Dystopian Detritus

I was watching a show on television last night and one of the characters made an observation that made perfect sense to me. The discussion was about differing ways of life. The first being the way things used to be on earth. Pristine land abundant with all the earthly requirements needed for humanity to survive and thrive. The other being the way we have made it in our rush towards annihilation. In the first scenario you did not have to go anywhere and purchase anything you needed; food shelter, clothes, etc., you just went out and found it. The second involved racing at breakneck speed towards a world of concrete, steel, violence, hate, bigotry, and death.  The analogy made was that the Good Mother Earth would, sooner or later, shrug and shake and decimate the second way of life leaving the simple existence that was probably the Creators intention.

This ideal of survival has been on the forefront of my thoughts for many years. Yes, I do enjoy the comforts the concrete and steel provide me. Driving cars or trucks is pretty cool. Being able to get in a tubular pile of metal and soar above the earth is infinitely delicious. Computers and the internet is the bomb! Riding a train has its allure also. Until, of course, any of these conveyances breakdown. Then you risk homelessness attempting to pay the repair costs. Walking to the places you wish/need to go is infinitely better. Sitting on a log and watching an eagle soar, or a mother dear and her fawn sneak up to you are amazing. What is amazing is that unless you are hungry and in need of sustenance for you, your family, or your community, you can leave them alone to surprise the next individual sitting on your log. Trophies have no place in either world if it means the death of an animal or person.

The flotsam and jetsam of this world are just differing degrees of the debris and scraps of unnecessary “things.”

So how do I justify this abominable paradigm? I read and I write. One of the cool things about living in this world that is galloping towards obliteration is that the very thing I am railing against is the exact avenue with which I get to attempt persuading humans away from the insanity of this world of wonder and death, and towards a reasonable way to stop the eradication of mankind. Hypocrite, you say? Perhaps, but I get to say it anyway. If you don’t like it, you can call me a fool and stop reading.

“Whatever the cost of our libraries, the price is cheap compared to that of an ignorant nation.”  Walter Cronkite

Another fascinating aspect of being the hypocrite is that while I complain about the world, I get to. If the worst thing my hypocrisy creates is a momentary thought that might come of this pretense towards the absurd…What if he is right?

The Antepenultimate Assassin

The phone in his back pocket loudly began to growl as a wild animal does when feeling threatened. The ringtone had been assigned to those entries in his contact list that were unwanted yet impossible to ignore. It was, after all, his livelihood. He answered and began speaking without even looking to see the identity of the caller.

“Ten million dollars.” He spoke into the phone and immediately pulled the device an arm’s length away from his ear. He walked to the refrigerator while the person on the other end complained, rather demonstratively, in a stream of words interlaced with vulgarities and pleas for mercy.

“Now it is twelve million dollars.” He pulled out a Diet Mountain Dew from the cold of the refrigerator and poured it over ice in an insulated mug. “You know what happens if you complain. Continue and you may engage in sex with yourself after I hang up.”  He walked over to the easy chair in the living room and turned on the television. Switching to the all-news channel he muted the sound before putting the phone back to his ear.

The caller had calmed down and explained that he was desperate and would gladly pay the price if he could see about this piece of business at his earliest convenience. He was reminded that he knew what was needed and looked back at his phone. In a moment he received an alert from his financial institution that the appropriate amount had been deposited by wire. Once more putting the phone back to his ear he gave instructions as to where and how to send the particulars. Thanking the caller for the business he told the client to have a nice day before hanging up.

Laughing out loud as he spoke to the air in the room, “If these clowns would call me first, it would only cost them million a pop,” he finished his drink and reminded himself to eat before he left to go to work. Making himself a frozen dinner, chicken and roast potatoes, he opened his laptop and downloaded the information on the job. Aaahh! He complained to himself when he read the particulars. The target was a twenty something girl who had inherited quite a few billions of dollars and the other family members decided it was time for her to meet her maker. Scumbags! He went and got another Diet Mountain Dew. Once he left for a job all he would drink is tap water in wherever the job happened to be. He carried field rations enough for the length of the job with the proviso that if he ran out, he would just fast. The tap water was danger enough given the odd places he often worked. He was not about to ingest parasites and/or bugs not sufficiently cooked.

His name is Jeremiah Jabloncesceu and he is a contract killer specializing in difficult targets. He is something of an odd fellow and most clients did not like calling him because of the manner in which he operated. He always left the bodies out in plain sight at locations where the maximum amount of people could see the body before the police showed up. He never leaves any clues or evidence from which the authorities might discover his identity. He ALWAYS leaves the body with numerous horrible mutilations denoting that the individual suffered long and hideously. His name in the print and news media is, wait for it…The Mutilator.

He had not always been like this. When he first got in the hit for hire business it was quite different. He would ask the client as to their preference in how the body was found, and he never made any kind of splash in the media. He was not well known and never made much in comparison to his competition. He would do a murder for as little as low four or five figures.

Until he took a contract from a scorned woman who wanted her philandering husband castrated before being shot to death.

She paid him extra to leave the body in a public place so that the entire world would know what a cheating bastard he was. As soon as he got paid, he made plans to disappear and did so successfully. The woman was promptly arrested and is serving a life sentence without parole. The police did an extensive search for the killer and came up empty. She is currently working for the prison chaplain and praising the Lord for helping her change. An ambulance chasing law firm told her they would get her out if she let them write a book about her having her womanizing son-of-a-bitch husband killed. She agreed and is still shuffling bibles while the law firm has published the book and move into much nicer offices.

Jeremiah enjoyed the entire business and began doing similar stunts. This did not sit too well with those that broker professional hits and he saw some lean times. There were a few jobs come through which he was able to get, but not that many. He almost thought he would have to find a regular job until happenstance saved him and he was given another chance when a job came in right up his alley. He found the job interesting and, being a good businessman increased his fees commensurate with the special needs of the job.

A music executive commissioned a hit on a well-known rock star which was promptly botched…twice.  The first guy tried to give him a hotshot of drugs without taking into account the tolerance level of a two decade rock star drug addict. The second guy tried cutting the brake line on the limo taking him to a concert. Turned out the dope was primo which ensured that he wasn’t going to show in the first place because he thought it was Thursday instead of Friday. The limo was sent out after another client whose family gave him a wonderful sendoff at the funeral without asking any questions. The driver blew a .14 and went down for vehicular manslaughter. Jeremiah simply knocked the rock star with a sleeper hold from behind and slit his wrists in the bath tub making it look like a drug induced suicide.

After that he got all the jobs where he was the third choice. This gave him the latitude to charge exorbitant rates. It also gave him houses or apartments in several major cities and an island in the south pacific with a full time staff of female servants who worked topless and had amazingly loose morals.

This job, being a young girl, made him think twice. Killing had not been a problem. He went to war in the Middle East as an Marine sniper when he was eighteen and never once had any lasting feelings about it. Not even the children who occasionally pulled out a grenade to toss at the American monsters invading his or her country. He did get a twinge the first time he had to kill a pregnant woman. Fortunately it was not much of a twinge considering he had watched her strap on a suicide vest. He shot her right in the chest and blew her helpers to kingdom come along with her terrorist ass. He could justify that. A young heiress did not fit the same description. He had to focus on the twelve million and push it out of his head.

The trip to the job was uneventful. Jeremiah was not a big man so he easily fit in the economy seats. This gave him the added benefit of being, more or less anonymous in the crowd boarding and exiting the plane. He accepted the water offered by the attendant and the bag of nuts. When it came time for the meal, he feigned sleep and was left alone for the rest of the flight. Upon landing he made his way from the luggage pickup to the shuttle bus which deposited him at the closest subway station outside the airport. He found a motel and settled in for the night. He opened the file on the girl and the family to study. His work would begin the next morning.

The potential victim was an enigma by any definition of the word. She worked as a barista at a coffee shop near the college she attended, and lived in the dorm even though she was a senior as well as the richest person in the state and all the states bordering. She bought clothes at thrift shops and set up a table every Sunday at the Arts fair, after church, where she sold jewelry and trinkets she made herself. Nothing about her was remotely intimidating or selfish. She came to holidays with gifts from her collection of arts and crafts for all who attended. The file reported that she was in excellent health and never drank or did drugs. Well, she did dabble with some marijuana but only because she lived in a state where it was legal. She never bought off the street but in dispensaries. Her bank account showed that the amount she bought was ridiculously small for a college girl.

As he read, Jeremiah thought there had to be some deep dark secret lurking about to explain why anyone would want to have this girl killed. Stepping out of character, and in violation of his own better judgement, he decided to find out why.

It turned out that she had inherited the money from her Great Grandfather. She had always been his favorite person in the family. She woke up with a smile and stayed that way all day long. Being from a rich family she declined the advantage of private school and attended the nearest public school. She asked when she was four years old if she could go to church. They sent her in a limousine but she paid the driver from her allowance to drop her off at the subway and pick her up at a certain time so that no one knew she was rich. She would give her expensive birthday and Christmas gifts to kids at her school that didn’t get anything. When the Great Grandfather got sick with cancer, she spent all her time outside of school taking care of him. She told every person in her life that she loved them several times a day. She was the only one that cried at the old man’s funeral.

The family embraced the other side of life by being terribly evil people. They tried to stop the will from being read. They were enraged when they discovered that the old man had locked down all the control of the business and money to the girl who had just started college. She went to a local state university that was paid for by an academic scholarship she earned for herself. The job was so that she could eat and live without using any family money. There was a class action suit filed by the family that was dismissed five minutes into the first day of the trial. The old man had started by slinging coal off the back of a truck when he was ten years old and from there he worked his way into making his billions. He made sure that the will was iron clad and irreversible. He left each member of the family, except the girl, one dollar. Their only recourse was to have her killed.

Jeremiah showed up at her coffee shop the next morning with a book and sat slowly sipping Irish Breakfast tea while he watched her. She refilled his cup ignoring the big sign on the wall stating that refills were a dollar. The place was packed and everybody seemed to know her name. She had a smile that lit up the room and went about her job as if it were a mission instead of a crappy job at an overpriced coffee shop. A scruffy looking guy came in dressed poorly and appeared as if he had seen better days and needed a bath. The girl stopped what she was doing and came from behind the counter and hugged him tightly and long. She shooed a couple of kids from their table and held the chair for her friend. She went back behind the counter and came back with two extra-large coffees and two breakfast sandwiches. She sat down and placed all her attention on the man even to the point where she waved off her boss when he told her it was getting busy. They finished eating and she cleaned the table before embracing the man again, this time kissing him on the cheek before going back to work.

At the end of her shift she collected her tip jar, which was full to the brim and overflowing onto the counter. She grabbed a handful out of her jar and put it in the other baristas jar without being seen. She stuffed her tips in a paper bag and left out the front door without regard to who might be watching her leave with what looked like almost one hundred and fifty dollars. Jeremiah left behind her and followed her to a church where a small priest was trimming the hedge out front. She handed the paper bag to him and bowed her head while the priest placed a hand on her head and gave her a blessing.

Jeremiah watched her walk away without following. He stood and stared at her back until she disappeared in the crowd entering a subway station. Without realizing he was speaking out loud he asked himself, “How in the world am I going to kill and mutilate Mother-Freaking-Theresa?”

He went back to his motel and ordered a pizza and a six pack of beer. He spent the night and most of the next day struggling to convince himself into completing the job. It wasn’t as if he had never killed a good person before. Hell, most of the time he paid no attention to who they were or acted. It had always been kill them, mutilate them, and disappear. This girl is special. She is, well, good. She deserved, to be left alive. He changed that…this girl HAD to stay alive. The worst part was that he had no idea why she must remain alive. He did not like this confusion, and thought of just giving back the money he’d been paid. That was a momentary lapse in judgement. If someone was prepared to spend twelve million to kill this girl, they probably merited being the one on the end of his skills. Besides, his lifestyle outside of work was expensive.

He went to bed, sleeping fitfully. Tossing and turning the entire night accompanied by dreams he thought he had long since left behind. Shooting his first child, the pregnant woman with the suicide vest, and the van full of aid workers he put a RPG round into killing them all. All left over horrors from being in a war. His assassinations since were mostly bad people and never bothered him. Hell, the dreams had always been there but, until that night, had never really bothered him. Now it seems he had grown a conscience. A paid-in-full conscience that was giving him fits. The only relief in the entire night of arguing with himself came when he thought of killing the people who had paid the twelve million.

He would have too murder the contractor also. The clients(s) probably paid much more than twelve million when his commission was added. The total undoubtedly was twenty or twenty-five. It would not be easy, but a dive into the contractor’s financials would tell everything. Hmmm…

A week later the news, both print and digital news was splashed with a report of fifteen members of the richest family in the state being discovered dead. They were all found in a conference room on the top floor of the family skyscraper. Scene investigation and autopsies were going to be a nightmare for the police. Crime scene techs were pretty sure each had been killed in a different manner. Some appeared to have had heart attacks, several had no outside evidence as to their demise, two had suffered blunt force trauma from an unknown source, one had its throat sliced open, and the last one was found in the restroom with its wrists slit.

Jeremiah watched from the comfort of his island, lying in a hammock with a goofy straw hat, sunglasses, and white sunscreen on his nose while sipping a drink made in a hollowed out pineapple with a straw and an umbrella poking out. It took three months to ascertain that it had been a mass murder. The baffling part was that security cameras had no record of anyone but the family members entering or exiting the room. It had card code entry on the elevator and palm print entry on the door to the conference room. The police had called the FBI in whom, it turned out, were equally unable to fathom what had happened other than the fifteen dead bodies.  

A few months later the assassin sat in the coffee shop sipping a cup of tea while the girl sat with her scruffy friend eating breakfast. Two rather large men stood at the door checking for cameras or other evidence of paparazzi or reporters. She had got through all the funerals, and the will reading naming her the sole heir only to surprise the entire world. She sold all the holdings converting everything, including her own fortune, to cash and set up a foundation to give it all away. She kept back some to pay for security to keep the gaggle of people wanting to interview her away. She just went back to her life as usual.

As he followed her to the church for her blessing and subsequent subway stop his phone began growling. As always he answered simply saying, “Ten million dollars.”

Idiomatically Imperceptive

“Peace demands the most heroic labor and the most difficult sacrifice. It demands greater heroism than war. It demands greater fidelity to the truth and a much more perfect purity of conscience.” Thomas Merton

One of the things I been ruminating over with the reality of the quarantine/isolation condition we find ourselves in is trying to keep present in my head things that are important and things that are unimportant. We live in a world with so much going on that it seems to me that we have been neglecting active thought and action on matters in need of our attention. To wit…we are at war and have been for almost two decades!

There is much concern over the Covid situation, and it is of major importance, but dealing with it is simple. Follow the directions that are posted everywhere as to what to do to stay safe, wash your hands a lot.   Don’t try to kiss any strangers, and be safe.

What I want to know is why in the fuck we are still sending the cream of our society to foreign locales to kill or be killed, maim or be maimed? Must we irreparably damage the mental state of the people who live in those locales, or irreparably damage the mental state of the cream of our society when they come home and are poorly suited to living a normal life after all that kill or be killed/maim or be maimed bullshit?

Now, for those still reading, this is not some unpatriotic rant from a bleeding heart liberal peacenik moron. I am a veteran of the United States Army from which I was Honorably Discharged after completing the term of service for which I VOLUNTEERED.

I was not much of a soldier but I did what I was told and went where I was sent. I did not receive any medals for bravery and/or valor. I was a Private First Class who drove a truck in an Artillery Battalion. For some reason I had a Top Secret clearance which made me eligible for some unusual duty in various places around the world. The most interesting of these extra duties was a seven day posting to Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin when there was still such a thing as East and West Berlin/Germany.

Volunteering was not a popular thing to do when I did. Many were protesting the war that was being fought at the time with many of my friends doing the opposing. There were people being drafted based on a birth date lottery. My number was well out of the range of being chosen. I volunteered anyway.

I did so because my father did in WWII. I did because America is worthy of “…heroic labor and the most difficult sacrifice.” I did so because it was a choice I had having recently graduated high school and not entering college. I regret nothing about being a soldier, and never will. If it was today…I would still enlist.

What I would not do is recommend, counsel, entreat, or otherwise persuade any young person to join the Armed Forces.

We have grown obtuse, which the dictionary defines as, “annoyingly insensitive, or slow to understand.” We fight wars that do not have the meaning they are assigned. We fight wars that we lose. WWII had a reason. We were attacked by an enemy whose stated objective was the decimation of the American way of life and thus was in dire need of defense.

Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan were unnecessary wars that killed a huge number of people that did not deserve to die. We went to Korea and never finished what we were supposed to do there with the result that N. Korea is now a dangerous enemy. We spent 9305 days in Vietnam and were forced to leave while communist forces took over the country. We were attacked on 911 by citizens from Saudi Arabia and attacked Iraq. We went to Afghanistan to find Osama Bin Laden and are still there…almost twenty years later. Not one of these countries is significantly better because of our presence within their borders. Korea is a hotbed of divisiveness and holds the potential for the beginning of another war every day. Vietnam is a thriving nation but not due to our American values. Iraqi citizens had a decent lifestyle before we came in and blew up their cities and plunged then into poverty because we did not like their leader.

Realistically, the inspiration for these wars, on a rhetorical level was sound. Communism was a terrible system and hurt many people. Not so much today. On principle it made sense to attack Korea and Vietnam because of the atrocious lives led by people in China, Cuba, and the Soviet Union. Yes, Saddam Hussein was a tyrant and needed to be removed. Yes, Osama Bin Laden needed to be found. But let’s look at a few realities.

Korea has a history of incursions on their society dating to its founding in 2233 BC. We did nothing to help that trend to stop.Vietnam was possibly the most conquered country in Asia for nearly the last four thousand years. It wasn’t until America came around that they were able to throw an invader out and thrive.

Iraqi’s had a normal life with employment and wealth available. They lived under Draconian rule but should have had the choice to change that on their own. These were not uneducated poor peasants. They lived better than most people on Earth. Until America decided to carpet bomb their capital, a city 1250 years old which, at one time, was the largest metropolitan area in the world. The only things the Americans really did in Iraq was send it back to the 7th Century by rendering the electricity, water, and other essential services useless.

The only thing we have accomplished in Afghanistan was to perpetuate a warlike culture that has existed for as long as there has been a country in some form in that area. We should have packed up and left the minute we got Osama Bin Laden who we found in PAKISTAN!

Being a veteran I grieve for the fallen. We have given out too many medals. Awards for bravery are necessary when we send our people to war. They give the most of themselves and absolutely deserve to be honored. How about honoring them when they get home? Why are 22 veterans committing suicide every day? Why does the VA allow a sick or troubled ex-warrior to wait months for doctor’s appointments? Why do they have to go to the emergency room to get help (the most expensive type of care) and be turned away?

Because politicians wave flags and vomit rhetoric they do not fully understand in order to send out valiant Service people across the globe to get killed, crippled, maimed, and damaged in the name of a country that thinks it is noble. These selfsame politicians that do all that flag waving and vomiting because they are being bribed to keep the war going. By who you ask? By  those who worship money and want nothing but to make profit out of the atrocity that is war. Just like the moneylenders at the temple they are. Would that we could do them as Jesus did in his time…there might just be an end to the horror we accept in the name of our country.

Pollution Solution

You could hear a pin drop. An aisle in a huge discount store should be teeming with the sound of a place that supplies everything a household might need. This aisle was dead silent. Halfway down the aisle there was an older lady riding an electric scooter with a half full basket. Right in front of her was a young man with a push cart and three huge packages he was in the process of putting in an already overstuffed cart. He stood frozen staring down the barrel of a pistol the old woman was pointing at him. It looked disproportionally large for her hand, yet she held it steady while aiming at what appeared to be the man’s groin area. Every few seconds she would adjust the pistol. Cycling from his groin to his chest (upper right where his heart was) and finally his face. It seemed she was, if she fired, ensuring she hit a vital part of his body.

She was wearing a skirt that revealed a pair of knee high stockings and an ugly pair of orthopedic or diabetic shoes. Her hair was what appeared to be freshly coiffed as from a beauty parlor. Her makeup was perfect, also with a beauty parlor demeanor to it. Her overall appearances suggested she might be in her ‘70’s or ‘80’s. She had a scowl on her face as she wielded the firearm.

Her target seemed to be in his ‘20’s with a Fu Manchu moustache and a three day growth of beard. Scraggly would what a post office wanted poster might describe it. He wore a baseball cap sideways on his head with the letters FTW in gothic script, and a sleeveless t-shirt with the logo from what had to be a Metal band emblazoned on the front. His jeans were full of holes and rips but not in a store bought sense. They were more like an old pair of pants that had been worn too long and thrown in the corner. He had ratty looking steel toed boots with the leather on one of the toes worn off. The jeans were stuffed inside cuffs tucked into them in a half blouse.

“Young sir, I will need you to put most of what you have in your basket back on the shelves. Now.” She spoke in a cultured accent, much the same as someone’s grandmother might. She looked directly at the man with a stern glance. He loosened up a bit and started to complain

.

“You have chosen to fill your basket with what must be much more that you need. There are many people currently doing without due to this practice you are participating in at the moment. I observed you glaring in a threatening manner at that young couple and their child. You pushed your way past them and took the last package of the item they were reaching for. I dislike rude people. I also dislike ill-mannered younger people. You appear to fit both those descriptions. Are you married with children at home?”

“No you old bitch! Get that fuc…”

BLAM!

The old woman shot the package in his right hand making it burst in what seemed like a white snowfall. Everyone in the aisle dropped to the floor. The man froze for a moment and then looked to see if he had been shot. There was a spot on his forearm that was trickling blood.

“Now this is a Smith & Wesson Governor. It is what is called a .410 Bore Gun. Some call it a “shotgun pistol” but that is not entirely accurate. One of the features of this particular firearm is that it can fire a .410 shotgun round; I used a bird shot round on you to lessen the impact. It also has the ability to fire a 45 caliber bullet. The next round in this pistol is a 230 grain jacketed hollow point which is an awful large amount of punch. Now if I am forced to use it I will reach into my purse and drop a .25 automatic next to your body…after I put it in your hand to ensure only your fingerprints will be found. I will tell the folks on the aisle to leave and find the nice police officer that is in the front to come assist me. They will all probably scatter to the winds, and you will be left here on the floor…dead. My deceased husband was a criminal judge for fifty years. He saw to it that myself and my five children, all attorneys, knew how to shoot and are all permitted to carry the firearms on their persons.

Now it looks like you have a knife on your belt. Why don’t you go to the bandage aisle and get something to wrap that arm of yours. Then it would be prudent go to the men’s room, dig that small birdshot pellet out, and bandage it. Use something to clean the wound first. Then you can go find some other place to go and act like a barbarian.”

She reached her thumb up and pulled back the hammer

.

“Y-y-yes Ma’am.” The wannabe barbarian said and turned to leave

“And dear, leave the shopping cart here so these folks can find what they came for in the first place.” She pressed the lever to make the cart move, stopping by the barbarian’s basket to retrieve a four pack of Charmin.

Long Time Gone

I watched an extended interview with David Crosby of Crosby Stills and Nash fame. He, as am I, is an old man and seriously infirmed with multiple health problems. He has a much more storied past with many items of interest to someone who first saw him perform at CSN’s second professional performance. His story, by virtue of depth and reach was quite different yet somewhat akin to my own. Suffice it to say that I have been around a number of corners and down even more streets than the average person. Perhaps it adds to the flavor of my biography. Realistically it probably attests to the large amount of fucking stupid shit I have done or participated in, and miraculously survived. This serves as proof to me that there is a being greater than I who watches out for this boob with a keyboard and a propensity towards verbosity.

As many who might be reading this I am enjoying the wonders of Social Distancing and municipally mandated isolation. I am told that I am at added risk for contraction of the latest “the sky is falling” syndrome\malady. To me it would just be the soup du jour if I did get it, so I am not worried…cautious, but not worried. Something is going to get me just the same as everyone else. I believe that the reason I began typing today is that I need a break from my telephone and television. Personally I have been stuck at home for the last seven months recuperating from a mobility depriving situation. I’m not crazy or suicidal and I am still not answering questions from the characters of whatever program I am watching…yet.

What I have got going right now is an extensive inventory of my life and the decisions I have either gleefully or sorrowfully come to since June 21, 1953. I would like to claim that triumph outweighed regret, but that would require that I speak in untruths. My Dear Sainted Mother would tell me “to thine own self be true,” and did so until I wanted to throttle her. As an adult I found the wisdom in these words and keep that as a creed in my life. It really does not hurt to lie to someone near as much as it might destroy a person when they lie to themselves. Other than my Darling Máthair, it was my participation in a 12 Step program that taught me about the truth. The truth I need to be telling myself, that is. So let me tell you some truths I have discovered.

1. There is a personal truth that I have spent much of my life as either a knucklehead or a boob.
2. There is the looking at the world truth and that is quite unadorned. The minute someone figured out how to hunt, or gather more than what was necessary to sustain him or herself; we, as a species, were screwed. It is just taking a long time to happen.
3. There is a spiritual truth. Someone or something is responsible for mankind and the firmament existing. Who that someone or something is none of our business. However, whatsoever you wish to believe is your truth and it is not my place to say a fucking thing about it.
4. Finally there is the undefinable truth. There are things in this world that happen and we will never know why. No matter how much we try, life is an enigma that we are too arrogant, stupid, and\or powerless to do ANYTHING about it. PERIOD!

As a thinking man I have discovered that as much as I would like to change things or control things, it is an impossible to do so. The answer to this conundrum is to accept that it might not truly be a conundrum at all. Perhaps it is just the way things are supposed to be and that most of the truly damaging things on earth are the result of people who refuse to accept the undefinable truth that is smacking us in the face every day.

If you don’t believe this, try going to the store and buy some toilet paper.

The Geezer Chronicles

A “Geezer,” according to the dictionary, is an “an odd or eccentric man.” It is my contention that a true “Geezer” is the sort of man that is a necessary component to modern society. When we say eccentric would it not also be acceptable to call it staunch in belief. When we say odd can it not be just as easily said that the individual looks at the world with wide open eyes. The combination gives us character, verve, resilience, fortitude, and a devil may care attitude which is easily recognizable by its defining axiom. “Leave me the fuck alone with your adolescent, dimwitted bullshit. I will do, think, or say whatever the shit I please.”

In that spirit I write, as a self-proclaimed “Geezer” and will do as long as I inhale oxygen. The stories I write have foundations in the world I see about me. They might come from a dream the night before, or something heard on the latest Star Trek film or television episode. It might come from the word of the day I receive daily that catches my eye due to the unusual spelling or outrageous pronunciations. It might be alliterative in nature as that is my favorite transcribing tool. It may come from a guy I meet in the frozen foods section of the grocery store. It may come off the internet, although most of that is inept and ridiculous to say the least. Or it may be a story about a guy meeting the devil in a Walmart book section who tries to give him the universe in exchange for his soul.

I am at a temporary impasse as to the delivering of these stories. It would be nice to earn some scarolas in the process. I’ll post this on my blog and see if I get any suggestions. It is not a major project to undertake. I have a books worth of stories already looking for a home and probably another 30 or 40 in need of a concluding word, phrase, sentence, or even writing beyond a title. Can a Geezer get an “Amen?”

Let me know what you think.

The Sesquipedalian

“Verbosity is the decimation of prose by talentless uncouth morons undeserving of consideration in the literary field.”

The intern, of the intern, of the intern to the secretary of an editor of a major New York publisher.

This single, rather verbose, sentence was all I received in a rejection letter for a book I have been working on since the tragedy on September 11, 2001 entitled “Thou Shalt Not Kill.” The author of this missive offered the perfunctory Closing Line “Sincerely” as well as the appropriate spacing to allow for a signature, and a title line. The autograph was a grand affair emboldened with large loops and scrawl between these loops. The title line simply stated that the letter had been written by the “Editorial” department.

This was the rejection that brought me into double digits. Eleven times I have had this book rejected and which might just be rejected eleven more times before success. Rejection is not the point but simply the avenue to publication with a mainstream publishing house. The point was being called an “talentless uncouth moron.” I admit to being an author of what a close friend has called “almost absurdist literature.” No real issue there. Those who know me can attest to the fact that I have a few screws loose, but I am in no way to be considered a butter knife in a draw full of 300 years old Katanas.

That being said, and my honor properly defended, I would like to talk about what sat me down at the keyboard this dreary cold day. I have been reading and relishing a book by a famous astrophysicist. It is written in a manner that would permit the everyday Joe to understand some of the more complex ideas and notions of the universe. “Astrophysics for People in a Hurry” by Dr. Neil DeGrasse Tyson is the book and it is a thoroughly enjoyable and informative read. I began this book by setting myself a little task; to see how far I could go until I had to look up a words definition. I made it to page 135 out of a possible 207 pages. I am somewhat proud of that especially given that is a most loquacious of words…sesquipedalian coming from the Latin sesquipedalis meaning, literally, a foot and a half long. Take that you intern, of the intern, of the intern to the secretary of an editor of a major New York publisher!

I openly admit to a love of words. The more obscure the better. Being a fan of authors such as Richard Brautigan (my favorite poet), Tom Robbins, Albert Camu, Spider Robinson (yes I have been drunk on Route 25A, Suffolk County, Long Island, New York), Stephen King, Robert Heinlein, and Daniel Quinn emboldens my obscurity and my Roman Catholic upbringing often sets the muse. In 1957 I was handed a comic book about a guy with superhero abilities who came from another planet as a baby and I was hooked. I remember wondering while sitting on the floor being told about the pictures and wondering what those squiggles insides those thought balloons were. Even before I knew what a thought balloon was.

As I grew older and began reading and ultimately writing, I became enamored with the placements of these things called words. I liked laughing, and crying depending on what the story was telling. I remember when I was ten years writing about a fat kid who did not like being fat, and I also liked writing a collection of short stories at 48 years old about how it is not okay to kill.

Thinking back to the intern, of the intern, of the intern to the secretary of an editor of a major New York publisher I decided to find out who this quite couth raconteur might be. Having a computer and a decent college education I tracked down my adversary. Turns out it was some guy working in a cubicle who answered submissions with the direction to find as much fault as he could. It is absolutely impossible for an editor at a major publishing company to read everything submitted. Not even the future recipient of some big writing award who got his start reading Superman comics. 

Munificent Mortality

“We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are, --

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

Alfred Lord Tennyson

It is a sad time indeed. A gentle and learned man named Father Harry Cook died a couple of days ago. He spent many years preaching as an Episcopalian priest, and a Christian journalist not timid in his beliefs. He was a social justice Giant and a down to earth man who spread the words of God while professing he no longer believed in a deity. He believed in people, and passion. He wrote from his heart, and never lied to make any point. He espoused the teaching in John 8:32 that the truth will definitely set us all free.

A respectable part of my own view on what is just and correct I learned from his readings. I was introduced to him from a friend, another Episcopalian priest with a different demeanor from the norm, about ten or eleven years ago. I am not or at least do not consider myself, a wise man. I seek wisdom in order to make sense of the conflagration that the world is enduring where it come to how we treat out fellow man. The world certainly seems to be on fire and there are too few firemen.

Father Cook was one of the best.

I have not been reading his weekly essays for a while due to a busy writing schedule of my own. I have saved them and will get to put them into my daily prayer routine. Father Cook wondered about the efficacy of prayer but my belief was that his words were as powerful as prayers and my belief in them has yet to fail me. I believe Father Cook would not take umbrage with my belief in prayer, as long as I continued to love my fellow man, and maintain a “give your shirt and your coat” mentality in my heart and mind

I could go down the list of his readings and purport that I understand all, but that would not be honest. I could speak of things I have learned but it is probable that, given the reality of an age related poor memory, I would confuse it all with other learned men I follow. As I said, I myself am not wise. I am a guy that sometimes strings words together in a pleasing manner. Sometimes the collections of words I use are not so pleasant. I write from a need to communicate and to, perhaps someday, gain, and convey wisdom almost as well as Father Cook. I reiterate…almost. I resist the idea that I could ever fit into this giant’s shoes. The best I can do is extend you the last words he left us;

+ Love the English language and use it with respect and care. None of us is Shakespeare redivivus. Winston Churchill, H.L. Mencken and Graham Greene still stand alone with their Firsts in English composition. They should be our standard. 

+ A question -- and, indeed, its formulation -- is likely to be more rewarding than straining to produce a quick answer. Inquiry, research and hypotheses tend to invite more thorough thoughtfulness -- a supreme value in human relationships at any level. If you have never read the work of the late philosopher Richard Rorty and his take on what he termed "contingency," now would be as good a time as any to do so. 

+ Beware the politician who runs for office with an index finger pointed at those of an identifiable nationality or ethnic group whilst blaming the woes of the nation on them. Jews were long victims of such an evil, African Americans and Native Americans, as well. Mexicans and Muslims in recent times became targets of such calumny. Who needs a reprise of Nazism? 

+ Resist the claims of absolute truth made by those who march under various religious banners. No one can possibly know what any possible deity wants or wills. Likewise, no one can encompass the whole truth about anything. 

+ Conserve Earth, her atmosphere, her waterways and seas, her land, her creatures as good stewards would estates entrusted to their care and protection. One can lick away on an ice cream cone only so long before it disappears. 

+ Help society understand that punitive incarceration in and of itself is cruel and unusual punishment. Justice is not served by putting people behind bars in violent environments. In the same spirit, help society understand that capital punishment is legalized murder, collective vengeance under the guise of doing justice. 

Give all you can to encourage compassion for women who struggle to retain control of their own bodies where unwanted or dangerous pregnancies are concerned. Tell the anti-abortion zealots that, if they oppose the practice, they should take care not to submit to it. 

At least once a year, listen to all six of J.S. Bach's Brandenburg Concerti (BWV 1046-1051) and overture to Mozart's The Marriage of Figaro (K. 492) as well as his Symphony No. 41, (K. 551), the Jupiter. Each one of them is guaranteed to bestow upon the listener both joy and profundity, mercifully tuning out the mindless cacophony that presses in on every side.

+ Above all, follow the wisdom offered by Hillel the Great more than two millennia ago: "What you hate, do not do to another." The great sage must have known that such behavior as a habit runs contrary to nature. Also he must have believed that humankind could outdo nature. William Faulkner in his speech accepting the 1949 Nobel Prize in literature appeared to have shared Hillel's optimism: I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. As a dear bishop friend was wont to say, "May it be so."

Harry T. Cook – Rest in Peace

Here is a link to his obituary:

http://www.freep.com/story/news/obituary/2017/10/09/harry-cook-dies-78-former-detroit-free-press-columnist/747606001/

Singular Sanctimony

 “Tim, I miss your philosophy, blogs, and intelligent words of wisdom. Please…remotivate/rejuvenate. Love you brother!”

Craig Smith, the REAL Mr. Science

The quote above was sent to me as a comment on something I posted on a well-known Social Media site. The author of the quote is a friend of mine, and proof of the ideal of shared experience is a definitive avenue toward friendship. We are “friends” on this site and became so as a result of working as school teachers at the same school. I was a neophyte in the wonderful calling that is school teaching, and he was a longtime veteran of the war that has mutated into what has been called the American Educational System. We are polar opposites in much of our lives, politically, socially (outside social media), pastimes, and life experience.

What we have in common, however, is the drive, love, and unerring dedication to what most teachers call “Our Kids.” We also share the sadness of not being allowed to teach. At least not so we could; “impart knowledge to or instruct (someone) as to how to do something” as the Oxford Dictionary states. Instead we were exiled into the nether region that is teaching to the test. This is a paradigm, also according to the Oxford dictionary, where we “teach students using methods intended primarily to improve their performance on an examination rather than to enhance their understanding of a subject.”

This, as my friend knows well, is the current accepted system with which to assess students. What this accomplishes is a society that believes competition is more important than knowledge. Where sports heroes, and hip hop artists are heroes and astronauts are not. Where working the cash register at a convenience store or a fast food restaurant requires the computerized register to tell them how to give change for a dollar. How asking a simple question of any sort elicits a universal “I don’t know” response. Even for queries as to what they wish to eat for dinner, or where the rest room is.

I jump on this soap box as a result of an experience I recently endured. I met a young man at a coffee shop who was sitting with what one could assume was his girlfriend. They had books and laptops open and appeared to be studying. The girl suddenly, in a frustrated tone, asks how he could not know whatever they were studying. (Reference the “I don’t know” reply) The young lady stares intently at her companion and, shaking her head, demands her payment as their time was at an end. She was counting the money she received while admonishing the kid to refrain from calling until he “gave a shit.”

I chuckled at the situation and went back to my large pumpkin spiced latte. My coffee companion also smirked and, with a devilish look in his eyes, told the kid that I was a retired teacher and could probably help.

My current area of endeavor is, as you might guess, as a writer and my thoughts and feelings, personally and professionally, lean towards the creative. I frowned at the kid and decided to be generous with my talents (or lack thereof) and asked the young man what his problem was. He informed me that he had to take this remedial math course before he could take the real class that would give him the credit he needed to continue on at the junior college he was attending. I had been a Special Education teacher so this did not appear challenging. At least I hope it did not. I was as and am somewhat of a liberal arts aficionado.

He showed me his equation which appeared simple; X+3=5x4, solve for X. simple even on the simian level I dwell. I asked him what the problem might be. He replied that the x or the y always screwed him up. Letters weren’t numbers and don’t they really belong in words?

I launched into a short diatribe of the use of letters, called variables, in equations to make it easier to make and solve more complex equations. I was on shaky ground past that (I got c’s in most college math courses) but pressed on. I showed him several problems and how to solve them and why the answer came to be. I stopped short of quadratic equations which are and will always be perplexing and confounding. My coffee companion smirked and frowned at me letting me know that what I shared with the kid made a lot of sense. The kid sat there with a pair of eyes one might see in a morgue. Frustrated I turned sardonic by asking my soon not to be student what 1+1=.

He asked me if he could use his calculator and what were the multiple choices available to him.

I had no feeling in my extremities. I stared at him only to realize that he had been earnest in his request. He held what looked to be quite an expensive scientific calculator which, I was sure, he might not know where the on/off button might be. My companion told me that we needed to leave. I stammered for the kid to study the work we had done and good luck. As we were leaving my coffee buddy held up a napkin on which I had been doodling that showed the words “DON’T BE SARDONIC!” and asked me what sardonic meant.

This experience has stayed with me for about a month. I think the comment from my friend and mentor Mr. Science inspired and drove this discourse and for that I thank him. I remember he would, take his kids outside when the weather permitted and do science experiments. Every kid looked and acted engaged. I followed his lead and would take my kids outside and read them short stories of adventure, action, honor, and equality. Other folks at the school would ask me what I was doing and I would just smile and look over at my friend shooting potato guns and blowing things up with laundry detergent and glass beakers. I don’t know how much sitting outside helped my students, but if it was good enough for a 20+ year Teacher of the Year it might just be good enough for me.

Thank you Mr. Smith!

Meddlesome Malaise

I have discovered that amongst all my other ailments I suffer from yet another newly realized, and most wearisome malady. Styx Syndrome, AKA “Too Much Time on My Hands.” Being a gentleman of enforced leisure (medical retirement) who is ofttimes confined to my Sanctum Sanctorum due to my infirmities, my mind works in excess of necessity. There are so many things that occur to me, especially as a writer, which might fill the void I find it irksome not being able to ascertain what to next do. Having finished a story that took its own sweet time coming to me and my fingers I plunged into a period of reflective entropy. The query “what’s next” enveloped my being, as it always does between writing adventures, and I searched for the answer to that most bothersome query.  

Then the light bulb over my head popped on in all its 1000 watt brilliance…READ!

Being what I believe to be the preeminent state in which to exist in, a thinking man, I indulged my first love and delved into tomes with the loftiest paradigms. What is the meaning of life? In my six plus decades of verve this has always proven to be the most difficult of pursuits. The question has been taken up and discarded an equal amount of times along the way to this writing. There were times when I failed to answer it. There were times when the solution was crystal clear. Neither way held much solace for me. Interruptions in this quest have interfered from time to time. Wearisome items such as earning a living, paying the electricity bill, finding a new job, reading rejection letters of my self-acclaimed works of everlasting wisdom, the discovery of a new love, the grief of associated with the loss of a cherished loved one, and all the other mundane realities that probably answer way more eloquently than I what exactly is the meaning of life.

I began by reading a trio of books explaining our culture which described the ideal that the first time a human woke up and wished for more than was needed was the beginning of the extermination of all mankind. Certainly this offered a rather dismal generalization of our species and accurate but for the one thing that might help us to survive, which was also reported in these important works. We have the ability to change our circumstances.

Next, for no fathomable reason, I viewed a film entitled “The Man Who Knew Infinity” about a mathematician who was born during the “British Raj” period prior to Indian independence. Srinivasa Ramanujan was born into a poor Brahman family, and was a mostly self-taught prodigy who eventually became a Fellow of the Royal Society, as well as a Fellow of Trinity College at Cambridge University. His works are on display in the library there as well as the “Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica” by Sir Isaac Newton, the inventor of calculus and many of the foundations of modern physics. All this while suffering discrimination, poverty, and poor health.

I am currently delving into “A Brief History of Time” by Stephen Hawking. Another choice with no recognizable foundation towards the question I probably do not truly wish the answer to. Admittedly, my personal research has been prejudiced by events in my life of both a positive and negative nature. The academic part of my persona is certainly piqued with the lofty writings of famous mathematicians and physicists. The cognitive side of me has recently taken up the task of maintaining my intellect due to an ever growing difficulty with memory retention. Then there is the ever troubling portion of me that looks into the night sky finding itself time and again mystified.

The Spiritual

Not wishing to drift off into yet another perplexing area, that being in the ideal of whether or not there is a God; I will make things, for today simple. I believe in God, and I believe in Science and mathematics. The rest of the claptrap about God’s existence is best left for another day, or a Nighttime Talk Show.

As I read and contemplated the significance of asking for the meaning of something that obviously already exists, I came up with the ideal of discovering what is of true import. That is the crux of searching for the meaning of life. Knowing it or not knowing it is not imperative in the face of having life and making it relevant. Great thinkers miss this, I believe. The real question is: What would you want life to be. Is it a meaning or an action? (Reference our ability to change our circumstances)

Somewhere along the way, the meaning of life got itself associated with the conundrum of an unanswerable question being whether science is the answer, or is God the answer? How did we get here? What came first, the chicken or the egg? What was there before the big bang? How did all this happen?

Science has theories to guide it. This means that some really smart people sit around (much like me) and think about things in order to answer the chicken thing, or the meaning of the Big Bang Theory.

Science has determined that the egg came first in a most baffling manner imaginable. The explanation requires an understanding of several disciplines; biology, zoology, genetics, and Marvel Comic books and movies. Neil deGrasse Tyson made it much simpler: "Which came first: the chicken or the egg? The egg – laid by a bird that was not a chicken." And we thus discover the issue with asking too many questions.

The Big Bang theory is the prevailing cosmological model for the universe. In a user friendly definition thanks to Wikipedia, “The universe began very hot, small, and dense, with no stars, atoms, form, or structure (called a "singularity"). Then about 13.8 billion years ago, space expanded very quickly (thus the name "Big Bang"). This started the formation of atoms, which eventually led to the formation of stars and galaxies.” Scientists have thought and thought, and wrote and rewrote about this effect exhaustively, they have modeled and remodeled ad infinitum. The results of all this thinking, writing, and modeling/remodeling has culminated in the #1 comedic Sitcom in the world. All of the actors except one (Mayim Bialik, PhD in Neuroscience) have no expertise in science and admit to just reading lines from a script.  

The seeming antithesis of all this thinking, writing, modeling/remodeling would be God. Given that this is an undefinable issue from a fact based physically provable it might be time better spent in discussing the differences between science and God. Here are some facts/paradigms/space fillers to consider:

1. Many learned people have rejected the existence of a God. Where did God come from? For an answer to that I will fall on my own spiritual beliefs which is Christian based;

“He is before all things, and in him all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17).

2. 6,120,000,000,000 people in the world believe in some form of deity. Would that not be enough of a mathematical prevalence to prove the existence of God?
3. Actually, a great mathematician and logician Kurt Gödel derived a series of equations that prove the existence of God. These equations have been discovered valid by modern computer scientists.
4. Some believe the Big Bang implies a creator, and some see its mention in their holy books, while others argue that Big Bang cosmology makes the notion of a creator superfluous. Herr Gödel illuminated further. '"An equation for me has no meaning," he once said, "unless it expresses a thought of God."

  The writing of this fellow intrigued me and I went off on a tangent for about a half a day into the proofs of the existence of God. I discovered many and read them all and came away from the exercise had begun to make me doubt my own belief in a God. I wondered how this course of inquiry could make me turn God, a present personality in my life, into “a God” as if it were something that could be disproved. Certainly cause for befuddlement for a believer since birth.

I then took a break and came back and reread all the proofs I researched and realized something. They were all confusing and meaningless to anyone wishing to live a simple life. Just check out Herr Gödel’s treatise:

Definition 1: x is God-like if and only if x has as essential properties those and only those properties which are positive

Definition 2: A is an essence of x if and only if for every property B, x has B necessarily if and only if A entails B

Definition 3: x necessarily exists if and only if every essence of x is necessarily exemplified

Axiom 1: If a property is positive, then its negation is not positive

Axiom 2: Any property entailed by—i.e., strictly implied by—a positive property is positive

Axiom 3: The property of being God-like is positive

Axiom 4: If a property is positive, then it is necessarily positive

Axiom 5: Necessary existence is positive

Axiom 6: For any property P, if P is positive, then being necessarily P is positive

Theorem 1: If a property is positive, then it is consistent, i.e., possibly exemplified

Corollary 1: The property of being God-like is consistent

Theorem 2: If something is God-like, then the property of being God-like is an essence of that thing

Theorem 3: Necessarily, the property of being God-like is exemplified

 What I came to is that there really no way to answer the God/Science question. Science has tried both ways to look at it and cannot seem to report on it that does not prove anything in simple terms. Even a well thought mathematical proof by a respected mathematician cannot explain in layman’s terms to this writer who got a “D” in statistics and had to repeat the course in order to graduate college. Is science the answer? Ask a scientist to give you one sentence answer if you ask them what was there before the universe was created by the Big Bang. Similarly, for the God folks, ask your pastor (in one short sentence) where did God come from?

 It might be easier if we all just went in search of the Philosophers Stone. You know that element the alchemist used to say was the substance that could turn a cheap base metal into gold. A great idea and possible panacea for those financially disabled. Of course all that meandering about in quest for pecuniary prosperity that might just complicate things even more given that Alchemists were proven charlatans and sometimes hunted as witches. The witch hunting reality in olden times could bring a tremendously disagreeable demise. Most of them changed into chemists that today are deemed legitimate. Although, they still can’t make gold out of lead. Just like we cannot truly know the answers to great questions like the “What is the meaning of life”

 I did find an answer to that bigger question, though. Well, perhaps not an answer as much as an end to the confusion. I had researched until my head hurt and my eyelids grew weary. (Especially after the half read “A Brief History of Time”) I turned on the Great Knower. The much maligned by Springsteen instrument of enlightenment sitting in all its High Definition glory in my living room. I found it on television. Even there it was hidden until I dove in to the depths that are called “Streaming. What I found was the great and wise philosopher, teacher, and possible Holy Man who did not so much answer the question than taught me what life is truly about. Not what to question but how to act. Not thinking someone else is wrong but accepting that the bastard might just be right. Not wondering what has happened but doing what was right. Not doubting but believing. Not reading or asking but doing what I am told:

“You do good things, and good things happen to you.

You do bad things, and bad things happen to you.”

Earl Hickey