I woke up at the same time this morning but this time it was a little earlier so I took a moment to listen. To the news and birds. And some music. It all kind of made me feel like I thought adults would feel when I was little.
I wonder if being French is the answer to being American.
Your love is a soap bubble in a twister and my arms are a meddlesome bumble bee in the cockpit of a helicopter hovering in its vortex.
People’s torsos and trunks weren’t lining up again today. This time some were also on backward and one woman in line at the grocery store had two. I wonder if it’s getting worse.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Next Ham
The only reason I had the job was to see for myself how this store around the corner stayed in business. I couldn’t imagine how these people kept their doors open, unless they were a front for the mob or a cardboard set for a John Watters movie or something.
So of course all I discover is that not only are there idiots out there dim enough to speculate their dead grandfather’s hard earned money on a softball, Prozac-housewife idea like a spiral cut ham store, but also that the only thing the average American can turn his TV off long enough for is to drive around the corner and pick up a frickin’ spiral cut ham. Incredible.
Of course all the businesses ideas I came up with were good ones. That’s why they never succeeded. If I opened a store selling flannel and silk garden hose cozies I’d probably be writing this from a private 747.
So last night on the way home from getting smacked in the face by my ATM I noticed an office holding some sort of new years celebration, which sent me driving home to put on a nice shirt. Back at the door I turned to a guy who looked like he was about to ask me who I was and said I thought Caruthers was out here for some reason, give me a hand finding him, will ya’? And of course the guy turned and disappeared and I was in. People seemed to be mingling in a predictably awkward way, the 30 year old music was just enough to get the white guys doing their weird wiggle and the sheet cake and meatballs looked like they would be happy to start an argument in just about anybody’s lower GI tract without discriminating.
Fielding and sweeping up little pieces of conversation these people turned out to be regional transportation brokers for CSX; Large and stable enough. A few minutes later I turned to laugh at one of Cindy’s personnel department anecdotes and mentioned that a friend had just come on board and was asked for an ID when he came to say hello at my office. She was nice enough to mention that the attendant at the photo ID office was still in at this hour and if Tim was around he could just step in and take care of it. After my photo was taken the guard congratulated me and mentioned that he’d look forward to seeing me on Monday at 8;30 where he offered new hires a ten minute security briefing.
In 24 days I’ll have dental.
So of course all I discover is that not only are there idiots out there dim enough to speculate their dead grandfather’s hard earned money on a softball, Prozac-housewife idea like a spiral cut ham store, but also that the only thing the average American can turn his TV off long enough for is to drive around the corner and pick up a frickin’ spiral cut ham. Incredible.
Of course all the businesses ideas I came up with were good ones. That’s why they never succeeded. If I opened a store selling flannel and silk garden hose cozies I’d probably be writing this from a private 747.
So last night on the way home from getting smacked in the face by my ATM I noticed an office holding some sort of new years celebration, which sent me driving home to put on a nice shirt. Back at the door I turned to a guy who looked like he was about to ask me who I was and said I thought Caruthers was out here for some reason, give me a hand finding him, will ya’? And of course the guy turned and disappeared and I was in. People seemed to be mingling in a predictably awkward way, the 30 year old music was just enough to get the white guys doing their weird wiggle and the sheet cake and meatballs looked like they would be happy to start an argument in just about anybody’s lower GI tract without discriminating.
Fielding and sweeping up little pieces of conversation these people turned out to be regional transportation brokers for CSX; Large and stable enough. A few minutes later I turned to laugh at one of Cindy’s personnel department anecdotes and mentioned that a friend had just come on board and was asked for an ID when he came to say hello at my office. She was nice enough to mention that the attendant at the photo ID office was still in at this hour and if Tim was around he could just step in and take care of it. After my photo was taken the guard congratulated me and mentioned that he’d look forward to seeing me on Monday at 8;30 where he offered new hires a ten minute security briefing.
In 24 days I’ll have dental.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Mammals In Their Habitats
Today there was an accident on the long bridge I traverse home from work and I found all traffic stopped, so I pulled over on the embankment approaching it to wait for things to clear. As I sat on a Jersey barrier facing the bay, a pod of dolphins swam by me more than several times. I was able to lean over and see one, at times less than ten feet away. Once, he swam by very slowly on his side and we shared about ten seconds of eye contact, the exchange distinct enough for me to know that we were engaged in a clear but very subtle and intuitive gesture of non-hostility.
As the dolphins lollygagged about the surface I noticed that they all had deep crevices which ran along their bodies and gouged their fins. It made me sad to think that I was looking at animals which bore the scars of their proximity to humans. They were so intent on play that it was hard to imagine their finding time to forage and hunt. I didn’t think they should have to worry about anything else.
The dolphins went on to address more pressing matters and the traffic dispersed while I stepped back to my car. As drivers we filed past ambulances, fire trucks and a long, sleek white sheet pulled over a body.
Squinting into the sun I found myself wondering if that dolphin was empathizing.
As the dolphins lollygagged about the surface I noticed that they all had deep crevices which ran along their bodies and gouged their fins. It made me sad to think that I was looking at animals which bore the scars of their proximity to humans. They were so intent on play that it was hard to imagine their finding time to forage and hunt. I didn’t think they should have to worry about anything else.
The dolphins went on to address more pressing matters and the traffic dispersed while I stepped back to my car. As drivers we filed past ambulances, fire trucks and a long, sleek white sheet pulled over a body.
Squinting into the sun I found myself wondering if that dolphin was empathizing.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Street Sweeper
Most of the time I would have remembered, but somehow I found myself holed up in Richmond with the Hawaiian Schefelera and a pile of bologna wrappers. I think there was an after hours club somewhere, going out a bit before the clubs shut was ok and I could sleep through afternoon. The lesbian down the hall would knock on my door sometimes, and I think some of my early flip book drawings were passed under her door in jest.
Most days had me lonely lonely lonely. My face was plastered on me then. I think the flying gate was the only bike I had, before I put the old Super Record on it, I rode with some guys from UofR who were trying to start a velo team. They thought I was in much better shape than I was. The bike only got out one or two days a week anyway, so there was more time in the room.
My old friend Cindy wanted to know why the girl down the hall plead to come out with us, sounded incredulous when I told her, maybe excited. She winked towards my bed on the floor.
The brownstone was high-ceilinged and had nice breezes, passing out in the kitchen or den bothered no one. One couple downstairs was shooting and the lesbian told me she wanted to try. I asked her not to and she didn’t, came to listen to my radio one night.
I had a police scanner with two shortbands as well. There was an Israeli show at five in the morning, European House that we enjoyed. Not wanting the lesbian felt fine, she slept nicely in my arms: had been abused by her father and carried a gun in her purse for that.
The police were always at our door. That was still the South then, in the 70's, crew cutted good old boys not much for our sort of abandon, some things coming to us just a little to easy. They were waiting.
Once the door in the room opened to a patio but now it is gone. A summer day the lesbian and I pryed its painted jam and sat in our underwear legs dangling the alley. The sun was beating the needles down the hall into a plan.
The lesbian said no so I left for Israel myself. Cindy tried to take care of her but she finally stepped onto the lanai.
Most days had me lonely lonely lonely. My face was plastered on me then. I think the flying gate was the only bike I had, before I put the old Super Record on it, I rode with some guys from UofR who were trying to start a velo team. They thought I was in much better shape than I was. The bike only got out one or two days a week anyway, so there was more time in the room.
My old friend Cindy wanted to know why the girl down the hall plead to come out with us, sounded incredulous when I told her, maybe excited. She winked towards my bed on the floor.
The brownstone was high-ceilinged and had nice breezes, passing out in the kitchen or den bothered no one. One couple downstairs was shooting and the lesbian told me she wanted to try. I asked her not to and she didn’t, came to listen to my radio one night.
I had a police scanner with two shortbands as well. There was an Israeli show at five in the morning, European House that we enjoyed. Not wanting the lesbian felt fine, she slept nicely in my arms: had been abused by her father and carried a gun in her purse for that.
The police were always at our door. That was still the South then, in the 70's, crew cutted good old boys not much for our sort of abandon, some things coming to us just a little to easy. They were waiting.
Once the door in the room opened to a patio but now it is gone. A summer day the lesbian and I pryed its painted jam and sat in our underwear legs dangling the alley. The sun was beating the needles down the hall into a plan.
The lesbian said no so I left for Israel myself. Cindy tried to take care of her but she finally stepped onto the lanai.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Necrophilia
The stewardess turned mid word and caught herself saying Sir, realized that I didn’t intend to appear belligerent, wouldn’t want to ask me to disembark for that. Smiling askew I fumbled my bags overhead reaching inside for the vile, elsewhere everyone settled in. The fitted polyester uniform swaying the isle, finally looking down to Her smile.
I felt her looking and didn’t want to. Three pills came from my pocket and a tiny bottle of bourbon. Then, as our plane taxied we came to rest at the runway with brakes locked and engines revving. “This is the best part”, her eyes held my flashing glee. Smiling in acceleration I opened the bottle to find her hand grasping mine, opening the palm. The plane tilted upwards as she nodded, indicating two pills be returned to the vile.
In the white silence of Pratt and Whitneys, succumbing to the give of flex and fold brushing whispers back into me. Then hours later, just another unexpected landing.
I felt her looking and didn’t want to. Three pills came from my pocket and a tiny bottle of bourbon. Then, as our plane taxied we came to rest at the runway with brakes locked and engines revving. “This is the best part”, her eyes held my flashing glee. Smiling in acceleration I opened the bottle to find her hand grasping mine, opening the palm. The plane tilted upwards as she nodded, indicating two pills be returned to the vile.
In the white silence of Pratt and Whitneys, succumbing to the give of flex and fold brushing whispers back into me. Then hours later, just another unexpected landing.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Past Light Cone
I had never spoken to Ray, the guy who sat behind me in Algebra, but I read about him in the newspaper. Apparently he had been hanging out with friends at one of their house’s when someone discovered what they thought to be an older brother’s cocaine stash. After inhaling the entire quantity between them they quickly succumbed to the affects of PCB and one by one fell into a deep comatose state. Just before collapse one of the girls had dialed 911 and Ray, hearing this, miracously climbed into the attic and hid there until paramedics found the open door to climb in and administer cardio pulmonary ressesutation. That, to me, represented a certain level of experience and dedication.
Our Algebra class took place after lunch and I frequently smelled booze on Ray. That, Ray’s reputation as an ass kicker and the fact that he was older and had an easy hundred pounds on me combined quite effectively to instill draw clenching fear every time I sat down. Still, I knew that if liquor was detected in our vicinity the blame would certainly fall on him since no one at the time suspected I was drinking my lunch. I would have let that happen too as I knew that the address given with the police report had listed Ray as living at some church, and I imagined a poor derelict orphan rattling around echoing halls badgered by clergymen to do homework. I didn’t care what happened to him.
In the silence of our first Algebra test a finger in my ribs pushed me to the side of my chair. I understood and let him copy my answers.
The school was undergoing a large renovation project then so afterwards I ducked into a construction zone for a smoke. When I was done Ray was just heading in, surprised to see someone like me there. As we stood for a moment he looked over and said “cool”. I knew he was talking about the exam.
*********************************
I was a loner yet also a bit of a loose cannon, and there happened to be a rather pleasurable circumstance with a nicely formed specimen which had gone awry. I didn’t blame her but apparently that generosity of spirit was not reciprocated. During an inopportune moment surrounded by many people she accused me in a loud tone of being gay, and I let loose. The verbal assault attracted a great deal of attention, including that of some athlete type senior year dork in the mood to play night in shining armor. Undeterred I went on as this guy came in for my neck, but just as he was about to land he was yanked from the ground. Ray. After the smoke cleared a gym coach came through the waning crowd and asked me if she called me a “fag”. I confirmed that and he smiled and said “well done. I didn’t see a thing”. Imagine, a coach and a 225 pound juvenile delinquent abandoning their differences to come to my side? The feeling of that sort of comradery during my time of duress has stuck with me to this day.
Last night I was hanging out with a bunch of guys down by the cay. We were all more than a bit schnockered and feeling pretty good. I didn’t know everyone but, you know, I knew someone that everyone knew. One of the guys I didn’t found it necessary to grab his guitar and smash it against a tree. I thought to myself What an impetuous fool, stay away from that one. And then I remembered Algebra, how I had been deceived by my early impressions, understood that all I knew about this guy was that he
harmed nothing but his own guitar.
It turns out that Ray truly was the orphan I imagined him to be, and to many people made the mistake I did in class. So now, even though I’ve forgotten most of the Algebra, I’m going to remember the sentiment and see if I can save the next guitar.
Our Algebra class took place after lunch and I frequently smelled booze on Ray. That, Ray’s reputation as an ass kicker and the fact that he was older and had an easy hundred pounds on me combined quite effectively to instill draw clenching fear every time I sat down. Still, I knew that if liquor was detected in our vicinity the blame would certainly fall on him since no one at the time suspected I was drinking my lunch. I would have let that happen too as I knew that the address given with the police report had listed Ray as living at some church, and I imagined a poor derelict orphan rattling around echoing halls badgered by clergymen to do homework. I didn’t care what happened to him.
In the silence of our first Algebra test a finger in my ribs pushed me to the side of my chair. I understood and let him copy my answers.
The school was undergoing a large renovation project then so afterwards I ducked into a construction zone for a smoke. When I was done Ray was just heading in, surprised to see someone like me there. As we stood for a moment he looked over and said “cool”. I knew he was talking about the exam.
*********************************
I was a loner yet also a bit of a loose cannon, and there happened to be a rather pleasurable circumstance with a nicely formed specimen which had gone awry. I didn’t blame her but apparently that generosity of spirit was not reciprocated. During an inopportune moment surrounded by many people she accused me in a loud tone of being gay, and I let loose. The verbal assault attracted a great deal of attention, including that of some athlete type senior year dork in the mood to play night in shining armor. Undeterred I went on as this guy came in for my neck, but just as he was about to land he was yanked from the ground. Ray. After the smoke cleared a gym coach came through the waning crowd and asked me if she called me a “fag”. I confirmed that and he smiled and said “well done. I didn’t see a thing”. Imagine, a coach and a 225 pound juvenile delinquent abandoning their differences to come to my side? The feeling of that sort of comradery during my time of duress has stuck with me to this day.
Last night I was hanging out with a bunch of guys down by the cay. We were all more than a bit schnockered and feeling pretty good. I didn’t know everyone but, you know, I knew someone that everyone knew. One of the guys I didn’t found it necessary to grab his guitar and smash it against a tree. I thought to myself What an impetuous fool, stay away from that one. And then I remembered Algebra, how I had been deceived by my early impressions, understood that all I knew about this guy was that he
harmed nothing but his own guitar.
It turns out that Ray truly was the orphan I imagined him to be, and to many people made the mistake I did in class. So now, even though I’ve forgotten most of the Algebra, I’m going to remember the sentiment and see if I can save the next guitar.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Constitution
For the past four weeks I’ve been aboard the unregistered Pacific Seacraft Dana marked Collette off the coast of Eastern Central America. The waters have been, for the most part, calm and delightful. As I’ve tacked easily across the Gulf schools of fishes have been traveling afoot as I’ve teased them with my fly rod, using circle hooks to ensure that most could be safely released. Because the owner has installed a propane refrigerator I have had reliable food storage so I take about one fish every other day. On the first day I have sashimi then throughout the second and sometimes the third I have yaki sakana and ceviche. Other than that I read, listen to shortwave radio and scan the horizon, always beset with guilt for not doing so for fear of missing a distressed vessel or crewman.
Though I have experienced remarkable sites during this delivery I have not enjoyed the sensation of sharing them. I have painstakingly corroded two circuits on my radio to provide an explanation should the Coast Guard board Collette. I do not watch TV or movies. The lapping of wave on hull is small comfort to my ears.
Very Large Crude Carriers known as Panamax or VLCCs frequent these waters, and sometimes when I go to sleep I wonder if I will succumb to their inertia and mass, woken only to drown among sunken fiberglass splinters. I’m sure I would not be the first and only wonder how many Chinese junks Collette would join in heaven.
Unforeseen factors aside I will birth in Miami in three days. Before then I will adjust the aspiration on the spotless Volvo diesel and test, analyze and monitor the entire electrical system. I will polish teak with lamp oil and eat from cans to maintain a spotless deck. Within one day’s sail I will no longer allow weary birds to rest aboard ship as they will be well within land’s and other’s reach.
On the morning of the last day I will also uncleat collette’s halyard and lower the jib, spray it with fresh water, allow it to luff dry, then stow it below. Within an hour of port I will do the same with her mainsail. Both will be inspected carefully beforehand.
Shortly before port I will shower and don a ridiculously pretentious nautical cap, blazer and slacks. I will wave only to sailors, then motor in awkwardly so that my skills appear to match my outfit, cleat up and come ashore. I will hand the keys to Collette’s cabin and electrical system to a man who has been hired specifically for the occasion to relive the harbor master, strip off my cap and glasses in a rented car and disappear into traffic.
Twelve hours later a flight, a bus ride and a cab will bring me to the cottage. I will double check my pockets and backpack for any paper, put my marlinspike in a drawer and step on the scale in my bathroom. As the mechanical dial spins I will take a deep breath, hear my weight finally register and come back into being to prepare for my bed. In Vermont. Impossibly inland from VLCCs.
Though I have experienced remarkable sites during this delivery I have not enjoyed the sensation of sharing them. I have painstakingly corroded two circuits on my radio to provide an explanation should the Coast Guard board Collette. I do not watch TV or movies. The lapping of wave on hull is small comfort to my ears.
Very Large Crude Carriers known as Panamax or VLCCs frequent these waters, and sometimes when I go to sleep I wonder if I will succumb to their inertia and mass, woken only to drown among sunken fiberglass splinters. I’m sure I would not be the first and only wonder how many Chinese junks Collette would join in heaven.
Unforeseen factors aside I will birth in Miami in three days. Before then I will adjust the aspiration on the spotless Volvo diesel and test, analyze and monitor the entire electrical system. I will polish teak with lamp oil and eat from cans to maintain a spotless deck. Within one day’s sail I will no longer allow weary birds to rest aboard ship as they will be well within land’s and other’s reach.
On the morning of the last day I will also uncleat collette’s halyard and lower the jib, spray it with fresh water, allow it to luff dry, then stow it below. Within an hour of port I will do the same with her mainsail. Both will be inspected carefully beforehand.
Shortly before port I will shower and don a ridiculously pretentious nautical cap, blazer and slacks. I will wave only to sailors, then motor in awkwardly so that my skills appear to match my outfit, cleat up and come ashore. I will hand the keys to Collette’s cabin and electrical system to a man who has been hired specifically for the occasion to relive the harbor master, strip off my cap and glasses in a rented car and disappear into traffic.
Twelve hours later a flight, a bus ride and a cab will bring me to the cottage. I will double check my pockets and backpack for any paper, put my marlinspike in a drawer and step on the scale in my bathroom. As the mechanical dial spins I will take a deep breath, hear my weight finally register and come back into being to prepare for my bed. In Vermont. Impossibly inland from VLCCs.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Theft
If you’ve never heard Foghat’s “Smoke on the Water” you’re probably an Amish farmer reading a computer screen for the first time or one of those Japanese soldiers they found on Iwojima ignorant of the outcome of WWII, so none of this is going to make any sense to you.
The rest of you recognize this Rock anthem from Beavis and Butthead, every stoner movie made, or heard it blasting from that primered El Camino the weird guy who hangs out downtown drives.
My brother and I witnessed the introduction of this beacon of pop ignorance around the time we were in junior high and of course recognized it for the genius that it was.
Our father, having studied bassoon throughout his youth and early adulthood was unaware of “Smoke on the Water”, or pretty much anything that came along after the Gutenberg press.
We used to get to tag along with him when he performed at The New York City Ballet, which of course meant a chance at a brief interlude with a Balanchine-sexy ballerina. There was other cool stuff about that too, like seeing Lincoln Center from the pit and watching Dad warm up for the show. One by one musicians would wander in to tune, toot or pluck their instruments into shape while the audience awaited the conductor.
You know where this is going, right?
The house is packed and silent: Dad is the first musician in the pit; he assembles his bassoon, arranges the evening’s sheet music and plays the first five or six bars of “Smoke”. People said they could hear the audience roar all the way from the fountain.
Everyone knew who put my Dad up to this and Roderick and I were pelted with admiration like rose petals on matadors in the musician’s lounge that night.
.
The rest of you recognize this Rock anthem from Beavis and Butthead, every stoner movie made, or heard it blasting from that primered El Camino the weird guy who hangs out downtown drives.
My brother and I witnessed the introduction of this beacon of pop ignorance around the time we were in junior high and of course recognized it for the genius that it was.
Our father, having studied bassoon throughout his youth and early adulthood was unaware of “Smoke on the Water”, or pretty much anything that came along after the Gutenberg press.
We used to get to tag along with him when he performed at The New York City Ballet, which of course meant a chance at a brief interlude with a Balanchine-sexy ballerina. There was other cool stuff about that too, like seeing Lincoln Center from the pit and watching Dad warm up for the show. One by one musicians would wander in to tune, toot or pluck their instruments into shape while the audience awaited the conductor.
You know where this is going, right?
The house is packed and silent: Dad is the first musician in the pit; he assembles his bassoon, arranges the evening’s sheet music and plays the first five or six bars of “Smoke”. People said they could hear the audience roar all the way from the fountain.
Everyone knew who put my Dad up to this and Roderick and I were pelted with admiration like rose petals on matadors in the musician’s lounge that night.
.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Quill
Occasionally, if you’re unfortunate enough to live through a couple of lifetimes of the usual pitfalls, you’ll come across a decent soul who sees whatever the hell it was in you that you never saw yourself. I’ve been around without the chemicals long enough to realize the guilt of having two of those: It’s heartwarming and it sucks, that’s all.
One has found me opportunity and the other is attempting to find me work. As a writer. People think of me as a writer. I can’t reconcile my humility when I hear them say so, but to me it is a glamour that no Hollywood Star will ever know upon red carpet or otherwise.
The embrace of all this kneads in me like flower and yeast, rising.
One has found me opportunity and the other is attempting to find me work. As a writer. People think of me as a writer. I can’t reconcile my humility when I hear them say so, but to me it is a glamour that no Hollywood Star will ever know upon red carpet or otherwise.
The embrace of all this kneads in me like flower and yeast, rising.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Ecological responsibility, Red Goshawks and the 19 plastic box cutters that conquered the most powerful army ever to exist
I’m one of those environmentally conscious people who bicycles instead of driving, separates all his recyclables, boycotts products made by large corporations known to commit atrocities against mother earth and eats as low on the food chain as possible in order to conserve this small blue planet we live upon. I was a member of the international retired Olympic relay swim team that swam the Mac G3 hard drive under the US coast guard’s radar and into Cuba from Mexico in order to revise the sugar refinement technology of that socialist country.
But you know what…I’m not doing any of that crap anymore. What is the sense in it all? Mere perpetuation of the planet, the people who will continue to mess it up and the other detritus that was here before us? I simply can’t see the value in that. Am I to leave my ’67 Ford F10 in the garage just so some smiling infant can grow up to guzzle the petroleum I’ve conserved for her? Or maybe I should forego using antibiotics when I’ve some disease just so that particular strain won’t become more virulent and compromise the teeny bit of life remaining in some octogenarian who pillaged the women of the French countryside during WWI. It’s all idiotic.
And don’t think you’re some particular breed of intellect because you’ve read that idiot Sartre and you think I’m just regurgitating his drunken blather. Because you and I both know that if he was around today he’d be writing editorials for Harpers, spending $37 for a loaf of whole wheat stone pulped peasant bread from Dean and Deluca’s and mail ordering 12 year old boys from Laos .
But you know what? All kidding aside, starting this very minute I’m living it up. I’ve got the frikin’ truck idling in the driveway right now just so the AC will be nice and chilly when I step into it. I made out holiday cards bestowing lavish donations to the NRA in the name of all my friends. I’m going into town tonight to buy 15 bags of heroin and a rig, and I’m going to teach myself how to use it without any assistance. I’m itchin to make an omelet out of a California Condor egg. And if I live long enough I’m going to vote for that Mitt guy.
So cheers to all the amputated limbs we’ll be leaving behind in Iraq and then Iran, how’do’you’do to the Andean herders who’ve shed their skins under the ozone hole and pleased to meet you to the silos of multi-headed nuclear and nerve gas infused missiles of Omaha and Nebraska.
If anyone needs me I’ll be out in my ’47 Hataras harpooning bottlenose dolphins with incendiary harpoon tips.
But you know what…I’m not doing any of that crap anymore. What is the sense in it all? Mere perpetuation of the planet, the people who will continue to mess it up and the other detritus that was here before us? I simply can’t see the value in that. Am I to leave my ’67 Ford F10 in the garage just so some smiling infant can grow up to guzzle the petroleum I’ve conserved for her? Or maybe I should forego using antibiotics when I’ve some disease just so that particular strain won’t become more virulent and compromise the teeny bit of life remaining in some octogenarian who pillaged the women of the French countryside during WWI. It’s all idiotic.
And don’t think you’re some particular breed of intellect because you’ve read that idiot Sartre and you think I’m just regurgitating his drunken blather. Because you and I both know that if he was around today he’d be writing editorials for Harpers, spending $37 for a loaf of whole wheat stone pulped peasant bread from Dean and Deluca’s and mail ordering 12 year old boys from Laos .
But you know what? All kidding aside, starting this very minute I’m living it up. I’ve got the frikin’ truck idling in the driveway right now just so the AC will be nice and chilly when I step into it. I made out holiday cards bestowing lavish donations to the NRA in the name of all my friends. I’m going into town tonight to buy 15 bags of heroin and a rig, and I’m going to teach myself how to use it without any assistance. I’m itchin to make an omelet out of a California Condor egg. And if I live long enough I’m going to vote for that Mitt guy.
So cheers to all the amputated limbs we’ll be leaving behind in Iraq and then Iran, how’do’you’do to the Andean herders who’ve shed their skins under the ozone hole and pleased to meet you to the silos of multi-headed nuclear and nerve gas infused missiles of Omaha and Nebraska.
If anyone needs me I’ll be out in my ’47 Hataras harpooning bottlenose dolphins with incendiary harpoon tips.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Global Warming Melted the Snowcaps so Now We Can See the Mountaintops More Clearly
Many years ago a boy grew up among a dusty Pueblo in New Mexico crooked between a gas station, a small market and a five-and-dime. The boy had sun kissed cheeks and felt nothing between his heels and the earth his family worked and lived upon. Together on Sundays they walked eight miles to church, holding hands, breathing the day and feeling their Sabbath clothing. The boy walking next to his father, the man’s passion for faith flowing down through his hand and into his son’s. As the boy knew crops rose to the sun, that night came after day he also knew he would become a preacher.
Far from the Pueblo his cracked and dated valise held all but his faith. He felt the big city, overlooked vice and embraced the people and their ways. He preached in a small storefront, was offered morning hours on a local radio station. Soon, all the other girls and boys who felt the earth of their Pueblos while growing up listened to the boy and remembered their churches and helped fill the city with kindnesses.
In much the same way a small Belgian farmer’s son worked and learned alongside his father. Their family tilled the land, and the father had a small tractor repair behind the house were he offered honest maintenance to the machines of the community. That boy knew also, as a stone falls to earth or an object in motion will come to rest, that he would grow to be an engineer.
As both boys grew the world became smaller and the possibilities of all we could accomplish as one emerged. And through this truer spirit of freedom, ingenuity and thought the boy from the Pueblo preached to his fellows. He taught and listened, and understood that he had been granted by them their leadership. But others to far away who never felt the earth and only knew cold cities became afraid.
Our Belgian mechanist embraced his fathers tenacity and craft, and was renowned for solving difficult technical problems. His disciplined mind addressed only it’s task, as was the way of a good scientist. Three of these tasks, however, led to the design of firearms. And these were drawn and produced to operate with the reliability and precision of a tractor repaired in a farmhouse shed by a man who knew that a family’s well-being relied on its operation.
In Los Angeles the boy held forth hope and led the children of Pueblos to embrace, forgive and accomplish all that God had put in their hearts. He asked them to glimpse a far-off vision of where their faith and patience and labor could take them. A thirst grew for this simple, natural spirit and the boy would travel about to quench it and lead the hands of people to that of God’s.
One other boy grew up. He had lived with many families. He spoke of no father. He gave no thought to his future which one day led him to the back seat of a Plymouth, across from a small, seedy hotel, with a Belgian rifle designed by John Browning in his lap.
The hopes of the Pueblos and the purity of a father's son spilled that day on the hotel’s cement balcony, dried, and disappeared from the earth. Today small boys in Pueblos wear Chinese shoes and watch television. Belgian fields are tilled, plowed, sown and reaped by maintenance free machines manned by computers. And father’s hands hold bars now, not children.
Every year that April fourth passes silently we fail all three.
Far from the Pueblo his cracked and dated valise held all but his faith. He felt the big city, overlooked vice and embraced the people and their ways. He preached in a small storefront, was offered morning hours on a local radio station. Soon, all the other girls and boys who felt the earth of their Pueblos while growing up listened to the boy and remembered their churches and helped fill the city with kindnesses.
In much the same way a small Belgian farmer’s son worked and learned alongside his father. Their family tilled the land, and the father had a small tractor repair behind the house were he offered honest maintenance to the machines of the community. That boy knew also, as a stone falls to earth or an object in motion will come to rest, that he would grow to be an engineer.
As both boys grew the world became smaller and the possibilities of all we could accomplish as one emerged. And through this truer spirit of freedom, ingenuity and thought the boy from the Pueblo preached to his fellows. He taught and listened, and understood that he had been granted by them their leadership. But others to far away who never felt the earth and only knew cold cities became afraid.
Our Belgian mechanist embraced his fathers tenacity and craft, and was renowned for solving difficult technical problems. His disciplined mind addressed only it’s task, as was the way of a good scientist. Three of these tasks, however, led to the design of firearms. And these were drawn and produced to operate with the reliability and precision of a tractor repaired in a farmhouse shed by a man who knew that a family’s well-being relied on its operation.
In Los Angeles the boy held forth hope and led the children of Pueblos to embrace, forgive and accomplish all that God had put in their hearts. He asked them to glimpse a far-off vision of where their faith and patience and labor could take them. A thirst grew for this simple, natural spirit and the boy would travel about to quench it and lead the hands of people to that of God’s.
One other boy grew up. He had lived with many families. He spoke of no father. He gave no thought to his future which one day led him to the back seat of a Plymouth, across from a small, seedy hotel, with a Belgian rifle designed by John Browning in his lap.
The hopes of the Pueblos and the purity of a father's son spilled that day on the hotel’s cement balcony, dried, and disappeared from the earth. Today small boys in Pueblos wear Chinese shoes and watch television. Belgian fields are tilled, plowed, sown and reaped by maintenance free machines manned by computers. And father’s hands hold bars now, not children.
Every year that April fourth passes silently we fail all three.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Green Coconut Milk with Gin
You kind of have to know how young city mothers pat their children’s buts in admonition to understand, but I saw exactly that one day long ago in Christianstedt. I was walking back, in early morning I guess, still drunk probably but those soursops called to me. I had my own swagger then and had no doubt about its affect, but as I walked the curb ahead there was a mother with her daughter stepping hand in hand. A man, a Rastafarian, passed us on horseback saddleless as slow as Conquistador upon smoldering city. Hair down to his trousers, slouching to the clop clop clop of hooves.
With mischievous sincerity the little girl spoke upward…. “Mommy, when I grow up I want to marry a Rastafarian”.
I hope she has.
With mischievous sincerity the little girl spoke upward…. “Mommy, when I grow up I want to marry a Rastafarian”.
I hope she has.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Thanks For Lunch
The unusually large expanse of porcelain inherent in the design of an indoor swimming pool obscures ordinary sounds, but when a fist fight breaks out the scuffling rings with Wagnerian intensity, so I was not the first to run over to assert civility. Just as I grabbed one guy from behind though his assailant went for a roundhouse and landed it square on my jaw. Turning back I realized the errant swinger was my brother whom I hadn’t seen for upward of ten years. That we both found our way to a semi-private club’s Olympic swimming pool in the outskirts of the Hamptons is an entirely different matter.
Whilst the punch’s bruise darkened he and I decided to have lunch and catch up, as we had many mutual friends in days gone by. We were both reminded of long forgotten triumphs and tales, and of course the delights of this place’s roast beef sandwiches with their vigorous horseradish sauce.
The story of another lunch involving a Vodka family reunion of sorts came to mind, and I’d like to take this opportunity to share that with you.
My brother Roderick was attending Julliard at the time, and had already become quite bored with the sampling of notes and bars he had come across. My mother, who by then was living in Purchase, had decided to lunch with my brother in an attempt no doubt to cheer him up. As usual my brother astounded all involved, this time by suggesting that they meet at the then newly renovated Plaza Hotel.
They spoke and ate, and by the time my brother leaned back in his chair to digest neither truffle nor trite had been spared, and several bottles of botyrized wine lay in carnage. Smiling, my brother received the check and continued the conversation which I understand never ran toward the subject of expense.
After an appropriate amount of time had lapsed Roderick excused himself to see to a matter at the front desk. There, a studious young lady in an impeccably pressed uniform inquired as to how she could help, whereupon he asked for a sheet of hotel stationary. While discretely writing the three words on such he requested that it be placed in the box of a Mr. Southington. Noting my brothers own well-heeled appearance the clerk assumed Roderick had meant Mr. Wellington and said so, placing the note in the box meant for room 617. My brother, of course, took the opportunity to note the number.
Returning to the table he thanked my mother for her indulgence, forged Mr. Wellington’s signature and room number on the check, and draped my mother’s stoal over her shoulders. On the way out my mother, who apparently had just sacrificed her annual pilgrimage to Bermuda in order to cover tuition, made it known that she had glanced at the twelve-hundred dollar check and her look betrayed something less than glee.
It seems that my brother chose to wait until the pair was five or six steps outside the hotel before disclosing his subterfuge, and it was then that they took to fleeing through the streets of Manhattan like turn of the century pickle thieves starving in a market.
Laughing at both incidents a sharp pain hit where the blow had landed as Roderick picked up the tab. And while he winked at my faux protestation I remembered that he had become a high-profile contractor to the DOD, and let’s just say the founder of “Wellington Aerospace”.
Whilst the punch’s bruise darkened he and I decided to have lunch and catch up, as we had many mutual friends in days gone by. We were both reminded of long forgotten triumphs and tales, and of course the delights of this place’s roast beef sandwiches with their vigorous horseradish sauce.
The story of another lunch involving a Vodka family reunion of sorts came to mind, and I’d like to take this opportunity to share that with you.
My brother Roderick was attending Julliard at the time, and had already become quite bored with the sampling of notes and bars he had come across. My mother, who by then was living in Purchase, had decided to lunch with my brother in an attempt no doubt to cheer him up. As usual my brother astounded all involved, this time by suggesting that they meet at the then newly renovated Plaza Hotel.
They spoke and ate, and by the time my brother leaned back in his chair to digest neither truffle nor trite had been spared, and several bottles of botyrized wine lay in carnage. Smiling, my brother received the check and continued the conversation which I understand never ran toward the subject of expense.
After an appropriate amount of time had lapsed Roderick excused himself to see to a matter at the front desk. There, a studious young lady in an impeccably pressed uniform inquired as to how she could help, whereupon he asked for a sheet of hotel stationary. While discretely writing the three words on such he requested that it be placed in the box of a Mr. Southington. Noting my brothers own well-heeled appearance the clerk assumed Roderick had meant Mr. Wellington and said so, placing the note in the box meant for room 617. My brother, of course, took the opportunity to note the number.
Returning to the table he thanked my mother for her indulgence, forged Mr. Wellington’s signature and room number on the check, and draped my mother’s stoal over her shoulders. On the way out my mother, who apparently had just sacrificed her annual pilgrimage to Bermuda in order to cover tuition, made it known that she had glanced at the twelve-hundred dollar check and her look betrayed something less than glee.
It seems that my brother chose to wait until the pair was five or six steps outside the hotel before disclosing his subterfuge, and it was then that they took to fleeing through the streets of Manhattan like turn of the century pickle thieves starving in a market.
Laughing at both incidents a sharp pain hit where the blow had landed as Roderick picked up the tab. And while he winked at my faux protestation I remembered that he had become a high-profile contractor to the DOD, and let’s just say the founder of “Wellington Aerospace”.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Wag
I’ve been thinking about terrorists, and the ideology that leads them to their behavior. If you get past the horrific damage, lost lives, pain and human suffering, it all just seems to be a comic and counterproductive way of going about things. I mean, how in the world do these people think that they are going to accomplish anything? Do they see Tony Blair saying Gee, that was all rather much, best we leave old Ireland to them and be done with it. Or the Knesset saying Wow, I always knew it happened, but right here in Morty’s falafel stand? Hand over the occupied territories and let’s get back to the sheckles.
They all seem to me to be a bunch of whiney spoiled kids holding their breath because Mom won’t serve them bologna sandwiches for lunch. Which is bad enough. But the part that really irks me is the lack of ingenuity. Instead of hunkering down and arriving at some enlightened way to illustrate their cause, these people just engage in the basest part of human nature. The innovative thinking that really gets the job done, like Gandhi’s Passive Resistance or Winston Churchill’s thundering overtures, is really where it’s at. Crashing airplanes into Metropolitan areas just tends to piss people off.
Now for a lesson in international relations and crises resolution, my Uncle Dick would be the guy to turn to. He was the sort who could have had an enormous effect on grander situations, had he chosen to take them up. But of course he just stuck to aluminum.
I remember once when I was about 13 or 14 we went off to look at an old car he was interested in buying. We went down this long unpaved driveway and came up on the rig and it’s owner, and before I could get out of the car my uncle had the guy knee deep in it. The part of the conversation I heard went something like this: “Ya know, you look a heck of a lot like this guy Timothy I was in the war with (my uncle was never in any war), heck of a guy that Tim was, could drink a fish out’ a water, hey, we found this great local beer on the way up, how ‘bout havin’ one (sound of two beers opening halfway through this sentence) anyway…. (here the guy actually chimes in that he has been mistaken for Timothy before) hey, I noticed ya’ got an old post and beam barn, ‘been thinkin’ about building one of those (you’d have to go through a box of nails before you could get my uncle to hammer one in unbent)…mind if I have a look”. ‘Next thing you know the two of them are jostling towards the barn like they’d been best friends from birth. Anyway, about 20 minutes later when he came back to find me sitting in the car with my second beer crotched, he tosses me the keys and tells me to follow him home. Never once bothering to discern whether I’d driven before, of course. Needless to say, if he paid half of what the car was worth, it was probably the worst deal he’d ever made.
Uncle Dick would tell anyone who asked that he was a purchasing agent for American Can, and that that was why he spent most of his professional life traveling. I think a microscopic evaluation of that claim would yield archeological remnants of fact, but nothing substantial enough to tuck into a shirt pocket. There was just something shady about the way he said it. That a large manufacturing concern would send someone like my uncle all over the world in search of good deals on equipment and raw materials was no great surprise. But everyone knew he was capable of coming back from two months in Siberia with a deep full body tan. And once, when I was there and he had just returned from the home office, I was surprised to see him dapper in a grey suit, and not surprised at all to see, upon closer inspection, that his tie revealed the tiny words “F… Y..” almost disappearing into pattern.
The other shady thing about my uncle was that he was always in the middle of rebuilding antique cars, but they were never getting rebuilt. But without exception their radios were always in stellar condition, and each served as the perfect place to sit listening, drinking and hiding from Aunt Joy. Oh yeah, that’s the other thing: he wasn’t my uncle. Everyone in my family referred to him and his wife as Uncle Dick and Aunt Joy, but they were related neither through name, birth or proximity to anyone I knew. An explanation was never offered nor solicited.
The thing you have to understand about my uncle, the part that makes this all OK, is that the guy was just so damn likable. There wasn’t a bar, ball game or board room that he couldn’t find a friend in. I’m pretty sure that if you put him in a Pygmy convention he’d shrink two feet for the occasion. So even though I’m pretty sure he only spoke English, I know his attitude translated just as well throughout his travels.
Anyway, one of the reasons my brother and I liked Uncle Dick so much was his genuine caring. Once, when we were quite young, he brought back this beautiful Geisha doll from Japan and told us the story of how he came across it. We knew the glass encased icon wasn’t the only load he was giving us, but none the less we sat riveted to the oration. Here’s how events unfolded:
Apparently he was in Japan purchasing aluminum. Now, I just want to reiterate here that in my adult life, especially upon reflection, I’ve come to understand that purchasing aluminum, like so many other explanations offered by my Uncle Dick, was most probably a metaphor. What the hell he was really doing in Japan, or wherever he was, was probably pretty damn far from purchasing aluminum. Refitting cargo ships with secret holds or Midget Formula One Interspecies Nude Racing would probably be a lot closer to home. Anyway, his story places him in Japan. In a bar, of course.
My Uncle goes on to explain the meanderings of his inebriated mind and how he came to befriend this fella who wanted to take a real American cowboy home to meet the family. You have to remember, I was only a kid when I first heard this story, so we’re talking early 1950’s or thereabouts, so the world had not gotten as small as it is today. And my uncle was describing the intricacies of Japanese culture as he saw it, with a fascination akin to discovering a herd of wild elephants playing pinochle in a downpour with lavender umbrellas held aloft betwixt jewel encrusted mandibles .
As a gesture of kindness, out of sheer curiosity or perhaps just pure lapse in judgment, these people had invited my uncle to spend his stay in their home, which must have delighted him, always eager for adventure and emersion. I wonder, though, what their school age children must have thought the following days as this bleary eyed Westerner came stumbling into their home without his trousers as they were heading off for breakfast and school.
Apparently one evening during this week the family was gathered in the living room, sharing their history and photos with my uncle. Suddenly the room turned somber, and the wife emerges from a closet with a cherished vase. According to its lore, it had been passed from generation to generation for untold centuries, and they wished to honor my uncle by showing it to him.
I’m not sure if the thing was an exceptional beauty, or if my uncle just felt obligated by the occasion to say so, but I guess the family was struck by his compliment…because they insisted that he pack it up and take it home with him. By no stretch of the imagination an idiot, Uncle Dick immediately surmised there was something afoul in Denmark. None the less the family had the pleasure of watching their treasured vase leave the home for the first time in the stewardship of a man who’d already proven himself to have a rather tenuous relationship with sobriety and thus gravity.
In the office the next day he takes a moment to call the “American Embassy” for advice, and is referred to a Shinto priest accustomed to deciphering these situations for drooling Americans. Just after he hangs up the phone it rings, and I guess the whopper-of-a-lifetime deal in terms of aluminum purchasing is on the other end. Some motorcycle concern had overextended itself, and needed the capital, and had a fleet at harbor waiting to be redirected. So my uncle and his vase were the only place for them to turn, and that meant, of course, very favorable conditions for negotiation.
The priest was at 1pm, and the aluminum laden motorcycle makers were at 3, and between them stood the bustling city of Osaka. The news of this sort of tonnage changing hands would reach home almost immediately, and that meant the trip would be over the same day. So making the deal worked for his professional interesests and against his personal one, that being, of course, his finding a way to return the vase without insulting his hosts. And squeezing in some drinking as well, of course.
************************************************
Apparently there was a directory, a manual of sorts that had been established in the era of the Marshall plan. It wasn’t an official U.S. government document of course, but it may as well have been. Anyway, my Uncle carried a copy of it in his vest pocket like a bulletproof bible, and therein lay the addresses of every American owned or themed drinking establishment in the European and Pacific theatres. So that’s how he spotted the sign for Lefty’s.
Inside there was a one-armed man smoking a cigarette with one hand and pouring drinks with the other. He was tall, had sandy blonde hair and was about to become my Uncle’s best friend.
As my Uncle ordered a fourth double-scotch his cab driver stumbled in through the doorway. He was stumbling for two reasons, the first of which being that he was carrying a large, beautiful Japanese doll encased in glass. And the second being that my Uncle took it upon himself to share a bottle he had tucked away for emergencies while the two sped across town. Tapping him on the shoulder the cabby inquired as to weather they would be staying much longer, and intoned in a delightfully respectful way that even a most understanding judge would strip him of his license for ingesting a quarter of the liquor he had drank already. An instant before the cabby hit the deck my Uncle rescued the doll from the fall, and as he did Lefty, with a mischievous grin, offered a lavish compliment upon the doll. Looking around my Uncle noticed that the place was surrounded by the things, and realized that the bartender must have acquired some secret way of coming about his collection. Suddenly remembering the last time a lavish compliment had changed hands, he was struck by a bellwether idea.
Turning to replace the bottle of Laphroaig on his top shelf the bartender smiled a bit, having realized that my Uncle was wise to his play on local custom. But as he faced the bar again he found only a 100 dollar bill fluttering to the place were my uncle had sat.
Returning to the Dirosaki residence my Uncle detected an absence of warmth, though the scene was surprisingly well-composed. Removing his shoes to join the family in the sitting room, he was a site composed of three things: a tall Westerner and two large objects tucked under each arm. Under one was a delicately wrapped and packaged family heirloom, while under the other rested the doll.
Assuming a campfire composure, my Uncle began ranting on and on about the figurine. He wondered over its finery, remarked on its lifelike complexion, expressed disbelief at its otherworldly expression and, most importantly, dwelled for portions of an hour on his own fine taste and discerning sensibility. He did not neglect to mention that it was meant as a present for his nephews, and how they cherished the exotic gifts he never failed to lavish on them. Finally, worn to the bone by this and the accumulation of six days of indescribably eccentric behavior, the father broke down and offered my Uncle a compliment on the doll. And that, of course, is how my Uncle achieved the Got’cha: the doll for the vase, an even trade.
Now, that story is not based in fact, it would be more accurately said to be based in what my Uncle Dick considered to be fact. That being equal parts of reality, whiskey, hallucinogenic drugs and whatever indigenous substances he could find growing outside his hotel. But that’s just the thing, he was vivacious enough to be allowed to define his environs. As their card was translated for us we came to realize that even the Dirosakis knew this.
There was an air about my uncle which added to his demeanor, his way of casually assuming that everyone in his vicinity was as drunk as he was, or at least should be. Imagine, he could turn something like that into an endearing quality? And of all the people I know who worked in NY, he is the one lost to the towers. That is the one day, among all days, that he chose to be where he claimed to be. I am sometimes overwhelmed by how senselessly so much was cast to those plumes.
But when I look at the demure smile on the face of that Japanese doll standing in the foyer, I know there’s more. Maybe he saved a life that day…or maybe he had something to do with the plot. But nah, if he was going to go through the trouble of toppling two buildings he’d have at least had the ingenuity to find a way to leave them standing.
They all seem to me to be a bunch of whiney spoiled kids holding their breath because Mom won’t serve them bologna sandwiches for lunch. Which is bad enough. But the part that really irks me is the lack of ingenuity. Instead of hunkering down and arriving at some enlightened way to illustrate their cause, these people just engage in the basest part of human nature. The innovative thinking that really gets the job done, like Gandhi’s Passive Resistance or Winston Churchill’s thundering overtures, is really where it’s at. Crashing airplanes into Metropolitan areas just tends to piss people off.
Now for a lesson in international relations and crises resolution, my Uncle Dick would be the guy to turn to. He was the sort who could have had an enormous effect on grander situations, had he chosen to take them up. But of course he just stuck to aluminum.
I remember once when I was about 13 or 14 we went off to look at an old car he was interested in buying. We went down this long unpaved driveway and came up on the rig and it’s owner, and before I could get out of the car my uncle had the guy knee deep in it. The part of the conversation I heard went something like this: “Ya know, you look a heck of a lot like this guy Timothy I was in the war with (my uncle was never in any war), heck of a guy that Tim was, could drink a fish out’ a water, hey, we found this great local beer on the way up, how ‘bout havin’ one (sound of two beers opening halfway through this sentence) anyway…. (here the guy actually chimes in that he has been mistaken for Timothy before) hey, I noticed ya’ got an old post and beam barn, ‘been thinkin’ about building one of those (you’d have to go through a box of nails before you could get my uncle to hammer one in unbent)…mind if I have a look”. ‘Next thing you know the two of them are jostling towards the barn like they’d been best friends from birth. Anyway, about 20 minutes later when he came back to find me sitting in the car with my second beer crotched, he tosses me the keys and tells me to follow him home. Never once bothering to discern whether I’d driven before, of course. Needless to say, if he paid half of what the car was worth, it was probably the worst deal he’d ever made.
Uncle Dick would tell anyone who asked that he was a purchasing agent for American Can, and that that was why he spent most of his professional life traveling. I think a microscopic evaluation of that claim would yield archeological remnants of fact, but nothing substantial enough to tuck into a shirt pocket. There was just something shady about the way he said it. That a large manufacturing concern would send someone like my uncle all over the world in search of good deals on equipment and raw materials was no great surprise. But everyone knew he was capable of coming back from two months in Siberia with a deep full body tan. And once, when I was there and he had just returned from the home office, I was surprised to see him dapper in a grey suit, and not surprised at all to see, upon closer inspection, that his tie revealed the tiny words “F… Y..” almost disappearing into pattern.
The other shady thing about my uncle was that he was always in the middle of rebuilding antique cars, but they were never getting rebuilt. But without exception their radios were always in stellar condition, and each served as the perfect place to sit listening, drinking and hiding from Aunt Joy. Oh yeah, that’s the other thing: he wasn’t my uncle. Everyone in my family referred to him and his wife as Uncle Dick and Aunt Joy, but they were related neither through name, birth or proximity to anyone I knew. An explanation was never offered nor solicited.
The thing you have to understand about my uncle, the part that makes this all OK, is that the guy was just so damn likable. There wasn’t a bar, ball game or board room that he couldn’t find a friend in. I’m pretty sure that if you put him in a Pygmy convention he’d shrink two feet for the occasion. So even though I’m pretty sure he only spoke English, I know his attitude translated just as well throughout his travels.
Anyway, one of the reasons my brother and I liked Uncle Dick so much was his genuine caring. Once, when we were quite young, he brought back this beautiful Geisha doll from Japan and told us the story of how he came across it. We knew the glass encased icon wasn’t the only load he was giving us, but none the less we sat riveted to the oration. Here’s how events unfolded:
Apparently he was in Japan purchasing aluminum. Now, I just want to reiterate here that in my adult life, especially upon reflection, I’ve come to understand that purchasing aluminum, like so many other explanations offered by my Uncle Dick, was most probably a metaphor. What the hell he was really doing in Japan, or wherever he was, was probably pretty damn far from purchasing aluminum. Refitting cargo ships with secret holds or Midget Formula One Interspecies Nude Racing would probably be a lot closer to home. Anyway, his story places him in Japan. In a bar, of course.
My Uncle goes on to explain the meanderings of his inebriated mind and how he came to befriend this fella who wanted to take a real American cowboy home to meet the family. You have to remember, I was only a kid when I first heard this story, so we’re talking early 1950’s or thereabouts, so the world had not gotten as small as it is today. And my uncle was describing the intricacies of Japanese culture as he saw it, with a fascination akin to discovering a herd of wild elephants playing pinochle in a downpour with lavender umbrellas held aloft betwixt jewel encrusted mandibles .
As a gesture of kindness, out of sheer curiosity or perhaps just pure lapse in judgment, these people had invited my uncle to spend his stay in their home, which must have delighted him, always eager for adventure and emersion. I wonder, though, what their school age children must have thought the following days as this bleary eyed Westerner came stumbling into their home without his trousers as they were heading off for breakfast and school.
Apparently one evening during this week the family was gathered in the living room, sharing their history and photos with my uncle. Suddenly the room turned somber, and the wife emerges from a closet with a cherished vase. According to its lore, it had been passed from generation to generation for untold centuries, and they wished to honor my uncle by showing it to him.
I’m not sure if the thing was an exceptional beauty, or if my uncle just felt obligated by the occasion to say so, but I guess the family was struck by his compliment…because they insisted that he pack it up and take it home with him. By no stretch of the imagination an idiot, Uncle Dick immediately surmised there was something afoul in Denmark. None the less the family had the pleasure of watching their treasured vase leave the home for the first time in the stewardship of a man who’d already proven himself to have a rather tenuous relationship with sobriety and thus gravity.
In the office the next day he takes a moment to call the “American Embassy” for advice, and is referred to a Shinto priest accustomed to deciphering these situations for drooling Americans. Just after he hangs up the phone it rings, and I guess the whopper-of-a-lifetime deal in terms of aluminum purchasing is on the other end. Some motorcycle concern had overextended itself, and needed the capital, and had a fleet at harbor waiting to be redirected. So my uncle and his vase were the only place for them to turn, and that meant, of course, very favorable conditions for negotiation.
The priest was at 1pm, and the aluminum laden motorcycle makers were at 3, and between them stood the bustling city of Osaka. The news of this sort of tonnage changing hands would reach home almost immediately, and that meant the trip would be over the same day. So making the deal worked for his professional interesests and against his personal one, that being, of course, his finding a way to return the vase without insulting his hosts. And squeezing in some drinking as well, of course.
************************************************
Apparently there was a directory, a manual of sorts that had been established in the era of the Marshall plan. It wasn’t an official U.S. government document of course, but it may as well have been. Anyway, my Uncle carried a copy of it in his vest pocket like a bulletproof bible, and therein lay the addresses of every American owned or themed drinking establishment in the European and Pacific theatres. So that’s how he spotted the sign for Lefty’s.
Inside there was a one-armed man smoking a cigarette with one hand and pouring drinks with the other. He was tall, had sandy blonde hair and was about to become my Uncle’s best friend.
As my Uncle ordered a fourth double-scotch his cab driver stumbled in through the doorway. He was stumbling for two reasons, the first of which being that he was carrying a large, beautiful Japanese doll encased in glass. And the second being that my Uncle took it upon himself to share a bottle he had tucked away for emergencies while the two sped across town. Tapping him on the shoulder the cabby inquired as to weather they would be staying much longer, and intoned in a delightfully respectful way that even a most understanding judge would strip him of his license for ingesting a quarter of the liquor he had drank already. An instant before the cabby hit the deck my Uncle rescued the doll from the fall, and as he did Lefty, with a mischievous grin, offered a lavish compliment upon the doll. Looking around my Uncle noticed that the place was surrounded by the things, and realized that the bartender must have acquired some secret way of coming about his collection. Suddenly remembering the last time a lavish compliment had changed hands, he was struck by a bellwether idea.
Turning to replace the bottle of Laphroaig on his top shelf the bartender smiled a bit, having realized that my Uncle was wise to his play on local custom. But as he faced the bar again he found only a 100 dollar bill fluttering to the place were my uncle had sat.
Returning to the Dirosaki residence my Uncle detected an absence of warmth, though the scene was surprisingly well-composed. Removing his shoes to join the family in the sitting room, he was a site composed of three things: a tall Westerner and two large objects tucked under each arm. Under one was a delicately wrapped and packaged family heirloom, while under the other rested the doll.
Assuming a campfire composure, my Uncle began ranting on and on about the figurine. He wondered over its finery, remarked on its lifelike complexion, expressed disbelief at its otherworldly expression and, most importantly, dwelled for portions of an hour on his own fine taste and discerning sensibility. He did not neglect to mention that it was meant as a present for his nephews, and how they cherished the exotic gifts he never failed to lavish on them. Finally, worn to the bone by this and the accumulation of six days of indescribably eccentric behavior, the father broke down and offered my Uncle a compliment on the doll. And that, of course, is how my Uncle achieved the Got’cha: the doll for the vase, an even trade.
Now, that story is not based in fact, it would be more accurately said to be based in what my Uncle Dick considered to be fact. That being equal parts of reality, whiskey, hallucinogenic drugs and whatever indigenous substances he could find growing outside his hotel. But that’s just the thing, he was vivacious enough to be allowed to define his environs. As their card was translated for us we came to realize that even the Dirosakis knew this.
There was an air about my uncle which added to his demeanor, his way of casually assuming that everyone in his vicinity was as drunk as he was, or at least should be. Imagine, he could turn something like that into an endearing quality? And of all the people I know who worked in NY, he is the one lost to the towers. That is the one day, among all days, that he chose to be where he claimed to be. I am sometimes overwhelmed by how senselessly so much was cast to those plumes.
But when I look at the demure smile on the face of that Japanese doll standing in the foyer, I know there’s more. Maybe he saved a life that day…or maybe he had something to do with the plot. But nah, if he was going to go through the trouble of toppling two buildings he’d have at least had the ingenuity to find a way to leave them standing.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Pitch
In New York and far from my home, friends and family, I think I may have eaten 150 meals in a row alone. I can still hear the sound of silverware on a plate announcing my solitude as I cut and ate. The streets and traffic patterns were strange to me, like the food and almost everything else I encountered. But the language, uhg, that was the worst. Every word and sentence came to me like stirring setting cement with a twig; all my concentration poured into ancient primary school recollections of English grammar just to get a pack of cigarettes, ask directions. By the time I got home in the evening the honking horns and police sirens themselves seemed derived from another galaxy. Through my loneliness an unexpected ring of the phone or a knock on the door would tense me into sobriety.
One of the calls I got was from my landlord. She was back home and held this apartment as sort of a vacation retreat or perhaps a souvenir from earlier days. She was bright and sweet, and I think knew I enjoyed a reprieve from the language. But this time she was different. She wasn’t just sad or even frantic, but seemed to me to be most certainly crazed. I heard it in her voice right out, as if she was speaking as much to herself as to me. There was a lingering base cord as she referred to a gun. A gun! Something far less ordinary in my parts. Then she spoke of her daughter in the past tense.
The young couple was visiting the beach for a weekend and had decided on a moonlit stroll. The perpetrators descended in pack. The boyfriend was pistol-whipped and held from behind, forced to watch as his beau was savagely abused and raped for hours. Afterwards, stabbed and bleeding, they had suffered difficulty in finding help on the abandoned causeway. In these few hours the girl’s sanity was lost, and soon afterward his suicide compounded all.
Of the few interactions I’d been engaged in for weeks, months, this was what I had to take back to my humming lights, footfalls in an odd apartment shelved with strange illegible books and grotesquely bloated television and refrigerator.
As sensitive as I am I was left in a daze. I drank. The next day I went out to shop and buy paint. I remember flying through the air spinning on a horizontal axis, looking back to see the totaled car, feeling my bones gnash as I was loaded onto the stretcher.
I remember a tone of depravity which had soiled my being, passing from those words to me like a greasy handshake. I guess that day there was a dark voice also, the one that told me I was crossing safely, the one that wanted to wear white.
One of the calls I got was from my landlord. She was back home and held this apartment as sort of a vacation retreat or perhaps a souvenir from earlier days. She was bright and sweet, and I think knew I enjoyed a reprieve from the language. But this time she was different. She wasn’t just sad or even frantic, but seemed to me to be most certainly crazed. I heard it in her voice right out, as if she was speaking as much to herself as to me. There was a lingering base cord as she referred to a gun. A gun! Something far less ordinary in my parts. Then she spoke of her daughter in the past tense.
The young couple was visiting the beach for a weekend and had decided on a moonlit stroll. The perpetrators descended in pack. The boyfriend was pistol-whipped and held from behind, forced to watch as his beau was savagely abused and raped for hours. Afterwards, stabbed and bleeding, they had suffered difficulty in finding help on the abandoned causeway. In these few hours the girl’s sanity was lost, and soon afterward his suicide compounded all.
Of the few interactions I’d been engaged in for weeks, months, this was what I had to take back to my humming lights, footfalls in an odd apartment shelved with strange illegible books and grotesquely bloated television and refrigerator.
As sensitive as I am I was left in a daze. I drank. The next day I went out to shop and buy paint. I remember flying through the air spinning on a horizontal axis, looking back to see the totaled car, feeling my bones gnash as I was loaded onto the stretcher.
I remember a tone of depravity which had soiled my being, passing from those words to me like a greasy handshake. I guess that day there was a dark voice also, the one that told me I was crossing safely, the one that wanted to wear white.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Desponsate
My circuitous fumblings, by 1997, somehow led me to the door of Stan Riskin. As his gofer I was the assistant to the assistant producer of a television show called Win Ben Stein’s Money. It was a demanding job, heaped a’ plenty with humiliation, but I shouldered it unbegrudgingly.
A lot of my time was spent dealing with automobile or mistress crises, both of which were allotted equal priority by my superiors. Even though I promised myself I would never bear a callous L.A. regard, I did sometimes think of oil changes and overdoses as simple matters of fluids in rotation. There were flashes of Hollywood glamour and celebrity of course, but only ankles and hems from my janitorial perspective.
One morning as I passed down the hallway I heard my name screamed from one of the offices: “Ling, get your bitch ass East coast superiority complex in here". There was a couple of Network suits smirking, I’m not really sure why they used to call me Ling. Anyway, probably another dead prostitute caught in the pool filter or some such calamity.
It seemed that Stein had just found out about this guy over in China, another economics guru with a TV show, and he wanted to meet him; “You did know Stein was an Economics professor at Stamford Ling, didn’t you?” And when I intoned with a smattering of his record in service of the Nixon administration “if class is over professor LING, mind if we get back to the BOOB TUBE that pays our bills?”.
To be honest, the story was kind of touching. This fella apparently had followed a Chinese version of the route Stein had taken to TV fame. As a professor of Economics at Tsinghua University he had been remembered and cast by a former student searching to fill a droll, academic movie role. From there his memorable performance had led to a career in the entertainment industry. Stein, being a Nixon Republican, was like the rest of his ilk perpetually eager to celebrate all things Chinese and was naturally interested in all this.
Since I am Asian and we all look alike, we must all speak the same language. So I was routed from amongst the field of blond, blue eyed excrement lickers to research this guys Beijing contacts. I knew that a friend across town would have an entertainment directory from The People’s Republic, but I decided to have a bite before setting out, something that was always a bit of a challenge on my salary.
The only decent refrigerator in the building was located in the writer’s lounge, it even had an ice and water dispenser built into its door. The suits, with their usual hubris, commandeered the space inside for whatever diet food was en vogue that week. The writers, detesting both the suits and their hubris, spent the day casually and defiantly snacking from these. Swooping in, I descended upon a plump and juicy radicchio and romaine salad in a clear plastic container, and relished it knowing one of my more successful counterparts would probably be blamed for its disappearance. There was a bland, kind of earthy sourness to it which concerned me, but then I remembered that sometimes mushroom garnishes can do that.
The directory itself kind of takes on the dimensions of a steamer trunk after you’ve lugged it a few blocks, but I had such a nice visit with Yansong that the feeling carried part of the burden. As I rounded the corner beyond which my Vega was parked, I noticed a man on the opposite sidewalk flying a kite. Then suddenly I had the strangest feeling, like the mooring lines of worry and concern that seem to be the undercurrent of everyday life snapped between the dock and an ocean liner, and there was some sort of new freedom afoot. Then, just a few metres from reaching the car I was enveloped by the strong smell of bubblegum, and realized that I must have stepped in some. Looking back I could see that each step was trailed by ribbons of it, and as I walked on it got deeper and stronger and sweeter as I luxuriated in the rich pink goo. The sun sparkled on my shoulders, and the clouds and sky rung together like a wet finger grazing the rim of a fine crystal goblet. Taking a moment to drink all this in, I sat on a stoop to watch a flock of zithers in rubber tree underpants….? Then it hit me: You’re stoned out of your gourd.
In school I used to trip really well, but I guess this time they had to take me to the hospital. Anyway, when I woke up I had a shoe-box apartment in Astoria and I was commuting to the garment district to write sell sheets. It’s just miserable work, and I’ve not the slightest how I got here. But every time I come across a strange salad I take a few bites hoping it will get me back.
A lot of my time was spent dealing with automobile or mistress crises, both of which were allotted equal priority by my superiors. Even though I promised myself I would never bear a callous L.A. regard, I did sometimes think of oil changes and overdoses as simple matters of fluids in rotation. There were flashes of Hollywood glamour and celebrity of course, but only ankles and hems from my janitorial perspective.
One morning as I passed down the hallway I heard my name screamed from one of the offices: “Ling, get your bitch ass East coast superiority complex in here". There was a couple of Network suits smirking, I’m not really sure why they used to call me Ling. Anyway, probably another dead prostitute caught in the pool filter or some such calamity.
It seemed that Stein had just found out about this guy over in China, another economics guru with a TV show, and he wanted to meet him; “You did know Stein was an Economics professor at Stamford Ling, didn’t you?” And when I intoned with a smattering of his record in service of the Nixon administration “if class is over professor LING, mind if we get back to the BOOB TUBE that pays our bills?”.
To be honest, the story was kind of touching. This fella apparently had followed a Chinese version of the route Stein had taken to TV fame. As a professor of Economics at Tsinghua University he had been remembered and cast by a former student searching to fill a droll, academic movie role. From there his memorable performance had led to a career in the entertainment industry. Stein, being a Nixon Republican, was like the rest of his ilk perpetually eager to celebrate all things Chinese and was naturally interested in all this.
Since I am Asian and we all look alike, we must all speak the same language. So I was routed from amongst the field of blond, blue eyed excrement lickers to research this guys Beijing contacts. I knew that a friend across town would have an entertainment directory from The People’s Republic, but I decided to have a bite before setting out, something that was always a bit of a challenge on my salary.
The only decent refrigerator in the building was located in the writer’s lounge, it even had an ice and water dispenser built into its door. The suits, with their usual hubris, commandeered the space inside for whatever diet food was en vogue that week. The writers, detesting both the suits and their hubris, spent the day casually and defiantly snacking from these. Swooping in, I descended upon a plump and juicy radicchio and romaine salad in a clear plastic container, and relished it knowing one of my more successful counterparts would probably be blamed for its disappearance. There was a bland, kind of earthy sourness to it which concerned me, but then I remembered that sometimes mushroom garnishes can do that.
The directory itself kind of takes on the dimensions of a steamer trunk after you’ve lugged it a few blocks, but I had such a nice visit with Yansong that the feeling carried part of the burden. As I rounded the corner beyond which my Vega was parked, I noticed a man on the opposite sidewalk flying a kite. Then suddenly I had the strangest feeling, like the mooring lines of worry and concern that seem to be the undercurrent of everyday life snapped between the dock and an ocean liner, and there was some sort of new freedom afoot. Then, just a few metres from reaching the car I was enveloped by the strong smell of bubblegum, and realized that I must have stepped in some. Looking back I could see that each step was trailed by ribbons of it, and as I walked on it got deeper and stronger and sweeter as I luxuriated in the rich pink goo. The sun sparkled on my shoulders, and the clouds and sky rung together like a wet finger grazing the rim of a fine crystal goblet. Taking a moment to drink all this in, I sat on a stoop to watch a flock of zithers in rubber tree underpants….? Then it hit me: You’re stoned out of your gourd.
In school I used to trip really well, but I guess this time they had to take me to the hospital. Anyway, when I woke up I had a shoe-box apartment in Astoria and I was commuting to the garment district to write sell sheets. It’s just miserable work, and I’ve not the slightest how I got here. But every time I come across a strange salad I take a few bites hoping it will get me back.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Conduit
Steps in learning to shave with a straight razor:
Lather face and stand trembling before mirror for 45 minutes
Begin shaving as per advice
Experience onset of woozy feeling at site of river of blood
Wake up on bathroom floor and repeat process
For the past two weeks I have looked like someone put a set of fake eyeballs in a package of supermarket ground beef. When I asked my pharmacist if he would recommend anything to coagulate razor knicks everyone in line behind me and behind the counter broke out in laughter. Still, on the few bare patches of visible skin I have an unusually close, clean feeling shave.
Lather face and stand trembling before mirror for 45 minutes
Begin shaving as per advice
Experience onset of woozy feeling at site of river of blood
Wake up on bathroom floor and repeat process
For the past two weeks I have looked like someone put a set of fake eyeballs in a package of supermarket ground beef. When I asked my pharmacist if he would recommend anything to coagulate razor knicks everyone in line behind me and behind the counter broke out in laughter. Still, on the few bare patches of visible skin I have an unusually close, clean feeling shave.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
It takes a village to raise a village idiot
This morning I finally got around to sitting down with The Times after a brief hiatus, but 15 minutes or so into it I was so overwhelmed by the urge to ralph in my hat that I had to put the paper down. I honestly don’t know what’s going on in this country, but I’ll tell you this: we are a bunch of thumb-twiddling morons for letting this weasel of a president walk all over every single thing we hold dear. And you know what? We deserve it. Here’s why:
If you are stupid enough to listen to a president endlessly whine about the importance of sacrificing civil liberties in the name of Homeland Security, then sit idly by while your homeland becomes awash in insecurity, you deserve bush.
If you are a woman who can not see that the glimmer in that Robert weasel’s eye comes from knowing that rusty coat hangers will be jammed into your privates, you deserve bush.
If you are a working man to dim to see that governmental coddling has corporations yanking out your pension, health insurance and Social Security and stuffing you and your putrid family values down the gaping, coal mining rectum of 19th century poverty, you deserve bush.
Don’t get me wrong though. If you’re a billionaire, I’m talkin’ $1 Billion, then you belong behind bush, ‘cause he’s all about you. But be positive you’re in that class first, ‘cause takin’ 999 Million to that party is like showin’ up for church wearin’ nothing but your incontinent grandpappy’s underwear.
But even all that is not the biggest part of the problem. What w has really managed to do is convince ordinary people that they’re also on the receiving end of the corporate bazooka that’s blasting cash up the wazoos of everyone in Greenwich and Dallas. Give a middle manager 20 or 30 grand in artificially inflated holdings and all of a sudden he thinks he’s hobnobbing. That combines so delectably with the truly nefarious part of w’s scheme: that he and his buddies really don’t give a damn about capitalism, the market or even democracy. To them those notions are just a means to an end, their way of preserving their British Landed Aristocratic Plebe Squelching in a “Democratic” society. They think they’re superior, and in order to preserve their heritage they’ve got to convince us to install them into power. And we simply can not lunge at the chance to scatter our life savings over the cobblestones of American labor to soften the footfall of their jackboot fast enough. Doesn’t all this make sense? Where do you think w would be right now if he hadn’t been born into one of the most powerful families in North America? I’m guessing something along the lines of third shift driver at Jed’s A to Z All Night Chicken BarBQ and Towing.
But hey, what do I know. I’m just a bloggin’ rabble-rouser with a two bit education and 80 proof breath. Maybe you put bush there yourself and you’re happy to see him stay. And even if I’m right, what do you have to loose? Just your home, uterus and livelihood, that’s all.
If you are stupid enough to listen to a president endlessly whine about the importance of sacrificing civil liberties in the name of Homeland Security, then sit idly by while your homeland becomes awash in insecurity, you deserve bush.
If you are a woman who can not see that the glimmer in that Robert weasel’s eye comes from knowing that rusty coat hangers will be jammed into your privates, you deserve bush.
If you are a working man to dim to see that governmental coddling has corporations yanking out your pension, health insurance and Social Security and stuffing you and your putrid family values down the gaping, coal mining rectum of 19th century poverty, you deserve bush.
Don’t get me wrong though. If you’re a billionaire, I’m talkin’ $1 Billion, then you belong behind bush, ‘cause he’s all about you. But be positive you’re in that class first, ‘cause takin’ 999 Million to that party is like showin’ up for church wearin’ nothing but your incontinent grandpappy’s underwear.
But even all that is not the biggest part of the problem. What w has really managed to do is convince ordinary people that they’re also on the receiving end of the corporate bazooka that’s blasting cash up the wazoos of everyone in Greenwich and Dallas. Give a middle manager 20 or 30 grand in artificially inflated holdings and all of a sudden he thinks he’s hobnobbing. That combines so delectably with the truly nefarious part of w’s scheme: that he and his buddies really don’t give a damn about capitalism, the market or even democracy. To them those notions are just a means to an end, their way of preserving their British Landed Aristocratic Plebe Squelching in a “Democratic” society. They think they’re superior, and in order to preserve their heritage they’ve got to convince us to install them into power. And we simply can not lunge at the chance to scatter our life savings over the cobblestones of American labor to soften the footfall of their jackboot fast enough. Doesn’t all this make sense? Where do you think w would be right now if he hadn’t been born into one of the most powerful families in North America? I’m guessing something along the lines of third shift driver at Jed’s A to Z All Night Chicken BarBQ and Towing.
But hey, what do I know. I’m just a bloggin’ rabble-rouser with a two bit education and 80 proof breath. Maybe you put bush there yourself and you’re happy to see him stay. And even if I’m right, what do you have to loose? Just your home, uterus and livelihood, that’s all.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
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