Dangerously; died Jan 2, 1990
1922 - Carl (Anthony) Furillo‘Skoonj’, ‘The Reading Rifle’: baseball: Brooklyn Dodgers [World Series: 1947, 1949, 1952, 1953, 1955, 1956/all-star: 1952, 1953], LA Dodgers [World Series: 1959]; died Jan 21, 1989
1924 - Sean McClory, actor: Charade, Fools of Fortune; died Dec 10, 2003
1927 - Dick Hyman-pianist: Moritat; music director for Arthur Godfrey
1928 - Mendy Rudolph-NBA basketball referee [1953-78], 1st NBA official to work 2,000 games; sportscaster; died in July 1979
1936 - Sue Ane Langdon (Lookoff), actress: Frankie and Johnny, A Guide for the Married Man, Roustabout, Zapped!
1937 - Raynoma Lilesco-founder of Motown [with husband Berry Gordy]
1939 - Jim (James Alan) Bouton, baseball: pitcher: NY Yankees [World Series: 1963, 1964/all-star: 1963], Houston Astros, Seattle Pilots, Atlanta Braves; broadcaster: WABC-TV, WCBS-TV; author: Ball Four: My Life and Hard Times Throwing the Knuckleball in the Big Leagues, Strike Zone, Home Games
1940 - Susan Clark, actress: Coogan’s Bluff, Airport 1975, The Apple Dumpling Gang, Night Moves, Babe, The Choice, Webster
1942 - Dick (Richard Anthony) Allen, baseball: Philadelphia Phillies [all-star: 1965-1967], SL Cardinals [all-star: 1970], LA Dodgers, Chicago White Sox [all-star: 1972-1974/Baseball Writer’s Award: 1972], Oakland Athletics; “Don’t Call Me Richie”
1942 - Ralph Ellis, musician: banjo, singer: group: The Swinging Blue Jeans: Hippy Hippy Shake
1943 - Lynn Redgrave, actress: Georgy Girl, House Calls, Chicken Soup, Centennial, Rehearsal for Murder
1945 - Mickey Dolenz, singer, drummer: group: The Monkees: I’m a Believer, Last Train to Clarksville; actor: Circus Boy
1946 - Randy Meisner, singer: bass: group: The Eagles: Take it Easy, Best of My Love, Take it to the Limit
1947 - Mike Allsup, musician: guitar: group: Three Dog Night: Try a Little Tenderness, Easy to be Hard, Eli’s Coming, Mama Told Me [Not to Come], Joy to the World, Black & White, Shambala
1947 - Carole Bayer Sager, singer, songwriter: That’s What Friends are For; w/Tony Wein: Groovy Kind of Love; w/Albert Hammond: When I Need You; w/Bruce Roberts: You’re the Only One; w/Marvin Hamlisch: Break It to Me Gently, Looking Through the Eyes of Love, Nobody Does It Better
1948 - Little Peggy March (Margret Annemarie Batavio), singer: I Will Follow Him
1949 - Frank Sandershockey: Univ of Minnesota, US Olympic Ice Hockey Team [1972]; WHA: Minnesota Fighting Saints
1953 - Jim (James Edward) Rice, baseball: Boston Red Sox [all-star: 1977-1980, 1983-1986/AL MVP: 1978]
1954 - Cheryl Baker, singer: group: Bucks Fizz: Making Your Mind Up, Land of Make Believe, My Camera Never Lies, Now Those Days are Gone, If You Can’t Stand the Heat; TV host
1957 - Clive Burr, musician: drums: group: Iron Maiden [1979-1983]: Eddie the Head
1958 - Gary Numan, singer: Cars, Are Friends Electric, I Die You Die, We Take Mystery to Bed, Music for Chameleons, White Boys and Heroes, Warriors, Sister Surprise, Berserker; songwriter: I Dream of Wires
1959 - Aidan Quinn, actor: Legends of the Fall, Avalon, All My Sons, Desperately Seeking Susan, A Streetcar Named Desire
1962- Bug Witt, entertainer: Erstwhile would-be writer, former musician, ex naked blogger.
1964 - Peter Gill, musician: drums: group: Frankie Goes to Hollywood: Relax, Two Tribes, The Power of Love, Ferry Cross the Mersey
1841 - Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., jurist: associate justice of U.S. Supreme Court [1902-1932]; writer: The Common Law; died Mar 6, 1935
1888 - Stuart Chase, writer: Men and Machines, Power of Words, A New Deal [inspired Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal]; died Nov 16, 1985
1902 - Louise Beavers, actress; died Oct 26, 1962; Beulah Day, Imitation of Life
1909 - Claire Trevor (Wemlinger)Academy Award-winning [supporting] actress: Key Largo [1948]; Stagecoach, The High and the Mighty, The Mountain, Marjorie Morningstar, The Stripper, How to Murder Your Wife; died Apr 8, 2000
1921 - Cyd Charisse (Tula Ellice Finklea)dancer: Grand Hotel, Singin’ in the Rain; actress: Silk Stockings, Party Girl, Deep in My Heart
1921 - Alan Hale Jr.actor: Gilligan’s Island, Johnny Dangerously; died Jan 2, 1990
1922 - Carl (Anthony) Furillo‘Skoonj’, ‘The Reading Rifle’: baseball: Brooklyn Dodgers [World Series: 1947, 1949, 1952, 1953, 1955, 1956/all-star: 1952, 1953], LA Dodgers [World Series: 1959]; died Jan 21, 1989
1924 - Sean McClory, actor: Charade, Fools of Fortune; died Dec 10, 2003
1927 - Dick Hyman-pianist: Moritat; music director for Arthur Godfrey
1928 - Mendy Rudolph-NBA basketball referee [1953-78], 1st NBA official to work 2,000 games; sportscaster; died in July 1979
1936 - Sue Ane Langdon (Lookoff), actress: Frankie and Johnny, A Guide for the Married Man, Roustabout, Zapped!
1937 - Raynoma Lilesco-founder of Motown [with husband Berry Gordy]
1939 - Jim (James Alan) Bouton, baseball: pitcher: NY Yankees [World Series: 1963, 1964/all-star: 1963], Houston Astros, Seattle Pilots, Atlanta Braves; broadcaster: WABC-TV, WCBS-TV; author: Ball Four: My Life and Hard Times Throwing the Knuckleball in the Big Leagues, Strike Zone, Home Games
1940 - Susan Clark, actress: Coogan’s Bluff, Airport 1975, The Apple Dumpling Gang, Night Moves, Babe, The Choice, Webster
1942 - Dick (Richard Anthony) Allen, baseball: Philadelphia Phillies [all-star: 1965-1967], SL Cardinals [all-star: 1970], LA Dodgers, Chicago White Sox [all-star: 1972-1974/Baseball Writer’s Award: 1972], Oakland Athletics; “Don’t Call Me Richie”
1942 - Ralph Ellis, musician: banjo, singer: group: The Swinging Blue Jeans: Hippy Hippy Shake
1943 - Lynn Redgrave, actress: Georgy Girl, House Calls, Chicken Soup, Centennial, Rehearsal for Murder
1945 - Mickey Dolenz, singer, drummer: group: The Monkees: I’m a Believer, Last Train to Clarksville; actor: Circus Boy
1946 - Randy Meisner, singer: bass: group: The Eagles: Take it Easy, Best of My Love, Take it to the Limit
1947 - Mike Allsup, musician: guitar: group: Three Dog Night: Try a Little Tenderness, Easy to be Hard, Eli’s Coming, Mama Told Me [Not to Come], Joy to the World, Black & White, Shambala
1947 - Carole Bayer Sager, singer, songwriter: That’s What Friends are For; w/Tony Wein: Groovy Kind of Love; w/Albert Hammond: When I Need You; w/Bruce Roberts: You’re the Only One; w/Marvin Hamlisch: Break It to Me Gently, Looking Through the Eyes of Love, Nobody Does It Better
1948 - Little Peggy March (Margret Annemarie Batavio), singer: I Will Follow Him
1949 - Frank Sandershockey: Univ of Minnesota, US Olympic Ice Hockey Team [1972]; WHA: Minnesota Fighting Saints
1953 - Jim (James Edward) Rice, baseball: Boston Red Sox [all-star: 1977-1980, 1983-1986/AL MVP: 1978]
1954 - Cheryl Baker, singer: group: Bucks Fizz: Making Your Mind Up, Land of Make Believe, My Camera Never Lies, Now Those Days are Gone, If You Can’t Stand the Heat; TV host
1957 - Clive Burr, musician: drums: group: Iron Maiden [1979-1983]: Eddie the Head
1958 - Gary Numan, singer: Cars, Are Friends Electric, I Die You Die, We Take Mystery to Bed, Music for Chameleons, White Boys and Heroes, Warriors, Sister Surprise, Berserker; songwriter: I Dream of Wires
1959 - Aidan Quinn, actor: Legends of the Fall, Avalon, All My Sons, Desperately Seeking Susan, A Streetcar Named Desire
1962- Bug Witt, entertainer: Erstwhile would-be writer, former musician, ex naked blogger.
1964 - Peter Gill, musician: drums: group: Frankie Goes to Hollywood: Relax, Two Tribes, The Power of Love, Ferry Cross the Mersey
Cleaning out the Closets
Cassandra
I see her as I search the sky
Brightest light
From the East
Surrounded by stars and satellites
Some bright
Some in darkness
Some overshadowed
By larger bodies
I peer at them
Through my small aperture
And strain to decipher their twinkling
A code known only to themselves
But it is she that fascinates me
I study her from my observatory
And measuring the movements
I glory in my discovery
But I miscalculate
And she is not where I expect
Re-focusing, I watch
The more I see, the more I am revealed
Obscured by clouds
Emitting curious signals
Cassandra of the night sky
Apollo should not have cursed you so
What lies beneath
The veil of vapor?
Cool stone or
Captive heat
She emits such light
Yet peers at her reflection
And sighs.
Yet, what would I have given for one long look?
....
I see her as I search the sky
Brightest light
From the East
Surrounded by stars and satellites
Some bright
Some in darkness
Some overshadowed
By larger bodies
I peer at them
Through my small aperture
And strain to decipher their twinkling
A code known only to themselves
But it is she that fascinates me
I study her from my observatory
And measuring the movements
I glory in my discovery
But I miscalculate
And she is not where I expect
Re-focusing, I watch
The more I see, the more I am revealed
Obscured by clouds
Emitting curious signals
Cassandra of the night sky
Apollo should not have cursed you so
What lies beneath
The veil of vapor?
Cool stone or
Captive heat
She emits such light
Yet peers at her reflection
And sighs.
Yet, what would I have given for one long look?
....
Like a Dream
Have you ever dreamt of a place that was so perfect and so happy and so beautiful that you are certain that nothing like it can really exist? A place that resonates with you so deeply that you are sure you were meant to be there? A place that gives you a complete sense of being home? I have had the 'home' dream many times.
As a child, I dreamt of a 3-d version of my own crayon art: green, grassy hills with bright sunshine warming the white clapboard house with dormer windows and a brick chimney. Incongruously, there was a fire in the fireplace despite the obvious summer sunlight. But later, after living in the desert for so long, I dreamt of cool, lush landscapes and narrow, wet sidewalks. I dreamt of water and mist, canals and bays, closely huddled houses with a bricked town square where everyone exchanged greetings as they passed. All the people knew each other and had been in each others' homes. The landscaping was meticulous and flower beds lined the fronts of houses. No cars were were anywhere to be seen. All travel was by foot, by bicycle or by boat. Backyard gardens contained complex mazes and hidden statuary. But they were open to anyone.
A shop on the corner sold pastries and coffee for a mid-afternoon break and canals divided and connected the village. For this dreamland was an island, away from the world, unchanging overtime, unaffected, uncorrupted. Perfect. Too perfect to exist.
But it does exist. Sort of.
On my last trip to the Netherlands, I went to the little-visited Zuider Zee Museum. Much of it is outdoors - homes, businesses and churches taken down from dying fishing villages all over North Holland and re-assembled on an island outside of Enkhuizen. My picture of the sailboats from a few posts back was taken on the trip out to the museum. As we motored out, I had no idea that I would be stepping into my own dream. But, as we passed the fleet of old fishing boats as they put out for the day, I began to get a familiar feeling. I knew that this was no ordinary excursion. I was entering something meaningful for me.
When we arrived and debarked, I could not believe what I was seeing. This was the place of my dreams. I felt like I already knew the layout of the town and had been in all the buildings before. But that would be impossible. This is a make-believe town, an invention. But it felt so real in my memory.
Have you ever dreamed of a perfect place? Have you ever found it?
More Closet Cleaning
Once upon a time, Bugwit aspired to be a political writer. No shit. Yeah, I used to care about the world, back when I had a brain. I ran across this piece from my old political blog and was amused by it. This is one my favorites, and I hope you like it, too:
..............
George Will is Crazy
George Will is nuts. I think that when the Soviet Union collapsed, his brain couldn’t handle the loss of its reverse-compass and slowly but surely ceased to function. December 15th’s (2005) opinion piece (Our fake drilling Debate) on the Arctic Nation Wildlife Refuge (ANWR) proves it. Here’s the summary sentence from Will’s column:
"If geologists were to decide that there were only three thimbles of oil beneath (ANWR) area 1002, there would still be something to be said for going down to get them, just to prove that this nation (cue pomp and circumstance - bugwit) cannot be forever paralyzed by people wielding environmentalism as a cover for collectivism.”
Collectivism. There’s the crazy I was talking about. Plus, the man is suggesting that we should drill in ANWR just for spite! And the paranoia! He actually thinks that liberals don’t give a damn about ANWR; we just oppose drilling because we’re communists! I know, I couldn’t believe it either. He doesn’t know what year it is. Communism is dead and discredited. Why is he still ranting about an extinct threat? It’s like lying awake at night worrying that a tyrannosaurus might leap through the window at any moment.
Plus, the Soviets were not exactly tree-huggers. The Czech Republic
Here’s where here he really goes off the deep end:
“But for many opponents of drilling in the refuge, the debate is only secondarily about energy and the environment. Rather, it is a disguised debate about elemental political matters.
For some people, environmentalism is collectivism in drag. Such people use environmental causes and rhetoric not to change the political climate for the purpose of environmental improvement. Rather, for them, changing the society's politics is the end, and environmental policies are mere means to that end.”
Now, anyone knows that this can't be because Democrats never plan ahead. The calling card of the democrat is lack of guile. Even conservatives think so. It’s one of the many things they hate about progressives. Liberals just aren't down with the big secret plans. Like gossipy seventh-graders, they blab every government secret as soon as they learn it. Republicans are the plotters. Remember Watergate? Big plot.
Never heard of the PNAC? Republicans decided in 1997 that we should invade
“The unending argument in political philosophy concerns constantly adjusting society's balance between freedom and equality. The primary goal of collectivism -- of socialism in Europe and contemporary liberalism in America
Really? ANWR is about liberals' desire to grow government and micro-manage the lives of Americans? Who was the only president since WWII to reduce the size of the US
On the other hand, who flew to Washington
Here's another snippet:
“People are to be conscripted into one large cohort, everyone equal (although not equal in status or power to the governing class) in their status as wards of a self-aggrandizing government. Government says the constant enlargement of its supervising power is necessary for the equitable or efficient allocation of scarce resources.”
He’s describing Soviet-style government here, so make no mistake: if you are against drilling in ANWR, he just called you a communist.
“Therefore, one of the collectivists' tactics is to produce scarcities, particularly of what makes modern society modern -- the energy requisite for social dynamism and individual autonomy. Hence collectivists use environmentalism to advance a collectivizing energy policy. Focusing on one energy source at a time, they stress the environmental hazards of finding, developing, transporting, manufacturing or using oil, natural gas, coal or nuclear power.
That is a truly intellectual-sounding passage. But, here in his most pedantic
paragraph lies the error that undoes his whole thesis: While suggesting that constant Soviet shortages were artificially created in order to keep a thumb on the populace, Mr. Will forgets that if the shortages were intended, then the Soviets could have corrected them whenever they wanted. But, at the end of the communist era, the Soviets desperately needed to increase production of anything that would bring them hard currency, but they could not. Collectivism failed because it was inherently and horribly inefficient. The shortages were caused by the flawed theory of centralized planning, not by totalitarian politics. This fact unravels Will’s entire premise.
Also, Will never explains how fuel shortages must translate into a communist takeover or why such shortages could not lead to a radical right-wing revolution. In fact, one could make a pretty good case that scarcity has already lead to an ultra-conservative takeover. Scarcity of oil, security and a clear enemy to justify a huge military have all been used as excuses to chip away at our constitutional rights.
I don't think George Will is sincere in these beliefs. One would have to be crazy to think these things. But if he is, then he must be in a care facility somewhere, seeing Bolsheviks under every bedpan, oblivious to the fact that communism is long dead and no longer useful as a hoodoo to shake at the reactionaries. On 9/12, all the other conservatives switched to using terrorism in that role. Maybe Will’s celebrated intellect, pre-programmed to red-baiting, just could not accept that the foundation of all its arguments and actions no longer exist. And like the movie cliché where the evil computer cannot accept contradictory information, Mr. Will’s brain shorted out and caught fire.
No Apologies
I won’t say that I am sorry
Though there is sorrow in my soul
I won’t make a promise now
That I can’t fulfill tomorrow
I won’t ask forgiveness
For I still have a little pride
Or maybe I just don’t want to impose
For years and years
I was your engine
I pulled any burden, any load
Traversed the mountain passes
Made the high-speed Great Plains run
And the busy inter-city route
Now that I've been sidetracked
For oh, these past few years
For you, I’ve lost my polish, my power and my pull
You’re not so impressed with me now
I’m not the vehicle that will take you
To your land of careless life
And all your plans are left in shadow and in doubt
So here I am barely pulling my own weight
I’m not a diesel, no Eurostar, no Super Chief
No more rides in comfort, so maybe no more wife
No, I won’t beg your pardon
I can’t expect you to forget
Though there is sorrow in my soul
I won’t make a promise now
That I can’t fulfill tomorrow
I won’t ask forgiveness
For I still have a little pride
Or maybe I just don’t want to impose
For years and years
I was your engine
I pulled any burden, any load
Traversed the mountain passes
Made the high-speed Great Plains run
And the busy inter-city route
Now that I've been sidetracked
For oh, these past few years
For you, I’ve lost my polish, my power and my pull
You’re not so impressed with me now
I’m not the vehicle that will take you
To your land of careless life
And all your plans are left in shadow and in doubt
So here I am barely pulling my own weight
I’m not a diesel, no Eurostar, no Super Chief
No more rides in comfort, so maybe no more wife
No, I won’t beg your pardon
I can’t expect you to forget
It’s no use to offer blinders now
For there’s nothing of me you haven’t seen
The weight of life and actions
Tugs hard at the edge of my smile
I’m not fun for you like before
So all I ask of you
is this one little thing
Do you want me anymore?
............
For there’s nothing of me you haven’t seen
The weight of life and actions
Tugs hard at the edge of my smile
I’m not fun for you like before
So all I ask of you
is this one little thing
Do you want me anymore?
............
Freedom Fries
Each week, I go to a business luncheon. It’s an organization of people from various professions and we get to know each other, educate each other and refer business to one another. Yesterday, I found myself at the same table with Chris, the evangelical real estate guy; Laura, the blonde North Dakota-bred massage therapist; Gary, the stout pest control guy from Jersey; and Dan, the grey-haired chapter president.
I’ve had a good-natured war of words about politics with Chris the evangelist, in particular about some of the dirty tricks and nasty deeds pulled by the Bush people. Yesterday, we were discussing that it appears that Karl Rove (Bush’s henchman and general dirty-trickster) was behind the firing of seven US Attorneys, most of who were investigating republican elected officials for corruption.
He was rather steadfastly maintaining the innocence of his beloved republicans but also insisting that good Christian moral goals can be achieved through sometimes unsavory methods. In other words, the ends justify the means.
“Look, Chris. That waitress is trying to get your attention!” I pointed over Chris’s shoulder. As he turned around, I reached over with both hands and took almost all of the french fries from his plate and put them on top of my chicken caesar salad. Chris turned back around and noticed that he had only a few stubby fries left. He spotted the mountain piled in front of me.
“You stole my fries!”
“These? No, these are completely unrelated fries,” I said.
He was flabbergasted. “Did you see him take my fries?” he asked Gary.
“I didn’t see nothin’,” Gary said, looking Chris straight in the eye.
“Laura? Did he take my fries?”
“You know, I just don’t remember. I have a lot going on…the details get lost sometimes,” she laughed.
“Dan! You must have seen it!”
“Well, as president, I like to stay above these petty fights, so I can’t help you.”
“Thank you all for your honest testimony,” I said, and placed a pile of fries on the plates of Laura, Gary and Dan. They began to eat them, dunking them in the ketchup on Chris’ plate.
“I can’t believe you did that! You’re crazy, stealing my food like that!”
“Sounds like you are coming unhinged, Chris,” I said. “You’re getting hysterical. I think the wheels are falling off.”
“You don’t think I’m just going to let this lie, do you?” Chris looked at me, clearly becoming angry.
“Hey, I’m innocent, so it doesn’t really matter what you do. My conscience is clear.” Then I turned to the table next to me and whispered loudly, “Hey, I think Chris is going kind of nuts right now. Poor guy. It understandable really, he and his wife are having a little sexual problem. You might not want to send him any clients right now. You know, he’s unstable.” I made a little circle around my ear with a half-eaten fry.
“You bastard! I told you that in confidence!” Chris exploded. “Dan! You’re the president! Do something about him! He can’t just steal my food and bad mouth me to the other members!”
Dan looked at me for a moment and said, “Paul, I hereby grant you full and complete pardon for any offenses you may or may not have committed during the luncheon of March 15th, 2007.”
Then he looked at Chris. “Is that what you had in mind?”
I’ve had a good-natured war of words about politics with Chris the evangelist, in particular about some of the dirty tricks and nasty deeds pulled by the Bush people. Yesterday, we were discussing that it appears that Karl Rove (Bush’s henchman and general dirty-trickster) was behind the firing of seven US Attorneys, most of who were investigating republican elected officials for corruption.
He was rather steadfastly maintaining the innocence of his beloved republicans but also insisting that good Christian moral goals can be achieved through sometimes unsavory methods. In other words, the ends justify the means.
“Look, Chris. That waitress is trying to get your attention!” I pointed over Chris’s shoulder. As he turned around, I reached over with both hands and took almost all of the french fries from his plate and put them on top of my chicken caesar salad. Chris turned back around and noticed that he had only a few stubby fries left. He spotted the mountain piled in front of me.
“You stole my fries!”
“These? No, these are completely unrelated fries,” I said.
He was flabbergasted. “Did you see him take my fries?” he asked Gary.
“I didn’t see nothin’,” Gary said, looking Chris straight in the eye.
“Laura? Did he take my fries?”
“You know, I just don’t remember. I have a lot going on…the details get lost sometimes,” she laughed.
“Dan! You must have seen it!”
“Well, as president, I like to stay above these petty fights, so I can’t help you.”
“Thank you all for your honest testimony,” I said, and placed a pile of fries on the plates of Laura, Gary and Dan. They began to eat them, dunking them in the ketchup on Chris’ plate.
“I can’t believe you did that! You’re crazy, stealing my food like that!”
“Sounds like you are coming unhinged, Chris,” I said. “You’re getting hysterical. I think the wheels are falling off.”
“You don’t think I’m just going to let this lie, do you?” Chris looked at me, clearly becoming angry.
“Hey, I’m innocent, so it doesn’t really matter what you do. My conscience is clear.” Then I turned to the table next to me and whispered loudly, “Hey, I think Chris is going kind of nuts right now. Poor guy. It understandable really, he and his wife are having a little sexual problem. You might not want to send him any clients right now. You know, he’s unstable.” I made a little circle around my ear with a half-eaten fry.
“You bastard! I told you that in confidence!” Chris exploded. “Dan! You’re the president! Do something about him! He can’t just steal my food and bad mouth me to the other members!”
Dan looked at me for a moment and said, “Paul, I hereby grant you full and complete pardon for any offenses you may or may not have committed during the luncheon of March 15th, 2007.”
Then he looked at Chris. “Is that what you had in mind?”
.....
Taxes, Visitors
Howdy, super blog friends. Sorry Bugwit has not posted for a week. He's had his head buried in doing his taxes. But before he can do his taxes, he has to do his bookkeeping for 2006. Then he can do his corporate taxes. And state corporate taxes and then his personal federal taxes and then his personal state taxes. Fuck! It enough to turn a man Republican! I need a study break!
Last week, I got an e-mail from an old friend of mine saying, "Hey, we're coming into town next week, can we stay at your place?" Of course the answer is absolutely yes, but now we get to clean the house, do the spring landscaping and all the little fix-it stuff around the house we've been putting off. Ive heard that some people do that even when guests AREN'T coming, but those people are show-offs.
Well, it will be good to see my friend and his wife and 12-year-old girl again. We saw them last summer for the first time in ten years. If you've read Never Dance with the Commanders' Wife, You'll recognize him as the the South African guy with the razor-sharp wit. Oh, yes, and their little girl, who is a sweet as can be (really!), wants to go to the Renaissance Fair. Gonna get my joust on. Hmmm...
So, here's to early tax preparers and those that keep the house in ready-to-visit condition at all times: I hate you.
Do you keep the house ready to go? Do your taxes early? Or do you need something to prod you?
And speaking of prodding and taxes, I just found this picture. Where do you suppose they put the meter? What's the measure used for taxation purposes.? Is it a user fee, a proportional tax, a luxury tax, a sales tax, an extraction fee? Is it progressive or regressive? Do you pay as you go? Where do you file the forms? I really want to know!
.....
Avatar Contest!
Okay, so I've decided to break down and use an avatar. I have decided that I must have a signature symbol that expresses my very essence; that defines me as a person. Something that tells everyone at a glance what I am all about. Or something funny. Whatever.
The first thing that came to mind was a picture that I used in conjunction with my Nicki piece. It was a painting entitled Spooning (seen below left), although I have to admit that it depicts a scene in which actual spooning does not seem imminent. Thirty minutes away, maybe.
In fact, just to prevent any misconceptions, I removed the 'Bugger, Bugger, Bugwit' from my
banner. Given the position of the couple portrayed in the painting I'd hate people to get the idea that I'm all about the back door. I'm not sure that's the personal essence I'm trying to convey.
So, I'm still searching for an avatar, and to help move that project along, I've decided to hold a contest! Woo!
So, if you think you have a good avatar for me, send your suggested pictures, posters or whatevers by link or e-mail (b.homilies@gmail.com) and I'll select a winner. It should reflect your perception of me, and what you think reflects my personality. Or at least be funny. Feel free to also suggest a prize! The winner should get something for their efforts, right?
Thank you in advance for your submission. Not that I'm into dominance. If I was, I wouldn't thank you.
.....
The first thing that came to mind was a picture that I used in conjunction with my Nicki piece. It was a painting entitled Spooning (seen below left), although I have to admit that it depicts a scene in which actual spooning does not seem imminent. Thirty minutes away, maybe.
In fact, just to prevent any misconceptions, I removed the 'Bugger, Bugger, Bugwit' from my
banner. Given the position of the couple portrayed in the painting I'd hate people to get the idea that I'm all about the back door. I'm not sure that's the personal essence I'm trying to convey.
So, I'm still searching for an avatar, and to help move that project along, I've decided to hold a contest! Woo!
So, if you think you have a good avatar for me, send your suggested pictures, posters or whatevers by link or e-mail (b.homilies@gmail.com) and I'll select a winner. It should reflect your perception of me, and what you think reflects my personality. Or at least be funny. Feel free to also suggest a prize! The winner should get something for their efforts, right?
Thank you in advance for your submission. Not that I'm into dominance. If I was, I wouldn't thank you.
.....
Flamingoes, Flowers, Forgetfulness
Insomnia drives me late at night
Sailing easy through the desert, windows down
The perfume of paper flowers
And the cleansing scent of cassia
Tousles my hair and sifts through my fingers
The mountains lie face up in silhouette
The sky soaks up the moonlight
I tune in the oldies station,
the Flamingoes croon to me
Shoo-bop-doo-wop, Shoo-bop-doo-wop
My love must have been a kind of blind love
For I could see no one but you
My head was clouded, not bright
I never thought you would deny love
But now I think I understand why
You were there, so was I
We’ve seen the millions pass by
But I’m remembering that I am someone beautiful
Despite all the things that you said
You were so lucky to know me
My love must have been a kind of blind love
For I overlooked the cracks and flaws in the facade
How did this happen, what were the odds
But not everything is pure chance
And I have finally realized all that has been
Though the moon was so high
Not a thing in the sky could I have seen
So I’ve turned my face back to the Earth
Now I’m driving through the desert
And I only have eyes for me
Holy Crap! I Got Accepted!
Against all odds, I have been accepted into Goucher College for their Creative Non-Fiction Master of Fine Arts program. School starts in August.
Un-freaking-beleivable.
Wow. I was not expecting this. *pulls out pre-written speach*
I'd like to thank all of you who supported me and said kind things about my writing, and to those who have encouraged me to keep writing, and especially to those that nagged, um, reminded me to get my personal statement written and mailed.
Woo! Woo! Woo!
(Crap. Now what do I do?)
My New Career Coach
Larry Bort is smiling at me. He always smiles. I can see all of his teeth. His eyes bulge and look a little wild. His grayish blonde hair sticks up like in a rooster tail. His scalp line recedes at the temples, leaving a mohawk-like strip down the center of his head.
I am in the process of taking bids to paint my house. I already had two estimates when I remembered that the guy down the street paints houses. It seemed like a good idea to talk to him since he presumably knows the neighborhood and would not get me into trouble with the Homeowners' Association, whose spies are everywhere. They would love to fine me $100 for improper paint color or contractors working on Sundays or some other arcane rule of which I am not aware.
As we talk at the front of the house, I see Larry's red Honda sports car parked on the street. I suddenly remember a few months back when a crazed jerk in a red sports car got impatient with me while we drove down the main street of the subdivision. I kept stopping at all the stop signs, which annoyed him to no end. In my rear-view mirror, I saw him weave, threaten to pass on the right and gesture wildly from behind the wheel. I slowed down just to irritate him more. When we finally exited the neighborhood, he flew around me and flipped me off.
We walk around the house and I point out all the trouble spots. Larry doesn't take measurements like the other painters did, but he says he can tell me exactly how much he would charge me. Except for the paint. He'd just bill me for the paint at the end. I tell him I need a good estimate on the paint costs.
"Well, I couldn't even begin to guess how much paint this house would need!" He says.
"The other two painters both said about 40 gallons per coat," I reply.
"Yes! That's exactly how much I was going to say!"
"Right," I think to myself.
"Well, the labor for this job would be $7900. I'll figure the paint and call you."
Larry's bid was about twice as high as the other two I'd gotten already.
As we walked down the driveway, I asked him how long he'd been painting houses.
"Oh, just a couple of years, while I've been between jobs."
"Really? What do you usually do?" I asked.
"I'm a licensed therapist." His grin never waned for one moment.
"How 'bout that!" I said.
"What about you? What do you do?" Larry asked.
"Insurance agent."
"Do you like it?"
"Sometimes."
"Well, if you ever want to make a career change, or just want to get more out of your current job, call me."
He whipped out a business card that read "Larry Bort, Business Coach/Career Counselor."
......
UPDATE! This guy looked really familiar, but I couldn't place him. Then tonight, I turn on an old favorite movie, Escape from New York, and there he was, the crazy-looking punk dude, Isaac Hayes' right-hand man. That's him, wild eyes, and sticky-up hair.
......
I am in the process of taking bids to paint my house. I already had two estimates when I remembered that the guy down the street paints houses. It seemed like a good idea to talk to him since he presumably knows the neighborhood and would not get me into trouble with the Homeowners' Association, whose spies are everywhere. They would love to fine me $100 for improper paint color or contractors working on Sundays or some other arcane rule of which I am not aware.
As we talk at the front of the house, I see Larry's red Honda sports car parked on the street. I suddenly remember a few months back when a crazed jerk in a red sports car got impatient with me while we drove down the main street of the subdivision. I kept stopping at all the stop signs, which annoyed him to no end. In my rear-view mirror, I saw him weave, threaten to pass on the right and gesture wildly from behind the wheel. I slowed down just to irritate him more. When we finally exited the neighborhood, he flew around me and flipped me off.
We walk around the house and I point out all the trouble spots. Larry doesn't take measurements like the other painters did, but he says he can tell me exactly how much he would charge me. Except for the paint. He'd just bill me for the paint at the end. I tell him I need a good estimate on the paint costs.
"Well, I couldn't even begin to guess how much paint this house would need!" He says.
"The other two painters both said about 40 gallons per coat," I reply.
"Yes! That's exactly how much I was going to say!"
"Right," I think to myself.
"Well, the labor for this job would be $7900. I'll figure the paint and call you."
Larry's bid was about twice as high as the other two I'd gotten already.
As we walked down the driveway, I asked him how long he'd been painting houses.
"Oh, just a couple of years, while I've been between jobs."
"Really? What do you usually do?" I asked.
"I'm a licensed therapist." His grin never waned for one moment.
"How 'bout that!" I said.
"What about you? What do you do?" Larry asked.
"Insurance agent."
"Do you like it?"
"Sometimes."
"Well, if you ever want to make a career change, or just want to get more out of your current job, call me."
He whipped out a business card that read "Larry Bort, Business Coach/Career Counselor."
......
UPDATE! This guy looked really familiar, but I couldn't place him. Then tonight, I turn on an old favorite movie, Escape from New York, and there he was, the crazy-looking punk dude, Isaac Hayes' right-hand man. That's him, wild eyes, and sticky-up hair.
......
The Namesake
I went to see The Namesake yesterday. It is the story of a son of Indian immigrants who struggles to escape his Bengali culture, symbolized by his name, Gogol Ganguli. He feels oppressed and uncomfortable with his parents and their traditional ways, as he feels very American. He prefers to go by Nick.
Early in the picture when the grandfather dies, Gogol's mother cries out, wracked with grief. Later in the film, Gogol's father dies and and the son is deeply affected and transformed by the loss. I was moved by this film, especially by these two scenes, but I had to think about why this was so.
On the way home from the theater, I had some time to think while driving down the freeway. Off in the distance, I could see the condo complex where my parents lived until recently. The emotion from the movie hit me again, and I realized why this movie struck a chord. It was not because I anticipated that I would miss my father when he dies, it was because I knew that I would not.
Gogol's father and grandfather were wise, loving men who put their children first, provided thoughtful guidance and imparted moral and intellectual education for their children. Mine did not. I was lightly parented at best. My father mostly ignored me, but on those occasions when he turned his attention my way, he was derisive, insulting and cruel. To this day, he seeks to elevate his self-esteem by lowering that of those around him.
I will not miss that.
As I grew up I, like Gogol, saw myself as being stuck with an unusual name that I wished I could escape. I no longer dislike my name, but unlike Gogol, I have not come to appreciate my father or seen the light of his love and wisdom. Nor do not think this will ever happen. I will not mourn him when he goes, for I have already mourned my lack of a father.
.......
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