Sunday, October 31, 2010
bad car days
every now and again, when my car decides not to work, not a lick, like it just doesn't give a good god damn, i'm reminded of just how invisibly fragile going about my ordinary daily business really is, giving me every reason to act on my very first impulse to gather and burn all my "life is good" paraphernalia.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
(from the files) 18. two things i don’t give
there are two things i don’t give occasionally.
one is two hoots, and the other is a rat’s ass.
neither is a big deal though.
i mean, i can't recall a time i've ever hooted twice.
and as far as the rat's ass goes, never owned one to give if i wanted to.
one is two hoots, and the other is a rat’s ass.
neither is a big deal though.
i mean, i can't recall a time i've ever hooted twice.
and as far as the rat's ass goes, never owned one to give if i wanted to.
what a little birdie told me
the bird said, so how ya doin'?
i said, can't complain. how you doin'?
the bird said, oh not bad. a little of this, a little of that. you know.
i said, actually, no i don't. i mean it must be cool flyin' whenever ya want. man, i'd love to do that. you know, defy gravity whenever i felt like it.
the bird said, it's okay. but ya seen one roof top, ya seen them all.
i said, i guess, but it's still the idea that you can defy gravity.
the bird said, well, to tell ya the truth, i'd like to be able to defy gravity like you guys can but i can't because of this goddam boney beak.
i said, what the hell are ya talkin' about.
the bird said, i'm talkin' smiling man, smilin'.
i said, can't complain. how you doin'?
the bird said, oh not bad. a little of this, a little of that. you know.
i said, actually, no i don't. i mean it must be cool flyin' whenever ya want. man, i'd love to do that. you know, defy gravity whenever i felt like it.
the bird said, it's okay. but ya seen one roof top, ya seen them all.
i said, i guess, but it's still the idea that you can defy gravity.
the bird said, well, to tell ya the truth, i'd like to be able to defy gravity like you guys can but i can't because of this goddam boney beak.
i said, what the hell are ya talkin' about.
the bird said, i'm talkin' smiling man, smilin'.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
not so sweet on text or tweet
i remember in fourth grade passing notes back and forth in classroom.
usually dumb stuff about how gail borden's hair smelled good and that i would marry her if i had to but in general i'd rather farm ants.
let's face it, the messages were not nearly worth the risk of exposure, which occurred more often than not.
but come on, i was ten years old, it was limited to the boredom of writing a book report for a book i did not read, it only required a pencil and scrap of paper, and it was edible in the event of a significant security breech.
i never would have guessed that some fifty years later, adults, some of them even desiring to lead us, would pay hundreds of dollars for devices that would let them essentially pass fourth grade notes, all the time, and without any way to eat the evidence.
it makes me nervous to think that as a result of our shrinking attention span, which is now measured in less than 140 characters, conversation may be deader sooner than hugh hefner.
that may make hugh smile, but that's not good for what we need right about now.
conversation that is, not hugh frownin', although the latter wouldn't be so bad either, you know, learning that hugh's take on life wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
i'm just sayin'.
it's not like i wish the man poorly.
usually dumb stuff about how gail borden's hair smelled good and that i would marry her if i had to but in general i'd rather farm ants.
let's face it, the messages were not nearly worth the risk of exposure, which occurred more often than not.
but come on, i was ten years old, it was limited to the boredom of writing a book report for a book i did not read, it only required a pencil and scrap of paper, and it was edible in the event of a significant security breech.
i never would have guessed that some fifty years later, adults, some of them even desiring to lead us, would pay hundreds of dollars for devices that would let them essentially pass fourth grade notes, all the time, and without any way to eat the evidence.
it makes me nervous to think that as a result of our shrinking attention span, which is now measured in less than 140 characters, conversation may be deader sooner than hugh hefner.
that may make hugh smile, but that's not good for what we need right about now.
conversation that is, not hugh frownin', although the latter wouldn't be so bad either, you know, learning that hugh's take on life wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
i'm just sayin'.
it's not like i wish the man poorly.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
tell me something i don't know
so keaton said, tell me something i don't know.
and i replied, well two weeks ago when you were gone i sorta clogged up the toilet and when it overflowed, i cleaned up the floor with your towel, but i washed it right away.
she said, i didn't say tell me something i shouldn't know. tell me something i don't know.
i said, fine. i'm not a good discerner. how about that?
she said, but i already know that.
so i said, then what are you bothering me for?
and i replied, well two weeks ago when you were gone i sorta clogged up the toilet and when it overflowed, i cleaned up the floor with your towel, but i washed it right away.
she said, i didn't say tell me something i shouldn't know. tell me something i don't know.
i said, fine. i'm not a good discerner. how about that?
she said, but i already know that.
so i said, then what are you bothering me for?
Saturday, October 23, 2010
hard to take seriously
he got right up in my face, no more than a hand's length from my nose, and pointed his finger right between my eyes and said, "look buster, you can do it. don't you think for a second you can't. now go out and knock 'em dead at the book signing!", except when he was that close in mirror, i spied a wild long hair growing out the side of his nostril, making it virtually impossible to take him seriously, besides it wasn't like it was my book or anything, i was just going to study up on how it's done.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
if i could rule the world
i said, if i could rule the world, i would make it illegal to scare people by using any words you like so you can make lots of money. i'm still working on the penalty phase but i'm leaning towards making the convicted share a cell with the likes of beck and olbermann, who will be rounded up as soon as i get that crown on my head and take care of court jestering appointments.
keaton said, if i could rule the world, i would make it illegal to hunt mermaids.
i said, but there are no mermaids.
and she said, dah! and how do you think we got to this lowly place?
then i thought, she'd make a much more noble world ruler. i hope she gets it. she'd probably even make me her senior jester, assuming i will still have an in.
keaton said, if i could rule the world, i would make it illegal to hunt mermaids.
i said, but there are no mermaids.
and she said, dah! and how do you think we got to this lowly place?
then i thought, she'd make a much more noble world ruler. i hope she gets it. she'd probably even make me her senior jester, assuming i will still have an in.
regrets
whenever i have a regret, i place it in a special jar.
it’s a pretty big jar and i’d say it’s about two thirds full.
i plan to take it with me when i die because i figure i’ll have plenty of time to grapple with them then.
it’s a pretty big jar and i’d say it’s about two thirds full.
i plan to take it with me when i die because i figure i’ll have plenty of time to grapple with them then.
yelling
i don't yell much because i always end up using long run on sentences laced with compound prepositional phrases, way too many dangling participles, and if i split another infinitive the earth just might disappear.
as good yellers know, an effective yell has to crackle with brevity and expletives to be worthy of a target's short attention span and busy schedule.
although i can toss expletives with the best of them, brevity just isn't my thing.
as good yellers know, an effective yell has to crackle with brevity and expletives to be worthy of a target's short attention span and busy schedule.
although i can toss expletives with the best of them, brevity just isn't my thing.
724. momcat's 78th
well, another year, another momcat birthday today.
so rather than spend money on a card from hallmark with some dumb message written by god knows who, i thought it might be nice if i wrote my own birthday wish for you because i'm good that way!
momcat, this is your special day!
did you know rock hudson was pretty much gay?
sorry to tell but i just had to say. (because dad begged me to tell you on account of he can't take it no more—this little rock hudson dream world you live in with the dvd collection and dolls and everything—and he doesn't have the heart to ruin it for you, so of course he comes to me and now i have to tell ya in this birthday message because i figure it's the nicest way to break it to ya. anyway ...)
now go and enjoy your happy birthday!
i know ... i know ... i know. now, don't go and get all weepy and stuff! i just have natural poetry skills that's all. it's a gift. nothin' special.
happy 78th ma!
so rather than spend money on a card from hallmark with some dumb message written by god knows who, i thought it might be nice if i wrote my own birthday wish for you because i'm good that way!
momcat, this is your special day!
did you know rock hudson was pretty much gay?
sorry to tell but i just had to say. (because dad begged me to tell you on account of he can't take it no more—this little rock hudson dream world you live in with the dvd collection and dolls and everything—and he doesn't have the heart to ruin it for you, so of course he comes to me and now i have to tell ya in this birthday message because i figure it's the nicest way to break it to ya. anyway ...)
now go and enjoy your happy birthday!
i know ... i know ... i know. now, don't go and get all weepy and stuff! i just have natural poetry skills that's all. it's a gift. nothin' special.
happy 78th ma!
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
if i didn't know any better ...
keaton said, if i didn’t know any better, i'd swear i just left the other half of my sandwich on this plate.
i said, what does that mean anyway? that you did know better but you did it anyway? ya see what i mean? i find that expression very confusing.
keaton said, what it means is that i’m sure i left it on this plate and i wasn't done and now it's gone.
i said, personally, i prefer to never know any better all the time. i’m always so much better off that way.
then she said, and what is that suppose to mean?
and i said, well for starters, i don't want to know those were anchovies i tasted.
i said, what does that mean anyway? that you did know better but you did it anyway? ya see what i mean? i find that expression very confusing.
keaton said, what it means is that i’m sure i left it on this plate and i wasn't done and now it's gone.
i said, personally, i prefer to never know any better all the time. i’m always so much better off that way.
then she said, and what is that suppose to mean?
and i said, well for starters, i don't want to know those were anchovies i tasted.
dem old crats
lately my tinnitus has moved from my ears to my heart.
and boy does that constant ruckus make it hard to feel the good—as difficult as pulling teeth from a chicken.
in fact the only good i'm feelin' these days is the news that i'm not alone.
i mean try finding a chicken with any teeth left.
it's downright impossible, which leads me to conclude that there are a bunch of people already out there, and i have my suspicions who, pullin' them out like there's no tomorrow.
three words: dem old crats
and boy does that constant ruckus make it hard to feel the good—as difficult as pulling teeth from a chicken.
in fact the only good i'm feelin' these days is the news that i'm not alone.
i mean try finding a chicken with any teeth left.
it's downright impossible, which leads me to conclude that there are a bunch of people already out there, and i have my suspicions who, pullin' them out like there's no tomorrow.
three words: dem old crats
Monday, October 18, 2010
my latest invention: 4d glasses
i'm in the final stages of making a prototype pair of 4d glasses for live events but i'm running into some trouble.
the first genre on which i'm testing the concept is the broadway musical.
the problem is that moon walk dance along the dimension of time is tricky business if you don't know what you are doing, and so far it's pretty evident no one does.
it'll be a while yet before anyone is screaming "fourbulous", is all i can say.
and it all makes me kinda miss michael jackson even more.
the first genre on which i'm testing the concept is the broadway musical.
the problem is that moon walk dance along the dimension of time is tricky business if you don't know what you are doing, and so far it's pretty evident no one does.
it'll be a while yet before anyone is screaming "fourbulous", is all i can say.
and it all makes me kinda miss michael jackson even more.
bubble bath bob
i have enough confidence in who i am to say that i take bubble baths every now and again.
of course, when i do, i prefer to soak my cares away in "lumberjack lullaby foaming bath pellets" by big bubba's bubble botanicals, a relaxing manly fragrance of raw oak bark with a lingering hint of smokey chainsaw oil.
and when i'm finally brined like whiskey soaked mesquite wood chips, it's enough sometimes to have keaton screaming "timber" before the night is old and i drift off sawing logs in blissful dreamsville.
of course, when i do, i prefer to soak my cares away in "lumberjack lullaby foaming bath pellets" by big bubba's bubble botanicals, a relaxing manly fragrance of raw oak bark with a lingering hint of smokey chainsaw oil.
and when i'm finally brined like whiskey soaked mesquite wood chips, it's enough sometimes to have keaton screaming "timber" before the night is old and i drift off sawing logs in blissful dreamsville.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
my brother, always pointing out the catch-22
i said, hey dougalug, we're trying to have a joint october birthday party for ma, keaton and the nieces either next week or halloween sunday.
doug said, unfortunately bobalooey, i won't be around next sunday. i will be available on the the 31st though, but of course will be in costume, so there's a pretty good chance no one will realize that i'm even there.
i said, huh ... well that sure is a catch-22. why bother comin' if you don't get any credit?
he said, yeah, my thoughts exactly.
doug said, unfortunately bobalooey, i won't be around next sunday. i will be available on the the 31st though, but of course will be in costume, so there's a pretty good chance no one will realize that i'm even there.
i said, huh ... well that sure is a catch-22. why bother comin' if you don't get any credit?
he said, yeah, my thoughts exactly.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
ahhh ... that first cup
that first cup of coffee this morning tasted way too good, sending me off to a memory of my very first cup ever.
1956.
second floor of a three family house on roseville avenue newark.
we lived on the first floor, my grandparents on the second, my great aunt on the third.
it was very much a normal living arrangement for a four year old, his two younger brothers and his early twenties parents.
and every morning i awoke in the back bedroom, right below the kitchen above, right next to the back stairs, right nicely situated for an early morning escape in my one piece pjs up those creaking floor boards to the promise of a bacon strip beaconed by an a&p eight o'clock coffee scent, made strong enough, as nan always warned, "to grow hair on your chest"—as disturbing a thought as a little kid could imagine.
but that aroma.
wow!
then one morning, when nan wasn't feeling so well and wasn't there to watch him, pop-pop poured an extra cup of coffee and sat it down right in front of me.
a half cup to be fair.
nevertheless, his perfectly trimmed, pencil thin mustache looked particularly devilish.
oh baby, what he was up to was something big all right.
i nervously wiggled in my seat.
next he showed me how to press the top of the evaporated milk can to squirt just enough cream out what appeared to be a crusty puncture wound in the lid, and into the cup.
well, whatever it was that oozed out immediatley disappeared below the surface.
to be honest, i would have never even known it was in there if i hadn't seen it go in with my own eyes.
pop-pop took a spoon and gave his cup nothing more than a single, slow stroke.
i did the same.
magically my coffee turned a golden light brown.
then came a spoonful of sugar.
excellent, i thought.
another slow stir.
fine, another slow stir for me too then.
then he lifted his cup.
i grabbed mine with both hands, like a soup bowl.
he pulled it up to his nose and smelled it.
i did the same.
he said, ahhh.
i said, ahhh.
then he clinked his cup against mine and said, here's to hair on your chest.
i said, nope.
i watched as he sipped.
then i followed suit.
man oh man, i was living large.
i sat back, warm cup in hands.
i felt pretty darn old that moment.
like i had just joined some sort of club for big boys only.
my two younger brothers had no clue what they were missing out on.
but they were too young for this anyway.
heck, dougie could barely climb the stairs without crappin' in his diapers, and ricky was trapped like a rat in that crib.
and i thought how this was one time when being the oldest wasn't accompanied with the usual, "you should know better bobby".
no sirree, this was one sweet benefit of aging first.
and that was that.
my first cup.
haven't looked back since.
yup ... age four.
thanks pop-pop.
oh yeah, and as for the hair growin' on the chest?
it was real slow to kick in.
1956.
second floor of a three family house on roseville avenue newark.
we lived on the first floor, my grandparents on the second, my great aunt on the third.
it was very much a normal living arrangement for a four year old, his two younger brothers and his early twenties parents.
and every morning i awoke in the back bedroom, right below the kitchen above, right next to the back stairs, right nicely situated for an early morning escape in my one piece pjs up those creaking floor boards to the promise of a bacon strip beaconed by an a&p eight o'clock coffee scent, made strong enough, as nan always warned, "to grow hair on your chest"—as disturbing a thought as a little kid could imagine.
but that aroma.
wow!
then one morning, when nan wasn't feeling so well and wasn't there to watch him, pop-pop poured an extra cup of coffee and sat it down right in front of me.
a half cup to be fair.
nevertheless, his perfectly trimmed, pencil thin mustache looked particularly devilish.
oh baby, what he was up to was something big all right.
i nervously wiggled in my seat.
next he showed me how to press the top of the evaporated milk can to squirt just enough cream out what appeared to be a crusty puncture wound in the lid, and into the cup.
well, whatever it was that oozed out immediatley disappeared below the surface.
to be honest, i would have never even known it was in there if i hadn't seen it go in with my own eyes.
pop-pop took a spoon and gave his cup nothing more than a single, slow stroke.
i did the same.
magically my coffee turned a golden light brown.
then came a spoonful of sugar.
excellent, i thought.
another slow stir.
fine, another slow stir for me too then.
then he lifted his cup.
i grabbed mine with both hands, like a soup bowl.
he pulled it up to his nose and smelled it.
i did the same.
he said, ahhh.
i said, ahhh.
then he clinked his cup against mine and said, here's to hair on your chest.
i said, nope.
i watched as he sipped.
then i followed suit.
man oh man, i was living large.
i sat back, warm cup in hands.
i felt pretty darn old that moment.
like i had just joined some sort of club for big boys only.
my two younger brothers had no clue what they were missing out on.
but they were too young for this anyway.
heck, dougie could barely climb the stairs without crappin' in his diapers, and ricky was trapped like a rat in that crib.
and i thought how this was one time when being the oldest wasn't accompanied with the usual, "you should know better bobby".
no sirree, this was one sweet benefit of aging first.
and that was that.
my first cup.
haven't looked back since.
yup ... age four.
thanks pop-pop.
oh yeah, and as for the hair growin' on the chest?
it was real slow to kick in.
Friday, October 15, 2010
need a flu shot
not for me.
for my ill pc.
it's got some sort of virus that keeps coming back according to ed norton, my crackerjack virus doctor.
(sometimes the deep, ridiculing sarcasm i want to impart is hard to manufacture with only these simple word tools at my disposal. so i've given such needed clarity a heavy dose of color you don't see every day to help in the impartment department.)
and do you think doc norton can get rid of it?
nooooo!
and now the poor, dying thing is getting a rundll32 abscess, whatever that is, every time i log off, prompting me to send the medical charts to microsoft for their second opinion.
oh yeah, like they have time for this, what with all their "an apple today keeps doctor norton away" problems already.
god dammit!
sick as a dog my pc is.
i know it's only a matter of time before it just keels over and pukes blue all over my treasured flat screen monitor, gifted to me by stunning and wonderful keaton.
makes me wonder who incubates and disseminates this sickness anyway?
what lowly, mutated appendage of the human dna chain finds this a satisfying undertaking.
don't they realize what they may bring to a crashing halt, flailing about the floor like a rabid raccoon in its final lunge for life.
"craniac", my beloved laptop, that's what!
where i transcribe all my mental carrying on, bringing the faithful only the finest man thoughts this side of exit 20, route 78, new jersey.
oh wait, another message from doc norton.
"active trojan horse encountered"
"close all open applications."
"need to take action immediately."
why those no good, motherfuxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
for my ill pc.
it's got some sort of virus that keeps coming back according to ed norton, my crackerjack virus doctor.
(sometimes the deep, ridiculing sarcasm i want to impart is hard to manufacture with only these simple word tools at my disposal. so i've given such needed clarity a heavy dose of color you don't see every day to help in the impartment department.)
and do you think doc norton can get rid of it?
nooooo!
and now the poor, dying thing is getting a rundll32 abscess, whatever that is, every time i log off, prompting me to send the medical charts to microsoft for their second opinion.
oh yeah, like they have time for this, what with all their "an apple today keeps doctor norton away" problems already.
god dammit!
sick as a dog my pc is.
i know it's only a matter of time before it just keels over and pukes blue all over my treasured flat screen monitor, gifted to me by stunning and wonderful keaton.
makes me wonder who incubates and disseminates this sickness anyway?
what lowly, mutated appendage of the human dna chain finds this a satisfying undertaking.
don't they realize what they may bring to a crashing halt, flailing about the floor like a rabid raccoon in its final lunge for life.
"craniac", my beloved laptop, that's what!
where i transcribe all my mental carrying on, bringing the faithful only the finest man thoughts this side of exit 20, route 78, new jersey.
oh wait, another message from doc norton.
"active trojan horse encountered"
"close all open applications."
"need to take action immediately."
see!
see what i'm dealin' with here!
why those no good, motherfuxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
the other side of the bed
keaton's gone on business for a few days.
so last night i decided to sleep on her side of the bed.
you know, to see what i'm missing out on.
well, i am missing out on plenty kimosabe.
for starters, fresh air.
she's right next to a window.
i mean, i always knew that but gave it little attention.
until now.
now that i have had a night of nature's refreshment.
i'm not kiddin'!
the air on my side is run-of-the-mill at best, but usually second hand, after the dog and keaton get done with it.
for after starters, the mattress is less lumpy too.
truthfully though, i have a lot to do with that little issue and can't quite pin it on benefit of location.
but this air thing has me a little unglued.
it's like the song.
how does it go?
"how ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm once they've breathed fresh airee?"
i knew i shouldn't have done the old switcharoo.
i'm so much better off with no information, and left to my man thoughts.
so last night i decided to sleep on her side of the bed.
you know, to see what i'm missing out on.
well, i am missing out on plenty kimosabe.
for starters, fresh air.
she's right next to a window.
i mean, i always knew that but gave it little attention.
until now.
now that i have had a night of nature's refreshment.
i'm not kiddin'!
the air on my side is run-of-the-mill at best, but usually second hand, after the dog and keaton get done with it.
for after starters, the mattress is less lumpy too.
truthfully though, i have a lot to do with that little issue and can't quite pin it on benefit of location.
but this air thing has me a little unglued.
it's like the song.
how does it go?
"how ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm once they've breathed fresh airee?"
i knew i shouldn't have done the old switcharoo.
i'm so much better off with no information, and left to my man thoughts.
remember robert o'donnell?
no?
remember jessica mcclure?
vaguely?
rings a bell?
was she an actress?
maybe from little house on the prairie?
no, she wasn't but she was a baby once.
baby jessica.
ah yes, baby jessica, who fell into that well.
but who's robert o'donnell?
he was "the" paramedic.
the one who was lowered into the well and brought her out.
he was the hero we'd never forget.
but you did, didn't you?
yeah, i forgot him too.
well. you may remember him now that you've been reminded, but what you probably don't know is that good old robert there shot himself in the mouth with a shotgun.
nearly blew his head completely off.
eight years after we made him a hero.
post traumatic stress disorder at it's ugliest.
we do that a lot.
that is, make ordinary folk heroes for a time and then move on to the next.
doesn't matter much where they do their hero'in either.
landing planes in the hudson river.
surviving ied's in iraq or afghanistan.
savin' lives in oklahoma city or manhattan rubble.
we love makin' heroes.
hell, larry king has made a career of it.
and then, just like that, we pack up and find the next, leaving their post traumatic stress in the uncaring hands of empty fame.
and as a result, many fall invisibly from grace by drugs, alcohol, and/or crime.
and some, like robert, fall completely, their life story summed in a few scripted obit paragraphs in a local weekly newspaper.
and we don't have a clue.
just another self absorbed dead person.
must have been somethin' wrong with him or her to begin with.
well, there was and is something wrong to begin with all right.
but it's always been with us, the hero makers, not those ordinary folks doin' extraordinary deeds.
and what's wrong with us is that we sap these great deeds for all the goodwill they are worth and then dispose of the messy aftermath like leaky batteries that have lost their juice—unrecycled.
robert, while watching live coverage on tv of the oklahoma city bombing heroics (remember that terrorist attack), pointed to a wide shot of the rescue workers scrambling to save lives, nextgen heroes in the works, doing their brave work.
he shook his head and said, "those people are going to need a lot of help for a very long time."
if robert is remembered for anything, that observation might just be it.
in a world of flavored news, political double talk and propaganda disguised as commentary, robert's words are pure in their truth.
these folks need rescuing as much as they have rescued.
look, we need heroes.
not sports mercenaries who are compensated nicely for their physical theatrics.
not movie stars who live insulated and isolated from any real life.
not entertainers, politicians, mtv creations, etc.
but common folk, like robert, like sulley, like the cop on the beat, like the fireman amidst a blaze, like the returning soldier, like the paramedic, like the teacher saving a mind.
and like the folks who survived the chilean mine disaster.
we need 'em because god knows, everything else is just noise, and what ain't noise is fabrication.
we need 'em to feel good about the human spirit.
that when it comes down to it, it's human for human.
our stripes, our flags, our differences are set aside.
human for human.
but we have to stick with them, as robert warned, for the long haul.
because when the hero'in wears off and the wallowin' takes hold and the self fendin' isn't enough, the grace fallin' begins.
my heart goes out to the miners from chile and those who had anything to do with their miraculous survival.
hopefully, they do things differently down there for their heroes.
because up here, i'd give them two weeks of tv studios before we'd get bored and return to lohan, snooki and favre.
let's face it, it took forever to pass a bill to extend healthcare to the people who did their jobs at ground zero.
forever.
for nameless heroes.
by shameless politicians.
remember jessica mcclure?
vaguely?
rings a bell?
was she an actress?
maybe from little house on the prairie?
no, she wasn't but she was a baby once.
baby jessica.
ah yes, baby jessica, who fell into that well.
but who's robert o'donnell?
he was "the" paramedic.
the one who was lowered into the well and brought her out.
he was the hero we'd never forget.
but you did, didn't you?
yeah, i forgot him too.
well. you may remember him now that you've been reminded, but what you probably don't know is that good old robert there shot himself in the mouth with a shotgun.
nearly blew his head completely off.
eight years after we made him a hero.
post traumatic stress disorder at it's ugliest.
we do that a lot.
that is, make ordinary folk heroes for a time and then move on to the next.
doesn't matter much where they do their hero'in either.
landing planes in the hudson river.
surviving ied's in iraq or afghanistan.
savin' lives in oklahoma city or manhattan rubble.
we love makin' heroes.
hell, larry king has made a career of it.
and then, just like that, we pack up and find the next, leaving their post traumatic stress in the uncaring hands of empty fame.
and as a result, many fall invisibly from grace by drugs, alcohol, and/or crime.
and some, like robert, fall completely, their life story summed in a few scripted obit paragraphs in a local weekly newspaper.
and we don't have a clue.
just another self absorbed dead person.
must have been somethin' wrong with him or her to begin with.
well, there was and is something wrong to begin with all right.
but it's always been with us, the hero makers, not those ordinary folks doin' extraordinary deeds.
and what's wrong with us is that we sap these great deeds for all the goodwill they are worth and then dispose of the messy aftermath like leaky batteries that have lost their juice—unrecycled.
robert, while watching live coverage on tv of the oklahoma city bombing heroics (remember that terrorist attack), pointed to a wide shot of the rescue workers scrambling to save lives, nextgen heroes in the works, doing their brave work.
he shook his head and said, "those people are going to need a lot of help for a very long time."
if robert is remembered for anything, that observation might just be it.
in a world of flavored news, political double talk and propaganda disguised as commentary, robert's words are pure in their truth.
these folks need rescuing as much as they have rescued.
look, we need heroes.
not sports mercenaries who are compensated nicely for their physical theatrics.
not movie stars who live insulated and isolated from any real life.
not entertainers, politicians, mtv creations, etc.
but common folk, like robert, like sulley, like the cop on the beat, like the fireman amidst a blaze, like the returning soldier, like the paramedic, like the teacher saving a mind.
and like the folks who survived the chilean mine disaster.
we need 'em because god knows, everything else is just noise, and what ain't noise is fabrication.
we need 'em to feel good about the human spirit.
that when it comes down to it, it's human for human.
our stripes, our flags, our differences are set aside.
human for human.
but we have to stick with them, as robert warned, for the long haul.
because when the hero'in wears off and the wallowin' takes hold and the self fendin' isn't enough, the grace fallin' begins.
my heart goes out to the miners from chile and those who had anything to do with their miraculous survival.
hopefully, they do things differently down there for their heroes.
because up here, i'd give them two weeks of tv studios before we'd get bored and return to lohan, snooki and favre.
let's face it, it took forever to pass a bill to extend healthcare to the people who did their jobs at ground zero.
forever.
for nameless heroes.
by shameless politicians.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
reaching for stars
i've often been encouraged to reach for the stars, but i always conclude i'm going to need much longer arms or a very tall ladder, that is until i realized the stars would probably be too hot to grab anyway and that it's really just about the reaching and not so much the manhandling.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
a "third person" conundrum
i'm what you might call a "third person" man.
people talk about me in the third person, especially when i'm well within the second person domain—for instance, the dinner table.
actually, it's pretty cool.
it gives me a chance to hear what people are sayin' about me in front of my back.
i guess they figure i can't hear them or don't know they're talking about me or both.
how stupid is that?
i can hear everything, most of the time, and my comprehension is pretty darn good, especially if the subject is around vacuuming, deer spotting or yodelling..
but here's the hitch.
i'm afraid they might think i'm eavesdropping like some sorta self-loathing, low self-esteem loser.
i mean, i'm sitting right there in front of them for god's sake—it's easy to see how that could happen.
so i always look away and pull wax out my ear and play with it, you know, stuff that says i'm still not in the room or have no notion of their subject.
but i can only keep up this charade for so long before i blow my cover and they catch on.
anyway, that's my conundrum.
and it's a doozy by golly.
if anyone has a brilliant idea, i'm all ears, unwaxed to boot.
people talk about me in the third person, especially when i'm well within the second person domain—for instance, the dinner table.
actually, it's pretty cool.
it gives me a chance to hear what people are sayin' about me in front of my back.
i guess they figure i can't hear them or don't know they're talking about me or both.
how stupid is that?
i can hear everything, most of the time, and my comprehension is pretty darn good, especially if the subject is around vacuuming, deer spotting or yodelling..
but here's the hitch.
i'm afraid they might think i'm eavesdropping like some sorta self-loathing, low self-esteem loser.
i mean, i'm sitting right there in front of them for god's sake—it's easy to see how that could happen.
so i always look away and pull wax out my ear and play with it, you know, stuff that says i'm still not in the room or have no notion of their subject.
but i can only keep up this charade for so long before i blow my cover and they catch on.
anyway, that's my conundrum.
and it's a doozy by golly.
if anyone has a brilliant idea, i'm all ears, unwaxed to boot.
so you think you can dance? no, not particularly!
last night keaton and alix forced me to drive them to trenton, new jersey, get out of the car, walk a trenton block in the dark to a large arena, witness two and half hours of the "so you think you can dance?" tour, then walk back to the car in even darker darkness, negotiate several testy merges and wrong turns, and drive another hefty hour back to the house, when i insisted right from the get go that i already knew the answer, "no, i don't think i can dance", which certainly didn't change any as a result of watching these freaks of foot do their flailing, which i must admit was totally entertaining to watch (still like hockey fights a little more though).
the fact is, i wouldn't have minded so much had it not been for that shrieking, yelping hoot only teen girls and keaton can make at the sight of strapping, bare chested, gyrating young lads.
and let me tell ya, there was plenty of that to be had.
my ears are still ringing.
the memories haunting.
you know, come to think of it, there really ought to be some sorta presidential medal of honor for what i just endured.
seriously.
the fact is, i wouldn't have minded so much had it not been for that shrieking, yelping hoot only teen girls and keaton can make at the sight of strapping, bare chested, gyrating young lads.
and let me tell ya, there was plenty of that to be had.
my ears are still ringing.
the memories haunting.
you know, come to think of it, there really ought to be some sorta presidential medal of honor for what i just endured.
seriously.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
what's the moral of this nice little story?
once upon a time there was a boy trapped in a man's body, not a very good body mind you, but one that would make do.
we'll name the boy "bob" for now.
anyway, bob decided to climb a tree one day so he could get up on the roof because he only owned a very short ladder that could not reach, and there were things on the roof bob needed to do, like sit.
what a silly boy thing for bob to do, climb a tree to sit on a roof, given the condition of bob's man limbs.
but climb, climb, climb he did, until he was a good ten feet off the ground.
he needed to rest.
then he climbed over to the roof and plopped himself down.
what fun.
now, the first thing bob did was see how far he could spit by aiming at a bird bath some twenty feet away.
after eliminating all the internal moisture he had, bob calculated 23 feet was his best.
the second thing he did was spy on grown-ups walking their dogs, and then when they least expected it, bob made fart noises using just his hands and armpits.
after an hour or so, bob tired of all the laughs and shenanigans.
so the third thing he did was lay back and think about glee and ny ranger preseason hockey and other tv shows he watched the night before.
as his thoughts became fewer and more about girls (yuck), bob worried that keaton, in oh so many ways his mommy, was probably on her way home, and he didn't want to get her all upset with his secret boy antics.
so bob decided to inch his way as far as he could off the roof and then gracefully jumped (some might incorrectly say "tumbled like a lard ball") to the soft ground below, just like he used to do when he was really twelve years old and not pretending to be.
the next day, bob was paralyzed by pain from his thinning head hair down to his atrophied pinkie toes.
he just lay there like the lump of man limbs he started out as.
his throat wasn't doin' so hot either, with all the spitting and stuff.
and he wasn't sure when the skin abrasions would heal, if ever.
oh the pain, pain, pain.
in general, bob decided he would need another body if he was ever to have twelve year old fun again.
what a sorry state of affairs, considering he is 58 in normal people years.
the end.
we'll name the boy "bob" for now.
anyway, bob decided to climb a tree one day so he could get up on the roof because he only owned a very short ladder that could not reach, and there were things on the roof bob needed to do, like sit.
what a silly boy thing for bob to do, climb a tree to sit on a roof, given the condition of bob's man limbs.
but climb, climb, climb he did, until he was a good ten feet off the ground.
he needed to rest.
then he climbed over to the roof and plopped himself down.
what fun.
now, the first thing bob did was see how far he could spit by aiming at a bird bath some twenty feet away.
after eliminating all the internal moisture he had, bob calculated 23 feet was his best.
the second thing he did was spy on grown-ups walking their dogs, and then when they least expected it, bob made fart noises using just his hands and armpits.
after an hour or so, bob tired of all the laughs and shenanigans.
so the third thing he did was lay back and think about glee and ny ranger preseason hockey and other tv shows he watched the night before.
as his thoughts became fewer and more about girls (yuck), bob worried that keaton, in oh so many ways his mommy, was probably on her way home, and he didn't want to get her all upset with his secret boy antics.
so bob decided to inch his way as far as he could off the roof and then gracefully jumped (some might incorrectly say "tumbled like a lard ball") to the soft ground below, just like he used to do when he was really twelve years old and not pretending to be.
the next day, bob was paralyzed by pain from his thinning head hair down to his atrophied pinkie toes.
he just lay there like the lump of man limbs he started out as.
his throat wasn't doin' so hot either, with all the spitting and stuff.
and he wasn't sure when the skin abrasions would heal, if ever.
oh the pain, pain, pain.
in general, bob decided he would need another body if he was ever to have twelve year old fun again.
what a sorry state of affairs, considering he is 58 in normal people years.
the end.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
a resting place
just when i think i have an answer to all this life stuff, i think some more and realize, i don’t have an answer, just a resting place.
plenty to go around
at a gathering the other night, keaton said, when i came back from my learning journey to kliptown, soweto, i was so moved by the children, and the poverty, and all that they need, that i'm doing anything and everything i can to help them.
an agitated acquaintance said, i don't understand americans like you? we have so many poor children right here in our own country. the patriotic thing to do is help our children first.
i thought, uh oh.
then keaton said, i suppose i would agree with your concern if children were able to choose which country they wanted to starve in, because they'd pretty much all choose to starve here, since we have most of the world's food. but since they don't have much say in the whole matter, i can't be worried about where they happen to be dying. besides, there are plenty to go around, so don't waste your time getting all worked up over me. just get crackin' helping children where ever you might find them, and i promise, i'll only sing the praises of your human compassion.
god i get all goo-goo eyed when she talks like that.
an agitated acquaintance said, i don't understand americans like you? we have so many poor children right here in our own country. the patriotic thing to do is help our children first.
i thought, uh oh.
then keaton said, i suppose i would agree with your concern if children were able to choose which country they wanted to starve in, because they'd pretty much all choose to starve here, since we have most of the world's food. but since they don't have much say in the whole matter, i can't be worried about where they happen to be dying. besides, there are plenty to go around, so don't waste your time getting all worked up over me. just get crackin' helping children where ever you might find them, and i promise, i'll only sing the praises of your human compassion.
god i get all goo-goo eyed when she talks like that.
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