Giving Umbrage

Junk Drawer

Michael Ian Black (comedian/actor) recently wrote a humorous post on the vivid nature of our childhood dreams and how, over time, our ability to experience the ferociously creative and vivid dreams of youth fades.

 

http://www.michaelianblack.net/blog/2009/11/dreams.html

 

Black’s post got me thinking - not just about childhood dreams, but also about the intensity of my own childhood ‘memories’: the smells, sounds, voices, subtle gestures and facial expressions of relatives living and passed.  This may sound as if I have some wonderful memory I’m about to paint and am setting up the canvas as you read.  The truth is, however, that while I do have many grand memories of youth, I also have thousands of vivid details filed away in my mental dustbin that seem to just take up space with no apparent purpose. 

 

Take TV dinners as an example, the old-school-pre-microwave-tinfoil-encapsulated-slabs-o’-goodness.  I remember how thin the foil cover was and how a small square was to be cut around the ‘cherry compote’ – a red, napalm-hot dessert that inevitably burned my mouth with incredible intensity.  I remember the mysterious dwarfed onion that sat atop the pile of peas, the single pat of butter on the mash potatoes that burned a perfect square in the center, and the funny, slightly mushy croutons sprinkled on the turkey slices.  My mother may have been a great cook, but I have more technicolor memories of TV dinners than I do of pies cooling on the windowsill.

       

After writing the previous paragraph (and still savoring the lofting scent of long lost TV dinners), I took a step back to survey the mental junk drawer I had inadvertently emptied onto the floor.  Once you open this drawer, it turns out it’s difficult to stop sifting through it…several more examples of my mind’s scattered collection of trinkets began to emerge:

 

- The lightness of the Big Wheel’s front tire and the scratching sound of out of control hard plastic on pavement, followed by the tightening of my stomach just before hitting a chainlink fence

- The feel of cheap chainlink fence (the rough jagged kind) against my cheek

- The sparkly blue in my Banana Seat Schwinn

- The smell of a tiny milk carton’s spout (the kind we consumed during ‘milkbreak’)

- The hairy mole on my 5th grade teacher’s right cheek

- Every word to ‘I’m Just a Bill Sitting Here on Capital Hill’

- My 64 box of Crayola Crayons and getting the soft gold crayon broken off in the built in sharpener…early stress

- The green melted smooth spots (patches) on the seats of our school bus

- The strange sweet smell of my morbidly obese babysitter and the way she would exhale when she pried herself from the Lazyboy

- The way my Dukes of Hazard lunchbox used to pinch my skin when I closed its clasp

- The light hollow snapping of pop rocks in my open mouth

- The St. Bernard living across the street and the determined look on his face as he chased me on my Banana Seat Schwinn (his name was George)

 

After considering this pile of ‘stuff’ a bit more, I scolded my mind for being a hoarder and collector of the mundane.  Then I realized why I was being hard on myself.  In all this silliness, I realized that I could not remember my Grandmother’s face.  I could not dial it up.  My Grandmother passed away when I was roughly 7 and while I remember the Nilla Wafers she fed me (and the mushy dissolving properties of these cookies in milk), I could not remember her eyes or face, or the kind and loving way I know she used to look at me.  I remember how she ‘felt’ to be around and maybe that is enough - not something one should find in a junk drawer.  Looking back, though, I wish I had put my cookie down, looked up from my TV dinner and just sat there, taking her in a bit longer.  

 
 

Sean the Pot Smoking Kid

My father will sit and watch the History Channel for hours (specifically, WWII documentaries).  When attempting to have a phone conversation with him this can, at times, become annoying.  The conversation often entails me delivering quips or updates, followed by silence…and then gentle ensuing light machine gun fire in the background, “Dad, you there?” <ratatat-tat…ratatat-tat…>  “Dad?”. <insert grenade explosion and whistling of incoming mortar shell>. “Dude.”   

 

I never understood how he could watch this 'stuff' so often and at such volumes.  That said, as I continue to ‘mature’ I find myself increasingly consumed with specific genres of entertainment - potentially my own slow slippage towards the History Channel.   In fact, the last several movies I have watched have all been documentaries (and some darn good ones…so, I am compelled to share one such film). 

 

The movie is called ‘Following Sean’ by Ralph Arlyck.  It’s a follow-up from an original movie called ‘Sean’ that aired in the very late sixties. The original 15-minute movie followed a 4 year-old hippy boy named Sean living in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco in 1969.  It’s haunting to see this soulful kid sit on the couch at age 4 and insightfully respond to questions from Arlyck, as well as, casually reference ‘smoking grass’ and ‘speedfreaks’.   Arlyck’s footage of this kid’s barefoot dances through the Haight is at times mesmerizing…you can feel life, days and the Sixties slipping away as you watch.  It's been called the Rorschach test of the Sixties.

 

Building on the initial movie, Arlyck catches up with Sean 30 years later in ‘Following Sean’.   When you watch this sequel you will be struck by the impact of time on these people. Whether it’s Arlyck’s young wife to be and her deep loving eyes and playful braids or the remnants of that little kid in Sean, it pulls you in.  I was also struck watching Sean, at 4, playing near the street under no apparent supervision - I couldn’t help feeling less guilty about taking my kids to McDonalds to eat last weekend (although Ronald does look like a ‘speedfreak’).  

 

When I explained the film to my father (over the sounds of small arms fire and bomb raids), he couldn't quite hear me and thought I had just watched a documentary about a 'hippo' named 'John' that 'hated raspberries' (sit with it for a minute) <rattatat-tat>.  I therefore felt compelled to share with a wider audience. Enjoy -

Clean Slate 2010: Happy New Year!

 

As the yearly cycle of life would have it, I’ve been a bit beleaguered by the ongoing holiday onslaught (aka ‘cheer’), as well as, the lovely corporate year-end season.  This has made blogobility next to non-existent as inspiration and clear-headedness have proven to be elusive.  That is, until I began to contemplate New Years 2010 and the possibilities of a clean slate…just the sort of thing to make the rusty sleigh bells in my head stop their gentle jingling.  What better time of year to become inspired, set aside past failures, and begin laying the groundwork for new ones! 

 

Basically, it occurred to me this year that I have become tired of reviewing resolutions of bygone years and realizing the extent of my missed opportunities and procrastinations. This year, I have determined to toss aside the usual list of New Year’s Resolutions for a new improved version of my own coinage that is ‘attainable’.   The grand old days of ‘charting my family lineage back to the Pilgrims’ will be replaced with ‘being able to name both sets of my great grandparents’.   These individual aspirations for 2010 don’t, in my humble opinion, merit the term ‘Resolutions’.  Such a word as ‘Resolution’ has too much in common with other words of stately power, like ‘Revolution’ – there will be no Resolutions or Revolutions in 2010, only a calculated slow crawl out of mediocrity.

 

So, I have broken my new improved approach to Resolutions down into two buckets:

 

1. Resolutlets – I introduce to you the Resolution’s less intrusive cousin, the ‘Resolutlet’.  These small promises to myself are like finger food for the year, allowing me to pat myself on the back with small achievements as though I am popping a few wheat thins or nibbling on a mini quiche – all the satisfaction and half the calories of regular Resolutions.

    

2. Avoidolutions - Not liking the negativity of certain Resolutions but still believing there is a fair amount to ‘avoid’ each year, I have created the Avoidolution to capture those activities or things that one should think about avoiding, purely for safety reasons or as otherwise required by a court order.

 

The final beautiful point about Resolutlets and Avoidolutions is that you are able to change and revise them at will so don’t plan on crying over missed opportunities as 2010 comes to a close…simply snip the ends and clip the wings of certain pesky Resolutlets and Avoidolutions.   

 

2010 is going to be great!

 

2010 Resolutlets 

•               Read a single book by Edgar Allen Poe

•               Find Andorra on a map

•               Call someone I haven’t spoken to in 3 years

•               Do something completely selfless

•               Play a game of chess against a live person

•               Hug a Brazilian

•               Beat my sister at Texas Holdem’ (yes, my actual 'sister',      not some poker ace with the nickname ‘Sister’)

•               Savor the last 3 points on my Driver’s License

•               Listen more closely when my mother tries to teach me       Bridge (note - mothers shouldn’t use the word ‘tricks’         so much)

•             Pronounce ‘Amuse Bouche’ correctly and use the word        ‘Quixotic’   in a sentence

•             Be kinder to my Gall Bladder (e.g., limit rusty                       bucket’s  exposure to jalapenos)

•             Use those papery seat covers found in public restrooms

•            Trust a dog

•             Make a child laugh until milk comes out their nose

•            Dress like a pirate when it’s not Halloween

•            After several bottles of wine, sing ‘Edelweiss’ with friends

•           Go snowshoeing

 

2010 Avoidolutions

 

•  Anything made by Ed Hardy or even at this point, his family (e.g., Susan Hardy’s line of tattoo inspired oven mitts)

•    The words: value added, circle back, right set, level set, or even swing set

•    Any alcohol that comes from a newly discovered Amazonian fruit or otherwise has a distorted letter in its name (e.g., Muchaça)

•     Neon

•     Female bartenders with male names (e.g., Ricky)

•    Cops named Lee Oswald, especially a cop that doesn’t know why I am chuckling and asking if his name really is ‘Lee Oswald’

•     Losing the last 3 points on my Driver’s License

•      Lady Gaga

•      Laughing at someone who just slipped on the ice

•    Cursing or at least cutting out a few of George Carlin’s ‘7 Words You Can’t Say on TV’ from my daily vernacular

 

Happy New Year from the Staff and Management of Giving Umbrage!

 

*Final note – items of paramount importance (e.g., being the best father possible) are ongoing goals captured in one’s personal unpublished constitution.  

 

 

Tis' the Season...

 

Tis the season’ …for aging.  I turn 38 this month and it’s sparked some reflection.  For example, I seem to remember thinking ‘35’ was cool and sophisticated, ‘36’ less cool but still sophisticated and ‘37’, potentially ‘stately’ but no longer cool.  So, ‘38’ feels as if I am being moved to a slightly more serious row of cellblocks, one step closer to ‘dead youth walking’.  What’s recently occurred to me is that I may, in fact, be ‘middle age’.  I’ve attempted to confirm this ubiquitous label but there doesn’t seem to be a solid definition, just the foggy air of terms like ‘Over the Hill’ and the scent of mothballs...but no clarity.    

 

Initially, it occurred to me that I should look to history for guidance on middle age as history repeats itself…much like old people.  After some contemplation, I noticed there were potentially direct correlations like, the ‘Middle Ages’.   Most scholars believe this time period began with the fall of the Roman Empire around 410 and continued through the 1300’s.  The term "Dark Ages" was also coined to describe what historians considered to be a social and cultural decline during the early periods of the Middle Ages; this included a time period defined by pervasive warring, political unrest, plague, and torture.  This must be relevant.  Maybe early middle age is much like the Dark Ages, a time period marked by social and cultural decline (the purchase of a sports car and internet dating), the plague or other health hysterias (your first hernia operation), torture (enumerable responsibilities), and of course factional warring and civil unrest (divorce).   Luckily, my teeth aren’t really all that bad and I have no rats in my apartment.  Life is good.

 

In the end, history failed to offer me much direction so I considered whether mathematically, I was just plain in the ‘middle’ of it all.   By most accounts, it appears that the life expectancy in the U.S. for ‘someone born today’ is 78.  That’s what we miss when we reference life expectancy…the ‘someone born today’ part.  It doesn’t say…’the person reading this table can expect to live to 80’.  What a useless statistic! - nobody ‘born today’ cares how long they are going to live as they have a lot bigger things on their mind, like breastfeeding.  I digress.  Regardless, I was able to track down the fact that for those born in 1971 they could, at that time, expect to live to 68.   It would thus appear I hit ‘Over the Hill’ 4 years ago at the ripe old age of 34.  Sigh, another futile attempt at clarity.

 

All I really know is that I am aging and somewhere between mature youth and the Middle Ages.  I have begun a list of observations with the hope that I can come to some conclusive test that pinpoints my exact whereabouts in this ‘process’.   

 

A few observations from the past year:

 

• I no longer find fads cool.  Example – I dislike neon, I disliked it in the Eighties and I dislike it more now…and it’s back. 
• I find myself living through something horrible ‘twice’ (e.g., Neon); experiencing cyclical fashion trends should be a factor in any aging formula.
• I discovered my first nose hair and after some alarm determined to ‘pluck it’ with a tweezers. Given that nose hairs are actually connected to your toes and belly button through a series of pissed off nerve endings…the ‘plucking’ resulted in profound tearing of the eyes and much pain.
• I discovered my first rogue hair growing on my ear.  Being scarred from the nose hair incident, it took me three days to deal with the hair. I ultimately found that I could ‘pluck’ rogue ear hairs.
• I purchased a nose hair clipper.  Note: nobody in their 20’s owns a nose hair clipper.
• I realized the coolest movie from my youth pegs the cheese meter (e.g., Top Gun) and further discovered that a movie star I used to love when pubescent hormones choked off my sanity…looks a tad weathered (e.g., Molly Ringwold). 
• For the first time in my life I found, <gulp>, an instance, <gulp>, where the music was too loud (e.g., Motorhead concert).
• I found myself at a Motorhead concert.
• I hurt myself doing something I used to be pretty good at: example - I played racquetball for the first time in 8 years and without stretching...served a mean, ill intentioned, serve to my opponents backhand.  In turn, this abrupt bodily action caused me to pull my hamstring: total playing time = 3 minutes.
• I realized that something I used to be good at…nobody does anymore (e.g., racquetball).

 

More to come...

 

*note: work and holiday season are putting a serious damper on blogobility. 

 

A Street Car Named Godot

Last week at work, while sitting in a conference room passing time before the arrival of a key participant, I declared to my colleagues, “Man, this is like waiting for Godot.”  We giggled and nodded knowingly at each other, as if to say, “Yes, this IS like waiting for Godot.  It is indeed.”  I am not sure how many in the room had read Beckett’s play, seen it live or otherwise ‘got’ the reference but…as a collective we agreed it was proper and doled out self-congratulatory smiles to each other. 

 

For my part, as I sat there I became agitated with myself.  I couldn’t remember who the hell wrote ‘Waiting for Godot’ or what the hell it really was about.  I hadn’t read or seen it and thus became a bit disgusted with my dilettante nature.  I realized, for example, that I can sing the entire Flintstone’s theme song but can’t remember whether Tennessee Williams, Samuel Beckett or Boxcar Willy authored this famous play.  Looking back I didn’t really know ‘why’ my nifty remark was smart (or seemingly so), as it wasn’t tethered to any real substance.  I might as well have yelled ‘STELLLLLA!!!’ in the conference room, thus providing another round of gleeful banter (note: I haven’t seen or read A Street Car Named Desire either).   

 

I am now confronted with the reality of my transparent references and the occasional hollowness of wit…I wonder how often the smiles and nods received are backed by similar emptiness – ‘just wait until I get back to my computer, I will GOOGLE IT!’.  It seems that most of us are just wiki-savvy, googling, searchbotting, cyber-jugglers of factoids and cerebral tidbits…‘tidbits’ not earned but sopped up by a computer and mental swiffer.  I wonder how many recipients sweep up my dustballs without knowing, really, what I am referencing – empty ‘knowing’ nods?  

 

In the end I was so annoyed with myself I read the play.   What’s interesting to me is that the Godot reference made sense then, in that conference room, and makes more now.  The play has been widely described as ‘about hope’ or the ‘hopelessness of life’.  As I am sure you are aware, the play centers around Vladimir and Estragon and their futile wait for hope to arrive – hope in the name of a visitor named ‘Godot’, who never shows up.  At various times during the play, ‘hope’ is constructed  as a form of salvation and the premise of the play seems to slowly evolve into an example of how to pass the time in a world that offers no hope.

 

After reading Godot, it occurs to me that the blogosphere, chatworld, twitter, etc., is all of us questioning, searching, exposing, exchanging hats, eating carrots, insulting each other and wondering if we are at the right location for the arrival of our visitor.   

 

Vladamir: They all speak at once.

Estragon: Each one to itself.

Silence.

 

Vladamir: Rather they whisper.

Estragon: They rustle.

Vladamir: They murmur.

Estragon: The rustle.

Silence.

Vladamir: What do they say?

Estragon: They talk about their lives.

Vladamir: To have lived is not enough for them.

Estragon: They have to talk about it.

Vladamir: To be dead is not enough for them.

Estragon: It is not sufficient.

Silence.

 

Vladamir: They make a noise like feathers.

Estragon: Like leaves.

Vladamir: Like ashes.

Estragon: Like leaves.

Long silence.

 

Vladamir: Say something!

 

Here we are, you and me…struggling to pass time in an endless loop, waiting for someone to show up, something to happen.

So, we will all go on making empty references, googling our genius…laughing, reading, searching, and ‘waiting’.

 

 

 

 

EU President Elect

 

On Thursday of this past week Herman Van Rompuy, Belgium's Prime Minister, became the first President of the European Union. Van Rompuy, largely unknown outside his native Belgium, was named President after a consensus was reached at a meeting of the leaders of the 27-member European Union. Historically, Europe has rung in new leadership with varying levels of pomp and circumstance…from Panzer units rumbling across the Rhineland to what now appears to be some sort of muted office Olympics held behind closed doors in Brussels. Does anyone find this odd, alarming, or maybe just funny?

Most interesting are the words of Van Rompuy himself, “I did not seek this high position, I didn't make any steps to achieve it, but from tonight I take on this task with conviction and enthusiasm."  Huh?  Being idealistic, I tend to believe someone running a first tier continent should, at a minimum, be required to get off the couch to ‘get’ the job.  It would seem that an applicant for the EU Presidency should, at the very least, be required to fill out a long, annoying, online application…or endure a lengthy discussion with the EU HR department regarding past employment history. 

So, this demure Belgian is now the face of, collectively, the largest economy in the world.  In describing his leadership style, Mr. Van Rompuy notes,"As president elect of the council, I will listen carefully to everyone and I will ensure our deliberations turn into results for everyone."  Funny,  my 3rd grade teacher had a similar style and while we were quite happy in our ability to create consensus and share each other's problems, I am not sure we accomplished much...other than a food drive and well received Christmas pageant.  Basically, I remain skeptical of the EU's ability to accomplish much more than the creation of a colorful, nifty looking, currency (noting, the EU originally settled on 'Euro' because members couldn't agree on the choice between Euro-bucks and Francenshillings).

The most wonderful part of Mr. Van Rompuy’s recently acquired job is that it is totally undefined.  The Lisbon Treaty that created this new post was vague in defining its powers and obligations, saying simply that the President should "drive forward" the EU's work.  I too feel qualified to ‘drive forward’ many things and plan to speak to my boss about a revision to my job description.  Of course, this may be an unnecessary endeavor because it is quite possible I will wake up tomorrow morning with a new appointment for a job I did not apply for, seek or otherwise care to obtain.    

The main problem with the Europeans is that they over-sell terms like ‘Union’ and ‘President’.  Let’s face it, the EU is more of an ‘Elks Club’ of sub-to-mid-size GDPs huddling together under a common currency.  I envision that Poland occasionally grows tired of day to day country stresses and lumbers over to Brussels to have a beer with Denmark... seeking marital advice and the occasional dirty joke.  Henry Kissinger once said, “If I want to speak with Europe, who do I call?”.  Mr. Kissinger, you call ‘Grand Poobah Rompuy’ but, please be advised…you are going to need to know the secret handshake and moose-call to make it past the receptionist.

Today

I am starting to notice patterns with bloggers.  When bloggers experience a lack of motivation or feel generalized ennui, they seem to default to writing about three topics:  i) the day’s newsworthy events; ii) mundane tidbits from the weekend; or iii) a post about why they blog - (‘iii’ is more annoying than ‘i’ or ‘ii’ so, let’s skip it).  Also note, there may actually be a ‘iv’, where the blogger determines to showcase annoying words the blogger secretly loves (e.g., ‘ennui’).

 

‘(i)’ Today’s News.   Because it’s Monday (and I am feeling slightly underwhelmed by life and overwhelmed by work), I decided to crack my knuckles, open a bottle of wine and determine whether I could be inspired to write about the day’s newsworthy events.  It’s not that I truly believe anyone really cares about my voice-over on the tragedies, drive-bys and dribble du jour but… it just makes sense that there is a post that suggests as much – that is blogging!  So again, cracking my knuckles and sinking into a glass of lower pricepoint Malbec, I just realized….not a damn thing happened today.   As I hungrily stare at the headlines searching for insight, inspiration or intrigue….all I see is that the Space Shuttle took off (again), people are still getting sick from H1N1 (still), and Bon Jovi tickets went on sale (again).   It could be 2001 and I would be sitting here boring you with pretty much the same thing….the Space Shuttle took off (again), everyone is freaking out about West Nile (still), and Bon Jovi tickets are on sale (again).  Is this Groundhog Day?  It’s not that I wanted to see CNN Breaking News: the Super Volcano beneath Yellowstone has Erupted!  However, it would have been nice to at least discover a plane landing on the White House front lawn or a good old -fashioned celebrity overdose.  Either way, I guess we are all fortunate. <yawn>

 

(ii) A Mundane Tidbit (Movie Recommendation).  In an effort to save this post, here’s ‘take two’ or ‘ii’ – my Acme Grade ‘A’ movie recommendation filed under ‘mundane tidbit’. <Insert Gene Shallot voice>: Last night I went to Where the Wild Things Are, an adaptation of Maurice Sendak’s truly beautiful book.  Some say this movie is too dark however, life isn’t all fizzy lifting drinks - childhood is chalk full of setbacks, powerful emotions and other ‘wild things’.  Max Records, who plays ‘Max’ captures the intensity of an array of childhood emotions in such a way that I was truly, for once, stirred.  Now, it’s not for the faint of heart and it would scare the Michael Jackson out of my kids (see previous post) however, it was a nice gift to be given on a Sunday evening – a quick reversion back to the chaotic little person inside.   I think the next time my son pelts me with Cheerios in a fit of rage it may make more sense to me…or I just need to stop teasing him and put the milk in his bowl – either way.  I recommend it, as well as, the HBO biography on Sendak where you learn mundane tidbits about the author that are sure to shed more light on the book.   This Malbec is starting to taste a bit better now.

 

 

 

           

The Great Interview Experiment

As background, I must first introduce you to Neil Kramer, the man behind Citizen of the Month (http://www.citizenofthemonth.com/).  Neil is a writer and prolific blogger who believes, ‘everyone has a story to tell’ and/or ‘everybody is somebody’ – (Note: Neil is often cynical and should not be taken as the Mary Poppins of the blogosphere…the ‘Kevin Bacon’ of the blogosphere…‘maybe’, but not Ms. Poppins).   So each year, Neil sponsors the Great Interview Experiment on his blog. The experiment is simple – each participating blogger will interview and be interviewed by a fellow blogger.  Once the interviews are complete, each interviewer posts their interview of said random blogger on their blog.  Basically, this introduces someone new to his or her own piece of the blogosphere…. and so on and so forth.   As Neil notes in his instructions, ‘you don’t know whether you will be interviewed by a Nobel Laureate or an insane person – it doesn’t matter.’  

 

I am strangely intrigued by all of this.   I don’t know if I am participating in the creation of some sort of crazy blog particle accelerator that will create a black sucking sound in the cyber-universe or, if this is Neil’s way of selling Amway.  Regardless, there are a lot of beautifully strange people out there and well, this is the first generation to have this medium to play with…so why the hell not?   Bottom line…let’s screw around with this – when I get interviewed I will update the blog.

 

So, without further ado’….eh’ em…tap, tap, is this thing on? Please provide a warm welcome to ‘Blaiser’ of  http://www.blaiserblog.com/.  Blaiser is a fellow blogger, NYC stagehand, and all around interesting, somewhat zany cat.  The following is my interview of Blaiser (I would suggest reading Blaiser’s own brand of crazy in greater detail at some point).  Please don’t forget to tip your waitress…

 

_____ THE INTERVIEW____

 

Q - Your blog heading contains the phrase, “No, I cannot forget from where it is that I come from…” – what is the importance of this phrase for you?  

 

Ooh -- I'm delighted you asked. You are the first.  It's essential, and here are three reasons why.  One, I'm from a town with one stop light (OK, they added another when Wal*Mart showed up. Another light just for Wal*Freaking*Mart...... ) and more and more these days, with the never-ending onslaught of new phones, new reality shows starring Ugly Americans, and "new," new stuff that's really old stuff dressed up to distract us from bad taste/questionable morals/declining run production at the plate--in the face of all that, it's vitally important to Keep It Real... part of that, for me, is to remember from whence one came.  For me, that's Mansfield, Pa.  We walked a lot there.  It was like New York City, but with about 1/10,800th of the traffic lights (http://www.nytimes.com/1998/09/17/technology/choreographing-the-dance-of-traffic-lights.html)

 

Two is that a good sub-heading, to me, sheds deeper light, or perhaps lights the shallows.... um.... of a blog's/essay's/book's hook, or raison d'etre. Mine is Zany Optimism--it may be clear in each post, but that's my underlying motivation. "I cannot forget from where it is that I come from." comes to us from the great John Cougar Mellencamp; it's a lyric from his seminal Americana anthem, "Small Town" off the Scarecrow album.  I specifically picked it for the blog, because I love the grammatical redundancy and I'm not sure if it's intentional, on JCM's part. Maybe it is, and maybe it's not, and there's something about the ambiguity that I really love, and the potential for irony.  It's all up for discussion, much like life, and that's fun to me: Discussion.

 

I guess there is no relevant third reason...

 

Q - What is the trait you most deplore in other bloggers? (Apologies, had to have one Proust Questionnaire entry in there)

 

Well.... I'm a relative newcomer to the B'Sphere... so far, I guess out-and-out lies I find problematic.  I've been spending time on political blogs this year, and I've been really dismayed by the level of discourse.  People are so needlessly vicious to each other on comment threads--the Blog Hosts usually are much more tactful--and I find it disheartening.  That said, I do think it's necessary, in the good name of common sense, to smack down a complete tool every now and then, but can't we do it with more class?  There's SUCH a polarization in the National Zeitgeist, if you will, these days, although I really kinda hate that word, zeitgeist.  Maybe your readers can come up with a suitable older-school term.  I vote for "Consciousness."

 

Q - You have a very humoristic tone to your writing; at times it goes tangential, at other times sharp and dry – who is your greatest influence in your approach to humor?

 

Good question.  A few names spring to mind. My dad got me Robin Williams’ first comedy record for my 10th birthday, and it really changed my life.  I listened to a lot of stand-up from then through my late teens.  And of course the Pythons were a huge influence. My friends and I were definitely the hormonally challenged geeknerds at lunch who recited entire Python sketches to each other. But back to Dad--he is a poet and a painter and English professor (Ret.) who at one time favored Cartoonist as a career path, so in a certain way, as it does for most men, it all comes back to Dad. Brother Williams is a close second.

 

Q - As a Sox fan, and setting aside all historic resentment on other issues, how did you feel watching Damon win the World Series with the Yankees?

 

I'm sorry... did somebody say something?

 

Q - On the nerdy side, your technorati tag skills seem exceptional, how much time do you spend indentifying appropriate tags for your posts?

 

Oh, thank you! I do have fun with those, but they're really off-the-cuff.  Basically, whatever through-line that grabs my attention on a particular day, I use the tags to kinda reiterate connections and ideas, usually tangentially.  It's a way to come full circle at the end of a post. Rather like an epigram.  And the poetic instinct is pretty forefront on my brain these days.  If I ever get good at compressing my posts, watch out.  But I would say it's a literary thing, as opposed to a technorati thing.  Who knows how people arrive at a particular Web page?  I'm going with Voodoo.

Follow-on Q - Have you ever thought of stringing the tags together to create a Haiku?

 

No! Thank you for thinking of it for me, though.  I will do a post devoted to that and will share credit with you!

 

Q - Which of your blog posts are you most proud of?

 

A Graduation Hyku, a posting in June.

 

Q - Is there a deeper meaning in your bio picture being two red gummy fish?  Are you an angry Christian?

 

Ooh! What fun if I were! They're Swedish Fish, and I picked the image because they show up in my First Post.  I identify mostly with the Secular Humanists.  And the Bokononists, don't forget about them--they're quite good.

 

Q - If you could go out to dinner with anyone living or dead who would it be? (I know, so trite, but it’s fun)

 

Wally Shawn, and I'd bring a friend with a DV camera and we'd shoot the whole ...wait, what am I saying?  Stephanie Seymour!!  I understand she's available now, and we happen to share the same birthday...or maybe her mom, Jane.

 

Q - You have just secured the best job on the planet – naming nail polish colors for a major cosmetics firm (e.g., You’re Not in Kansas Anymore Red).   To wow your new boss you must knock his socks off with your first creative color – what is it?  (another e.g., Crack is Whack White).

 

Toss-up between "I'm riding the IRT-in-Autumn-whilst-reading-shotgunning-magazines-fluroescent-orange" and "Angry Christian Crimson"

 

 

 

 

Presidential Fitness

I did ten pull-ups today…normally, not a feat worth mentioning.  It occurred to me today, however, that for those of us that muddled through the 70’s and early 80’s as pre-pubescent aliens - this minor physical achievement could produce unintended satisfaction.  You see, I don’t do pull-ups because some trainer tells me to; I do pull-ups for Ronald Reagan and everything the establishment told me about my physical worth when I was 11 years old. 

 

I dreaded it, ...d..r..e..a..d..e..d...the single week each year when my kind, gender ambiguous, physical education teacher set aside the dodgeballs and hula hoops for the Presidential Physical Fitness Award.  As you may remember, the program was a product of the government’s realization that we latchkey kids were getting fat on TV dinners (real ones housed in tinfoil), Twinkies, and Spam.  The testing included five components: sit-ups, pull-ups (or flexed arm hang), push-ups, a one-mile walk/run, and the shuttle run. Your performance on these exercises would result in an award classification: no award (pure feebleness), 50% fitness, 85% fitness, and of course, the coveted Presidential Physical Fitness Award itself.  Looking back, what better way to inspire the pre-pubescent, huddled masses, to live a ‘fit life’ than to expose their physical limitations and inadequacies in front of fellow classmates? 

 

I remember being offended the Gipper would grade my physical prowess on a curve against my fellow 6th grader.  Let’s not forget that by 6th grade, some of my comrades (or men) were sporting mustaches and could no longer sing tenor.   By my account, at least half should have had their birth certificates certified by the Little League World Series to legitimize the testing results. 

 

Being one of the unfortunate late bloomers, I would start each day of this dreaded week synching up my sweatpants (somewhere around my lower rib cage) and preparing for battle - a battle I knew I would lose.  What I remember most is that I just hated the pull-ups.  I couldn’t do a single one and spent the entire time longingly looking over at the girls who were lucky enough to be provided the option of the ‘flexed arm hang’.  I am not sure if the flexed arm hang was a result of the ERA movement but it seemed a bit unfair.  I took umbrage that our female counterparts giggled and pointed at us as they performed this mundane task - which really, from what I could tell, served no purpose at all.  Unless you were preparing to peek over walls for long periods of time or thought you might need the skill to overcome a close call with a cliff…this activity was useless…and easy – it was no pull-up.

 

The results were inevitable.  Each year I would earn the 50% fitness award, affirming to the world on an annual basis that I was ‘half a man’.  I often reflected on the irony of this ‘President’s Award’ and wondered how Ronnie would have faired in the shuttle run – I was sure I could take him.   In the end, I bet this program has since been watered down, consistent with our modern milk toast approach to ego preservation.  It’s too bad; I tend to believe I am a stronger person for enduring this physical ridicule.   At the very least, it makes the occasional workout a bit more inspired.   

Blogito Ergo Sum

Please be advised – there is no catchy whistling tune, poop story, or picture of Michael Jackson accompanying this print.  I’ve been dabbling in this medium for a month and it isn’t until now that I’ve become intrigued and at times confused with what the hell it’s all about.  I am not even sure it’s a ‘medium’ anymore as it’s been suggested to me it’s a community?  I’ve also been told it’s called the Blogosphere? At times, it feels like the Matrix. 

For me, it began on a Sunday afternoon about a month ago when I became inspired and…a bit despotic after reading a monstrous pile of legalese.   I feel fortunate to have my job and it’s often rewarding but the reality is that I spend most of my life in the corporate world.  This is a world where people ‘circle back’ instead of talk or ‘level set’ instead of make sense.  People aren’t even fired anymore; they are ‘riffed’ (reduction in force).  Purely as an experiment, I have considered sitting my 3-year-old son down and preparing him, “Son, we’ve had to make some cuts and I am afraid we are going to have to let you go.  I’ve got a nice severance package here for you big-guy, thanks for your time in this family and good luck in your search for another.” - my version of naming him ‘Sue’.

So, I wandered into this community, medium, and sphere.  Initially, it felt more like a cyber-Trafalgar Square; the more ‘hits’ and ‘followers’, the taller the soapbox, the louder the message.  There are so many with so much to say - some radical and others at peace (with the rest of us peering longingly in their windows).  After a week or two, I started to feel hints of a community, maybe an Island of Broken Toys, but a community nonetheless.    I’ve caught up with old friends and run into a few interesting new folks - with the understanding that ‘Susan from Utah’ may actually be ‘Burt from Tennessee’ (a guy who likes to type in his underwear)…either way, a community. 

One thing I've learned is that almost every blog reflects on its purpose at one point or another.  At times, this exercise can be poignant, at others... forced and riddled with attempts at deeper meaning.  Almost invariably, an author’s search for the blog purpose starts with the apology, ‘I hate that I feel the need to explain why I do this but…’.  I am not convinced it needs to be so complicated or over-indulgent.  There are thousands of ways people choose to express themselves, whether it be streaking across Coors Field naked or sending hate mail to Rush Limbaugh.  It's unfortunate that bloggers attempt, through intellectual strain or self deprecation, to explain their insecurity in this activity…it’s ‘ok’ to want to make a person smile, lodge a silly song in someone’s head, or tell a random person about your day.  In sum, if you can touch (inappropriately or otherwise) a fellow human with your own brand of crazy, why not?  If all you hear is crickets chirping, well that’s ok too. <crickets chirping>.

In sum: I blog, therefore I am - (taking time to play with the mental clay and consider the ridiculous ensures that piece of me continues to exist).  For a few moments, I can just be a sarcastic, story telling, blog-o-thug.  So, here I sit with eager anticipation knowing the cyber-intelligencia will throttle my weak Descartes reference while others Google it.  That's cool, I Googled it.

Anyway, I try to finish anything I start in 60 minutes or less since really, that’s all the time I have and any more contemplation produces an over-thought word salad.  It's been over 70 minutes now - I gotta run, there’s nothing more to say and I've grown tired of being almost serious…no more of this, I take umbrage.