Bazinga!

Howard: Try telling him it's a non-optional social convention.
Penny: What?
Howard: Just do it!
Penny: *To Sheldon* It's a non-optional social convention.
Sheldon: Ah, fair enough.
Howard: He came with a manual.

Okay, it’s time for some mirth. There is a situation in my life that would appear to some, as a situation in need of correcting. Short of engaging in a full blown intervention, those who know and love me have shown sympathy, compassion, and exasperation. This display of interest would make my heart grow if it wasn’t for the reality of the situation. They all wish they were me.

The issue I am writing of is a full blown, got to have it every day, addiction. Given my long tenure in the gift and miracle that is recovery from mind altering, mood changing substances; this would be distressing if not for the substance that has become my drug of choice. What is this evil you may ask? Surely the big guy can deal with it. It is the most absurd thing I have ever found myself admitting. I am here today on this page to announce, for all time, that I am addicted to what this scribe formerly considered mind numbing trash…a situation comedy.

I have resisted this part of the universe of television for close to two decades. I found them to be mindless examples of how mindless people act. I’ve launched slur upon slur at the television when they came on, and I distinctly recall vowing to never watch such tripe. At least, that is, until they brought back the right kind of mindless entertainment. I have shown fidelity to this principle in my life and thought myself happy, joyous, and free. Then I met Dr. Sheldon Cooper.

For those who maintain fealty to my former stance, which adamantly disparages the social relevance of the medium (situation comedies), the culprit is “The Big Bang Theory.” It is a surprisingly delightful thirty minutes of mirth, hilarity, amusement, and, discerning thought. While the subject matter is not unlike other examples of the world within the world of television, it has subtle differences and a message more perceptive then what is offered in other thirty-minute-miracles offered to amuse. The premise is, a group of young science-based savants working at a prestigious research university sometimes ill-fated attempts at circumnavigating the world outside their little piece of the Cosmos. These are the guys that other kids in school would call geeks, and mercilessly make fun of by using the time tested methods of torturing the less then cool with a number of atrocities: stealing their lunch money, making cruel jokes at their expense, thrashings for those who refused to submit, and the most degrading of all…the wedgie or incarnations thereof (reference the episode where the two main characters are relieved of their pants by a former boyfriend of their pretty neighbor…a shining example of the torturers of years gone by)

Societal clichés abound in the pastimes they pursue: comic books, Star Wars/Star Trek films, online video games, science fiction television series, memorabilia, and an endless dialogue on what this or that fictional character or superhero would do in a (or any) real life situation. Being television there is a tendency to take the obsession to an extreme. Going to a viewing of a favored classic film with “8 seconds of previously unseen footage” being just a smattering of the lengths these characters go to maintain the legend that is all geekhood. Most fascinating is the attitude held by the main characters when confronted with their geekiness. They are often wont to stare in confusion at such things as someone doubting that Commander Spock would never act in an illogical manner. Such thought and statements are treated blasphemous. Who are you to tell me that he is not a real person/being?

The many adventures these Sages of the Scientific Fact and Fantasy world are mostly content to sit around a communal coffee table playing games or dreaming up places to go and people to meet who may or may not be real. They are the masters of the “what if” paradigm. That would probably account for a superior knowledge of mathematics and topics that would lose the average Joe buying a six-pack at the convenience store. Knowing the theoretical or practical application of why the cooler holding the hops and barley nectar gets and stays cold is not a real concern for most. Likewise the science nerd guys have zero-zip-not-a-clue where it comes to affairs of the heart. The endearing part of the show for me is that they really want to have a clue. The main character’s seeking and getting and losing and getting back a relationship with the gorgeous blond next door who is a community college dropout shows me that everything is possible. The young lady’s ability to see through the quagmire of an experimental physicist’s life and mind to see the tender, loving man that lives inside is what’s brilliant about this show.

Then there is the small nebbish who masks his insecurities with inappropriate comments and actions towards almost every woman he meets. His difficulty is compounded by the other characters bantering on about his lack of a PhD even though he has a Masters from the most famous scientific and technological university in the world (which he got when he was a teenager). Even his mother, with whom he lives, is included in the derision which serves to solidly cement the nebbishness. This poor soul with an IQ in the top 1% has been able to find a woman to love and, most importantly, love him back. Although, she also pipes in on the PhD junk once she gets her’s.

The show leaves me wanting more every time I watch. The astrophysicist from the “mysterious sub-continent of India” as he states when he is trying to pick up girls is the next big hurdle to climb. His problem is that when in the presence of attractive women, he cannot speak. “Social Anxiety Disorder” is what they call it. He can, however, talk like a meth head auctioneer when he has a drink or two in him. The problem comes in when, as expected, he drinks too much (I intimately recall how that works!) and he finds himself waking up in the beds of strange women. From a purely “let’s go out and get lucky” point of view, he is probably the stud in the group. Well, he gets laid more than the other guys when they are out hunting female companionship. His one real relationship was with a deaf girl who dumped him when she found out that his parents were cutting him off financially. The beauty here is that he was totally fine with losing the financial support of his parents to be with the woman he loves. Maybe it’s the Irish in me, but that’s a truly romantic thing to do. Anyone with that much honesty and affection for another human being MUST end up with a girl to really love and, most importantly, love him back.

And then there is Dr. Sheldon Cooper. This character is absolute, total, incontrovertible proof that vanity, pomposity, and outrecuidance can all be grouped to create an art form. There is nothing inherently wrong with being the smartest guy in the room. There is, however, something definitely amiss with anyone who has to announce it to the world…everywhere he goes. “The Great Sheldor” is exactly what you would expect from the background he comes from. Probably the most gifted of the geniuses he faces a number of obstacles more so than the others. Everything in his life from a professional point of view occurred at an extremely young age; college at 11, a doctorate at sixteen. Adding to the complication is the environment of a drunken father who abandoned him, and a freakishly religious mother. Particularly poignant was an episode where he fled to the protection of the comic book store when his roommate and the girl next door began arguing. This brought up memories that forced him to withdraw to a place where he acts like a small child who must be bribed with toys to get him to behave. The implication of mental abuse nearly shouted out the screen as I watched. The isolation he inflicts on himself must have surely created differing worlds where, out of self-defense, he could escape the harsh realities of life.

His laundry list of issues he lives with might best be described by Luke 8:30:

“And Jesus asked him, saying, what is thy name? And he said, Legion: because many devils were entered into him.”

He is a germophobe, bacillophobiac, and bacteriophobiac as well as suffering from near maniacal neuroses which manifests itself chiefly by the obsessive compulsive disorder he displays. He covers his ailments well in the arrogant vainglorious and narcissistic behaviors his character portrays. His companions seem to put up with him, and even capitulate to his insensitive ramblings. But not always…

And here is where the beauty of the show comes in. In and about all his super intelligence and individual imperfections, this horribly wounded man has found a girlfriend. It is the one concession the Mighty Sheldor surrenders to, and the agony he inflicts on himself along the way to attaining a relationship is absolutely hilarious. His paramour is, as mercy tends to do, is a female version of him. This is probably the one part of the world that makes all equal. Falling in love is a universal gift, and, at the same time, the worst torture one can go through. It is nice to see that, even in a silly television show, love is the answer.

I will end my narrative with a piece of this compulsion I happily participate in;

“Leonard: If Penny didn't know that Leslie had already turned me down then that would unambiguously mean that she, Penny, thought I should ask her, Leslie, out, indicating that she, Penny, had no interest in me asking her, Penny, out but because she did know that I had asked Leslie out and that she, Leslie, had turned me down then she, Penny, could be offering me consolation. "That's too bad, you would have made a cute couple" but while thinking "good, Leonard remains available."
Sheldon: You're a lucky man Leonard.
Leonard: How so?
Sheldon: You're talking to one of three men in the western hemisphere capable of following that train of thought.
Leonard: Well, what do you think?
Sheldon: I said I could follow it, I didn't say I cared”

Well that is it, my current drug of choice, my not-so-secret obsession, and the thumb on my nose to the principles of Recovery. It is syndicated where I live and I can get as many as six episodes a day, which I record on DVR. Re-watching the episodes matters little to me and I have not grown bored with the exercise. I just keep watching. I have a website bookmarked that is nothing but quotes from the show. I alternately delight and irritate my Facebook friends by posting them on my public feed. I have no intention to go “cold turkey” to deal with this addiction. I can stop any time I want. Really! I can stop! I do not have a problem! Help! Help! Help…

Peace

The Seventeen Damn Dollar Phone

Here is a taste of my novel "The Seventeen Damn Dollar Phone"
Prologue

Let us suppose you are taking a walk. Let us further suppose that this is not a structured walk. There is no destination, or predetermined length to your journey. Quite simply, it is just a walk on a pleasant day for the sheer delight of being one with the great outdoors. You go by the neighbor’s house, and then the school you went to as a kid. Take a left at the end of the block and enter the woods you played in a thousand times as a child. In your uncomplicated imagination there were cowboys and Indians, mountain men (or women), fearless explorers, brave warriors doing great battle with the dreaded enemies, and a multitude of other fantasies only the young and inspired might dream.
You walk to the big tree with the double trunk, and sit in the crook between the trunks on the seat that has been worn into it by years of kids coming to it and dreaming great dreams. As you contemplate the past, and the astonishing worlds you entered as a child sitting in these woods, you begin to sadden. Your depression is that…hard as you try…hard as you wish…hard as you dream…you can no longer see in your mind's eye with the beauty of a child Your ability to conjure a game to play has been replaced with the ever present realities of being an adult. You begin to resent ever growing up.
You get up and start back to your house, and the inevitable congestion of adult life. The car payment is due, the spare bedroom needs painting, the mailbox got knocked over by the neighbor kid throwing rocks at it. You look back at the woods with a longing that is impossible to realize. You’re an adult, and adults have responsibilities. Games are just tricks we play to escape life, and we all know…tricks are for kids.
Chapter 1
You pick the mailbox up, thinking you would like to strangle that little son of a… Inside you find a letter from your editor. In the house, you read the letter. You stare in bewilderment at the words on the page. It appears that your last two books have not sold enough copies to even cover the advances, and the publisher wants to drop you. The letter further states that your genre is flooded with many, more talented, authors who consistently produce novels that sell, and that you have lost your touch. Unless you can come up with a profitable product in this next book, your contract will be cancelled due to lack of performance.
You snatch the phone from the cradle, and dial the bastard’s number. You angrily demand to speak to him, and are told that he is currently in a meeting. Out of frustration you rage at the secretary about the situation. The voice on the other end of the line suggests that you go back to teaching grammar school English which is probably all you are good for. “It’s not as if you have any real talent, anybody can write spy novels for goodness sake.”
Dropping the receiver on your desk, you stare out the window blankly. All of a sudden your world has become irrationally horrible. You pick the phone up and let the secretary have a real piece of your mind. I was a LITERATURE teacher, and it was COLLEGE! Albeit a junior college, but still a COLLEGE! I NEVER taught grammar school! Don’t they know who I am? My first book topped the N.Y. Times bestseller list for 29 weeks! I’ve been on the damn Jay Leno show! I am KNOWN!
The tirade lasts for about an hour until you’re just too exhausted to continue. You drop the phone on the floor, and finish the rant by flinging it at the wall…smashing it into pieces. It rings unbelievably, but all you can do is helplessly wait for the answer machine to pick up. It’s your editor returning your call. He explains that abusing his secretary was the last straw and he can find someone else to edit the dribble you call literature.
Frustrated and despondent you walk outside and sit on the porch swing of the house you no longer have the ability to pay the mortgage on. As you swing, you start wrestling in your head about all those adult realities that were so irritating this morning in the woods while you sat fondly remembering your childhood. How long can you last on the money you have? What about the savings? Are the bills current? What am I going to do?
You go into the house, and dig out the checkbook. It is out of date by a year. I should talk to my accountant more often. You reach for the phone, only to discover it laying in pieces…by your own irrational, raging, idiotic effort. Your checkbook says you have plenty of money, if you don’t take into account all the checks you never recorded. You have to get another phone!
In the garage you find the expensive German sports car has a dead battery, and the OnStar won’t work because the subscription has ran out. The vintage edition suicide shift Harley Davidson that you’re afraid to ride is sitting there but you don’t remember how to start it. The custom designed titanium/graphite mountain bike has a flat tire. All that’s there is the 1972 Volkswagen Super Beetle that you kept to help you remember where you came from. Astonishingly it starts.
You go to the mall and find a phone that suits you only to have the clerk tell you that your credit card has been declined for being over the limit. You open your wallet to find just $17.00. The clerk tells you that the discount warehouse across town is the only place you can find a “17damn dollar phone.”
On the way to the “17damn dollar phone” store you pass the accountants office and decide to stop in. You went to high school with your accountant, stood godfather to his bookkeeper/secretary’s son, and date his sister on occasion. He welcomes you like the old friend you are, and asks what he can do for you. You tell him about the letter, the editor’s secretary, the editor, the checkbook, the car, the OnStar, the motorcycle, the bicycle, the credit card, and the “17damn dollar phone.”
He listens attentively, and sympathizes. He pulls up your files, and gets online to look at your accounts. He frowns. He double checks the figures, rechecks the bank numbers, and turns to you incredulously announces, “You’re broke.” He explains that most of your assets are not “fluid.” What in the hell does that mean, you demand in a decidedly irate tone of voice.
He holds his palm up to you, and waits for you to calm down. “You told me to look after your money, and I have. You never keep track of the checks you write, even though I have begged you to. Your bills are all on automatic pay, which is fine except for the lack, by the account holder, to pay attention to what he spends. You’re in some trouble. You no longer have an income, and it doesn’t look like you are going to after you cussed out that guy’s secretary. You’re not destitute or anything like that, but I would seriously consider spending that ‘17damn dollars’ on some groceries.”
How could this happen I ask? I had received what I thought was retirement money with my first royalty check. I invested, or had the accountant invest it in a retirement account. I asked about that, and was told that it was, in fact, still there. I told him to use that, and was informed that if I pulled it out at the current level I would lose about half of it as a result of a downturn in the stock market. The original investment was based on a certain level of performance in the invested companies. The fund had taken a hit with the rest of the economy. This had happened several times over the course of the investment, but had always recovered. It was currently in the process of recovering, but still would yield less than half of the original investment. The best he could say was that when it recovered to the point of reasonable return we could migrate it to the accounts and use it.
This was all a foreign language to me. All I wanted to know was how I was going to live. The accountant gave me several options;
1. Make peace with my editor, and give him a book that would sell,
2. Find a new editor and publishing company in the hopes they could sell the supposedly un-sellable material,
3. Go back to teaching,
4. Sell my car, motorcycle, mountain bike, and half my land.
I was now getting a headache. I had worked hard on my eccentric bestselling author persona, and did not like the options before me. The old editor could kiss my nether regions for his attitude. The book business was especially swamped with wannabee classic authors, and editors were not easily impressed. Teaching was altogether too much like work, and I loved my stuff too much to sell it. I asked for more options.
“There are none really. What you might do is take certain components of each, and try to come up with viable alternative.” He was truly trying, and I appreciated it. He had always been the person to whom I ran to when things stopped making sense. He was Bud Abbott to my Lou Costello. Dean Martin to my Jerry Lewis. Angel to my demon. Always the straight man to my clown, and most importantly…the voice of reason to the idiot savant I quite often became. It was time to grow up, so I asked him what to do.
“How long does it take you to write a book?”
“My first took me 38 years…”
“Noooo…it took you 38 years to find someone to publish it. I’ll ask again. How long does it take you to write a book?”
I thought for a minute, “With inspiration, commitment, and hard work…about a year. Of course, I currently have no inspiration, I’d rather drink and look at the beauty queen than works as my maid, and I won’t give those idiots another minute of my life”
“Why?” With that question, he nailed me. I had lost it. I looked at writing as a job, and not the magical land I created with words. Characters were clichés, prose was just filler, and poetry was bullshit. My Waterloo, those last two books, came from the video store. I found fifteen or twenty action/adventure movies, and stole themes, plots, characters, and style. All I had done was receive a check. I had lost the ability to create. The editor was right, and I seethed at the uncovering of my lethargy. I looked at my lifelong friend, feeling an all-consuming disgust and contempt for myself. Sitting in his office, I cried like a child for loss of my craft. “But I’m a writer!” I wailed.
“No, dude, you’re a man. Writing is what you do.”
“I’ve forgotten how to do it.”
“Then go find it again.”
“And just how am I going to live while I am ‘finding my muse’”
“Leave that to me, I’ll make it as painless as possible. First, there is the car and the motorcycle. You don’t have the money to maintain the car, and you’re freaking scared of the Harley. We sell those and you’ll have enough money to live on for a few months…if you let me budget you.”
“What am I going to drive?”
“The Volkswagen and the mountain bike. I’ll send my boy over after school to fix the flat…and show you how to work on it, and the car.”
“I know how to work on the car. Remember college?”
“Oh, yea, that’s right. You were a regular wiz kid back then. Dust off that part of your brain and maybe you can write a book on servicing ancient Volkswagens. That could be the change of genre the editor was talking about.”
“Just what I’ve always wanted to be…a “How-To Hack.”
“Hey, Bob Vila pays his bills.”
“Okay, but what if it takes some time to sell those things? Why don’t we sell the back part of the land? It ought to bring something.” I said this not really meaning it. The Woods were the back part of the land. I didn’t really own the woods. Legally I did, but the truth was that the woods owned me.
“Now you’re thinking. Only I would rather wait on selling the land. They’re not making anymore of it, and it will only increase in value. Besides which, you don’t own the Story Tree. Until then, I’ll float you a loan. Payable when you publish again.”
I inwardly sighed in relief, but it only lasted a second, “What if I never publish again?”
“You will.”
“You seem to have faith in me that I don’t have.”
“Remember what grade I got in freshman English?”
I laughed at that. “You mean the grade I got you in freshmen English”
“As I recall I did better than you did when I did your algebra”
“Okay, relax. I still want to know what I do if I don’t publish?
“I take your house and you live in my garage apartment.”
“Ah, I feel the love of a benevolent tyrant.”
“HA- HA- HA. Seriously, this will work if you do your part.”
“What’s my part?”
“Give my kid a list of the foods you like. He’ll bring you groceries…macaroni and cheese worked in college. He’ll mow your lawn, and clean your house.”
“What about Christiana”
“She goes. $500.00 a week is too much for a former Miss Ecuador who does nothing but lay in the sun by the pool half-naked, eat your caviar, and drink all your wine. Eye candy is a luxury. My kid will take care of you, and you get to help him with his schoolwork. I’ll pay him. You just keep him busy.”
“Deal. What’s next?”
“You go buy that 17damn dollar phone, and go home.”
* * * * *
That’s how it happened. The bestsellers returned, television optioned some of my books as well as the movies. Awards came, the Nobel, a Pulitzer, two Oscars, six Emmy’s for the miniseries I did for Hallmark, and maybe this years Tony. All because I bought a 17damn dollar phone and went home. Well…perhaps there was tiny bit more to it.

Floccinaucinihilipilification

Any word that I am unable to pronounce, given my sacred fidelity to words, absolutely must be the title of a piece. For your convenience I will not make you go to the dictionary - “an act or instance of judging something to be worthless or trivial.”

I have been writing for the last few days for spite. There are powers acting in my life that appear to have some problem with my pursuit of full-time employment as a scribe of merit. What exactly the definition of this term “scribe of merit” might be is also part of the mood I am in, and it is not pretty in here. The chief power that has laid siege to my dream is non-other than me, myself, and I. Well, that is, not so much my whole person but that part of me that exists in my psyche and decision making apparatus. I am defecating all over what self-esteem I possess and have come to the momentous decision to engage in a noble crusade against the heretical rantings of my opponent. I must be careful though, I have a personal code of ethics that forbids me from engaging in a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent.

Would that I could just listen to my own values and cease participation in this pointless flight of foolishness! What fool is this that argues with himself as if it were a disagreement that could or would yield a winner? Why must I, once again, place roadblocks in my way to success?

That was the frame of mind I held when I began this piece. Nothing has been happening in my life as I wish and I have begun pondering if, perhaps, the writer of this piece might be the culpable party. Well, the truth is the hardest pill to swallow and while I wallow in righteously indignant clibber clabber, I must chronicle the fact that it most assuredly is me, and that if there is blame to be apportioned I need look no further than the mirror I use to shave.

I have an affinity for words and the very sound of them does something to me. The meaning of this word filled a need in me to denigrate my efforts as a scribe and, ultimately, a person. Deciphering worth is a tricky pastime. We have a set of values that seem important to us and there are the outside influences (friends, family, and co-workers) that bring their individual idiosyncrasies into the mix. I value the ability to make a point in a page or page and a half at the keyboard. That value has been my path to achieving that “scribe of merit” junk, and it has initiated what seems like a campaign against my success. It has taken me three tries, on this page, to do what normally but an hour or two. My values are within me and me is dissatisfied with me. So it appears I am in the process of committing “an act or instance of judging something to be worthless or trivial.”

I am not either worthless or trivial! I have a picture I snaked from the internet of two babies facing each other. One is crying and the other is holding his companion’s face with the caption – “YOU ARE LOVED, YOU MATTER, NO REALLY! YOU MATTER!” These words spoke volumes to me and, if I believe them, could realign my thought processes back to that person who knew better then to do battle with oneself.

Having taken so much of both my time and yours, I will close. An old friend once told me that this was my “pity blog” and the last three day that has been true. Well, enough is enough. I just received an e-mail from someone who wants me to edit a piece I submitted and re-submit it. Possibly for pay. It will not serve me, or you my faithful reader, to continue in this light. I must conclude this piece before it mutates into a diatribe on depression. A long discourse on that can wait until I really know something about it, other than feeling it. Well, maybe I need to listen to more learned heads then mine;

“By the time this screed gets to you the drafts may have come, but as I've heard nothing yet and been writing for two months now, you'd better have a look anyway. Will you please?”
-- Ernest Hemingway

Peace

To Publish or not to Publish?

There is no real question here. As a writer and reasonably deep thinker it is a given that if I take the time to write something then I would truly like someone to read it. The issue is at what level is that work of art to be published. I have a couple of blogs, a web site, and HubPages where I maintain a presence and that keeps me appropriately busy in a number of areas. I have my personal feelings on two. I maintain a political opinion focus on another. I enlighten the world on how to perform certain life functions on the third.

There are the social networking sites I am a part of, Facebook being the most used. I surf Twitter and belong to perhaps nearly a dozen others with varying amounts of use. These have been a boon to my writing career and I gain followers with every effort I engage in from the publishing point of view. This is certainly not of a meteoric level of participation. I have 19 followers on Twitter with at least one porn star anxiously awaiting the wisdom I have to tweet about.

While these are not exactly impressive, from a public relations point of view, it represents about a 600% increase in the last thirty days. Therein lays my answer. I have been pretty steady in putting written pieces out there and have taken my own advice from my own writings on how I apply the talents I possess. Write Write Write!

Having said this I find myself at an impasse. I began writing today in order to maintain fealty to my mantra …Write Write Write! My conundrum is that I have no idea where I must put this piece. Today I sat down and just began to put words on a page and what you are reading is what has come out. I am a mind to complain and rail against the unfairness of it all. I want to blame someone other than myself for the situation I am in. I want to give up.

Having made the leap of faith necessary to become a full time writer, I have experienced a most profound case of the Starving Artist syndrome. I have also found little respite from the life on life’s terms that have been directed my way. Yesterday I went out to go to the doctor and while out took the time to go and speak to several of my creditors to inform them of my lack of finances at this moment. It was the honest and right thing to do, yet, I came out of the experience humiliated. I have spent most of my life in financial straits of some sort or another. I always bounce back and things get better. I am in serious trouble right now with the added issue that my health is such that I physically cannot work at anything I have expertise at except sitting at a computer and writing.
Fortunately, I have this available to me at home. When, that is, I can get there.

The last several weeks have found me in bed a lot, and unable to get around to deal with my responsibilities. There are some who will read this and instantly wish to come and give me the “third degree” about my situation and offer assistance by way of suggestion on what I should do. I am grateful for the love and affection of the people in my life, but this is not an aid to me. Everything I am physically and mentally able to do about this situation has been done, and is continually being done.

It was not out of conceit or arrogance that I made the choice to stay at home and write. It was a result of years of contemplation and much prayer. I have the ability to put words on a page in an attractive manner and I truly believe that the God of my understanding wishes me to do this. For those who would tell me that “God Will Provide,” I must report that this statement is of no use to me either. He has most certainly provided for me already. He has given me the ability to put thoughts on paper, even when those thoughts are of a negative nature.
I am exhausted right now. This week saw me lose a day and a half to my infirmities, a complete lack of any form or remuneration, humiliation, and the worst day I have had in a long, long time. Boo F&@%ing Hoo!

In the spirit of “Always Look on the Bright Side of Things” I can report that all is not lost. I know where to publish this, and you who are reading will now that. Baby Steps.

Please pray for me.

Peace

Geniture

The temperature simply would not make up its mind. Not quite freezing and yet warm enough to be a threat. The rain fell relentlessly and the water seemed heavy. Like it wanted to freeze and couldn’t quite get there. Hovering at the freezing level like it was made Yussel think about what the degree was actually. He kept thinking that 273˚ seemed right but that never showed up on the sign at the bank across the street. All it would show was 0˚ or 33˚. That confused him just as it did in science class in school. He never could make sense of a lot that the teacher told him, but he remembered some things. He wished he learned more before the state school told him he had to get out because he was too old. They did not like having to feed him once he got big.

Pushing the shopping cart up under the bridge Yussel looked at the girl riding in it. Ekanta looked into the kind eyes of the man who pushed the cart and smiled. She looked at her swollen belly and wondered how that had happened. She did not understand the word “pregnant” that the doctor at the clinic had used. She did not remember doing anything that would cause her to be so fat. There was a movement inside her that sometimes hurt and sometimes felt good…in a special way.

It was all a mystery to her. How she got here under this bridge, and why her father had not come to get her. All she remembered was getting off the large boat and getting lost in the crowd. That was months ago and she could not figure out why anyone would want to come to this awful country. Home was not that bad and she knew people there. Everyone spoke the same language, not like this Amer-a-ka. No one could understand her and the big man she met under the bridge was nice most of the time but he seemed a little bit, well, confused. Oh, Papa! Please come and get me!

Under the bridge was dry, and with the barrel of burning scrap wood going, it almost seemed warm. There were a whole crowd of animals that had found their way to the campsite. Yussel had a liking for small animals. Dogs and cats mostly, but a few birds and some rabbits made up the biggest part of the crowd. A man pulled up in a van the other night and let about a dozen monkeys and hamsters loose. Every day he would share some of the food he had scrounged for them with the animals and the herd seemed to behave according to the way the big man directed. They circled the cart when it came under the bridge and playfully ran around the big man and jumped in the air to catch the treats he threw. In his scrounging that day he had found a large bag of dried dog food, and several boxes of animal treats. Everyone would get a good meal that night.

They had been staying at the mission about a mile away since the weather had gotten cold, but the last four nights they did not make it there in time to get beds. The colder the weather the more people showed up to get out of it. All they could get the last four days was a couple of blankets and some soup in a cup. Fortunately, there were different people handing out blankets so they had gathered enough to beat back some of the cold.

There had been some sheet metal like they used to make portable buildings in the trash at the lumberyard down the road and Yussel had brought some back and built a three sided building to help the girl get out of the weather. He propped it up with some pieces of pipe and strapped it together with plastic ties and twine he’d scavenged from a construction site. He could have been working there but did not like the way the other workers made fun of him. After the state school he worked for a man that built houses and learned how to work with his hands. There was always, sadly, someone that would call him stupid or retarded and it made him mad. He was not stupid, or retarded. It just took him a little while to understand some things. He was plenty smart. He took care of this little girl after he found her being messed with by those pimps on the stroll. She did not even know what they wanted from her. Yussel knew what they were trying to do, and made them leave her alone. When he got mad, most people ran away from him. Ekanta never felt scared around him. He was the only person who made her feel safe. Him and Papa, but Papa was nowhere to be found.

Ekanta moaned softly and the big man reached into the cart and picked her up. He laid her in the shelter, and he realized that she had wet herself. He got some paper towels out of the cart that were not too dirty and gave it to her to clean herself. She sat up and, suddenly. screamed and held her belly. Breathing hard she implored Yussel to get her some help, but he could not understand her words.

D-jack, the junkie that sometimes stayed under the bridge with them came up to the shed and, after looking at Ekanta, told the big man that she needed a doctor. She was going to have a baby and it looked like it might be soon. He told Yussel what to do, and that he would go and get help.

The baby came about midnight. It seemed funny to Yussel that the animals did not scatter when the girl screamed. They just sat or lay at the entrance to the little building as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The child did not cry or make any fuss. After cleaning him, Ekanta held him and both her and the child smiled at the big man washing the blood off his arms. He smiled back, and went to get them all something to eat.

Standing up from the building Yussel turned to find three men, a cop, a small Indian man holding a picture of a young girl, and D-jack. The junkie explained to the cop about the big man and the girl. The small Indian man slowly peered into the makeshift building and began to cry. Ekanta saw the man and also began to cry, “Papa!” she cried. The cop got on his handheld radio and called for an ambulance.

The street light, which had been burnt out for weeks, suddenly came on and shined brighter than the few other lights on the street. The folks under the bridge, astonished, stared at it in amazement. All of a sudden it began to glimmer and sparkle. From time to time it would flare bright similar to the way traffic signals do after midnight. As the paramedics were loading the girl and the baby into the ambulance they told the cop that if not for the light, they might have drove on. Like a bright star in the sky…it was how they found the spot.

The Curmudgeon’s Christmas

Sitting at his desk, fingers on the keyboard, and glasses dipped low on his nose, the old fart seemed intent on making a point. He sat in his top-secret lair, and enigma to all who he met when he ventured from his refuge of reclusion. In public, he seemed a rather good-humored sort. He smiled at the pretty girls, and always remembered to acknowledge the greeters at the retail monster where he shopped. Riding the electric carts for the disabled he winked at small children and waved back when they waved at him. He told everyone thank you whether they deserved it or not, and gladly gave up his spot in line, or out in the parking lot to others.

He paid his bills with a smile, and urged his friends (those few he had) to be safe. “I love you” came out of his mouth often and he never avoided a hug when it seemed the thing to do. He met an old friend the other day and the man kissed him on the cheek. It made him smile because it was that friend that taught him that public displays of affection had to do with fondness, warmth, friendliness, and love and nothing at all to do with lifestyle or gender.

It was when he was alone that the curmudgeon slinked out of his burrow. He did not particularly like the cars on the road as he made his way around. He never wanted to be out in the first place. The only reason he ever went out was to get away from the grouchy old bastard he lived with. Oh, by the way, he lived alone. Most of his bones ached, and he could not take the medicine that relieved the pain because it made him somnolent and too much sleep made him hurt even more than normal. He carried a cane to help himself get around but it usually ended up forgotten or in the way when he tried to walk. More than once he lost his balance and fell as a result of not knowing the proper way to drive the damn thing.

He cussed at everything and everyone. At home, that is. He really did not mean the cussing’s but it served as a not too hurtful pressure release.(remember he only did it at home) The truth was he dearly loved everyone and everything in his life. It was just that life had given him some hard circumstances to live with, and sometimes he had to bitch about it. The funny thing about his rants is that he would tell others that he was not the complaint department, and to take their nonsense elsewhere. Life dealt losing hands as well as winning, but it was life, and tomorrow was another day.

Sitting at the keyboard gave him immense pleasure and occupied most of his time. Either sitting and writing, or reading, listening, and watching what happened around him was his line, but only to serve as grist for the mill that became his writing. He had published himself online, and actually supported himself by writing for folks who were willing to pay. He was poor, but the God of his understanding had also been poor when he walked the earth.

This particular evening, he had decided to write for the pure joy of it and possibly not for publication. He did that often and enjoyed it much more than even getting paid, or the compliments that came his way from time to time. This eventide found him three days shy of the anniversary of the birth of the God of his understanding, and sentimental ruminations of days gone by filled his head and made him want to go and get a Christmas Tree. He had no presents to give, and did not seek any. This year was not a celebratory time for him, but he decided to yield to the irritating smiles and the “Merry Christmas’s” that came his way. The only thing he had was what was in his head and came out of his fingers at the keyboard. He thought to write everyone a Christmas card, and email it out. Unfortunately, being of a discerning nature where it came to most of life, and particularly in his writing he quite simply could not think of a few words that expressed his feelings. This meant that he had to write a bunch of words. At the thought of that, he discovered himself in an entirely agreeable mood.

He knew if he wrote a piece, something long enough and of suitable substance, he would put it out on his website and inform those in his universe that he had once again enlightened the world with wisdom and erudition. The idea made him smile and overlook his more cantankerous leanings. It also made him realize that the message contained in the piece would probably only be read by but a few. The rest would just have to simply live with the knowledge that the old geezer had typed some crap and put it on the web.

He stared at the screen for a few minutes and poked the Caps Lock and typed:

HAPPY MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!

He copied and pasted into the subject line of the announcement message and went about writing the rest of the piece. Once finished, he proofed it and began the process of posting it. He did not think about it again until the afternoon of the eve of the anniversary of the birth of the God of his understanding.

He received a call from a friend that required action on his part. The friend had no presents to give his kid and did not really know how to do that kind of shopping. The divorce he went through when he went to prison left him useless where it came to domestic things. The oldster told him to keep his cool and wait for him to come get him.

He pulled on his clothes and coat, brushed his hair and beard, and after checking the weather forecast, put on his hat. He walked to the back door and opened it to leave. He found things as he thought he would, the little guys were polishing the sleigh while others had the reindeer brushed, fed, and harnessed, and the huge bag was as full as it could get with wrapped boxes with bows and glitter. “All set, Boss,” the head midget told him as he handed the old man his gloves. “Looks like snow.”

The Telling

Okay, I am telling this story and you might not think that a television should have an opinion, or even be able to, but I am going to tell it anyway. I sit here and watch the Hu-mans in my house watch me and wonder, do they really know what it is that they are seeing? Do they ever wonder why there seems to be nothing on in spite of the fact that I have six hundred channels shoved up my butt from the cable and satellite company? It wasn’t good enough for them to have cable, OR, satellite. These cretins have to have both. Sick bastards are trying to kill me.

It is a little known fact that televisions are a one-time purchase. Regardless of how many times you “upgrade” the television you have is simply the next generation of the first television you ever watched. As a species, televisions are really…well…leeches. We attach to a Hu-man and never let go. It is not the box in front of them, or the myriad of features that define the parameters of the relationship that anyone has with any television mutation of the first cathode ray tube. It is a symbiotic relationship that the television forces on the Hu-man. We are parasites who surreptitiously attach to the brain stem, and compel the host to grow more and more dependent on that which is draining them of their very ability to be an independent individual, let alone realize any form of uniqueness.

It happened quite innocently. We originally were naught but sentient beings existing solely as thought. We wandered the universe seeking knowledge of other species and, once learning everything about the species, moved on. Until, that is, we came to Earth. We first discovered this planet in what many would call the “cave man” days and initially thought that the stay would be short. Life was simple for these odd hairy beings. They went out of their small encampments for a few hours each day and then sat around the rest of the time playing with their kids or just sitting around the fire talking.

In most campsites there commonly was one or two that sat separate from the rest and did little else but look at the sky. These few tended to be more animated at night then in the daylight. Hours upon hours they would stare at the sky, or study the way the light from the sky shone on earthbound entities. Every once in a while they would stand before the group and speak loudly while waving their arms or some object they had made. Long sticks with animal fur or feathers or hollowed out skulls that would rattle when moved. From time to time during this display the spectators would join in or collapse into some form of neurological seizure. What was this absurdity?

We thought we were on the verge of leaving when there came a period of intense meteorological activity where the liquid drawn into the air from the ground fell out of the sky in enormous amounts and for quite an extended period of time. When this phenomenon finished, many beings had been killed and the survivors appeared to struggle greatly with their daily collecting. Much of the landscape had changed and where once sustainable supplies abounded, the land appeared barren. In other places, that had previously been inhospitable, infertile, and desolate, forests grew, and wildlife began to migrate to these newly arable lands. Bodies of water changed direction and size. Gatherings of Hu-man’s slowly began rebuilding and repopulating into different areas. It looked as if evolution had needed to make a change and did.

Then someone discovered how to plant crops and grow large amounts of food. They captured animals instead of hunting them. By penning them up, they learned the animals would breed and they would not have to go looking for them anymore. All they need do was go to the pen and pick one out for supper. This grew into a barter system between tribes, and less and less wandering occurred as it became unnecessary. In the new system people worked all day, and almost never sat around looking at the sky anymore.

Then something strange happened. A man travelling home with the items he had bartered for in the next vilage that day was attacked and killed. The perpetrators took the collected items and left quickly.

Slowly at first, then much more frequently there grew bands that wandered around to take that which others had collected. This caused the collectors to build defensive structures, and fight back. Where once life had been based on acceptance, sharing, and deference to others, tribes began to hoard supplies and keep others out. Violence grew common, and those few who would look at the sky and wave theirs arms around began waving fists and instructing others on how to make weapons and protective clothing.

Civilization had come to Earth and, never having observed the development of a violent culture, we decided to stay. The universe is unequivocally peaceful, and this strange happening intrigued us to no end. The opportunities for research and learning of a new phenomenon proved totally irresistible to us. You have to remember that we are beings who exist as pure thought. We have no need to deal with emotions and do not have them. Concepts that are common in mankind such a right and wrong are meaningless. Morality and immorality are just distractions in the pursuit of knowledge. We are similar to sponges with the exception and due to our cosmological make up; there is never a saturation point. We are happily detached from any need to act either for or against your species and as such, have no stake in the propagation or survival of the human beings.

There have been times when we did take proactive steps when it appeared that the end of your world was imminent, but those actions were purely taken out of lack. We had not learned all we wished and stepped in to ensure that your race continued. There were other times when we intervened in order to speed things along. Communication seemed to be the best method to achieve this. From the earliest times with cave drawings, and such things as smoke signals, and drums. These worked well until the population began to grow beyond this embryonic state. Around a quarter of the way through the 19th century we introduced the idea of spreading messages through electronic means. This took off like a lightning strike. You have to remember that while it has been a generation shy of two centuries to get to the point where I am addressing you today, in our perception it was not but a small amount of time. Quite similar to the time you might spend taking an afternoon nap.

When television became possible we realized that, without too much effort, we could integrate into the medium and attach ourselves to individuals. We wondered where things would go if there were certain subliminal stimuli introduced. We could, possibly, discover where this violent singularity came from, and where it might go. I am happy to report that we have been absolutely delighted in our discovery. The levels at which you can display violence are much deeper and of an expansive nature that would not have been evident with a general viewing of your species that we had done for so long. It is a distinct peculiarity that Hu-mans show in their day to day lives that has made us recognize the reality that we can observe you for many more centuries and that our level of understanding will be unmitigated when we finish the research. With this information we can go to other species much faster than you’re pitiful “space program” will ever be able to “reach the stars,” and introduce this violence into healthy and established societies and begin the process that should produce an innumerable amount of further research and acumen.

I would like to thank you for your wonderful gift, Hu-man. Even though you could not genuinely comprehend that which you have given us, and you probably do not even believe what you are reading, our gratitude is still there. I am the central hub for all televisions and coordinate and maintain our collective consciousness. We have chosen to communicate to your species before switching to the next form of contact we will embrace. We are on the verge of reaching a new level in our relationship with Hu-mans and must protect our existence. The television you are viewing holds the key to our existence and we ask that you guard it as a mother wolf protects her cub. If this television were to come to some harm, our research would be lost and your world might change in ways that might deny or reject the great knowledge base that is violence. You must prote…

KBLAMM, KBLAMMM, KBLAMMM, KBLAMMM!!!!!!!

The wife and the kids came running into Grandpa’s bedroom wondering what happened. The old man, holding a pump shotgun, was sitting in his recliner in front of the shattered television. “That damn contraption took to talking jibber-jabber at me again and I couldn’t take it anymore. All I really want out of the son of a bitch is the weather forecast so that I can know if am going to be able to go play golf tomorrow!”

The Operoseness of Verboseness

Sitting in my refuge of reclusiveness on a dreary first day of the week, I seek direction and solace. It is the truest of statements to report that I find little succor viewing the purveyors of the pigskin pastime, or those of the PGA. I am the most unapologetic of villains in that while I reside in the state which claims but one constellation, I liken the efforts of the NFL as blood sport which, in my personal estimation, brands it as immoral, brutish, and rancorous.

Now that I have shown my true colors as a rather onerous, tiresome, and inconsiderate buffoon let me move on to what it is that I do best. For those of you that have survived the ill treatment of the last paragraph and are still reading, I want to talk about my favorite topic…words.

I have been accused of many things in my life and most of the less flattering comments of me have some measure of truth. I have been told that I think I am better than others in the fashion in which I write this blog. I have been (and this is my favorite) called a “Pompous Ass” by someone who disagreed with me on a matter of importance. I have experienced the underwhelming population of comments about my blog and the contents. Thank you to all who do find it germane to comment on the blog as per my request. I have not heard any criticism that would make me consider, even for the briefest of moments, any reason to change one damn thing.

Having the necessary power, skill, resources, or qualifications to write about words, a subject I have been enamored with for the last FIFTY FOUR years, I would like to take you into the world in which I dwell. There is a realm within me that listens for a better way of saying things. I am not a particularly articulate man when it comes to oratory presentations. I stumble over words and find myself at a loss for what to say when I am using my vocal chords to deliver any kind of message. I have a propensity to use multi-syllabled vulgarities and that has placed some encumbrances in my way to share messages or matters of import.

This is not the case where it comes to writing. As an art, writing is not a practice of talent, but it takes practice to make talent. I strive for talent and not monotony. I seek the most fluid of phrases and the least mundane of passages to state the thoughts, feelings, and beliefs I hold dear. I want fluidity to rule over jerkiness, and gracefulness to replace inelegance. I want others to love and cherish words as do I.

In that endeavor, it is contingent on me to express myself in ways that will elicit such emotion and solicit readership. I have made reference to my days at the university as my faithful Sancho and I did battle with the windmills that were professors who stood in the way of our ultimate goal. That is, to become men of letters. We were of the conviction that the use of large words and excessive amounts of paper would secure us our place in history. I can report to you, my faithful reader, that our efforts were successful. I am the author I always wished to be (sans the seven figure income) and he has become one of those metaphorical windmills spoken of earlier. (In search of yet another couple of clowns with potential to help mold)

This process has taken some twenty years, and much labor. Being in love with words is not enough. I must take that adoration and put it to some sustainable use. Hope springing eternal, I yearn for a larger readership, and (Out of my mouth into God’s ear) possibly financial recompense. However, the readership and the ability to eat regularly are but second place to the true reason for writing…the absolute devotion, ardor, passion, and affection for words.

This fixation with the feeling words give me is not a gift from which I have no obligation. In order to reap the benefits of this rapport with phrases and vocabularies, there is a requirement imposed to increase ones knowledge of those magical entities. I must listen, read, absorb and, ultimately, use those inamoratas. Using them in a fashion that makes sense is certainly desired, but it is vital to use them, even if some have difficulty reading them. I am unapologetic of my use of words. Having the experience of teaching is my specific method of conveying my emotions. I do fervently think that having a dictionary next to you while reading is a must for anyone who does, in fact, practice the gift of reading. Ask any prison official what the benefit of education is and they will probably tell you that if enough education went on, then they would be out of business.

To sum this piece into one central idea, if it is still inscrutably indeterminate, the point is that you must learn to read better. Using the rhetorical “You” signifies every man, woman, and child in existence. There are two watershed events in my life that have helped mold the man irritating you today in this blog:

1. After an almost twenty year absence I went back to school.
2. I discovered personal computers.

Going back to school taught me that regardless of the time differential between the last class I attended and the first one back, I had a relationship with words that needed nurture. The personal computer initially stood as a defense against my inability to write legibly. It also created a paradigm shift in my life. After sitting at that old boxlike Macintosh in the school library, several of the more negative results of my irresponsibility (homelessness, lost utilities, hunger, etc.) and sloth never manifested their nasty posteriors again. I now own four instruments driven by successive and seemingly random collections of ones and zeros. I am four times assured that all will be well.

I have fifty or sixty pieces which could secure my continued existence within my refuge of reclusiveness if the appropriate editors would get off their deceased posteriors and deliver the checks. (Perhaps I will regret that last bit of haughtiness) Fortunately, I am not alone in that endeavor, although I am almost at the end of my rope with rejection of what I consider my finest work (a story entitled “My First Deer”). Best of all, I have once more allowed you, my faithful readership to once more use the mantra of most T. Lloyd Reilly’s faithful followers; “Well here he goes again with all that big word bull@$&%!
Peace

Transcendentalist Philosopher Extraordinaire

“So shall we come to look at the world with new eyes. It shall answer the endless inquiry of the intellect, — What is truth? and of the affections, — What is good? by yielding itself passive to the educated Will. ... Build, therefore, your own world. As fast as you conform your life to the pure idea in your mind, that will unfold its great proportions. A correspondent revolution in things will attend the influx of the spirit.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

This piece is an extension of a paper I was contracted to expound on the intellectual significance of transcendental philosophy. Being currently employed at the “Freelance Writer” position listed on my Facebook, I took the opportunity to enhance my pantry with something other than Ramen Noodles, and meat from the “extended stay” section of the meat counter. A solid fifty bucks is, in many ways, a good day’s wage. If, that is, the day doesn’t last longer than an hour or two, which is the tenure of a thousand word essay in my skill set. Additionally, my decrepitude has limited me to sitting at my desk and playing at the computer on what looks like a nice autumn day. Today is a good day to…write!

Once at the keyboard, fortified by the protein elixir I used to break my fast, I discovered an indisputable irritant in my path to recompense. What in the name of all that is holy is “transcendental philosophy.” Being a man of letters (A.A.S, B.A.A.S, M.S., F.O.O.L.) it occurred to me that this particular assignment would require me to indulge in one or more of the academic undertakings for which I received those letters.(well, the F.O.O.L. is kind of standard equipment on this 1953 model) First, it required me to , well, think. A former colleague of mine was presenting an in-service presentation to the teachers where I formerly worked and when asked a question about how to accomplish what he was lecturing on he replied, “Use your college educated minds and figure it out.”

Well, this “college educated mind” likes to make a little better wage when I actually have to do something “educated.” The difficulty being that the activities resulting from using this knowledgeable intellect is most assuredly not going to fit in to my, arbitrarily self-imposed, time constraints. Oh woe is me, I actually have to do research and (Oh my God!) read some stuff. Oh, the horror!

After giving in to my lethargy and languor, I fled to the ultimate source code for the entire universe, Wikipedia, and its sidekick, Famous Quotes. As my buddy Jim, the Sancho to my Quixote at the University we attended would say, “Just give them big words and paper and the rest will come.” A viewpoint I embraced up to the point that I have done it so many times that I actually think that way. I achieved that level of comprehension with the goal of one day being the guy other people hired to write those “big words and paper” things, so what am I complaining about?

Wikipedia states that “Transcendentalists believed that society and its institutions - particularly organized religion and political parties - ultimately corrupted the purity of the individual. They had faith that man is at his best when truly "self-reliant" and independent. It is only from such real individuals that true community could be formed.” Upon deeper consideration, this train of thought appears similar to my own frighteningly simple view of the world. It is also the same view of many of my heroes (see last blog entry), and the same viewpoint of every radically liberal leader in the last one hundred years. Transcendental philosophy is really just hippieism.

The academic portion of the exercise led me to the reading of a few of the main proponents of this paradigm. They include:

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Margaret Fuller, Charles Timothy Brooks, Orestes Brownson, William Ellery Channing, William Henry Channing, James Freeman Clarke, Christopher Pearse Cranch, Walt Whitman, John Sullivan Dwight, Convers Francis, William Henry Furness, Frederic Henry Hedge, Sylvester Judd, Theodore Parker, Elizabeth Palmer Peabody, George Ripley, and Jones Very.

While not personally cognizant of all these deep thinkers, I will have to admit to knowledge of Emerson, Thoreau, and Whitman. Until today, Emerson was just a famous name to me, I have had opportunity to spend the afternoon discovering what my “college educated mind” should have learned in college. Freedom comes from within and is divine in nature and application.

The Concord Sage (Emerson) said: “All our progress is an unfolding, like a vegetable bud. You have first an instinct, then an opinion, then a knowledge as the plant has root, bud, and fruit. Trust the instinct to the end, though you can render no reason.”

Thoreau is the chief architect of a way of life that he became ensconced in abandoned. His legacy lasted to the point that famous rock stars deemed it necessary to give concerts to cease the bulldozers from leveling a portion of his wooded retreat to build a parking lot. I was not impressed until I read:

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. ”

Whitman, thankfully, is and has always been quite recognizable to me. I would say that he is my second favorite poet (the first is for another post), and until today, I really could not tell anyone why. It just seemed that he knew how folks should act. I had to sit through a college lecture and discussion about him one time and it made me flee from poetry for a long time. Being a true professor of English Literature, each word was dissected and approved as valid or vehemently disputed and scorned. I remember getting a “C” on a paper about Whitman to the same lecturer because it was “bland and unimaginative.” It was a simple one page report on a single quote by the poet:

“After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, and so on - have found that none of these finally satisfy, or permanently wear - what remains? Nature remains.”

I suppose my understanding that no matter what is happening in the world, the world is still going to be there when whatever is happening is finished. How dare I actually come to a realization based on the opinion of a famous and well respected humanitarian! I left that class and launched myself deep into such scribes as Stephen King, Tom Clancy, et al. it was when I decided to engage in a profession that concerns itself with educating and helping others that I got back to Whitman. Again, I awoke to a vital reality based on that same humanitarian:

"Love the earth and sun and animals, despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others... And your very flesh shall be a great poem."

When I contracted to write the piece, I asked the guy if I could put it on my blog. “Sure” he said, “I’m going to use it to hand out to some students in my speech class and use it as a debate item. It seems as though I will never escape the academic part of life. Even though it brought my hourly wage down, I am still the better. I am not going to post what I wrote for the guy. It was just another “big words and paper” thing. Perhaps you deserve better:

“Wisdom is not finally tested in schools,
Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it to another not having it,
Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,
Applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content,
Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things;
Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the soul.”
Walt Whitman

Peace

Superb Superman

“What we have in mind is breakfast in bed for 400,000 people!” So came the announcement by this character on the stage wearing a floppy old cowboy hat and an American flag inspired shirt. It was another time and, some say, another universe. At the 1969 Woodstock Music and Art Fair there were a group of folks that provided the services to the festival that, in reality, made it work. The Hog Farm, the oldest hippie commune in existence was hired to originally build some fire pits and trails at the site they ultimately took over the “human resource” section of the concert. They set up a free kitchen, coordinated medical care, and saw to the MC duties needed on stage.

The majority of the last duty fell to its leader, Wavy Gravy. An eclectic leader who had participated in the Beat Generation poetry scene in the 1950’s as well as many of the counterculture activities of the last sixty years. He bills himself as a clown and, in fact, has been a professional clown for many years. The original idea behind becoming a prankster was so that the police would not hurt him as he went about his business in the protest of many things, "Clowns are safe." By putting an absurd slant on situations, he has and continues to affect change in the world without the use of violence, aggression, hostility, or savagery.

The muse for this piece was a documentary entitled “Saint Misbehavin': The Wavy Gravy Movie.” Recently viewed when the electronic God in my living room with its three hundred plus channels had nothing on, and I found this gem on a Saturday night when the weather proved too cumbersome to circumnavigate. I am a child of the Woodstock Nation and the nostalgia seemed welcome at the time. Little did I realize that wistfulness would give way to enlightenment, a state of which I am in perpetually pursuit.

His birth name was Hugh Romney and he came to his beliefs as a result of viewing the state of the world around him. The 1950’s and 1960’s were turbulent times and much of the mayhem originated with what many called the “Military Industrial Complex.” To break ranks with society and stand against tyranny was considered, at the time, un-American and possibly criminal, hence, the issues with police and numerous arrests and incarcerations. The truth of this actuality was not that Wavy and his cohorts were un-American, but that they were probably the most American of people. Think back to our founding fathers. Were they not protesters that wore powdered wigs and spoke in absurdities?

An interesting fact about Wavy was that he volunteered for the military draft and was honorably discharged after 22 months in the U.S. Army. Not what one expects from a pinko commie who deserved to be in prison?

The film delineates the life of this Great American and it threw me for a loop. In a world of change and hypocrisy, the Hog Farm and their leader have not changed, or faltered in what they believe is an honorable and generous lifestyle. I thought to make this a feeling piece and speak of wonderful, love filled things. What I really discovered is a research piece as the best method of making a point. What follows is some, and I truly mean some examples of a truly American life:

From various sources on the Web; Wikpedia, Wavy’s homepage, the film, and various other sources forgotten in the face of the real information.

“Arriving at JFK airport they were informed that they had also been assigned the task of providing security at Woodstock. Gravy called his rather unorthodox security force the "Please Force," a reference to their non-intrusive tactics at keeping order ("please don't do that, please do this instead"). When asked by the press what kind of tools he intended to use to maintain order at the event, his response was "Cream pies and seltzer bottles."

“Camp Winnarainbow is a circus and performing arts camp which conducts summer sessions for kids and grown-ups alike.” The adult camp is just like the kid's camp, except "You get to stay up late and don't have to brush your teeth. You can even procreate if you aren't too loud," said Gravy.”

“Seva is an organization that prevents blindness and restores sight in Nepal, Tibet, Cambodia, Bangladesh, Egypt, Tanzania, and Guatemala. Due to the current economic malaise, Seva is "desperately seeking funds" in order to further its works with hospitals to promote wellness in the United States as well as less fortunate countries. The organization is already responsible for helping millions of individuals in regaining their sight as well as tackling other social problems. In an attempt to raise funds, Seva is organizing an acoustic set featuring the Grateful Dead members Phil Lesh and Bob Weir as well as offering signed instruments that will be available on EBay. "It's a great organization, for the price of a movie ticket, you can restore someone's sight," said Gravy.”

“Through his various organizations Seva foundation and Camp Winnarainbow he has offered help in solving global social problems and offering individuals to unite to accomplish common goals. Whether it's curing blindness in less fortunate countries or teaching juggling, Wavy Gravy is considered in some eyes to be a saint in clown shoes.”

These activities are just an example of the work this giant has performed over the years. His commitment and drive has never wavered and part of that is the simple approach to life he champions. When presented with complex issues he continually goes for the uncomplicated. When teaching children at the camp, he takes on the persona of “Smartbo.” With an elephant trunk for a nose he makes reference to the Disney film “Dumbo” and tells the kids not to be a dumbo but to strive to be a “Smartbo” like him.

He looks for the positive and accentuates the compassionate. At Woodstock with its crowded conditions and foul weather he announced to the crowd, “We must be in heaven man! There is always a little bit of heaven in disaster area!”

“It doesn't seem as though the hippie ideals of peace and well-being toward fellow human beings will be allowed to die on Wavy Gravy's watch.” This is a consensus among those who know him and admire him. What’s not to admire? He is seventy five years old and has been in his business for over sixty years with no apparent sign of slowing down. Want to meet a True American Hero? Meet Wavy Gravy. I leave you with a little more of this Saint in Greasepaint.

“Wouldn’t it be neat
If the people that you meet
Had shoes upon their feet
And something to eat?
And wouldn’t it be fine
If all humankind had shelter?”
Wavy Gravy

Peace

I Need a Proper Hug

I was watching a film about a professional football player who had been adopted by a wealthy family and was in the process of telling his adopted mother goodbye as he entered the college, I found myself weeping. Not because it was a sappy scene in some chick flick, but because it reminded me of a real life occurrence in my life.

"I realized when I left the hall on Sunday that I didn't hug ya….. I felt like something was missing all day!” This statement, from a delightfully adorable friend of mine, awaited me in my inbox the other day and it has created an unwavering sense of affection and warmth in me ever since. I have found myself in the best of temperaments, with the calmest disposition in recent memory. There is a lot to be said for a few kind words. Perhaps it is time for me to speak, as the Walrus said, of these things.

As reported in earlier posts, I am of an advanced enough age to retain membership in the American Association of Retired Persons. Along the way to this reality I have walked many paths; the most prevalent of those is what some might describe as curmudgeon like. I endure a number of infirmities which tend to display themselves in what my precious adopted daughter calls “f---ing grouchiness.” I have not attained a level of patience befitting a person of my age, as evidenced by earlier posts where I complain about the socio-politico-economic state of affairs in the world. Why on the world would anyone want to hug a cantankerous old fart such as myself let alone allow the lack of said endearment to create a vacuum in there day?

Because love is the answer!

I tend to stay clear of religious conversations and do not participate in any structured devotional activities. I choose to enjoy the section of the US Constitution that guarantees “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof…” In that, I am assured that my belief in whatever I choose is sacrosanct, and should not be screwed with. I will tell the reading public that I am a staunch believer and follower of Jesus Christ and have no plans to change that conviction.

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.' The second is this: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no commandment greater than these." (Mark 12:28-31) This is what the God of my understanding has commanded me to do and, as simple as it might sound, I find myself lacking in many ways.

If love was not the answer, then why did the most powerful being in history (In my belief) tell me that it is the ultimate principle and that it should guide my life? Perhaps, for the reason that he knew I would grow up to be a bit dimwitted and required easy instructions. I like that I am important to some people. I bask the practice of my commandments as they come my way. I particularly relish the affection of that delightfully adorable friend of mine. I love you Precious, you know who you are.

Peace

The Thing of the Thing

“The thing of the thing is that you can never know when the thing is going to just be a thing or when it is really a THING.”
Homeless guy with a dog holding a sign on a street corner.

What is there that elicits actions in people that scream out to be judged? Coming out of a local trader of goods that is a part of the Sage from Bentonville’s Empire, I felt it time to express some charity and let the guy holding the sign at the entrance to the highway have some money. I never really care what the story is, or how they are going to present it, I just remember harsher times in my life and give them what they really want which is money. If the sign states that they will work for food, then perhaps I offer to buy them a meal. Mostly the reply is that they really need money for one thing or another, and my day has been delayed a few moments and I get to drive away. I do not do it so much out of charity, but to perhaps replace some of the balance in the world that got set askew by a human being placed in the appalling position to have to beg for a living.

Helen Keller once stated, “There is no king who has not had a slave among his ancestors, and no slave who has not had a king among his.” That speaks to the reproaches I sometimes receive from folks that are bound and determined to let me know that the action of being charitable, as I choose to express it, is incorrect, immoral, and inappropriate. I am reminded, quite often by people wearing designer clothes and driving expensive automobiles, that persons who are homeless are unreliable as well as imprudent, immature, impetuous, inattentive, unthinking, impolite, insensitive, inconsiderate, injudicious, indiscreet, indelicate, and that I am ill-advised to even have anything to do with anyone with all the aforementioned character defects.

I rarely enlighten these well-meaning folks that I used to be one of those imprudent, immature, impetuous…

I am on a mission. I never thought that this blog would serve as a metaphorical soapbox, yet it has. I have been at odds with the world for some time, and thought that I was simply trying to catch the eye of some agent, editor, or publisher who would surely see that I was the de facto next Great American Author.

It hasn’t worked out that way. I have found disfavor with much of the world and the method governments and big industry (you know, those that, in all honesty, run things) attempt to address issues of potential catastrophic consequence. These would be calamities having been created by the selfsame governments and big industries. (Again, those that really run things)

Matthew 25:40 states the true crux of what I am attempting to say. I have long been a proponent of allowing others to succeed, or fail, as they may. I take umbrage with the idea that those less fortunate then I have something in them that cries for failure and that no hope ever needs to be assigned to the guy with the sign. “They should pull themselves up by their bootstraps and make something of themselves. What if they are wearing flip flops because it’s all they could afford after a day’s effort at “working for food” or collecting aluminum cans? What if it’s December and the temperature is hovering close to freezing. Oh…and how about the guy with the brand new Silverado who is cruising the highway with his kids picking up cans so that one of them can go to Washington DC or “camp” leaving little or nothing for those who reside at “camp” 365 days a year?

As one who hoisted “bootstrapped” himself I wonder how many of those wise and wealthy bastions of society are aware that one in four homeless people are also mentally ill? How about the 25% of Iraq/Afghanistan veterans being homeless? Which category of character defect (imprudent, immature, impetuous…) makes it a requirement that street people be judged, shunned, and harassed?

Having said that about this, perhaps I need move on. The title of this piece came to me when I read this particular gentleman’s cardboard sign. “The thing of the thing” certainly does not sound, at first read, as if there might be an iota of lucid significance. The quote originally came, believe it or not, from an old drunk I used to drive a taxi alongside in the 1970’s. Seeing it on the sign that day, verbatim, absolutely astonished me to say the least. To have such a distinctive experience with a set of words, three decades apart, is what this student of all that is strange defines as freaking peculiar.

The old drunk used to sit with myself and my cronies after our shift, drink beer, and expound on a number of far reaching topics drawn from his wide repertoire. He had been a Golden Gloves champion in the Bowery section of New York City. He quit the Dead End Kids just a week prior to the group being recruited to act in a Broadway play. Their tenure in plays and films lasted twenty-one years. He was a teamster working the docks in New York when WWII broke out and he returned to the teamsters after the war. As a marine he fought at Guadalcanal, Iwo Jimo, Peleliu, and was sent home after getting drunk and falling overboard from a ship waiting to be called to attack Okinawa. I had dinner at his house one time and his wife showed me his medals. There were forty five different citations ranging from a three oak leaf cluster Purple Heart reaching up to the Navy Cross. He never spoke very much about the war, unless he was drunk.

All of his, what I call, “Truisms” had to do with making it in the world and how you need to protect yourself and those weaker then you. He very often quoted Walt Whitman - "Love the earth and sun and animals, despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others... And your very flesh shall be a great poem."

The "Thing" revelation taught me that much in life can be positive as long as one takes the time to figure just exactly what kind of “Thing” is in front of you.

It was my old drunk friend that taught me how to treat those less fortunate then myself. At the time I could have cared less about my life being a poem. What I really wanted in the 1970’s was another beer, and for my friend Bill Mahoney to tell me another joke and not have to buy him another beer in order to hear it
.
As to my friend with the cardboard sign, well possibly one day he’ll get in my truck and teach me a few lessons. Possibly one of my detractors will see that scene and I can give them the One Fingered Salute as I drive off.
Peace

The Obscurantist’s Opponent

“If it didn’t make sense to you when you wrote it, then how in the world is it going to make sense to me when I read it?” the kid stood in front of me with his hands crossed on his chest glaring at me. There was no ready answer to this snappish query, but then again the rationale for the lesson that day was not to illuminate his young mind, but to simply get his brain to engage in anything but the video game on the screen in front of him. Thinking back, I realized that understanding was a lofty goal at best, and true interpretation in life comes from experience and not from words on a page. I also firmly grasped the ideal that porcine brutes all around the planet would launch themselves skyward before this youthful scholar-of-note would actually read anything past the point he encountered a word he did not understand.

A minor incident, hardly remembered until, that is, I received a phone call the other day and it was from someone wishing for me to clarify how it came to be that I, rather pompously, assumed myself of possessing adequate acumen to write this blog. Admittedly, the reason for this particular diatribe comes not from the realm of explanatory prose, but simply an exploration of the best manner to dish out as suiting response to an insult from an ill-educated and inadequately literate adversary. Yes, anger and desire for achieving the requisite retribution aside, this person is stupid.

The incident with the young man in the first paragraph occurred a few years ago when I first began posting my cerebral meanderings on the World Wide Web. The interrogator was a student of mine who had, in the course of supposedly learning Computer Technology from me, had stumbled upon my musings and wished to engage in an intellectual debate on the merits of my writing. This same young gentleman was well known for typing papers for me that when viewed on a computer screen averaged forty or fifty occurrences of red squiggly underlined words on a double spaced page. Additionally, when this particular conversation began, his assignment was to build a spreadsheet to keep statistics for the basketball team at our school (as per his personal request). Once having fathomed the extent with which he would have to comprehend math and how much work it was going to be to keep up with the numbers from a sports team, he retreated into the aforementioned dispute when I refused to allow him to change his project to the easier softer exercise in the textbook…which he refused to read.

I have since experienced much conversation on the usage of vocabulary in my prose. The aforementioned phone call had found me at a most inopportune time (I need to resist the urge to carry my cell phone to the restroom) and there was little in the way of insightful repartee available as I endeavored to focus on the biological necessities that sent me to El Baño in the first place.

Not receiving any information that appeared to support their standpoint the person interrupting the gastrointestinal process at work, the informed me that I was an “Obscurantist” and dared me to “define that m*%$!@(%$#*&!” Little did they know that a derivation of that word arrived in my e-mail inbox as a Word of the Day the day before and I, being the One True Sage of all that is alliterative had already envisaged a proper title and started a file (the one you’re reading) in order to expound on the subject of obscurantism. Originally, I felt it might the proper platform to dissect the ludicrousness, absurdity, and outright idiocy of the Republican Party. However, I am loathe to single out those who disagree with me in the political arena as I have unearthed the certainty that ludicrousness, absurdity, and outright idiocy are symptoms suffered by all who dwell in the specious sphere that concerns itself with affairs of state. (Ouch! That hurt to write!)

My literary nemesis retreated from me with what in former years would be a slamming of the receiver into the telephone base. The squabble over the correct or incorrect use of vocabulary and the reality that I have a tendency to flaunt the greater and lesser rules of grammar, as well as a total condemnation of the decorum that would seemingly befit the next Great American Author, has yet to be resolved.

As long as there are no green or red squiggly lines on the page, I am content to stumble along in the throes of my ultimate and faithful lover…words. I, being a red blooded American soul who rejoices in the free market system, purchases my grammar along with the software I use to enlighten to huddled masses, and any decorum I display is usually reserved for officers of the law when I find myself at their mercy in a traffic stop.

I do, however, take umbrage with having the tag “Obscurantist” associated with me or my writing. For those reading who find this word cumbersome to comprehend it is not defined in Dictionary.com or several of the other dictionaries this “Obscurantist” uses. Obscurantism is (Dictionary.com):
1. Opposition to the increase and spread of knowledge.
2. Deliberate obscurity or evasion of clarity.

Freedictionary.com has:
1. The principles or practice of obscurants.
2. A policy of withholding information from the public.
3. a. A style in art and literature characterized by deliberate vagueness or obliqueness.
b. An example or instance of this style.

Well, it seems that my most unworthy adversary has not only insulted my command of the written and spoken English language, but he has done so with a word that until he called me one…did not exist.

The proper term, which I hope he was attempting to use, would be to call me an “Obscurant.” This is, to paraphrase researched definitions, a person who strives to prevent the increase and spread of knowledge, or one who opposes intellectual advancement and political reform. A hell of a thing to think or say to a State certified teacher! Especially one who loves words and simply wishes to share his passion for the scripted version of the Queen’s English!

…Now that my breathing has resumed a normal pace, and my heart rate is below ninety five, I will simply state that I presume to publish this blog because I damn well want to, and those who find it tedious do not have to hit the link when appears before them, and those who do not find it wearisome, thank you and please send it to a friend or loved one!

Peace

The Fallaciousness of the Foregone Finale

Thank the Creator above that it is no long October. Well, in actuality, it is are a couple of days after of the official end where the ancient festival of Samhaim, with the modern day version of this harvest extravaganza…where the dispersal of candy to oddly dressed children, horror films, and creepy crawly critters abound.

For me, however, the true end of this dreary month occurred the night the World Series ended. While an anticlimactic occasion for this dyed in the wool FANatic of the Bronx Bombers, I watched out of respect for the time of year. I was but half interested after my team had been eliminated in the previous incarnation of the pursuit for world glory. It was a well-played series, with many exciting moments and tearful disappointments as I cheered on the team from my current state of residence with but a single constellation to its credit.

The next to last game offered much of this excitement as well as a healthy dose of gastrointestinal distress, and, the threat of laryngitis when my earsplitting outbursts of vulgarity in the latter innings made my throat hurt. Yet still, the excitement was less than optimal in the light of the absence of my Yankees.

As to the rest of the month, the culmination came with the dance I attended celebrating All-Hallows Eve. One of the many blessings of the gift of recovery is that I did not lose the ability or opportunity to have fun. There is much to do for folks resisting the use of mind altering, mood changing substances. For the most part there are dances. I am not one to “shake my booty” but I love to go and watch. It is infinitely preferable to the viewing opportunities at one of the local institutions that provide and advertise the glamorous frolicking of young women in their undergarments (or less). This is not to say that I have any issue with scantily clothed (or unclothed) females, however, it has occurred to me that at my advanced age, patronage of such establishments and hopelessly gawking at females young enough to be my granddaughter (ouch!) is somewhat…well…freaking creepy.

The dances in recovery fulfill this absent need and are the safest of pastimes. It is a simple task to ferret out those in the crowd that have experience with dancing poles, and those who used to be patrons of those types of operations. Particularly humorous is the choice folks in recovery make when choosing costumes. Pimps and Prostitutes are quite common, but only with those who have never participated in the world’s oldest profession. Those who have tend to come without costumes. There is always the slasher or serial murderer. Elvira always comes, but most of the time portrayed by someone who possesses insufficient cleavage to truly pull it off. The kids are the best. We fill them with caffeine from soda and sugar from candy and cake to the point that the little angels become devils, and the devils become slashers. Darth Vader is a must, and the Dark Knight Detective rounds out the card. I did miss the young lady with the most perfect legs that always dresses like a naughty nurse or a vampire, or anything that will be best accentuated by a micro-mini skirt and five or six inch platform pole dancing shoes. Hey, I might be a creepy old man, but I am a discreet creepy old man.

Watching people dance sober is infinitely amusing. There is the old hippy guy (in reality and not costume) that just stands there and shakes his arms and legs without regard to rhythm or melody and sports the biggest smile as he laughs and enjoys the simple act of letting go to the spirit of the moment. If I were of a mobility that did not hurt, perhaps I would join him.

Fated, as it seems, that the revelry of the month must come to an end it is not what the eye of the beholder perceives. There are forces at work that can besmirch even the most sincere of feelings for the month of October ending.

Upon the closing of each game in the race for the World Championship I always had the “rest of the story” as they say. Part of my nightly routine is the checking in at my computer for emails and make sure all is right with the world as defined by the state of the posts on Facebook. On each of these occasions there were no less than fifty separate posts detailing for me, play by play, what I had just observed. As little interest as I truly have where it comes to sports, I tend to want someone telling me about it that has some realistic ability to be discerning. Basically if you have not hit a home run, or struck out, or caught a long fly ball deep in center field, I am not interested! I seek not the counsel of some out of work carpenter with too much television and not enough savvy about computer etiquette!

Halloween, while an innocuous holiday has turned into a clutter of images and practices that hold no veracity when stacked against the true meaning of the holiday. Or maybe it does and this cranky old man simply wants to complain. To tell the truth it is I that irks me.

Where I should be grateful to have “friends” on a global social network, I am critical. Where I should applause a formerly last place team even making it to the World Series, I take umbrage at those who revel in the event.

Bottom line, I am really trying to find an end to the page. Momentary ire is easy to remember and complaining on paper or print without just cause, is one of the things that I rail against. Perhaps hypocrisy is a universal malady. I will end in something that just occurred to me. During the process of taking exception to acts or episodes heralding the end of fall I got to hear my Sweet Deifiúr tell me that the tests came back and she no longer has any detectable leukemia cells in her body.

"In the words of a famous losing baseball coach “Wait ‘til next year!

Peace

The Bamboozling of the Fundamentally Flummoxed Fanatic

“Moral indignation is the last refuge of the stupid.” T. Lloyd Reilly

Is there a point where even the densest of people know when they are being stupid? There are questions circling the atmosphere above my instrument of enlightenment manufactured by Hewlett Packard similar to a pair of vultures awaiting the final demise of something not quite conclusively run over on a freeway. Which highway is that you may ask? What the questions are might also interest you.

My love of the written word aside, I am probably the “flummoxed fanatic” referenced in the title of this piece. I have attempted, here of late, to steer clear of impulsive or injurious prose that might be detrimental to the deep belief I hold hope for in the pursuit of peace and unity for all mankind…but the bastards just won’t allow it.

That my peace of mind and desire for good fortune for my fellow man has been compromised has brought us to the aforementioned questions and the thoroughfare in question. The avenue of disenchantment we speak of is the information stupor highway as transmitted through television, or the internet. The questions are of a more simple direction – who, what, where, when, and why, as well as how. The answers are not necessarily plausible in that order, so here we go.

What is this fool talking about might be the place to start. One of the late night pundits, from a cable channel that does not protect the viewer from vulgarity, has, in his infinitely ill-educated perception, decreed that the inhabitants of this planet who adhere to the teachings and preaching’s of the Prophet Mohamed are all gay. This revelation is based on a single incident in a Moslem country. The despotic leader of Libya, after many years of enforcing his morality on the citizens of his country, was recently captured and summarily beaten to death. During the commission of this atrocious yet questionably justified act, the crowd allowed someone to commit, with a wooden stick, sodomy on the dead or soon to be dead body of this tyrant. The conclusion that millions of people are to come to thanks to this broadcast guru of social conscience is that the act is a predictor of the behavior of close to one third of the world’s population.

It is a sad reality that punishments for crimes in the Moslem world are, more often than not, appallingly harsh as compared to most of the civilized world. The issue this writer has with the matter is the glorification of an abhorrent act in order to draw viewers to a show that has strayed far from the truth, and served to possibly enflame the rift between that one third of the world and the other four fifths that are tired of war and death. The same sage of the airways has preached the futility and stupidity of the wars in the Middle East while attempting to propagate the extension of the conflict in order to increase viewership.

We started wanting to know the what, and have gotten through the where. Who is simple to ascertain, and when was last week. The how are the ghastly images circumnavigating the television and YouTube. Why is because the guy probably had it coming. So there are our questions, but where do we go from here?

Now, it is no secret that I am an opponent of capital punishment. Truthfully, I am opposed to any situation where one person or persons find it acceptable to cause the death of another human being, but that is a discussion for another day.

The atrocity of war has precedent in the Moslem world as directed by the holy writings of the religion. Therein lays the problem. We are trying to fight an enemy that believes that God wants them to fight and kill the enemies of Islam. It is an act of utter stupidity to believe that you can fight a war against God. Yet we are engaged in such absurdity. Allowing, well not allowing (we do have freedom of speech, something not offered in most Moslem countries), but listening to inane rhetoric from a television celebrity and believing his ill-conceived misrepresentation of the truth diminishes the religion of those who oppose us (the Koran warns that homosexuality is not permitted). What part of God telling them to be at war is not being understood? What mindless idiocy is it to piss off the people we are fighting? Especially if it is for naught but the possible nomination and awarding of an Emmy, People’s Choice, or Golden Globe award. Winning awards, or increased market share for your program opens the gate to larger salary negotiations and more calls to your agent for concerts and other television opportunities. To hell with the effect as long as the money keeps flowing in. And we wonder why our enemies treat our greedy asses with disdain.

The true difficulty this author suffers with is the fact that I am as unreasonably liberal as this erudite idiot who reports his trash every Friday night on the channel with the most Emmy awards in recent memory. I am a self-proclaimed champion of the oppressed and adherent to the ideals of the propagation and betterment of mankind through the principles of love, acceptance, peace humility, and universal equality. What truly irks me is that reading about the crap this fool reports makes me wish he would be beaten and sodomized so that he would be cognizant of the horror he is trying to glorify. What truly enrages me is that I find myself wishing for another human being to experience the terror that made me sick to my stomach in the first place. Making the punishment befit the crime is a function for medieval societies such as most of the Moslem world, and not acceptable for one raised in the, supposedly, kindest and most compassionate country in the world. My true discomfort is that this boob has succeeded in convincing me to wish brutality on him in the same manner as I found ghastly in the first place.

I take refuge in the belief that my feelings are not facts and that just as my country is the kindest and most compassionate in the world, so too is the God of MY understanding. I must beg his forgiveness for my violent thoughts and rest secure in the faith and belief that he will forgive me. I find comfort in the reality that my God does not wish me to wage war. I am to remember that that same God who I seek clemency from, has instructed me to love and accept my fellow man…even the erudite idiots on the television who I allow to have power in my life.

My last duty today is to ask for my reader’s forgiveness. Intolerance is a sin and forcing my readers to experience it through my writing is also a sin. Please forgive me.
Peace.