The phone rang this morning at 5:46. “Are you awake?” Is what I here upon answering. I grumble something about having to wake up to answer the phone. “Well can you pick me up at the Super 8 motel and bring me to Whitehouse?” I grumble something else about answering the damn phone to a strange number, and the reply I get is “Well the @$%&*%^%$ phone charger is a %(*&^%$$ car charger and the…” I stop the chatter coming through this miracle of technology that permits me unification with the larger world wherever I go as long as I pay both homage and stipend to the Gods of AT&T. I inform the contributor of this unneeded information that I will be along in about 45 minutes and to look out for my truck.
There is this young lady that is in my life that seems to think that our relationship, as evidenced by this morning’s telephone communiqué, is most effective when she wakes me up in the middle of the night. This being my vacation time, 5:46 AM is the latter part of the middle of the night. She is my daughter. She gets to do this because she is my daughter. I think she enjoys it. I think maybe I do too.
This whirlwind of nocturnal hustle and bustle came into my life approximately six years ago. I watched her walk into one of the twelve step meetings I attend with this biker who had started to come to my meeting. This pair has become the two most important people in my life. Him because he is the most decent and loving friend a man could have, and she because that day she latched onto my heart and has eradicated any thought within her that might even come close to telling her to let it go.
I remember seeing her that day and several days later, in the company of my ICE-2. One of the wonders of modern technology is the idea that one can put the phone number of the next of kin or person to contact in case of emergency in your cell phone address book, and if you are hurt and/or unconscious, whoever is giving you aid can notify the appropriate party. My Deifiúr is naturally the first to be called, and this gray haired old biker is the next to be notified, hence the ICE-2. It was this man that really put mi hija into my life.
She was this 17 year old, nearly feral, street kid. She has long red hair, and almost emaciated body, and a set of eyes that would and still drill straight into someone’s soul, making them instantly fall hopelessly head over heels in love. She knew this and was apparently well versed at using it to her advantage. She promptly began raping and pillaging her way through the younger guys in the group, taking hostages of the heart with the ease of the great Irish pirate queen Grace O’Malley.
I recall the first time we ever spoke. She walked (strode would be a better description) up to me and situated herself in front of me with her hands on her hips in anticipation of incarcerating my attention and whatever amount of my day she deemed necessary. She had on a blue miniskirt, tennis shoes with the little socks that barely reach her ankles, and a blouse with a slit down the front low enough to flaunt a generous amount of cleavage. On the stomach of the shirt was an arrow pointing up and the words “Hey, I’m up here.”
When asked why she would wear something like that, her reply was, “So that guys will look at my boobs.” She flashed an evil grin, and forced me to hug her. Well, not so much forced, as established that we would henceforth show affection for each other, by holding me in an unbreakable grip. Not, that is, that I wished to ever let go.
In the ensuing six years we have accumulated scores of adventures, encounters, episodes, events, incidents, ordeals, tests, trials, and tribulations ranging in all the emotional spectrum that can happen between a fifty something year old man and a maniac teenaged girl. I’ve spent many hours driving to, or driving her from, trailer houses located on the back roads of the county we live in. I, at one time, knew where all the drug dealers resided who live in trailer homes in that same county. Not exactly a necessary skill set that one of my advanced time in a drug recovery program should find it necessary to possess. As many miles as I drove that many fast food meals I provided her. For a while, she became a roommate and it was during that time that she became my daughter. She came out of yet another trailer house in the country, this time in pretty bad shape, and sat on my couch wishing she had a home. I offered her one, and she accepted.
As my dear departed Uncle Buddy taught me, women are crazy, especially seventeen year old street girls. All of a sudden I had these wannabe thug kids wearing khaki pants slung down to their knees in the back, “wife beater” t-shirts, and hip hop caps worn either backwards or askew coming to the door night and day. Sleepless nights wondering if she is going to come home, and whether or not she is getting beaten, defiled, or held hostage. She yelled at me when I asked her what she was doing, and would stomp off to her room and refuse to speak to me. And then came the pièce de résistance, she got pregnant while I was on a business trip.
I was accused of fathering the baby, even though I was in a completely different time zone when it happened. We fought; she moved out, had the baby and I became her father as she became my daughter. She became the light of my life, and I became her ICE. Not an altogether bad place to be in someone’s life…especially if you love them as I love her. Especially, you see, if you get to thank God for the opportunity to love and protect her, with all my heart and all my soul. Just like William J. Smith taught me.
Why am I so cheerful about this loss of sleep and rest? Because I asked God if I could see her for my birthday, which happens this Sunday and he said yes. Also because we spoke, and laughed, and told each other things that are going on in our lives, and hugged each other as if we were never going to see each other again. And because she told me she loved me. Have a good day Stacie. Te Amo Mía
Peace.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Nuts!
This was the reply Brigadier General Anthony Clement McAuliffe gave in reply to a message from the German commander at the Siege of Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge in World War II. Certainly, I know this as a part of what history, accurate or not, I learned in school. Yet this information came to me much sooner then my 10th grade World History class. This bit of lore was passed on to me by my favorite person in all of History…my Uncle Buddy.
Today is the anniversary of his birth. I have written a number of times on this most beloved kinsperson. Perhaps one might have read about him on my other locations on the World Wide Web. Perhaps, you have been privy to the many tales I impart of my relationship with this most gentle of men. It is of little import to me where and when, or even if you have never been acquainted with William J. Smith. I am thinking of him today and missing him.
He held a significant place in my life in that he was the man in my life who wanted me. For one reason or another, my father wished no connection with me other then that which my Dear Sainted Mother forced on him. It was Uncle Buddy who taught me those things a man needs to learn. He taught me that if I read many books, I would know many things. He taught me how to spit, a useful trait for a man to have, he said. I remember riding with him in his station wagon as we rambled about on various adventures, and watching him spit out the window without getting any on him, and knocking the ash off a cigarette with his pinky finger. Both, to this day, are necessary and manly activities that I still practice.
He taught me that it wasn’t my father’s fault that he didn’t want me, it was just the way he was. He taught me that the world had many things in it, and that I would have to figure a bunch of it out on my own. He taught me that women were, in general, crazy. He also taught me that it was the most noble and honorable thing in the world to love and protect the women in my life with all my heart and all my soul. A duty I wish I were better at.
I remember talking to him about being a paratrooper. He told me that he volunteered to be a paratrooper because he did not want to go overseas on a transport ship. The only problem was that in the 1940’s there were no troop transport planes that could make it across the Atlantic Ocean. His stories usually came by way of funny, or what seemed funny, reminiscences of duty off the front lines. I knew he jumped on D-Day. I know he was at Bastogne at Christmas the same year. I also know he liberated a concentration camp.
Uncle Buddy suffered from the same affliction as do I. I have been blessed with the gift of recovery. He did not have that available to him. He was Irish-Catholic which pretty much meant that he went to work, and came home and got drunk. I remember having a discussion with my Dear Sainted Mother where she told me that when he came back from the war, he spent the first 24 hours sitting at my grandmothers table, weeping uncontrollably. He would get “commode-hugging” drunk and as the years progressed, became a burden on the family. I remember asking him during one of those jaunts about town we would take, when I was thirteen, why he drank so much. He thought for a minute, and told me the entire story. He told me of liberating the concentration camp, the icy cold at Bastogne, the horror of D-Day, and about the dreams. He told me that he would have terrible nightmares at night if he didn’t get drunk. He came from a generation that did not believe in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. They called if “shell-shocked” and half the time people with that ailment were considered cowards. I also remember, that despite his memories, the day he told me that he was proud of me for joining the U.S. Army.
He made me promise not to tell anyone, and I didn’t until after his death. The only one I told then was my Deifiúr, Paula. She will read this, and probably shed tears similar to those leaking down my face. I am not the only one whose favorite person was William J. Smith.
He would have been 89 today. He would have wanted me to take a ride with him in a station wagon. He would have wanted to sit on a chaise lounge reading a book and giving my Deifiúr lessons on the proper method of diving into a swimming poll from a diving board. I think he would have just wanted to be here, or perhaps I am just missing him. So, here’s to you Uncle Buddy and all the rest of those “Battered Bastards of Bastogne”…Happy Birthday!
Peace.
Today is the anniversary of his birth. I have written a number of times on this most beloved kinsperson. Perhaps one might have read about him on my other locations on the World Wide Web. Perhaps, you have been privy to the many tales I impart of my relationship with this most gentle of men. It is of little import to me where and when, or even if you have never been acquainted with William J. Smith. I am thinking of him today and missing him.
He held a significant place in my life in that he was the man in my life who wanted me. For one reason or another, my father wished no connection with me other then that which my Dear Sainted Mother forced on him. It was Uncle Buddy who taught me those things a man needs to learn. He taught me that if I read many books, I would know many things. He taught me how to spit, a useful trait for a man to have, he said. I remember riding with him in his station wagon as we rambled about on various adventures, and watching him spit out the window without getting any on him, and knocking the ash off a cigarette with his pinky finger. Both, to this day, are necessary and manly activities that I still practice.
He taught me that it wasn’t my father’s fault that he didn’t want me, it was just the way he was. He taught me that the world had many things in it, and that I would have to figure a bunch of it out on my own. He taught me that women were, in general, crazy. He also taught me that it was the most noble and honorable thing in the world to love and protect the women in my life with all my heart and all my soul. A duty I wish I were better at.
I remember talking to him about being a paratrooper. He told me that he volunteered to be a paratrooper because he did not want to go overseas on a transport ship. The only problem was that in the 1940’s there were no troop transport planes that could make it across the Atlantic Ocean. His stories usually came by way of funny, or what seemed funny, reminiscences of duty off the front lines. I knew he jumped on D-Day. I know he was at Bastogne at Christmas the same year. I also know he liberated a concentration camp.
Uncle Buddy suffered from the same affliction as do I. I have been blessed with the gift of recovery. He did not have that available to him. He was Irish-Catholic which pretty much meant that he went to work, and came home and got drunk. I remember having a discussion with my Dear Sainted Mother where she told me that when he came back from the war, he spent the first 24 hours sitting at my grandmothers table, weeping uncontrollably. He would get “commode-hugging” drunk and as the years progressed, became a burden on the family. I remember asking him during one of those jaunts about town we would take, when I was thirteen, why he drank so much. He thought for a minute, and told me the entire story. He told me of liberating the concentration camp, the icy cold at Bastogne, the horror of D-Day, and about the dreams. He told me that he would have terrible nightmares at night if he didn’t get drunk. He came from a generation that did not believe in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. They called if “shell-shocked” and half the time people with that ailment were considered cowards. I also remember, that despite his memories, the day he told me that he was proud of me for joining the U.S. Army.
He made me promise not to tell anyone, and I didn’t until after his death. The only one I told then was my Deifiúr, Paula. She will read this, and probably shed tears similar to those leaking down my face. I am not the only one whose favorite person was William J. Smith.
He would have been 89 today. He would have wanted me to take a ride with him in a station wagon. He would have wanted to sit on a chaise lounge reading a book and giving my Deifiúr lessons on the proper method of diving into a swimming poll from a diving board. I think he would have just wanted to be here, or perhaps I am just missing him. So, here’s to you Uncle Buddy and all the rest of those “Battered Bastards of Bastogne”…Happy Birthday!
Peace.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Anamnesis
I find myself in a particular frame of mind that lends itself to once more impart to the teeming masses glorious tales of wit and wisdom as envisaged by this oft dimwitted yet persistent scribe. I have embarked on the creation, in earnest, of my next tome for which I am assured fame and fortune. As soon that is, as I find an agent/editor/publisher who is likewise oft dimwitted. My previous three volumes of wit and wisdom languish in my head, heart, and hard drive(s). I have taken some steps in that elusive path to success, and will carry on to boldly go where oft dimwitted writers go…back to work after my vacation is over.
I am in the fourth day of a 36 day vacation, and have adored every minute. I have tactical and strategic goals for the next month. A weekend with some fellow travelers on the journey of recovery, a visit with my darling Deifiúr and Captain Domesticado for the occasion of my attainment of yet another year on the voyage which brings me closer to the Great Reward, many meetings, and the sovereignty over my alarm clock and when to set it (or not). And there is the writing.
Grand campaigns aside, today I found my self back in that irksome and precarious place where we must all exist. The real world, that is. I left my Sanctum after a full thirty six hours in deep contemplation (mostly in front of the object of my most fervent fondness as accessed by a monstrously problematical remote control) and attempted to go out to do battle with humankind. In less haughty words, I was going to a meeting and Wal-Mart.
Annoyingly enough, my method of conveyance, manufactured and produced by a recently bankrupt automotive giant, almost did not start. I fumbled with the ignition and got it started with just a minute amount of expletives. I went to my meeting while charting my actions afterwards, which seemed to suggest a set of jumper cables, and a trip to the pawn shop.
The trip to the pawn shop comes in part due to it being the day prior to the coffers being opened where I will be, once more, compensated for my efforts to edify and enlighten the troubled young men the God of my understanding has left in my charge, and the woeful fact that I am yet to learn fiscal responsibility.
Well, the jumper cables were, indeed, necessary as was a trip to replace the battery. A friend gave me the jump, and handed he what we both thought would be needed to replace said part. He has an aversion to pawn shops which I wish to attain as a part of my character and psyche. A humorous side to the pawn shop dilemma is the fact that in all the years I attempted to destroy myself with drugs and alcohol, I never set foot in the land of the 23.5% loan interest rate. Now that I am not only gainfully employed, and compensated at the highest rate of any employment in this broke fool’s life, I find myself on a first name basis with the folk’s at my friendly neighborhood pawn shop.
Again, I digress. (I wonder if digression is a treatable disease.) I remembered that on the way to Wal-Mart there is an old fashioned mom-and-pop garage that specializes in batteries. My friend follows me to ensure that I would regain uninhibited mobility. I went into the office to begin the repair process, and found an elderly lady playing solitaire on a computer. She had the look of one’s grandmother with a husky gravelly voice. I inquired as to the price a replacement battery might be and she promptly replies “$38.18”
“Installed?” I said.
“Of course. You think it would do you any good sitting in your trunk?” This last statement came with an impish grin. I turned to my friend who bid me farewell. I asked it was a new battery and was informed that it had a blemish on it but it was as sound as any I might find at “One of them robber places.” She told me that she had been selling them for 44 years and saw no reason to change. She told me about a six month warranty and also told me to bring it back if I had any trouble and they would replace it if necessary. She took me outside and told a guy to go and get me a battery. She then replaced him on a small tool where he had torn into the wiring of a truck similar to mine, and proceeded to wade into the quagmire of wires and fuses.
Once settling the bill, I perambulated to my truck in grateful amazement. I ventured on to Wal-Mart and, purely out of inquisitiveness priced a battery. Tax, Title, and License their batteries were twice the price with a warranty that had about a five thousand word small print section that essentially stated that after six months battery replacement would be on a increasing price adjustment. This coming from a company whose founder drove a 1967 pickup truck produced by the same recently bankrupt giant automaker until the day he died. The same man who was the richest person in America and possibly the world for a long time.
I remember driving cars that were produced in the 1960’s and 1970’s, even a few from the 1950’s. They were simple affairs. One knew where to find things under the hood. An oil change or a tune up cost a six pack of beer and parts if you caught one of your buddies just right. The local garage was some body’s father or uncle or cousin who employed kids that you took shop class with. Computers were something scientist used to diagram the universe. Warranties meant that if it messed up on you, you brought it back and they fixed it…free of charge.
Today you bring a vehicle to a shop and they have to hook it up to a computer to diagnose what was faulty. If it needs to be repaired, they have this huge book that tells them how long it should take them to repair the problem and that is the minimum you pay, plus parts. If it takes 10 minutes and the book say three hours…there goes the object of my most fervent fondness as accessed by a monstrously problematical remote control.
Fortunately my lamentation aside, there are still mom-and-pop localities that allow this oft dimwitted, wordy (maybe to a fault), writer to use as fodder for your enjoyment. I hope.
Peace
I am in the fourth day of a 36 day vacation, and have adored every minute. I have tactical and strategic goals for the next month. A weekend with some fellow travelers on the journey of recovery, a visit with my darling Deifiúr and Captain Domesticado for the occasion of my attainment of yet another year on the voyage which brings me closer to the Great Reward, many meetings, and the sovereignty over my alarm clock and when to set it (or not). And there is the writing.
Grand campaigns aside, today I found my self back in that irksome and precarious place where we must all exist. The real world, that is. I left my Sanctum after a full thirty six hours in deep contemplation (mostly in front of the object of my most fervent fondness as accessed by a monstrously problematical remote control) and attempted to go out to do battle with humankind. In less haughty words, I was going to a meeting and Wal-Mart.
Annoyingly enough, my method of conveyance, manufactured and produced by a recently bankrupt automotive giant, almost did not start. I fumbled with the ignition and got it started with just a minute amount of expletives. I went to my meeting while charting my actions afterwards, which seemed to suggest a set of jumper cables, and a trip to the pawn shop.
The trip to the pawn shop comes in part due to it being the day prior to the coffers being opened where I will be, once more, compensated for my efforts to edify and enlighten the troubled young men the God of my understanding has left in my charge, and the woeful fact that I am yet to learn fiscal responsibility.
Well, the jumper cables were, indeed, necessary as was a trip to replace the battery. A friend gave me the jump, and handed he what we both thought would be needed to replace said part. He has an aversion to pawn shops which I wish to attain as a part of my character and psyche. A humorous side to the pawn shop dilemma is the fact that in all the years I attempted to destroy myself with drugs and alcohol, I never set foot in the land of the 23.5% loan interest rate. Now that I am not only gainfully employed, and compensated at the highest rate of any employment in this broke fool’s life, I find myself on a first name basis with the folk’s at my friendly neighborhood pawn shop.
Again, I digress. (I wonder if digression is a treatable disease.) I remembered that on the way to Wal-Mart there is an old fashioned mom-and-pop garage that specializes in batteries. My friend follows me to ensure that I would regain uninhibited mobility. I went into the office to begin the repair process, and found an elderly lady playing solitaire on a computer. She had the look of one’s grandmother with a husky gravelly voice. I inquired as to the price a replacement battery might be and she promptly replies “$38.18”
“Installed?” I said.
“Of course. You think it would do you any good sitting in your trunk?” This last statement came with an impish grin. I turned to my friend who bid me farewell. I asked it was a new battery and was informed that it had a blemish on it but it was as sound as any I might find at “One of them robber places.” She told me that she had been selling them for 44 years and saw no reason to change. She told me about a six month warranty and also told me to bring it back if I had any trouble and they would replace it if necessary. She took me outside and told a guy to go and get me a battery. She then replaced him on a small tool where he had torn into the wiring of a truck similar to mine, and proceeded to wade into the quagmire of wires and fuses.
Once settling the bill, I perambulated to my truck in grateful amazement. I ventured on to Wal-Mart and, purely out of inquisitiveness priced a battery. Tax, Title, and License their batteries were twice the price with a warranty that had about a five thousand word small print section that essentially stated that after six months battery replacement would be on a increasing price adjustment. This coming from a company whose founder drove a 1967 pickup truck produced by the same recently bankrupt giant automaker until the day he died. The same man who was the richest person in America and possibly the world for a long time.
I remember driving cars that were produced in the 1960’s and 1970’s, even a few from the 1950’s. They were simple affairs. One knew where to find things under the hood. An oil change or a tune up cost a six pack of beer and parts if you caught one of your buddies just right. The local garage was some body’s father or uncle or cousin who employed kids that you took shop class with. Computers were something scientist used to diagram the universe. Warranties meant that if it messed up on you, you brought it back and they fixed it…free of charge.
Today you bring a vehicle to a shop and they have to hook it up to a computer to diagnose what was faulty. If it needs to be repaired, they have this huge book that tells them how long it should take them to repair the problem and that is the minimum you pay, plus parts. If it takes 10 minutes and the book say three hours…there goes the object of my most fervent fondness as accessed by a monstrously problematical remote control.
Fortunately my lamentation aside, there are still mom-and-pop localities that allow this oft dimwitted, wordy (maybe to a fault), writer to use as fodder for your enjoyment. I hope.
Peace
Monday, June 1, 2009
Cogitation
This morning I find it necessary to perform a belated spring cleansing of the old cranium, dust off the old keyboard, and bore the shit out of some folks. I have been absent from this most wonderful cyber-medium for much too long. I keep thinking that I am a writer and I keep not writing. I smother my creative juices with the mundane pretext that I am involved in the business of educating the next generation and find that, in, that same generation is most assuredly…educating me. Staring into the face of one of my students last week, I found myself once more grateful for the opportunity to do what I do. This kid walks into my classroom during my conference period with a frown on his face, and his hands waving in the air yelling something which I can not interpret or quite simply understand. I stand, thinking that I might have to restrain him, and he grabs me in a bear hug, and tells me, “Motherf-----I made it!!!!!”
The “It” he was referring to is the fact that he had achieved the necessary grades to graduate from high school. I had a little to do with that. This young gentleman and I had crossed swords (metaphorically that is) on a few occasions when it fell to me to either personally remove him, or have him removed from class for the exhibition of truly abhorrent behavior. We have known each other for about a year and most of that time our relationship has been, well, strained. I suffer little in the way of disagreeable behavior, and he revels in displaying these selfsame behaviors I find irritating. The last thing I ever expected was that we would become close.
The last half a year I have been sort of co-teaching a class with our computer technology teacher. She is an extremely sweet and loving woman that can get even the most delinquent of adolescents to behave. I watched and learned many lessons from this Angel of the Keyboard. One of those lessons was to involve myself with student in such a manner as to display to them a sense that I care about them beyond their schoolwork.
My young friend has a desire to be a welder and, thanks to an excellent welding teacher, has grown exceptionally proficient for a lad of his age. One of my former attempts at gainful employment was as an assistant in a machine shop. While I am no hand with a torch, I can certainly recognize good work when it is in front of me. I took and interest in the work of my students taking welding, and I found it to be one of the best efforts I have made. This young man set aside his anger at me, and became a friend. Another allowed me to draw out of him a talent for poetry as displayed through hip-hop music. It felt amazing when I handed him an award for the “Most Talented Student” and heard the rest of the school cheer for him as if he were a rock star (oops! I mean Eminem).
Yet again I digress. I reached around my young friend and returned his hug. I looked over his shoulder to ensure no body could hear, and replied, “Motherf----- Okay!!!!
A good day, that was. I have had many since I last wrote on a regular basis. Perhaps this piece will be the beginning. I am off for a month on vacation. I’m going some places, to have a good time. I need to bring my notebook in from the truck and charge the batteries. Time to write.
Peace
The “It” he was referring to is the fact that he had achieved the necessary grades to graduate from high school. I had a little to do with that. This young gentleman and I had crossed swords (metaphorically that is) on a few occasions when it fell to me to either personally remove him, or have him removed from class for the exhibition of truly abhorrent behavior. We have known each other for about a year and most of that time our relationship has been, well, strained. I suffer little in the way of disagreeable behavior, and he revels in displaying these selfsame behaviors I find irritating. The last thing I ever expected was that we would become close.
The last half a year I have been sort of co-teaching a class with our computer technology teacher. She is an extremely sweet and loving woman that can get even the most delinquent of adolescents to behave. I watched and learned many lessons from this Angel of the Keyboard. One of those lessons was to involve myself with student in such a manner as to display to them a sense that I care about them beyond their schoolwork.
My young friend has a desire to be a welder and, thanks to an excellent welding teacher, has grown exceptionally proficient for a lad of his age. One of my former attempts at gainful employment was as an assistant in a machine shop. While I am no hand with a torch, I can certainly recognize good work when it is in front of me. I took and interest in the work of my students taking welding, and I found it to be one of the best efforts I have made. This young man set aside his anger at me, and became a friend. Another allowed me to draw out of him a talent for poetry as displayed through hip-hop music. It felt amazing when I handed him an award for the “Most Talented Student” and heard the rest of the school cheer for him as if he were a rock star (oops! I mean Eminem).
Yet again I digress. I reached around my young friend and returned his hug. I looked over his shoulder to ensure no body could hear, and replied, “Motherf----- Okay!!!!
A good day, that was. I have had many since I last wrote on a regular basis. Perhaps this piece will be the beginning. I am off for a month on vacation. I’m going some places, to have a good time. I need to bring my notebook in from the truck and charge the batteries. Time to write.
Peace
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Acquiescence
Sitting at my desk, I am attempting to do something that has been an increasingly difficult task of me of late. I am writing. I do this in spite of the fact that I have to go out today to a rather significant function in that small part of the cosmos that is my personal reality. It is the 25th Anniversary of the recovery group that brought me relief and direction in my life after a three decade search for enlightenment through the use of mind altering mood changing substances. I have been asked to speak this evening and I need to prepare myself while feeling, alternately, humbled and annoyed. It is a great honor to be asked in the first place to share the gift of my recovery. It is also irritating in that I will be forced to sit during the delivery of this speech. While I do think well sitting down, (I am, as you all should know by now, the next Great American, Award Winning, Oft Quoted, Best-selling, Classic Author) due to my decrepitude and advanced age. I do not express my self nearly as well while seated and speaking as when I can stand.
When first I entered the domain of public speaking I found it to be the most annoying of activities. I had to give a five minute lecture on the proper use of a water filled fire extinguisher. Thank the Great Spirit that the operation of said instrument is pretty much self explanatory. Had it been one of the newer, more complicated designs, I would probably have flunked and gone back to driving a truck while only wishing I was the Great American, Award Winning, Oft Quoted, Best-selling, Classic Author instead of actually doing something to achieve my dreams. Since that day I have actively strove to increase my abilities in the world of public speaking. I have taken courses in speech, workshops on effective verbal delivery, and chosen a profession where the key skill set is an ability to publicly address students and trainees.
I have discovered that I am at my best when I can wander and use the audience as a prop like some demented comedian or preacher. I have often carped on the ideal that speaking on recovery themes should not be, well, Performance Art. I have had experiences where I attempted to speak to friends who are about to get up and speak only to hear, “Leave me alone, I am trying to center myself.” My reaction was to think, to myself, that this is not some stage from which one inspires or entertains. It is an opportunity to help others by sharing your particular experience at becoming an acceptable, responsible, productive member of society. Yet, here I am, irritated at my reduced level of effectiveness at delivering a good how.”
I am writing this today because I read about it in my morning meditation book that there is poser in the pen (well, keyboard) as a path to the resolution of difficulties in ones life. I am, if anything, a fervent advocate for the Twelve Step program I belong to, and have found comfort and solace in doing those things told me by the program regardless of desire or thoughts contrary to the suggestion. I write and wish I were somewhere else. But first I write.
This piece is an exercise. The first part is to the reacquaint my fingers to the keyboard so that I am typing words that make sense and are easy to read. The second part is to reacquaint my self with the realities of this day. This day I have to go and do this thing while attempting to be genuine. I publish this today with the promise that I will be back tomorrow. Peace.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
GOD vs. Science
I will have to admit that these are not my words, although, I wish they were. I found this tale in my in box for my speak-to-the-rest-of-the-world email address. It was one of those Fw:fw:fw: deals which some folks find annoying. I do not necessarily take umbrage with these missives as I firmly believe that everything happens in my life a an intricate part of a Grand design of the God of My Understanding. That was "Grand" not "Intelligent" design, so those who are more liberal then I can read on without cause to jump on a soapbox and shut this page down in protest. Likewise, my more Republican (that means conservative...doesn't it?) can read on with assurance that these words will hold true for them also.
As mentioned earlier, I did not write the following story and do not know the original author. I will use quotation marks to separate it in the hopes that I do not get sued for copyright infringement. ( What will they get? The two hundred dollars I have earned as a writer, the second hundred of which promised but as yet not arrived?) The message had been through so many forwards that the original author must have got drowned out by all those eager to spread the word of the one true God. I pass it on because it demonstrates that the message is more powerful then the words in it.
"A science professor begins his school year with a lecture to the students,
'Let me explain the problem science has with religion.' The atheist
professor of philosophy pauses before his class and then asks one of his new
students to stand.
'You're a Christian, aren't you, son?'
'Yes sir,' the student says.
'So you believe in God?'
'Absolutely.'
'Is God good?'
'Sure! God's good.'
'Is God all-powerful? Can God do anything?'
'Yes.'
'Are you good or evil?'
'The Bible says I'm evil.'
The professor grins knowingly.. 'Aha! The Bible!' He considers for a moment.
'Here's one for you. Let's say there's a sick person over here and you can
cure him. You can do it. Would you help him? Would you try?'
'Yes sir, I would..'
'So you're good...!'
'I wouldn't say that.'
'But why not say that? You'd help a sick and maimed person if you could..
Most of us would if we could. But God doesn't.'
The student does not answer, so the professor continues. 'He doesn't, does
he? My brother was a Christian who died of cancer, even though he prayed to
Jesus to heal him. How is this Jesus good? Hmmm? Can you answer that one?'
The student remains silent.
'No, you can't, can you?' the professor says. He takes a sip of water from a
glass on his desk to give the student time to relax.
'Let's start again, young fella. Is God good?'
'Er...yes,' the student says.
'Is Satan good?'
The student doesn't hesitate on this one. 'No.'
'Then where does Satan come from?'
The student falters. 'From God'
'That's right. God made Satan, didn't he? Tell me, son. Is there evil in
this world?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Evil's everywhere, isn't it? And God did make everything, correct?'
'Yes.'
'So who created evil?' The professor continued, 'If God created everything,
then God created evil, since evil exists, and according to the principle
that our works define who we are, then God is evil.'
Again, the student has no answer.. 'Is there sickness? Immorality? Hatred?
Ugliness? All these terrible things, do they exist in this world?'
The student squirms on his feet. 'Yes.'
'So who created them?'
The student does not answer again, so the professor repeats his question.
'Who created them?' There is still no answer. Suddenly the lecturer breaks
away to pace in front of the classroom.. The class is mesmerized. 'Tell me,'
he continues onto another student. 'Do you believe in Jesus Christ, son?'
The student's voice betrays him and cracks. 'Yes, professor, I do.'
The old man stops pacing. 'Science says you have five senses you use to
identify and observe the world around you. Have you ever seen Jesus?'
'No sir. I've never seen Him.'
'Then tell us if you've ever heard your Jesus?'
'No, sir, I have not.'
'Have you ever felt your Jesus, tasted your Jesus or smelt your Jesus? Have
you ever had any sensory perception of Jesus Christ, or God for that
matter?'
'No, sir, I'm afraid I haven't.'
'Yet you still believe in him?'
'Yes.'
'According to the rules of empirical, testable, demonstrable protocol,
science says your God doesn't exist. What do you say to that, son?'
'Nothing,' the student replies. 'I only have my faith.'
'Yes, faith,' the professor repeats. 'And that is the problem science has
with God. There is no evidence, only faith.'
At the back of the room another student stands quietly for a moment before
asking a question of His own. 'Professor, is there such thing as heat?'
'Yes,' the professor replies. 'There's heat.'
'And is there such a thing as cold?'
'Yes, son, there's cold too.'
'No sir, there isn't.'
The professor turns to face the student, obviously interested. The room
suddenly becomes very quiet. The student begins to explain. 'You can have
lots of heat, even more heat, super-heat, mega-heat, unlimited heat, white
heat, a little heat or no heat, but we don't have anything called 'cold'. We
can hit up to 458 degrees below zero, which is no heat, but we can't go any
further after that. There is no such thing as cold; otherwise we would be
able to go colder than the lowest -458 degrees.'
'Every body or object is susceptible to study when it has or transmits
energy, and heat is what makes a body or matter have or transmit energy.
Absolute zero (-458 F) is the total absence of heat. You see, sir, cold is
only a word we use to describe the absence of heat. We cannot measure cold.
Heat we can measure in thermal units because heat is energy. Cold is not the
opposite of heat, sir, just the absence of it.'
Silence across the room. A pen drops somewhere in the classroom, sounding
like a hammer.
'What about darkness, professor. Is there such a thing as darkness?'
'Yes,' the professor replies without hesitation. 'What is night if it isn't
darkness?'
'You're wrong again, sir. Darkness is not something; it is the absence of
something. You can have low light, normal light, bright light, flashing
light, but if you have no light constantly you have nothing and it's called
darkness, isn't it? That's the meaning we use to define the word.'
'In reality, darkness isn't. If it were, you would be able to make darkness
darker, wouldn't you?'
The professor begins to smile at the student in front of him. This will be a
good semester. 'So what point are you making, young man?'
'Yes, professor. My point is, your philosophical premise is flawed to start
with, and so your conclusion must also be flawed..'
The professor's face cannot hide his surprise this time. 'Flawed? Can you
explain how?'
'You are working on the premise of duality,' the student explains. 'You
argue that there is life and then there's death; a good God and a bad God.
You are viewing the concept of God as something finite, something we can
measure. Sir, science can't even explain a thought.'
'It uses electricity and magnetism, but has never seen, much less fully
understood either one. To view death as the opposite of life is to be
ignorant of the fact that death cannot exist as a substantive thing. Death
is not the opposite of life, just the absence of it.'
'Now tell me, professor. Do you teach your students that they evolved from a
monkey?'
'If you are referring to the natural evolutionary process, young man, yes,
of course I do.'
'Have you ever observed evolution with your own eyes, sir?'
The professor begins to shake his head, still smiling, as he realizes where
the argument is going. A very good semester, indeed.
'Since no one has ever observed the process of evolution at work and cannot
even prove that this process is an on-going endeavor, are you not teaching
your opinion, sir? Are you now not a scientist, but a preacher?'
The class is in uproar. The student remains silent until the commotion has
subsided.
'To continue the point you were making earlier to the other student, let me
give you an example of what I mean'
The student looks around the room. 'Is there anyone in the class who has
ever seen the professor's brain?' The class breaks out into laughter.
'Is there anyone here who has ever heard the professor's brain, felt the
professor's brain, touched or smelt the professor's brain? No one appears to
have done so. So, according to the established rules of empirical, stable,
demonstrable protocol, science says that you have no brain, with all due
respect, sir.'
'So if science says you have no brain, how can we trust your lectures, sir?'
Now the room is silent. The professor just stares at the student, his face
unreadable.
Finally, after what seems an eternity, the old man answers. 'I guess you'll
have to take them on faith.'
'Now, you accept that there is faith, and, in fact, faith exists with life,'
the student continues. 'Now, sir, is there such a thing as evil?'
Now uncertain, the professor responds, 'Of course, there is. We see it
everyday. It is in the daily example of man's inhumanity to man. It is in
the multitude of crime and violence everywhere in the world. These
manifestations are nothing else but evil.'
To this the student replied, 'Evil does not exist sir, or at least it does
not exist unto itself. Evil is simply the absence of God. It is just like
darkness and cold, a word that man has created to describe the absence of
God. God did not create evil. Evil is the result of what happens when man
does not have God's love present in his heart. It's like the cold that comes
when there is no heat or the darkness that comes when there is no light.'
The professor sat down."
Now I will admit that the whole "Is there a God"discussion annoys me. Why would someone have to figure out something so evident? Okay, maybe not the God I believe in, but the fact that one being thought all this up. There is evidence in everything around us. I will not details this evidence except to say that statistically, God has to exist. Too many people would be out of work if he doesn't. 33,600,000 web pages on Google talk about this with no definitive answer. One site lists the religions and their adherents. 4,743,000,000 people believe in God (according to this site). Given that there are 6,896,415,605 people in the world according to the World Clock that tells me that approximately 70% of the world believe in some sort of Greater Being(s). Who am I to dispute 7 out of ten people, especially if you take into account my math grades while in school.
All I really know is that I haven't written in a while and needed to enlighten the masses with something. This served a good muse (I hope) for my next piece. I received word that I am to be published again in an anthology about school teachers. One more bold step towards the conquest of the written word as we know it. Peace.
As mentioned earlier, I did not write the following story and do not know the original author. I will use quotation marks to separate it in the hopes that I do not get sued for copyright infringement. ( What will they get? The two hundred dollars I have earned as a writer, the second hundred of which promised but as yet not arrived?) The message had been through so many forwards that the original author must have got drowned out by all those eager to spread the word of the one true God. I pass it on because it demonstrates that the message is more powerful then the words in it.
"A science professor begins his school year with a lecture to the students,
'Let me explain the problem science has with religion.' The atheist
professor of philosophy pauses before his class and then asks one of his new
students to stand.
'You're a Christian, aren't you, son?'
'Yes sir,' the student says.
'So you believe in God?'
'Absolutely.'
'Is God good?'
'Sure! God's good.'
'Is God all-powerful? Can God do anything?'
'Yes.'
'Are you good or evil?'
'The Bible says I'm evil.'
The professor grins knowingly.. 'Aha! The Bible!' He considers for a moment.
'Here's one for you. Let's say there's a sick person over here and you can
cure him. You can do it. Would you help him? Would you try?'
'Yes sir, I would..'
'So you're good...!'
'I wouldn't say that.'
'But why not say that? You'd help a sick and maimed person if you could..
Most of us would if we could. But God doesn't.'
The student does not answer, so the professor continues. 'He doesn't, does
he? My brother was a Christian who died of cancer, even though he prayed to
Jesus to heal him. How is this Jesus good? Hmmm? Can you answer that one?'
The student remains silent.
'No, you can't, can you?' the professor says. He takes a sip of water from a
glass on his desk to give the student time to relax.
'Let's start again, young fella. Is God good?'
'Er...yes,' the student says.
'Is Satan good?'
The student doesn't hesitate on this one. 'No.'
'Then where does Satan come from?'
The student falters. 'From God'
'That's right. God made Satan, didn't he? Tell me, son. Is there evil in
this world?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Evil's everywhere, isn't it? And God did make everything, correct?'
'Yes.'
'So who created evil?' The professor continued, 'If God created everything,
then God created evil, since evil exists, and according to the principle
that our works define who we are, then God is evil.'
Again, the student has no answer.. 'Is there sickness? Immorality? Hatred?
Ugliness? All these terrible things, do they exist in this world?'
The student squirms on his feet. 'Yes.'
'So who created them?'
The student does not answer again, so the professor repeats his question.
'Who created them?' There is still no answer. Suddenly the lecturer breaks
away to pace in front of the classroom.. The class is mesmerized. 'Tell me,'
he continues onto another student. 'Do you believe in Jesus Christ, son?'
The student's voice betrays him and cracks. 'Yes, professor, I do.'
The old man stops pacing. 'Science says you have five senses you use to
identify and observe the world around you. Have you ever seen Jesus?'
'No sir. I've never seen Him.'
'Then tell us if you've ever heard your Jesus?'
'No, sir, I have not.'
'Have you ever felt your Jesus, tasted your Jesus or smelt your Jesus? Have
you ever had any sensory perception of Jesus Christ, or God for that
matter?'
'No, sir, I'm afraid I haven't.'
'Yet you still believe in him?'
'Yes.'
'According to the rules of empirical, testable, demonstrable protocol,
science says your God doesn't exist. What do you say to that, son?'
'Nothing,' the student replies. 'I only have my faith.'
'Yes, faith,' the professor repeats. 'And that is the problem science has
with God. There is no evidence, only faith.'
At the back of the room another student stands quietly for a moment before
asking a question of His own. 'Professor, is there such thing as heat?'
'Yes,' the professor replies. 'There's heat.'
'And is there such a thing as cold?'
'Yes, son, there's cold too.'
'No sir, there isn't.'
The professor turns to face the student, obviously interested. The room
suddenly becomes very quiet. The student begins to explain. 'You can have
lots of heat, even more heat, super-heat, mega-heat, unlimited heat, white
heat, a little heat or no heat, but we don't have anything called 'cold'. We
can hit up to 458 degrees below zero, which is no heat, but we can't go any
further after that. There is no such thing as cold; otherwise we would be
able to go colder than the lowest -458 degrees.'
'Every body or object is susceptible to study when it has or transmits
energy, and heat is what makes a body or matter have or transmit energy.
Absolute zero (-458 F) is the total absence of heat. You see, sir, cold is
only a word we use to describe the absence of heat. We cannot measure cold.
Heat we can measure in thermal units because heat is energy. Cold is not the
opposite of heat, sir, just the absence of it.'
Silence across the room. A pen drops somewhere in the classroom, sounding
like a hammer.
'What about darkness, professor. Is there such a thing as darkness?'
'Yes,' the professor replies without hesitation. 'What is night if it isn't
darkness?'
'You're wrong again, sir. Darkness is not something; it is the absence of
something. You can have low light, normal light, bright light, flashing
light, but if you have no light constantly you have nothing and it's called
darkness, isn't it? That's the meaning we use to define the word.'
'In reality, darkness isn't. If it were, you would be able to make darkness
darker, wouldn't you?'
The professor begins to smile at the student in front of him. This will be a
good semester. 'So what point are you making, young man?'
'Yes, professor. My point is, your philosophical premise is flawed to start
with, and so your conclusion must also be flawed..'
The professor's face cannot hide his surprise this time. 'Flawed? Can you
explain how?'
'You are working on the premise of duality,' the student explains. 'You
argue that there is life and then there's death; a good God and a bad God.
You are viewing the concept of God as something finite, something we can
measure. Sir, science can't even explain a thought.'
'It uses electricity and magnetism, but has never seen, much less fully
understood either one. To view death as the opposite of life is to be
ignorant of the fact that death cannot exist as a substantive thing. Death
is not the opposite of life, just the absence of it.'
'Now tell me, professor. Do you teach your students that they evolved from a
monkey?'
'If you are referring to the natural evolutionary process, young man, yes,
of course I do.'
'Have you ever observed evolution with your own eyes, sir?'
The professor begins to shake his head, still smiling, as he realizes where
the argument is going. A very good semester, indeed.
'Since no one has ever observed the process of evolution at work and cannot
even prove that this process is an on-going endeavor, are you not teaching
your opinion, sir? Are you now not a scientist, but a preacher?'
The class is in uproar. The student remains silent until the commotion has
subsided.
'To continue the point you were making earlier to the other student, let me
give you an example of what I mean'
The student looks around the room. 'Is there anyone in the class who has
ever seen the professor's brain?' The class breaks out into laughter.
'Is there anyone here who has ever heard the professor's brain, felt the
professor's brain, touched or smelt the professor's brain? No one appears to
have done so. So, according to the established rules of empirical, stable,
demonstrable protocol, science says that you have no brain, with all due
respect, sir.'
'So if science says you have no brain, how can we trust your lectures, sir?'
Now the room is silent. The professor just stares at the student, his face
unreadable.
Finally, after what seems an eternity, the old man answers. 'I guess you'll
have to take them on faith.'
'Now, you accept that there is faith, and, in fact, faith exists with life,'
the student continues. 'Now, sir, is there such a thing as evil?'
Now uncertain, the professor responds, 'Of course, there is. We see it
everyday. It is in the daily example of man's inhumanity to man. It is in
the multitude of crime and violence everywhere in the world. These
manifestations are nothing else but evil.'
To this the student replied, 'Evil does not exist sir, or at least it does
not exist unto itself. Evil is simply the absence of God. It is just like
darkness and cold, a word that man has created to describe the absence of
God. God did not create evil. Evil is the result of what happens when man
does not have God's love present in his heart. It's like the cold that comes
when there is no heat or the darkness that comes when there is no light.'
The professor sat down."
Now I will admit that the whole "Is there a God"discussion annoys me. Why would someone have to figure out something so evident? Okay, maybe not the God I believe in, but the fact that one being thought all this up. There is evidence in everything around us. I will not details this evidence except to say that statistically, God has to exist. Too many people would be out of work if he doesn't. 33,600,000 web pages on Google talk about this with no definitive answer. One site lists the religions and their adherents. 4,743,000,000 people believe in God (according to this site). Given that there are 6,896,415,605 people in the world according to the World Clock that tells me that approximately 70% of the world believe in some sort of Greater Being(s). Who am I to dispute 7 out of ten people, especially if you take into account my math grades while in school.
All I really know is that I haven't written in a while and needed to enlighten the masses with something. This served a good muse (I hope) for my next piece. I received word that I am to be published again in an anthology about school teachers. One more bold step towards the conquest of the written word as we know it. Peace.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Drink
I’m sitting in a restaurant waiting for a table when I realize something astonishing. This awareness proved actually more disquieting then astonishing. This unsettling nugget of wisdom revealed a notion I have been hard pressed to admit, and even more willing to accept. My mind is polluted by notions and images that are, quite simply, false.
I am in Fort Worth Texas at the world famous Stockyards. This area, which in years past was the hub of the cattle business in America, saw the advent of an industry and the mystification of a lifestyle centered on the proliferation and utilization of creatures of the bovine nature. It, as well, spread the word of the true American hero…the cowboy.
The concept of the cowboy, nay, the legend of the cowboy, is but a sham in this faster then a speeding bullet world in which we live. I look about the restaurant and I see many cowboy hats, and boots. I observe the proliferation of perfectly creased starched jeans and long sleeved shirts. Huge belt buckles and western belts abound. The women similarly garbed, all seem to sport huge diamond rings, and their companion’s expensive gold watches. What I do not see is any sign of wear on any of clothes worn by the denizens of this famous steak house, or their “gear.”
Except, that is, from my companion. A rather tall, slender man who has creases in his boots from use, a comfortable hat that is well worn and cared for, a regular size belt buckle worn for its utility rather then its shimmer and a Timex watch with a leather band for durability. He speaks to me in a soft, unassuming voice that my ears have trouble hearing in the din of the crowd. Yes, his shirt and jeans are starched, but it is more the fact that he buys and sells cattle for a living and must maintain an appearance for the customers. I would venture to say that he might have been the only true cowboy in Fort Worth that night. At least the only one that actually knows the smell of bovine excrement as opposed to endeavoring to decipher it when it is spoken.
I’ve known this man for about ten years. He lives in a town about thirty miles down the road from me. We both maintain active membership in the same twelve step program. He has many more years in recovery then I, and is one of a small group of men in my life whose friendship makes me feel like I am a success. If he can honestly call me a friend, then I must have value in this world.
He lives on a small ranch with his grade school sweetheart to whom he has been married to over twenty years. She is a sweet lady who would serve as a good template for any man looking for a wife. He has raised two children, and a host of other peoples kids along the way. He actually owns cattle, and works them and others every day. He owns and rides horses and, as a teenager, spent some time roping in the rodeo
I call him “Drink.” It is after and old saying about tall people, “Isn’t he a tall drink of water?” He calls me “a big old son of a _ _ _ _ _.” We love each other greatly, and he tells me that he is lucky to have me for a friend. It is I for whom fortune has seen fit to favor.
The occasion of our being at that particular restaurant was the occasion of a “Road Trip.” This is a familiar term for many, and the term will stir memories of far away times and beat up old cars with coolers full of liquid refreshment of a mind altering mood changing manner. Ridiculously loud music and at least one nubile young lady along to flash her bosom at passing cars while your buddies moon the cop you just passed. Unfortunately, memories of past conquests are the reason we maintain and nourish our active membership in a twelve step program. Nowadays these road trips entail driving somewhere to experience a different meeting then we usually attend. Most of the time, however, this means a weekend convention (lots of fun, little sleep…clean and sober), or perhaps a speaker meeting where a fellow member addresses a group on the reality of their path to recovery.
I had been at his group, speaking actually, when he asked if I wanted to go. We rounded up another member with very little time in the program and off we went. We talked the entire way and worried little on where we were going. A wonder of modern technology mounted on the dashboard telling us in a soft feminine voice where to turn and when. We laughed when we did not listen to it and it had to recalculate our path. Someone says it sounds like his wife when he does not heed her directions.
We spoke as Lewis Carroll’s Walrus would have us speak, “Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--Of cabbages--and kings--” We asked the kid we brought along about his life and we told him about ours. He told us that he could not imagine being clean as long as we had. We told him that we couldn’t imagine it either. All we knew was that we had been able to wake up today clean, and the rest would just have to be something that happened, and not a goal. He said that he was confused, and we told him that we walked around confused all the time. We told him that we liked it that way. Makes us open minded. If that were the case, he said, then, he must have been walking around with his brain exposed to the world. We all laughed at how much in common we actually were. There really is no difference in people, just some age or experience…maybe.
We finished the night on the side of the highway hugging and saying goodbye. After being dropped off, I got a few miles towards home and a back tire went flat. Fixing a flat tire is not an activity I am capable of doing given my advanced(ing) age and infirmities. I called my friend and he told me he would be right there. Wile I waited several of my former students stopped to help. They did not even realize it was me and they had girls in the car, and yet, they stopped to help. At 12:30 AM. When he arrived we discovered that my spare was flat and it elicited another two hours to the adventure. Thank you God! Who would have thought that a flat tire would prove to be a welcome activity?
Life is a funny thing. It comes at us in unusual ways. It puts people together that, at the face of it, would prove to be unlikely friends. I think God planned it that way. I think I’ll pay for the next plate of calf fries my friend and I eat. Peace.
I am in Fort Worth Texas at the world famous Stockyards. This area, which in years past was the hub of the cattle business in America, saw the advent of an industry and the mystification of a lifestyle centered on the proliferation and utilization of creatures of the bovine nature. It, as well, spread the word of the true American hero…the cowboy.
The concept of the cowboy, nay, the legend of the cowboy, is but a sham in this faster then a speeding bullet world in which we live. I look about the restaurant and I see many cowboy hats, and boots. I observe the proliferation of perfectly creased starched jeans and long sleeved shirts. Huge belt buckles and western belts abound. The women similarly garbed, all seem to sport huge diamond rings, and their companion’s expensive gold watches. What I do not see is any sign of wear on any of clothes worn by the denizens of this famous steak house, or their “gear.”
Except, that is, from my companion. A rather tall, slender man who has creases in his boots from use, a comfortable hat that is well worn and cared for, a regular size belt buckle worn for its utility rather then its shimmer and a Timex watch with a leather band for durability. He speaks to me in a soft, unassuming voice that my ears have trouble hearing in the din of the crowd. Yes, his shirt and jeans are starched, but it is more the fact that he buys and sells cattle for a living and must maintain an appearance for the customers. I would venture to say that he might have been the only true cowboy in Fort Worth that night. At least the only one that actually knows the smell of bovine excrement as opposed to endeavoring to decipher it when it is spoken.
I’ve known this man for about ten years. He lives in a town about thirty miles down the road from me. We both maintain active membership in the same twelve step program. He has many more years in recovery then I, and is one of a small group of men in my life whose friendship makes me feel like I am a success. If he can honestly call me a friend, then I must have value in this world.
He lives on a small ranch with his grade school sweetheart to whom he has been married to over twenty years. She is a sweet lady who would serve as a good template for any man looking for a wife. He has raised two children, and a host of other peoples kids along the way. He actually owns cattle, and works them and others every day. He owns and rides horses and, as a teenager, spent some time roping in the rodeo
I call him “Drink.” It is after and old saying about tall people, “Isn’t he a tall drink of water?” He calls me “a big old son of a _ _ _ _ _.” We love each other greatly, and he tells me that he is lucky to have me for a friend. It is I for whom fortune has seen fit to favor.
The occasion of our being at that particular restaurant was the occasion of a “Road Trip.” This is a familiar term for many, and the term will stir memories of far away times and beat up old cars with coolers full of liquid refreshment of a mind altering mood changing manner. Ridiculously loud music and at least one nubile young lady along to flash her bosom at passing cars while your buddies moon the cop you just passed. Unfortunately, memories of past conquests are the reason we maintain and nourish our active membership in a twelve step program. Nowadays these road trips entail driving somewhere to experience a different meeting then we usually attend. Most of the time, however, this means a weekend convention (lots of fun, little sleep…clean and sober), or perhaps a speaker meeting where a fellow member addresses a group on the reality of their path to recovery.
I had been at his group, speaking actually, when he asked if I wanted to go. We rounded up another member with very little time in the program and off we went. We talked the entire way and worried little on where we were going. A wonder of modern technology mounted on the dashboard telling us in a soft feminine voice where to turn and when. We laughed when we did not listen to it and it had to recalculate our path. Someone says it sounds like his wife when he does not heed her directions.
We spoke as Lewis Carroll’s Walrus would have us speak, “Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--Of cabbages--and kings--” We asked the kid we brought along about his life and we told him about ours. He told us that he could not imagine being clean as long as we had. We told him that we couldn’t imagine it either. All we knew was that we had been able to wake up today clean, and the rest would just have to be something that happened, and not a goal. He said that he was confused, and we told him that we walked around confused all the time. We told him that we liked it that way. Makes us open minded. If that were the case, he said, then, he must have been walking around with his brain exposed to the world. We all laughed at how much in common we actually were. There really is no difference in people, just some age or experience…maybe.
We finished the night on the side of the highway hugging and saying goodbye. After being dropped off, I got a few miles towards home and a back tire went flat. Fixing a flat tire is not an activity I am capable of doing given my advanced(ing) age and infirmities. I called my friend and he told me he would be right there. Wile I waited several of my former students stopped to help. They did not even realize it was me and they had girls in the car, and yet, they stopped to help. At 12:30 AM. When he arrived we discovered that my spare was flat and it elicited another two hours to the adventure. Thank you God! Who would have thought that a flat tire would prove to be a welcome activity?
Life is a funny thing. It comes at us in unusual ways. It puts people together that, at the face of it, would prove to be unlikely friends. I think God planned it that way. I think I’ll pay for the next plate of calf fries my friend and I eat. Peace.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Ceremony
I went to get a haircut this week. I have been attempting to find a barber for some time now. I used to have a regular at one of these “cuts” places. A very nice lady who, as it turns out, had a serious problem imbibing mind altering mood changing substances. Given my own propensity toward the consumption of such, and my thirteen plus years seeking respite from said malady, this did not bode well for the charisma I desire to elicit with my hair.
I will admit to a vanity where it comes to my hair. I have always received compliments on my majestic mane, and it seemed to be the one compliment that did not bring disquiet to my mind. I suffer from an affliction where it comes to my being on the receiving end of any accolade. For some reason, the accomplishments in my life feel empty and disturbing when voiced from without me. My best friend tells me it is my ego, and I usually tell him to embrace the south end of a northbound next-Great-American-iconic-author.
But why protest, one might say, after reading the gibbering and jabbering on this page and others. This guy has no reason to grumble about good thoughts and aphorism’s directed his way. Well it is my head, and the traffic in there is bad enough without anyone else trying to pass on the right, or any other such interchange faux pas. I like it and have no intention of changing. Besides, it looks cool when you close your eyes and wave your hand in the air while dismissing a flattering remark as “just doing what I’m supposed to.” That comes from the instruction manual I bought off the net entitled “How to successfully give an interview on the Jay Leno Show.” Humility is a bitch…especially when it is conjured and loaded with insincerity.
Yet again, I digress. I was getting a haircut and drifted into the world of male bovine excrement. Remorse is a much easier emotion. Anyhoo, (yes that is a word, a made up word, but still a word) I remember discovering that the young lady doing my hair began screwing it up, and ignored it at first in the hopes of a romantic assignation which, when it did happen, proved to be anything but the earth-moving experience I envisioned. When it did become a problem I decided to change hairdressers. The object of my adoration had a car wreck and ultimately went to jail, leaving me to discover my next object of obsession.
I floated around, aimlessly, trying this place, or that continually feeling unfulfilled. After several years, I discovered that the maintenance of my hair, and the subsequent difficulties possible, proved to be cumbersome and I walked into a barber college and told the student barber to take it all off. Burr cut like My Dear Sainted Mother would force me to get every year right after school so that it would be “cooler” on me for the summer. Reality was that my real dad would take me to the barber and he got tired of picking me up because it always entailed taking me out to eat…and talking to me.
Well I discovered that while it did, in fact, feel cooler in the summer, it also exacerbated the process. I have a job that requires me to appear neat and groomed. The haircut, at first glance, worked and it went well with the kids as they all seem to prefer the short look. Unfortunately, it required more attention. Previously, I would comb it and use hairspray to keep it in place. (I told you I was vain about my hair) Now, it seemed to grow faster and I am not dexterous enough to get a pair of clippers to do it myself. It needs to be cut more often because after about two weeks I look like the white guy in the terrorist kidnap movies (former Green Beret-turned mercenary) with the bad haircut, wearing John Lennon sunglasses that programs bombs for the main guy terrorist while translating everything into English for the hostages and authorities. Given that I was a truck driver in the army, and the sum total of my foreign language speaking acumen is the knowledge of how to find bars and girls in Spanish and German, I figured out that I needed to find a regular barber.
I tried the barber college and left satisfied about once every third or fourth time. Letting men cut my hair never gave me a gratifying sensation. I am . if anything, a creature of habit. While risking being tagged with the oft used title “sexist,” I have always preferred my hair to be cut by women. It almost seems that they are a better judge on what makes a man look good. Men always have to be told how to cut your hair. Except gay men hairdressers, who appear to have similar talents where it comes to making men looking attractive as the women. (After that remark I will feel just fine if I make it a week without being sued by GLAAD, or that cute little guy over at Super Duper Cutts name Javier)
I found a little shop operated by a group of Hispanic ladies, and it has become my tonsorial sanctuary. I enter and they smile at me. I sit in the chair and my coiffeuse, Alba, asks me how I am doing. As she cuts my hair they speak to each other in soft, melodious, tones using words which I do not comprehend. They greet each other when one walks in to start a shift, and wish me well when I leave. The haircut is always perfect, and it costs less then the Barber College. My coiffeuse is always there, and if there is such a thing as Nirvana for the well groomed, I would qualify for entrance.
I empathize with our new President where it comes to personal grooming. Upon packing and leaving for Washington, he reported that he would miss his barber. The Secret Service has told him that a barber would be brought in to him. I think this is a violation of his civil rights. I have come to feel safe in the ritual of going and getting my hair cut. It is that part of the week when I can think about absolutely nothing and just relax. I let the world go away and sit in the chair, listening to the soft sounds, and close my eyes and feel safe. I think that rituals allow us to maintain poise in our lives. I believe that a man should have rituals in his life to preserve that part of him that just wants to BE instead of being somebody. I think it is a requirement for a thinking man to have some time where he does not necessarily have to think. I think that I will go get another haircut. Peace.
I will admit to a vanity where it comes to my hair. I have always received compliments on my majestic mane, and it seemed to be the one compliment that did not bring disquiet to my mind. I suffer from an affliction where it comes to my being on the receiving end of any accolade. For some reason, the accomplishments in my life feel empty and disturbing when voiced from without me. My best friend tells me it is my ego, and I usually tell him to embrace the south end of a northbound next-Great-American-iconic-author.
But why protest, one might say, after reading the gibbering and jabbering on this page and others. This guy has no reason to grumble about good thoughts and aphorism’s directed his way. Well it is my head, and the traffic in there is bad enough without anyone else trying to pass on the right, or any other such interchange faux pas. I like it and have no intention of changing. Besides, it looks cool when you close your eyes and wave your hand in the air while dismissing a flattering remark as “just doing what I’m supposed to.” That comes from the instruction manual I bought off the net entitled “How to successfully give an interview on the Jay Leno Show.” Humility is a bitch…especially when it is conjured and loaded with insincerity.
Yet again, I digress. I was getting a haircut and drifted into the world of male bovine excrement. Remorse is a much easier emotion. Anyhoo, (yes that is a word, a made up word, but still a word) I remember discovering that the young lady doing my hair began screwing it up, and ignored it at first in the hopes of a romantic assignation which, when it did happen, proved to be anything but the earth-moving experience I envisioned. When it did become a problem I decided to change hairdressers. The object of my adoration had a car wreck and ultimately went to jail, leaving me to discover my next object of obsession.
I floated around, aimlessly, trying this place, or that continually feeling unfulfilled. After several years, I discovered that the maintenance of my hair, and the subsequent difficulties possible, proved to be cumbersome and I walked into a barber college and told the student barber to take it all off. Burr cut like My Dear Sainted Mother would force me to get every year right after school so that it would be “cooler” on me for the summer. Reality was that my real dad would take me to the barber and he got tired of picking me up because it always entailed taking me out to eat…and talking to me.
Well I discovered that while it did, in fact, feel cooler in the summer, it also exacerbated the process. I have a job that requires me to appear neat and groomed. The haircut, at first glance, worked and it went well with the kids as they all seem to prefer the short look. Unfortunately, it required more attention. Previously, I would comb it and use hairspray to keep it in place. (I told you I was vain about my hair) Now, it seemed to grow faster and I am not dexterous enough to get a pair of clippers to do it myself. It needs to be cut more often because after about two weeks I look like the white guy in the terrorist kidnap movies (former Green Beret-turned mercenary) with the bad haircut, wearing John Lennon sunglasses that programs bombs for the main guy terrorist while translating everything into English for the hostages and authorities. Given that I was a truck driver in the army, and the sum total of my foreign language speaking acumen is the knowledge of how to find bars and girls in Spanish and German, I figured out that I needed to find a regular barber.
I tried the barber college and left satisfied about once every third or fourth time. Letting men cut my hair never gave me a gratifying sensation. I am . if anything, a creature of habit. While risking being tagged with the oft used title “sexist,” I have always preferred my hair to be cut by women. It almost seems that they are a better judge on what makes a man look good. Men always have to be told how to cut your hair. Except gay men hairdressers, who appear to have similar talents where it comes to making men looking attractive as the women. (After that remark I will feel just fine if I make it a week without being sued by GLAAD, or that cute little guy over at Super Duper Cutts name Javier)
I found a little shop operated by a group of Hispanic ladies, and it has become my tonsorial sanctuary. I enter and they smile at me. I sit in the chair and my coiffeuse, Alba, asks me how I am doing. As she cuts my hair they speak to each other in soft, melodious, tones using words which I do not comprehend. They greet each other when one walks in to start a shift, and wish me well when I leave. The haircut is always perfect, and it costs less then the Barber College. My coiffeuse is always there, and if there is such a thing as Nirvana for the well groomed, I would qualify for entrance.
I empathize with our new President where it comes to personal grooming. Upon packing and leaving for Washington, he reported that he would miss his barber. The Secret Service has told him that a barber would be brought in to him. I think this is a violation of his civil rights. I have come to feel safe in the ritual of going and getting my hair cut. It is that part of the week when I can think about absolutely nothing and just relax. I let the world go away and sit in the chair, listening to the soft sounds, and close my eyes and feel safe. I think that rituals allow us to maintain poise in our lives. I believe that a man should have rituals in his life to preserve that part of him that just wants to BE instead of being somebody. I think it is a requirement for a thinking man to have some time where he does not necessarily have to think. I think that I will go get another haircut. Peace.
Friday, January 2, 2009
To Boldly Go...
As a young man, I found a place in this world where things made sense all the time. I went there as often as I could. I spent many hours at school enduring the prattle, chatter, blather, nattering, drivel, and nonsense inflicted on me by my teachers with their inane ramblings, fully knowing that there was a place that would relieve the boredom, and reinvigorate my will to live with but the flip of a switch. I further tolerate(d) the sniveling blather, chatter, chit-chat, drivel, gab, gabble, gibberish, gossip, hot air, idle talk, jabbering, jargon, murmuring, ranting, small talk, tattling, trivial talk, and twaddle which was and is the rest of the world outside of this sacrosanct location in my life. Also drudgery I could and can erase with that same flip of a switch.
What is this place I speak of? What kind of switch can transport a genuinely portly man such as myself to an enchanting place of common sense and pragmatism? Why, my most noble and venerable bookworms (cyber worms?), it is the switch , digital in demeanor, attached to the power buttons on the various televisions I own/owned.
Well, to be more specific, that part of the switch that directed me to whatever rendering of Gene Roddenberry’s vision of the future happens to be showing, current episodes, those in syndication, or the movie du jour on the movie channels. As superficial as that may sound, Star Trek has always guided my beliefs and values. I have no qualms stating that. Any soul fortunate enough to have watched much of this beloved video genre can attest to the social earnestness of the world spun out of the Mr. Roddenberry’s psyche.
If I ever find myself in need of bring reminded of the ludicrousness, absurdity, senselessness absurdity, and downright stupidity of racial prejudice all I need to watch id an old episode from the Original. The episode with the two being whose bodies were half black and half white, evenly split down the middle. They wreaked havoc on the starship waging a generational war simply because one of them was white on the right side of their body, and the other on the left. In the end, they come to their home world to find it destroyed in a war waged on which was the proper alignment of the opposite colors.
I could write for many hours of the different lessons to be learned, or the values reinforced, but it would not serve the muse for this page. Being the blog, I am in need of expressing a complaint. While reading the news this morning, I discovered that my soon-to-be-President has a plan to hasten our arrival to the moo by blending the efforts of NASA with those of the Defense Departments space program. We hear little of the Defense Departments efforts to keep us safe from threats from above. I was surprised to discover that the DOD has about a third more than NASA’s budget to spend. The implication is that we are arming space.
Motivating this ideal is the proliferation of Communist China’s space program and their intention to land a man on the moon before America. Considering the size of the two ideological leviathans involved in this neo “space race” I think it is an ill advised paradigm to intermingle the two programs. I see disaster, and I see destruction of the universe. I do not think we should explore space in order to ensure our national defense effort’s success.
I am of that school that wishes for the simplicity of the Prime Directive. Basically put, don’t screw with me and I won’t screw with you. Why can’t we go to space as a species instead of as geopolitical entities? All it took the first time man walked on the moon was for one visionary American President to simply order us to the moon. Everything about the moon landing was about mankind, including the first words spoken. “…one giant leap for mankind.” Why not now?
I realize the new President has a lot on his plate. I voted for him and have not regretted it. I would like to think that part of the change we need, is breaking down walls with other countries and cooperating in projects that will benefit us all. I mean, why do something magnificent only to destroy it with weaponry? Why not make the International Space Station truly international? Stop the insanity of thinking that everything is a situation that has to be defended? What kind of message is it to species from other worlds (yes they are out their, it is stupid to not believe that.) when they discover that we came to space wearing six guns ready for a showdown?
I could expound on this forever. I must keep this brief today. We should explore space because it is the next. Because it might be an opportunity to cease the crap we do to ourselves here on earth. Because Gene Roddenberry felt, dreamt, and said so. How should we do it? The best way, I think, was how James Kirk did it in one of the movies. When asked where they should go, he simply answered “Go to the first star you find, and turn right..."
What is this place I speak of? What kind of switch can transport a genuinely portly man such as myself to an enchanting place of common sense and pragmatism? Why, my most noble and venerable bookworms (cyber worms?), it is the switch , digital in demeanor, attached to the power buttons on the various televisions I own/owned.
Well, to be more specific, that part of the switch that directed me to whatever rendering of Gene Roddenberry’s vision of the future happens to be showing, current episodes, those in syndication, or the movie du jour on the movie channels. As superficial as that may sound, Star Trek has always guided my beliefs and values. I have no qualms stating that. Any soul fortunate enough to have watched much of this beloved video genre can attest to the social earnestness of the world spun out of the Mr. Roddenberry’s psyche.
If I ever find myself in need of bring reminded of the ludicrousness, absurdity, senselessness absurdity, and downright stupidity of racial prejudice all I need to watch id an old episode from the Original. The episode with the two being whose bodies were half black and half white, evenly split down the middle. They wreaked havoc on the starship waging a generational war simply because one of them was white on the right side of their body, and the other on the left. In the end, they come to their home world to find it destroyed in a war waged on which was the proper alignment of the opposite colors.
I could write for many hours of the different lessons to be learned, or the values reinforced, but it would not serve the muse for this page. Being the blog, I am in need of expressing a complaint. While reading the news this morning, I discovered that my soon-to-be-President has a plan to hasten our arrival to the moo by blending the efforts of NASA with those of the Defense Departments space program. We hear little of the Defense Departments efforts to keep us safe from threats from above. I was surprised to discover that the DOD has about a third more than NASA’s budget to spend. The implication is that we are arming space.
Motivating this ideal is the proliferation of Communist China’s space program and their intention to land a man on the moon before America. Considering the size of the two ideological leviathans involved in this neo “space race” I think it is an ill advised paradigm to intermingle the two programs. I see disaster, and I see destruction of the universe. I do not think we should explore space in order to ensure our national defense effort’s success.
I am of that school that wishes for the simplicity of the Prime Directive. Basically put, don’t screw with me and I won’t screw with you. Why can’t we go to space as a species instead of as geopolitical entities? All it took the first time man walked on the moon was for one visionary American President to simply order us to the moon. Everything about the moon landing was about mankind, including the first words spoken. “…one giant leap for mankind.” Why not now?
I realize the new President has a lot on his plate. I voted for him and have not regretted it. I would like to think that part of the change we need, is breaking down walls with other countries and cooperating in projects that will benefit us all. I mean, why do something magnificent only to destroy it with weaponry? Why not make the International Space Station truly international? Stop the insanity of thinking that everything is a situation that has to be defended? What kind of message is it to species from other worlds (yes they are out their, it is stupid to not believe that.) when they discover that we came to space wearing six guns ready for a showdown?
I could expound on this forever. I must keep this brief today. We should explore space because it is the next. Because it might be an opportunity to cease the crap we do to ourselves here on earth. Because Gene Roddenberry felt, dreamt, and said so. How should we do it? The best way, I think, was how James Kirk did it in one of the movies. When asked where they should go, he simply answered “Go to the first star you find, and turn right..."
Thursday, December 18, 2008
To be or not to…edify
Winding down to the end of a semester and I am grateful that I made this half-year without throttling one or more of those 6th, 7th, and 8th grade little …sons of…a loving and merciful God. I have approximately 48 hours until I cease the daily drudgery of my current campus and seek my fortune at yet another facility within the Great Realm of the Edification.
There is an emotion that I am in the process of experiencing. It is a vague and unfamiliar residence. I am gloomy and elated at the same time. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer of emotive pursuits, I have scarce preparation for anything new and unusual. In former times, I have had the safety of singular passions with which to deal with. Although I have a level of relief in the relocation, I wish to maintain my current station.
I have a dichotomous population of learners; approximately half are in an in-patient drug treatment program, and the other half are an assortment of children who have been taken from there homes by the state protective services. (Either to be protected or to ensure that society is protected from them) The future captains of industry who are seeking a similar life as mine (being in recovery) are upset because I am leaving. I am upset that I am leaving as it takes these kids away from me. I have always had ready access to the comfort, and benefit of what my 12 step fellowship refers to as the “Ultimate Weapon for Recovery”, another recovering addict. I keep a cell phone with a phone list full of folks to call if I encounter any of the myriad of difficulties someone who suffers from my disease can encounter in a day. I can call and get respite from the sometimes catastrophic and ofttimes trivial issues that an addict encounters. Until I took this job.
I must leave my phone in the car, and stay inside the entire day due to the nature of the beast that is my form of gainful employment. There are kids to watch and teach, there is that time each day when I must do the administrative duties of being a teacher, there is the lunch period where there is usually a colleague or two available to replenish the body, and update each other on the latest school gossip and generally bitch about the kids, or the principal, or the kids, or the secretary, or the kids, or the administration, or the kids, or the state mandated standardized test, or the kids, or the fact that it did not freeze enough yesterday to give us a bad weather day where we could lay up at the house manipulate the remote and eat, or the kids…
It is the venue of each teacher that they bemoan the wonderful job each has when in conversation with other educators. It is a requirement I think. I will find out once I finish my certification requirements. And it usually stays in the lunch period, but sometimes, it carries into the classroom. In the treatment kids I have had a pressure release valve on how my feelings are. I have that quiet understanding with them that only another addict can feel. I am going to miss this the most.
The rest of the kids are many time more of a challenge to me. They all come from some form of abuse cycle, and it is hard to tell what you’re going to get from day to day. I have a crew of youngsters (middle school) that are generally, and collectively, a major pain in the ass. These are the kids that are easy to dislike. They are those members of our society that have been thrown either away or into the system. They are usually aged beyond their years, and desperately need the assistance of an adult that is not going to abandon or abuse them. I am learning how to be that person, and it is taking me a while. I leave work sometimes hoping they will take the next day off. Sometimes I wish I worked somewhere else. Mostly when they call me a “Fat fuck” for the sixth or seventh hundred time. I have one that has called me “Fat Man” everyday I’ve seen him. I known him since the day I came to work. Adults who call me this pay for the indiscretion…severely. If an administrator should happen to call me something similar I would sue for discrimination in a heartbeat. (Someone needs to…see my other pages)
Yet somehow, from them, I take it and my response is to pray for them. Every time I pray. When I am away I miss them. When I come back they all tell me that they missed me. Even the sucker that calls me “Fat Man.”
Well, it is the day after I began this piece, and I am of a little less favorable disposition to the kid that enjoys reminding me of my girth. I came to school this morning with a genuine Yuletide attitude. I brought candy to reward my charges for being the reason I get up in the morning. Being the last of the semester and having already posted my grades, I have allowed them the freedom to read, or play games on the computer. Two of them decided that thanking me for this would be best demonstrated if they engaged in a fistfight. Being responsible for the well being of these youngsters, I got in the middle and broke it up. My chief protagonist felt it proper to swing a punch at me in order to stop me from preventing further violence. It did not work and I had him expelled from class. Merry Freaking Christmas!
The issue now is the fact that I am sitting at my desk and hoping my shoulder and hip will stop hurting enough before second period so that I can get out of my chair to greet the next class. I also have to figure out exactly what it is that I am going to do tomorrow when I have to greet the kid again. It is not really his fault. His brain works different then other people. All he knows how to really do with his bad feelings is lash out. I have to remember a time when I too had only the insanity of violence to react to my bad emotions. I can feel empathy for the child, and will probably forgive him in a few minutes. Right now I am in a bad mood (imagine that) and I am praying I can leave it on this page. Gone are the eloquent words I am able to put on paper. Gone are the noble principles behind my feeling that this is a calling. What is really left is a desire to find the asshole that did whatever it was that made the kid the way he is, and show him/her what the results are of his actions. Maybe he/she has arthritis as I do, and I can make them hurt like I am. Maybe I can do many things, but what I can actually do is forgive the kid and pray for him.
Is it still a calling? Well, this isn’t my first rodeo with kids and fistfights, so I guess I’ll do just what I always do. Take some arthritis pain pills and get up tomorrow and come to work. Peace.
There is an emotion that I am in the process of experiencing. It is a vague and unfamiliar residence. I am gloomy and elated at the same time. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer of emotive pursuits, I have scarce preparation for anything new and unusual. In former times, I have had the safety of singular passions with which to deal with. Although I have a level of relief in the relocation, I wish to maintain my current station.
I have a dichotomous population of learners; approximately half are in an in-patient drug treatment program, and the other half are an assortment of children who have been taken from there homes by the state protective services. (Either to be protected or to ensure that society is protected from them) The future captains of industry who are seeking a similar life as mine (being in recovery) are upset because I am leaving. I am upset that I am leaving as it takes these kids away from me. I have always had ready access to the comfort, and benefit of what my 12 step fellowship refers to as the “Ultimate Weapon for Recovery”, another recovering addict. I keep a cell phone with a phone list full of folks to call if I encounter any of the myriad of difficulties someone who suffers from my disease can encounter in a day. I can call and get respite from the sometimes catastrophic and ofttimes trivial issues that an addict encounters. Until I took this job.
I must leave my phone in the car, and stay inside the entire day due to the nature of the beast that is my form of gainful employment. There are kids to watch and teach, there is that time each day when I must do the administrative duties of being a teacher, there is the lunch period where there is usually a colleague or two available to replenish the body, and update each other on the latest school gossip and generally bitch about the kids, or the principal, or the kids, or the secretary, or the kids, or the administration, or the kids, or the state mandated standardized test, or the kids, or the fact that it did not freeze enough yesterday to give us a bad weather day where we could lay up at the house manipulate the remote and eat, or the kids…
It is the venue of each teacher that they bemoan the wonderful job each has when in conversation with other educators. It is a requirement I think. I will find out once I finish my certification requirements. And it usually stays in the lunch period, but sometimes, it carries into the classroom. In the treatment kids I have had a pressure release valve on how my feelings are. I have that quiet understanding with them that only another addict can feel. I am going to miss this the most.
The rest of the kids are many time more of a challenge to me. They all come from some form of abuse cycle, and it is hard to tell what you’re going to get from day to day. I have a crew of youngsters (middle school) that are generally, and collectively, a major pain in the ass. These are the kids that are easy to dislike. They are those members of our society that have been thrown either away or into the system. They are usually aged beyond their years, and desperately need the assistance of an adult that is not going to abandon or abuse them. I am learning how to be that person, and it is taking me a while. I leave work sometimes hoping they will take the next day off. Sometimes I wish I worked somewhere else. Mostly when they call me a “Fat fuck” for the sixth or seventh hundred time. I have one that has called me “Fat Man” everyday I’ve seen him. I known him since the day I came to work. Adults who call me this pay for the indiscretion…severely. If an administrator should happen to call me something similar I would sue for discrimination in a heartbeat. (Someone needs to…see my other pages)
Yet somehow, from them, I take it and my response is to pray for them. Every time I pray. When I am away I miss them. When I come back they all tell me that they missed me. Even the sucker that calls me “Fat Man.”
Well, it is the day after I began this piece, and I am of a little less favorable disposition to the kid that enjoys reminding me of my girth. I came to school this morning with a genuine Yuletide attitude. I brought candy to reward my charges for being the reason I get up in the morning. Being the last of the semester and having already posted my grades, I have allowed them the freedom to read, or play games on the computer. Two of them decided that thanking me for this would be best demonstrated if they engaged in a fistfight. Being responsible for the well being of these youngsters, I got in the middle and broke it up. My chief protagonist felt it proper to swing a punch at me in order to stop me from preventing further violence. It did not work and I had him expelled from class. Merry Freaking Christmas!
The issue now is the fact that I am sitting at my desk and hoping my shoulder and hip will stop hurting enough before second period so that I can get out of my chair to greet the next class. I also have to figure out exactly what it is that I am going to do tomorrow when I have to greet the kid again. It is not really his fault. His brain works different then other people. All he knows how to really do with his bad feelings is lash out. I have to remember a time when I too had only the insanity of violence to react to my bad emotions. I can feel empathy for the child, and will probably forgive him in a few minutes. Right now I am in a bad mood (imagine that) and I am praying I can leave it on this page. Gone are the eloquent words I am able to put on paper. Gone are the noble principles behind my feeling that this is a calling. What is really left is a desire to find the asshole that did whatever it was that made the kid the way he is, and show him/her what the results are of his actions. Maybe he/she has arthritis as I do, and I can make them hurt like I am. Maybe I can do many things, but what I can actually do is forgive the kid and pray for him.
Is it still a calling? Well, this isn’t my first rodeo with kids and fistfights, so I guess I’ll do just what I always do. Take some arthritis pain pills and get up tomorrow and come to work. Peace.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw:
It comes to me that a level of clarification is in order. I sit at the keyboard wondering about this medium we are participating in. To wit: the World Wide Web. Initially a result of the Soviet Union beating us into space and the ensuing propagation of the Cold War, it has become a bludgeon onto itself.
As you know (basically because you’re reading this) I have a presence on this informational conduit. Pursuant to that presence I must also partake of that most auspicious of activities we call e-mail. It has offered me both aggravation and inspiration.
I received many solicitations of dubious distinction; I have been informed by person or persons of foreign demeanor that I am the fortunate recipient of 789,253,216, 754,045,824,800,172,408,364,872,982,471,693,804, 821,432 Dollars, Euros, Pounds or Pounds Sterling. I have been informed of a like amount available to me by way of government grants. I have a myriad of folks wishing to save me from the desperate, derelict life I am leading through the judicious use of information I already have, or could obtain easily, and will give this respite for a one time donation (of the same amount as my previous benefactors) to the Great and Good Revelational Theosocialological Psychoglorius Cathedral of the One True Enlightened Path to Eternal Illumination Elucidation Amplification, and Clarification Church just two blocks south of the Juvenile Attention Center on the North Loop, right next to Flaco and Julio’s used tires and lawn service.
I can go to school to be anything from a CPA to a Proctologist. I can be all that I can be (regardless of my Honorable Discharge) in the Army. I can be given millions of dollars of goods and service absolutely free as long as I respond to three sponsor offers. I can make that same 789,253,216,754,045,824,800,172,408,364,872,
982,471,693,804,821,432 Dollars, Euros, Pounds or Pounds Sterling working part time from home. And lastly, I can reply to the hundred of Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw: emails I get from people I know, or do not know.
Where once the Net was for the protection of the Democratic Universe as we wished we knew it, it has now become a much more insidious attack on mankind. I do, however, suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous cyber fortune with a willing heart and a patient mind. I am aware that all I have to do if I get something I do not like is…not read it.
I am the most fortunate of men in that I have a legion of kind, loving folks that send me these e-mails offering me blessings, or money if I forward the mail to “all in my address book.” Why. They sent it to me, I have to resend it or…or…or NOTHING WILL HAPPEN! I think that is the essence of this form of correspondence. It is not necessarily about what you will get as much as it is about that nothing is going to happen as a result of you sending it on. God will not bless you a hundred thousand times, you will not get rich in proportion to the number of people you annoy by passing it on. Therein lies the rub. If you see something that is written in a way that conveys a positive, loving message, why not let it be just that? If I don’t choose to share it with someone I do not like in the first place then, I can hope somebody else shares it with my enemies so these antagonists of mine can annoy others instead of me when they respond to cuss the poor ignorant fool out for sending them such tripe. I already have enough people pissed off at me. Why would I want any more?
I am a self confessed sender of such as I have described. I do it for a number of reasons. The blessings I send on for that specific reason. To bless those I have affection for. I require no reply. I require no action on the part of the recipients of these blessings. I send them because they are, quite simply, a nice thing to do for someone you love.
I will confess to engaging in a cyber war with some folks who worship at a different political temple then I. We had an extremely active season what with the recent election. Being on the right side (or should I say the correct side) I have enjoyed the discourse and will continue the banter with certain folks. Disagreeing about politics does not make enemies. Not disagreeing and silently judging is the path of the Haters. All the members of my particular political war of wits are Americans, as am I, and we all understand the rights given us in this great country…and we are all still friends.
I send on the money bribes because it works. Not for everyone, but it certainly works for me. 100% of the time. Every time, and I mean every time I have sent on an e-mail that said I will receive money if I do…I do. Receive money, that is. No, I have not been given the keys to Shangri-La, but I have received some remuneration for each forwarded e-mail. Most of this comes from opportunities given me through my web presence by way of easy to perform freelance writing gigs. Some of it comes from scratch-off lottery tickets. Some of it comes from vendors in my life who give me money back for being a faithful customer. Regardless of the source, I receive cold hard cash every single time I send on one of these “make you rich from passing on a bullshit e-mail” schemes. Being raised in a capitalistic regime, I am not going to mess with something that works. I am going to take the money and run…straight to the Cherry Garcia store!
So, what is left? Well, I certainly hope I haven’t nurtured any level of ire in those reading. I will say that if I have, in fact, created anger in some, then I will tell you that the best thing I can say is…DON’T READ ANY MORE OF MY E-MAILS. To those who believe this is drivel, I wish you well amongst the dammed of the cyber world. To those who know me, know that I love you and wish nothing but good things when I send you a Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw: e-mail. Peace.
P.S If you don’t believe the thing about the money, send me one and see if I don’t ask you out to lunch.
As you know (basically because you’re reading this) I have a presence on this informational conduit. Pursuant to that presence I must also partake of that most auspicious of activities we call e-mail. It has offered me both aggravation and inspiration.
I received many solicitations of dubious distinction; I have been informed by person or persons of foreign demeanor that I am the fortunate recipient of 789,253,216, 754,045,824,800,172,408,364,872,982,471,693,804, 821,432 Dollars, Euros, Pounds or Pounds Sterling. I have been informed of a like amount available to me by way of government grants. I have a myriad of folks wishing to save me from the desperate, derelict life I am leading through the judicious use of information I already have, or could obtain easily, and will give this respite for a one time donation (of the same amount as my previous benefactors) to the Great and Good Revelational Theosocialological Psychoglorius Cathedral of the One True Enlightened Path to Eternal Illumination Elucidation Amplification, and Clarification Church just two blocks south of the Juvenile Attention Center on the North Loop, right next to Flaco and Julio’s used tires and lawn service.
I can go to school to be anything from a CPA to a Proctologist. I can be all that I can be (regardless of my Honorable Discharge) in the Army. I can be given millions of dollars of goods and service absolutely free as long as I respond to three sponsor offers. I can make that same 789,253,216,754,045,824,800,172,408,364,872,
982,471,693,804,821,432 Dollars, Euros, Pounds or Pounds Sterling working part time from home. And lastly, I can reply to the hundred of Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw: emails I get from people I know, or do not know.
Where once the Net was for the protection of the Democratic Universe as we wished we knew it, it has now become a much more insidious attack on mankind. I do, however, suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous cyber fortune with a willing heart and a patient mind. I am aware that all I have to do if I get something I do not like is…not read it.
I am the most fortunate of men in that I have a legion of kind, loving folks that send me these e-mails offering me blessings, or money if I forward the mail to “all in my address book.” Why. They sent it to me, I have to resend it or…or…or NOTHING WILL HAPPEN! I think that is the essence of this form of correspondence. It is not necessarily about what you will get as much as it is about that nothing is going to happen as a result of you sending it on. God will not bless you a hundred thousand times, you will not get rich in proportion to the number of people you annoy by passing it on. Therein lies the rub. If you see something that is written in a way that conveys a positive, loving message, why not let it be just that? If I don’t choose to share it with someone I do not like in the first place then, I can hope somebody else shares it with my enemies so these antagonists of mine can annoy others instead of me when they respond to cuss the poor ignorant fool out for sending them such tripe. I already have enough people pissed off at me. Why would I want any more?
I am a self confessed sender of such as I have described. I do it for a number of reasons. The blessings I send on for that specific reason. To bless those I have affection for. I require no reply. I require no action on the part of the recipients of these blessings. I send them because they are, quite simply, a nice thing to do for someone you love.
I will confess to engaging in a cyber war with some folks who worship at a different political temple then I. We had an extremely active season what with the recent election. Being on the right side (or should I say the correct side) I have enjoyed the discourse and will continue the banter with certain folks. Disagreeing about politics does not make enemies. Not disagreeing and silently judging is the path of the Haters. All the members of my particular political war of wits are Americans, as am I, and we all understand the rights given us in this great country…and we are all still friends.
I send on the money bribes because it works. Not for everyone, but it certainly works for me. 100% of the time. Every time, and I mean every time I have sent on an e-mail that said I will receive money if I do…I do. Receive money, that is. No, I have not been given the keys to Shangri-La, but I have received some remuneration for each forwarded e-mail. Most of this comes from opportunities given me through my web presence by way of easy to perform freelance writing gigs. Some of it comes from scratch-off lottery tickets. Some of it comes from vendors in my life who give me money back for being a faithful customer. Regardless of the source, I receive cold hard cash every single time I send on one of these “make you rich from passing on a bullshit e-mail” schemes. Being raised in a capitalistic regime, I am not going to mess with something that works. I am going to take the money and run…straight to the Cherry Garcia store!
So, what is left? Well, I certainly hope I haven’t nurtured any level of ire in those reading. I will say that if I have, in fact, created anger in some, then I will tell you that the best thing I can say is…DON’T READ ANY MORE OF MY E-MAILS. To those who believe this is drivel, I wish you well amongst the dammed of the cyber world. To those who know me, know that I love you and wish nothing but good things when I send you a Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw: e-mail. Peace.
P.S If you don’t believe the thing about the money, send me one and see if I don’t ask you out to lunch.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Charlatan
Well I get to use this blog for what I intend to it…to complain, protest, criticize, grumble, whine, carp, nitpick, object, accuse, ascribe, attack, beef, bellyache, bemoan, bewail, bitch, carp, cavil, charge, contravene, defy, demur, denounce, deplore, deprecate, differ, disagree, disapprove, dissent, expostulate, find fault, fret, fuss, gainsay, grieve, gripe, groan, grouse, growl, grumble, impute, indict, kick up a fuss, lament, lay, look askance, make a fuss, moan, nag, object, oppose, protest, refute, remonstrate, repine, reproach, snivel, sound off, take exception to, wail, whimper, whine, yammer about some situation in my life that I perceive as unacceptable, intolerable, improper, deplorable, offensive, undesirable, objectionable or just plain bullshit!
For the first time since I ventured into the cyber-cosmos with my vain and ofttimes brilliant prose (if you agree then send help me find a for-pay publisher) I feel in need of offering an apology to my faithful readership. The first paragraph was, indeed, an extended and preposterous use of both the thesaurus that comes with my word processing software, and the best to be found on the World Wide Web. Hiding behind the pretense of a being a wise scribe, I am quite literally lurking about wishing I could display my indigenous personality instead of perpetrating the façade which is before you. I want to curse, and curse LOUDLY!!!!
I came upon a situation at work, you know, the first job that I have ever truly loved, that has caused me to be reassigned to another campus. Much of this is not for general publication except the fact that I have been blind-sided by the news that I am not, contrary to what I have been told many times, been fulfilling my duties as an English teacher. Since the first of the school year I have been enrolled in a teacher certification program which is designed to improve my skills as a teacher, and aid the school by adding another “Highly Qualified Teacher” to its roles. I’ve already detailed my ventures back into the task of becoming, once more, a student.
I have learned many things over the last six months, and have indeed been certified as a “Highly Qualified Teacher”. This is a designation required of school to provide under the federal “No Child Left Behind” legislation. Politically this is a quagmire for schools to comply with. The law itself is a great idea, but the implementation has caused my small charter school some difficulty. We have many great teachers who are, in fact, hugely qualified and we will be all right once the convoluted language of the law is deciphered.
My own dilemma is that I have been suborned by someone who has previously sung my praises. I understand this happening as it has happened to me before. I face a number of difficulties in my life which have contributed to a long journey in seek of enlightenment, employment, and what some would call respectability. I am fat. I am a recovering drug addict. I am better educated than roughly 97% of the rest of the country (US Census).
Being fat has always been a fact in my life. It has caused me much difficulty in seeking employment to the point that, at times, I have had to rely on public assistance to maintain a lifestyle. I have been thought of as inferior by the news media, employers, colleagues, doctors, some potential romantic involvements, and society in general. Many times I have had to submit to people attempting to educate me on subjects that I have expert knowledge of. I had an experience (more then once) of sitting in a business meeting while someone explained to me a particular procedure or practice that I developed and implemented with success. I am constantly being patronized and condescended to. My favorite is (and this has happened hundreds of times) when someone speaks a little slower and a little louder to ensure that the poor fat guy will understand. I have spoke of this before so I will no longer belabor the issue.
I was ten years old when I made to first conscious decision to use a mind altering, mood changing substance. This was a result of being told by my father that I could not go and live with him…that he did not want me. What occurred over the next thirty two years of active addiction is a tale for another place. I will say that I have learned, which I could not know at ten years old, that I had the disease of addiction. The American Medical Association, the American Psychological Association, and the American Psychiatric Association all define it as a disease. A disease, not a moral dilemma. I found recovery and discovered that it is definitely a chronic, progressive and fatal disease for which there is treatment. I have found that treatment, the result of which is that I am clean for 13 years. Best statistics reveal that 95% of people who get clean the way I did relapse. I have not.
In the summer of 1987, as a result of this disease, I found myself homeless. Direct responsibility for this situation falls entirely on me. Yes I have a disease, but the disease did not cause my landlord to evict me. I took up residence underneath a bridge near a creek with a fishing pole, and a beat up used car to live in. Coming late to the ideal that if you give a man a fishing pole he will never be hungry, I did not fare well. I sat by that creek and realized that there had to be something better out there. The result of these ruminations gave me the will to pursue an education. The process took a bit of time. I had to admit I needed help, much the same method for finding recovery, I went to My Dear Sainted Mother and, as always, she took in her worthless hobo of a son. We struggled for a while until she and I found a way for me to go back to school. It appears that we live in a country where a person can advance themselves on effort, determination and hard work. God Bless America.
I went to a technical school where the admission counselor looked at my test score and shook his head. It’s a shame that I had little chance because I was functionally illiterate. Yes, I could read and scored well on the entrance exam, but I could not write cursive and that would cause me to fail. I was admitted anyway and I discovered a computer in the library. I have never looked back. Several college degrees later I sit at this keyboard exercising my skill at the keyboard…a published writer. That counselor got to see me march into his office and display those degrees. It became a ritual for me, and it made him glad he had used an extreme method to bring out the best in me. The last time we met before his retirement, he hugged me and told me he was proud of me. My Dear Sainted Mother got to see her worthless hobo of a son graduate with honors…several times.
I am uncomfortable writing this page. I do not generally seek recognition for my successes. There was a time when I believed my education made me who I am, and I would sing loudly how smart I was, but the miracle of recovery has taught me that humility is a much healthier character trait. What I have done with this education is work at some kind of job where I could help people like me find a way to succeed. “Pulling myself up by my bootstraps” would certainty describe what I have done, but it is not as important as what I am doing today.
So what about the reassignment? I guess it just turns out to be a case of workplace politics. The offender in this case is me. I am always the offender simply because I am involved in all that is good, and all that is bad in my life. The perpetrator, however, in this instance is someone of power in my world. One who does not possess a degree, yet apparently possesses the ability to play politics better then I do. I really don’t wish to play politics. I am hurt, and instead of lashing out I am doing what I am taught in recovery. Sharing my feelings.
I find comfort in the face of malice. My superintendent looked me in the eye and told me he had faith in me, enough faith to send me to a campus where the kids might be somewhat more of a challenge, and, where I can possibly be of more help. I think of my kids now. They tell me they love me. They surround me when we go out in public to games and field trips. They tell me of their triumphs and frustrations, they let me hug them when they cry, and sometimes, they hug me when I cry. Peace.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Conundrum
Sitting in my almost comfortable chair, watching Sixty Minutes, I realize that I am experiencing an unusual feeling. It is not an unfamiliar feeling. It comes from time to time when I am bored, or not sufficiently motivated by the external influences I experience at any given time. It comes upon me in subtle ways. It is almost like a whisper. It is a small voice inside my mind telling me that something is about to occur. Given this pseudo physic knowledge of impending occurrences, I get another feeling, this time in the smallest part of my stomach. It also speaks in a small voice. Yet, perhaps it is not so sublime. Perchance it is a more deep-throated summons. Growing in volume and intensity it almost… but not quite…becomes a discernible intonation. Not quite words…but…how can it be…are they words. Could it be some type of summons from the Great Beyond? Might it be a command from within? It is almost an urgent insistence that calls for capitulation. But from my stomach?
I look around the room finding no respite. Everyone is attempting to listen to this small woman on the other side of the building from me. I have no idea what she is speaking of. I firmly believe that the only sound that needs to come my way should have some relevance. All else needs to stay outside my notice, as I am an opinionated fool at best, and the rest of the world really does not deserve the inane ranting I am capable of. However, as I am wont to say, you dialed up the webpage so you get to read this tirade.
I have recently had occasion to spend some time in the pursuit of enlightenment on the state of financial affairs as it relates to my ability to maintain my status as an acceptable, responsible, and productive member of society. I sit here with the vast sum of ninety six cents in my pocket with which to beat back the beast that is life. Additionally, I have somewhere in the neighborhood of one dollar and forty two cents in the bank. This is my wealth totalamente for the next eight days when the heavens shall open and manna from heaven will arrive in the guise of a paycheck.
Not to worry, though. I have gas in my truck, victuals in the larder, two-thirds of a pack of cigarettes, and a two dollar winning scratch off lottery ticket which I will turn in for another because, surely, I am going to hit a jackpot this time. Life is good.
My bills are currently at a level which exceeds my income in the foreseeable future. Added to that, my truck is having abandonment issues and has decided it needs me to pay more attention to it…to the sum of two hundred and fifty dollars. The acquisition of this level of coinage is truly a mystery for the ages.
I ruminate over the solution to my dilemma and wonder if it is, perhaps, just my lot in life. A depressing notion given my state of aspiration for the new vehicular conveyance I am watching on the television. It’s a beauty. Fancy wheels, night black, an engine that will go from zero to sixty in les time then it takes for me to count the money in my pocket. Maybe I’ll just take a nap. “To sleep, perchance to dream” or, at least, some variation of that variety of excrement.
Then the show resumes and I am watching a segment on the state of financial affairs in this Great Country of ours. The “Financial Bailout” being the topic or, in this case, the reason for the pickle the pecuniary philosopher’s who run this country have gotten us in. This report speaks of a once outlawed practice of gambling on the stock market that once caused a major bank panic and depression in America and Mexico. Apparently, the party with whom I identify let this happen in a deal for sympathetic voting on a favored issue back in the 1990’s. This was the same government that Back in 1990;
“Seized the Mustang Ranch brothel in Nevada for tax evasion and, as required by law, tried to run it. They failed and it closed! Now we are trusting the economy of our country to a pack of nit-wits who couldn't make money running a whore house and selling booze?”
Furthermore, it was revealed that the so-called “Bailout for $740,000,000, 000” actually ended up costing $140,000,000,000 that nobody knew about until the Administration signed the bill. For what did this extra money go for? Well, as it turns out, there are a number of bank executives that will end up getting six figure bonuses this year for screwing up. Now, mind you, this constitutes significant cuts from the seven an eight figure bonuses they are used to. Oh, the tragedy of it all! I mean, what’s a man to do with a mere six or seven hundred thousand dollars?
Now here I sit with forty six cents (the kid next door rolled my trash can out to the curb and gracefully accepted the fifty cents instead of his normal dollar so as to prevent me from risking arrest as a vagrant) and wonder if there is some way I could use this “Crisis” to my advantage. Mmmmm…
Well, I no longer qualify for public assistance because I am a school teacher. Certainly this is a noble profession which I love, but not exactly one which leaves me in the top tax bracket. Actually, standing at the entrance to Wal-Mart with a sign stating “Will teach for food” is not an entirely foreign ideal.
I received an e-mail recently that suggested that if that bailout money was actually divided to the citizens of America, the recuperation of the finance system could occur in a much more timely fashion. In this plan everyone would receive about $242,000. After taxes and paying off debt, each of us would, on average, have enough to put a reasonable down payment on one of those foreclosed houses, and buy a new car.
Well, I do not think that I can count on receiving a check within the foreseeable future. The last one took a month longer to get to me then I was told. Maybe I’ll just live with my twenty six cents (I lost twenty cents somewhere on the quagmire that is my desk) and not complain. Go cook some Wonder Food, and work on my cardboard sign…
I look around the room finding no respite. Everyone is attempting to listen to this small woman on the other side of the building from me. I have no idea what she is speaking of. I firmly believe that the only sound that needs to come my way should have some relevance. All else needs to stay outside my notice, as I am an opinionated fool at best, and the rest of the world really does not deserve the inane ranting I am capable of. However, as I am wont to say, you dialed up the webpage so you get to read this tirade.
I have recently had occasion to spend some time in the pursuit of enlightenment on the state of financial affairs as it relates to my ability to maintain my status as an acceptable, responsible, and productive member of society. I sit here with the vast sum of ninety six cents in my pocket with which to beat back the beast that is life. Additionally, I have somewhere in the neighborhood of one dollar and forty two cents in the bank. This is my wealth totalamente for the next eight days when the heavens shall open and manna from heaven will arrive in the guise of a paycheck.
Not to worry, though. I have gas in my truck, victuals in the larder, two-thirds of a pack of cigarettes, and a two dollar winning scratch off lottery ticket which I will turn in for another because, surely, I am going to hit a jackpot this time. Life is good.
My bills are currently at a level which exceeds my income in the foreseeable future. Added to that, my truck is having abandonment issues and has decided it needs me to pay more attention to it…to the sum of two hundred and fifty dollars. The acquisition of this level of coinage is truly a mystery for the ages.
I ruminate over the solution to my dilemma and wonder if it is, perhaps, just my lot in life. A depressing notion given my state of aspiration for the new vehicular conveyance I am watching on the television. It’s a beauty. Fancy wheels, night black, an engine that will go from zero to sixty in les time then it takes for me to count the money in my pocket. Maybe I’ll just take a nap. “To sleep, perchance to dream” or, at least, some variation of that variety of excrement.
Then the show resumes and I am watching a segment on the state of financial affairs in this Great Country of ours. The “Financial Bailout” being the topic or, in this case, the reason for the pickle the pecuniary philosopher’s who run this country have gotten us in. This report speaks of a once outlawed practice of gambling on the stock market that once caused a major bank panic and depression in America and Mexico. Apparently, the party with whom I identify let this happen in a deal for sympathetic voting on a favored issue back in the 1990’s. This was the same government that Back in 1990;
“Seized the Mustang Ranch brothel in Nevada for tax evasion and, as required by law, tried to run it. They failed and it closed! Now we are trusting the economy of our country to a pack of nit-wits who couldn't make money running a whore house and selling booze?”
Furthermore, it was revealed that the so-called “Bailout for $740,000,000, 000” actually ended up costing $140,000,000,000 that nobody knew about until the Administration signed the bill. For what did this extra money go for? Well, as it turns out, there are a number of bank executives that will end up getting six figure bonuses this year for screwing up. Now, mind you, this constitutes significant cuts from the seven an eight figure bonuses they are used to. Oh, the tragedy of it all! I mean, what’s a man to do with a mere six or seven hundred thousand dollars?
Now here I sit with forty six cents (the kid next door rolled my trash can out to the curb and gracefully accepted the fifty cents instead of his normal dollar so as to prevent me from risking arrest as a vagrant) and wonder if there is some way I could use this “Crisis” to my advantage. Mmmmm…
Well, I no longer qualify for public assistance because I am a school teacher. Certainly this is a noble profession which I love, but not exactly one which leaves me in the top tax bracket. Actually, standing at the entrance to Wal-Mart with a sign stating “Will teach for food” is not an entirely foreign ideal.
I received an e-mail recently that suggested that if that bailout money was actually divided to the citizens of America, the recuperation of the finance system could occur in a much more timely fashion. In this plan everyone would receive about $242,000. After taxes and paying off debt, each of us would, on average, have enough to put a reasonable down payment on one of those foreclosed houses, and buy a new car.
Well, I do not think that I can count on receiving a check within the foreseeable future. The last one took a month longer to get to me then I was told. Maybe I’ll just live with my twenty six cents (I lost twenty cents somewhere on the quagmire that is my desk) and not complain. Go cook some Wonder Food, and work on my cardboard sign…
Saturday, September 13, 2008
yIKEs
Sitting at my instrument of enlightenment, I realize that I am patiently waiting for my lights to go out. It is the occasion of the advent of Hurricane Ike in my hometown. Although I reside almost three hundred miles from the coast, this accumulation of wind, rain, thunder and destruction has set its sights on my electric service. I realize that I, as previously admitted, have little adeptness in the realm of clairvoyance. I do not really know that the electricity is going to cease, but I do. I dwell in that part of my hamlet that is clearly several notches down on the priority list the local energy provider maintains in their efforts to endow its customers with the miracle of light as given us by the Great Spirit. My lights go out when there is no reasonable explanation. Perfectly sunny days and wonderful spring evenings are just a susceptible to outages as when circumstances deliver the most egregious of atmospheric situations. The income level of myself and my neighbors is significantly less significant then other portion of the kingdom. Hence, when the tempest arrives I will be candle bent and darkness bound. (Yes, I am listening to a country radio station)
My resolve this afternoon is to finish something worthy of publication on the World Wide Web. I have eschewed the apple of my eye (cable television) in a quest for determined implementation of my craft. Enough, however, I need a theme. Once more I go to a predominantly irritating topic, in my opinion…Patriotism.
I sat at my desk one afternoon last week attempting to catch up on my new duties as an ENGLISH teacher. I looked around at my cluttered desk, and an even more disorderly work table wondering how I am ever going to teach six different grade levels of ENGLISH. I capitalize the word ENGLISH because it is the ultimate instance of irony I can think of. I hated ENGLISH teachers going through school. They were always getting in the way with their insistence on proper grammar and scolding me for using split infinitives. My comma usage sucked, and my handwriting has all the similarity in the world to what that demon of a seventh grade ENGLISH teacher called “Chicken Scratch.”
As little as just three months ago I existed in a world where I had exposed them all as fiendishly erroneous in their morally bankrupt assessment of my abilities. Not only had I succeeded in life in spite of my “unconventional” method of written communication, I became what some call a righteously gifted writer.
I never remember even knowing what a split infinitive was, until I attended a speech by a gentleman who was a former United States Teacher of the Year. He told a story of speaking with a student one day, and the distress in the young man’s life seemed to make grammar usage insignificant. After he finished speaking, I realized that the subject taught matters little when stacked up to the kid in front of you. The experience made me remember two of those self fashioned “demons” who made a difference in my life. One was my eleventh grade ENGLISH teacher who told me it was just fine with him if I did a paper on a famous Spanish Bullfighter because I thought I could become similarly famous, and Sister Anne Georgine. That “demon” knocked the crap out of me one day because she thought I was making fun of her behind her back. She also gave up her lunch period to talk to me about what was going on with me. At the time I could not tell her that I hated my stepfather, and she told me that when I was ready, to put it on paper. Forty-three years later, here I am, following her instruction and teaching ENGLISH. Go figure.
Now I can get to the true object of my ramblings this blustery afternoon. I had one of my kids come and tell me he joined the Marines. The information unquestionably broke my heart. No longer did I trouble myself with all that is ENGLISH. I looked in this kid’s eyes and checked his body language and realized that he is serious. He explained that he felt it in his heart to follow in his brother’s footsteps and fight for his country. I wanted to scream at him, and shake him, and tell him that it is a bogus war. I wanted to sit him down at my computer and bring up all the articles about how the American people and been lied to by the President. I wanted to forbid him from going. I wanted him to stay alive!
What I wanted had nothing to do with what I did. By becoming an ENGLISH teacher, I accepted the idea that what I want is secondary to the kids. What I believe can only be an opinion. What is important is to accept the limitations of my ego, and just listen. I am not a counselor. Just a teacher.
What I could do was tell him the truth. I told him the truth about what he will experience. I told him that he was giving up several of his constitutional rights. I told him that if he was told to do something he did not want to do it, they could and would put him in jail. I told him that every Marine is considered a front line soldier, regardless of their military specialty. I told him that he was going to change, and that it might not be in a good way. I repeated this so that he would understand. I went into the service and came out changed. Everyone I know who is a veteran entered the service and came back changed. I told him about my Uncle Buddy.
I also told him that what he is doing is an honorable thing. Despite my vehement opposition to war, I remember volunteering for patriotic reasons, and thought it was the honorable thing to do because it is. If you’ve never served, this is a foreign ideal to you. It is not for any Soldier, Sailor, Marine, Coast Guardsmen, or veteran. And God Bless them for their courage.
I put down my grade book, and turned off the monitor of my computer. The muddle would be here when I got back. I did the only meaningful thing I could. I told him I was proud of him. I told him that I loved him. God, please make it enough. Peace.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Only the Lonely
Sitting at home on Saturday night watching some tube, I find myself with an itch. I’ve been watching a concert on PBS. Yes, I’ve turned into one of those cerebral dupes that enjoys watching Channel 13. As a child and adolescent, I found this station “Oh-My-God-Boring!!!” I now embrace it as an old friend. It certainly far surpasses the late night soft core porn on the cable movies station for entertainment, especially when you’re home alone.
I remember in years gone by I would look forward to Saturday night. In my youth it meant going someplace to listen to live music. Sometimes this meant a concert in the city. Sometimes just some bar where the local talent played for tips or drinks, and always ended the night with a rousing rendition of “Johnny Be Good.” Somewhere along the journey into senior citizenship, I lost this most cherished of activities.
The concerts became uncomfortable as I grew in age, and girth. Thousands of screaming, drunk or high, fans in a stadium or other large venue became irksome, and unwanted. Finding recovery dampened the drive to visit the local venues. My first sponsor tells people all the time that if alcohol is a drug, then the bar is a dope house. Makes sense to those of similar mind and desire as I. I’ve gotten to enjoy waking up and knowing what happened the night before. I watched Chuck Berry on the Tonight Show the other night, and as soon as he finished performing a rather mild version of his classic, I turned off the television. Maybe it was out of disappointment in watching how slow both Chuck and myself have gotten, or maybe it was because I had to go to bed and get up for work. In truth, I recorded the show, and watched it in the afternoon. Right before I took my daily nap.
But I digress. This evening I watched “The Who at Killburn.” It was the next to last performance prior to the death of Keith Moon. “Back in the day,” the Who was my favorite band. I remember buying the “Live at Leeds” album and having my mother continuously tell me to turn it down. “Tommy” changed my life. The message of rebellion and the pure power of the sound combined with the unadulterated and savagely perfect talent of the band spoke to my idiotically naïve adolescent soul. “My Generation,” “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” “Baba O’Reilly,” and the ultimate anthem of all anthems…”Pinball Wizard!” These were the sounds of my spirit, and drove the plan for my life. I would rebel no matter what it took. The best I ever got to rebellion was to sneak away with one of my cousins to Woodstock where I nearly caught a piece of one of Keith Moon’s drumstick when they destroyed the set. I was on crutches in a cast up to my hip and the crowd let me get close to the stage. I was visiting my father, and he thought I had gone to the New Jersey Shore for the weekend. I never told my family, and got away with it. Then again, there are many things my family never caught me at. Now, its all just stories for holiday’s and family gatherings. My Dear Sainted Mother would have a fit if she knew. I am sure that if I get to go where she is now, I’ll have a lot to answer for. Hopefully, while she’s cooking me chicken and noodles.
I think I drifted away from music because of the complexity of how it is done now. Big fancy stages with light shows and bombs going off, and dozens of people on stage at one time making it near impossible to figure out who the star is until they sing a slow song with a spotlight on them. Frenzied crowds of scantily clad dancers perform gyrations and whirl about with seemingly perfect coordination with the legion of musicians and synthesized sounds. No equipment in sight, electronic keyboards like you can buy at Wal-Mar and lyrics that are unrecognizable and meaningless. Pageantry at its best…or is it?
I spent some of my misspent youth as a roadie. I never had the licks to learn to play. Being a roadie was as close as I could get to that insurgency I vowed would be the work of my life. It was a time when there were thousands of pounds of equipment for even the smallest of bands. The Who led the pack with banks of Marshall Amplifiers, and a drum set that had to have had thirty or thirty-five pieces. Basically, everywhere Keith Moon put his stick down (actually slammed) some kind of thunderous sound occurred. As to the dancing, Peter Townsend out danced the best of the best, all the while playing a Les Paul and never missing a note or chord. Wires everywhere and never a slip or fall, except those nights when they were too drunk or high to maintain. Even when that happened, they made it part of the show. Roger Daltry swinging a microphone, on a long duck taped wire in a way reminiscent of David launching the stone at Goliath, only he never let go, and never missed a verse. Loud, annoying, irreverent, caustic, and absolutely soul stirring rock and roll at its utter, unreserved, unconditional, total best, and all for about ten dollars. Tonight it was free…well at least all it cost was the effort it took to work the remote in my comfortable living room with the big chair and a glass of tea next to the ashtray where I can aggravate my COPD as I wish, instead of missing some of the show because I had to go outside to smoke so that I wouldn’t give somebody the gift of my emphysema through the secondhand smoke drifting in the air.
Do you know how I know that my music is better? I have a cockatiel who is my current housemate. When newer music is playing she squawks and complains until I turn it off. This evening, she sat and watched while chirping in time with the music. As I finish this piece, I am listening to another concert on PBS, Roy Orbison and a bunch of other famous old guys. She is asleep.
So what now? Well it is 1:00 AM, and this old guy needs to go to sleep. What am I trying to say with this piece? I believe The Who said is best…I hope I die before I get old!
I remember in years gone by I would look forward to Saturday night. In my youth it meant going someplace to listen to live music. Sometimes this meant a concert in the city. Sometimes just some bar where the local talent played for tips or drinks, and always ended the night with a rousing rendition of “Johnny Be Good.” Somewhere along the journey into senior citizenship, I lost this most cherished of activities.
The concerts became uncomfortable as I grew in age, and girth. Thousands of screaming, drunk or high, fans in a stadium or other large venue became irksome, and unwanted. Finding recovery dampened the drive to visit the local venues. My first sponsor tells people all the time that if alcohol is a drug, then the bar is a dope house. Makes sense to those of similar mind and desire as I. I’ve gotten to enjoy waking up and knowing what happened the night before. I watched Chuck Berry on the Tonight Show the other night, and as soon as he finished performing a rather mild version of his classic, I turned off the television. Maybe it was out of disappointment in watching how slow both Chuck and myself have gotten, or maybe it was because I had to go to bed and get up for work. In truth, I recorded the show, and watched it in the afternoon. Right before I took my daily nap.
But I digress. This evening I watched “The Who at Killburn.” It was the next to last performance prior to the death of Keith Moon. “Back in the day,” the Who was my favorite band. I remember buying the “Live at Leeds” album and having my mother continuously tell me to turn it down. “Tommy” changed my life. The message of rebellion and the pure power of the sound combined with the unadulterated and savagely perfect talent of the band spoke to my idiotically naïve adolescent soul. “My Generation,” “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” “Baba O’Reilly,” and the ultimate anthem of all anthems…”Pinball Wizard!” These were the sounds of my spirit, and drove the plan for my life. I would rebel no matter what it took. The best I ever got to rebellion was to sneak away with one of my cousins to Woodstock where I nearly caught a piece of one of Keith Moon’s drumstick when they destroyed the set. I was on crutches in a cast up to my hip and the crowd let me get close to the stage. I was visiting my father, and he thought I had gone to the New Jersey Shore for the weekend. I never told my family, and got away with it. Then again, there are many things my family never caught me at. Now, its all just stories for holiday’s and family gatherings. My Dear Sainted Mother would have a fit if she knew. I am sure that if I get to go where she is now, I’ll have a lot to answer for. Hopefully, while she’s cooking me chicken and noodles.
I think I drifted away from music because of the complexity of how it is done now. Big fancy stages with light shows and bombs going off, and dozens of people on stage at one time making it near impossible to figure out who the star is until they sing a slow song with a spotlight on them. Frenzied crowds of scantily clad dancers perform gyrations and whirl about with seemingly perfect coordination with the legion of musicians and synthesized sounds. No equipment in sight, electronic keyboards like you can buy at Wal-Mar and lyrics that are unrecognizable and meaningless. Pageantry at its best…or is it?
I spent some of my misspent youth as a roadie. I never had the licks to learn to play. Being a roadie was as close as I could get to that insurgency I vowed would be the work of my life. It was a time when there were thousands of pounds of equipment for even the smallest of bands. The Who led the pack with banks of Marshall Amplifiers, and a drum set that had to have had thirty or thirty-five pieces. Basically, everywhere Keith Moon put his stick down (actually slammed) some kind of thunderous sound occurred. As to the dancing, Peter Townsend out danced the best of the best, all the while playing a Les Paul and never missing a note or chord. Wires everywhere and never a slip or fall, except those nights when they were too drunk or high to maintain. Even when that happened, they made it part of the show. Roger Daltry swinging a microphone, on a long duck taped wire in a way reminiscent of David launching the stone at Goliath, only he never let go, and never missed a verse. Loud, annoying, irreverent, caustic, and absolutely soul stirring rock and roll at its utter, unreserved, unconditional, total best, and all for about ten dollars. Tonight it was free…well at least all it cost was the effort it took to work the remote in my comfortable living room with the big chair and a glass of tea next to the ashtray where I can aggravate my COPD as I wish, instead of missing some of the show because I had to go outside to smoke so that I wouldn’t give somebody the gift of my emphysema through the secondhand smoke drifting in the air.
Do you know how I know that my music is better? I have a cockatiel who is my current housemate. When newer music is playing she squawks and complains until I turn it off. This evening, she sat and watched while chirping in time with the music. As I finish this piece, I am listening to another concert on PBS, Roy Orbison and a bunch of other famous old guys. She is asleep.
So what now? Well it is 1:00 AM, and this old guy needs to go to sleep. What am I trying to say with this piece? I believe The Who said is best…I hope I die before I get old!
Friday, August 1, 2008
The Brotherhood of Neon
I sit in my classroom watching the valiant waif’s placed my charge work on an exercise the topic of which is discrimination. We began this day by reading a story in the literature textbook on the bus desegregation events of the 1950’s. Rosa Parks was, as she has always been, the hero of the tale.
The class size is twelve young men, two-thirds of which are what we now refer to as the politically correct term “people of color.” I abhor this term. I hate all that is prejudicial and hold particular scorn that which is intolerant within me. To denigrate someone in this manner is a crime against nature. What is wrong with just calling them people? Why do we have to single them out as someone or something different? What the hell does their color have to do with who or what they are? Shit!
I have spent time in my life where the color of a person’s skin mattered to me. For those times I am mortified and deeply apologetic, even though saying I am sorry might just be the best definition of who I might be…one sorry son of a bitch. I live in a world of my own making most of the time and attempt to value things based on what I believe is appropriate. This system of standards is an ever evolving creature. I am currently in the stage where I, perhaps, devolve. I have found all the things wrong in my world and rather then champion the causes I find irksome, I defer to the comfort of my classroom, and the proverbial “mouths of babes.” My kids are currently my muse, and the rhythm, much to my displeasure, is in the cadence if Hip-Hop. Long live Tupac Shakur (sic).
I observe these children with wonder and amusement. This particular class population consists of teenagers who are in an inpatient substance abuse program for adolescents. Their life is full of prejudice of an institutional manner. There are harsh rules they are obligated to comply with or circumstance can become extremely unpleasant. Infractions always result in consequences the worst being that they can go to prison. This means a state youth facility that is, in reality, prisons for kids. The nature of these offenses can certainly be worthy of incarceration, but many are things that I, as an adult take for granted.
The lesser infractions result in what is called “slow-down.” This a state in which the culprit is not allowed to speak unless spoken to by the staff of the program or me as the teacher. They are required to wear a neon colored vest similar to what the flag people on a paving crew would where. Having, in a past life, earned a living wearing one of these vests, I know the purpose for the color is to ensure one may be seen and hopefully not run over by an irritated motorist anxious to get on their way. In the case of the boys, it is an announcement to the little world of academia we exist in that this transgressor has transgressed. What the offense might be is no longer something I have desire to know. What seems petty and insignificant is not for me to judge, just the same way it is not my place to judge another based on such arbitrary and capricious items as age, race, sexual identity, creed, religion, or lack of religion (this list compiled from recovery literature). Would that I could heed my own counsel. I, shamefully, have grown to hate people who hate. Sesquipedalianism will not aid this dearth within me. I can not write my way out of this scarcity of principled convention. I am incapable of justifying the loathing of what I would liken to be unprincipled and criminal activity as long as I purport myself in similar manner. It is not okay to hate.
I learned this in class, watching my would-be paving flagmen. They sit in my room and remind me that they have consequences in their life that would be violated if they did certain activities I assign. I chose to get my students to work in groups and if a member of the group cannot participate through proper communication, I cannot complain of the burden these practices create for me. I just need to respect that these young men, perhaps for the first time in their lives, wish to act in an honorable manner.
Therein lays the rub. If people were to act in as honorable a manner as my kids, the world would be a better place. Teachers like me would probably die an early death from the joy it would bring to there hearts. What’s he talking about? Is he rambling again? Is he exactly as weird and stupid as I first thought? Maybe.
What makes me think on the effects of prejudice is the lack of selfsame offense my kids display. After reading about Rosa Parks, these future captains of our collective well being, all told me that discrimination is Bull! I believed them. I particularly believed them when one of the staff of the treatment program came and collected a few of the ugly neon vests and they cheered for their peers who had lived with their consequences without the need for hatred, bigotry, or spite. God Bless Them! God Bless anyone who likes these actions! More importantly, God Bless those who do not choose to live with the principles and honor of these righteous offspring of a world where bigotry and hatred most certainly still exists! There are, metaphorically, still buses that require some of us to sit in the back. Peace.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Currency
“The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what two people share with each other when they are uncool.” Phillip Seymour Hoffman in “Almost Famous,” 2001
Sitting and watching this movie the night before the Fourth of July I am wondering where it all went. Waxing philosophical is a past time of mine at this particular point in time. I am having a particularly harsh time of it this week, and I do not really know why. I type away at this keyboard and what I really want to do is crawl into my bed and cry.
I am exhausted and see little relief in the near future. I would normally be on vacation right now, but the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune have dictated that I am back in school…as a student instead of as a teacher. I exist in this strange seemingly bizarre reality where 90% of everyone in my life calls me “Mr. Reilly.” When in the hell did I become a “Mister: or a “Sir?”
I watch this movie that takes place in the 1970’s when life stood for something. Albeit, a life of irresponsibility, peculiarity, and beauty. A simple life where the pursuit of happiness stood for all, and reality was a crashing bore. Even after so many years, I find that I still yearn for that ease and comfort. I want to go to a WHO concert, smoke some stuff I got from a dude outside the arena, and try to get backstage and party with whoever would talk to us. Hopefully this meant the company of whatever nubile young ladies not lucky enough to make it into the bands room. Who would deny that those long lost earlier times always appear grand with the benefit of hindsight and an eight year old movie rerun on one of the second level cable movie channel.
I yearn to be young again, but that passion for times gone is just another shot at grumbling about my age. Oh my aching ass! Grow the hell up, “Mister Reilly.”
Well, now that I have that out of my system, I can get on with the real reason for this evenings tirade. I am waiting on some e-mail that has my life shut down to a certain extent. It is an annoying fact of life that technology, with all its wonders, is undeniably uncooperative at times. So I get to waste some time meandering around the words in my head and typing what is assuredly dribble. Well, you opened the link, so you get to read this slaver.
Wiling my time at this keyboard I have the television on and have discovered an amazing fact. The dialogue used in the soft porn industry that keeps cable industry afloat after
Well it is time to get back to some serious television watching. I have a pirate movie recorded and I think I will delve into the realm of “shoes and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings.” Peace
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