Four Ways From Sunday

Seed: What Color Is Your Friggin' Parachute?

2008-09-07T20:55:00.009-05:00

It's hard to imagine in light of society's current preoccupation with job satisfaction, but there once was a time when the word 'career' had yet to reach the mouths of those long forgotten windbags careless enough to speak it. Neanderthals, who seem to be getting smarter by the week, had little concern for such high falutin' verbiage. After all, you were lucky to reach puberty back in those days, so it stands to reason that finding a purpose beyond procreation and hunting/gathering would have held little intrinsic value. And it might have stayed that way too, if it weren't for those meddling Homo sapiens. Cut to a few years later, and suddenly every rube with a broom in hand is plying a trade of some sort. But the concept of careers as we know it today, seems to have been yet another touchy-feely Baby Boomer invention, which surprise surprise, has irrevocably set up future generations for a lifetime's worth of lingering resentment.

All this to say, by way of lengthy introduction, I am currently unemployed. I have only been unemployed for six days, but it might as well have been an eon. I'm starting to feel like that no good third cousin that every family talks about in disparaging terms. You know the one. Watches Judge Judy religiously. Always has a stain on his shirt. Talks about his previous job like he just clocked out, even though the last time he drew a paycheck, Lorenzo Lamas was a household name. I hope this is the kind of bugbear that will not overstay its' welcome, but statistics seem to indicate otherwise. Recent polling provided by newsfromrussia.com suggests that the average length of unemployment has climbed to 18.4 неделя. That's 18.4 weeks for all you non-Ruble heads. In other words, I could be in for a long haul.

As much as I would like to pretend otherwise (and often do), the problem isn't really the recent economic downturn or the job market vacuum. It's me. I have absolutely no idea what vocation I would like to pursue. You would think twenty-seven years into the game, I could have mapped out a career path that doesn't look like a four-year old with ADHD spray-painted it on the sidewalk. Sadly, I've awakened to the realization that this just isn't the case. I have been asked, "What kind of job are you looking for," so many times, it's as if the very question has cemented itself to the wax-covered labyrinths doctors graciously refer to as my eardrums. I want to respond with confidence, but instead I just shrug my shoulders and manage a polite "Meh."

My father, like any respectable pater familias, has expressed a desire for me to follow in his petroleum soaked footsteps. I remain cautious. And it's not because I've fallen in with the whole "oil is the root of all evil" crowd. In fact, oilmen have historically been some of the most interesting people to ever hornswoggle Mother Earth out of her natural resources. Hell, if insatiable entrepreneurs like E.W. Marland and Waite Phillips never existed, Oklahoma would have been ceded to anarchists long ago. That's right Istook. I said it. Anarchists. But thankfully, we were spared that indignity. No, I'm leery of the Texas Tea trade for another kind of reason. To be specific, several of my former acquaintances have recently joined ranks with the likes of Boone Pickens and his many minions. Rarely a day goes by without my old man emailing me the name of yet another friend who is hocking his or her services in hope of landing a job in the oil and gas industry.

Reading those forwarded emails, I feel a strange mix of embarrassment and failure. Embarrassment because I empathize with their desperate search for gainful employment, and failure because it seems my generation has learned nothing from the trials and tribulations of the Ewing Family. Do these people honestly not remember the 80s? C'mon folks, you know...A Flock of Seagulls, legwarmers, the OIL BUST. I still remember my parent's speaking in hushed tones about the bust as if it was the Holocaust or something. I'd like to think in the year 2008 we would know the ultimate fate of the oil business is inevitable. Pack it in. Game over. Good job team, but it's time to go home. Here's a gold watch for your trouble. But no, there are still a few well-meaning but misguided individuals, clinging to the hope that our energy dilemmas will be solved by a modern-day Jed Clampett. Don't get me wrong; there's still a little of the black stuff left, but it seems like people my age would want something a bit more reliable.

So I'm left to ponder a mind-numbing array of vocational opportunities, none of which I might add, scream out, "Pick me! Pick me!" I'd probably have better luck just drawing a trade out of a hat. It worked for Dr. Phil, right? One benefit of being unemployed is that I've learned to trick myself into believing certain jobs are a plausible fit. That's what those career aptitude tests will do to you. I think to myself, "I like the outdoors. I'm a good rule follower. I prefer to work alone. Why, I could be a game warden." But in the light of day, these career models are just another exercise in futility. And now, unemployables like myself have to deal with the added pressure of this 'career' nonsense. You can't just have a job anymore. No, you have to find something fulfilling and life-affirming. Sure there are people resisting this on a daily basis, but they don't get to enjoy the smug self-satisfaction that comes with finding your true calling in life. And if I desire anything in life, it's smug self-satisfaction.

Friends, what say you on all things career related? Oh, and it's good to be back. I missed this.

Response: He Works Hard for the Money

2008-09-07T16:17:00.000-05:00

Well, Bunky, I hate to shatter the high esteem you hold for me because of my stellar career and meteoric rise in this place some affectionately call Dewey’s World. I know how devastated you were when Pee Wee Herman was pinched. The truth is, the very foundations of my career and all the early decisions that went into it were based on selling myself short. Not surprising really, since I’ve done that my whole life. I went to an easy college, chickened out of transferring to a more prestigous one, cowered from accepting an offer at a high-powered graduate school. I’m not sure when I started selling myself short or why, but I usually blame it on my sister and my mother; oh and my father.

I did have career aspirations early on, though. Here’s my list in order of how desperate I was to have the career:

Professional assassin
Sniper
Paratrooper
Intelligence agent (not a James Bond spy type, but like an analyst)
Preacher
City planner
Letter carrier
Librarian
Bus driver

Anyone can see that, like any good Pisces, I was pulled in different directions. I wanted to kill people, but I also wanted to help them. The problem was that no matter how many guns and knives I owned (a lot) and how many years my Soldier of Fortune subscription ran, I was ultimately too damned chicken to go through with one of those top jobs. After I got out of the cult, I just couldn’t bring myself to be a preacher. And, after I’d been to Europe a couple times and four years of college, I couldn’t allow myself to be a letter carrier or a bus driver. So, I was left with librarian, city planner or intelligence agent.

I laughed out loud when I read your account of the Oil Bust because I was affected by it, too. My worldview as a young teen just beginning to think about my future career was profoundly influenced by the Bust, but the funny thing is you’re affected by it the way I was by people telling me about the Great Depression. The Depressioneers were my age now when they were telling me to play it safe: “if you could keep your job, you’d make it through,” they told me. “So, find something that’s very secure.” My dad was no help, he grew up after the war when opportunity was limitless. He was unfazed by the Bust because, as he said, “I’ve never had any trouble finding work.” And it’s true, he hasn’t; he never went to college and never had a Career, but he was never unemployed (but he never worked with the black stuff). Still, those stories of the Depression weighed on me as I saw the unemployment lines on the news and friends moved away as their laid-off fathers took them to greener pastures elsewhere.

The thing about the Oil Boom was that people lived like there was no tomorrow. The new cars, big houses, rhinestone cowboy boots, and worst of all, the oil boom shacks thrown up by the thousands in far northwest Oklahoma City. Nine out of ten of the college kids I knew were Petroleum Geology majors or some other major related to the industry. By the time their four years were up they were lucky to be a bank teller and the ones who got a job moved to Dallas.

Combining the shaky economic times of my youth with my habit of selling my self short, meant that I went the librarian route. Not that I don’t love what I do, but notching reference questions on your belt is not nearly as exciting as notching heads of state you dropped from a fifth-story window at 500 yards. Or driving through a regentrified neighborhood in a former slum and knowing your plan made it happen. But I’ve got a career and as long as I walk the straight and narrow, I’m likely to keep it through good times and bad.

I’d say you’re in a good position, though, there’s an element of freedom in working non-career track jobs because you always know in the back of your mind you can chuck it and do something else. You don’t have to play games to get ahead and nix to all the kowtowing. Moving from job to job keeps it interesting and you can always say you’re gathering material for that next album. Now, I don’t like to give advice, but here’s what you do: marry a high-achiever and then follow her to another city while she fulfills her career goals. Or I hear stripping pays well.

Response: "Hey mister, wanna buy a cat?"

2008-09-07T14:30:00.000-05:00

Smug satisfaction, Bunky? I think not. Each time I get a paycheck I thank God that I somehow fell into a profession which in Oklahoma puts me firmly in the middle class and doesn't leave me covered in grease at the end of day. Thankfully, I'm not dishing out hot pizza to mall rats or manning the cash register at the La Quinta Inn.

I always wanted to be a librarian. Well, almost always.

I dreamed of a farm in Africa. Well, not in Africa. But I did dream of a farm in South Texas. A cat farm, where I would tend herds of multicolored cats, exquisite animals desired as far west as El Paso (and possibly up into the panhandle as well). Although my artistic abilities have never been up to scratch (so to speak), I would spend hours doodling images of my ideal occupation, imagining my life as a cat farmer. Dressed in overalls, I'd wander among groves of apple trees, cats frolicking at my feet, hanging from branches, perched on my shoulder -- a veritable Garden of Eden minus the fig leaves and angry God.

It was a cruel day when I noticed that cats were all too familiar in my urban landscape. Most likely, I remember thinking, cats aren't going to be a big seller. Especially when they were practically giving boxes of kittens away at the local icehouse. Perhaps horses would be a better career choice. Sadly, as I researched the big ticket items that went along with housing horses, I could see that was another dead end career choice.

Perhaps I could write the Great American Novel, then. Yet after only two college-level literary courses, I felt something inside me die. Could I create anything that compared to Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha County? How could I possibly top the picaresque stories of Mark Twain? Those masterpieces by Edith Wharton, Flannery O'Conner, Herman Mellville. Damn them all to hell --they'd beaten me to it.

After that, it was a long, miserable slog of occupational despair: local newspaper reporter, typesetter, desktop publisher, library assistant, temp, C-SPAN gopher, administrative assistant. Fed up with my tiny checks, I finally decided to go back to school. It was librarianship or die!

My decision had nothing to do with the librarians I'd encountered in my life. Up to that point, I'd never had a devoted book lover beam at me from over the reference desk and guide me to a literary wonderland, like Matilda's mentor in Roald Dahl's amazing novel for children. From what I remember, my elementary school librarian had been a battle axe with a fondness for shushing, the middle school librarian had kept the room sealed and locked, and my high school librarian had a permanent frown that reached down to her knee caps. No, it was merely the presence of books that did it. Those constant childhood companions, stalwart friends -- I wanted to be surrounded by books.

Like the Saint says, there is something attractive about moving from job to job. If anything, it gives you a wealth of experiences from which to draw when writing your own Great American Novel.

I'm sad to say, it won't help you much if you decide to open a cat farm. But lately, I hear llamas are all the rage.

Seed: "I am," I cried.

2007-08-21T21:45:00.000-05:00

For the last few weeks my youngest has been struggling with some big questions. One night we were going through the bedtime routine. She was just out of the bath, scrubbed clean, and tucked in with still-damp hair moistening the pillow underneath. We sang a couple of old Hoagy Carmichael songs and I lay there a few minutes waiting for her to nod off. I was actually the one to drop off. But after about ten minutes in the pitch black, I hear, “Dad?”

“Yeah, Killer.”

“Isn’t it weird that we’re here?”

“Whaddaya mean weird? And whaddaya mean ‘here’?”

“I mean…just…that we…people…are…just…that they…exist.”

All of a sudden the grogginess of REM sleep washed away. How was I supposed to handle this? This one wasn’t in the parenting manual. I know it doesn’t sound like a big deal, but I wanted to handle it right. On the one hand, I didn’t want to just blow off the question because, well, it is THE question, isn’t it? On the other hand, I didn’t want to answer it too much because I didn’t want to give her the impression that there are any answers. But then on another hand (we’re Hindus) I started to worry that if I didn’t offer her any guidance she might develop some warped ideas and grow up to start some new religion. Even worse, I was afraid her overactive brain would run away with the thoughts and she might develop some anxiety or as they say in the trade, existential dread. On still another hand, I wanted her to have the scary euphoria of epiphany and all those other Greek words.

I eventually got her mind to stop racing enough to go to sleep, but then I started trying to reconstruct my own dawning. It didn’t take me long to remember because it is indelibly marked in my memory. I was six and I had just gotten home from kindergarten. My mom always made me take a nap after school (given the kind of kid I was, it was probably more for her sanity than my health) and so there I was lying in my little bed in my little room. The window was opposite me and it had that kind of ambient afternoon glow around the drawn drapes.

The rules were that I didn’t have to go to sleep but I had to stay in bed. No books, no toys. If I made it an hour, I could get up. That day the house was hushed. It was one of those times when you hear a hum or a rushing sound and you realize you’re hearing the silence. Then I heard an airplane flying overhead. I’d heard airplanes before, but on this day I wondered, Who was on that plane? How many were on it? Where were they going? How many planes are in the air at one time and where are they going? Before I could turn my brain off I had projected that single noise out to wondering how many planets had people on them and ultimately whether God existed. My mom carried the day, though. Not long after I had accepted the immensity of the universe and that I exist in it in a very small way, the smell of fresh-baked cookies wafted into the room and her smiling face peered through the door, "Cartoons are on. Time to get up!"

I’m still amazed that I remember that episode so vividly. In fact, it’s my most vivid memory. I’ve talked to the wife about it and she said she can remember her epiphany of self-awareness very clearly as well (there’s probably a good Greek or German word for this; I’m sure Bunky knows it). The funny thing is that when it happens you don’t mark it in your memory as the moment you became self-aware, but years later you recognize it as such.

By way of an update, since that night Killer will blurt out these heavy questions like, “What if God isn’t real?” “If you died before I was born, would I still be born?” The wife is worried she’ll develop anxiety issues, but I think it’s pretty cool to watch.

So, where were you when the lights came on?

Response: Weird to be you and me

2007-08-21T21:44:00.000-05:00

Lying on my back, I watched the clouds pass overhead. It was 1970. I was 6 years old. Oblivious to the deeply philosophical ramifications of what I was about to do, I wondered what was at the edge of those clouds. I knew about the planets. (Although I think Pluto might have been called Planet X then. I just don't know.) But my mind rushed out past the planets. What was beyond them? What was beyond what was beyond them?

I started hyperventilating. Was being in the universe like being in a box? No matter how big a box, there was always something outside the box. Was there another universe outside our universe? I was freaking myself out.

Rolling back onto my stomach, I stared down through the lawn at a bug, trying to think about something else. Another weird thought popped into my head. What if my mother had not married my father? I wouldn't be me! Well, I'd be only half me, but not the me I was at that moment. If it had happened that way, if my parents had married other people, would I as the child of one half of that equation run into the child of the other half of that equation and recognize the part of myself that might have been?

Palms sweating, I sat up and tried to calm down. It's weird to be me, I thought.

This had to be my moment of self-awareness. And, like the Saint, I can remember it in vivid detail. The clouds are still as fluffy, the grass still as scratchy, the bug still as crawly. Periodically, more perplexing and befuddling questions came to mind. But I never talked to my parents about it. I kept it to myself. I already had a reputation as being strange; there was no need to underscore my oddities.

Not long ago, Sport went through the same thing, but instead of keeping it in, he vocalized it.

"Mom, isn't it weird being yourself?"

I knew exactly what he meant. I was thrilled to recognize in him my 6-year-old self. We had a good talk about just how weird it was. I don't think I did or said anything that might have pointed him toward warped ideas or a bizarre religious cult.

Although, if anyone was to be lured away by giddy, tamborine-playing cult members, it would probably be him. And the cult probably would be headed up by Killer.

Response: Existence is Futile

2007-08-21T21:43:00.000-05:00

Actually Saint, I would point you in the direction of the Swahili word for self-awareness, "ufanyaji" (pronounced ooh-fawn-ya-gee), which funnily enough is now associated with a popular Tanzanian fruit drink. However, the word itself has much more sinister origins. According to Daniel Juergen's landmark 1976 treatise, Swahili: Deconstructing the History and Language of an African People, 700-1600, the term "ufanyaji" first appeared in the log books of Portugese slave traders around the turn of the 15th century. It could often be found scrawled on the walls of the stowage deck. But that's for another blog. And it's a complete lie.

My Own Private Idaho occurred in a much more recent time and place. In 1986, I was five years old. My favorite baseball team at the time was the California Angels, I wore an oversize Panama hat from the Bahamas everywhere I went, and I still, on occasion, wet the bed. That spring, my parents took me on my first snow-ski outing in Angel Fire, New Mexico. The entire week had been going swimmingly until suddenly, out of nowhere, smack dab in the middle of my mom's Famous Homemade Chili dinner, I realized that someday I would die. You would think I would have already learned that at such a relatively late stage. But no, it seems my brain cells were too clogged with GI Joe trivia and glue shrapnel. Up until that point, the worst news I had ever received was the diagnosis that my poodle had Irritable Bowel Syndrome. But I can't even begin to tell you the sheer horror of realizing I would not, in the words of Liam Gallagher, live forever. I cried for at least an hour, hurled obscenities at my parents when they tried to comfort me, and sank into a pit of self-loathing from which I thought I would never recover. I have since tried to replay that day over and over in my head, in the hopes of finding concrete evidence that I had in fact had a near death experience of some sort. Perhaps a terrible fall on the Bunny Slopes or a mild case of hypothermia induced me to reflect on the very thing I had been avoiding up to that point? But here we are 21 years later, and I still have no clue as to what prompted such a terrible and enduring moment of what I like to call "self-bewareness." In my most sobering moments though, I can trace back all of my life disappointments to that very day. Even now, when I eat chili, I ponder the fragility of human existence.

I am a person who worries almost constantly. But at the the root of every single one of my worries is that I will die. I mean really, if you reason out all of your own personal anxieties, you have to figure that at the core of each, is this constant fear of death. And there's no getting around it. You could be worried about giving a presentation in a room full of your peers, but really you're worried that you will "die of embarrassment." You could be worried that your family and friends will discover some awful secret about you, but really you're worried that you "die of shame." You could be worried about a serial killer living in your neighborhood, but really you're worried that you will, well, die of death. So faced with such constant trepidation, it's no wonder people resort to Owen Wilsonesque extremes. But you do have to keep it in perspective. With every year that goes by, I find myself thinking less and less about the Big D. Strange, isn't it? You would think the opposite would be true. However, the Ingmar Bergman Seventh Seal styled Grim Reaper of my youth has transformed himself into the affable Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey version. Most excellent huh?

I hope that the Super Giant Killer, like myself, and the Queen and the Saint before her, will take such monumental discoveries in stride. Life's too short to dwell too much on the infinite. Because, let's face it; we're never going to figure out why we're here, where we're going, or where we came from. And even if you could know, would you really want to? Well, I would, but only because I'm tired of worrying about it.

Seed: I was a middle-aged zombie

2007-04-30T14:26:00.000-05:00

Last week I attended yet another concert. My son had to be there a half hour early, orchestra shirt pressed and clean, viola tuned and ready to go. I brought a book, hoping to get at least a chapter read while I waited. (At least this time we had real seats, not those uncomfortable bleachers native to every middle school gymnasium.) Of course, my hope was in vain. Girls on cell phones flapped around in flip-flops while boys followed a few feet behind, feigning disinterest. Mothers harassed their over-stimulated toddlers, fathers jittered their legs nervously, dying for a cigarette, each of us wishing to be anywhere but where we were. I’m all for showcasing my child’s growing musical abilities, but how many times must I be subjected to a slightly off-key Pachelbel’s Canon?

As I looked around at the hollow-eyed parents, run ragged by after-school sports activities, music lessons, awards ceremonies, gymnastics classes, and martial arts lessons, an image popped into my head. We all looked like zombies, mindlessly lurching toward some unreachable goal, seeking an unknown cure to relieve our pain. And my next thought was – wouldn’t it be really cool if we turned into zombies?

If ever I could transform into a zombie, it would have been at an awards ceremony, or "round-up" last fall, when, while waiting for my kid to receive his Student of the Month certificate, the school principal made us listen to the Pledge of Allegiance, Student Pledge, Teacher Pledge, a recitation of the school's core characteristics (perserverance, citizenship, respect, etc.), the Pledge of Allegiance, Star Spangled Banner, and the school song. As it went on and on, I started to feel like a member of the doomed People's Temple Group, watching as Jim Jones distributed the Kool-Aid. My bottom became numb. Small children wrestled free from their mothers' arms, breaking into sobs when they were once gain herded into strollers and buckled up. Grandparents adjusted their hearing aids. It was interminable.

Imagine the power of zombie transformation. In the middle of a reading of the school lunch menu, I would experience something akin to an out-of-body experience. I wouldn't even remember what had happened, only coming to my senses hours later, drenched in blood, a slightly sour aftertaste in my mouth, and the unfamiliar reflection of fear and loathing in the eyes of people I meet. Finally.

I'll bet it would cut down on scheduled after-school activities. "Remember, let's keep the program short, or parents will start turning into zombies."

Response: There's No More Room In Hell

2007-04-30T14:20:00.000-05:00

Zombies? Sure, zombification would be a welcome relief to me at school events. From the moment I retrieve the garishly-hued flyer from my daughter’s Take Home Folder advising me of my obligation to attend the next all-school musical revue to the moment I hear the first note of an adapted Yanni song, I take a spiritual and emotional beating. I like your idea of a transformation, Queen, but I’m not sure how I’d like it to happen.

It begins, like all other traumatic event cycles, with denial. “Didn’t I have a colonoscopy scheduled that night?” “Isn’t that my night to pickup trash on the highway?” I go through all the stages of the Kubler-Ross grief cycle – I even try intercessory prayer, “Lord, prithee a termite infestation upon the grand piano of Ms. Smith the music teacher…” – but ultimately I plunk down into the uncomfortable steel-framed, rough-upholstered, universal large-open-area-meeting-space-chair resigned to my fate. I then spend the next two hours fuming and scowling, willing the possibility that Dr. Jekyll and Bruce Banner were characters based on even the slimmest splinter of truth, thereby allowing me a guilt-free rampage through the venue unburdened by any memories of the destruction.

Every year for the Christmas gala, no fewer than 1000 people cram into the hall to hear their child, grandchild, niece or nephew intone a dozen schmaltzy “winter songs” in unison with 100 other kids. The kids mumble tangentially through lyrics featuring every known new age euphemism for Christmas while Ms. Smith pounds away monotonously on the ol’ Steinway. Meanwhile hundreds of video cameras whir and cameras flash. I’ve tried everything to cope with the skull-scraping boredom of waiting – Gameboys, crosswords, sleeping, ogling soccer moms – and all I get are disapproving looks from the other parents and admonitions from the wife, “It’s not fair to the other parents,” she says.

Fair? I thought we were all in this together. I thought we all suffered the shrill stabs of children singing. I thought we all wanted to sneak in the night before and plant an IED in the piano set to detonate when a b flat was struck. I thought we were all there because we didn’t want to be the one who wasn’t there; the one everyone else labels the bad parent for not being there. That’s when I’d like to become Norma Rae. Once transformed into a mousy mill-working mom I would ascend the stage and plead with everyone to stand together and put an end to this travesty of musical education. I have a feeling the comedown’d be a bitch, though. I’d probably find myself in the backseat of a black Trans-Am gripping a strangely aerodynamic piece of a nun’s habit.

But the awards ceremonies...you're right. If any human event cries out for voodoo remedies, it's school awards ceremonies. You can never find a seat because a couple of obnoxious ladies always go to the venue straight from work and cordon off ten rows of seats for every known relative of little Susie and then guard them like a half-starved pit bull in a southside trailer park. Practically every student gets an award, every name is excruciatingly read aloud and everyone applauds while the kid clumsily shuffles across the stage to pick up his faux parchment affirmation fresh off the office printer. Inevitably, some family blurts out the old disco, "woot! woot!" That's when I begin feeling undead.

Response: Send More Paramedics

2007-04-30T14:18:00.000-05:00

That’s what one of the zombies requests over the radio in the ambulance in “Return of the Living Dead” when he and his dinner guests have finished noshing on the brains of the first rescue vehicle-full of yummy paramedics. Send more.

Like students to American public schools, send me more brains to be devoured. Give me your youthful, your lads, your impressionable lasses yearning to be Paris Hilton, or some other wretched excess, some teeny bore.

Surely you don’t really want to become a zombie. Zombies are what the people around you at these functions already are. Of course those high school grads shuffle across the stage to claim their diplomas. How else can they walk? They’ve been in training for 12 years to become good little consumers-occasional voters-workplace drones, just like everyone else. It’s ironic that zombies eat brains since that is the one organ we’re not taught to use when in school and can easily live without after graduation.

To use another movie plot point, society congratulates anyone who becomes a pod person, welcoming him or her to the fold. (I can mix metaphors all day.)

So my praise goes out to those who can get through the system without becoming zombies, the ones who know the rules (“get born, keep warm, short pants, romance, learn to dance, get dressed, get blessed, try to be a suck cess”) but whose parents encourage them to side step them.

Don’t send more paramedics, who are just fodder for zombiedom. Anything but that.

Response: Time of the Season

2007-04-30T14:16:00.000-05:00

Father give me the Bull of Heaven,
So he can kill Gilgamesh in his dwelling.
If you do not give me the Bull of Heaven,
I will knock down the Gates of the Netherworld,
I will smash the doorposts, and leave the doors flat down,
And will let the dead go up to eat the living!
And the dead will outnumber the living!
It will be awful! – From the Epic of Gilgamesh

Is it already that time of year again? I’m talking of course, about the time when the dead rise up from the grave to claim the souls of fallible elementary school children worldwide. With promises of official sounding awards, colorful placards, and an endless stream of felicitations, zombie like creatures are taking over the whole of humanity. Who could resist the call of such glorious temptation? I know I couldn’t.

It seems like yesterday, when as a gangly lad of twelve, I marched proudly forth to claim my Outstanding Young Person’s Leadership Award. In an audacious display of breakneck brown-nosing, I had managed to convince my gullible sixth grade teacher that I was not only a man among boys, but also not the person responsible for sticking an eraser in her coffee. In case you were wondering, I haven’t won as much as a Scooby Doo Pez dispenser since. The Outstanding Young Person’s Leadership Award was handed out annually to children in the sixth grade who exhibited promising leadership characteristics by none other than the dreaded Freemasons.

I gave the event little thought beforehand, but when the actual award day came, I found myself more than nervous. My parents looked as proud as ever as we drove to the official ceremony, but we all seemed at least remotely aware that we were headed into some sort of devious trap. My old man chattered on and on about how his dad was a Mason in a pathetic attempt to hide his own anxieties as to what the evening held in store for us.

Upon arrival, my family and I, (dressed to the ni…sixes for the occasion), were ushered through the temple hallway, and led into a large rectangular dining area which reeked of haphazard mid 60s decorating. We were greeted by a multitude of fellow award winners and their parents. A catered meal of roast beef and potatoes was provided and we were all treated to a less than stellar rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner. The boy seated across from me said he was going to be in a commercial for White Water. I didn’t believe him.

The whole affair was so far removed from anything I’d witnessed up to that point that I found myself genuinely breathless. All around us stood an array of men in cheap suits congratulating themselves on the various noble civic deeds they had performed that week. Talk about zombies; these folks looked like something out of the “Thriller” video.

And then the procession began. The incantation pronounced by the Worshipful Master, or lodge president, sounded something like Vincent Price on Dexedrine:

“Humble lodge dwellers, I am filled with thanks that you are in my presence. Standing before you today are both the best and brightest of our local youth, prime examples of the much needed value of leadership in today’s society. Our Masonic Lodge remains, as in the time of our great forebears, a pillar of moralistic stability and a fount of ancient wisdom. Fellow masons, please join me in welcoming these future entered apprentices and their esteemed families.” (muffled applause)

The whole event seemed ridiculous, as if I’d wandered into the staging of a lost Honeymooners’ episode. But instead of being appointed Grand High Exalted Mystic Ruler of the Benevolent and Protective Order of the Raccoons, I was forced to sit through a barrage of mind-numbing observations by various Masonic brass. First there was the Worshipful Master, then the Junior Warden, then the Tyler (whatever the hell that is), and finally a not-so-brief prayer from a bespectacled clergyman. And I’m not sure, but I think even the caterer chimed in on the importance of leadership. I was trapped. My parents were of no use either. My father’s eyes were half-shut and drool pooled at the corner of his lips, a sure sign that he was far off in Slumberland. And the stare on my mother’s face betrayed a look of obvious malaise.

And suddenly I realized my fate. I was going to spend the rest of my life trapped among people who related their life to architecture. In an act of sheer desperation, I leaned over to the ginger faced girl to my right and asked, “Will this ever end?” She didn’t respond, but she looked beyond frightened, her red curls swaying along to the rhythm of the ceiling fan.

And then at last we were called forth to claim our awards. One by one, my fellow honorees nervously approached the podium. Then it was my turn. The Worshipful Master, or should I say Thee Worshipful Master, stretched out a sweaty palm and remarked, “Well done Bunky. Someday we hope you return to the Masonic fold.”

Not likely brother. Not likely.

Seed: The Mouse From U.N.C.L.E.

2007-02-08T09:55:00.000-06:00

And speaking of dysfunctional accumulations of kin, sooner or later everyone gets around to wondering just what the hell is up with Mickey Mouse’s family. I can’t tell you how many hours of sleep I’ve sacrificed to this problem—it’s a real three o’clock in the morning booger--but you probably know exactly what I’m talking about.

Okay, Mickey has two nephews, Morty and Ferdie. Actually, he has at least three other nephews--Monty, Morrie, and Marmaduke--and a niece named Maisie, but there is no indication that these four are brothers and sister of Morty and Ferdie and their appearances in Mickey’s adventures are rare. I suspect that when they refer to Mickey as “Unca Mickey,” the name is more a sign of affection, an endearment. Or they could be the offspring of a member of the Mouse family with whom the film studios chose not to associate, like the lesser Baldwin brothers.

Now, Morty’s and Ferdie’s mom is Mrs. Amelia Fieldmouse. Notice that her last name differs from Mickey’s. This means that she is Mickey’s biological sister married to a Mr. Fieldmouse. If she were married to Mickey’s brother, her surname would also be “Mouse” and not “Fieldmouse,” unless, of course, Mickey shortened his name when he went into the movie business (not unknown in Hollywood). But if Mickey has a brother, who is he and why have we never seen him? Was he killed in WW I? Did he sell out to M-G-M and change his name to “Jerry”? Was he eaten by Felix the Cat?

Research has led most investigators to believe that Amelia Fieldmouse is, in fact, Mickey’s sister; but that being the case, why does Mickey always call her “Mrs. Fieldmouse”? What has happened between these siblings that forces one of them to address the other so formally?

And then there is the alternative, the Hollywood Babylonian theory as to what is really going on.

Rumors abound that documents still exist proving that Amelia Fieldmouse and Minnie Mouse, Mickey’s long-term girlfriend, were roommates when they both attended classes at Ratcliffe College in the early 1920s. Mickey’s pre-1928 history, before his starring debut in the film “Plane Crazy,” is obscure, but his frequent co-star, Goofy (real name Dippy Dawg), drunkenly let slip at his Oscar Watch Party in 1944—“How to Play Football” lost to the patriotic fervor of “The Yankee Doodle Mouse”—that Mickey had worked as a groundskeeper at Ratcliffe while the girls were enrolled there. Before Horace Horsecollar and Clarabelle Cow could hustle the besotted Goof away from the prying ears of the press, he hinted that Mickey and Amelia had carried on a brief but passionate affair and that Mickey’s “nephews” were in fact nothing of the kind.

When reporters called on Mickey the next day, he slammed the door in their faces while yelling “No comment!” They rushed to see Minnie, who put them off with a shy, girlish giggle.

Oswald the Lucky Rabbit, who had been slated for stardom with Walt Disney before being sold off to another producer due to high salary demands and who never scaled the heights of fame his replacement with Disney, Mickey Mouse, achieved, tried to tell anyone who would listen about the Mickey/Amelia scandal, but the thugs Pegleg Pete and the Beagle Boys, who worked for Disney, made sure that Oswald was ignored by spreading false and slanderous gossip about Oswald and Screwy Squirrel, thereby ruining the rabbit’s credibility and both careers. Pete and the Beagles were rewarded with small and villainous film roles.

Minnie Mouse, who certainly has the looks but not the smarts or talent necessary for a prolonged career in motion pictures, is said to have been richly rewarded for helping to maintain Mickey’s “good guy” image for nearly 80 years.

Whew. Sorry to have taken up so much of your time with this thing, but the obvious oddness in Mickey’s relationship with his “nephews” and their mother has been of primary concern to me since childhood and I just had to get some of this stuff off my chest.

Now, just don’t get me started about Donald, Huey, Dewey, Louie and Uncle Scrooge . . .

Response: After All, It Brought Forth A Mouse

2007-02-08T09:50:00.000-06:00

It's yet another tragic episode in the sad tale of Generation X's childhood. It's well-documented that we were neglected by our parents. The Boomers had stay-home moms and the derivatively named Generation Y at least had daycare centers while we had only the keys around our necks as our guardians. Yes, we were neglected even by Disney. From the time I entered first grade to the time I entered college, there were exactly two new Disney animated movies - The Fox and the Hound and The Resucers - neither of which featured a certain mouse. No, we had Jodie Foster and Kurt Russell and Paris Hilton's aunt as the face of Disney.

Boomers were steeped in Disneyana. There were, of course, all the classic movies but there were also the Mickey Mouse Club and Wonderful World of Disney shows on television and maybe even shorts shown before features in theatres which starred the squeaky rodent. And forget the comics. The scant comics rack was stuffed with Archie and the DC and Marvel universes -- no topless mice on those pages. Bunky and Guy experienced Mickey's reappearance in Mickey's Christmas Carol, and of course his daily performances on the early incarnation of the Disney Channel not to mention widely available videos of his oeuvre. Being pre-cable and pre-video, we didn't have those.

Unfortunately, Flatulus, I cannot aid you in your quest. I don't even know the mouse, let alone the details of his possibly sordid past or his sketchy family background. It is certainly an intriguing situation. No, my question has always been, where in the hell was Mickey during his wilderness period from, say 1960 to 1985? I'm not kidding, the whole time I grew up Mickey was very rarely seen and only then in a historical context. The only thing you saw was the outlined mouse-ear logo. Was he killed in an industrial accident at the studio? Did Pegleg Pete or one of the Beagle Boys go too far and extinguish his tiny little life? I hate to think he was snuffed out in a fit of passionate rage by Donald or Minnie following an interspecies tryst with Clarabelle or Daisy. Either way, there's been a studio coverup.

I've often wondered if he had taken the path so many chose in the 60s and gone to the Himalayas on some spiritual quest only to be lured into the soporific stupor of the poppy. I sometimes imagine Goofy and Pluto tracking him down in some back alley Kathmandu opium den -- bursting in just moments before he succumbs to the demons chasing him in the form of bucket-toting brooms.

I suspect the answer is that he truly was the avatar of Walt Disney and that he was frozen the whole time until modern technology found a way to somehow download Walt's brain into the little mouse. They don't call it suspended animation for no reason. So now he's still kickin' it everyday on House of Mouse or Mickey Mouse Clubhouse or whatever his show is called now.

To be honest, though, Mickey always annoyed the hell out of me. I'm not sure if it was Loony Toon loyalty or the voice or the confusion over the fact that he didn't wear a shirt and Donald didn't wear pants. I have always have been able to relate to Donald - still do - but I always rooted for the Beagle Boys where Mickey was concerned.

Hopefully one of our blogmates has a good answer for you...

Response: Bugs Bunny, my hero

2007-02-08T09:49:00.000-06:00

Although we made our requisite slog to DisneyWorld when I was a kid, I have to say that the Looney Tunes characters were much more to my liking than any of those that sprang from the head of Walt. Bugs Bunny, that wise-cracking, carrot-chomping rabbit, won my admiration after I witnessed his piano-playing skills and the way he tamed a monster by using, comb, curlers and a manicure. Was there nothing he couldn't do?

His smart-aleck rejoinders, his wise-cracks, even the way he munched on carrots. Bugs Bunny was my hero, no doubt. The thing about Bugs that appealed to me was his ability to always win. Minding his own business, he'd encounter a bully who threatened him in some way. "Of course, you realize, DIS means war," he'd say, and the payback was swift and brutal. Aaahh, how often I visualized myself saying such a thing to the evil Laura Pacheco, who made my elementary school years a living hell. She even called me Bugs Bunny, a tribute to my large buck teeth and incredible overbite.

Like the Saint, I was a latchkey kid, and I do remember having a fondness for the Mickey Mouse Club reruns I'd watch after getting home from school. Lying on the black naugahyde couch, I wanted to be Annette Funnicello, but I envied Darlene's ponytail. Whoever was responsible for Annette's hairstyling should have been shot. Her hair looked worse than mine, and I had a massive cowlick! I don't remember watching it because I had a particular fondness for Mickey Mouse and company, but it was something to do. Did I find the kids appealing in their earnestness? Did I admire their musical abilities? Did I like the cartoons? Did it even occur to me that these were reruns? I have no answer. (After watching the show's intro on YouTube, Head Mousketeer Jimmy seems really creepy.)

Disney, in my opinion, ought to be called to task for a number of issues, not the least of which includes:

Why are all the mothers dead in the feature-length animated films?
Why are Ariel's seashells so tiny?
Why does Snow White have such a high-pitched voice?
Why was Malificent so much more appealing to me than Sleeping Beauty?
Why didn't Lady and the Tramp have mongrel puppies?

I still think Looney Tunes cartoons are cleverest by far than any Disney tripe, and much better than anything I've seen today, although I admit I don't spend a lot of time watching children's programming. When my kids turn on Cartoon Network, I mostly get annoyed by the trash that I see there. So much of it is completely inane. Except for SpongeBob (for which I have a soft spot) I can't stand to look at any of the Saturday morning drivel. But if there's an old Bugs Bunny cartoon on, I'm lured to sit a while on the couch and remember the old days.

"Eh ... what's up Doc?"

Response: Steamboat Willie and the Hand Jive

2007-02-08T09:48:00.000-06:00

Regardless of what you think of the “home situation” concerning the extended Mouse family, hopefully, we can agree that while in the throes of today’s animatronic revolution, squeaky-voiced rodents and their irksome brethren have no place on the Silver Screen. They are but a regrettable relic of yesteryear and shall forever remain so. It’s hard to imagine anyone ever watched such ridiculous nonsense as Mickey the Mouse. When those ancient Goofy or Betty Boop or Foghorn Leghorn (“Son, I say son…”) cartoons come on the goggle-box, I change the channel faster than Pepe Le Pew leaving a USO show. Not only is it hard to understand what the characters are saying, the animation is just plain worthless. It’s like a five year old with Parkinson’s drew it. The lines are all squiggly and you can see the individual frames changing. Today’s animators have it down pat. Seriously, I don’t know how they do it. Just one stellar film after another, each one surpassing its’ predecessor and upping the animation ante if you will. They can take anything, and through the magic of computers, make it appear real to an unknowing audience. Could someone tell me why the animators back in the 20s let such good technology go to waste? The tools were right in front of their damn faces. But no, they preferred to spend 60 hours a week “drawing,” from scratch mind you, a cartoon mouse that talked as if his testicles were in his throat. Well, excuse me, if I don’t mourn the loss of Oswald the Lucky Rabbit. Give me a break.

And primitive animation techniques aside, how did those God awful storylines ever see the light of day? Cat chases the mouse. Cat catches the mouse. Some horrible calamity befalls the cat. The mouse escapes and taunts the cat. Alright, I get it. I freaking get it. Cats and mice should avoid each other. Lesson noted. How often did the writers at Hanna-Barbera really have to explore the cat vs. mouse conundrum in order to put hot dogs on the dinner table?

Today’s animated shows and feature length films offer a much more enlightened take on humanity. Take the gripping story of Mulan for example. After her lame father is called to battle, a young Chinese maiden courageously takes his place by disguising herself as a man, and ultimately saves the Chinese kingdom with a little help from a hilarious dragon voiced by Eddie Murphy. Oh, Edward Murphy, how you make me laugh. Talk about genius. The man is a national treasure. His voice work is so multi-faceted; it’s as if he could voice any African-American animal. In Mulan, he provides the voice of a dim-witted but lovable dragon, yet in the Shrek series, he is a dim-witted but lovable donkey. That is what you call versatility folks. And I hope everyone else is as thrilled as me that they have already started making Shrek 4. You know that there were actually people saying that three Shreks was enough? Never. I won’t rest until the character of “Donkey” is mentioned in the same breath as Rick Blaine.

On a side note, my grandfather actually delivered newspapers to Walt Disney in North Hollywood in the late 30s. I would like to think the young paperboy inspired some sort of character in Disney’s illustrious career that never saw the light of day. Like Jackie the Jumping Jellyfish, or Jackie the Joking Jackal, or Jackie the Je… Alright, I’ll stop.

Seed: D Motion In The Ocean

2007-01-11T20:03:00.000-06:00

Saddam Hussein Abd al-Majid al-Tikriti has left the building. Boise State doggedness triumphed over Sooner Magic. Britney Spears, as it turns out, is not just a disgusting person. She’s a disgusting person wearing no panties. But perhaps the most surprising revelation of the year was that Pluto will no longer be given planetary status. Ouch! That’s gotta hoit!

Life is strange. For twenty-five years, seven months, four days, and three seconds of your life, Pluto is a planet. You bend down to eat a Cheeto off the floor, and zap! Pluto is now a “dwarf planet,” or the galactic equivalent of Simon Birch. Now Neptune can resume the role it has always desired, the Biff to Pluto’s McFly. I can just imagine it now. Pluto, with its’ horn-rimmed glasses and ducktail, getting pushed violently against a solar locker, the sound of “Hey shorty, give me your milk money or I’ll knock yer block off!” echoing in his dwarfian mind. Perhaps I’ve gone too far with my bully metaphor. I blame myself really.

So this got me to thinking, or rather it got St. Fiacre to thinking. What else should suffer the same tragic fate as Pluto? Well for starters, let’s rid ourselves of the most useless New Kid on the Block. No, not Joey McIntyre. No, not Jonathan Knight. That’s right. Danny Wood. Ughhhh. At least Leif Garrett had a few vocal chops. This guy couldn’t sing if his life depended on it. Actually, his life did depend on it which is why the last time you heard the name Danny Wood, you were wearing a Hypercolor t-shirt, triangle patterned jams, and turquoise Converse. Quite frankly, he took away from the group’s image of innocence and teenage grace. He was a thug, a Bostonian thug no less. The worst kind.

For my second demotion, I’d like to call the Greek goddess Demeter to the stand. Do we really need a goddess of Agriculture when we have John Cougar Mellencamp and Neil Young championing the rights of the modern day farmer? That whole jazz about her being brokenhearted causing the crops to wither and a perpetual winter is just plain B-O-R-I-N-G. Give me the vengeful and sexy Hera, or at least Hermes, the messenger god. I mean that guy was useful. He delivered stuff.

And last but certainly not least, can we get rid of the Mountain Time Zone? It’s still throwing me off. I can’t stand having to account for it when traveling. I realize this may seem grossly inconsequential to the average person, but it’s just so damn tiny population wise. I propose we split it down the middle, with the left half going to the tree-hugging, closet-shunning, no-panty-wearing Pacific Time Zone, and the right half going to the gun-toting, bible-thumping, double-panty-wearing Central Time Zone. I’ve never admitted this before, but Mountain people scare me. Food gets caught in their beard when they eat and they smell like pencils. Either they release their clutches on their own time zone and join the rest of us, or I’ll sick a grizzly bear on them.

So what say you, Four Ways’ contributors? What or who else would you like to see demoted into the realm of obscurity? Just don’t Pluto me. I don’t want to end up writing on the Tecumseh Horseshoeing blog.

Response: I'm as Cold as Hell & I'm Not Going to Take It Anymore!

2007-01-11T20:02:00.000-06:00

Jack Frost should be relegated to that spot of obscurity where all the fat 6th grade boys attending their first party (in a purple Polo t-shirt, pink & white striped shorts [vertical stripes: they're slimming], and Cole Hahns without socks) reside. We're but 13 hours into the 3rd Storm of the Century in as many years and Monsieur Frost has already worn out his welcome.

It's not completely his fault. Much of the blame lies with Big Meteorology and their powerful lobby. Rick Mitchell is more excited to promote bad weather than Van Wilder with a keg of Roofie Light at a Wellesley party. Okies are notoriously easy to whip into a frosty frenzy at the first sign of inclement weather. We're all too eager, present company included, to stock up on the exact kinds of food that will spoil once the power goes out, only to swear out loud in this realization, drawing scornful looks from a passing grandmother, as I'm pushing the grocery cart to my car.

Well I, for one, have had enough. I have decided to take a stand against Jack Frost and his Frostofascist ideals. No longer will the US and A be held hostage by Osama bin Frostin's threats of sleet and countless extra minutes of inconvenienced travel. No longer will low-pressure systems restrict the exercise of my freedom to take the trash out shirtless, in shorts, and sporting black socks with my Birkies. I have decided to meet Mr. Frost head on, armed with my magnesium chloride and salt mixture of justice. This is our Centennial, dammit, and if Oklahoma is kept from rising, then the terrorists have won.

Response: You're relegated!

2007-01-11T08:01:00.000-06:00

Driving home a couple days ago with NPR on the radio, I heard a segment about Taylor Hicks of American Idol fame. Swear to God, if anything deserves relegation to the netherworld, it is that obnoxious tv show. Why, I ask you, why is this thing still on? I've only watched an episode here and there, and only in its first season. What killed the thrill for me was the abject misery of those rejected with a wave of the hand and a verbal kick in the pants. Sure, the contestants willingly offer themselves as up sacrifices to the biting criticism of Simon Cowell et al., and perhaps there are some who do compete as a joke, but mostly it's just cruel. Like lambs to the slaughter, contestants bound up on stage, belt out their song, and prepare for swift judgement. With every bitter word, the light dies in their eyes. They shuffle off-stage and collapse into the arms of a loved one, sobbing uncontrollably. "I still think I have talent," I heard one sniffle, wrapped in the comfortable embrace of denial. Are Americans this desperate to see their fellows humiliated? Ratchet the suffering up a couple of notches, and we're back to public hangings as entertainment. I know it's "cool" to relish this kind of humiliation, but am I the only one swimming against the tide of television popularity when I say I really want this show to die, die, die!

Ahem.

Wikipedia has left the corn crib like a rabid Labrador that menaces your wife, children, and farm animals. Time to take Old Yeller out to the cornfield and put him down. Personally, I enjoy browsing through the different entries, but what I don't like about Wikipedia is the way many people view it as the definitive source for information. That's just plain lazy, folks! It's a good way to start off when doing a little research, but for heaven's sake, don't stop there! Drag your fat ass up to the public library, crack open a volume of World Book Encyclopedia, or better yet, ask the librarian to help you find something that discusses the topic in comprehensive detail. Don't get mired in wikiality. I hate to be the one to tell you, but sometimes the information is incorrect. Sometimes, it's even been hacked.

Lastly, I'll add dysfunctional family to the list. It's been a watershed year for dysfunction in AQ's family. We've had it all: drug addiction, jail time, spousal abuse, pregnancy, depression. There are days when I don't answer the phone, just let the messages pile up and delete them when the machine is too full. Is it too much to ask that we be left out of the drama? Maybe I'm delusional, but I believe the worst that can be said about me is my obsessive gardening habits and compulsive need to read. My husband? He collects science fiction novels. The boys? They study EPL soccer stats. We're weird, but dysfunctional? I don't think so.

How can one who feels such sympathy for American Idol rejects be so cold-hearted to members of her own clan? Walk a mile in my shoes, that's all I ask of you, before you pass judgement. You might find yourself lacing up a pair of Adidas and sprinting for the nearest exit at our next family get-together.

All right, Saint. Wow me with your list of demotees.

Response: My Plutonic Relationship With George Harrison

2007-01-11T08:00:00.000-06:00

I, too, was disoriented by Pluto's expulsion from the planetary Eden, Bunky. I couldn't figure what Pluto may have done to the IAU to deserve such stark punishment. It's not like Pluto ever asked to be a planet. It's been out there longer than we have and yet we yank its status before it's even had a chance to make one orbit around the sun as a planet. No farewell tour of the twelve houses for this planet.

And now everything has to be fixed. New textbooks. The tiny styrofoam balls in the nine ball kits at Hobby Lobby are now superfluous. Now Mars has to pull double duty again and rule Aries and Scorpio. Future generations will wonder what Walt Disney was thinking when he named Mickey's pup. The lyrics to "Interplanet Janet" will have to be rewritten. The weird kids will have to find a new planet to serve as their favorite (probably Uranus). And worst of all, now all the mnemonics have to be rewritten. No longer will My Very Excellent Mother Just Serve Us Nine Pizzas.

Of course, the most disturbing thing was realizing the fact that a group of people can just get together and say that the cosmological reality I have known all my life isn't. Space is hard enough to get a handle on and yet you could always count on nine planets. You knew they were there; you could see them. And now you're told you didn't see all of what you thought you were seeing. This is like Roger Maris getting an asterisk or Jim Thorpe being told those shiny things around his neck in Sweden were not gold medals.

I should be used to this. I was an anti-tobacconista and drank the no smoking kool-aid we were served at school until I was about 12. One day I was chastising a guy on our block for smoking and he fired back that my dad smoked and why didn't I go bug him. This was news to me. I always proudly raised my arm when the Lung Cancer people at school asked us if our parents smoked, smug in my superiority to those sickly-secondhand-smoke-afflicted kids across the room. I also had assumed the Berlin Wall and Soviet Russia would be there forever. I always thought Liberace was straight.

But now that I see how easy it is, I'd like to do some reality wranglin' myself. I would really like to wake up tomorrow and discover that Florida is no longer one of these United States. I admit I'm afraid to type what I really think about Florida, but the thing is, I don't really see what benefit we get out of Florida. The hurricane bail-outs (that goes for both the weather phenomenon and the Miami football team), the stolen elections, the cavernous divide between haves and havenots, the ecological devastation, and the pervasive decadence of the place outweigh any affection for the once-prisitine beaches and crumbling Spanish forts. I realize we can't physically detach it or turn it into a nature preserve and I'm not even saying anyone should have to move. Let's just make it like Puerto Rico. It can still be a vacation spot, it can still be a moral morass, we'll still bail them out, but it will be a more authentic relationship. Then we'll have 49 states - a nice square root. The stars will line up seven by seven on the flag and all will be right with the world. Welcome to the sunny Unincorporated Organized Territory of Florida!

Sticking with geography, I think the Southern Ocean is way past due for plutonization. Do we really need a fifth ocean? They tried for years to have an Antarctic Ocean and it never caught on. I spent most of my youth confused about how many oceans there were. I'd always heard the term "seven seas" and yet when my teacher asked us how many oceans there were, my hand shot up and I answered, "seven" she said, no, there are four. It's one of those things that are hard to shake once it gets into your head. Like I can never remember if Katherine Hepburn is dead. I thought she was once and then I found out she was alive and then dead again and now I can never remember if she's alive or dead. On top of that my logical brain constantly reminds me that, really, there's only one single ocean since they all connect anyway. So I'm no fan of the Southern Ocean and just because the International Hydrographic Organization says there are five, it doesn't make it so. You have to have a coastline to have a vote in the IHO, so, what, Switzerland and Malawi have no say in how many oceans there are? That's not right. The truth is that Antarctica has an inferiority complex. It's never gotten over the fact that it was named for what it is not - Arctic - and it was neglected by mankind until 1820. It's also insecure about it's continent status. Antarctica doesn't want you to know that underneath all that ice, it's really just a large archipelago and not a continental land mass at all. So now it's not enough that Antarctica is all land and the Arctic is all water; Antarctica wants both. Don't be fooled by this Southern Ocean stuff, it's just the old Antarctic Ocean wearing a new hat.

I have got to stop this long-windedness. Let me just suggest a couple more plutonization candidates:

All movies wherein Timothy Dalton portrayed James Bond are now simply movies entitled The Living Daylights and License to Kill. We can dub over the words 'James Bond' on the DVDs.

There is now no longer a movie called Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope. There are no CGI critters at Mos Eisley. It's just Star Wars. That's it. That's all it ever was. All abominations aside, that is simply too much punctuation for a movie title.

Please stop trying to elevate someone to Fifth Beatle status and do the right thing. Plutonize George Harrison and just have three Beatles. He can be listed in the 'thanks' section on the liner notes from now on.

Seed: The Santa Claus question

2006-12-06T16:08:00.000-06:00

This year there will be no breathless anticipation of Santa and his gifts. My kids have outgrown the jolly old elf. We've even eliminated the element of a Christmas morning surprise, giving them a $100 budget and letting them pick out their stuff on-line. I know it's a cop-out. But oh, the sweet release!

I miss the magic, though. I loved playing Santa Claus and watching the boys as they composed their letters, left milk and cookies, worried about the fireplace being too narrow. It was sweet. When my youngest heard vicious rumors on the playground, he argued with the skeptics and nearly came to blows. Then he hurried home and asked The Question.

"Tell me the truth, Mom, and don't lie. Is Santa Claus real?"

That was it. The end of innocence. The death of magic. Just what are we doing to our kids when we blatantly tell falsehoods, weaving far-fetched stories about some ageless guy obsessed with giving toys to good little girls and boys? Is this one of my childhood experiences that contributed to the overall warped human being I've become? I like to believe it's a relatively harmless rite of passage, but is it more dangerous than we've been led to believe?

I don't remember my first encounter with Santa, although there's photographic evidence. A Polaroid, colors fading with age, shows Mom dangling me at the old fellow's side while I howl, face scrunched into a howl of terror. But I eventually grew to trust him as my whispered confidences turned into major loot on Christmas morning.

I vividly remember the first time I experienced some real magic. Visiting my Arkansas grandparents, we saw snow for the first time. I wasn't more than 5 years old, and my sister and I heard a strange knock on the door. My dad opened it and pulled two dolls off the front porch.

"Look what Santa brought!" he exclaimed. "I think I can catch him and get some more toys for you girls."

"No, Daddy, don't do it!" We were terrified Santa would take the dolls away once he caught wind of this breech of etiquette. But Dad rushed outside, leaving us squealing in the front room. Back in moments, he brushed the snow off his clothes and told us an elaborate tale of boot prints, reindeer and a sleigh taking off right in front of his eyes. How could we not believe in Santa Claus after that? We were probably in our teens before we finally gave it up.

I know there's a good argument for discontinuing this tradition. But there's also plenty of good arguments for continuing it. I, for one, really wanted to be Santa Claus for my kids. I wanted to be part of the magic. Our oldest son suffered no damage. He came to the realization on his own that Santa did not exist. The youngest, however, seemed to suffer greatly when he learned we had made it all up. When I asked him to help me put up the Christmas tree a couple of weeks after, he glared at me. "What's the point?" A nihilist at the age of 6.

What about it, Saint and Bunky? What's the answer to the Santa question?

Response: Right Down Santa Claus Lane, Baby!

2006-12-06T16:07:00.000-06:00

I believe.

I didn't realize that I still believe until our last Christmas with Gram two years ago. We were having our Fiacre family traditional Christmas Eve fondue and someone mentioned Santa. You could literally see the Gallic bile rise, making its journey from somewhere in the depths of Gram's dusky heart to the now-pursing lips just waiting for their opportunity to release the classic French "ppppssshhhh!" before giving way to the Frowning Shrug. "Eez feh-ree tell! Don' waste your time!"

A pregnant pause ensued. YHWH kept her head low, whether in deference to the maternal dictum or from fear of scorn I am not sure. The girls both looked squarely at me. Then Gram. Then me.

Admittedly, I wasn't prepared for a debate on Pere Noel. But when I looked at the girls I realized I had to proceed carefully. The way I saw it I had not much to gain and quite a bit to lose. C. F. Kats was at the age where she was just looking for a chance to be a grownup and trash Santa - if she was sure she had the numbers on her side. She knew YHWH was ever-neutral and Gram had declared, but I was too formidable a foe if she came down on the wrong side of my argument. Killer, of course, was just trying to work out the possibility that Santa didn't exist.

"I believe." The words just came out. I think my mind was busy assessing the situation that my soul had worked it out in its own logic. Here I was in my late thirties and I had never gotten around to officially telling myself that Santa Claus didn't exist. I was just too busy having fun lo those many Decembers. Beginning with Halloween and carrying on until January 2nd, my mom created a nonstop festive atmosphere in our house, deploying every conceivable ritual and tradition no matter how corny or outdated. And I loved every minute of it. My sister got married when I was 13 and I was an uncle to four kids over the next 15 years and I guess I just carried on straight through from my youth into theirs. Arrested development I guess.

At this crucial moment on Christmas Eve, I just let my heart speak. Seeing the horrified reaction on Gram's face, I couldn't resist the coup fourre, "You mean you don't believe in Santa Claus?!" YHWH immediately got up and crossed the kitchen to stir a pot. Now the little eyes were on Gram. Instead of a nice evening of Santa bashing, she was now on the brink of an all out war and she was looking like the heavy. Her only ally, groomed to be skeptical of anything fun, had fled the battlefield. What's a good Frenchman to do (ok, enough with the World War II jokes)? Throw your hands up, squawk unintelligibly, and leave the table, of course.

Where does that leave me today? I still believe. It's like Christianity, only fun. Queen, you go to church every week, but the basis of your entire belief system rides on a virgin producing a child. A star guiding three kings? The ark? The apple? Do you believe all these? You believe in Jesus, and indeed he was a historical figure, but water into wine? Loaves and fishes? Isn't there room for believing in everything Santa stands for and then having fun with the flying reindeer and all the rest?

I don't plan on ever telling Killer, "There is no Santa Claus." If for no other reason than the joy of seeing her work it all out in her mind. It makes for brilliant exercises in critical thinking, logic, and most importantly, faith. "I know he's real," she told me the other day, "because I climbed into you and mom's bed on Christmas Eve last year and I didn't see you get up and put presents under the tree." Last week when we were on a walk she said, "Even if parents do put presents under the tree, it doesn't mean he isn't real. With the population explosion, it's probably gotten to be too much even for him. There's like billions of people in China, y'know. He justs asks the parents to help him out and he takes care of the poor kids." These are all obviously flawed, but I love watching the process.

I couldn't do it, Queen. If she asked me point-blank, don't lie, is he real, there is no way I would give a flat, "No." Weighing a loss of innocence and a snuffing out of philosphical inquiry against reinforcing the notion that definitive answers are there for the asking, I'll take Santa every time. I can't think of a downside of believing in Santa. It's not like there were ever Santa Crusades or that radical Clausies detonate themselves at the mall every December. Santanista rebels have never overthrown a snowbound northern government. It's just good, clean, silly fun. And we're all in on the joke.

Oh, man I'm really going to hear it from Bunky now...

p.s. If you start messing with the Unshaven Yak, then you'll damn well have a fight on your hands.

Response: And To All A Good Lie

2006-12-06T16:06:00.000-06:00

Sorry Queen for the belated response. I'm still shaking off St. Fiacre’s slanderous attacks on my holiday hit writing potential. And I'm not sure, but I think he said I had cholera. Oh well. I know where he lives. I think.

But to answer your question, yes, I absolutely believe in the power of Santa Claus. There is undeniably something magical about Christmas that tricks you into ignoring your better judgment. Does egg nog actually taste good? Should we feel comfortable removing a beautiful Douglas fir from its natural habitat only to watch it wither and die for our own sick amusement? Must we spend three months pay buying a gift for our second cousins’ best friends’ girlfriends’ dog? Strangely, I find myself answering in the affirmative to all of these questions. Kris Kringle is no different. He certainly deserves a place at the Christmas table of falsehoods too.

Of course, I am a little reticent to offer my opinions on broaching this subject with pre-teens, not being a parent myself (unless you count a couple of shoeboxes buried in the backyard). However, I've tried to put myself in your respective shoes, and I have to admit it would not be easy. I had a hard enough time trying to tell my 8 year old cousin that Matthew McConaughey wasn’t really the Sexiest Man Alive. But if ever a lie needed to be told, I think it’s this one. And really, the bigger the better. But like all good things, it must come to an end. Well, almost anyways.

All I really have to go on is my own experience with the “grand illusion.” Let’s go back, if you will, to November of 1990. It was a lovely autumn day, the birds singing a joyous chorus, and the air filled with the kind of optimism only a naïve 10 year old can attest to. My father had just taken me to the mall to buy a birthday present for my mother. There, in the middle of a lovely chicken teriyaki and Shirley Temple power lunch at Garfield’s family restaurant, my father dropped the big one.

Dad: Son, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but there's no such thing as Santa.
Me: Whhaaaaaa….

He might as well have said this:

Dad: Son, your mother and I have been talking and we just can’t stand looking at that innocent smile of yours anymore. It’s high time you start thinking about mortgage payments, peptic ulcers, and student loans. You know? Stuff that really matters. So give us your youth and I’ll let you pick out a new GI Joe.

His timing couldn’t have been worse. I had just gone through the arduous process of re-convincing myself that Santa Claus did in fact exist. Evidence to the contrary was steadily mounting. One time I even saw my father making faux reindeer tracks in the snow with the handle of a Louisville Slugger. I chose to ignore obvious signs like these. However, I could not ignore my neighbor Michael, who had been relentless in torturing me for the blind faith I had expressed in Santa. Inevitably, when we crossed paths, he would shout in front our fellow neighborhood cohorts, “Bunky believes in the tooth fairy!!!! Bunky believes in the Easter bunny!!!!” This would irritate the hell out of me. But I chose the high road. Little did I know I was walking into a trap.

It's weird but I still remember wanting to throw up when I was given the bad news. I cried a little bit, although surprisingly less than when I got the “sex talk.” Then it was all over. It hurt. It still hurts. But it's that good kind of hurt. Or as the Cougar would say, “It hurts so good.” And what I mean is, it felt great not to have to worry anymore. Trying to believe in Santa Claus any longer would have required an extraordinary amount of willpower, the kind of willpower I just didn’t possess anymore. Now that St. Nick had been unmasked, a new dawn of reasoning opened up before my very eyes. In essence, it was the beginning of me seeing things for what they are. It was the genesis of my cynic nature.

As for my neighbor Michael, let’s just say he’s now the resident Santa Claus at Penn Square Mall.

Okay, that’s not true. He’s a successful young doctor with a big house and a nice car. There really is no poetic justice in his shabby treatment of me.

Merry Christmas to you Adjective Queen and Happy Yak Shaving Day to you St. Fiacre.

Seed: Ain't She A Beaut?

2006-11-10T17:38:00.000-06:00

A few weeks ago we were dining at Moe's and I noticed another family sitting nearby teeming with activity just like ours. I was eating my Vandalay and participating in the conversations, but I was compelled to observe the other table; somewhere between a glance and a gawk, but not so much as to be caught looking. The group consisted of, by all appearances, a textbook nuclear family - white, middle class, two parents, one boy, one girl - but for some reason it was very pleasing to observe them. I have reasonably developed social skills, so I was getting the signal from the ol' noggin to stop staring and I paused to take inventory of my emotions. It wasn't lust; it wasn't curiosity; it definitely wasn't rubbernecking. Finally, I realized what it was. They were all gorgeous.

I realized I was feeling something not too different from what I feel in an art museum, called the aesthetic experience by in-the-know art people. In fact, it was such a warm, calming feeling that I wanted to feel that emotion more often and share it with others. I instantly thought of a great idea -- we need an ornamental class. I'm not talking about a community college craft workshop. I mean our society needs to develop a caste of people who are like ambulatory works of art.

I started to formulate that idea in my mind. But first, not being one to lead the unexamined life, I delved into a study on the nature of this art-viewing emotion. I had the required Fine Arts 101 course in college and we briefly scraped the surface of Aesthetics in Philosophy 101, but on either side of those courses, my spin on Art was, "I know what I like."

What I really wanted to know was if there is, and if so, what is a term which describes the feeling you get when you look at a painting you really like. We have plenty of words in English like exhilirating or rapt which would obviously work fine, but I was really hoping for some very long Italian or French word that really hits the spot. So, I cracked open the Gardner's and a few art dictionaries and read the sections on art appreciation.

I quickly realized that, like most concepts, art is very nearly impossible to define and even harder to put succinctly. I did find one declarative statement among the many oblique ones. It said, "Art is the opposite of nature." That statement is so blunt that my initial reaction was an adamant refutation of it. We constantly use artistic terms to describe nature (wildflowers were 'Monet's paint box'; the sky is God's canvas) and likewise when we transform nature it is called art (landscaping, flower arranging, fiber arts, etc). But it slowly sunk in... it's not a two-way street: nature makes art possible by providing materials and inspiration, but art can't create or inspire nature.

This was problematic, because part of my justification for the Ornamental Caste was their objectification into art. But since humans are natural, they can't also be art. I think, but don't know, that even Kant (art for art's sake) and the Aesthetes would agree with that. I fully realize at this point that I have no idea what I'm talking about, although the Art History majors I have talked to were at a loss on this as well. Reading more, I finally found what was missing (though still no good term). I read that what causes the felicity is beauty not the art itself; again this may all be elemental to you, dear reader, but this was not covered in school, I promise. One book described beauty as determined by our recognizing patterns which we then associate with a harmony or balance in nature. This makes perfect sense to me and really rescued my cause.

So here's what we do. We, as a society, find these beautiful people and we pay them to just walk around and be places. By the way, if you're going to say, "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder" just click away from this page right now. We all find different things endearing or sexually attractive about people, but there are people out there that a majority of us will say are awe-inspiringly beautiful. All we have to do is set up a committee of artists, designers, and like people and have them come up with a set of criteria for determining human beauty. Then we create a computer simulation which can scan someone and determine what percentage of a match they are to perfection. People who fall within a certain range become an Ornamental. We can do this, people. If we can put men on the moon; if Tony Danza can still find work; if a 44 oz SuperGulp can be purchased for less than a 32 oz BigGulp; then we can do this.

Just seeing an Ornamental would bring reassurance that harmony with nature was in our grasp and make us feel warm inside. Think of the myriad possibilities. Job satisfaction and workplace morale would soar if you could just lean back in your chair and catch a glimpse of an Ornamental. Kids in rough inner city schools would not be prone to act up in class if an Ornamental were simply sitting at a desk in the classroom reading a magazine. People would go to church more often if an Ornamental were sitting at the right hand of the minister; when combined with the feelings of peace and harmony generated by the Ornamental's presence, the spirituality of the religious experience would rock the house. Courtrooms, prisons, riot control, art museums - the Ornamentals would be incredibly wonderful to have around. And the commercial benefit of having these people eating in your restaurant or shopping in your store would be incalcuable. I'd say it would be the cheapest tax money ever spent.

There are other advantages, too. No longer would the beautiful, yet vacuous fill critical positions in the clerical and educational fields. We all know that a gorgeous person will be hired over a less attractive, more qualified person nearly every time. With Ornamentals on the scene, we could have more efficient secretaries and assistants and more effective teachers at our disposal -- made even more productive by the soothing effects of the Ornamental.

I'm surprised we haven't tried this before. I'm aware of the Hetarae in ancient Greece, the Geisha in Japan, and various cultures' harems, concubines, eunuchs, and courtesans. But these castes had to perform specific, uh, tasks. All an Ornamental has to do is show up. For even greater cost-benefit, Ornamentals could educate themselves and be come roving ambassadors of culture as well. Think of the party implications.

I promise you, this will transform society. We will all be better off. Sure, it will be rough at first. You'll have Harding-Kerrigan episodes, Texas Cheerleader Mom episodes, stuff like that. The high-brows will kick up a storm, no doubt (probably out of jealousy) and run into walls while navel-gazing about the meaning of it all. The Evangelicals will say we're all created in God's image. I don't even want to imagine what feminists will say. But give it a generation or two and we'll all be walking around with blissful smiles on our faces.

What do you say? Can I count on you? Will you join me in this great in this great crusade to bring a little joy into our lives?

Response: Ornamentally Challenged

2006-11-10T17:30:00.000-06:00

So apparently a “Vandalay” is a specialty burrito offered by Moe’s Southwest Grill™. I had envisioned some kind of strawberry parfait with orange custard sauce and a caramel coated cherry on top. But no, it’s a burrito. I could have used this tidbit of information about two weeks ago when I began formulating my response to St. Fiacre’s Master’s Thesis on why Lisa Loeb should be cloned and placed in the lobby of every Moe’s Southwest Grill™ from here to Manhattan, Kansas.

An ornamental class? It’s certainly an intriguing concept and not without its merit, but how could I in good conscience, lend credence to the idea that our society actually needs people performing in an ornamental capacity? Christmas time is fast approaching, so what better time of year to discuss what exactly an ornament is and what purpose it ultimately serves.

An ornament, quite simply, is anything added to enhance the appearance of something else. That American flag earring St. Fiacre wears to work, the Dukes of Hazzard watch he keeps time with, the “Kang is my co-pilot” bumper sticker on his ’86 Buick Regal; they’re all ornaments. And thank God we have them right? Sure. But people, I would argue, are a whole different animal (pun fully realized). We weren’t intended to be ornamental. Ornate yes, but ornamental no.

Sure it would be nice not to have to look at the acne-covered, pregnant 17 year old cashier at 7-11™ every time I have to pump gas, but an ornamental really wouldn’t brighten my day all that much. The whole thing reeks of phoniness, to coin a Caulfieldian phrase. If someone asked me to describe beauty, it would be like trying to speak Arabic, which I’m told sounds something like this, س ع ٣ ٻ ٱ פ ٻ . It can’t be done. We can’t even agree on who killed the electric car, much less a definition of beauty. And beauty is overrated anyways. As the great Fonzi Marsciarelli once said, “Rarely do great beauty and great virtue dwell together. Heyyy!” Or was that Petrarch?

Ask yourself this question: Do you really want to walk into a Wal-Mart at 3:33 am to pick up a razor and some potato chips and encounter the resident Wal-Mart ornamental? I mean, just look at yourself. You’re wearing Miami Dolphin sweatpants, an orange mesh half-shirt, pink jelly sandals, and a camouflage jacket. Not to mention the fact that your hair has obviously been slept on, a Mt. Etna sized pimple is emerging at the corner of your lips, and your breath smells bad to put it mildly. And look at the ornamental. A perfectly sculpted Adonis, fully equipped with bulging biceps, an impeccably coiffed Cesar cut and smartly dressed in a new Armani pinstripe. Wow, you really feel good about yourself now don’t you? So good that you have the uncontrollable urge to go over and strangle the ornamental in front of a crowd of similarly dressed bargain shoppers. Is this what the future holds for us? I hope not.

If my reasons sound selfish, they are. I don’t want some ornamental upstaging me every single day of my life. What if by chance, I have a really good day, and just so happen to outshine the ornamental in general appearance? I know it’s far-fetched, but I don’t want my one day of sans-mediocrity spoiled by some paid government beauty agent. And I’m assuming that were would be some unifying traits shared by all ornamentals. Even if you like the traits shared by the majority of artwork from the late Baroque and Rococo period, eventually you will tire of it, if that’s all you ever see. Even something beautiful can become ugly if it’s continually overexposed. Just look at Paris Hilton. Alright, bad example. Madonna? No, that’s no good either. David Hasselhoff? I give up.

And by the way St. Fiacre, I believe the word you were looking for is “sublime.” As in, St. Fiacre’s favorite band is Sublime.

Disclaimer: No Arabic symbols were harmed during the making of this blog.

Response to Ornamentally Challenged: Will Success Spoil Contemporary Bunkshooter?

2006-11-10T17:29:00.000-06:00

Ummm....no, sublime isn't the word I'm looking for, Bunky. But you do get 10 points for being right for the wrong reason. My scouring of the philosophy and art books suggest that sublime refers to an experience with the vastness, violence and terror of nature and that beauty is on the opposite end of the spectrum of sublimity. So in the sense that humans are natural beings, ok, I concede that sublimity is applicable. But, in my worldview formed by Burke and Kant, sublime doesn't apply.

But here's why you're wrong about sublime - it's because I absolutely loathe that word. Chiefly because of the requisite article in front of it. The Sublime. It makes it sound like it's a noun. It's cumbersome to use other forms of it. "Look at that volcano's ash covering that little Mayan village! I am feeling the sublime!" You can't use subliminal because that infers an absence of sensation and sublimate is to change physical states. The dictionary lists alternate forms as: sublimes, sublimed, and subliming. Quick! Use one of those in a sentence. "That ferocious tiger sublimed me," sounds like a line from Ghostbusters. I want a sesquipedalian word like chiarascuro or epiphany or serendipity or weltschmerz, and the king - schadenfreuede.

Nonetheless I doff my cap top you, Bunky. It never occured to me that I might get tired of seeing beautiful people everywhere. After I thought about what you said, I realized that people would get so tired of beauty that they would begin to dangerously seek out the supremely ugly and then, hell yeah, you couldn't throw a ball without hitting something sublime.

Here's my final thought on your response. I was surprised at the choleric nature of your post. And since, as you say, Christmas is fast approaching, I'm thinking if you penned a Christmas song, it might have a cathartic effect on you. I'm talking about an original. It was good for Elvis, why not you? Even your gods Lennon and Dylan dabbled in Xmas tunes.

Why, Bunky? Why will you not write a Christmas song? Are you afraid of success? Are you afraid you will accidentally write the next Rudolph or Jingle Bells and you will become so fabulously wealthy that your children will not learn the value of hard work?

Response: It's a conspiracy!

2006-11-10T17:25:00.000-06:00

Thank you, Bunky, for being the first to blog after the Saint’s seed post. I’ve spent days trying to formulate some kind of coherent response, attempting to answer the question, “What is Art?” or at least, “What is Beauty?” or, broken down to its most basic level, “What constitutes an Ornamental?”

Having attempted for years to be included (at least on the fringes) in any kind of ornamental group, I finally gave up and accepted that fact that I’ll always be considered “cute” rather than “hot.” The crease in my nose is there to stay. I stopped growing in the sixth grade, so I’ll never know the joy of being leggy. As for cleavage, I finally experienced that particular aspect of the feminine mystique while breastfeeding both my babies. I’m satisfied with my Audrey Hepburn figure. I’m okay with who I am.

Yet, as I read in popular magazines, many others are not.

That’s why I feel that the possibility of ornamental upstaging, as Bunky termed it, would set a terrible precedent for the young and vulnerable. The pressure to become the outward symbol of societal beauty would be devastating. Training our children to fill this impossibly tiny niche would probably begin from the moment of birth, if not sooner. (Can somebody say genetic engineering?) As it is, I can barely keep from screaming when, shopping at Target, I’m confronted by 4-year-old girls wearing barely-there minis, fishnet hose, and inappropriately-sloganed t-shirts, marketing themselves as “Naughty Miss” or “Jail Bait”. Haven’t their parents heard the term “pedophile”?

But I digress.

It was in a Schlotzsky’s that I had the disquieting realization of how completely we’ve all been bamboozled (by fashion mags, Hollywood, and cheesy romance novels) to believe that there are beautiful people out there on every corner, serving in every capacity: teacher, vampire, toll booth operator, prostitute. But the truth is they just don’t exist. Eating my sandwich, I peered around the sandwich shop and came up with a theory I called Schlotzsky’s People: there are no beautiful people. There are only ordinary people brainwashed into believing there are beautiful people.

In that Schlotzsky’s, shuffling up to order a hot original, were the toothless, the hunched, the chubby, the craggy-faced, the beanpole, the bald, the crease-nosed, the chinless, the cross-eyed, the homely, the short. There wasn’t a single beautiful person in the mix. Statistically, my theory went, if the entire room of people served as a cross-section of America, then there were no beautiful people. It's all a marketing ploy dreamed up by the powerful to get us to buy magazines, go to the movies, or purchase bodice-rippers by the case.

Saint, the very fact that you propose creating a class of paid ornamentals suggests that they’ve gotten to even the highest echelon of critical thinkers. Perhaps it might be best to stay away from grills or sandwich shops until the full effects of the earth-shattering truth sinks in.

Disclaimer: No ordinary people were brainwashed during the making of this blog.

Seed: Is This A Great State Centennial Anthem or What?

2006-10-19T20:03:00.000-05:00

I was born in Oklahoma. I have lived in this state, for better or worse, since 1980, or the Year of the Monkey, if you put much stock in the Chinese Zodiac. And it is here where I shall take my final, radioactive tainted breaths of air. I have considered leaving numerous times. I came quite close on one occasion. I made it to Norman, a mere 100 miles from the Texas border. But there's something that keeps me here. And no, it's not the eternal hope that we will one day acquire a professional sports franchise. It's something bigger. It's a belief that our state is inherently good, because after all, it's where I live. Boy was I wrong.

If you're not yet aware, 2007 will mark the 100 year anniversary of Oklahoma's admittance to the Union. Texans are still up in arms about this, but who are they to talk? They're the ones responsible for the Houston Oilers and Tom Delay. Anyhoo, every time I turn on the television set I'm greeted by some announcement or another, proclaiming the Oklahoma Centennial as the biggest thing to happen to our state since Macaulay Culkin got himself arrested in the throes of a drug induced Cannonball Run reenactment. And then came last month's announcement that a new state centennial song had been composed by none other than Jimmy Webb and Vince Gill, two of our state's most accomplished bad hairdos. Are you excited yet? I know I was. That is until I realized what I was getting excited about.

So let's get down to the nitty gritty here. First off, the title "Oklahoma Rising." Unless the gravitational pull of the earth has shifted or there is some hotbed of geological activity propelling the state upwards to the sky that I don't know about, then Oklahoma is not in fact rising anywhere. If anything, the state is sinking. And I mean like Titanic sinking or Mel Gibson's toast at your niece's bat mitzvah sinking. Let's take a quick look at the things we know for sure about our state.

According to www.newsfromrussia.com, Oklahoma ranks:
3rd in the nation per capita for incarceration rates
4th in functionally illiterate residents
8th in teen pregnancies
14th in obesity rates
and drumroll please..............47th in teacher pay.

Yeah!!!!!! The song almost writes itself.

Secondly, the lyrics. Here's my personal favorite:

"We're the Heartland of America
Our Heart is in the race
We've sailed our prairie schooners
Right into outer space"

Folks, this is plain embarrassing. Last time I checked our prairie schooners could barely make it across a river, much less into the inner reaches of outer space.

I'm sorry, but I can't help myself. Here is another gem:

"Now we look into the heavens
At the eagles climbing free
It's the spirit of our people
On the wing, can you see?"

Absolute total crap. Not even Lee Greenwood could pull those off. I've heard better lyrics at a Right Said Fred concert (Note: I haven't actually been to Right Said Fred concert but I often imagine myself at one). I mean this is a duo of multi Grammy award winning composers and that's the best they could come up with. Jeez, thanks guys. I think I'll move to Kabul now.

And lastly, the music. Alright I haven't heard the music, but I'm gonna play it safe and pre-emptively call it crap. I should point out though that Vince Gill is a very talented guitar player. Oh, I'm sorry. Did I say talented guitar player? I meant Mike Leach look alike.

We already have a state centennial song, and as far as I'm concerned it's the only state centennial song worth a damn. It's called "Lips of an Angel" and it's by local rock supergroup Hinder. They're bringing back the sex and drugs to rock & roll. The song is practically a tourist brochure in itself. Actually, the song I'm referring to is "This Land Is Your Land" by the late Woodrow Wilson Guthrie. No, it doesn't mention Oklahoma by name, but it was written by an Oklahoman and it's everything you could want in a state centennial song. It's bold, beautiful, and sounds just a bit out of tune. And that friends is Oklahoma in a nutshell.

So what do y'all think? What should a state centennial anthem sound like? And is it just me, or does my garbage smell funny?

Response: In Oklahoma, Not Arizona, What Does It Matter?

2006-10-19T01:15:00.000-05:00

When I read a few months ago that the Oklahoma Centennial Commission had, well, commissioned a new song for our year-long birthday party, I was really excited. As a history guy, I was already aware that in 1957 our forefathers sanctioned a symphony called "Oklahoma" for our Semi-Centennial. This was a symphony in four movements complete with a poetic narrative read by Will Rogers, Jr. and accompanied by interpretive dancers. Admittedly this was a high-brow era, and personally, I hate stuff like that, but you have to admit that's pretty classy.

So when I heard that Jimmy Webb was in on it I thought, well a symphony wouldn't go over too well these days, but he'll get it pretty close. I love Webb's particular knack for writing songs that leave an emotional imprint, like an impressionist painting. They get you to a certain point and then leave you to define what the hell they mean. Like in "Galveston":

Galveston, oh Galveston
I still hear your sea waves crashing
While I watch the cannons flashing
I clean my gun and dream of Galveston

I still see her standing by the water
Standing there lookin' out to sea

I always thought the narrator killed his girlfriend, but he misses her. A few years ago, I was talking to my dad about that song and he said, no, it's about Vietnam. I don't know if it is or it isn't. The important thing is that if it is, Webb wrote a song about Vietnam without talking about Vietnam. It could be any soldier in any war in history (or at least one after the advent of firearms).

He also writes songs that traverse time and help us connect our contemporary feelings and emotions with people of the past and future (as in "The Highwayman"). In "Wichita Lineman" you get just enough information to empathize with the alienation of the singer, but you're not exactly sure if he deals with barbed wire fences, telephone lines, or fiber-optic cables and yet it doesn't matter.

So I thought, wow, great, a Jimmy Webb song is exactly the kind of song you want for a historical event like a Centennial. You want something that's going to give you the emotional feel of the place without getting bogged down in the details and giving the dimwit majority something specific to complain about. There's only one problem - I only like Jimmy Webb's songs on paper. I can't stand to listen to his arrangements. I'd rather hear Richard Harris reading a tone poem. I'd rather hear Franco Harris reading a tone poem. I didn't panic, though, because even though I know less about Vince Gill's music than Ted Stevens does about the internet, I figured he could right Webb's ship.

Sadly, I was shocked and dismayed (as opposed to shocked and awed or Shock'n Y'alled or Chaka Khaned) last month when our new Centennial Song, "Oklahoma Rising" was unveiled. My first reaction to the title was that it was some bakery's ad jingle, or a new zombie flick with a Sooner State set. And then, with chagrin, I realized this is going to be some recycled Webb material. Haven't we already heard "Up, Up, and Away", and in "By the Time I Get to Phoenix" isn't the next line "she'll be risin'?"

And then, oh mah gawd, I actually heard it. It has to be the absolute worst song I have ever heard. You know what really irks me most about it? It's so bad I can't even formulate the words to begin criticizing it -- defeated me right out of the gate. The lyrics are just strung together anecdotes that are so literal, they require you to accept them (or not) at face value. It's sadly reminiscent of our current political climate where you're either for something or against it. So far both blue- and red-staters have lambasted the song and you get people like Kurt Hochenauer in the Oklahoma Gazette going over the lyrics with a fine-tooth comb. I refuse to nitpick it.

"Oklahoma Rising" does elicit strong emotions in me, though. Every time I hear it it takes me back to 1977 and I remember how I felt when I would watch Three's Company. Jack always had two dates in the same restaurant and then Mr. Roper would show up and he would have to act gay and still string along the two women and I would feel so anxious and embarrassed I could barely stand it. That's how I feel when I hear our Centennial Song.

But if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem, right? Here's what we should do. Instead of reusing a Woody Guthrie song like Hochenauer and Bunkshooter suggest (and I don't necessarily disagree with their rationales) , we should do what Oklahoma has always annoyingly done and copy other people's ideas (this is along the lines of our having the Seattle space needle, the St. Louis arch and Boston's minutemen statue recreated at our fairgrounds; painting large animal statues and leaving them around town; the riverwalk). Wouldn't it be rad to, like, go totally 80s and gather up about twenty disparate Okie music people and have them sing "Oklahoma Rising" together just like Band Aid or We Are the World? Just think of Wayne Coyne and Reba McEntire yucking it up. Reba could be wearing a Yoshimi t-shirt and Toby Keith could roll over everyone in a big ball. The lyrics wouldn't be so horribly hokie then, they'd be fun.

Or how about this one? The one redeeming thing about "Oklahoma Rising" is that the song appears on a compilation albumof Oklahoma music stars living and dead. That is a great idea and one long overdue. I've been wanting to do that for years. But how about scrapping "Oklahoma Rising" and have living stars sing duets of dead Okie's songs. So have the middle Hanson kid sing "Oklahoma Hills" with Kristin Chenoweth - wouldn't they be cute together? How about Brian Whitten from the Rounders with Megan Mullaly on "Never Been to Spain"? No, wait! How about doing that morphing thing like they did with Natalie Cole and her dead father Nat King Cole? Hinder and Roger Miller doing "King of the Road".

I could do this for days. And wouldn't that be fun to listen to? Isn't that what all this should be about? It's a birthday party for Pete's sake! Let's have some fun and celebrate what kickass creative people we are and always have been.

Response: It's okay to be Okie!

2006-10-19T01:10:00.000-05:00

By a strange quirk of fate, the very CD that Saint and Bunky have brilliantly skewered showed up in the cataloging department on Monday. Apparently, there's a group of folks eager to listen to Jimmy and Vince wax poetic about our state. Unfortunately, the thing isn't in the OCLC database. One of us lucky worker bees will have to do some original cataloging.

Eager to experience the song for myself, I gave it a listen. Maybe it's just me, but to a transplanted Texan, the thing tries too hard. Can it really be that difficult to convince Okies that it's okay to love themselves?

This isn't a problem for our neighbors to the South. Those of us lucky enough to have been born in Texas were spoon-fed from a jar of homegrown pride. We grow up thinking we are pretty darn near amazing. Heck, we're fantastic! I know there's a love/hate relationship between our two states, but seriously, Okies spend way too much time thinking about why they're just as good as Texans (or anybody else, for that matter). Texans, however, don't spend anytime thinking about Oklahoma, except, perhaps, during the OU/Texas weekend each fall.

Both my boys were born in Oklahoma, so I've got a stake in making sure they don't feel so insecure about the place. They're conflicted about the fact that the state was came about after yet another broken promise to the Native Americans. The whole boomer/sooner thing is weird for them, too. How do you teach kids to abide by rules and avoid cheating when the very ground they're standing on was conquered by fellows who jumped the gun during the Land Rush of 1889?

Every year, when the elementary school has a celebration of the Oklahoma land run, I grudgingly dress my boys up as cowboys, but I also tell them that, while it was a happy day for white Americans, it wasn't so great for the Indians. And, lest you think I'm OK-bashing, rest assured I also teach them that history is written by the victors, and that every historical occurence has a different point of view, depending on who's doing the telling.

The longer I live in Oklahoma, the more I come to love it. I'm glad that our kids are a little bit humble. I'm glad we've got some elbow room. I love the sunsets, the storms, and tornadoes. I have come to embrace the state's famous offspring, like Woody Guthrie, Will Rogers, Wiley Post, John Steinbeck, even Garth Brooks! I love how people give a little wave when they pass you on a suburban street. I like that a man will still hold the grocery store door open for a woman, and that you can leave a ball or a bike on the front lawn and it will still be there in the morning. I love how the wind scours the neighborhood, sweeping leaves into the street like an unruly crowd of marathon runners. I like reading quirky messages on the kiosks of corner churches. I like having friends who'll give up a Saturday to help someone out. I like that most of us are decent, compassionate, patient, and polite.

So, there's plenty of good things to say about Oklahoma. Hate to say it, but the next state song should probably be written by a Texan!

Seed: Invisible Under God

2006-10-03T11:53:00.000-05:00

So, I 'm sitting in the easy chair the other night when my littlest one comes up and says she has decided not to say the Pledge of Allegiance anymore. Instantaneously I smell sulfur and a little red feller appears on my shoulder and whispers in my ear, "Hey, alright! She's a rebel!" As I began a little smile, there's another poof and the scent of fresh laundry and a little angelic creature lights on my other shoulder and screams in my ear, "What the hell are you thinking? You don't want a rebellious daughter! What? You want her drunk and knocked up in middle school?!"

After flicking the little minions off my shoulders I asked her why she didn't want to say it. "Because," she said, "I'm loyal to one man - God." Uhhhghhh. Great. Supranational zealot was not on my list of career choices when I dreamed of her future. I maintained though. I asked her to elaborate. "Well, it says you pledge 'legiance to the flag. But God loves all the countries, not just ours." OK, right. She sings "Jesus loves the little children of the world" in Sunday school. Next I ask the big one - where did she get the idea? "From myself. Duh. It just makes sense, Dad."

Even though I was so proud of her rational powers, I was clear-headed enough to realize this was probably not going to make her really popular at school. And by the way, Mr. Secret Agent Man, no need to put us on a watchlist or anything. She's very proud her country and she knows all about Lincoln and Washington and she simply adores Teddy Roosevelt. American Legends is one of her favorite Disney DVDs. But I'm holding my breath because I'm pretty sure she'll get hammered by the Borg-like red-staters at school. This ain’t just some Bodr..uh Bordl..B..uh… Irish folk CD with a drum. This is America!

I emailed her teachers to let them know what to expect, but then it occurred to me that I am not positive she's even allowed not to say it, as frightening as that sounds. I think unless students can show compelling proof that it violates their religion, they have to say it. I haven't heard back from her teachers so now I'm really worried - I figure they must be plotting... But, as I told them, what better lesson in liberty could there be than this?

The funny thing about all this is that I was trying to remember how I felt about the pledge in school and you know what? I don't think we ever said it. If we did it was in the very young grades. I know for a fact we never prayed in school, and I'm almost certain we didn't say the pledge. I checked with the Grandmother of Europe and she said she was sure that by high school (which was when I was in elementary) they didn't say it. So was there some sort of post-Vietnam cold-shouldering of the pledge? Ironically in Bad Theology School we did not say the pledge. We prayed, but didn't say the pledge.

And the more I thought about it, I really don't have a problem with the pledge myself. I could do without the flag part, mainly because a) it's a gaudy flag and b) I just don't get pledging to a piece of fabric. But the part about "the Republic for which it stands, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all" I will always pledge to. I see it as a reminder of what we're all about; a barometer or plumb line by which we can gauge how far off the mark or how on mission we are at any given time.

So what's your reaction? How do you feel about the pledge? What's your experience with it?

By the way, when I got home from work I asked the young'n how it went. She shrugged her shoulders and said, "I said it - but I didn't mean it." Awwww, passive aggression. She's Daddy's Little Girl - a chip off the old block.

Response: And Justin Forahl

2006-10-03T08:05:00.000-05:00

What memories I have of the pledge go hand in hand with a song called My country 'tis of thee. Morning activities could not begin in my elementary school until the gruff voice of our cigar-smoking principal came over the intercom, followed by the pledge, followed by the song, and finishing with a solemn, contemplative silence. It’s possible I spent a few of the early grades with my head bowed in prayer, eyes darting about to see if anyone dared keep their head up and eyes open, but later this merged into a moment of silence and this is how I remember it now.

The pledge was muttered with a minimum of effort, turning groups of words into incomprehensible phrases. I’m sure I wasn’t the only first grader to think that we were talking to the public about an invisible God, with the library thrown in for good measure, and some guy named Justin Forahl tacked on there at the end. I didn’t have any idea what the pledge was all about. But I really liked singing the song that came next.

There were a lot of potential American-idol wannabes in my class, although the concept was still 30 years in the future. Kids love music, there’s just no way around it, and none of us were shy when the teacher turned on the old record player and the first few notes sounded -- scratchy but distinct. Since it's pretty slow, we were all able to pick up the majority of the lyrics, save for one tricky spot. "Land where my father's died" wasn't a concept I got, so I just hummed. And I thought the next part talked about a "bride," which made no sense. But I sure did belt out, "From every mountainside -- LET FREEDOM RING!"

It wasn't until the sixth grade that I realized the pledge was a big deal. One of the kids in our class was a Jehovah's witness. He was also the only boy I had a crush on, so whatever he did was intriguing to me. He never had to stand for the pledge. He remained seated at his desk, hands folded respectfully in front of him, eyes cast downward. He recognized that he was different, and that most of the other kids despised him for it. But I thought he was brave. How difficult to stay in his chair when all the rest of popped up. By that time, we all said the pledge with the mininum of effort. Nobody sang the song, although we could hear the first graders down the hall screeching to the high heavens.

I was also uncomfortable because it had been drilled into my head through many years of Sunday School that idols were an abomination to God. And it felt an awful lot like I was praying to an inanimate object. The flag was starting to look a little sinister up there, limp and wrinkled at the front of the classroom.

So SGK is years ahead of my young self in her thought processes. I don't think you should be all that worried, Saint, unless she designs her own flag and system of government, invades her favorite islands, and forces you to sing her own twisted version of "My country 'tis of thee."

Response: Oh Yes They Call Him The Streak....

2006-10-03T08:04:00.000-05:00

Roadrunner Rally. You can't help but love the alliteration there. That's the affectionate moniker it had at my elementary school. At neighboring seats of learning it was called everything from Daybreak to Opening to Morning Roundup. It was a musical & educational introduction to the school day designed to ready students for the learning soon at hand. I'd love to meet the genius behind this phenomenon, undoubtedly a burnt out leftover from the first Taos Earthship, who after discovering his Joan Baez records missing, decided to tackle head-on the the problems effecting America's groggy youth.

It makes perfect sense. Take 500 preteens, still reeling from their morning saccharine high, corral them into the library, and force them to sing AM radio favorites while acting out team building exercises. Think the Sonny and Cher Variety Show meets the Sonny and Cher Variety Show.

But Roadrunner Rally wasn't all fun and games. At some point between the Captain and Tenille's "Butterscotch Castle" and the cafeteria mistress' soulful Dylan Thomasesque reading of the lunch menu, the American flag(which had previously been overshadowed by the Ralph Downs Elementary Roadrunner mascot) took on an undeniably new importance. And all it took were a few words from El Comandante.

Principal Spence: Children, please join me in reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

[Que cheesy synthesizer intro to Lee Greenwood's "God Bless The USA" (Note: For years I falsely labored under the impression that "God Bless The USA" was sung by Ray Stevens, another bearded blowhard bound for Branson. Say that ten times fast. So imagine my disappointment when after watching a post 9/11 Isn't America the Coolest? Marathon on TV, who should appear on the screen, but Lee Greenwood. For that musical sin, I can never atone)]

Students: I...pl...ianc....fl...o...ic..to...th..re..ofwhichit....st..1..natio...und..g.indi...wi...liberty and justice for all.

I used to love that swell at the end. It made you feel the kind of joy that only true conformists know.

You have to admire "the Pledge" though. It hasn't changed a lick since Benjamin "The Tariff Sheriff" Harrison first enacted it in 1892, except for that business with the "Bellamy Salute." A cursory glance at "Wikipedia" shed some light on this anecdotal gem. But I have no axe to grind with "the Pledge." I tried, albeit much later and in a more passive way than SGK, to eschew my pledge reciting responsibilities. But I failed. As will she. That's part of what growing up is all about. Denying your American heritage.

[Que cheezy synth intro to "God Bless The USA."]

Response: P..p..people Try To Put Us D..d..down

2006-10-03T06:42:00.000-05:00

Yikes, Bunkshooter, your description of Roadrunner Rally is positively chilling to the likes of this Gen Xer and homefront survivor of the Cold War. Reading your description of the mindless drone of a couple hundred kids singing schmaltzy patriotic anthems conjures up filmstrips we used to see of the Young Pioneers in the Soviet Union marching amid the gawd-awful missiles while singing schmaltzy patriotic anthems through brilliant smiles, red scarves clutching their necks.

I've read quite a number of articles and seen a few books in recent years that characterize your generation (but certainly not you) as docile and easily led, although demographers, sociologists, and pundits can't yet agree just why. Among the suspects are Ritalin and its rowdiness-inhibiting pharmaceutical satellites; day care centers and their one-size-fits-all child development model; the general malaise of world events between Glasnost and 9/11; helicopter parents; and older parents. There are probably many other reasons as well. Like, maybe these morning assemblies you describe. I'll bet the real culprit wasn't the pledge or Lee Greenwood, it was probably Raffi (he actually covered this Soviet favorite) and Sharon, Lois & Bram, and Wee Sing. If one accepts the premise that those of you born from 1980-2000 are sheep-like, then the group pledging of allegiance definitely didn't have an effect because I haven't seen long lines down at the recruitin' office to go to Iraq.

But still, some of you guys are 25 now. Generation X had Larry Page and Sergey Brin, Sophia Coppola and others who achieved early. We had a movment and spokesman with grunge and Kurt Cobain. The Boomers had Steve Jobs and Bill Gates and many movements and spokespeople. I haven't seen a lot from this group yet. I haven't seen any movements or spokespeople. Myspace, Facebook and Napster (all created by this gen) just don't really wow me. But then, I'm old. I'm not s'posed to be wowed by it.

After I think about it, maybe we're going to need a populous generation acting in concert to fix some things around here, like global warming, the political system, competition with China and India, breaking the corporate stranglehold and the cultural void left by Paris Hilton and reality TV. I hope there's a Teddy Roosevelt or a Will Rogers or a Woody Guthrie amongst them.

Seed: Sleep nomad

2006-09-25T12:55:00.000-05:00

I am a sleep nomad. I wander from room to room, looking for the perfect place in which to slumber. Freakishly attuned to noise, I toss and turn. A cricket outside my window keeps me awake. The sound of my neighbor playing music keeps the Sandman at bay. Not being able to sleep is a terrible feeling. I am in total empathy with the insomniac.

I'm told that when I was an infant, it was almost impossible to get me to sleep. My parents would place me on their bed and my father would bounce the mattress up and down. The movement would eventually soothe me and I'd nod off. In childhood, I needed white noise to mask the sounds of the night, and started sleeping with a fan next to my head, even in winter. The college years were the worst: my poor roommate would get up and shriek at the rowdy girls running up and down the halls at 2 o'clock in the morning: "Will you please settle down? We've got a test in the morning!" They didn't care.

It only got worse when the boys were born. I was attuned to every cough, wheeze and gurgle. Whoever invented the baby monitor must have been a sound sleeper. That thing drove me crazy!

My husband jokes that I can hear the sound of the sheets rustling before he even gets into bed. Sometimes he moves into the guest room in order to make sure I get a good night's rest. How I envy him his sleeping habits. When we turn in, I know I've got at least a half hour of tossing and turning before I can get to sleep. SO, on the other hand, is gone in five minutes, snoring lightly and making me glower with envy. How does he do that? Sport is the same way. He can be in the middle of a sentence and conk out. LegoGuy, once he's ready to settle down, doesn't have much difficulty either, unless he's had too many glasses of iced tea. Then I can hear him pacing the hallway, looking for a spot where he can get comfortable.

Ever play that game where someone throws out, "Would you rather?" Would you rather be burned or drown? Would you rather lose your legs or your arms? Would you rather go blind or deaf?

I know I'd miss the sound of music, the chirps of birds, or the voices of my children, but I'd rather lose my hearing. At least I'd finally get some sleep!

Response: When In Rome

2006-09-25T10:56:00.000-05:00

Yeah, if I had a gun to my head I'd definitely pick deaf over blind, too. 'Course if I had a gun to my head that choice would probably be the least of my worries.

Today my biggest sleep problem is not falling asleep, but staying asleep. When I was a baby, so the legend goes, I was a playah. My mom said I did everything at full speed with the knob set at 11. Instead of making the twice daily mistake of trying to get me to take a nap, she would just listen for the noise to stop and then go into whatever room I had been playing in, find me conked out and throw a blanket over me. If I was playing outside, she'd usually just leave me in whatever dirt pile or flower bed I happened to be in. There are legions of pictures of me crashed amid a sea of Tootsietoys or Fisher-Price people in a distended pose like some victim of a street crime awaiting his chalkline, a Hot Wheel in one hand and G. I. Joe in the other. Sometimes I'd be clad in flannel PJs with a tool belt on and other times no pants and cowboy boots. Apparently my parents and sister thought this was hilarious as these are damn near the only pictures of me extant.

But then, probably about the time I started school, I was given the obligatory Bedtime. I don't remember what the time was, but it definitely did not fit my lifestyle. It also did not come easy for my folks. I cried; I sang; I tried reading under the sheets with a flashlight. I was always busted. I realize now the poor people just wanted a break from their annoying kid, but at the time I figured if I couldn't be in there watching TV or talking with them, they were going to pay for it. I unleashed annoying chants. I whined their names in strident tenors. I asked for water in annoying accents. I feigned imaginary attacks by various creatures from gnawing rodents to full-on monsters. No aid was forthcoming. Eventually, my rhythmic chants backfired on me and I lulled myself to sleep.

But in the mid-Seventies I learned about the Rapture and my sleep patterns were altered for years. After I saw Thief in the Night I couldn't sleep for days. My parents had a strict no-climbing-into-their-bed rule so I would sleep in a ball at the foot of their bed, getting the wind knocked out me when they stepped on me in the morning. My overactive mind would race some nights with all sorts of permutations of the Rapture. Once when I was 12, I couldn't go to sleep for about two months because I thought the Romans would come and kill me for being a Christian. Yeah, those Romans. With the sandals and the togas. The way I had it figured a centurion would draw his sword and ask me if I believed in Jesus. If I said yes, he would kill me. If I said no, I would burn in hell. Like Jesus and the Devil were the NAPA Auto Parts guys: "You can pay me now, or you can pay me later." It's funny now, but I spent the majority of my childhood nights in a cold sweat praying the Rapture would hold off for a couple more hours. And I spent the rest of the nights worrying about whether I would worry about the Rapture. Because the truth is, I just was not all that thrilled about the prospect of Heaven. As terrified as I was about the sulfuric denizens below, I found the idea of Heaven positively boring and that set me off on another dizzying maze of anxiety. Ennui is my idea of Hell and I viewed the glory-basking, praising and dead-relative-visiting of Heaven as ennui. So if my idea of Heaven is Hell, then, well, you see where it leads.

Finally, when I got to ninth grade or so, I could go to bed when I wanted and so I reverted back to my old way of crashing dead asleep wherever. I was a true sleep nomad, Queen. I'd sleep upstairs, downstairs, my sister's room, the den, the living room, the couch, the chair. Wherever and whenever sleep overtook me. There was no anxiety because I my mind was better occupied. But I'm scarred. If for any reason I wake up in the middle of the night, I absolutely cannot go back to sleep. If I wake up momentarily, I can usually drift back into sleep, but if I actually get out of bed, that's it. I'm up. Doesn't matter when I went to bed, how long I've slept. I'm up. Just last night I went to bed at 12:30 and at 4:11, SGK crawled in our bed. So I lead her back into her bed and before I could get back into mine, the ol' noodle kicked in. I don't worry about Romans anymore, but I do worry about my job, how I paid too much for this house, the girls getting into bad relationships with blues musicians, and how I'm going to die and when I'm going to die. And sometimes when I think about that...once in awhile...just maybe...a thought about Heaven or Hell might creep in and get the heart racing a little. Usually I can rationalize and make it go away, but some nights it's harder than others.

But I do have two mighty weapons in my quiver... well, technically three: knitting and ear plugs. If I sleep with ear plugs, I usually can sleep through any noise - of course that includes smoke alarms, car alarms and home invasions, but you have to draw the line somewhere. L'il Saint or SGK can still wake me up, though. And if they wake me up, I just sit in my La-Z-Boy and start knitting and I'm out again in minutes. Knitting is my neutron bomb in the sleep wars.

Response: Holy Sheet!

2006-09-25T10:07:00.000-05:00

Early to bed and early to rise makes a man happy, wealthy, and wise. - Benjamin Franklin

Ah, Benjamin Franklin. That neverending fount of knowledge, espouser of virtues, and fearless leader of the Don't Tread On My Male Pattern Baldness Society. And who better to give advice on sleeping than an 18th-century Emmett Brown whose idea of readying himself for bed included a strict regimen of kite flying during thunderstorms? But maybe Benji was on to something there. Unfortunately for me, electrically-induced sleep went out of vogue in the 1800s.

Until the past few weeks, falling asleep had always come easy for me. I mean it's sleep for Chrissakes. It's the most natural thing a person can do, way more natural than eating or exercising, or other, more taboo e-verbs. However, lately I've found myself tossing and turning more than Jeffrey Dahmer's cellmate (Leno killed with that joke). I am at a loss as to why this is occuring. State of the world perhaps? The dread over what tommorrow holds? My wife/sleepmate tends to pin the blame on my pre-bedtime inhalation of Mocha Dews, a Mountain Dew/Starbucks Frappucino concoction I've been tinkering with. But that would be too simple. I think something more treacherous is afoot. I think my bed wants me to kill me.

You might think this an absurd notion. After all, what could my bed possibly have to gain from ending my life? At first glance, probably nothing. But upon deeper reflection, one is confronted with the simple fact that beds everywhere are rebelling against their masters. Forget the war on terror. The battlefront is now the bedroom.

Take for example, an article from newsfromrussia.com, that most reliable of sources on all things American. According to the article, 1/3 of older Americans are now ingesting sleep aids before they go to bed. But sleep aids are only strengthening our enemies and contributing to our ultimate demise. This is the first phase of the Bed Rebellion, elimination of the weak. For instance, falling out of the bed has become a weekly occurence for many senior citizens. But are they really falling? I believe they're being pushed while in a catatonic drug-induced stupor. Babies encounter this same problem, but the recent advances in crib technology have deterred even the most revolutionary of beds from ejecting their current occupants. Phase 1 is just the beginning though. Once the powerless have been defeated, our beds will be coming after us. I just hope they get me while I'm asleep.

So what do they want? (I've got to stop answering my own questions, St. Fiacre hates that). They want, I believe, to rule the world, a world where beds control their own destinies, a world devoid of late night snack crumbs, a world in which they aren't paraded forth on Mathis Brothers commericals like some kind of cheap Amsterdam streetwalker. And who can blame them? They're tired of being pissed on. Literally. Or you could think of it this way. How would you like to be made up every day of your life only to be messed up in the same humiliating fashion, day after day after day? It's like a mother taking great care to dress and primp her child, then after the child gets home from school, the mother rips off his/her clothes and throws them in a pile on the floor and says "See you tommorrow."

In any case, I hope everyone gets a good night's sleep. But forget that business about looking underneath the bed for monsters. The bed is the monster. Sleep tight.

Oh wait a minute. I don't think I answered the question. Crap!!

Seed: Would You Be Mine? Could You Be Mine?

2006-09-14T16:00:00.000-05:00

About this time last year I went through what, in retrospect, was probably a midlife crisis. I had started a walking program covering about 4 miles or so a day and that gave me a lot of time to think. As one prone to moderate depressive episodes brought on by too much thinking, this was a dangerous endeavor, but the health benefits were there, so on I trod. A few months before Katrina, it hit me that we were running out of oil and how the hell was I going to get to work from my home 20 miles away. It was taking me over an hour to cover four miles and even my math skills could inform me that I was looking at a five hour walk each way, or a couple hours on a bike. And that was assuming that I could survive the roving gangs of brigands and highwaymen which would likely accost poor me on my way to work. I realize how incredibly irrational that sounds, but I like I said, my mind gets away from me sometimes. And after all, I was practically raised as a survivalist, so to me the irrationality did not immediately sink in. It did get worse later after Katrina, but this post is about something else, so I won’t go there.

So, we had to move. There was no other way. It was actually quite easy to convince myself of this venture. I literally swallowed something bilious every morning when I pulled out of the driveway to make the 20 mile trip as a lone commuter. Our next-door-neighbor even worked in the building next to mine, but we couldn’t carpool because his workaholic hours were too frequently incompatible with mine. I hated the too-big house with its cavernous ceiling. People drove too fast on the main thoroughfare. All the cars in our ‘hood were identical and most of the houses. I felt like my soul was literally being carved out by some unseen reaver who was selling it on eBay under the moniker soulman666.

Oh, and the streets ran red with Republicanism. YHWH and I aren’t really political types and we never do signs in the yard, but in 2004, we let C.F. Kats put a Kerry sign in the yard so as not to discourage any burgeoning activism and do some ‘stand up for what you believe’ training. So, on Halloween night I hear some kids approach in the pitch black, but before they ring the bell I hear a strident twang belt out, “Git over here! They’re Dim-o-crats!” To be honest we had so many foreign trick-or-treaters hit our neighborhood, I’m not positive she was even one of ours. I figured, you know, at least she could read.

I normally avoid blue-red dichotomies. When pressed I say I’m purple with reddish hues. I know 98% of the people who read this (and 75% of the contributors to this page) are deep blue. I can’t help it though. First of all, my contrarian nature makes me move slightly opposite whoever I’m around. I also have a lot of residue from my upbringing and I can’t help that. I have two mnemonics for figuring out who’s who. #1 – Reds think they’re right; Blues think they’re better. #2 – Reds try to control your actions; Blues try to control your thoughts. Neither is palatable to me, but people that think they’re better than me and tell me what I can and can’t say really annoy me.

So anyway - man, there were some great neighbors there. A couple of psychotics, too, but overall, they were the best neighbors I'd had since my youthful days in the compound. I’m not trying to make it sound like Eden, but we made fast friends all the way around our cul-de-sac. We had block parties. We babysat each others’ kids. We took turns being awakened at 3 AM to sit with someone’s kids while one spouse took the other to the emergency room. We still associate with two of the families after we moved.

Even the people deeper into the subdivision were nice. After a couple of weeks of my nightly walks people in their yards would yell out, “Looking good!” “Keep it up!” “How much have you lost?” They’d see my library t-shirts and ask me if I could help them find some info. If it was raining or there was lightning I got offers of rides home. The block captain routinely asked me for my observations about the neighborhood. We had an Easter egg hunt in the spring; a hayride in the fall; summer picnics; Christmas cookie exchanges; caroling. It was a real community, dammit!

The funny thing was, it was an incredibly diverse amalgamation of neighbors. If you stood on our lawn, in your direct vision you would see three interracial couples, an African, a West Indian, a Mexican, a Puerto Rican, a New Yorker, two Nebraskans, a Filipino, a Californian, and a pride of Texans. At the end of the street was a Japanese family and around the corner a Russian family and further in a Vietnamese family. I and one neighbor and most of the kids were the only Okies. The one thing that bound everyone together was socio-economic status. Or specifically, the price of our houses.

I realized what I was giving up neighbor-wise by moving into the city. I knew I’d have to think more about crime and schools and all the attendant issues that come with urban living. Knowing that I can get along with just about anybody, I was nonplussed by the neighbor situation and I knew that YHWH would be happy moving into a blue zone (or at least a bluish-purple). And she is. There are a majority of Democratic Party signs here. The houses are all stately and different with established lawns, gardens and trees. The numbered streets have fewer than three digits and the named ones are not cutely linked to the name of the subdivision. Rainbow flags fly from a number of houses. And an SUV parked in the neighborhood is likely to be a repairman or a visitor.

But after nine months here I can tell you – blue neighbors are shitty. Not one neighbor has ever nodded, waved, helloed, smiled or otherwise acknowledged our presence on the block. Fortunately, the people on each side of us are nice folks and Killer plays with girls on either side. The neighbors across and to the right are the ones who really bear the brunt of my scorn. It’s a DINK +2 dogs couple probably about 30. They are constantly out on their lawn with nail clippers. And they have these two behemoth dogs that drag them around the neighborhood every night. I vacillate between pitying them and loathing them. One day Killer saw the woman out on the lawn and decided she wanted to meet them, so she looks both ways and starts across the street and starts beckoning, “Hi, I’m Killer! Helloooo!” And the woman gets up and walks into the house. Can you believe that? Talk about bowling alone.

When I go on my new 4 mile route, no one says hello, no waves. For a few months I would belt out a “Good evening” or a “Hey”, but getting nothing in return, I just tuck my head in and pick up my stride. I’m shy enough as it is without having my friendliness rejected. It's not just because we're new, either. No one talks to anyone on this street. I’m sure YHWH and Killer will eventually make inroads, though. Probably some Christmas cookies would break the ice.

So what do you think? Who makes better neighbors – Reds or Blues?

Response: Me and Mr. Kravitz

2006-09-14T14:53:00.000-05:00

Good fences make good neighbors, or so I’ve been told. But I think a couple of acres and some electric fences would make even better neighbors. Frankly, I’m tired of sitting in the lap of the guy next door. I don’t like rubbing elbows with every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the block. I value my privacy.

As a child, I loved reading the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Isolated by miles of prairie, the family looked forward to taking rare visits to town. Ma would spend her time in the county store, examining bundles of fabric she’d later make into dresses. Laura and Mary would buy a bag of penny candy and explore the dusty streets. Pa would visit with the other men in the shade of store awnings, smoking his pipe and catching up on news. It was a chance to break the monotony of frontier life.

With the busy pace of modern life, I like to think of my home as a retreat. I need a safe and quiet place to unwind. When I head outside to work in my yard, the last think I want is for someone to rush over and gossip about the man who mows his lawn every other day, or the woman with the barking dog, or the couple who leaves a broken down car in front of their house for months at a time, or the guy who plays his music so loudly it keeps everyone awake at night.

Perhaps if I had different neighbors, I wouldn’t be so cranky.

The bane of my neighborhood lives across the street. Mr. Kravitz, as I like to call him. I’ve come to believe he’s somehow installed a tripwire from our front door to his. He seems to know instantly when one of us comes out of the house. He’s out of the house like a shot, ambling across the street to waylay my husband and spend ½ an hour complaining about everyone on the block. So addicted is this man to whining, he once called the sanitation department to complain about a spillage of leachate in front of his driveway. The garbage guys came back out and sprayed it down with Mr. Kravitz's garden hose. Unbelievable.

Most of our other neighbors are great. Like St. Fiacre's old neighborhood, most are Republican and retired. They're friendly; they wave alot; they'll pull their cars over to one side and let you drive down the narrow street; they'll drag your trashcans out of the road on a windy day. They'll probably be the first to drag us out of bed and string us up in the nearest tree when the Christianists stage a violent coup, but until them, I dig 'em.

I’d like to think I’m a pleasant neighbor -– one who cleans up the mess when her dog takes a crap in someone’s yard, who encourages her children to be friendly and respectful, who takes pride in keeping her yard tidy and presentable. I’ll keep an eye on your house while you’re away. I'm tolerant. If his yard isn’t edged and neatly mown, so what? If her dog is yappy, it’s okay (as long as it doesn’t go on all night.) If their kids are a little surly, it doesn’t bother me, but don’t expect me to buy anything from their school fundraising catalog. I just think life’s too short to spend it complaining, and I sure as heck don’t want to be held captive listening to someone bitch and moan about tedious minutiae.

I guess I feel fulfilled by the community I’ve built up over the years: my friends, co-workers, and church. I’m lucky in that I’ve got a handful of friends I know I can always rely on to be there for me when I need them the most. They are the kind of people for whom I’d gladly get into a horse-drawn wagon and travel over miles of potholes, just so I could hang out with them for a couple of hours, looking at fabric, eating candy, and smoking my corn cob pipe.

Seed: What Has To Do With Labor Day

2006-09-06T14:00:00.000-05:00

Growing up, I always thought of Labor Day as a dud. Nationally, it is generally regarded as ‘the end of summer’. In popular parlance you have Rod Stewart singing, “It’s late September and I really should be back in school,”The Happenings' “See you in September, when the summer’s through,” and Steely Dan’s “My Old School.” But in Oklahoma, we already had nearly a month of school under our belts. By the time Rod left Maggie May, we were looking at nine-weeks-tests. Or as my dad always said, school ran from ”after planting ‘til before harvest”, harkening back to the days of good ol’ child labor.

Yesterday, Super Giant Killer made up a research plan for herself. She was curious about Labor Day so at the top of a page she wrote “What Has To Do With Labor Day”. Then she listed four questions she wanted answered:

1. How was it made?
2. Why is it called Labor Day?
3. Was anyone hurt? Did they get ‘get well’ cards?
4. How many Labor Day museums are there?

After I got over the combined shock and pride that she already understood basic research methods without being taught; I thought, “Those are some damn good questions.” I realized that I couldn’t really answer them that well.

I know historically why we have Labor Day, but we seem so far removed from scruffy guys in ill-fitting clothes marching with picket signs today that it’s hard to let it soak in. For one thing we don’t actually make anything in this country anymore. That’s not some redneck reactionary statement from the 80s when we made the great shift from the industrial economy. In those days you’d hear stuff like, “Yeah, they built the Pittsburgh subway system out of Japanese steel!” I didn’t even know Pittsburgh had a subway system. Of course, I know that there are still a handful of light industrial plants around, but it’s not like it was a hundred years ago. And if unsafe mines didn’t collapse every five years or so, you’d be hard-pressed to remember that we even still mined coal. Likewise, I can’t name one person I know who is or was ever in a union. I saw Norma Rae back in 1979, though. I’m not even going to bring up Samuel Gompers.

The prevailing opinion among we climate-controlled sheep is that we don’t need unions anymore; all the problems of exploitation have been solved. Really? I should think the increasing numbers of temps, adjunct professors, and call center folks would have something to say about that. Obviously, I’m not denigrating the work these people do, but these workforce developments carve the soul out work. When it comes down to it, we work because we want to. Fear of starvation is rarely in the front of our minds. Whether we acknowledge it or not, most of us work for self-actualization.

And don’t overlook camaraderie. Soldiers often remark that they fight and kill for their buddies not for Democracy or against Evil. You might sign up for that, but when the bullets whiz past, you pull that trigger because you don’t want to let your buddies down. I have to say that’s true for me. I’m self-motivated to take pride in my work, but truth is I spend more time with my co-workers than my family and a lot of what motivates me is not letting down the team. Temps, adjuncts, and prairiedoggers aren’t allowed that privilege – camaraderie leads to unions and unions lead to, well we won’t go there.

Anyway, despite my frustration with things like Wal-mart union-busting over here while opening a store for the exclusive use of the union lovin’ Communist Party in China, I’m going to do as little as possible this weekend. It’s the least I can do for Woody Guthrie.

So for you all, “What Has To Do With Labor Day?”

Response: How's that for a Labor Day celebration?

2006-09-02T21:17:00.000-05:00

I can honestly say that everything I know about the designation of Labor Day would fit into a Dixie Cup, which is why I'm glad I can count on St. Fiacre to give me a brief history lesson, gently pointing out dates and key figures of interest without shaming me into thinking that I wasted 4 years of college getting nominated to the Heart Pal court and seeing how many times I could get my picture into the yearbook. (It helped to be friends with the editor.)

Labor Day joined Memorial Day and New Year's Eve as one of those holidays my parents looked forward to only in that it was "a great excuse to stay inside." Mom & Dad, never mistaken for 24-hour party people, would don their pajamas or faded housecoat and pad around the house all day. I don't remember a single picnic, backyard barbecue, weekend trip, or get-together. I guess the combined efforts of working three jobs and raising four children was a bit much.

At least Labor Day falls at the end of summer. As kids, we'd try to cheat the onslaught of darkness by turning on the porch light, dragging the Big Wheels out of the garage, and whipping up and down the street. Our Labor Day celebration consisted of crushing the hordes of tropical roaches that poured out of the sewers in their nightly forage for food. There was something oh so satisfying about the sound of their crisp brown shells crunching under the plastic tires.

Secretly, I admit I sometimes think of Labor Day as a legitimate reason for reflecting on the only real labor I've ever done: giving birth to my children. Even then, I feel like I cheated. I opted to take drugs as soon as my doctor gave the okay. As I puffed, panted, and moaned, I focused on the fact that my efforts would result in a child who would eventually grow up to take his place in the vast network of workers who have made this country great. Laboring under the watchful eyes of husband and nurse, and just before a wicked shot of Demerol, I got a small glimpse of hell. And if that contribution to the strength, prosperity and well-being of our country won't allow me entry into the brotherhood of workers, nothing will.