Saturday, June 30, 2012
The Shameless: Saved by The Aimless and Brainless?
Who ordered the "Fast and Furious" program that resulted in the death of hundreds of Mexican citizens as well as costing the life of a U.S. border patrol agent? Why isn't this a bipartisan concern? Why aren't all Americans determined to get to the bottom of this stupid and reckless enterprise? If Eric Holder and the current Occupier of The White House have nothing to be ashamed of or criminally liable for, why obstruct the United States Congress from doing their sworn duty of fully investigating this case? Was it a "witch hunt" to question those involved with the Watergate burglary? Was it a "witch hunt" to organize the Nuremberg trials? The moral and intellectual bankruptcy of the band of power hungry Radical Leftists occupying the executive branch of our government today will prayerfully NOT be equalled by the cretinism of more than 49.9% of those voting (legally, again prayerfully) this November to continue the assault on Freedom by re-electing these charlatans and liars.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Ready For Freddy?
"Are you ready for Freddy?" My father's close friend would pose this question to the ether not infrequently when telling a story to us about an old mutual friend or any joke involving some careless or prideful person. He posed the question apparently more as a rhetorical flourish and I assumed for years (not to my credit as a less than inquisitive young man) that it was some ancient pre-war catchphrase of old New York, the meaning of its simple rhyming couplet and the identity of "Freddy" lost in the mists of time and merely an old habit of an old guy, much like those of even older generations who might have reflexively ejaculated: "Twenty-three skidoo!", "Bully!", or "Pop Goes the Weasel." But even my rudimentary curiosity should have induced an at least fleeting interest in the form of this compound enquiry: "Who's Freddy and what should I be ready for?" Somewhere along the line, probably in my late twenties, my self-absorption as a young adult finally abating, I did actually ask Dad's old pal for an explanation. His pleasant and mild ways, seemingly to me through the years devoid of irony or morbidity, caused me to experience a slight shock when he replied, while displaying some amusement about my ignorance, thusly: "Gee, don't you know? Why, Freddy's The Undertaker." There was a long pause and then an "Oh!" escaped my lips and I realized belatedly that philosophy and the "big" questions were not unknown realms for pondering by a man who seemingly only reflected on racing forms and economical cigars. I felt less alone but also reminded that grappling with mortality was not a unique, personal, fantastical entity and hence NOT, wishfully, unreal. The lighthearted and off handed way that he mentioned Freddy, this character's role now revealed, made the subject especially sobering, something akin to a character in a novel casually referring to the devil as Old Scratch. The almost endearing nickname for Satan or mysterious cuteness of Freddy only etched more sharply the reality of what was not a chimerical phenomenon.
Well, am I? Are you? Okay, I'll go first. The short answer is: "No." Excuses aside, there are innumerable biological and psychological factors that cause us to scream through every cell of our corporeal beings and each porosity of our skins: "never say die!" For most of our youthful lives we cannot fathom and are untouched by any dramatic imaginings of non-existence. Oh, there are plenty of exceptions. As mentioned in at least one other blog entry, I was terrified of Death on two occasions before puberty. In fact, I was intensely obsessed with the subject at the age of four and the Cuban Missile Crisis in October 1962 eight years later reopened that wound in quite histrionic and hysterical ways. But generally, preparing for the irrevocable goodbye is not simply part of life until perhaps when one begins to leave middle age. Phrases like "years ago", "we used to", "there once was" and "he was a nice guy" creep into one's conversations and signposts aplenty tell of our new fatigue and sharpen our awareness of the approaching End while eroding the rock of self-denials, especially when, while noticing all kinds of deaccelerations, the old wisecrack reminds us: "Death is nature's way of telling you to slow down." One textbook piece of advice: you prepare for your departure by living; give your all for and to life and spend it as it was intended: by living and loving fully. That's useful up to a point and assumes a well adjusted existence with numerous support systems (friends, relatives and the varied diversions that financial comfort can provide). But what of those for whom "winning" in life is an historical fact akin to the success of post season play by the Chicago Cubs? It's a bit like the contestant on the famed "Wheel of Fortune" television program and game show who has accumulated zero dollars as the final spin occurs while his opponents are each 40 grand ahead. Maybe he is just relieved that it will soon be over. Then however, eschatology is a natural subject to consider and he may feel compelled to not ignore Freddy, regardless of his religiosity or absence of same. Does an opportunity exist to enter a heavenly "Bonus Round" or will new failures await that will make a worldly or game show "bankruptcy" seem completely inconsequential and trivial. What of non-existence as simply that: no awareness, no consciousness, no pain, no abandonment or unimaginable loneliness and fearfulness and contrastingly, no joy or what we nearly invariably pursue hungrily in life: happiness…. .no, just nothingness. If you were born in say, 1960, is there anything about the year 1958 or 1948 or 948 that you remember fondly or with horror, or as part of a tedious millennium of sitting in a metaphysical waiting room waiting, well…waiting to be born? No, there is nothing you remember. Perhaps after death, the same nothingness obtains.
Playing it safely is a persuasive strategy, i.e. behaving well in life may have wonderfully meta-ecstatic consequences in a next life. What is good behavior? Kindness, forbearance, taking time to listen to a fellow pilgrim might not be bad ideas. Know that you're not responsible for Freddy's invoice; at least any insolvency is his problem unless Potter's Field is a concern. So, are you ready for Freddy? The answer clearly depends on one's psychic health and probably on how one feels about the statement that "Love is the answer to the problem of human existence." What is the answer to the problem of human non-existence? Perhaps it is memory and perhaps it is forgetfulness. Perhaps there is no problem that a shrunken ego cannot begin to solve.
Well, am I? Are you? Okay, I'll go first. The short answer is: "No." Excuses aside, there are innumerable biological and psychological factors that cause us to scream through every cell of our corporeal beings and each porosity of our skins: "never say die!" For most of our youthful lives we cannot fathom and are untouched by any dramatic imaginings of non-existence. Oh, there are plenty of exceptions. As mentioned in at least one other blog entry, I was terrified of Death on two occasions before puberty. In fact, I was intensely obsessed with the subject at the age of four and the Cuban Missile Crisis in October 1962 eight years later reopened that wound in quite histrionic and hysterical ways. But generally, preparing for the irrevocable goodbye is not simply part of life until perhaps when one begins to leave middle age. Phrases like "years ago", "we used to", "there once was" and "he was a nice guy" creep into one's conversations and signposts aplenty tell of our new fatigue and sharpen our awareness of the approaching End while eroding the rock of self-denials, especially when, while noticing all kinds of deaccelerations, the old wisecrack reminds us: "Death is nature's way of telling you to slow down." One textbook piece of advice: you prepare for your departure by living; give your all for and to life and spend it as it was intended: by living and loving fully. That's useful up to a point and assumes a well adjusted existence with numerous support systems (friends, relatives and the varied diversions that financial comfort can provide). But what of those for whom "winning" in life is an historical fact akin to the success of post season play by the Chicago Cubs? It's a bit like the contestant on the famed "Wheel of Fortune" television program and game show who has accumulated zero dollars as the final spin occurs while his opponents are each 40 grand ahead. Maybe he is just relieved that it will soon be over. Then however, eschatology is a natural subject to consider and he may feel compelled to not ignore Freddy, regardless of his religiosity or absence of same. Does an opportunity exist to enter a heavenly "Bonus Round" or will new failures await that will make a worldly or game show "bankruptcy" seem completely inconsequential and trivial. What of non-existence as simply that: no awareness, no consciousness, no pain, no abandonment or unimaginable loneliness and fearfulness and contrastingly, no joy or what we nearly invariably pursue hungrily in life: happiness…. .no, just nothingness. If you were born in say, 1960, is there anything about the year 1958 or 1948 or 948 that you remember fondly or with horror, or as part of a tedious millennium of sitting in a metaphysical waiting room waiting, well…waiting to be born? No, there is nothing you remember. Perhaps after death, the same nothingness obtains.
Playing it safely is a persuasive strategy, i.e. behaving well in life may have wonderfully meta-ecstatic consequences in a next life. What is good behavior? Kindness, forbearance, taking time to listen to a fellow pilgrim might not be bad ideas. Know that you're not responsible for Freddy's invoice; at least any insolvency is his problem unless Potter's Field is a concern. So, are you ready for Freddy? The answer clearly depends on one's psychic health and probably on how one feels about the statement that "Love is the answer to the problem of human existence." What is the answer to the problem of human non-existence? Perhaps it is memory and perhaps it is forgetfulness. Perhaps there is no problem that a shrunken ego cannot begin to solve.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Dromedary Droppings
There is an American slang word, or perhaps it's a dated one limited to the circles of my youth in metropolitan New York. "Hump" is or was a noun used to describe an unpleasant person, one habituated to causing others pain and trouble. In recent days, despite a sunny view of most matters and an increasingly likable late spring weather to complement the mood, I have encountered more than the usual number of humps while conducting business and traveling from point "A" to point "B". This past Tuesday I drove to my alma mater, a traditionally well respected public high school in northwest Queens that recent economics and politics have brought to the verge of closing (or of being re-configured in some convoluted way by those addicted to "edumacation", i.e. social engineering of the most meddlesome variety), its woes only indirectly relevant to this blog entry's catalogue of gripes. I had come to take possession of the single essay offered by the teacher entrusted with informing and guiding prospective candidates and essayists to compete for a memorial scholarship that I helped establish in 1992 to honor my late friend and classmate as well as his sister who both died in separate automobile accidents. For nineteen years I struggled with the tasks of reading and judging increasingly inferior essays on the subjects of Friendship, Character, Immigration and this year the theme was "Courage: What Is It and How Has It Manifested Itself in American and World History?" This essayist did not write on the topic, did not provide required documents (recommendations by teachers and/or faculty members), did not write an essay with the minimum number of words required, did not provide proof of U.S. citizenship as required and presented what was a pitiful example of zero insights, repetition and in short, a paper on the topic of Friendship that was a nauseating bore. The person "in charge" had acknowledged (in a phone call I placed in mid-May) that she received my three e-mail communications laying out all the rules for the competition but did not respond to any of them because of some "technical difficulties." In fact, no communications (telephone calls, letters) were received during the nearly two months provided for candidates to prepare, write and compete. Indifference, passive aggressive behavior, low morale with the rumors of unemployment next semester, political animus toward me with this year's traditionalist theme: were one of these or even all of them, the reason(s) that this well established scholarship competition was virtually ignored? Is the concept of courage (and the respect for it) now considered part of a right wing conspiracy, i.e. too closely resembling unilateral American initiative or rugged individualism…anathema in the Age of Obama? I do not know. I do know that when finally my phone call was returned by this teacher in mid-June and she made the admission that only a single paper would be offered as part of the competition (??), a defensive lament was quickly expressed by her (before I had uttered a word) using the following exact words: "It would really suck if she (the essayist) did not receive the scholarship award." Where was I? Was this a "Twilight Zone" episode? Was I actually speaking with a bona fide teacher, employed by the Dept. of Education of the City of New York? Was she a college graduate with a degree in education and was she licensed to teach in the state of New York? Of course, the answer was probably "yes" to the last three of these questions. But my memories of high school teachers were that (though they were not Einsteinian in their intellectual prowess, nor were they the epitome of gentility and grace in their manners and speech) the use of the vulgarism "suck" and even the dropping of the pretense "this is a well deserving pupil, her potential is limitless with the right encouragement" would be unthinkable occurences or utterances from an instructor from my student days of an honest and generally incorrupt faculty. The phone call the following morning by the student in question was jaw dropping for several reasons. The student had indubitably and inappropriately been given my telephone number by this teacher. The candidate was told that she needed to submit her recommendations and the teacher, coward that she was, did not want to deal with me (I had left no doubt of my dissatisfaction when leaving her office the day before) and so took the expedient and wrong route of leaving all communication between me and the pupil. Wretched things, happily, come to an end as well as good ones. I spared the student all of the dramatics and lied that a decision was pending. A competent teacher, seemingly devoid of passive-aggressiveness, received my call informing that no one qualified for the award this year. I vented to her about the experience, but was exceedingly relieved there would be no more contact with this academic cesspool. But my next hump was waiting in the wings.
Driving to the supermarket later that day, I approached a corner, signaled my intention to turn and made eye contact with a tall young man preparing to cross. In my path (had he not stopped) he did not move but appeared to resent prudently moving back a single millimeter. I gently tooted my horn as the turn was made and in an instant he pounded the car's roof with an angry fist. I continued for several yards and then stopped to get out and shout a protest: "you saw me, I signaled and unless you're deaf, you heard the horn." Something was mumbled in mostly unintelligible broken English. His aggressiveness seemed to wane upon being confronted and I wisely did not push my luck, given all the unknown elements of dealing with a stranger with an attitude. Now it was time though, for another "dromedary" to void his bowels upon my weary head.
This one was quite literally an excremental incident and it gave my optimism its most severe kick in the pants to date, as well as challenged my ability to brush off the boorish churls metastasizing all around me. Friday being "full" garbage collection day (all the categories of trash) in my neighborhood, I approached my three empty (or so I thought) receptacles and prepared to carry them back to their positions near my driveway. "Well, the sanitation boys left some newspaper pages in the bottles and cans pail" I quizzically thought. "But wait, papers belong in the paper barrel." More puzzlement and then an unpleasantly familiar thought came to me: "Oh no, not again!" I shook my head. A mystery dog walker had, for the third time this week, deposited the doggy droppings of an apparently very large canine into my bottle and cans pail barely wrapped in a newspaper with Korean characters and the steaming, pile of ugliness was, due to its inadequate containment and size, silently announcing itself, again, as a fragrant devil taunting me to undertake the unjust chore awaiting my fortitude to combat in some small way those who delightedly take comfort in the aphorism that "all evil needs to flourish is for good men to do nothing." Well, don't know how good a man I am or if I'm only a "good for nothing", but Switzerland didn't get its reputation for immaculate and pleasing beauty by just wishing offal to disappear. So weary and more than a bit irritated, I scrubbed the trash can long after a bone-tired feeling, intensified by the thought "this should not have been necessary", ensured that I would not be moving a solitary muscle for a long time, once my caboose hit my easy chair.
The rest was peaceful and uneventful, but before it grew later, I remembered that I needed to place a phone call to someone who I hadn't seen or heard from in several years. I needed advice about an automotive issue and this person was a member of a car club that I still paid my dues to and remained, or so I thought, a fellow member in good standing. The call was placed at 8:30 in the evening, near the end of, but still within the societally acceptable time to telephone folks who are not close friends or relatives. A very young child answered after four rings. Schmo (let's call him that name: this is my best effort to avoid using a far less pleasant epithet) has a grandchild, I thought. Maybe he has mellowed, I calculated hopefully. "May I speak to a grownup, please?" I asked with formal courtesy. A dropped receiver and several seconds of other unknown sounds were followed by "Hello, yes?" Somehow all the memories of this person's personality came rushing back to me and I suddenly became inarticulate and highly aware of the less than generous vibes that this guy had always seemed to send forth to his fellow man. I identified myself and explained that I needed some help and that I was a member of the automobile club that he had been an officer of for many years. I also added sheepishly, that I had not attended a meeting for also, many years. He seized upon this as something remarkable, not revealing if this was an interesting fact, worthy of enquiries of concern or just a reprehensible failure of camaraderie and good tribalism. He just silently seemed to make a judgment about this stranger at the other end of his telephone line. I struggled to begin to explain that I was interested in him recommending a mechanic near to where my car was garaged, since it was near where our club meetings used to be held. Before I could clearly express what I was requesting, he interrupted me to ask if he could call me back. I quickly agreed and assured him that he could call me back of course, at his convenience and I gave him my phone number. He neither asked me to repeat it nor did it seem to take very long at all for him to "get it." Schmo never called back and I only expected him to frankly, very fleetingly. There always was a want of feeling, a parsimonious nature that extended to all matters, whether financial or on a personal level when dealing with Schmo. So I was shat upon yet again. So what? Well, the "what" is that this one hurt more than the others. Did he decide that I was looking for money, a special favor, or that I had a sob story? It was a simple request for networking advice about car repairs: members do it all the time and it's in fact, one of the chief reasons for forming and joining such societies. My tiredness that night and inability to concisely explain what I wanted, his disinclination to help a near stranger (someone Schmo could not bother trying to remember the identity of), all these factors combined to dishearten a guy who already had had a not so great day. The best I could do later that evening was to cheer myself with the creation of a new category of "hump" and to enshrine Schmo into its Hall of Fame (Infamy?) as a charter member: a camel. With twice the passive aggressive nastiness, he certainly represented a "double hump" mentality like the twin fleshy protuberances of that famed beast of burden. The annoyance of dealing with rabbit pellets while caring for such a pet as a child, seems not so troublesome in retrospect. I hope I never meet an unkind elephant.
Driving to the supermarket later that day, I approached a corner, signaled my intention to turn and made eye contact with a tall young man preparing to cross. In my path (had he not stopped) he did not move but appeared to resent prudently moving back a single millimeter. I gently tooted my horn as the turn was made and in an instant he pounded the car's roof with an angry fist. I continued for several yards and then stopped to get out and shout a protest: "you saw me, I signaled and unless you're deaf, you heard the horn." Something was mumbled in mostly unintelligible broken English. His aggressiveness seemed to wane upon being confronted and I wisely did not push my luck, given all the unknown elements of dealing with a stranger with an attitude. Now it was time though, for another "dromedary" to void his bowels upon my weary head.
This one was quite literally an excremental incident and it gave my optimism its most severe kick in the pants to date, as well as challenged my ability to brush off the boorish churls metastasizing all around me. Friday being "full" garbage collection day (all the categories of trash) in my neighborhood, I approached my three empty (or so I thought) receptacles and prepared to carry them back to their positions near my driveway. "Well, the sanitation boys left some newspaper pages in the bottles and cans pail" I quizzically thought. "But wait, papers belong in the paper barrel." More puzzlement and then an unpleasantly familiar thought came to me: "Oh no, not again!" I shook my head. A mystery dog walker had, for the third time this week, deposited the doggy droppings of an apparently very large canine into my bottle and cans pail barely wrapped in a newspaper with Korean characters and the steaming, pile of ugliness was, due to its inadequate containment and size, silently announcing itself, again, as a fragrant devil taunting me to undertake the unjust chore awaiting my fortitude to combat in some small way those who delightedly take comfort in the aphorism that "all evil needs to flourish is for good men to do nothing." Well, don't know how good a man I am or if I'm only a "good for nothing", but Switzerland didn't get its reputation for immaculate and pleasing beauty by just wishing offal to disappear. So weary and more than a bit irritated, I scrubbed the trash can long after a bone-tired feeling, intensified by the thought "this should not have been necessary", ensured that I would not be moving a solitary muscle for a long time, once my caboose hit my easy chair.
The rest was peaceful and uneventful, but before it grew later, I remembered that I needed to place a phone call to someone who I hadn't seen or heard from in several years. I needed advice about an automotive issue and this person was a member of a car club that I still paid my dues to and remained, or so I thought, a fellow member in good standing. The call was placed at 8:30 in the evening, near the end of, but still within the societally acceptable time to telephone folks who are not close friends or relatives. A very young child answered after four rings. Schmo (let's call him that name: this is my best effort to avoid using a far less pleasant epithet) has a grandchild, I thought. Maybe he has mellowed, I calculated hopefully. "May I speak to a grownup, please?" I asked with formal courtesy. A dropped receiver and several seconds of other unknown sounds were followed by "Hello, yes?" Somehow all the memories of this person's personality came rushing back to me and I suddenly became inarticulate and highly aware of the less than generous vibes that this guy had always seemed to send forth to his fellow man. I identified myself and explained that I needed some help and that I was a member of the automobile club that he had been an officer of for many years. I also added sheepishly, that I had not attended a meeting for also, many years. He seized upon this as something remarkable, not revealing if this was an interesting fact, worthy of enquiries of concern or just a reprehensible failure of camaraderie and good tribalism. He just silently seemed to make a judgment about this stranger at the other end of his telephone line. I struggled to begin to explain that I was interested in him recommending a mechanic near to where my car was garaged, since it was near where our club meetings used to be held. Before I could clearly express what I was requesting, he interrupted me to ask if he could call me back. I quickly agreed and assured him that he could call me back of course, at his convenience and I gave him my phone number. He neither asked me to repeat it nor did it seem to take very long at all for him to "get it." Schmo never called back and I only expected him to frankly, very fleetingly. There always was a want of feeling, a parsimonious nature that extended to all matters, whether financial or on a personal level when dealing with Schmo. So I was shat upon yet again. So what? Well, the "what" is that this one hurt more than the others. Did he decide that I was looking for money, a special favor, or that I had a sob story? It was a simple request for networking advice about car repairs: members do it all the time and it's in fact, one of the chief reasons for forming and joining such societies. My tiredness that night and inability to concisely explain what I wanted, his disinclination to help a near stranger (someone Schmo could not bother trying to remember the identity of), all these factors combined to dishearten a guy who already had had a not so great day. The best I could do later that evening was to cheer myself with the creation of a new category of "hump" and to enshrine Schmo into its Hall of Fame (Infamy?) as a charter member: a camel. With twice the passive aggressive nastiness, he certainly represented a "double hump" mentality like the twin fleshy protuberances of that famed beast of burden. The annoyance of dealing with rabbit pellets while caring for such a pet as a child, seems not so troublesome in retrospect. I hope I never meet an unkind elephant.
Monday, June 11, 2012
A Special Place
You awaken to the trilling followed by the sweet song of an unknown bird, its melody strange and beautiful. You remember that you are in your new home and that another chapter has begun in the book of your days. Familiar furniture and many little curios from your past, recently and safely transported here, assure your ancient soul that beloved old treasures have not been abandoned but have now space, sunlight and largely blessed silence to commune with and share their own muteness with these rural hills and dales, their piney scents, majestic farmland, woods, brooks and other physiography reminders somehow of the world of our frontier forefathers.
Am quite mindful of the price and the rewards of self-reliance as it relates to this new abode and the surrounding countryside that demands it. A city dweller may sing yearningly of the glories of "land, lotsa land!", but the current reality tests his honesty and his willingness to think clearly, with forethought and with a sound body to go with an uncluttered brain that must lucidly plan and positively stride forward without the luxury of moody wheel spinning encouraged too often by a discouraging, neurotic metropolis. The old American genius for solving problems and all kinds of challenges has a fertile soil literally and atmospherically here in the heartland. I want to be a part of it: the universe of American exceptionalism and the country of abundance that we can fully embrace and yet conserve, neither ravishing nor recoiling from its many offerings.
Space! To open one's door and not be assaulted by the comings and goings of strangers hard by my threshold, the noise and exhaust of too many internal (and infernal) combustion engines, the screech of brakes, or the alarms and sirens of various devices and vehicles, the latters' honking horns a singular vexation to the spirit: oh, what rapture is the absence of these bombardments! I look about and do not see another living being, especially an upright two-legged one. How relieving, how comforting to a lone wolf whose sympathies lie chiefly with lambs. My nearest neighbor's house is evidenced only by a thin wisp of dark gray smoke from his unseen chimney curling above the peak of the gently rolling hill in the left middle distance. Beyond is a larger hill, a foothill of the mountains beyond that, all nearly enshrouded by wonderfully cool and clean smelling mist. Isolationism, of the non-political variety, how could it be a cause for alarm? Yes, of course a lonesome twinge will eventually declare itself. But for now, the gentle sound of rain on my slanted roof is an overwhelmingly gentle yet powerful reminder of man's ability, with God's help, to construct a physical expression of a haven for love that is dedicated to "keeping want and trouble out." It seems to reaffirm something deep in the race: "this is my place."
Am quite mindful of the price and the rewards of self-reliance as it relates to this new abode and the surrounding countryside that demands it. A city dweller may sing yearningly of the glories of "land, lotsa land!", but the current reality tests his honesty and his willingness to think clearly, with forethought and with a sound body to go with an uncluttered brain that must lucidly plan and positively stride forward without the luxury of moody wheel spinning encouraged too often by a discouraging, neurotic metropolis. The old American genius for solving problems and all kinds of challenges has a fertile soil literally and atmospherically here in the heartland. I want to be a part of it: the universe of American exceptionalism and the country of abundance that we can fully embrace and yet conserve, neither ravishing nor recoiling from its many offerings.
Space! To open one's door and not be assaulted by the comings and goings of strangers hard by my threshold, the noise and exhaust of too many internal (and infernal) combustion engines, the screech of brakes, or the alarms and sirens of various devices and vehicles, the latters' honking horns a singular vexation to the spirit: oh, what rapture is the absence of these bombardments! I look about and do not see another living being, especially an upright two-legged one. How relieving, how comforting to a lone wolf whose sympathies lie chiefly with lambs. My nearest neighbor's house is evidenced only by a thin wisp of dark gray smoke from his unseen chimney curling above the peak of the gently rolling hill in the left middle distance. Beyond is a larger hill, a foothill of the mountains beyond that, all nearly enshrouded by wonderfully cool and clean smelling mist. Isolationism, of the non-political variety, how could it be a cause for alarm? Yes, of course a lonesome twinge will eventually declare itself. But for now, the gentle sound of rain on my slanted roof is an overwhelmingly gentle yet powerful reminder of man's ability, with God's help, to construct a physical expression of a haven for love that is dedicated to "keeping want and trouble out." It seems to reaffirm something deep in the race: "this is my place."
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
June 6, 1944
On this, the 68th anniversary of the "Longest Day", the beginning of the invasion and liberation of Nazi- occupied Europe, there was no marking of the occasion by at least one major news organization, the American Broadcasting Company. That is, I did not see or hear any reference to one of the most momentous dates in world history, arguably the turning point in the greatest and most horrific event in human history. A.B.C.'s anchorwoman Diane Sawyer on her evening television broadcast, instead chose to report on the anniversary of an event in the careers of the pop music group The Beatles. I am having difficulty understanding her priorities or her tremendous oversight.
A priest in my parish gave a homily very recently at mass in which he characterized "remembrance" as a "holy thing." Am certainly no paragon of piety myself, but perhaps Ms. Sawyer and others would do well to pause and reflect on the past and what is truly important. Consider the hundreds of thousands of white crosses in our cemeteries here and across the globe mutely testifying to the treasure spent so that Sawyer and all of us might share in the blessings of this still free land.
I don't get it; maybe someone can explain it to me.
A priest in my parish gave a homily very recently at mass in which he characterized "remembrance" as a "holy thing." Am certainly no paragon of piety myself, but perhaps Ms. Sawyer and others would do well to pause and reflect on the past and what is truly important. Consider the hundreds of thousands of white crosses in our cemeteries here and across the globe mutely testifying to the treasure spent so that Sawyer and all of us might share in the blessings of this still free land.
I don't get it; maybe someone can explain it to me.
Calling All Idiots!
There are those occasional stings by law enforcement whereby criminals at large are enticed to repair to a destination with the juicy bait of supposed money or big ticket consumer goods dangling above their greedy, salivating lips as promised "rewards" for a fabrication about winning lottery tickets or some such poppycock. These are often successful enterprises by the boys in blue or their allies in police work. It's a distinct pleasure to read about, or better yet to view footage of the lowlifes and dimwits involved as they arrive in circumscribed and secure quarters, are unpleasantly surprised and then speedily ensnared in the nets of justice.
But what about the quotidian tedium of folks one unavoidably interacts with who, though not criminals, are so mediocre in the wattage of their collective intellects that one begins to long for a detention of them in a place far away from the rest of us who cogitate with some facility and who do not generally do or say stupid things that interrupt the flow of pleasant, witty and salubrious human exchanges. How I pine for a law that would segregate the likes of a pleasant but thoroughly air headed receptionist (let's call her Amoebarina) from normal society: a gal who,where I once worked (a position that often took me on the road and away from the office) never failed to inform me when returning to the company's reception area, that I had received a telephone call and who also never failed to respond to my query "Who was it?" with the moronic "I don't know." Also unknown to our darling mental cipher was why the person called, whether he or she would call back or what number he or she might be reached at. Seven or eight times this occurred and it at last dawned on me (I was also not terribly sharp on a solution up until then to this state of affairs, I must confess) to inform Amoebarina that she should not inform me of ANY phone calls for me: their importance hopefully assuring that another form of communication would succeed in allowing the interested party to reach me (but one not involving her assistance {?}, "thank you very much anyway, Ms. A."). My irritation with Amoebarina was leavened once when I had the rare opportunity to listen to her while on our shared lunch hour as we sat at our respective desks several yards apart one particularly slow day. A personal call for her, acceptable for these particular circumstances, was, like most "half" conversations, an imperfect tale, i.e. its full comprehension for an audience (me) hobbled by the obvious gaps of the other party's unheard remarks. However, in this case, Amoebarina's replies (and apparently her own creative offerings to supposedly sustain the conversation were especially clueless, as was she, in helping one to get the drift and gist of the talk) were truly virtually indistinguishable and after a short while, very entertaining as an inadvertent comedy skit. Her contributions to enlightenment and to the elevation of human discourse were the following: "I don't know", "Oh, I don't know", "I don't know", "Gee, I don't know", "Well, I don't really know", "No, I don't know" and then to remind us of her virtuosity: "You know, I don't honestly know, you know?" There must be a special place in hell for bad folks, intellectually akin to a Noel Coward, an Oscar Wilde, a Dick Cavett or a William F. Buckley, Jr., where unmatched torments in the persons of billions of little Amoebarina demons echoing their murderously repeated brain-dead utterings ad infinitum, ravage the lost souls of these eternally and uselessly brilliant minds.
What about simple little plans to help someone and that are prospective occasions for non-chaos and satisfaction for a job well done. Today, I learned that several medical reports from a specialist I had recently seen were needed by my general practitioner whom I had scheduled an appointment to see. My xerox machine, a generally reliable convenience, allowed me the chance to prepare the necessary copies with no extra time involved traveling to a copy machine store. Upon arriving at the doctor's office I explained, simply and concisely, that I had made these copies for the doctor's files on me and that I only required one copy made (as one of the pages was an original since my ink cartridge at home had just run dry when I attempted to copy this final page). My M.D.'s receptionist nodded, but she hadn't really heard me. One minute later she handed me back all of the pages I had given her, having made copies of all of them. Minor snafu you say? No need to get upset, you suggest? Sure, but multiply those brief minutes of unthinking and unnecessary behavior by all the other instances every day in American offices all over this land and you get an idea of how the culture of waste may be eating out the core of our collective brains in a slow motion Ebola virus-like way that spells doom to a once habitually smart and focused people.
Ever walk into an office (I did recently, and it happened to be another medical facility) near to the start of lunch hour? Minds are suddenly razor sharp and laser-like in their communication of information and subtle perceptions and decision making. "Does the brown rice come with the sesame sauce?" "Are the steamed dumplings as good as No.1 Wok's was?" "Can I still get the dinner portions?" "Do you have an extra take out menu?" No one is catatonic or somnambulating in these circumstances. Men and women, highly skilled and dedicated (brain surgeons and jet airliner pilots as examples) are those we still trust don't need to be hypnotized with an equation of the enthusiasm for a scrumptious dinner to the gusto to achieve a successful result on the operating table or on a tarmac in order to concentrate wholeheartedly on their jobs. But what of the many who firmly believe that merely showing up for one's job is the equivalent of a job well done?
How about the increasingly imbecilic television commercials inflicted upon us in recent years? They have long since passed the milestone of simply insulting the intelligence of prospective customers. Now, pure garbage and intellectual bankruptcy are standard fare for many a company spending milllions on lies and UNFUNNY pitches for their goods or services. Where is the wit, humor and believability of "blind testing" persons on the street by having them imbibe samples of a liquid and seeing how wisely they have chosen an automobile insurance company thereby? Who are they kidding? Surrealism may have a place in advertising but it needs to be conjoined with at least some basic intelligence. Of course, the "Man on the Street" customer in his unassailable wisdom proclaims the inferiority of the brand "x" auto insurance/drink with very dull normal and repeated utterances of "that's no good", "no good, whatever that is." What is no damned good is this commercial and its abominable failure as entertainment and as anything remotely resembling worthwhile communication. Let's not forget also, another automobile insurance company's spiel that uses the powerfully rich, deep and arresting voice of the actor Dennis Haysbert in a disturbing way. Other actors' characters, when extolling the virtues of the insurance firm to less enlightened characters, suddenly speak with Haysbert's voice and are apparently inhabited by his charismatic soul (or at least his acting chops). The effect is somewhat frightening to this blogger who well remembers the impact of Linda Blair's possessed character in "The Exorcist" of many years ago. Perhaps it is arguably not horrifying, but it is undoubtedly neither fascinating nor terribly interesting as a supposedly masterful device to exploit Haybert's "brand" (his wonderful baritone voice) and close the deal on purchasing this insurance. Another particularly irritating item of some of this company's commercials is the use of a totally unbelievable character for the sole purpose (seemingly) of providing a contrast to the vaunted "reliability" of the firm. To explain: several of the ads feature a crew of "hardhats" working, digging and drilling on a street. One worker advises another about insurance (his voice morphing of course, into Haysbert's), then another pair performs similarly and then the foreman corroborates the great virtues of the company to another worker including praise (yes, while explicitly and auditorily channeling Dennis) for its reliable ways "unlike Randy over there." Randy is a hardhat who has just dropped his jackhammer as if it were akin to one of the demons who tortured Ms. Blair's character. Randy is young, very confused and of course, a Caucasian male. This is what passes for comic relief in 21st century commercials and aside from it being a tad racist it is utterly without humor if only because it does not in the least partake of any veracity. A man who is afraid of or incompetent with a jackhammer would not have been hired in the first place and if he had managed to "slip through the cracks" (the favored modern phrase for bureaucratic cock-ups that implies with its metaphor that one is free from responsibility because of an unknown carpenter's inferior craftsmanship) such a display would have been noted and acted upon with dispatch and not as a grudging tolerance of a fellow worker as retarded family member.
So let's gather the creators and producers of inane television commercials, the bird brained who can't perform the simplest tasks of their job descriptions, and the adequately intelligent or even better who only selectively concentrate on their duties or farm them out to entry level types as they wangle for a little extra R&R on the boss' dime. Nothing drastic, I'm afraid can, or I'll admit, should be done to these dolts. However, a period of forced encampment might prove instructive to these ninnies and may cause some reflection, to the extent that they are capable of such thoughtfulness. There is little hope for Amoebarina, but one can pray for her and keep her away from heavy machinery and avoid, especially any inquiries about her knowledge of ANYTHING. When the legendary German Sgt. Schultz of the classic television show "Hogan's Heroes" protested stubbornly that "I know NOTHING!" when being pumped for information by Allied P.O.W.s, he was dissembling surely, but the delicious entertainment value was based on his intelligence and actual knowledge about any given political situation in the "Stalag", played out against his conflicted character's humanity. More and more, as we retreat further and further from the 20th century the utterance "I know NOTHING!" is at best, a brutally honest confession devoid of any tickling of a funny bone or "stonewalling", its only saving grace being its distinction from a horrible new spectre: the burgeoning legions of those who don't know that they know nothing.
But what about the quotidian tedium of folks one unavoidably interacts with who, though not criminals, are so mediocre in the wattage of their collective intellects that one begins to long for a detention of them in a place far away from the rest of us who cogitate with some facility and who do not generally do or say stupid things that interrupt the flow of pleasant, witty and salubrious human exchanges. How I pine for a law that would segregate the likes of a pleasant but thoroughly air headed receptionist (let's call her Amoebarina) from normal society: a gal who,where I once worked (a position that often took me on the road and away from the office) never failed to inform me when returning to the company's reception area, that I had received a telephone call and who also never failed to respond to my query "Who was it?" with the moronic "I don't know." Also unknown to our darling mental cipher was why the person called, whether he or she would call back or what number he or she might be reached at. Seven or eight times this occurred and it at last dawned on me (I was also not terribly sharp on a solution up until then to this state of affairs, I must confess) to inform Amoebarina that she should not inform me of ANY phone calls for me: their importance hopefully assuring that another form of communication would succeed in allowing the interested party to reach me (but one not involving her assistance {?}, "thank you very much anyway, Ms. A."). My irritation with Amoebarina was leavened once when I had the rare opportunity to listen to her while on our shared lunch hour as we sat at our respective desks several yards apart one particularly slow day. A personal call for her, acceptable for these particular circumstances, was, like most "half" conversations, an imperfect tale, i.e. its full comprehension for an audience (me) hobbled by the obvious gaps of the other party's unheard remarks. However, in this case, Amoebarina's replies (and apparently her own creative offerings to supposedly sustain the conversation were especially clueless, as was she, in helping one to get the drift and gist of the talk) were truly virtually indistinguishable and after a short while, very entertaining as an inadvertent comedy skit. Her contributions to enlightenment and to the elevation of human discourse were the following: "I don't know", "Oh, I don't know", "I don't know", "Gee, I don't know", "Well, I don't really know", "No, I don't know" and then to remind us of her virtuosity: "You know, I don't honestly know, you know?" There must be a special place in hell for bad folks, intellectually akin to a Noel Coward, an Oscar Wilde, a Dick Cavett or a William F. Buckley, Jr., where unmatched torments in the persons of billions of little Amoebarina demons echoing their murderously repeated brain-dead utterings ad infinitum, ravage the lost souls of these eternally and uselessly brilliant minds.
What about simple little plans to help someone and that are prospective occasions for non-chaos and satisfaction for a job well done. Today, I learned that several medical reports from a specialist I had recently seen were needed by my general practitioner whom I had scheduled an appointment to see. My xerox machine, a generally reliable convenience, allowed me the chance to prepare the necessary copies with no extra time involved traveling to a copy machine store. Upon arriving at the doctor's office I explained, simply and concisely, that I had made these copies for the doctor's files on me and that I only required one copy made (as one of the pages was an original since my ink cartridge at home had just run dry when I attempted to copy this final page). My M.D.'s receptionist nodded, but she hadn't really heard me. One minute later she handed me back all of the pages I had given her, having made copies of all of them. Minor snafu you say? No need to get upset, you suggest? Sure, but multiply those brief minutes of unthinking and unnecessary behavior by all the other instances every day in American offices all over this land and you get an idea of how the culture of waste may be eating out the core of our collective brains in a slow motion Ebola virus-like way that spells doom to a once habitually smart and focused people.
Ever walk into an office (I did recently, and it happened to be another medical facility) near to the start of lunch hour? Minds are suddenly razor sharp and laser-like in their communication of information and subtle perceptions and decision making. "Does the brown rice come with the sesame sauce?" "Are the steamed dumplings as good as No.1 Wok's was?" "Can I still get the dinner portions?" "Do you have an extra take out menu?" No one is catatonic or somnambulating in these circumstances. Men and women, highly skilled and dedicated (brain surgeons and jet airliner pilots as examples) are those we still trust don't need to be hypnotized with an equation of the enthusiasm for a scrumptious dinner to the gusto to achieve a successful result on the operating table or on a tarmac in order to concentrate wholeheartedly on their jobs. But what of the many who firmly believe that merely showing up for one's job is the equivalent of a job well done?
How about the increasingly imbecilic television commercials inflicted upon us in recent years? They have long since passed the milestone of simply insulting the intelligence of prospective customers. Now, pure garbage and intellectual bankruptcy are standard fare for many a company spending milllions on lies and UNFUNNY pitches for their goods or services. Where is the wit, humor and believability of "blind testing" persons on the street by having them imbibe samples of a liquid and seeing how wisely they have chosen an automobile insurance company thereby? Who are they kidding? Surrealism may have a place in advertising but it needs to be conjoined with at least some basic intelligence. Of course, the "Man on the Street" customer in his unassailable wisdom proclaims the inferiority of the brand "x" auto insurance/drink with very dull normal and repeated utterances of "that's no good", "no good, whatever that is." What is no damned good is this commercial and its abominable failure as entertainment and as anything remotely resembling worthwhile communication. Let's not forget also, another automobile insurance company's spiel that uses the powerfully rich, deep and arresting voice of the actor Dennis Haysbert in a disturbing way. Other actors' characters, when extolling the virtues of the insurance firm to less enlightened characters, suddenly speak with Haysbert's voice and are apparently inhabited by his charismatic soul (or at least his acting chops). The effect is somewhat frightening to this blogger who well remembers the impact of Linda Blair's possessed character in "The Exorcist" of many years ago. Perhaps it is arguably not horrifying, but it is undoubtedly neither fascinating nor terribly interesting as a supposedly masterful device to exploit Haybert's "brand" (his wonderful baritone voice) and close the deal on purchasing this insurance. Another particularly irritating item of some of this company's commercials is the use of a totally unbelievable character for the sole purpose (seemingly) of providing a contrast to the vaunted "reliability" of the firm. To explain: several of the ads feature a crew of "hardhats" working, digging and drilling on a street. One worker advises another about insurance (his voice morphing of course, into Haysbert's), then another pair performs similarly and then the foreman corroborates the great virtues of the company to another worker including praise (yes, while explicitly and auditorily channeling Dennis) for its reliable ways "unlike Randy over there." Randy is a hardhat who has just dropped his jackhammer as if it were akin to one of the demons who tortured Ms. Blair's character. Randy is young, very confused and of course, a Caucasian male. This is what passes for comic relief in 21st century commercials and aside from it being a tad racist it is utterly without humor if only because it does not in the least partake of any veracity. A man who is afraid of or incompetent with a jackhammer would not have been hired in the first place and if he had managed to "slip through the cracks" (the favored modern phrase for bureaucratic cock-ups that implies with its metaphor that one is free from responsibility because of an unknown carpenter's inferior craftsmanship) such a display would have been noted and acted upon with dispatch and not as a grudging tolerance of a fellow worker as retarded family member.
So let's gather the creators and producers of inane television commercials, the bird brained who can't perform the simplest tasks of their job descriptions, and the adequately intelligent or even better who only selectively concentrate on their duties or farm them out to entry level types as they wangle for a little extra R&R on the boss' dime. Nothing drastic, I'm afraid can, or I'll admit, should be done to these dolts. However, a period of forced encampment might prove instructive to these ninnies and may cause some reflection, to the extent that they are capable of such thoughtfulness. There is little hope for Amoebarina, but one can pray for her and keep her away from heavy machinery and avoid, especially any inquiries about her knowledge of ANYTHING. When the legendary German Sgt. Schultz of the classic television show "Hogan's Heroes" protested stubbornly that "I know NOTHING!" when being pumped for information by Allied P.O.W.s, he was dissembling surely, but the delicious entertainment value was based on his intelligence and actual knowledge about any given political situation in the "Stalag", played out against his conflicted character's humanity. More and more, as we retreat further and further from the 20th century the utterance "I know NOTHING!" is at best, a brutally honest confession devoid of any tickling of a funny bone or "stonewalling", its only saving grace being its distinction from a horrible new spectre: the burgeoning legions of those who don't know that they know nothing.
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