The Schprock Report

The T

2010-01-09T11:24:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I took the T to work. By “T,” I mean of course the MBTA, or the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority, a system of buses, subways and trains designed to never go anywhere very fast. Usually I ride my bike to the office, a practice I took up in earnest some 20 years ago when I finally got fed up with riding the T. I would have started riding my bike earlier, but I always thought that each cycling trip I made into the city would only bring me that much closer to the day when an MBTA bus — the very conveyance I spurned — would kick my bike and me for a field goal over the Mass Pike. I believed it was inevitable. But one day I boarded a very crowded train and found myself standing back to back with a guy whose butt cheeks rubbed against mine. Naturally this made me uncomfortable, so I shifted my stance a little to the left, only to find that his butt followed my mine. No matter how I contorted myself within the confined space allowed me, it soon became plain that my butt would never escape his, and so we went like that, butt to butt, from Packard Corner all the way to Copley Station. It was then that discomfort and humiliation defeated fatalism, and from then on I braved the Boston traffic.

Now, having told that little story, I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit that, if it were a Victoria’s Secret model who rubbed butts with me and not some jamoke in a Boston Bruins jersey, I might still be riding the T today. But that was how circumstances arranged themselves, and, as I say, for that reason I’ve been a dedicated bike commuter ever since.

I rode the bus yesterday because the forecast called for light snow possibly leading to slippery roads. It wasn’t so very long ago I would have scoffed at such a warning, but nowadays I’m a bit more respectful of the fragility of human life, especially mine. Where I live I’m given a choice between the bus and subway, with each option having its own advantages and disadvantages, and yesterday I chose the bus. As I stood there waiting in the 23 degree cold, I harked back to the days when I rode the T all the time. If you ride the same bus at the same time every weekday, you see the same people, and after seeing them for a number times, you start to speculate about them, which is always an interesting game. It’s even more fun to invent nicknames for them. There was this one young Japanese guy who wore an old fashioned black cap like you might see in a tintype, and always had with him a book about Picasso. Not the same book about Picasso; he read many different books about Picasso. He was, in fact, mad about Picasso. His spectacles were wire-framed with small round lenses and he had a tiny, smudgy mustache, very nearly a toothbrush mustache. For some reason I thought of a young Emperor Hirohito, and combining that idea with his antiquated look I developed the lengthy and admittedly clunky nickname of The Great Man as a Young Man.

There was also a middle-aged man I used to see all the time who was obviously Latino; in fact, my initial name for him was Señor Hispanic, because he was so classically the type. He had a pencil mustache, a slightly stern, frowning countenance, and a square-shouldered way of moving about. It was easy for me to picture him a beribboned, South American military dictator, so shortly after thinking up Señor Hispanic, I replaced it with Generalissimo. If it ever turned out his name was Bob Jones and he spoke with a Southie accent, no one would have been more surprised than I.

Of course, today I don’t know anyone on my bus route. It’s a wonder I even know how the system works. Several years ago the T got rid of their tokens and have this thing called the Charlie Card. It’s the same size and shape as a credit card with a black magnetic strip running down its back. You can add value to it by using machines for that purpose at the stations. In the old days, I’d either buy a T pass or load up on tokens, but now you simply touch the reader with your card and find your seat.

Now you might wonder why they call it the Charlie Card, and it’s because of this: many years ago, a group called The Kingston Trio had a hit called Charlie on the MTA (before our transit system was the MBTA, it was the MTA). It told the story of poor Charlie who could afford to board a subway train with a nickel, but couldn’t pay the nickel exit fare to get off. Thus Charlie became imprisoned on the train. The refrain went like this:

Did he ever return?
No he never returned
And his fate is still unlearn’d
He may ride forever
’neath the streets of Boston
He's the man who never returned.

That song was on the radio quite a bit when I was a little boy and my mother got a huge kick out of it; sometimes she’d sing or hum it while she cooked dinner. The tune was quite catchy, and I especially liked the banjo in it. My mother thought the funniest part was how Charlie’s wife would stand in the same spot every day and toss her husband a sandwich through the window as he went by. I thought, why didn’t Mrs. Charlie save money on lunch meat and hand Charlie a nickel instead? But of course that would have spoiled the fun of the song.

Our family had only one car, which, during the weekdays, my father left with my mother; so in the mornings soon after my siblings and I left for school, my mother would drive him 8 or 9 miles to the Woodland T station where he would take the train into Boston. When in the evenings she went to pick him up, she took all us kids with her. During the cold months with the shorter days, we’d often find ourselves waiting in the parking lot after dusk wondering which train would be his. You could see perfectly into the lighted interiors of the cars just as if they were rolling displays. We would make a game of who would spot him first, and even though he wore the requisite uniform of all businessmen back then — the khaki raincoat — my father stood out among the rest. Apparently little kids found that exciting, being the first to spot their dad. Is it that way today? I hope so.

But mentioning the Woodland T station reminds me of the most excruciating trip I had ever taken on the T. I was 17 years old, still in high school, and one of my buddies had heard of a bar in Cambridge — the city across the Charles River from Boston — that had a reputation for not being too particular about who they served drinks to. In Massachusetts, the drinking age at the time was 18, so many 17 year olds could easily pass for 18. I was a tall drink of water, as they used to say, and so was my good friend, Mr. Beveridge D. Spenser, who was there that night. Height helped, you see. So we all loaded into a car and drove to Woodland station to take the train into the city.

The bar had a large seating area so we had no trouble finding a table that could accommodate the five of us. Not being sure what to order, I finally settled on a gin and tonic, because I liked the sound of its name and knew gin smelled a little like pine trees, which I thought nice. I ordered it in what I hoped was a casual and convincing way. I sort of tossed it off, just as if I had ordered a gin and tonic a hundred times before. The waitress didn’t care. I could have come in wearing a propeller beanie with a box of crayons and a coloring book and it wouldn’t have mattered. I was served my drink and then I had another. And another. And another.

The evening went gaily on, the conversation seemed hilarious, and then suddenly the whole bar began to swim before my eyes. The tables and chairs and the people sitting in them started to rock and heave as if on the deck of a storm-tossed ship. I looked at my drink and became dimly aware that there was limit to what one should drink. I stopped it there, but the damage had been done.

In time we got ourselves on the train heading back to Woodland station. I slumped into a seat near the driver and sat there with a glassy, 12-inch stare. My friends were talking animatedly, but I was having a hard time merely stabilizing the spinning motion in my head. My internal gyroscope had gone completely wacky. The trip was long and had many stops. As the train lurched and swayed and lurched and swayed, I focused on the driver’s foot as he worked the accelerator as would a yogi in meditation concentrate on a candle flame. My whole world resolved down to that driver’s foot. Then nausea began its evil work. The contents of my stomach churned and started to bubble their way up my esophagus. Up they went, then subsided a little, then up again, this time a bit further. I dearly, dearly hoped I wouldn’t make a spectacle of myself by displaying the partially digested remains of my lunch and dinner all over the floor of the train.

I don’t know how I did it, but I held on and saved the janitors who clean the MBTA trains some work. When we alighted, I informed my comrades of my intention to cross the parking lot, get down on my hands and knees, and evacuate all that my stomach contained. I was as good as my word. As tears coursed down my face, I discharged everything I had in me onto the square of asphalt I picked out for myself. I thought maybe my heart and kidneys and lungs would follow. In a show of compassion, one of my friends ripped a patch off his jeans and gave it to me to wipe my mouth when I was finished.

Now the T is sort of a novelty to me. I don’t mind it so much knowing that I’m not dependent on it . . . and I pity all the poor bastards who are. For instance, yesterday’s bus trip wasn’t so bad; kind of nice, in fact. But will I ever return? No, I’ll never return. You won’t find me riding forever ’neath the streets of Boston. Not this guy.

Another Gushing Fan

2009-12-23T11:43:00.000-08:00

That was in the subject line of an email I wrote to Beatrice Colin, author of The Glimmer Palace.

It goes on:

Dear Ms. Colin,

I am not yet finished with "The Glimmer Palace," but can't wait till I'm done to write you. There is nothing better than to entrust one's self, body and soul, to the capable hands of a writer at the height of her powers, and that is a pleasure I'm currently enjoying. I chose your book purely at random at the local library (a chance I sometimes take) and can't believe my luck. Naturally, I will hunt down everything else you've published and look forward to anything new. You have a remarkable gift.

Yours very sincerely,
Mr. Schprock
Boston, MA USA

And she wrote:

Dear Schprockie

Thanks so much for your email. I'm thrilled that you're enjoying my book and flattered by your comments. It's always wonderful to hear from readers.

I do have another book coming out in March here in the UK called The Songwriter and you can keep up to date with reviews, news etc on my facebook page.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Beatrice-Colin/143922049200?v=wall&viewas=732740795

So far it hasn't been bought by an American publisher but hopefully will be soon. The book trade, like every other, is suffering at the moment.

I hope you have a wonderful, book-filled holiday. With very best wishes for the season,

Beatrice

Needless to say, I recommend the book.

Iron Jesus

2009-11-30T11:34:00.000-08:00

According to The Boston Globe, we have a new Jesus, and His name is Iron Jesus. Forgive me, but I can’t help thinking of that episode of Hogan’s Heroes when Hogan, eager to buck up Colonel Klink’s momentary loss of self-confidence so this man’s easily-suggestible, blind egotism can go on serving the Allied cause, informs the kommandant that the men in the barracks refer to him as the “iron colonel.” Klink really dug the sound of that. The name thrilled him.

Of course, “iron” in that sense denotes strength, courage, indomitable will, unwavering purpose and all that good stuff; it’s just possible Jesus might have approved of that. However, as you can see in the photograph, this is not that kind of Iron Jesus. It’s more like Black & Decker Steam Iron Jesus, set to join the endless pantheon of other Jesuses, such as Potato Chip Jesus, Window Jesus, Cloud Formation Jesus, Grilled Cheese Sandwich Jesus, Shroud of Turin Jesus, Rock Jesus, Tea Leaves Jesus, and so on, a limitless string of accidental or naturally-occurring Jesuses who have plenty of similarly-made Virgin Marys to keep them company.

This begs the question: what did Jesus really look like? And then this: how was He “off camera,” so to speak? We’ll never know, of course, as no contemporary ever described or drew a portrait of Him, and the person we read about in the bible hardly seems human in the usual sense (which might be the whole idea I suppose). The Jesus in the bible is idealized, deified, only speaks in aphorisms. He’s practically a marble statue. What about Jesus the man? What about Man Jesus?

This is what I would like to see: someone should write a fanciful short story about a modern-day time traveler who learns ancient Hebrew and Aramaic, studies the customs of Galileans and so on, and sets off on a plan to infiltrate the apostles to kill Judas, just to see how things would turn out if the traitor of all traitors was out of the way. Our time traveler knows half the point of Jesus’s life was His grand denouement. The whole story would seem to fall apart if he wasn’t martyred, so what would happen then? Intriguing, wouldn’t you say? So this guy, the time traveler, conquers the space/time continuum — a small hurdle, but he knows some people over at NASA who are secretly working on the problem — and manages to insinuate himself into the apostles. Initially, he’s disappointed to see how short and unattractive Jesus really is, how He has such a big, hooked nose, and is put off by the Savior’s shrill, piping voice and lack of manners. Apparently, Jesus thought nothing of interrupting people. He was often petty and querulous, and made horrible sounds while eating. It also turns out Mary Magdalene was a fat, coarse, unintelligent woman, not a nice girl at all — our time traveler has no idea what Jesus could have possibly seen in her, for despite being put off by Jesus’s disdain of social niceties, it soon becomes obvious that He is a brilliant and well-spoken man and certainly could do better than this bimbo. Not to mention it didn’t look good with her hanging around.

To continue: the time traveler, who names himself Fredo by the way, and has decided to pose as a Corinthian to explain his bad accent and imperfect speech, uses his charm and makes himself useful while plotting to do away with Judas. As Jesus and His posse travel from town to town, Fredo’s the one who goes ahead to make all the arrangements, finding cheap places to stay and sometimes employs underhanded practices to keep everyone fed with a little spending money besides. Fredo, it seems, can procure everything. Jesus asks no questions and the disciples are delighted with his services. Plenty of food, plenty of wine, Fredo is all right. He even came through with barrels of fish and baskets of bread that time when supplies dwindled low during some big meeting on a mount. And that wedding they were invited to when the wine ran out? Fredo saved the day then, too. How did we ever get along without him? they all ask.

Now a twist: Judas turns out to be a great guy. Keen sense of humor, fun to be with, he’s the one who warms up the crowd before Jesus speaks. Judas even saves Fredo’s life when Fredo cheats a Pharisee out of a few pieces of silver in a sort of three card monty scam. The Pharisee is all for retribution but Judas smoothes the whole thing over. Seems he knows the Pharisee, they’ve had some dealings together.

So Fredo can’t kill Judas. Judas isn’t a reprehensible human being at all, he’s history’s greatest drinking buddy. He knows a million jokes. He was the one who came up with “pull my finger.” How can you kill the guy who’s the life of the party?

So Fredo talks Judas into becoming the world’s first Christian missionary. It takes a long time, but he finally convinces Judas to travel to Rome to spread Jesus’s teachings. It was a very hard sell, but Jesus had lately been telling the boys to be more proactive, so Fredo uses that to win Judas over to the idea. When Judas finally relents, Fredo gets him a donkey and a map and sends Judas on his way.

On we go. Palm Sunday. The Last Supper. Fredo can barely keep a straight face when Jesus predicts one of them will betray Him. Garden of Gethsemane. Expecting something, Jesus? Fredo thinks with a wry smile. It’s gonna be a long night. And then...

Judas shows up! What the—? He strolls over and kisses Jesus. Then the soldiers move in. Peter draws a sword and hacks off one of the soldiers’ ears. Jesus tells Peter to cool it and turns to heal the soldier’s ear — heals it, no tricks. Then the soldiers lead Jesus roughly out of there. As He passes Fredo, Jesus looks him square in the eye and says in perfect English, with a good American accent, “Nice try.”

Our time traveler goes: “Whoa.”

Something like that.

Lookee What I Found Here

2009-11-20T12:33:00.001-08:00

Look everybody, a post! I found it underneath my office chair the other day and decided to toss it up. Don’t know how the cleaning lady missed it.

Now don’t worry . . . nothing momentous has occurred in my placid, humdrum, steady-as-she-goes life since the last post. After all, how much can happen in, what is it now? Three years? Four? No ripples in this pond, my friends. No murder convictions or sex change operations yet for your old pal Schprockie. Just living the American dream, even without the standard SUV — er, Prius, I mean— parked in the driveway. Yes sir, just give me a La-Z-Boy, a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a TV remote with fresh batteries and this guy is good to go.

Wellll, maybe a few things have happened.

For a long time, things had been quiet at work, and when I say quiet, I mean really quiet. Graphic design is considered an “insecure business” — meaning, of course, that we are forever only as good as our last job, and accounts can come and go for the most whimsical of reasons. Client loyalty is the only thing we can hold on to or hope for, and sometimes all it takes is for someone to say the wrong thing, or a job to be mishandled, or a vendor to say something not very nice about us, and out the door we go. With the economy being what it is, and freelancers selling themselves for cheap on Craigslist (“You want brochure, Joe? I got lotsa colors, you come here, I make nice-nice long time.”), business has been decidedly slack. And the evidence was all around. In our office, stacks of blank time sheets formed ten foot columns by each desk as these desks’ occupants listlessly browsed the Internet and chuckled at inane YouTube videos. Tumbleweeds blew through the office, cobwebs formed on telephones, and the wind, the incessant wind, whistled its plaintive tune through desk chairs and printers and copiers. Each day was just like the next and we all grew gaunt and hollow-eyed, watching for the phone to ring whenever we weren’t Googling something. It was, as I said, really quiet.

Then one day last June, just after my coworker, Moonshadow, bagged the trash and prepared to haul the load downstairs, one of the bosses made a surprise early morning appearance and cordially asked Moonshadow to step into his sister’s (the other boss’s) office. The request was meant to sound offhand, light, friendly, but its very offhandedness, lightness and friendliness sounded ominous. I liked it not. I sat up in my office chair like a gopher poking its head out of a hole, sniffing the air, sensing that something was in the wind and it portended ill.

80 Hour Man and I exchanged glances. He too picked up on the vibe.

The theory was this: Moonshadow, God bless him, was never one to keep up appearances. If he had nothing to do, everyone knew he had nothing to do. He kept the monitor of his computer positioned in plain view and you could always tell when he was working or when he was watching “Strong Bad” on Homestar Runner. The worst of his failure to keep up appearances was this: when tired, he would stretch out on the rug behind his desk and take a little cat nap . . . which, to be honest, could be portrayed as a “power nap,” a recharging of the batteries if you will, something that would eventually boost productivity. However, lately he had been doing this a lot more, and it looked bad, so maybe that was the reason for this little chat.

Some fifteen minutes later, 80HM and I were summoned into the same office.

It turned out Moonshadow and fellow sometime blogger John H. were given the sack. Both of them, gone, just like that, victims of the economy. The explanation was that Moonshadow and John H, being younger, would stand the best chance of finding work, whereas neanderthals like 80HM and I would quickly find ourselves too young to collect social security and too old for everything else. So there it was, half our workforce decimated by the economy. Scary, scary stuff.

A week and a half later, five computers were stolen from our office. The thieves, having seen the window 80HM thoughtfully left open for them in his office and correctly deducing that no security system was operational, slipped in, snatched up every laptop in sight, and then, with a touch of dignity, used the stairs rather than the window to make their exit from the building. The next morning I was the first to arrive and nearly tripped over the discarded external drive they left in front of the elevator door. I called the police, sat down to calmly eat my breakfast and read my book, and then commenced a day I shall never care to repeat. First a police officer arrives. While answering questions, my boss (the sister) enters the office. Explanations, shock, rage, acceptance, a little more rage, some strategizing, then one last burst of rage from her. Detectives arrive, more questions. Off to the Apple store to acquire new equipment. Phone calls to clients explaining what happened, asking for deadline extensions. Thanking a powerful, merciful, most beneficent God that the server wasn’t stolen. Petitions to Him to save my company and save my job. Promises to proselytize heathen everywhere.

Since then it’s just been 80HM and me. 80HM is a good guy and I like him well enough, but he has a million annoying habits which I become more sensitive to with each passing day. I am thrown together with him Monday through Friday without the interposing personalities of other coworkers, so my exposure to him and all his endearing traits is unremitting and complete and without filter. I am reminded of one of Dante’s circles of Hell, where two old enemies are buried in ice up to their necks and one gnaws at the other’s head for all eternity. Some days it feels like that, though not nearly so much fun.

In other news, my 18-year-old daughter, Daughter Number 2, moved out of the house. She and a friend collected all her stuff during a work day, then DN2 returned home later to tell us she was out. Shock, rage, acceptance, a little more rage, some strategizing, then one last burst of rage from us. Two body piercings and several tattoos later, we still see her and things are cool, but boy, that sure took some adjusting. She’s an adult and all that, and she has every right to go off on her own, but it felt like she ran away. But what can you do? We help her any way we can.

Well, that’s about all I have time for. Thanks for coming by. I promise to be a better blogger right after I proselytize some heathen.

The Purpose of Education

2009-05-27T11:35:00.000-07:00

A month or so back there was an article in The Boston Globe about how Harvard University is encouraging its students to concentrate more on the classics — Homer and Plato and Cicero and all those guys — in a “learning for learning’s sake” approach, as opposed to zeroing in on such majors as economics or government for the more career-oriented. Somehow, someway, an education steeped in classics as arcane as, say, Sanskrit and Indian Studies, may in the end promote success in completely unrelated careers through, I assume, the all-important “formation of the individual.” Said Harvard President Drew Faust of the value of a liberal arts education, “That kind of critical thinking and questioning is something we should encourage and instill more fully than we do.”

This is all noble and very nice, but only for people who have the means to learn Latin or Greek or Sanskrit and indulge themselves in a brilliant education before finally enrolling in something more mundane and marketable. I truly believe my life would have benefited from such scholarly pursuits, and my understanding of the world would certainly have been enhanced for it, but money can be a big decision-maker. For most, it comes down to a question of, should it be “Food and Diet in Greco-Roman Antiquity,” or maybe something that can more directly help earn that MBA? Student loans won’t pay themselves, after all. Anyone who’s read Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure knows there can be a downside to learning for learning’s sake. And think of all those philosophy and latin and greek majors selling real estate right now. Maybe they can dispute whether a person can actually “own” something or not, or question if the house really exists, or determine the derivation of every word in a purchase and sale agreement, but beyond that their education has little application to their livelihood.

So what am I saying? Hell, I don’t know. Deep down I agree with President Faust. Maybe it’s this: the purpose of a liberal arts education may either be to (a) give us the tools to continue our own general education independently or (b) teach us how to figure out a restaurant tip. Assuming it’s (a), you understand what I mean. It’s sort of the old “teach a man to fish and you’ve fed him for life” kind of thing. For instance, the scanty liberal arts education I received in college way back in the Iron Age whetted my appetite for literature and for that I am eternally grateful. Reading Crime and Punishment opened my eyes. A 19th century English literature course sparked a lifelong devotion to such luminaries as Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, George Elliot, Dickens, Trollope, Thackery, et al. This desire to read has, among its many benefits, increased my vocabulary and generally helped my ability to comprehend and focus. Very often, something I read in one place makes me want to read something else in another place, and so on. Unwittingly, I become broadened in the process.

Among the many books I’ve read over the years is that great philosophical tome, My Turn at Bat, written by the venerable Ted Williams. In it, Teddy Ballgame lamented how he wasted his high school years because it wasn’t until later in life that his mind grew curious. Well, count that as the only other thing I have in common with the Splendid Splinter (the first being that I’m a splinter myself). When I think back on what I could have done in high school with the resources that were available to me, and then when I think back on what I did do in high school, I weep copious tears of regret . . . for what I did, my friends, was not much. Not much at all. I think I’ve spent a good part of my life trying to make up for that sad fact.

In summation, let me conclude with those searing words that adorn the base of Emil Faber’s statue, the educator who founded the great bastion of learning so reverently depicted in Animal House: “Knowledge is Good.”

Ramblin’ Ramblin’ Ramblin’

2009-03-23T14:20:00.000-07:00

Trina did it. She shamed me. I haven’t posted since the Bush administration and she called me out. Aw, hell, somebody should write something here. Of course, this is the worst day for me to try. I’ve got a cold that makes my head feel like it’s stuffed with cotton batting. My eyes keep wanting to close. While walking back from Dunkin’ Donuts just now, I tried strolling through the Public Garden with my eyes shut. First it was 5 paces, then 10, then 20. Came to find out I can go straight for quite a ways without the aid of my vision. Didn’t reckon on the horse manure left by Boston’s mounted police though. Here the city’s trying to close a budget gap and we’re paying our men in blue to fertilize the sidewalks with their damn nags. Boy that makes me want to mutter unintelligible things under my breath. You know, walk all slouched over and say something that sounds like “richer richer richer...” really low and menacing. Show them all, I will.

I want to go on record as saying Barack Obama is the coolest president ever. Everything he says is well-considered and makes sense. Did you see him on Leno and 60 Minutes? He is a grown up. We have a grown up in the White House. No silly posturing, no “mission accomplished” and “bring it on.” No adolescent trysts in the oval office. No “read my lips.” No “we begin bombing in 5 minutes.” And he talks to us like we’re grown ups, too. He appeals to our intellects. He assumes we’re rational and fair. And get this: he thinks we shouldn’t antagonize the rest of the world. How about that?

I am not a very political person, but I’m excited about this president. I honestly believe he’ll make a difference.

Kate Winslet had a good year in 2008. I thought she was outstanding in The Reader, and then she topped herself in Revolutionary Road, which I saw just last night. Forgive me, Kate, for not taking you seriously after Titanic. You had me at Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

And while we’re sort of on the subject, why do British actors do American accents so well? Why do American actors stink at British accents (see Keanu Reeves and Winona Ryder in Bram Stoker’s Dracula)? Except for Gwenyth Paltrow. Do you know that when I heard her acceptance speech for best actress at the Oscars for Shakespeare in Love I was stunned — stunned — to find out she wasn’t English. I still can’t believe she isn’t. She really ought to be.

I guess I’m a sucker for an English accent. Last year the family went to Baltimore, where we stayed at their renowned waterfront, a shopper’s paradise and a veritable magnet for street artists of all kinds. I watched this one show put on by a female juggler/unicyclist. She was dressed up like a pirate and spoke with a British accent, only not a pirate British accent mind you, but just a British accent. Nothing piratical at all, more like a London businesswoman. On and on she went through her patter, dragging unwilling volunteers up hold this thing or that for her. One fellow, whose name was Robert, she called “Rawbut,” and I thought, Rawbut . . . how charming. Then, at the end of her act, the English accent evaporated into an ordinary, run-of-the-mill American one. Turns out she was from Ohio. Ohio? I had been had! I felt cheated! I wanted to shout, “Hey, lady, make with the English accent again!” Only that would have been weird, like walking through the Public Garden with my eyes shut.

I’m sort of in Watchmen mode right now. I read the graphic novel about ten years ago and thought it was pretty good. Recently I saw the movie and suddenly I’m hooked. Now I’m reading the novel again in preparation for a second viewing like I’m studying for a test. The comic could be a storyboard — the movie is that faithful to the book. Rorschach is the star of both, of course. I love that guy. I know the reviews are mixed and it’s pretty goddamn long, but I say see it. Even if you aren’t acquainted with the story, see it. Then see it again and report back to me.

Okay, I’ve written enough, time to go home. Nice to see everyone again.

There Is No Spoon

2008-11-25T08:41:00.001-08:00

There’s an article in the paper today about a new form of mental illness where the sufferer imagines he is the subject of a reality show; more specifically, something akin to The Truman Show, the 1998 Jim Carrey movie whose protagonist’s entire life had been broadcast on television since birth, the ultimate invasion of privacy.

Now, if I could pick something to be delusional about, I think would choose The Matrix. To me, that is far more plausible and practical than The Truman Show, because there no gigantic sound stage with extensive production crew and cast would be needed. It’s all done very neatly in the mind. In fact, realizing you’re in the Matrix with the hope of learning to take advantage of it, as perhaps the dreamer who recognizes he is in a dream might try to fly, could really make life quite interesting and fun. Well, within limits, of course.

I would like to suggest that imagining one’s self in a movie or story, a fantasy that has structure and vitality and where one’s actions and thoughts inevitably lead to something, is healthy. Are we not all the main characters of our lives anyway? It is so easy to think two things: that we are drifting and our outcomes are hazy and ill-defined; or, conversely, that we are locked into existences that are hopelessly numbing and routine, like ants in a colony. Why not see ourselves from the perspective of a cinematographer and become everymen made special, like Marty, complete with soundtrack and supporting cast? There are worse delusions than that, I’m sure. Even the most humdrum life could seem interesting and meaningful, and that’s not really a bad thing, is it?

Would you like voice-over narration? Black and white or Technicolor? And how about director? Probably be wiser to go with Spielberg over Tarrantino there. John Williams would be a popular choice for composer certainly. All in all, not a bad way to function.

********

People make fun of those online, virtual reality relationships we’ve been hearing about in the news, where one can cyberdate, engage in cybersex, join in cybermarriage, get a quicky cyberdivorce, and even commit a cybermurder. Proponents of this brand of virtual reality suggest there is, when you come right down to it, no substantial difference between that and real reality, the latter being something philosophers since Aristotle and Plato have been very hard-pressed to define. This humble blogger would like to point out that there is nothing more virtual reality than this vast, global economic meltdown we’re experiencing, which, to my naive eye, amounts to a monumental maelstrom of abstract numbers and formulae and algorithms and “financial instruments” that have been thrown willy nilly from one computer to the next with no thought to where it all might lead. How can capital asset pricing models, free riding, convertible securities, Macaulay durations, anticipatory hedging, mortgage backed securities, accumulated depreciation, ratio spreads, and toxic waste swaps be real? Someone had to make all that stuff up! Things didn’t get this way because a sheep was traded for a millstone, it was because one imaginary thing was traded for another. All it took was for two parties to agree that such a thing as a “derivative” truly exists. Is this the way for intelligent, well-educated people to behave?

Okay, okay, that might have been a bit simplistic, but you see what I mean.

********

Over and out.

A Long Post: Ten Gold Stars If You Read Half, Twenty If You Read It All

2008-08-03T11:00:00.000-07:00

Here is a story I will never finish. However, I promise to tell you what I planned to do with it.

A frequently made request of many couples is to tell the story of how they met. Everyone seems to be interested in that. The more unusually matched the couple, the more interest there is. If, for instance, we spy a bikini-clad woman in spiked heels wearing a glittering tiara in her hair and a sash bearing the inscription “Miss Miami” across her bosom walking arm in arm with an Eskimo decked out in furs and toting a harpoon, many people will be very curious to know how such an alliance came about. It is only natural. Happily, the case of my wife and I is not quite so extreme, but we are asked the question perhaps a bit more often than others, and the reply has invariably been this: because I knew the federal tax code much better than she.

Please allow me to explain: I am an accountant who works for the venerable State Street firm of Ferngold and Blatz in Boston’s financial district. At the beginning of this story, I had been a bachelor of some 35 years living in a small, one bedroom Beacon Hill apartment on Brimmer Street. I was quite satisfied with my life up to that point. Four years in the army taught me order and cleanliness and discipline, and I followed each of those precepts scrupulously during my every waking hour. My apartment, though small as I mentioned, was tidy and uncluttered, containing no more than was necessary, yet lacking in nothing. I arose at the same hour every morning, did my calisthenics, performed my ablutions, read the morning newspaper while munching on half a grapefruit and toast, and struck off to work at precisely 8:00 with the inevitable briefcase clutched in my hand. At all times of the year and in all weathers I beat the familiar path to work with a regularity the ever-moving celestial bodies might envy. My step was always quick and firm, my chin shaved perfectly smooth, my shirt collar a brilliant white, my every hair placed just so. I was master of my life — of that there can be no doubt.

I had been with Ferngold and Blatz for ten years and had, in honor of my tenth anniversary, been given a bigger cubicle with a bigger desk in it. Not only that, I now had to share a secretary with only two other people instead of eight. Mr. Blatz himself awarded me an electric pencil sharpener that could hone a pencil down to a lethal point in a mere second. Only Dudley and Porchnik, the two gentlemen with whom I shared my secretary, had pencil sharpeners quite so fine, only mine had the distinction of being the newest. I suppose one could have considered me “rising,” and, if so, I would find no reason to mitigate or qualify or otherwise dispute such a notion.

At tax time, we at Ferngold and Blatz have an opportunity to acquaint ourselves with every strata and shape our human race has to offer, as the United States government is never quite so democratic as it is when it comes to asking its citizens to kick in their fair share. On any given day, one may counsel a businessman in a pricey Italian suit at 10:00, and then confer with a plasterer who carries about with him the unsettled dust of his trade at 11:00. Some come to me as supplicants, viewing me as a sort of conduit or oracle in communion with the vast wealth of our national treasury, and entreat me to guide them through the tax codes and the laws, the bewildering forms and arcane language that has long been my milieu, so that their very souls shouldn’t in the end be swallowed up whole by this same ever-rapacious treasury. Others come to command me, to make me understand that this government of ours needs governing itself, and to use every artifice within my reach to see that it knows it can’t have everything. I have been lied to, sworn at, and called unflattering names, because to many I have come to symbolize all that is hateful and emasculating when poor mortals are pitted against that three-headed monster known as Bureaucracy. However, I am never offended, because I understand. Truly I do. The meek may rant and the mighty may glower, but in the end they pay.

Nearly all our clients come by appointment, but it has happened from time to time that people walking in off the street have benefited from our sagacity on the same day, and perhaps within the same hour. These instances are rather rare, but not unheard of. Ferngold and Blatz is, in some ways, like a medieval castle with its moat and drawbridge and battlements to fend off the invading hoards, only we use a receptionist and a battery of junior clerks to waylay the interloper and protect the keep from his grasping needs and requests. There is a system at work at Ferngold and Blatz, a gauntlet one must pass through, and it has been in place ever since the day Ferngold met Blatz, shook hands, and decided to make a go of it.

One may therefore imagine my surprise when young Pinkerton, that contemptible, pink-faced whelp, brought a young, platinum-haired woman to my cubicle without the slightest warning. I had been immersed in the study of several columns of figures containing an immoderate amount of red ink, and was at that moment straining my wits to devise a way to make most of that red ink go away.

“Mr. Schprokenbokker,” Pinkerton said. “This lady could use your assistance.”

I stared at them both.

“So I’ll leave you to it then,” he said, and off he went.

The lady, it turned out, was Miss Victoria Savage, a young woman fashioned somewhat after the mold of Marilyn Monroe or Mamie Van Doren, who were popular then. She was 22 at the time, but I could see beneath the make-up and ostentatious clothing the young innocent she might have been at 17. However, all that concerned me at the moment were those columns of figures and the red ink.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Sprockel, if this is inconvenient,” she said. “Jerry ” — referring to that cur Pinkerton “— told me you’re the best and could help me.”

“Is it income tax?”

“Yes. And I haven’t been very good about record keeping.”

“Few of us are, it seems,” I sighed, closing the ledger and gesturing for her to sit down. “And the name is Schprockenbokker.”

“Holy cow, that’s a mouthful. Don’t you have a nickname?”

“People like your Jerry call me ‘Schprockie,’”

“Well, Schprockie, you can call me Vickie.”

“Very well,” I said, inwardly cringing. “What records do you have, ‘Vickie’?"

Miss Savage produced a Bonwit Teller shopping bag crammed with register receipts, bank statements, and anything else she thought worth my scrutiny; it looked more like a full bag of yard refuse threatening to spill over than potential business expenses and tax deductions. Placing it on my desk, she inadvertently knocked over the pencil sharpener.

“Oops!” she said. When she saw from my expression how I obviously regarded her careless act, she added: “That’s a mighty fine pencil sharpener you got there, Schprockie. Is it new?”

“Yes,” I said, perhaps a bit testily. “Quite new.”

I will not bore the reader with the details of my first professional interview with Miss Savage. At one point I asked her what her occupation was and she vaguely replied “entertainer,” and would allow no further refinement of this description. For an hour and a half we laboriously went through all her receipts — all of them legitimate expenses she assured me — but many were dubious and others plainly raised an eyebrow. Several expensive leather whips and a pair of silver handcuffs certainly caught my attention, those and an endless variety of negligees and other such costumes. Fancy nylon stockings were a particularly big expense. Her income was considerable and she owned several properties. I am not one to pry more into a client’s affairs than what my profession demands, but these and other things aroused my curiosity.

As I mentioned, I had been a bachelor of many years, and a natural question arising from this observation would be what my opinion of the gentler sex might be. I am afraid some people have set me down as a misogynist, which is patently untrue, for there are many women whom I admire and whose respect I have gone through some some pains to gain. Others have asked me, in various oblique and carefully worded ways, questions designed to throw light upon my sexual orientation. Few know of my exploits in the field of love — which, I may assure the reader, is storied and honorable and strictly heterosexual — and very rarely have I deigned to clear the mystery up. But please rely on this: I am not immune to the allure of a woman. As self-possessed as I am, several have had me in their snares over the years, myself a most willing victim for a time. However, all but a few of those affairs have developed beyond mere dalliance. There have been some women who have tried to change me; who have, say, approved of my raw materials but wished to shape them into something more to their liking. Others have objected to my frugal and spartan lifestyle, not guessing at the small fortune I have amassed through careful investment and prudence. Still others have simply bored me. All of them, in the end, I have found wanting.

Now Miss Savage struck me immediately as vulgar and, for that reason, should have been beneath my notice; and yet, with her, a flaw lethal to all other women inexplicably became her charm. She was uneducated and unrefined, gaudy and intellectually stunted, yet she was, in her way, beautiful. Despite all she had done to pervert it, God had graced her with a truly admirable form, with a nobility so apparent in the lines of her brow and lips and chin, in the radiance of her complexion, in the vividness of her blue eyes and in the luxuriance and sheen of her hair, that no amount of cheap showiness or number of gimcrack could diminish it. Her vulgarity, it seemed to me, was a kind of studied vulgarity, and that pointed to innocence, what I noticed upon first meeting her. Nothing in a woman can more captivate a man and so arouse in him an inclination to protect than innocence and unconditional trust. This, I quickly saw, was the case with her, but naturally I fought hard against it.

It turned out there was a mortgage statement and several other things she needed to produce so I scheduled an appointment for the following week. The interview concluded, we both rose from our chairs and I stretched out my hand to shake hers. But then she did a very unexpected thing. Miss Savage walked around my desk and, before I could react, quickly adjusted my bow tie and gave it a little pat. “Few men can look good in a bow tie, Schprockie,” she said cheerfully, “but you sure pull it off. See you next week!” Then she snatched up her handbag and sauntered out of my cubicle with a mesmerizing action to her hips. There I stood, amazed, struck dumb, feet rooted to the spot. I do believe my mouth literally hung open. In my defense, I dare say there are very few men who know precisely how to act after a pretty woman fiddles with his bow tie. The experience was entirely new to me.

Okay, it turns out this Miss Savage is a combination call girl and porn film star and takes quite a fancy to our prim, confirmed bachelor — head over heels in love with him, in fact. She is careful not to let him know how she really earns her money, but it becomes apparent that everyone else in the world — and particularly the men in his office — know perfectly well. I intended several comic scenes when the narrator has the evidence of her trade displayed to him totally and unambiguously and yet still seems completely blind to it. Finally, knowing Vickie sometimes works for a place called Pendergast Film Studios Worldwide, he goes there one day on some urgent business and finds her in the middle of one of her scenes. When Vickie finishes and dons her robe and spots him, her face goes completely white. Now he knows! she realizes. The narrator, for his part, is quite upset: face red, veins bulging, the whole works. He stops her incoherent apologizing and babbling by peremptorily demanding if she had bought some expensive feather boa he saw in her dressing room during the past year. Stunned, she tells him yes. “Don’t you know we could have claimed that?” he asks her, as if this oversight was the most outrageous act he had ever witnessed. Then Vickie realizes that the narrator had known all along the great secret she had been keeping and embraces him with joy and relief. Later on we find out she becomes a model housewife and mother.

Something like that.

********

I gave myself the weekend off from house painting. The only thing I needed to do that smacked of responsibility was to patch a hole in the kitchen wall of a condo we rent out. Yesterday (Saturday) I went for a bike ride with the Charles River Wheelmen, the bike club I’m a member of. That day’s ride was called the Four Burro Ride, and on their website they showed a picture of four burros (the same one duped four times actually) with human eyes, noses and mouths Photoshopped in. Quite humorous. The route took in the Massachusetts towns of Northboro, Southboro, Marlboro, and Westboro, leaving the question of why there isn’t an Eastboro just dangling there, unanswered. I didn’t consider it well planned because at around the sacred 35 mile mark there was no place to take a break. No Dunkin’ Donuts or Starbucks or Honey Dew, no place to refill my water bottle or grab a large cup of joe with a blueberry muffin. Instead I just had to pedal on until I returned to my car 51.3 miles later feeling rather dehydrated.

What the ride did do was calm me. I am a naturally anxious person, a worry wart, and a total prude when it comes to the subject of psychiatric drugs. A radio program I once listened to had a guest on it who called people like me “chemical puritans,” meaning that I and those of my stripe are repelled by the notion of taking Zoloft or other similar drugs because it somehow suggests weakness or an embarrassing inability to master such a silly, nonsensical thing as a mental hang-up. The truth is, I just want to take as few pills as possible, and this method of dealing with anxiety — cycling — has the side benefit of keeping me in shape. I’m afraid that if I do take a pill that makes me feel less of a nervous nellie, I’ll turn into a hopeless couch potato. Then I would need anti-depressants, high blood pressure medication and whatever else such a pitiful circumstance would require. So I’m better off pedaling my bike, as you can plainly see.

But biking has its occasional drawbacks. While riding to work last Wednesday my keys bounced out of my backpack and disappeared from my life forever. It was only a question of time when that would happen and I have no one to blame but myself. I use a messenger bag, one of those single-strapped affairs that crosses over your chest and has a center pocket where I foolishly choose to stuff my wallet and keys. This pocket is convenient to reach but rather insecure, being completely open at top. So many times I’ve arrived at my destination, whipped the bag around to grab my keys and found them more than halfway out of the pocket, poised to make a break for it with my wallet ready to follow. And do you know what I always say to myself when that happens? “Someday I’m going to learn my lesson. Someday I’ll lose those keys.” I actually say that. I suppose it was my guardian angel speaking through me, that little voice of common sense and reason I have regularly blown off all my life. Do I ever listen? Ha! Why should I if I never listened before?

So Wednesday my keys escaped somewhere on Commonwealth Avenue — they’re probably halfway to Tijuana by now. I cannot remember the last time I lost my keys. I’ve lost and recovered my wallet twice, both times missing just long enough for me to cancel my credit card, but I don’t think I’ve ever lost my keys. When I’m not riding my bike, when I’m in my street clothes, I keep them in my right front pants pocket along with a small Bic pen and a tiny Leatherman Micra, a handy gadget that’s a knife and a screwdriver and scissors and other useful things all rolled into one. My keys were an established member of a group, the Right Pocket Club. Whenever I put my hand into my pocket, there they were, hard, sharp but organized, a neat cluster: two office keys, three house keys, a car key and a bike lock key. One of the house keys was the old fashioned skeleton type, something you don’t find on many key rings nowadays.

For some reason losing my keys felt like an event in my life. It wasn’t a death in the family or losing a job or a limb, but it was a strange kind of loss, awkward in its way. I needed to gather the originals and go to a hardware store I consider particularly good at copying keys (some stink at it, you know). The key to our 1995 Honda Odyssey represented a challenge. My wife’s key is worn and a little bent and the hardware store guy told me he couldn’t guarantee the copy would work. He spoke to me as a surgeon would to his patient and I half expected to see a release form shoved in my face. But it did work because, as I mentioned, they’re very gifted there.

My new keys are shiny and clean, a little lighter, and don’t feel the same as my old keys. The oil of my skin hasn’t discolored them yet and they feel especially sharp-edged, as if they could cut glass. They’re newly-minted strangers. But I think I know why they appear to have significance. How many times has a change in our lives been accompanied by the dismissal of an old key and the introduction of a new? Moving to a new apartment or house, or buying a new car, usually means the cozy clan of the key ring gets broken up. My old key ring hadn’t seen any action since 2004 when we moved to our current house, an event that nearly put me in the nut house. I can still remember getting my driver’s license as a teenager and adding the all-important key to the family wagon to my ring. By God, there should have been a ceremony that day, a key-mitzvah. Keys can be so important, so precious. They can mean ownership and stability and belonging, represent a part of what we are. A key implies, a key states. You can imagine Sherlock Holmes divining someone’s whole biography merely by analyzing his keys. An elderly person might view the key to his assisted living unit as his last key, the final stage, while a young couple see their house key as symbolic of the first, true start of life. You hear of Palestinian families who still hold onto the keys to houses they were dispossessed of more than half a century ago, because keys mean something.

Which reminds me — I better not lose these.

********

That is all.

Nuttin’ Much

2008-07-01T05:33:00.000-07:00

Not long ago, three Red Sox players donated items to the baseball Hall of Fame. Slugger Manny Ramírez chipped in his batting helmet and the lineup card from May 31, the night he hit his 500th homer. John Lester threw in his spikes and a baseball from his May 19th no-hitter, and Jason Varitek provided his catching gear from the same game. Since then, I’ve made two phone calls and sent several emails to Cooperstown offering the empty Dunkin’ Donuts cup I sipped on while listening to Lester’s no-hitter. I also mentioned the socks I wore that day, which could be gotten for a modest price. I was careful not to launder them and thus drive the value down. So far no response.

********

When Iron Man came out, I saw it twice. If I had the money and time, I’d see it two more times, no sweat. I enjoyed it that much.

********

Lately I’ve been reading books from my parents’ home library, something I never thought of doing back when I was a kid and actually lived there. They have something like two hundred books jammed into a built-in bookcase that came with the house. One shelf is filled with Reader’s Digest condensed books, which kept my mother company when the family first moved to the area and she didn’t know anyone. There are probably nine or ten Perry Mason books mixed in and a complete set of World Book encyclopedias from 1965 (I remember helping my mother unpack them and can still recall the smell of fresh varnish as they came out of the boxes). Which brings me to this: you should read Captain from Castile, by Samuel Shellabarger, an historical novel my dad bought back in the 1940s. Never in my life have I read a book, drawn a short breath, and then went right back to the beginning to read it again (although I’ve thought about doing that before). This guy can flat out tell a story. It’s a Schprock Lock.

********

If I had a super power, here’s what it would be: the ability to make four car tires go flat all at once. If somebody cuts me off or gives me the finger — blam! blam! blam! blam! Doughnuts to pancakes in a fraction of a second. Being a cyclist in the city, I have drawn the ire of many a motorist. Why, I can’t guess, because no one is more lovable than your humble servant; however, some of Boston’s drivers apparently think I shouldn’t be on the road. My favorite is when they pass me and then hook a quick right turn directly in front, so I have all of .03 seconds to apply my brakes. Usually I yell a bunch of naughty words after that, but what I’d really like to do is blink my eyes and blam! disable a Sable or handicap a Cadillac. Am I being mean? Does that make me bad? Aahhh, whatever. It’s worth going to hell for.

********

Here is a phrase I say from time to time: “Stay blonde, Ponyboy.” I took that from the only scene I ever saw of a movie called The Outsiders. I really don’t know what hell that’s supposed to mean. But I just like saying it.

********

I’d like to be a Left Pinky Specialist, or a Leftidigiminiotrist. I figure that way I won’t need to go the full stint in medical school; after all, I’d only have to learn all there is to know about the left pinky. Seriously, how many years of study should that take? One? Two? I’d set up my practice in a mall near a factory where the safety standards are a bit shaky. I can imagine one day two factory workers carrying a comrade into my office, his hand wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage, his face drained of all color. “Doc!” exclaims one, “It’s Bill here. The Chicken Innards Extractor done tore his pinky fingernail clean off!” I put on my glasses and command, “Bring him into the examination room at once!” Then, just before the door, I grab one of Bill’s coworkers by the sleeve and say, “Wait, man! Did that injury occur to his right hand?” Here the glasses come off. The pain and disappointment shows on my face. The hopelessness of the situation is too real, too intense. “I can’t help him. Find a general practitioner. I’m sorry, boys.”

********

Last Friday I saw The Happening, the latest film by M. Night Shyamalan. Rotten Tomatoes gave it a 19 percent rating, which is very rotten indeed. I knew it would stink, but I just had to see it because I admired his earlier work so much and hoped he’d redeem himself after the wretched Lady in the Water. Alas, alas! It saddens me to report that the movie completely did not work. It was irretrievably bad, a botch from start to finish. What happened? What makes the director and writer of The Sixth Sense act like such a bewildered amateur who doesn’t know how to do anything anymore? Shyamalan might have to start worrying about studios bankrolling his films and name actors wanting to work for him. Scenes meant to put you on the edge of your seat go flat and and the stuff intended to shock you makes you laugh. Woof! That’s no good.

********

The Celtics recently won the world championship. The Red Sox won the world championship last fall. And the Patriots should have won the Super Bowl last January. And why didn’t they? Because someone on the Giants had to go and sell his soul to the devil. Lucifer, Prince of Darkness, completed the pact by causing a mortal to catch a poorly thrown pass on his helmet for a first down. I’ve watched the replay over and over again and can see that there is no way that catch can be possible. Eternal torment for a single moment of glory on this earth? Was it worth it? Was it, Tom Coughlin?

********

That is all.

Debt

2008-06-11T08:53:00.001-07:00

Let me tell you who debt is. Debt is a guy a little more than average height who wears a bland expression to match his outdated JC Penny clothes, which are wrinkled and slightly soiled. Debt’s personal hygiene is not the best. You can tell he eats a lot of garlic because of the unpleasant, sour odor that comes through the pores of his skin, and his breath can fell a charging bull elephant at 100 paces. Debt has no conversation and is the worst company imaginable. However, he never, never leaves. Never. You wake up in the morning and there Debt is, sitting in a chair by your bed. He had been up all night, mute, unthinking yet vigilant, always watching you. You get up, Debt gets up. He lumbers after you to the bathroom and watches as you stand over the toilet. Glancing in the mirror while shaving, there’s Debt standing right behind you, his unblinking eyes betraying not the slightest trace of mental activity, the simian features of his face impassive, humorless. You feel his fetid breath hit your neck in rhythmic, malodorous waves.

Everywhere you go, there goes Debt. Often he stands close enough to touch, which makes your flesh crawl. Move away, he moves with you. Sit down, he sits with his thigh touching yours. Stand up again and your shoulders rub. Debt never, ever leaves you alone.

From fall of last year to the beginning of this month, I really got to know this fellow Debt pretty well. I don’t believe there has ever been a period in my life when I have worried about money more. It all began last October when, in a moment of terrible clarity, I understood the terms of our house’s mortgage and realized the deep hole we were in. I won’t go into the details, but for many nights I couldn’t go to bed expecting sleep to come easily.

It turned out we were never in any serious difficulty, but I didn’t know that then. The news on the radio and in the newspapers and on CNN was filled with saps just like me who unwittingly took out funky mortgages for houses they couldn’t really afford and were now losing their homes left and right. Like these poor victims of the economy, I tried repeatedly to refinance our house without success. Even the bank that held our mortgage, the bank which would suffer most if we defaulted, wouldn’t give us a new deal on better terms.

Your grandfather and every self-help book ever written will tell you that through adversity comes growth and self-discovery. Adversity helps you find out what you’re really made of. Strength and confidence come cheap during the fat times — it’s how you keep your chin up and face the day when the world seems aligned against you that shows the true measure of a man. You either rise to meet the challenge or collapse like the Republicans’ hopes this November.

To begin, I started up a weekend painting business to make some extra dough. That made sense because in my twenties I worked a few years as a painter and had the skill. I bought all the required tools and posted ads in Craigslist three times a week. Little by little the work came in, to the point where at present I wouldn’t mind if things slowed down just a bit. Now, on the hardship index, working on your own on the weekends might not be on the same level with, say, facing starvation or torture, but it has been a pretty big deal to me. I tend to go several weeks in a row without a single day off. I have to carefully budget my time to meet my other responsibilities, such as yard work for two properties, managing the finances, and the million other little things that come up when you’re a father and husband. And naturally, with it being my own business, I’m sort of working without a net. If anything goes wrong, it’s my ass. So along with the toil comes worry.

Then there was the refinancing issue. Several brokers kind of strung me along, gave me reason for hope, and then told me the banks didn’t care for my kind anymore. One loan processor I dealt with inexplicably dropped out of sight after offering a deal that was surely too good to be true — suddenly she wouldn’t return my calls or emails. Another broker I briefly spoke to asked me a few questions and then told me, in so many words, brother, you are in deep shit. And every morning I’d wake up and there was good old Debt, just sitting there like he had nothing better to do.

Another consideration was the effect this would have on my marriage. Here I can report that the missus and I acted as a team. No blaming, no finger-pointing, no recriminations, we just came up with a game plan, took the necessary austerity measures, and saw the contretemps out together. I think she even liked how your humble servant reacted to all this, finding the extra income, working the phones, that sort of thing. She maybe saw me as a stand-up guy, someone to be proud of.

Well, long story short, the missus found a broker who is well-connected with a few key underwriters and he cobbled together a deal for us. It was never a sure thing until the closing actually took place. A solution was found, but I hasten to add it isn’t a permanent solution — we merely bought five years of breathing space. But that’s five years to figure out what we’re going to do next, and you can do a lot of figuring in five years.

So getting back to adversity and building character and all that good stuff, in my case I believe I’ve benefited. I may have kept the house, but I got evicted from my comfort zone, and that’s is a good thing. I’m the type who suffers from being too safe and comfortable. I get lazy and sluglike and generally become a less-than-effective human being, so I need to feel the heat from time to time. Am I enjoying this, all this working and scurrying around? Not really, or at least not all the time. But do I feel more in control of the situation? Yes, I do. And that, my friends, makes all the difference.

I Read the News Today . . . Oh Boy

2008-03-21T11:09:00.000-07:00

You would think after John F. Kennedy was forced to set the record straight to all those voters who had misgivings about his Irish ancestry and religion that no other presidential candidate would ever need to make such a speech again. But apparently people forget. Last Tuesday another Irishman found his religious convictions the subject of controversy and needed to settle the matter. This time it was Barack O’Bama, whom I believe is either a Democrat or a Whig running for his party’s nomination. Now, I didn’t hear this speech, but I’ll bet old Mr. O’Bama shook his shillelagh and told ’em all once and for all he wasn’t one to take orders from any pope. Faith and begorrah! So let’s not be botherin’ with that anymore, shall we lads?

********

I hear oil has gone over $100 a barrel. Question: could we find a cheaper kind of barrel to ship it in? After all, who cares what the barrels look like?

********

New York Governor Eliot Spitzer was forced to resign from office because of dealings with an escort service. Now, if we’re talking police or military, I can understand the fuss. He was just the governor of New York, not the king of France for crying out loud. Tax dollars shouldn’t be wasted like that. What? — should all our politicians be carted around in horse-drawn carriages protected by muskets and cannons? I think not. Way to go, citizens of New York!

********

The new governor of New York, David Paterson, is legally blind. Here’s a question: what percentage of Americans are illegally blind? The answer may come as a surprise.

********

FACT: Ray Charles waited until 1992 to legalize his blindness. And who talked him into it? That’s right: Stevie Wonder.

********

The annual list of celebrities commonly thought to be dead, but are still living, just came out. Tied for first place honors this year are: Martin Landau and Charles Nelson Reilly! Keep on breathing, boys!

********

ITEM: We have all heard of silent letters, such as the “b” in “climb” and the “e” in “fine,” but some researchers claim to have uncovered evidence of letters that are both silent and invisible. One clinician working with patients hooked on phonics reports to have discovered a “q” in “dropsy,” while another doctor insists the entire Phoenician alphabet is contained in the word “albatross.” Says one national spelling bee official: “Man, I wish these guys were silent and invisible.”

********

Recently, pollsters asked the nation’s parrots this question: if you could vote in the presidential primary, who would you vote for? The overwhelming response: BAAAAAARRRAAAACCCCK!

********

I am the Egg Man. Coo coo coo-choo.

********

MIT scientists have developed a computer simulation program to settle once and for all the age-old dispute: in a duel, who would win — Batman or Superman? Proponents of Superman boast of his super-strength and invulnerability, while Batman’s adherents counter by citing the Dark Knight’s superior intelligence and cunning, along with a complete array of sophisticated, crime-fighting gadgetry, all of his own design. They also note Batman’s total mastery of karate, kung fu and jujitsu, his stature as the world’s greatest magician, well-schooled in the art of misdirection, and his standing as a supreme hypnotist, who can instantly put anyone under his spell to become slave to his will and his will alone. Also mentioned are Batman’s five books of poetry, his seven doctorates, and the Nobel prize he won for physics in 1999.

The result: in ten straight trials, Superman had Batman by the windpipe and choked him unconscious within a fraction of a second.

********

That is all. Over and out.

The Letter

2008-03-10T05:03:00.000-07:00

My mother always said everyone has a story in them, even those who lead the quietest and most sheltered of lives. It is difficult to walk a hundred paces on this planet without having something happen to you. Large portions of my life have been passively lived; things have oftener acted upon me instead of the other way around. There have been many times I’ve woke up and wondered how I got here? Here I am, married with two grown kids, living in a big house I can barely pay the mortgage for and owner of several other properties besides, a child of the suburbs working and living in the big city. I can be among the shyest and most retiring of God’s creatures. How could I have formed the alliances I’ve made, done the things I’ve done, when really what pleases me most is spending a day reading a book or riding a bicycle through a system of rural towns alone with my thoughts. Deep down I feel like I’m still 19, living in my parents house, going to a junior college and working part time for a little spending money. I’m just a harmless, insignificant guy, of no real interest to anybody. Nothing should ever happen to me.

Of course, loads of things have happened to me, just as they happen to everyone else. Even the most cloistered monk can’t avoid having things happen to him. We are irresistibly drawn into adventures, troubles, heart-breaking estrangements and unlooked-for good fortune; in fact, short of locking ourselves in a room, we cannot avoid either great happiness or woe, and must run the gamut from wine and roses to all “the heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.” That is an immutable condition of living; no one, however meek, can avoid it.

Alluding to my last post, my best friend growing up was Bruce Nelson (not, of course, his real name). Although we were the same age, he was wiser and, in a sense, older than me. He came from a “broken family” as they say, and that, along with a natural, keen intelligence, made him mature faster than the rest of us. Along with him we made up a foursome: there was me, Bruce, Hooch and Mel. He was the leader, and I believe Hooch and Mel each considered Bruce their best friend too. I am not sure, but I’ve always believed I was Bruce’s favorite. I think he appreciated my straightforwardness and fairness, and perhaps my intellect closer approached his than did Hooch’s and Mel’s. My natural tameness kept me from participating in some of he and Hooch’s more famous escapades (some of them involving drugs and hookers), but there was always me he could come back to to confide in and expect fairly well-considered opinions and advice in return.

Without going into the whole story of how our lives sometimes ran parallel and at other times diverged, we remained best friends until well into our thirties. I got married to a good and strong-willed woman, someone ambitious who wanted the better things and forced us to take some financial risks that scared the hell out of me at the time, but always seemed to pay off. Bruce, who I think had better raw materials than me, never seemed to be so well off. At one point he joined the air force, was stationed in Seoul, Korea, married a girl there, and came back home when his enlistment was over with few prospects. When he and his wife came over to visit at our house, his wife made it very plain to Bruce that my and the missus’s situation was what she wanted. She even once openly asked him why he couldn’t be more like me. To my mind, it was like preferring a plough horse to a thoroughbred, and I reminded her that her husband was capable of great things and that I’ve always admired him.

In those days I worked two jobs: weekdays I was a graphic designer and on weekends I painted for Bruce’s brother, Don. Bruce didn’t particularly like working for his brother but at that point he couldn’t get anything else, so he reluctantly joined the crew, which put me in closer contact with him. Around that time, he suddenly got “moral.” For some odd reason, he began taking exception to some of things I was doing, like working under the table on weekends and thus depriving the US government of its tax revenue; he also disapproved of the missus and I hiring a Guatemalan nanny for our kids, making us guilty of not raising them ourselves and taking advantage of someone’s cultural status to get services at a cut rate. His contention was plain: the missus and I were illicitly enjoying the good life. A house, a new car, two other properties: we didn’t deserve them. And all the while he was treading the straight and narrow and just barely scraping by.

My wife has a theory that goes like this: for every one person who becomes a Have, there are ten Have Nots who try to pull him back down. That might be a bit pessimistic or cynical, but there may be some truth to it.

At that time there was a Boston state representative (whom we’ll call Silvertongue) who made the news when it was reported that he and an aide were the principal beneficiaries of a homeless woman’s will. This bag lady, it turned out, had a personal fortune of well over $100,000, and, sometime after Silvertongue and his aide befriended her and did her a good turn, this woman who dressed in rags and slept on doorsteps expressed a desire to will her money to the both of them, which supposedly came as a great surprise. A lawyer was speedily found, the will drawn up, and shortly afterwards the bag lady was struck and killed by a car.

Silvertongue invested the money in a vacation home on Martha’s Vineyard. Eventually a newspaper learned of it, and soon after that this state rep, considered a rising star and destined someday to become mayor of Boston, found himself hopelessly embroiled in a scandal. At the very least there was conflict of interest, everyone said, but most of his political enemies felt some jail time was called for. The local talk shows lashed at him mercilessly. Howie Carr, the syndicated talk show host, dubbed him “Money Fitz,” a play on Rose Kennedy’s father’s nickname “Honey Fitz,” the former mayor of Boston. Nothing ever came of it as it turned out, no laws were apparently broken, and he even won the next election; but his political ambitions were permanently damaged.

Now State Representative Silvertongue represented Mission Hill, a predominantly hispanic section of Boston, and he was the darling of all the latinos. They loved him. My wife is from Puerto Rico and she worked on a couple of his campaigns; a friend of hers was actually employed by Silvertongue. She dragged me to all his rallies and dinners and I had to admit he was a personable guy when you met him, and thought he was only guilty of doing something that looked bad. There were many people who believed in him. One dinner in particular featured an endless line of loyal constituents who stepped up to a podium and defended Silvertongue by giving glowing testimonials to his integrity and good works.

Silvertongue’s story fascinated Bruce, and he seized on what he saw as a link between the disgraced Boston politician and us. Sometime before the scandal broke, the missus had lost her job as a guidance counselor at a junior college and found another unrelated and better paying job through Silvertongue’s influence. That smacked of cronyism, thought Bruce, and he one time asked me some hard questions about the missus’s qualifications, clearly insinuating that, through no other means other than dirty political patronage, the job my wife had won was unfairly wrested away from a more deserving candidate.

In some ways I’m easygoing and I shrugged his questions off. I even laughed at the federal case he was making of it. I told him he could think what he wanted and I didn’t care what his opinion of Silvertongue was. The missus was qualified and that’s that; what’s more, it’s always who you know that gets the job. That’s the way it’s always been.

One day the friend who worked for Silvertongue brought us a copy of a letter someone had mailed to him. The writer informed Silvertongue that a similar epistle had been mailed to The Boston Globe’s editorial department. This person claimed that he or she knew firsthand that my wife had gotten a job she was thoroughly unqualified for through him; and, what was more, she was actually fired from her last job due to incompetence. This manipulating of the system once again spoke volumes of Silvertongue’s complete lack of ethics. It went on and on in this vein. The missus and I were outraged.

The Globe never did anything with the letter, and we quickly decided there were two or three prime suspects as to who could have written the letter, all of them women. The missus, who has always been quick to see the dark side of humanity and never failed to tutor me on how base and evil people really are, took pains to refine my education by using this as a cautionary tale. The writer mentioned he or she was invited to a “Meet Silvertongue” party we hosted, and that clue narrowed the field down. My wife spent hours trying to figure out who the guilty party was. One time she even called a psychic hotline, and the person she spoke to informed her that her enemy was male, lived somewhere on the west coast, owned a dog, and would never bother her again. She told him he was wrong, that it had to be a woman. The psychic insisted he was right.

Of course you know where this is leading and I won’t pretend to make a mystery of it. A couple of years later, on New Year’s Day of 1995 in fact, I pulled out the copy of the letter while cleaning a desk drawer. The author, who didn’t sign it and obviously desired anonymity, made the mistake of writing it by hand. The instant I looked at it, I recognized Bruce’s handwriting. How I missed it before I can’t tell you, because I was even once asked if it looked familiar. But there was no question, Bruce wrote it. I even dug out an old letter he sent to me from Korea and compared the two. They matched perfectly.

I had his address in South Carolina (he, his wife and his dog first moved to California, and then job prospects took him to South Carolina) and mailed him a copy of his letter along with one of my own. Anger gave me eloquence and the words perfectly expressed my shock and hurt at his betrayal. Several days later I received a call from him during which he denied the whole thing. I told him he was full of shit and the conversation didn’t progress much further from there.

I have seen Bruce twice since then, first at a high school reunion in 1999, and just recently three weeks ago at his sister-in-law’s funeral. Both times he apologized and labeled the time when he wrote the letter as a “dark” period of his life. When last we spoke, he characterized what he did as the single act in life of which he was the most ashamed.

I am not angry with him, I have long since forgiven him, but I can never trust him. In a way, I wish I had never unearthed that letter and recognized it for what it was. I still look back fondly on the old days and have never regretted our friendship. It’s just a shame really. Too bad it had to happen.

Still Alive

2008-03-03T06:44:00.001-08:00

I think I grew up with “family envy”; if that term doesn’t appear in any psychology text, then let’s say I invented it. The Nelsons (not their real name) lived several blocks from me and had nine children, an older set and a younger set. Growing up, I was familiar with the younger set. My best friend, Bruce, was the youngest child of the brood, and before him came Gary, who was two years older, then Cathy, another two years, and finally Eric, who was the oldest of the younger set and reminded everyone of Elvis Presley. I saw Bruce quite often, bumped into Cathy and Gary regularly, and seldom saw Eric.

I think I picked a rather strange family to become attached to because they were what we now call dysfunctional. Both parents had profound mental issues. The mother suffered from depression and was once lobotomized; the father was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic and left the family when Bruce was very young. When Bruce and I were high school age, it was the older set of children who acted as unofficial guardians to the younger set. Their mother worked for a while at a department store warehouse until she became unfit for the job, and after that money became very tight. In a sense, Bruce had to raise himself. As a teenager he had grown-up cares and worries I never experienced.

I think what attracted me to them was the Nelson style, and nothing would have pleased me better than to be a Nelson boy myself, to be just like them. They all had the Nelson look, the Nelson way of speaking, the Nelson wit, and Nelson mannerisms. Despite their solidly humble, lower middle class roots, all of them were extremely well-informed and bright, but unaffectedly bright. Their speech was thoroughly blue collar, peppered with colloquialisms and profanity, untainted by the influence of any thesaurus, yet they expressed themselves as well as any logician or poet. Their sense of humor and comedic timing was flawless, their sarcasm first rate. No one could ever win a battle of wits against them and none of us wanted to try. Bruce in particular was one of those rare types who could take either side of an argument at different times and come out ahead in each instance without seeming to contradict himself.

As I don’t want this post to get too long, I will just briefly say that Bruce and I had a falling out nearly 13 years ago and rarely see each other. It’s a rather involved story and now is not the time for it. In fact, I saw him for the first time in nine years just two weeks ago, and that event, the reason why Bruce and I saw each other, is really the subject of this post.

Gary Nelson, who was perhaps the best-natured of the Nelsons, led a very interesting life. He was a hell raiser in his youth, got married early, often drank too much and oftener still gave his wife fits, but he always had a good heart and a genuine fondness for many of the people he met and got to know. I would say he was the funniest and most engaging of the Nelsons. People were naturally attracted to him and wanted to be his friend. It came as a great shock to everyone who knew him when sometime in his late twenties Gary had what is known as a personal experience with Jesus Christ, and, not long after that, became a Baptist minister. Everyone thought it was just a phase, one of Gary’s “addictions,” and he’d move on to something else. But he remained a preacher for a very long time and, if I have the story straight, would still be one today if it weren’t for the waywardness of some of his kids, which his congregation felt was too unseemly in a minister. He was forced to resign because of it, but still kept to the church.

You can think what you want about religious conversions, but I believe many of them are of great benefit the person who has undergone the spiritual awakening. Call it clarity of sight or complete self-deception, either way the result appears to be an enhanced stability and increased sense of purpose in one’s life. Gary up until that time had been fairly aimless, but from all accounts he fully embraced his faith and became an extremely charismatic preacher; he put everything into it. I say from all accounts, because, up until two weeks ago, I had never heard him preach. But having heard him finally, it was merely a confirmation of what I already knew was true.

The reason why I saw Gary preach and met Bruce again after nine years was because Gary’s wife, Betsy, died. She had cancer and had known for 17 months that time was running out. I only knew Betsy when she was young. She was extremely pretty back then and very nice, and always had the “Betsy smile,” as Gary described it. It was she who became “born again” first, and it was she who always kept Gary on the straight and narrow. Without her, I think he would have been lost. I know that’s always the thing you’re supposed to say about husbands, but in Gary’s case it was true. They had their share of difficulties early on, but Betsy stuck with Gary and in the end they were married for 32 years.

One of the older Nelsons, Don, a very good friend of mine these days, called to let me know Betsy had died and when the funeral was going to be. I hadn’t seen Gary for maybe 20 years, Betsy for even longer, and thought such a stretch of years would excuse me from going. It would have meant taking time off from work besides. But then I realized I would have to be a rare sort of asshole to not go. Gary was my friend, his own brother called and told me about it, work wasn’t particularly busy, how could I not go? So I went.

I arrived late that Friday morning to a smallish white church whose parking lot and the drive leading up to it was jammed with cars, threatening to spill out onto the street. A parking lot attendant managed to find a spot for me which I was just barely able to maneuver my minivan into. Entering the church, I was conducted to an overflow section that looked out onto the nave through a large opening in a wall gained through means of sliding panels. I found a seat at the very back row of a set of folding chairs. The woman next to me delicately dabbed her eyes with a napkin and some sobs were audible here or there; up at the pulpit, one of Gary and Betsy’s daughters was reading a statement she had written about her mother. As she read, she fought hard to keep her voice steady, but often the air supply to her larynx seemed to squeeze off and her voice would become thin and trail away. She had long, blonde hair and, as I saw her only in profile, I couldn’t see anything of her face.

When she had finished, a man strode up whom I instantly recognized as Gary. He had a bible with him which he opened to a section and laid on the lectern. He began to speak and you could tell right away his speech wasn’t from a prepared text. Several sentences into to it, I realized it wasn’t Gary at all, but his son, Gary Junior. Gary Junior was the main reason, from what I heard, why his father had lost his job as minister. He was the black sheep. In fact, Gary Junior had been in the newspaper just a few weeks before for stealing money out of his aunt’s checking account to purchase drugs. His aunt, Gary’s sister (one of the older set), had turned him in for his own good. And here he was up there talking about his mother, he whose actions were certainly of no comfort to Betsy during her remaining weeks of life.

I had never met Gary Junior before, but in that setting I couldn’t help thinking of the parable of the prodigal son. If I knew about him, certainly almost everyone there knew about him, too. Was there forgiveness for him, like there was for the prodigal son?

The oldest daughter spoke after him, and then Gary himself got up to speak. He too had a bible and positioned it just so on the stand. He took a moment to step back and survey the congregation. Then he said, “Good looking family, huh?” A small murmur of assent went through the audience. “Well,” he continued, “they didn’t get it from the old man, I can tell you that!” That drew a big laugh, and all the tension drained away.

The truth was, Gary’s appearance had dramatically changed over the past 20 years. His hair had gone completely white and his face was lined and a little shrunken the way some vegetables collapse in a bit when they go bad. When Gary was younger, he was handsome and athletic. I have no doubt he’s still vital and strong, but he really looked older than his years. His voice had changed too, deeper and more mature than I remember. I now think it’s funny I mistook his son for him, for the contrast between the recollection I have of Gary and how he looks today was that striking.

He talked about Betsy, told the story of how they met, made references to some passages in the bible, and then said something which will forever live in my memory. He said, “I already know I will never get married again because I’m still married.” He stepped back to give that sentence a little time to sink in and then gestured upwards to the great, vaulted ceiling of the church. “I’m still married because she’s still alive!” his amplified voice proclaimed, ringing all around. And for that moment I really believed it was true. I had just read a novel where, at one point, the main character viewed the body of his son in a morgue and noticed how the corpse was no longer his son at all, that it was a merely vacant and lifeless shell, and it occurred to him that “our bodies are the least of us.” If we can accept for a moment that there is an afterlife, if you can buy the Christian concept of heaven, then it is true, you live on, and our corporeal selves have only been discarded as a snake sloughs off its skin. At that moment, in that church, having placed myself amidst all those believers who responded by saying “yes!” and “praise God!”, it became a fact, as credible and verifiable as mitosis or spectrum analysis. The atmosphere made it that way. It really felt like Betsy was alive and with us.

At the reception, I went up to Gary and told him he had said some astonishing things. “Astonishing things?” he repeated. Then he recognized me (yours truly hasn’t changed much over the years) and gave me a massive bear hug that I had to either return with the same force or be crushed. The collar of his shirt was stained by tears; not his, I could tell, but others. We didn’t have time to talk more, but that hug really said it all.

Then I ran into Bruce, whom I at first didn’t recognize. He looked altered, but I think handsomer, as if a sculptor had refined him. There were a few other old pals I hadn’t seen for many years who appeared for the most part shorter, grayer, and with less hair. The wife of one of my buddies actually looked better and younger than ever. It wound up being a reunion that sort of put me in a state of semi-shock. Although we all hadn’t seen each others for years, it felt comfortable, and if it weren’t for the demands of work, I think I could have hung out there all afternoon.

Bruce walked me back to my car and apologized for what he had done 13 years ago (that story I’m not ready to go into). Nine years ago, at a class reunion, he had said the same thing, and I told him then as I did now that I wasn’t mad, just disappointed our friendship had been spoiled. We shook hands and I mentioned our paths would probably cross again at some point, and that’s how we parted.

That event stays with me after two weeks. The concept that someone who died can still be alive, although not new, has really struck root and given me pause. Can death be a “graduation”? I think perhaps it could.

Me Paint Pretty You Pay Okay?

2008-02-26T11:38:00.001-08:00

I have been busy. Hoo boy, have I ever. Work work work work work. When I’m not working, I’m thinking about working . . . unless I’m thinking about money instead, and how much of it I need to keep my nose above the waterline. Who invented money anyway? What an abstract thing that is! Several slips of printed paper and a few odd metal disks can get you five bags of groceries! How did that happen? Somewhere, somebody had to say that combination of paper and metal was worth five bags of groceries. Who was that guy? I’d like to shake his hand.

The missus and I are refinancing our house. We are struggling out from under a completely irresponsible mortgage into one that is somewhat less irresponsible. Our mortgage payments will be higher, so, to offset the beating our budget will take, I, Mr. Schprock, have transmogrified myself into the Weekend Warrior! It’s true: that is the name of my unofficial part time business, “Weekend Warrior Painting.” Read what I post to craiglist three times a week:

Headlines:

Monday: THE WEEKEND WARRIOR PAINTS FOR YOU!

Wednesday: THE WEEKEND PAINTER: PART TIME PRICE, FULL TIME RESULT!

Friday: PAINTING ON A BUDGET? YOUR KNIGHT HAS ARRIVED!

Copy:

It's simple: you pay me 18 dollars per hour plus cost and I will paint for you! The catch: I only work weekends. The result: you get top quality work at a cut rate and I make extra money on the side. It’s win-win.

I have been painting both full and part time since 1980, so I know what I'm doing. If you're interested in saving money, please either respond by email or call Mr. Schprock at 000.000.0000.

I'm experienced, I'm reliable, I'm professional, I'm . . . the Weekend Warrior!

...and I actually get work.

Of course, my business card and the magnetic signs I put on the doors of my van show an image of a viking brandishing a paint roller. It only makes sense.

At first, when I started this right around Thanksgiving, I went after the painting contractors. I figured if I could find one who happened to be busy and could use a good man to keep the job moving while his crew enjoyed a little R and R on the weekends, what a happy situation that would be. I’d just call up on Thursday and say, “Hey, Joe, you got any work for me?” and Joe would say, “Sure, Schprockie, meet me at Dunkin’ Donuts Saturday morning and I’ll set you up!” and I’d say, “Gee, that’s swell, Joe, thanks a lot.” Sounds like it could work, right? Not really. The biggest problem was, none of them knew me from Adam. Having been out of painting for so long, I lost all my contacts — I could only appeal to strangers, and while I suppose it’s true that strangers are just friends I’ve never met, these guys apparently weren’t ready to be my buddies.

I actually did work a short stint for an investor/contractor, someone who buys homes on the cheap (usually from distressed sellers), fixes them up and sells them quick. I worked as hard as I could for him during a vacation from my regular job, but, in the end, I guess he wasn’t ready to be my pal, because he hasn’t had any work for me since. Then there was a painting contractor who hired me to work two days but only paid me for one. After that, he became very hard to reach on the phone unless I called from another number. Finally I left a voicemail telling him I’d go to his customer and ask embarrassing questions unless he called me by such and such a time to discuss how he planned to pay me. That got results.

So now I get my own customers. People contact me either by phone or email, then I pull on my painter’s pants, slap the Weekend Warrior Painting signs on the sides of my minivan, pile my tools into the back, and away I go. So far I’ve worked in Revere, Dorchester, Marblehead, West Roxbury, Reading, Medford, Wayland, Brookline and Natick.

Over time I have built up quite an array of painting tools, and I’m planning another big investment in what is known as a “color rack,” a portable metal rack that holds an entire spectrum of color pigments in plastic tubes used to tint paint. Purchasing that, which I believe will run me well over two hundred bucks, will be like crossing the Rubicon, or represent a sort of a painter’s bar mitzvah, if you will — a true rite of passage. It symbolizes the putting away of my childish ways in the quest to become a real, grown-up professional. Maybe when my color rack is complete I’ll throw a party, one where all the guests will hoist me up on a four-foot step ladder and dance me around a ballroom. And then afterwards, amid the spray of champagne, we can circumcise a few tubes of caulking.

Seriously though, starting a weekend business represents a new stage of my life. It’s kept me on my toes and has forced me to burnish the old personality just a bit so people actually won’t mind a big galoot like me in their home. Perhaps calling myself “charming” might be too strong a word, but I’ve been trying extra hard to be pleasant and agreeable. One family, in fact, seems to have taken a shine to me. They’re having me back to paint the master bathroom in a couple of weeks, and the grandmother tells me she’ll make my lunches. All that good will is offset, however, by a little Shih Tzu they own who won’t be happy until he clamps his tiny pointy teeth on my bits and pieces and never lets go ever again.

I will say this, folks: I have been working as hard as I can. I earn every penny of that measly 18 bucks per hour. The only break I take is lunch, which is exactly the amount of time needed to wolf down two sandwiches and an apple. Then I’m back at it again.

So that’s what I’ve been up to, everybody. Over and out.

What’s Been Going On

2008-01-03T11:06:00.001-08:00

There is no question about it: I have dropped out of sight. Every now and again I resurface long enough to leave a silly comment on one of your blogs, then I scurry away again. What is up with me? Why this ridiculous behavior?

Well, every now and again life seems to get a little complicated and, when that happens, I have this tendency to jettison whatever trifling duties and responsibilities I can to ease the pressure. This blog, while it can be a source of great pleasure and a wonderful outlet — giving me the opportunity as it does to write with the hope of someone reading — can sometimes feel like a burden or chore. I am sorry for this and wish it weren’t so. I am also sorry that I haven’t been as regular a visitor to your blogs as I have in the past.

I am happy to say Daughter Number 1 has been doing generally quite well coping with her nephrotic syndrome. Right now she is extremely reluctant to commit to one of the two courses of treatment Dr. Strangeglove has laid out for her, preferring instead to continue with a sort of maintenance program that has more or less controlled the symptoms. Last week she checked into Children’s Hospital for three days of testing and therapy, but her attitude was very good because this time she saw it coming and knew she wouldn’t be kept there indefinitely. While DN1 was in the hospital I painted her bedroom walls a tropical orange, which, bizarre as that may sound, actually looks pretty good.

Daughter Number 2 turned 17 yesterday and her older sister threw her a surprise birthday party. Boy they grow up so fast, don’t they? 17 years old. On Christmas day we invited a family over for dinner, old friends we’ve known for a long time, and after dinner we sat down to watch a video of a ballet class DN1 took with their daughter. It was really funny watching giggling 5-year-olds take these comical, tentative, stumbling stabs at ballet— but then you look up and see they’re 20 now and all grown up! It’s crazy, man, just crazy.

What’s been consuming me lately has been the mortgage to our house. Everyone’s heard of the sub-prime mortgage crisis I assume? Well, I took a close look at our mortgage a few months ago and discovered how bad ours really is. It’s called an Option ARM, which means that if you choose to pay only the minimum payment (which we have always done), your principal goes up. I didn’t know that. Our broker, if she mentioned it, must have done it under her breath or in Latin, because I sure didn’t catch it. So now I am trying to refinance to a more responsible mortgage, which means I can expect to pay a hell of a lot more each month than what we’re used to . . . so, preparing for that, I have been seeking extra work as a housepainter on the weekends (years ago I was a proud brother of the brush). The problem there is, having been out of the painting game for so long, I find myself completely out of touch — I know no one anymore. Through Craigslist I have gotten three painting gigs so far and have made some extra dough that way, but I need something steady. However, perseverance will see me through as it always does. That and a little pluck and courage, right? And elbow grease of course.

I hope everyone enjoyed the holidays and didn’t do anything too embarrassing under the influence of eggnog and mistletoe. I got those mid-calf socks I asked for and now hope my birthday next month will bring me boxer briefs. Ah, yes, then the circle will be complete. My undergarment needs will be satisfied.

See you around.

Is This Commitment, or Should I Be Committed?

2007-10-02T14:21:00.000-07:00

I haven’t been writing and you haven’t seen me anywhere. No goofy comments from yours truly have appeared on any of your blogs. Where oh where has Mr. Schprock gone? Did I finally pack up my old cardboard suitcase and catch the last train out of Bloggsville for the big city? Or did I become a survivalist, tending a bean garden near a camouflaged hut way out in the woods, waiting for doomsday with the squirrels and chipmunks? Or how about this: maybe I’m in the witness protection program, having turned state’s evidence against a childhood friend for egging the principal’s car back in 1969. I like that one. Clearing up that unsolved mystery got me a new name and address. And believe me, Billy Slattery would pay good money to find out where I’m hiding. Guess he didn’t get the yoke.

Of course I’ve been right here the whole time. We’ve had kind of a sputtering Internet connection here at work, so surfing from site to site and blog to blog has been frustrating at times . . . and — may God strike me down for admitting this — I must confess I do most of my blogging from my office desk, wasting the company’s precious money and time. The funny thing is I usually don’t have time to blog when I get home at night, maybe because, oh, I don’t know, no one is paying me to do something other than blog there. But that’s another issue for another day. Just please don’t judge me too harshly for that.

Last Sunday I went to a mural dedication at the Adams Library in beautiful Chelmsford, Massachusetts. A friend of mine’s brother, who was a trustee for the library, died unexpectedly last year, and the many grieving family members and friends who held him in high esteem commissioned an artist to paint a room-sized mural in his memory in the children’s section. It was quite a tribute. He was a lover of nature and a meteorologist, so the walls of the room were filled with various scenes of wildlife set in their habitats, as well as a full scale portrait of my buddy’s brother set in his habitat holding a weather balloon. Also shown were life-size portraits of his two daughters. The pieces of the mural were very skillfully rendered and the colors were magnificent. I spent about an hour checking out the whole thing while munching on cheese and crackers and veggie dip.

Afterward, another friend of mine and I took a bicycle tour of Chelmford. This other friend, whom we’ll call Coach, grew up in Chelmsford; in his life he has traveled hither and yon and rambled as far as Tennessee at one point, but now he’s found himself living back in Chelmsford in the very house he grew up in. Just last year he lost both his parents within three months and then his wife gave him the old heave-ho, so there he is now, living in mom and dad’s house and driving their car while wifey resides in the family manse with their two teenage daughters some 50 miles away. As far as jilted spouses go, I suppose he’s pretty lucky to have a home already paid for complete with car, but damn, that’s tough to lose your parents and your marriage in one throw. Being an only child, he gets everything his parents had. What’s weird is, he has done nothing to the house: it still looks like his parents live there.

As we toured North Chelmsford, the particular area of town where he grew up, it became apparent to me that a good chunk of it has remained virtually unchanged since his boyhood days back in the sixties and seventies. The same cannot be said of my hometown. My old high school and church are still there, but the commercial areas have completely transformed themselves. We used to have a quaint downtown section, but that’s now been yuppified beyond recognition. The courthouse, police station and library have morphed into colossal stone and mortar edifices that had obviously required the labor of hundreds of thousands of ill-treated bondsmen to construct. We used to have a regular-size mall, but that was torn down to make room for a super duper mega monstro mall. I think there are more SUVs than people there now. Whenever I pass through, I feel like a stranger in my own town.

Anyway, we biked around North Chelmsford for a couple of hours while he pointed out this and that to me, and we eventually wound up at the cemetery where his parents are buried. While Coach filled a plastic jug to water the flowers at their grave, I took a little stroll among the headstones and saw something I thought was interesting.

But before I get to that, let me ask you this question: what do you consider the most profound way one person can commit him or herself to another? Exchanging wedding vows might be the most common answer to that; but perhaps, if you examine it further, the marriage ceremony could really be put off as mere symbolism. Having children together, opening a joint banking account, buying a house together, those sorts of tangible things I think can unite two people together with far more tenacity than the simple signing of a marriage certificate and having a robed cleric utter some fancy mumbo-jumbo over both your bowed heads.

Now consider what I saw: there in the cemetery was a headstone for a married couple that had, as you might expect, both names engraved on it with each of their birth dates — but no death dates . . . meaning, of course, that these two people are still alive. Both were born in 1923, so it’s safe to say they are closer to the end than the beginning, but doesn’t that put the period at the end of the sentence? Till death do they not part. They are for keeps. They’ve bought the final condo and are just waiting to move in.

So all you young guys, think of this: if you really want to impress your girlfriend, if you’re ready to pop the question and show her how much you care, go get yourself a plot at the local cemetery and purchase the most romantic gravestone you can find. Pick one with loads flowers and hearts on it. Bring her there on some pretense and then as you come up to it say, “Oh look, honey! Look at this!” Have a camera ready to capture the expression on her face. Believe me, brother, she’ll go for that more than the biggest honking engagement ring a year’s salary can buy.

Am I right, ladies?

Of Hospital Stays and Things Medical

2007-09-15T09:14:00.001-07:00

When I was very young, I believed doctors to be on a par with wizards and gods, and in my mind I granted them an infallibility no other mortal possessed. If I ever thought of it, I probably would have had sense enough to know the president of the United States could make a mistake or two, and that the pastor of my church, who could appear quite holy and the very mouthpiece of God while he preached on high in the pulpit, was certainly capable of a blunder; I had already learned my parents, though nearly always right, every now and again slipped up; but my childish faith held that doctors knew all and invariably did the right thing.

In my life, I have been admitted to a hospital twice: once when I had my tonsils taken out when eight years old, and later when I was twelve and nearly died of a sledding accident. In both those incidents the doctors and the medical staff supported my notion of their infallibility simply by diagnosing my ailment correctly and making me feel better in a short amount of time.

In the first instance, my tonsillitis was already over when the time came to have them taken out — back then, you must understand, it only wanted the slightest excuse to have them removed. When the big day arrived, my parents woke me up early and drove me to the hospital without having breakfast first — those were the doctor’s orders. I was excited because I knew my reward for being a brave boy was a toy microscope and all the ice cream and ginger ale I wanted; it was just like a holiday, a trip to someplace fun where I’d be treated as if it were my birthday. One can only imagine the poor recompense the microscope and promise of endless ice cream made when I awoke from the anesthesia with the worst sore throat I ever felt. I can recall idly thumbing the sad little mirror of the toy microscope, watching the reflection it made of the pattern on my hospital johnny and wondering how I could have ever thought this would be fun. No microscope and ice cream was worth this. But I did get better and no tonsils ever bothered me again.

When I was twelve I had what was termed a “freak accident” — I hit a tree on my sled just right so I irreparably ruptured my right kidney and needed to have it removed. To this day I have a long scar that starts a couple of inches from my navel and winds its way around my side to the spine. I suffered severe internal bleeding and needed to be operated on at one o’clock in the morning. My chances for survival were rated no better than 50-50; the doctor told my parents it was touch and go, and having a priest or minister handy wouldn’t be considered overdoing it, just the sort of news parents fear most to hear. I pulled through however, and, after three or four days of feeling very sick in the intensive care unit, I was put into a regular hospital room and hugely enjoyed having my own TV and eating the hospital food, which I thought was quite good. They placed me in with the adults, and the nurses, used to aggrieved, complaining old men, made a fuss over me and cheerfully supplied me with paper and crayons and snacks. The entire stay was nine days, and then I convalesced at home for a month and a half more. I missed a tremendous amount of school; when I returned, everyone wanted to hear my story and I found myself in great demand. Even the bullies seemed interested in what I had to say and cut me some slack.

Of course, my notion of the infallibility of doctors has long since passed, but I still to this day have enormous faith in the medical establishment. I consider myself blessed to live in Boston, which is considered a medical mecca. Doctors to me are no longer wizards and gods, but they still are highly respected and talented men and women who have worked very hard to attain what they have. A good friend of mine who I cycle with nearly every weekend is a doctor, and, although we have had many enjoyable chats where we have conversed and exchanged ideas as equals, ever-present in my mind is the fact that this man is a doctor who went to Harvard and his IQ and accomplishments can beat up my IQ and accomplishments any day of the week. When in a hospital, I am comforted by the professionalism I see, the long white lab coats, the stethoscope slung over the neck, the breezy, assured manner many doctors assume when dealing with the very sick, making their patients think their cases are quite controllable and even deserving of a jest from time to time. I like the orderliness and cleanliness of hospitals, for that implies seriousness of purpose. Even the most boorish visitors know without being told to be on their best behavior, as if they are entering a famous cathedral or mosque where the immediate hush and sudden grandeur can make even the most irreligious feel the holiness and render them meek.

Bearing all this in mind, I wish to draw your attention to Daughter Number 1’s case, who, as you all know from the previous post, is suffering from nephritis; or, more accurately, nephrotic syndrome. It is a chronic disease that mostly occurs in children, where the filters in the kidneys stop working properly and an inordinate amount of protein is “spilled” out through the urine. Steroids are very effective at stopping that, but the side effects can sometimes outweigh the benefits, as has unfortunately been the case with my daughter. Last Monday my wife, DN1 and I met with her doctor, Dr. Strangeglove, to discuss which course of treatment we should try next.

DN1 does not share my awe of the medical establishment. Where I see a dedicated team of healers, she sees the keystone cops. During her last protracted stay at Children’s Hospital, DN1 witnessed an endless parade of specialists who each examined her and made, in DN1’s judgment, out-of-context medical pronouncements of this and that without first consulting with the other specialists. There seemed to be an overall lack of concert in what they were doing. In time, DN1 grew quite restive and querulous, sometimes becoming rude to the nurses and, I am afraid, to her mother as well, who was always there with her and tried her best to be DN1’s advocate. Since the beginning of her illness some nine months ago, DN1 faith has eroded down to next to nothing. Her main complaint is this: I have done everything they’ve asked me to do and I’m not any better — in fact, I’m worse. I just needed to have a perforated ulcer fixed because of their incompetence!

So far during this long illness only DN1 and my wife had met with Dr. Strangeglove, but last Monday, as I said, it was my turn to meet the guy and ask him some questions. Foremost in my mind was this thought: if DN1 was George Bush’s daughter, would she still be suffering from this nephrotic syndrome? Has the proper amount of consideration been put to her case? How much does he really care about our daughter?

The appointment was for noon, but we didn’t actually see Dr. Strangeglove until 12:45, which, DN1 said, was the norm. When Dr. Strangeglove finally strode into the small examination room, we met a rather stout man in his fifties who spoke with a mild Lebanese accent and who seemed at once both humble and authoritative if you can imagine such a thing. During our interview with him there was never any sense being spoken down to, but we could plainly see the confidence the weight of his credentials gave him. I suppose it was a case of someone being comfortable in one’s own skin. I don’t think we necessarily attacked him with our questions, but there was an air of confrontation in the room which I think he picked up on and wasn’t disturbed by. Without going into needless detail of our lengthy talk, at the end of the appointment I was impressed with Dr. Strangeglove and felt glad he was our daughter’s doctor.

DN1’s case had indeed been preying on his mind and Dr. Strangeglove on several occasions consulted with his colleagues about her. He agreed that recent events called for a different course of treatment and recommended using an anti-cancer drug that had, among its known side effects, a small chance of causing infertility and hair loss. I asked if that was Plan B, what was Plan C? Plan C, he informed us, was an anti-rejection drug whose side effects were less severe. In both cases, he pointed out, the dosages used would be far less than those prescribed for cancer and transplant patients; when reading the drug information — which, incidentally, contained a lot of scary language — he warned us to keep that in mind.

DN1’s attitude toward Dr. Strangeglove was not much improved when I told her that I came away liking him and that he had my full confidence. As much as I hate to say this, and as strong as DN1 has been throughout this entire ordeal, and as ill-equipped as I am to empathize with her not having suffered as much as she, I felt justified in telling her to not indulge too much in self-pity, because that never helps. Things could be much worse: she could have lost an organ and possibly her life. Children’s Hospital is filled with cases far, far worse than hers. As dissatisfied as she was with the treatment, I asked her to imagine where she’d be if nothing was done at all. And, I added, as advanced as modern medicine is, with all that is known and with all the wonderful techniques and marvelous equipment now available to put us frail humans on the mend, it is still nearly as much an art as a science as it ever was; doctors still must rely as much on their instincts as they do on what the medical journals say. You have to have faith in Dr. Strangeglove’s judgment, I told her. Of course, in her emotional state, this was hard for her to accept, but I think she understood.

Last Wednesday, DN1 met with a counselor and seemed slightly buoyed in spirits after the session was over. The main thing she took from it was the idea of focusing on what can be controlled, which I think is good advice for us all. Sometimes she’s in a good mood and other times she’s down in the dumps. We’re still deciding which treatment plan to go with (ultimately, of course, it’s DN1’s decision) while she continues to go to school and prepare to resume her part time job as a mental health professional at a nearby children’s hospital (not the Children’s Hospital, but another one). She is carrying on and coping, and I am very, very proud of her.

Regarding Daughter Number 1

2007-09-06T06:26:00.000-07:00

People acquainted with this blog (which may or may not exceed the amount of fingers I have on one hand) know that I refer to my daughters as Daughter Number 1 and Daughter Number 2. Not only do I use this handy numbering system to keep track of just how many daughters I have, I also use it to keep straight which is the firstborn and which came second out of the chute; hence we have DN1, who is 20 years old, and DN2, who is 16. DN1 is a girly-girl and DN2 is a tomboy, and, for a few years there, DN1 thought her father was terribly uncool, while DN2 still hangs out with your humble servant and shares some of his interests. I think for that reason DN2 tends to get mentioned a little more in this space, but today the focus will be squarely on her older sister.

DN1 suffers from nephritis, a weird kidney ailment that first manifested itself nine months ago by causing her to retain water. At first DN1 thought she was simply putting on weight, but soon realized otherwise when she noticed that the weight she was gaining didn’t distribute itself evenly, concentrating mainly in the legs. One day, for example, she’d wake up and have a normal-looking left leg, while the bottom part of her right sported a disturbing looking “cankle.” Finally her mother took DN1 to see her primary care physician and the next thing she knew, DN1 found herself in Boston’s famous Children’s Hospital for a five-day stay.

Her kidney doctor (whom we shall refer to as Dr. Strangeglove) took a while to diagnose, but finally hit upon nephritis, which simply put is an inflammation of the kidney. The treatment plan called for a low-sodium diet, a daily one liter restriction of fluids, and the ingestion of several strong drugs including steroids. The steroids in particular have had a profound impact upon DN1. They make her moody and can sometimes change the shape of her face. Some days her eyes get puffy and a little slitted, and other times the bottom half of her face and neck gets swollen, as if she had gained weight in her head and nowhere else. Fatigue has also been a big problem, making standing and walking a chore at times. However, through it all, DN1 has kept up an aggressive schedule of attending college and working part time. When school let out for the summer, she picked up another job and has worked nearly every day for the last two months.

During that stay at Children’s Hospital, Dr. Strangeglove led us to believe that this condition — rare in adults — was extremely curable. And, in fact, after a couple of months of treatment, the symptoms did indeed go away and DN1 was given a clean bill of health, allowing her to work out at the gym again and drink as many fluids as she wanted, as well as eating whatever she desired no matter how salty. However, the symptoms soon returned with a vengeance, and this time she and Dr. Strangeglove agreed on resuming the program, only for a much longer period of time and possibly lasting until December.

The drugs she’s been using to combat the nephritis are, as I said, extremely strong. Everyone hears all the bad stuff about steroids these days, how brutal they are to the human body, and here DN1 has been taking them every day like Flintstones vitamins. She of course does not like the drugs and bridles at how physically inactive the treatment plan has made her, but DN1 has toed the line and stuck to the program while trying hard to maintain a tenuous hold on her faith in Dr. Strangeglove’s abilities. However, in the early hours of Friday, August 24, the steroids apparently took their toll on her system.

DN1 woke up at around 1:30 that morning suffering from a severe abdominal pain. She tried to be patient and see if it was just a passing thing, but the intensity wouldn’t let up. Finally she got out of bed and woke up her mother and the two of them made the decision to go to the hospital while I peacefully slumbered on. Once the missus dressed herself and finished all the necessary primping to enable her to be seen in public, she woke me up to say she and DN1 were on their way to the hospital. I responded by saying, “Whuh? Huh?” Then the missus instructed me to go back to sleep which, being the concerned father and dutiful husband I am, I straightaway did. What a dad, right?

It turned out DN1 had a perforated duodenal ulcer, very nasty, and the MRI they used to diagnose it also revealed a blood clot. Now, no one can absolutely prove the steroids caused all of this, but come on, how many 20-year-olds develop ulcers and blood clots on their own? The surgeon performed a tricky and extremely tedious, minimally-invasive laparoscopic operation that left four small holes in her abdomen. Explaining the procedure, he told us that in the old days, back when they just cut people open, that surgery would have taken two hours less to do, but as the recovery time required two weeks more, the extra length and tedium were well worth it. What he essentially did was put a patch on the rupture to the duodenum and declared she would never be bothered by that problem again — the patch job was for keeps. However, DN1 still had to recuperate and, as far as the nephritis went, nothing changed.

It is difficult for a parent to witness discomfort in his or her child. Seeing your kid in the recovery room still loopy from the anesthesia with a tube running up her nose, an IV tube stuck into her arm, and a catheter draining into a bag, you’re torn between the comforting assurance of knowing your little girl is in good hands and the frustration of seeing her laid low and not having the power to fix things immediately, right there on the spot. DN1 is a woman now, albeit a young woman, but in a sense she’s still the baby the missus and I brought home from the hospital back in 1987. When I was 20 I never had a tube up my nose and a catheter running down my leg, so why should she? Everything seemed wrong and unfair.

DN1 wound up staying at Children’s from Friday, August 24, to Saturday, September 1, which is a pretty long time to remain cooped up in a hospital room. Her mother packed up her clothes and moved in with her, at night sleeping on a chair designed to unfold into a bed. DN2 and I made daily visits, occasionally enjoying the fine cuisine offered in the hospital cafeteria, and otherwise making light banter from either side of DN1’s bed in hopes of dispelling the blues that sometimes pervaded the room; DN1, for the most part, was strong and kept up an optimistic outlook, but every once in a while she broke down and cried when rosy estimates of an imminent discharge from her antiseptic prison were proven false. She was a good patient and informed herself well of her problem and assisted the nurses in her treatment. A constant companion to her was “Bob,” the name we gave for the vertical, stainless steel wheeled contraption that had an IV tree at its top and three ticking, beeping machines clamped to its long pole pumping medicine into her body. Wherever DN1 went, Bob went with her: into the bathroom, walks around the floor, everywhere. Good old Bob. Damn you Bob.

DN1 is home now and started college yesterday. She gets fatigued easily and has to pace herself carefully. Twice a day she needs to inject an anti-blood clot drug through a special patch in her abdomen, and, of course, she has the usual assortment of pills to swallow. DN1 doesn’t complain much, but this is a cross to bear, especially for someone so young. I feel very proud of the way she is carrying on and admire her for it. She’s quite a kid.

My Summer Vacation

2007-08-20T14:21:00.000-07:00

Well, I’m back from summer camp everybody! I went away for a week to beautiful Albany, NH, where I rode my bike and went hiking and paddled a canoe and hung out with my buddies Wally, Jerry and Howie. No, I am not in the fifth grade, and none of those guys mentioned wears a propeller beanie, but the experience did remind me a bit of summer camp back in the day when I was young Master Schprock. Yep, the family used to pack my trunk and ship me off to Camp Calumet every summer just to get me out of their hair — not so terribly unlike last week’s scenario come to think of it. Mom used to give me a stack of pre-stamped, pre-addressed postcards so I had no excuse not to write home, and all my underwear were lovingly personalized with a black laundry marker. Ah, those was the days! The short sheets, the mosquito bites, the wedgies, the girls’ cabins with all the mystery they contained, lined up in a row sporting biblical names like Ruth and Esther. Camp Calumet being a Lutheran camp, every other kid was a towhead and had a name like Gustafson or Engstrom. I really, really loved summer camp. I looked forward to it every year.

They say you can never go back, but I believe I come pretty close with World Fellowship Center, aka “Hippie Camp.” It’s a rustic family campground featuring politics far enough to the left to shock even a Bolshevik. Of course, yours truly is not an especially political animal, so the pull for me is more the great outdoors, plentiful food and the interesting people you find there. Everyone puts their nice face on and conversations with perfect strangers arise spontaneously. Last week was a sort of unofficial bike week, so I teamed up with my above-mentioned comrades for some nice trips, including a “century,” or 100 miler, that included the Kancamaugus Highway, Franconia Notch, Crawford Notch, and possibly another notch. Breathtaking scenery and good exercise, just what a body needs.

If you’re ever in the area, check out the Barnstormers’ Playhouse in neighboring Tamworth. Last week they put on a production of George Kaufman’s You Can’t Take It With You which was, in this reviewer’s opinion, extremely well-acted, well-directed, and funnier than George Bush holding a press conference on helium. And don’t forget the outlet stores in Conway. When I take the family up there for Labor Day weekend, the missus and Daughter Number 1 will methodically conduct a painstaking store-to-store search to uncover every legitimate bargain. And, if you want to find me at 3:00 in the afternoon, look at the picnic tables next to the Dunkin’ Donuts on route 16 just outside of Tamworth. I’ll be that tall skinny dude reading a book secured to a bookrest sipping a large decaf and chomping on a blueberry muffin.

An Official ISB

2007-07-26T10:55:00.000-07:00

I am sending an ISB out to everyone in Bloggerland. What does an “ISB” mean? It means “I’m Still Breathing.” I could have sent out an INW (“I’m Not Writing”), but I think everyone knew that. However, I am still breathing and my heart is still beating. Hooray for my lungs and heart! I love those guys! For you people without lungs or a heart, you do not know what you’re missing.

I’ve been pretty busy, trying to focus on the old job a bit more and having plenty of things to do on the weekends both work-related and pleasure-related. Rest assured I am not gathering any moss, my friends, no sir, not me: no moss-gatherer am I.

The only thing of interest I can think of reporting was an echocardiogram I had done on me a few weeks ago. One of my doctors thought I had high blood pressure, but couldn’t be sure because of “white smock syndrome,” meaning that when I’m placed in a medical setting I get as nervous as a shaved chihuahua on a cake of ice. The instant the technician puts that blood pressure cuff on me, all I can think is, “don’t have high blood pressure don’t have high blood pressure I’m gonna die if I do!” And when they tell me to think of something relaxing, what I think is: “Relax! Relax! Do you want to die? RELAX goddammit!”

Anyway, the echocardiogram was done to measure the thickness of my heart wall. A thick heart wall means you have high blood pressure. What happens is, they do an ultrasound of various parts of your heart, snap pictures of it, and send the shots off to the cardiologist. The cardiologist then reviews them, rubs his chin pensively and sagely says, “Yep, that’s a heart.” My heart, as it turns out, was completely normal. I got a clean bill of health, which made me breathe a little easier, soooo, once again: hooray for my lungs and heart!

Apparently I’m borderline hypertensive but not enough to prescribe medication. Telling the doctor about all those miles I log in on the bike made an impression I think, along with my not being overweight, a virtual teetotaler, and a nonsmoking, non-drug abusing, fish-eating quasi-vegetarian. My pulse while sleeping is 35 beats per minute, which is quite slow and an indication of being in good shape. However, one thing I am trying to correct is my sodium intake. For all my life I have been an inveterate junk food junkie and I like to sprinkle salt on everything. One book I recently bought on how to reduce your blood pressure without medication advises people like me to cut way, way down on sodium and consume foods with a high “K-factor,” meaning those foods that have a hell of a lot more potassium than sodium. Fruits are really good for that, especially bananas, apples and oranges. So now I’m chomping on fruit, rice cakes, and unsalted peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on matzo bread instead of Doritos and Pringles. Mmmmmm, yum! Who says you need taste? Remember: food is merely fuel to stay alive.

Well, that’s it for today. Thanks for dropping by.

Father’s Day

2007-06-22T05:37:00.000-07:00

The above is a picture of my old man back in Dubya Dubya Two, the Big One. I have to say this: that is one cool picture. Growing up, my father and I never got along and I thought he was the biggest drag ever, but even back then I had to hand it to him, that picture is hard to beat. He trained pilots to fly for the Navy, which explains why he’s shown standing in front of a Navy trainer (as indicated by the Donald Duck insignia). He never flew a plane before he enlisted and never did after the war was over, but he showed such an aptitude for flying the Navy kept him stateside to train others to go overseas to give the Nips and Jerrys a little something to remember Uncle Sam by.

The closest thing I have to a picture my kids and future grandkids might be proud of is a shot of me running in a 10K race back in 1985. It looks like I’m about to win the thing, but actually I was in the middle of the pack. The photo catches me right in mid-stride; my hair is flying and it looks like I’m reaching down for that little something extra to put the rest of the field away. It appears I’m just brimming with health, and nobody would ever be able tell from that photo how I had stayed out late the night before and was still slightly hung over from those shots of Jack Daniels I used to drink. However, I wasn’t making the world safe for democracy in my picture like my dad was in his. No sir, far from it.

My father is 87 now and in good health. He stills drives a car, does the yard work, pays the bills, and gets together with my sister, my brother and I once a month to play cards. He and I are always partners when we play and, for the past year or so, we’ve given my two siblings a pretty good pounding on a regular basis. He always needs to be refreshed on the game rules at the start of each session, but then he’s okay. My father and I have been good friends ever since I hit 30, a change in our relationship for which I’ll eternally be grateful. Yep, he’s tops in my book, my old man is. He’s the real deal.

********

The day before Father’s Day (last Saturday) I made my second annual bike trip from Boston to Provincetown, exactly 125.4 miles. Last year I suffered through it and vowed never to do anything so foolish again; however, on the ferry ride back to Boston, I experienced a change of heart and decided to actually prepare for this year instead of just showing up the morning of the ride in so-so shape. It was this Boston to P-Town tour that kept me pedaling my bike on a trainer in my basement during winter snowstorms, and inspired me to ride a hilly 15 mile route every morning to work and participate in 40-60 mile excursions on the weekends. What a difference being in condition makes! Of course I’m no threat to Lance Armstrong’s legacy or anything, but what a feeling it was to cruise by all the spots I was forced to take a break at last year, especially when leg cramps made it impossible to pedal my bike any farther. And guess what? I’m already looking forward to next year.

That is all.

Of Ms. Smith and 80 Hour Man

2007-06-15T09:07:00.000-07:00

Everyone knows that Ms. Smith is dead, but there is a final chapter to be written having to do with her relationship to my illustrious colleague, 80 Hour Man, and an obligation he felt to see her off. 80 Hour Man, of course, is not his real name, but I gave it to him because of his claim that back in the day he consistently worked 80 hour weeks. I guess he was a true working class hero back then, a real example of America’s can-do spirit. I can remember one time telling a former coworker that I once worked a stretch of a month and a half without a single day off (I used to house paint on weekends to make ends meet). 80 Hour Man, who is tuned into every conversation that goes on in the office, immediately barged in by saying, “Oh yeah? Well that’s nothing! I once went three years without a day off!” That might not have been the first heaping, steaming, fly-infested, wheelbarrow load of bullshit he dumped at my feet for my edification and enjoyment, but it was fairly early on in our acquaintance. I have since had it confirmed over and over and over again that dear old 80 Hour Man is an inveterate liar — I could dedicate an entire blog just to the bizarre, unnatural, and sometimes infuriating things he has done to the truth. He is likable, and I regard him as a friend, but 80 Hour Man is a chronic, pathological liar. He just can’t help himself.

Ms. Smith, for reasons my limited intellect will never be able to fathom, had a special liking for 80 Hour Man. The two made an interesting pair: Ms. Smith, Harvard-educated, refined, well-spoken, exact, petite, as feminine and feminine can be, stood in stark contrast to the coarse, loud, slovenly person of 80 Hour Man. Ms. Smith impressed you with her sincerity, while 80 Hour Man always sounded like a con artist desperately trying to talk himself out of an arrest. It is true that 80 Hour Man is a good designer whose layouts satisfied Ms. Smith as much as she ever could be satisfied. But beside his work, it was evident she had a genuine liking for him. Although I suppose this world has seen stranger things, I still must confess to being mystified by it and probably will always be.

We found out Ms. Smith’s wake was set for last Monday, so 80 Hour Man, the creative director and I decided to go pay our respects, not as a group but separately. The creative director brought in her car that day so she could zip over to the funeral home right after work, while 80 Hour Man and I needed to first go to our respective homes to change into suitable clothes before driving over. Visiting hours were scheduled from 4:00 to 8:00 that evening, and, after running an errand on my bike, showering, dressing myself and driving to the neighboring town where the mortuary is, it was already 7:15. Funeral homes are funeral homes I suppose, and one is just as good as another, but this one had an antiseptic, featureless, bland quality to it that reminded me of a million nondescript motel rooms I’ve stayed at in my life. The walls were painted in quiet colors and the woodwork was plain, white and cheap-looking. I was instantly directed to the back of a long, snaking line that wended its way through a couple of reception rooms and into the parlor itself. This line moved very, very slowly and I recognized no one there. Ms. Smith had worked for three companies in the area and she grew up in a town nearby, so those two factors undoubtedly accounted for the huge turnout of family, friends and professional associates. A group of three women, all in their thirties, chattered in sibilant tones in front of me of gossipy things I couldn’t quite pick up while I stood straight as a soldier and advanced one or two steps every couple minutes or so.

Along the way there were various stations featuring collages of Ms. Smith’s life, which I later found out were put together by her brother. Ms. Smith was a baby once, then she became a little girl, and later progressed from being a teenager to a young woman. She was blonde in childhood, her hair darkened as she got older, and then it became blonde again. She smiled and smiled and smiled with all her family and friends. Her dad, who is bald now, had long hippy hair when she was a baby, and her mom, who today is a quite attractive, mature woman, had kind of a hippy way about her too back when Ms. Smith was born. At one point along the procession there was a framed 8" x 10" picture of Ms. Smith at 12 or 13: curly, light brown hair, braces on her white teeth, a big smile and cheerful, shining eyes. I looked at it for a long time. You could tell she was a really nice kid.

I glanced around for 80 Hour Man but couldn’t find him. Within 10 minutes I felt sure he hadn’t arrived. I continued to patiently stand and wait and finally, after more than a half hour, I entered the parlor or viewing room or whatever they call it. The hold-up, as it turned out, was Ms. Smith’s family, which consisted of her mother, father, brother and sister-in-law. They talked at great length to everyone and showed no signs of fatigue despite having been at it now for almost four hours. Ms. Smith’s mother cried sometimes, and at other times she laughed at amusing anecdotes people told her about her daughter. Her father struck me as a real stand-up guy, greeting everyone with a firm handshake, a pleasant smile and a straight look in the eye. Ms. Smith’s brother looked a little like her and his wife looked a little like Ms. Smith’s mom back when Ms. Smith was a baby.

I was, as I said, in the main room now, but the stagnant line continued along three of the walls to finally terminate where the family stood. In one corner there was an exit and, when my watch indicated it was 8:10, I told myself I had dressed up in nice clothes and stood in line for a long time and looked at all the pictures and thought about Ms. Smith very hard, and for those reasons it would be all right for me to leave without speaking to the family. Quite honestly, I would have been stuck for things to say anyway. But if I did tell them I missed her, maybe that would have been true. We certainly weren’t friends and she drove me crazy, but I was accustomed to her. I felt very sorry she died.

The next morning 80 Hour Man was already at work when I arrived. He asked me what time I got to the wake and I told him around 7:15. 80 Hour Man said he couldn’t get there until very late because his son’s car broke down and he had to help him first. He thought he got to the funeral home well after 8:00, and, by that time, it was mainly just he and the family, so he was forced to talk to them. Remembering how long the line was behind me, I asked him how many people were left when he arrived and he said not many. It turned out he didn’t have much of a chance to look at the pictures of Ms. Smith, so we really couldn’t discuss them. Then 80 Hour Man told me how sad he felt during the whole thing and expounded at some length on how much he hated going to wakes and funerals.

Later on, Lone Female Coworker came in, and, when I had a chance to get her alone, I asked her to ask 80 Hour Man how Ms. Smith looked. She readily agreed, but before she had the chance, my two remaining coworkers, John H. and Moonshadow, arrived and enquired of 80 Hour Man details of last night’s wake. 80 Hour Man replied yes to the question of if it was open casket, and informed Moonshadow, who wanted to know how Ms. Smith looked, that she appeared to be “fuller-looking.” Later on the creative director came in and she and I discussed the wake with 80 Hour Man throwing in his two cents every now and again.

The president of our company, who didn’t go to the wake, got a full report from his sister, the creative director, and later I told him about 80 Hour Man’s assessment of how Ms. Smith looked. The president thought it was very interesting and I agreed with him, it was very interesting. A few hours later, the president called 80 Hour Man into the his office for a five minute conversation. Later on, after work, the president told me exactly what transpired.

“80 Hour Man,” he said after instructing him to close the door, “word has it you went to the wake last night.”

80 Hour Man said that was correct.

“So you think Ms. Smith looked a little ‘fuller,’ is that right?”

Yes, a little fuller, 80 Hour Man confirmed.

“Well, I think that’s funny, because Schprock and my sister both tell me Ms. Smith was cremated.”

80 Hour Man’s face instantly dropped.

Now, I want to tell you something I noticed about 80 Hour Man’s demeanor when he walked back to his desk after getting chewed out by the president for telling his colleagues such a stupid, brazen, horrendous lie: he betrayed not a trace of shame or remorse. He looked just the same as always, completely unruffled. And I think I know the reason why: because 80 Hour Man knows that if he waits five minutes after getting caught, everyone will forget and he can go on fooling people again. Honest to God, I really believe that’s how his mind works.

Man!

Regarding Ms. Smith

2007-06-10T18:50:00.000-07:00

The two or three regular readers of The Schprock Report who have heard of Ms. Smith recognize her as the quintessential client from hell. Equipped with such knowledge, these people may continue to read this post; however, I must entreat those not familiar with Ms. Smith and the story of how she would rather get shot to please follow that link and read the whole tale first. Certainly Ms. Smith has popped up in other places in this blog, but this one story truly encapsulates what the Ms. Smith experience has been all about. So go ahead and read it and we can wait. Take your time.

(taps foot, whistles, glances at watch)

Back now? Good. Let’s begin.

I will deliver the news about Ms. Smith by telling you exactly how I broke it to 80 Hour Man, who had the day off when we heard these unexpected tidings of her. 80 Hour Man and I usually get in to work before everyone else, so, after he stepped out of the elevator and we said our good mornings, I insisted he sit down and prepare himself for some rather shocking news. He did so with a smile on his face, no doubt expecting something facetious to come out of me. When I saw he was properly seated, I asked him, “Do you know Ms. Smith?”

“Yeah?”

“Dead.”

“What?”

“Dead!” I repeated.

“She’s dead?”

“Dead!”

Yes, Ms. Smith is dead, from what cause we don’t know. Theories abound of course, but all that is known is that her parents discovered her body in her house possibly on Wednesday. Ms. Smith was only 33 years old, incredibly young to die, and this, as I’ve said, has led to all manner of speculation. I instantly thought of suicide but have since amended that. Whatever the cause, and whatever opinion you or I or anyone might have of her, it’s very, very sad.

The most popular theory is that an eating disorder did her in. It is true that Ms. Smith was seen very rarely to eat. One of our bosses, the creative director, used to supply Ms. Smith with fresh fruit and little vegetarian dainties every time Ms. Smith made one of her infamous, prolonged visits. The rest of the people in the office acted like starving wolves held at bay, waiting for enough time to pass to politely dive into the food she obviously would not eat. I could almost sense a certain pride she might have felt in disciplining herself to not put nourishment into her system while looking at the rest of us as weak.

Another theory is cocaine. The president of our company heard rumors that Ms. Smith battled an addiction to the white powder some time ago, and maybe a renewed abuse of that drug led to her demise. She seemed to live on Diet Coke, so there’s a sort of irony in considering the possibility that the other coke would in the end deprive her of the life the first Coke sustained. Suicide, of course, is right up there. She had gone through a string of high-powered positions in the schoolbook publishing world, always leaving each job under a cloud, and an imminent dismissal from this, her latest position, with no other prospect in sight, might have meant a loss of stature and material wealth too much for her to bear.

Here’s my theory: I’m guessing Ms. Smith suffered from a rare disorder, let’s say some obscure blood disease, which she kept hidden while bravely putting in 16 hour days, knowing all the while her life would be cut short. That would explain her mysterious absences during urgent projects when she would suddenly become completely unavailable: she could have been receiving critical, life-preserving treatments during those times.

Well, like I say, it’s a theory.

Whatever the case, I feel bad. I always kind of liked her even though she frustrated me and made me furious at times. She was, at bottom, a nice person, and I always thought she led a pathetic life despite her five bedroom house, Jaguar, $5,000 boots, her Gucci this and Gucci that, and a yearly salary with all those zeros in it. In a way, I think she fussed and micromanaged herself to death, and that’s just plain sad.

Eight Things about Me

2007-06-06T09:22:00.000-07:00

Okay, I’ve got this blog here, and I’ve been tagged a couple of times, and I ain’t been writing, so it’s time to get to it! Yeah! So here they are, eight things about me you maybe didn’t know:

1. I’m a mammal. Yes, I am warm-blooded, I have a vertebrae, I grow hair, and my mother secretes milk, even though she didn’t give any of it to me because I was bottle-fed as a baby. Glancing down my family tree, it appears I am descended from a long, long line of mammals, and, together with my wife (who is also a mammal), I have spawned a couple more mammals. It is interesting to note that not all of my ancestors are from my subclass, which might explain my surgically-removed vestigial tail and a near overpowering desire to hunt zebras in the craziest darn places.

2. I am the reincarnation Ahkra, a pottery merchant from ancient Mesopotamia. Big pots, little pots, pots for all occasions, I was the ’Potamia Pot Man. It was I, Ahkra, who first coined the phrase, “You break it, you buy it.” In yet another life, I was Grok, son of Oog, the caveman who invented the wheel, and grandson of Njork, one of the most accomplished fire-bringers of his generation. I was a big disappointment to the family due to my habit of picking up my dad’s wheel to carry it around instead of rolling it. “Him take after your side,” Oog often said to my mother.

3. I have watched the classic science fiction movie The Day the Earth Stood Still many, many times, perhaps too many. I think Gort, the giant robot, is the coolest thing ever. I would love to have Gort for a friend. It would be hard flying to places with him, though. Gort would have a tough time getting through airport security, what with his ability to disintegrate any object known to man. And the metal detector would go wild. Then there’s the whole “is he a passenger or cargo?” question. Ah, but Gort, in his quiet, impassive, menacing way, could give my life the structure and assurance it needs.

4. My favorite snack is Cheez-Its scooped in peanut butter. Chunky peanut butter, that is. Mmmmm, Cheez-Its and peanut butter. Salty.

5. Perhaps my favorite all-time TV show is Star Trek Voyager, and I’m not even a big science fiction fan. I’ve even read a couple of Star Trek Voyager books. I would love to have Captain Janeway for a boss, and, for the record, I’ve always felt Lieutenant B’Elanna Torres was much hotter than Seven Of Nine.

6. Even though this might sound like a joke, it’s true: I find nothing more deflating than a flat tire. Always have.

7. I am 51 years old and don’t have a single grey hair. However, over the course of those same 51 years, I have given many grey hairs, so the cosmic balance has been preserved.

8. The two tricks I use to overcome insomnia are to either visualize myself effortlessly riding a bicycle through a beautiful landscape, or mentally recite the Lord’s Prayer in the voice of former Boston Mayor Kevin H. White, so it sounds like this: “Ah fathah, who aht in heaven…” over and over and over again.

That’s it, I’m done. Everybody I know has been tagged, but if anyone got missed, then consider yourself tagged and let’s hear ’em!

A Brief Visit to Heaven

2007-05-08T10:57:00.000-07:00

The author recently had a near-death experience and spent a short while in heaven. Here are excerpts from his report:

********

The song is right: in heaven there is no beer. In fact, there is no alcoholic beverage of any kind. There isn’t anything one might even call “nectar.” As far as I know, the population of heaven neither eat nor drink, which is very strange when you consider heaven is full of fat people. Seriously, heaven is as obese as West Virginia. My best friend while there, Bill, must have tipped the scales at 250 pounds. How he could pack on all that weight is a mystery to me still.

********

You pass through no pearly gates on the way to heaven I’m sorry to say. As best as I can describe it, you just show up. It reminded me of the time I got knocked out playing third base in summer camp as a kid. It was a high pop fly — I ran back, the left fielder ran in, and we hit our heads. Next thing I knew, I was laying on my back with a circle of faces staring down at me. That’s what going to heaven is like. I looked up and there was Bill and Jerry, the latter being the guy I first mistook for John F. Kennedy. He even sounded a bit like JFK, and I thought, what luck! I wake up in heaven and there’s President Kennedy! But it turned out to be Jerry. Jerry used to sell tires. As far as I know, Jack Kennedy never held a job remotely like selling tires.

********

When you first get to heaven, you are assigned a “minder.” That’s what Bill was to me. His job was to show me around and make sure I didn’t do anything wrong. It may surprise you to know he didn’t wear a white robe or play a harp or even have wings. However, despite the lack of wings, Bill was remarkably light on his feet for a heavy guy. Another thing: although you are not in a cloud (as it is often depicted in the movies), there is a subtle, pervasive, white mist in heaven, barely detectable but there all the time. At first I mistook the white mist for blurred vision. And a kind of Musak plays everywhere, but it’s very pretty, not obnoxious at all. If heaven had a gift shop, I would have bought the CD.

When he was alive, Bill worked in a steel punch factory back in the 1920s and 1930s. He used to make those protective steel toe caps that go into work boots. Bill claims he still doesn’t know anything about what happened in the world after 1941 and is never curious, even though people in heaven can see what’s going on on Earth all the time. So I told him about how men landed on the moon in 1969. His response: “So fucking what?” Then I said: “That’s a great achievement, Bill. Landing on the moon was just science fiction in your time.” Bill said: “Big fucking deal.”

By the way, there is profanity in heaven. Profanity, as it turns out, is not a reason to go to hell.

********

Bill doesn’t wear a white robe, but he does wear a three-piece plaid suit a little the worse for wear. His white shirt collar is stained with sweat. Wouldn’t you think staining shouldn’t exist in heaven? I would have thought so.

********

The architecture of heaven is strangely igloo-like. All the buildings are domed and white. Inside, the furniture mainly consists of plain white chairs and couches. People in heaven sit around a lot and a favorite topic is grandchildren, even if the grandchildren in question died a hundred years ago. There are no televisions, but images spontaneously appear on the walls of these houses, usually of scenes going on in real time back on Earth. Bill let me take a room in his house and, while there, I watched a guy on my wall work on his pickup truck for a couple of hours, changing the oil and spark plugs. He skinned his knuckles once and swore loudly. Later on I saw my wife put in a call to the insurance company. She seemed remarkably composed and appeared to like what she heard.

********

At one point I asked Bill, “What is the biggest thing I want to avoid in heaven?” Bill said: “Okay, let’s say you’re watching your grandnephew do his homework. He’s working away, studying hard. Really hitting the books and you’re proud as hell, right? Then all of a sudden he puts the book down and pulls a girly magazine out from under his mattress. Then he starts to jack off, right there in his room. That’s when you stop watching. Watching that kind of thing is considered very taboo.”

“Good rule,” I replied. I meant it, too.

********

Bill has a girlfriend. Believe it or not, there are couples in heaven, just like on Earth. Bill’s girlfriend is the late broadcast journalist Tori Steele, who met her untimely demise in 1995 doing a remote report about the L Street Brownies of South Boston when the mobile broadcast truck’s transmission antenna fell on her. Now why, you might ask, would a 32-year-old electronic journalist with poofy blonde hair and spiky red nails have anything to do with a fat, uneducated factory worker from the 1930s? There’s an expression for that here: “Heaven only knows.”

********

I almost had a girlfriend if I stuck around long enough. She was none other than 1950s porn star and Jane Mansfield look-alike Vickie Savage, who starred in such notable pictures as Motel Rendezvous, Bikini Vixens Ahoy!, The Bikini Vixens Invade Las Vegas, Support Our Troops, Vickie’s Diary, The Deflowering of Miss Nancy, and, of course, A Tale of Two Titties. She seemed shy and mentioned she liked my eyes. I said I thought her eyes looked very nice, too. I’ll always regret that about heaven: we never even had a formal first date. She’s probably dating Jerry right now.

*******

I didn’t see any saints while in heaven, just mostly ordinary people if you don’t count such celebrities as Tori Steele and Vickie Savage (and by the way, here’s a little something you might not know: Tori Steele’s real name is Theresa Finkelstein, and Vickie Savage’s name is actually Victoria Lynn Savage). I kept hoping to meet a president or movie star or some kind of historical figure. “Where are they, Bill?” I asked. “Where’s Napoleon or DaVinci or Plato? Where are the big shots around here?”

“Who the fuck knows?” replied Bill. “Who the fuck cares?”

********

Some other guy named Pete, who arrived in heaven the same time I did, managed to get a former Swedish diplomat named Hjalmar Anderson for a minder. Hjalmar spoke beautiful English and patiently answered all the questions Pete asked. Why couldn’t I have gotten him?

********

I started feeling kind of funny in my chest and could tell I was getting pulled out of heaven. It’s one of those things you just know. “I think I’m going back to Earth,” I told Bill. “In fact, I’m pretty sure of it. I guess I’m not truly dead after all.”

“So fucking what?” said Bill.

“So this is goodbye, Bill,” I said as I started to float away. “Anything you want me to tell a relative?”

“Yeah,” said Bill, “ask my grandnephew Chuck if he still whacks off 24 hours a day. Tell him he’ll pull that thing off if he keeps it up.”

“Okay!” I yelled as everything around me grew fainter. “Goodbye, Bill! Goodbye!”

********

Next thing I knew, I opened my eyes and saw a circle of faces staring down at me. Now doesn’t that just figure?

Odd Bits Here and There

2007-04-28T09:02:00.000-07:00

I have been very busy both with work and things going on in my personal life. I wish I could say work has been creatively fulfilling, but, alas, it has not: it has just been work: you know, drudgery, blue collar stuff, sweat of your brow, digging ditches. I won’t bore you with the details. Last weekend I attended a three-day symposium for stutterers at a Holiday Inn in Saddle Brook, New Jersey. As I have mentioned before, I stutter, though not severely, and am affiliated with two support groups which I distinguish by calling one the “fluency” group and the other the “feelings” group. The members of the fluency group gather only to do exercise drills in what is called the “airflow technique,” a way of speaking designed to help the stutterer speak with less disfluency. We are all very friendly but keep quite focused on why we are there, and “fine” ourselves 25 cents for every vocal misstep we commit. The feelings group mainly talks about the baggage we stutterers have accumulated over the years and carry with us, and we work hard on accepting and forgiving ourselves as people who stutter. Nearly everyone in that group has, in the past, paid good money and spent considerable effort learning one fluency technique or another, but few of us actually use that time to practice, so you see a lot of struggle behavior going on during these sessions. Last September I accidentally became the chapter leader of this group (long story), so I’m the guy who arranges these little meetings and sets the agenda.

I arrived in Saddle Brook for the symposium Friday evening after an unusually slow, painful drive from Boston through New York via the George Washington Bridge. It was more brake than gas pedal the whole way. There were four of five accidents along the route that led to a lot of stopping, moving twenty feet and stopping again. At one point after crossing the border from Connecticut into New York, my bladder, which had been trying to tell me something for a number of miles, finally made it very plain that if I didn’t take corrective action soon I might arrive at my destination not very dry and with a distinct freshness problem. Just leaving what might have been the Deegan Expressway (I can never remember the names) and inching onto a ramp leading to another congested highway, I gathered my resolve and pulled over to the breakdown lane; I switched on the emergency flashers, got out of the car, locked it, stuck my arm out like a traffic cop to signal the other drivers to stop, crossed the road, hopped over a low guard rail, sprinted across a field some one hundred yards in length, and huddled in front of a high concrete barrier to relieve myself in full view of everyone. What a show I must have put on. How I regretted the quart of water I drank along the way and the cup of tea I bought at a rest stop just outside of New Haven. When I returned to cross the road, two truck drivers anticipated me by stopping the traffic and letting me pass. They were not laughing; they understood. I waved to them in gratitude.

I made some friends at the symposium. It was a bit like how I remember summer camp was as a boy; back then, the kids seemed to form alliances within the first day and became bosom friends. There were three keynote speeches that weekend which were very well prepared and delivered; I participated in several workshops, and we all ate our meals together. There might have been as many as fifty of us, most of them from the area; all the New York and New Jersey accents reminded me of the Sopranos. You might think stutterers have a lot in common, that our personalities must be similar, but in reality the only thing we share is our speech disorder and we are all as different from each other as any other random sampling of the population; and even then there are no two stutters that are alike. There are closet stutterers who are quite masterful at hiding their disfluencies by substituting words or opting for silence rather than take risks with their speech; some struggle in silence, making all manner of odd facial expressions until they finally, in the end, produce the sentence with no stutter at all like a conjurer’s trick; and there others who more or less let it all hang out, get stuck on words, blast their way through them, then go on a roll for several sentences until they encounter another “block” and need to grind it out again. I’m sort of like that last type, only I do substitute words every so often and try to use my airflow technique when I can remember. People tell me they hardly notice my stutter and claim it doesn’t look like it bothers me when it happens. I take that as high praise.

********

Jason of Clarity of Night held another flash fiction contest recently, which my good buddy, Scott, told me about in an email. I informed him I was too busy to participate (which I was), but promised I would check in when I could to read some of the entries. When Jason does these, he posts a photograph he’s taken (Jason is both is a talented photographer and writer) and invites people to write stories no longer than 250 words in length based on the image. After the deadline, Jason then judges each entry using a system he devised and awards generous prizes. It’s great fun and a wonderful writing exercise, getting in all you can in 250 words or less. Usually I go right to the limit, editing and re-editing, replacing three words with one like a boxer starving himself to make the weight limit, so this process of asking the fewest words to cover the longest distances can make it sometimes seem more like solving a puzzle.

This time around around, Jason posted a photo of a cluttered kitchen counter with a sink crammed with dirty dishes. The curtain of the window in front of sink has come loose and fallen into the sink, making the observer wonder how long those dirty dishes have been there, and just what is the state of the home. There are equal signs of activity and disuse, habitation and desolation. Which is true? Can they both be? What is the story?

So I logged onto Jason’s site, saw the picture, asked myself what story could I write about it if I had the time, and then thought, well, I’ll give myself fifteen minutes to try. I started off with the sentence “When you close your eyes at night, you can be anywhere,” and this is where I wound up:

“When you close your eyes at night, you can be anywhere. Darkness brings you where you want to be. You can change your space, right there in your room, the same room with warped paneling and stains everywhere that won’t come out; your room can be the palace at Versailles, I swear. Who’s to say different when you’re all alone?

“Morning is harsh, though. Damn sun finds its way in everywhere, birds won’t shut up either. Motes of dust slow dance in the air, hanging there, hanging there, refusing to breathe or come to a point. Place is a wreck today. I forget all that went on last night. Somebody said something, it might have been her, it might have been me. She took off in the truck, I don’t even need to look to see that. I'll find out later what she took with her.

“Sometimes inertia isn’t a choice. The fight just goes away. Struggle to your feet all you want. Get up, take a leak, brush your teeth, fry an egg, pop a pill, fix the curtains, sooner or later down you go. Down . . . you . . . go. Man, I need the darkness. Got to get me some darkness real soon.”

Not even 250 words. Maybe not the finest thing I ever wrote, but I really like the mood of it. Not so much a story as a sort of glimpse or a slice of time. Most of the entries are better than this, but I enjoyed writing it.

********

Last week I wanted to write a post about the Virginia Tech shooting; the title would have been “Say No to Cho.” Here were my two points: number one, the extent of the media coverage regarding the murderer himself was irresponsible. In giving the public what it wanted, which was everything they could lay their hands on about the shooter, our slavering watchdogs of the press glorified him. There are nitwits out there right now who have hung on their walls reprints of the stills news outlets faithfully reproduced from the media kit Cho Seung-Hui thoughtfully sent to NBC: carefully staged portraits of himself with pistols in either hand, ammo vest with pockets bulging, baseball cap slung backwards, looking cooler than anything they ever saw in a Quentin Tarantino movie. Sure, we we’re all curious about him, we all wanted to hear what he had to say and see what he looked like, just like I am always curious about what a fan is doing when he leaps onto a baseball field and interrupts a major league game. I’m curious, but I understand why television stations don’t show the moron cavorting around center field making a complete ass of himself, because giving that idiot the notoriety he seeks will only encourage other similarly disposed idiots to do the same. I’m not so curious that I can’t see the sense of that policy, and consider not seeing or knowing everything a small sacrifice. With Cho, everyone with a TV and an Internet connection has seen his pathetic posturing and heard his absurd, sick, muddled rants, including myself. Say all you want about your right to know, this, my friends, goes too far. He parlayed his allotted fifteen minutes of fame into instant international recognition. Our culture threw him an 85 mph fastball right down the middle of the plate and he got all of it. This bastard will live on forever through his actions while the innocent slain will sink into eventual obscurity. Maybe someday we’ll wise up and call people like Cho Seung-Hui a fittingly generic name, like “Murderer Number 12,” and offer no pictures and allow no personal statements to reach the public’s ear and leave it at that. We’ll probably need to get the Constitution drunk one night and make it agree to things it wouldn’t while sober, but a Constitution with a hangover and vague feelings of regret is better than indulging in an unhealthy freedom of the press where absolutely anything goes, with no sense of restraint or decency.

Point number two: I feel bad for the shooter’s parents. I grieve for them as much as I do for the families of his victims. I will guarantee you right now they didn’t raise that kid to be like this. Certainly they must have made mistakes, ignored warning signs, should have done what they could to get him therapy or whatever, but no parent anticipates this. What mother or father can ever admit to giving birth to and nurturing a monster? Their lives are stained forever. The guilt by association will never wash off. They lost a child, and the manner of his passing makes it a sin to mourn him. Grief feels like complicity; they’ve got guilt and shame and hatred coming at them from every conceivable angle. They, the ones left behind, will be blamed and feel the blame for this until the release of death. For this they have my sympathy.

Washing Windows in the Rain

2007-04-15T08:12:00.000-07:00

One recent, rainy day, Daughter Number 2 and I were taking a brisk stroll down a Boston street when we came across a window washer running his squeegee down a storefront window. DN2 astutely remarked that washing a window in the rain seemed a rather futile task. Of course, it needs to be mentioned here that both of us are not expert in the honorable and ancient art of window washing, but nevertheless we felt convinced that a rainy, windswept day is probably one of your biggest enemies to a clean window. When she said it, I immediately caught onto the phrase “washing windows in the rain,” and felt it should be an expression, something on a par with “gathering wool” or “whistling past the graveyard.” Doesn’t it sound like the sort of thing your grandmother might say? Couldn’t you hear her admonish your little brother to “put that thing down and leave it alone; you’re only washing windows in the rain”?

Washing windows in the rain indicates, simply, that perfectly good effort put toward a given task is doomed to yield no desired or satisfying result. Washing windows in the rain is completely ineffective and apparently without merit, save the one dubious benefit of giving the window washer a brief and utterly false sense of productivity. It’s a case where you ought to know better, but you do it anyway. Searching my mind for a well-known expression similar to that, I came up with “rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic,” but the two aren’t really that close, as the Titanic one strongly implies empty-headed, pointless incompetence in a time of dire emergency, while washing windows in the rain is more of an everyday, forgivable brand of empty-headedness and pointlessness. After all, one may survive washing one’s windows in the rain, but wasting time rearranging deck chairs while a whole ocean liner is going down is roughly the equivalent of, say, washing an entire glass-and-steel skyscraper in a typhoon.

Can you think of instances in your life when you’ve washed windows in the rain? In my job as a graphic designer, I know there have been many times, while developing concepts for ads or brochures, where I’ve found myself going down the wrong street but can’t stop myself; I’m perfectly aware the client won’t buy this or that, but I like the idea so much I pursue it anyway. One may call that knowingly washing windows in the rain. A supreme example of willful window washing comes from a childhood memory: in my hometown, there was an intersection notorious for hopeless congestion during rush hour. Often times riding home with my father in the family station wagon he would impulsively pull the car out of a backed-up, left-turn-only lane to lead us onto a bewildering, torturous, labyrinthine route with the sole aim of eventually attacking the same clogged intersection from another direction. As he did this, he admitted he was saving no time, and was perhaps even adding to it, but at least the act of putting the car into motion gave him a feeling of progress.

A sentimental form of rainy day window washing might be setting a place at the dinner table for a departed loved one who, in all probability, will not show up. Certainly no one expects to coax dear, deceased Uncle Ernie into reincorporating himself by offering up the appetizing and mingled aroma of broiled flank steak and potatoes au gratin, but some comfort might come to his survivors by following such an irrational custom. And then there is Zen window washing, where the mere act of soaking a pane of glass with a ragful of glass cleaner and squeegeeing it off is an end unto itself; one is concerned only with the doing, and whether the window remains clean or not is secondary. I suggest this form of window washing is very deep. A perfect example of Zen window washing is contained in the manifesto of an obscure school of art that existed briefly in the early part of the 20th century: it contended art should be transitory and, after an exhibition of so many days, a painting or sculpture should be destroyed, never to be seen again. Another example can be found in a science fiction story I read many years ago that had the main character do a very curious thing: to unwind and blow off some stress, he went one morning to a woodworking shop, plunked down some serious money for lumber and tools, and spent all day constructing a table, a piece of fine furniture. He cut and sanded and rasped and planed and so on; he lovingly fashioned the legs on a lathe, and carefully measured and joined all the pieces just so; then, in the end, after admiring what his skill and patience produced, he summarily cast the table into a furnace.

What are some other examples of washing windows in the rain? I think our president can come up with a few, starting with that great, glass edifice otherwise known as Iraq. How about solving our energy needs by drilling for more oil? That is advanced window washing. Or a Palestinian suicide bomber thinking one more violent act will finally make the Israelis wise up and leave? Futility at its finest. Closer to home, I can recall how my father used to patiently explain to my grandmother, who had advanced Alzheimer’s, the names of all her grandchildren over and over again, as if, through repetition, she’d eventually come to her senses and remember. Some serious Windex there.

Question du jour: what examples of washing windows in the rain can you think of? Don’t you agree we should adopt that as a common expression? I challenge you to put it into a sentence sometime this week.

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I’ve gotten very lax about responding to comments on my blog (which, by the way, are all read by me and very much appreciated), but here is a comment from my last post that deserves special recognition. At one point in the post, I brought up the subject of last words and how not all are probably as dramatic or quotable as the people saying them might have wished. Here is what Beth wrote:

“I think about ‘last words’ a lot. I wonder if that’s the neurotic in me. You know, when Mother Theresa died the doctor said she complained of pain and the nun at her side said Mother Theresa actually said, "I love Jesus." So, I think when you’re famous, the people who love you most do some major editing.

“‘I just shat myself’ becomes ‘I see a bright light and a beautiful angel with outstretched arms.’”

I laughed myself silly for about ten minutes after reading that one.

It’s the Big One, ’Lisabeth! I’m Comin’ to Meet’cha!

2007-04-12T18:41:00.000-07:00

How about that picture, eh? Good old Mr. Schprock sure looks like a walking science experiment in this one, doesn’t he? Well, never fear, all two or three of you who read this: your humble servant is feeling fit as a fiddle, even though he might look as if he’s about to keel over.

A couple of weeks ago, shortly after waking up, I went to the bathroom to do my usual early morning routine. Standing at the sink readying the old toothbrush, I noticed I felt a little woozy, and attributed that to not having completely brushed the cobwebs out of my head. Squeezing the toothpaste onto the toothbrush, I then noticed I was feeling perhaps more than just a little woozy, that maybe I was feeling quite woozy, and did my best to shake it off. Then I noticed I was not only feeling woozy, but rather weak and shaky and dizzy as well. At that point, I started to panic just a little bit, only a little, mind you, and decided it might be best to leave the toothbrush alone and sit down on the toilet to rest and collect myself, as there seemed to be a giant, invisible hand pressing down on me anyways. This hand really didn’t want me to stand much longer. So I sat down on the toilet, feeling miles away from where I was, and gradually, through the dullness, through the haze, I realized that merely sitting there wouldn’t quite cut it, that laying down was the thing. So I started to walk back to the bedroom, except I only got as far as the bathroom threshold when I realized the floor would have to do instead, as the bedroom was a wee bit too far. So I slid my back down the door casing dropping the final two feet squarely on my left buttock, and numbly sat there with my legs splayed straight out in front of me. For some reason I wiggled my feet, an action which I stupidly stared at, and this strangely seemed to help. The cat eventually came over to sit there and watch me.

After a minute my head began to clear, right when I broke out into a ferocious cold sweat. I could feel the moisture gather on my back, my chest, my arms, and my legs all at once; sweat built up on my scalp and trickled down onto face. Big globules dripped from my face onto my sweatpants just when the cat tried to climb onto my lap to be petted. My shirt quickly became soaked through.

Listen folks, I don’t mean to be dramatical or anything, but there I was, more than a little frightened by this state I’ve never been in before, and I seriously wondered if (a) I was having a heart attack and (b) if I was dying. I had never had a heart attack before and certainly had never experienced death, so how was I to know? Maybe that was what a heart attack and oncoming death felt like. I wondered, I really wondered if my cat Cleo would be the last living creature I would ever set eyes on on this earth. Oddly, I didn’t think that would be too bad. My main concern was, what the hell was happening to me?

45 minutes later I rode my bicycle in to work.

Like many people, I have this irrational idea that I’m indestructible, that I’ll live on and on. Nothing can kill me, I’m a medical marvel. I pedal my bike everyday, I do my push-ups and sit-ups, I eat all my vegetables, and I brush my teeth after every meal. Two psychics, a tarot card reader and a palm reader, have both predicted a long, healthy life for me. Inside I feel like a kid, I really do. I still feel like I’m just revving up. But the fact is I’m 51 years old, which is roughly 20 trillion in dog years. You could have twelve presidential elections, two world wars and a depression in that time. So in reality I ain’t no spring chicken.

Several people convinced me to make an appointment with the doctor, who miraculously was able to see me that afternoon. I told her what happened and mentioned a funky little heart condition I’ve had since I was 19: it’s called “premature atrial contraction,” or PAC. I say I’ve had it since I was 19, but I waited until I was 43 to get it diagnosed. It’s an irregular heartbeat that feels uncomfortable and leads to a slight loss of strength; when it happens, I get a little more winded than usual climbing a staircase, for instance. If it can be said a normally functioning heart’s rhythm goes like a waltz, then mine sometimes does the rhumba. The chambers of my heart just don’t beat in synch; they don’t always like to play nice together. It’s kind of a drag, but, as my old doctor once put it, if you’re going to have a heart condition, then this is the one you want to have. Nothing fatal.

The doctor thought I merely had a bad bout of dehydration, but, to cover all the bases, she ordered me to wear that contraption you see in the picture for twenty-four solid hours. It’s called a Holter monitor, and luckily the recording device they have nowadays is much smaller than it was in 1999, the other time I had to wear one of those gizmos. Back then it felt like lugging around a Radio Shack cassette recorder; now it’s just a digital unit slightly larger than a pager. And, of course, my heart beat normally the whole time I had it on, like the car that won’t make the strange noise for the mechanic when you bring it to the shop to get it fixed. Hearts are funny that way.

But getting back to my cat, what if Cleo was the last living creature I ever saw on this earth? You could do worse. I have always felt my cat and I have a rare understanding. There’s a perfect acceptance between us. I’m her favorite human and she’s my favorite cat. She absolutely adores me. Sure, you’d rather your last sight be something like your wife and children, or perhaps a beautiful vista, or a painting you love, a rare astronomical occurrence, the second coming of Christ, the Cubs clinching the World Series, a Pamela Anderson video explaining string theory, or Britney Spears and Paris Hilton mud wrestling just below the balcony of your Tahitian bungalow. But seeing your faithful kitty asking for a little scratch behind her ears just before you kick off isn’t so bad. Not really.

I have no idea what my last words might have been; certainly they were said the night before. Probably it was something banal like,“Did you turn the lights off downstairs?” or, “Make sure I don’t sleep past the alarm, okay?” Instead of heroic last words like, “I regret I have but one life to give for my country,” how many people have wound up saying stuff like, “pumpernickel,” or, “a little off the top, please,” or, “don’t worry, I already checked — it’s not loaded”? Maybe we should all come up with our last words now and rehearse them over and over, so when the big moment arrives we’re ready. I’ve always liked Sidney Carton’s “It’s a far, far better thing I do…” speech. Maybe I should come up with something like that.

Then again, I kind of like “take two and hit to right.” It’s easy to remember and very good advice.

Anyhow, I’m not dead yet. I’m feeling much better.

Alienating Autopsy

2007-03-26T05:23:00.000-07:00

Daughter Number 2 has lately been interested in medicine in general and the forensic sciences in particular; she’d like to have “doctor” somehow attached to her name, but doesn’t want the nuisance of all those darn malpractice suits, which I think is very farsighted and quite commendable. She thinks the best route to doctorhood is to learn to perform autopsies — that way, if your knife slips, it’s no big deal, the patient’s dead anyway. Makes sense to me.

She just finished a book called Tales from the Morgue, and has started another one called Stiff: The Curious Life of Cadavers. She watches Grey’s Anatomy and Scrubs religiously (because, after all, those shows do portray the medical world as it really is, and she gets valuable insight from them). The girl is firmly on track.

Last week DN2 found an actual demonstration video of an autopsy on You Tube. I won’t bother provide you with the link, but it’s easy enough to find. If you do, beware: it is unsparingly graphic. She invited me to watch it with her, which I did, and later, after having retired to bed for the night, I found myself replaying the images of it over and over in my head until about 2 AM.

The closest I had ever come to witnessing an autopsy before was the “alien autopsy” hoax several years ago, a clever bit of stagecraft where “doctors” delicately cut slices into a latex alien. Silly me, I thought all autopsies went that way, with a snip-snip here and a snip-snip there, followed by a prissy little peek inside.

It turns out autopsy doctors are butchers, and have less reverence for a human corpse than your dad did for the Thanksgiving turkey. The video shows a woman somewhere in her twenties stretched naked on her back on a table. Flimsy pieces of linen cover her crotch and face. For a corpse, she looks pretty good: she obviously worked out, has nice abs, and even shows bikini tan lines. Were it not for the fact she’s dead, I suppose you could pronounce her a healthy specimen. Doctor A deftly cuts a V shape into her chest going from shoulder to shoulder with the point between her breasts (keeping the neck in good shape for the wake), and then a straight line from the bottom of the V down to her crotch. Slashing at fat and muscle with his sharp knife, he quickly peels the woman’s torso and midsection apart like skinning an animal, exposing everything within. A mild stir occurs among the staff when it’s discovered the woman has breast implants; somehow they missed the little scars below her breasts that should have tipped them off. Doctor B extracts one and holds it up to the camera. A surprise in every pack.

I will end my description here, except to mention that as they ran roughshod through her innards and unceremoniously cut out all those vital organs which, until the day before yesterday, thousands of dollars and scores of medical personnel would have been dedicated to saving so long as life animated that poor young woman’s body, I felt like shouting, “Watch it!,” or, “Be careful with that!,” or, “That’s a heart, for Christ’s sake!,” or, “She needs those lungs to breathe! Put them back in and sew them up right!”

Call me squeamish, but the sight of a deceased human body, an empty vessel with all the lights turned out, is still disquieting to me. I made it a point not to go to Body Worlds at the Museum of Science when it came here, and would never dream of watching any of those Faces of Death videos. I don’t care much for reminders of my own mortality, even though death fascinates me just as much as the next guy. I guess I’m in a constant state of denial. I know someday I will end this earthly existence, but I refuse to allow it to sink in, and who knows what will happen afterward anyway? Shakespeare calls it the undiscovered country. Do we really have souls? Is there an afterlife? Or is it as the TIME Magazine article on consciousness suggests, that we are just tissue and chemical and nothing more, mere robots reacting to stimuli, no consciousness, no true self, and when we stop, we really and truly stop?

Those autopsy doctors know the cadaver they carve up is like a doorpost or a discarded tire or last week’s losing lottery ticket decomposing in a mud puddle. When you die, your body is a stone, a plastic fruit, an old chair, a rusting lawn mower that won’t run anymore. My delicacy of feeling is a joke. When life leaves, what remains behind is a husk, a relic, nothing more. They know all of this.

Here’s something about me I’ll share: I have always had trouble with the ephemeral nature of things. I have always wanted things to stay put where they are, and am constantly dismayed when they just won’t. When I was very small, a friend of my parents’ came to visit us one day and gave me a little toy truck. I thanked him and, for a moment, treasured the gift. Then it occurred to me how easy it was for him to give up this splendid, brightly-colored piece of molded plastic, like it was nothing at all — the answer, of course, was that he was a grown-up, and grown-ups don’t go for little toy trucks. It took no great mental leap to realize that I, too, would someday be a grown-up, and find such things as toy trucks of no importance or amusement. Sobered by the thought, the toy instantly lost all value.

Nothing can be more ephemeral than life. By its very definition, life is not lasting. We talk about shelf lives, or what is the life expectancy of this or that. We are slaves to change and entropy. You’re born, you live, you die. Da da-da da-dum. Some philosophers believe the perfect life is to never have lived at all, and, failing that, it is better to die young. After all, Schopenhauer informs us that life is nothing but struggle and ennui anyway; our only option is to make the best of it, and our only purpose is to propagate the species and not miss our cue to exit the stage when the time comes.

Mama mia.

Yes, life is short. Life is what you make of it. You only live once, you know, and when you do, you live and learn. That’s life, after all.

Someday I’ll die. Someday, maybe, I’ll be stretched out on the autopsy table, surrounded by Doctor A with his scalpel, Doctor B with his rib-cutter, and Doctor C with her electric saw. But I hope when Doctor A pulls my flesh apart, he’ll know he’s drawing aside the curtain to a great theatrical production where all the actors had toiled in unison for many years and played their parts well; the play being over, the actors are finally at rest. I hope when Doctor B extracts my heart, he’ll know it beat once, sedately in calm moments, as it did in countless hours of meditation and study and reflection, and rapidly in excitement, such as during the birth of my kids, or when events of great personal importance occurred. When Doctor C lifts my brain out of its case, I hope she realizes what epic tales of turmoil and love and revelation went on in there, the things it experienced, the dreams it dreamt, the thoughts it formed, expressed and unexpressed; lifeless now, it rests inertly in her hands like a tiny, sleeping infant.

At least, this is what I hope.

Emptying Out the Dustbin of My Mind

2007-03-15T10:42:00.001-07:00

Howdy folks, sorry I went away for a little while, but I’ve got an excuse. Does anybody remember when President Clinton announced the internet as the “Information Superhighway?” That was back in 1990-something-or-other, not very long after his vice president invented it. Well, crazy as it sounds, it really is a superhighway, and while driving on it a few weeks back I missed my exit because I was paying more attention to the audiobook I was listening to than to where I was going. Has that ever happened to you? So anyway, I finally realize my mistake about 100 miles too late and take the next available exit, only it dumps me off in this really weird town populated by bloggers with names that kind of sound familiar but not quite right, like trinkamick, condom-squeegee, njpinta, Skott, and other blogger names you ought to know. So I stop off at this diner to grab a bite to eat and ask the locals how to get back on the internet-interstate when this one guy sitting on a stool near me yells out, “Schpreck!” and then everyone else joins in on a chorus of “Schpreck!” like they used to do with Norm on that old sitcom, Cheers. So I tell them, “I’m not Schpreck, I’m Schprock,” and they’re all, “aw, come on, Schpreck, you tried that last week,” and I’m all, “no, really, my name is Schprock, not Schpreck,” and then I start to wonder if this is some kind of weird, bizarro-world, parallel-universe thing, and then they, um . . . they . . . they . . . you aren’t buying any of this, are you?

Hmmmm.

Okay, moving right along…

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Why don’t we call countries by the names their inhabitants use? Seriously. How did we ever come up with “Germany,” when everyone in Germany calls their country “Deutschland”? The two aren’t even close.

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Speaking of things German, ever notice you never meet anyone named “Hitler”? Did everybody named Hitler change their name to avoid association with the guy? Good thing he wasn’t Adolph Schmidt.

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Lou Gehrig is another German name — which, I might add, is not terribly common. So consider the freakish coincidence of someone famous named Lou Gehrig actually contracting Lou Gehrig’s Disease. What were the odds? That’s nearly as weird as all those legionnaires coming down with Legionnaire’s Disease.

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Guys, do you get a lot of “male enhancement” and viagra spam email? Pretty frustrating, right? Now imagine they’ve all been forwarded to you from your wife. Not that that’s the case with me, of course…

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I think physicists everywhere are thankful it was only an apple that fell on Sir Isaac Newton’s head, and not a 50 pound cinderblock.

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If whoever said “Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it” is right, then I’ll take ginkgo biloba till my last dying breath just to remember the Disco Era and the brutal devastation it wrought upon this country.

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If I were to choose a religion, I think I’d pick Greek or Roman mythology. Those were some interesting gods, weren’t they? Jealousy, intrigue, politics, power plays, sex, scandal, betrayal . . . Mount Olympus was like a Spanish novela. No offense to Buddha or Mohammed or Jesus or anybody, but a bible that reads like a supermarket tabloid sure beats the hell out of what Pastor Malmberg used to put me to sleep with every Sunday morning.

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Wouldn’t you like to see Jimmy Carter work a little Camp David magic on Rosie O’Donnell and Donald Trump? What is it with those two? Maybe he can convince Rosie to lighten up a bit, and talk The Donald into releasing that poor chinchilla from his head.

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Do Christian athletes really think God cares who wins a big play-off game?

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Lately, Daughter Number 2 and I have been doing this little routine around the house where one of us will greet the other by saying, “What up, my nigga?” or “What’s happenin’, negro?” or “Are you gonna be my negro, or are you gonna be my nigga?” (all gotten from movies). Now, DN2 and I are white, and we know we can only say stuff like that (which is meant strictly in fun) around the house. Trying that on a city bus probably wouldn’t go over too well, because, technically, words like “nigga” and “negro” can only be said by black people without being offensive. So here’s the question: what “racial slurs” can’t black people say to white people? Because everything sounds funny and, therefore, inoffensive. Whitey? Vanilla-face? Honky? Cracker? For some reason, I think a good name for white people ought to be “starbucks.” White people should address each other by saying, “Hey, starbucks, that’s so Disney,” or “Yo, starbucks, slip me some Velveeta,” or “Check out starbucks over there — the brother cleared the curb in one jump.”

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Speaking of sensitivity to ethnic differences, some of my best friends are Sino-Tibetan Tibeto-Burman ethno linguistic albino yak-trading mountain people, and I’ll thank you to watch your comments about them.

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A brainteaser a 10-year-old I know figured out in under 15 minutes:

“On a wall are 3 standard on/off switches. One (and only one) controls a light bulb inside a light-tight, well-insulated closet. The other two switches do nothing. You can only open the closet door once, and cannot touch/change any switches after the door is open (or re-closed, for that matter). Damaging or disassembling the door, walls, or switches is against the rules.

“Within these constraints, can you determine with certainty which switch controls the light bulb?”

Can you do it? Write your answer in the comment section and tell me how long it took you to figure it out.

For those who give up, here’s the answer.

Vanity Fair

2007-02-25T09:04:00.001-08:00

I am a constant, though somewhat plodding, reader. Although not a voracious reader, in that I do not consume with my eyes so many thousands of words per week the way a champion cyclist might pedal so many hundreds of miles in the same space of time, still I always have a book sitting on my night table with a bookmark in it to indicate my progress, and I apply myself to that book as steadily as I can. Sometimes it takes me a month or more to read a volume, as most weekdays my reading is usually confined to bedtime. Books containing seven or eight hundred pages set in small type typically take me a long, long time to get through. I try to read carefully and almost always have a dictionary nearby; I even look up words I know the meanings of just to satisfy some question of nuance or derivation. Of the many joys I get from reading, no feature of it pleases me more than the fact that you’re never up against a clock.

I think the chief reason for why I write is to make me a better reader. Nothing can be more satisfying than to read a book with an eye toward what problems the author sets up for himself and to see how he goes about solving them. I particularly enjoy observing writing styles that, in some cases, feature unusual sentence constructions or, in others, an erratic unfolding of plot. Anybody can read a story for the story’s sake and derive great satisfaction from it, just like someone who has never played football can thoroughly enjoy watching a game on television. However, in the latter case, doesn’t it stand to reason that, for someone who has played the game, or even coached it, and who has a deeper understanding of it, the game must hold more? Having an insight into the athleticism involved, the sacrifices players make to reach that level, an appreciation of the punishment they take, of the finesse and brutality found in each contest, the strategy, working the clock, gamesmanship, the intangibles, and all of that which are lost on guys like me who have never studied a playbook or strapped on shoulder pads, must make the experience of watching a game richer. They enjoy it on a deeper and more meaningful level. So, I suggest, the amateur who writes gives himself an advantage in reading others may not have.

I like to use a bookrest when I read. The one I use, which I’ve had for more than ten years now, is of the simplest design, yet better than any other bookrest I’ve seen. It is made of strong wire, folds flat in three pieces, and holds any size book (not all bookrests do). It can accommodate the skinniest paperback on up to the thickest metropolitan phonebook. I attach two large, black metal clips to either side of the book to keep the volume as open and flat as it can and with the pages spread to their utmost. My favorite thing to do is to go alone to a diner and set my book up on the table to read while eating my meal and drinking my coffee afterward. At home, after dinner, I often sit at the dining room table with my java and follow the same procedure. There’s this one restaurant I have breakfast at nearly every Saturday morning, and I suspect I must be regarded as quite a character there, as I invariably order the same thing and religiously follow my ritual of setting up the bookrest and reading for an hour or more. They probably have a name for me, like The Bookworm or something. And, to complete my eccentric mien, I always ride there on my bike, which means I wear the stretchy black tights as I sit munching on a cheese omelet with eyes fastened to my book. However, as strange as I might appear, it happens from time to time that people come up and ask me where I got the bookrest and compliment me on my reading apparatus; so, even if I appear odd, at least I’m approachable.

The book in my bookrest right now is Vanity Fair, by William Makepeace Thackeray. I read it before roughly twenty years ago, and, although I’ve forgotten much of it, I’ve never forgotten the character of Becky Sharp, one of the most captivating characters in literature. She’s a scheming, dissembling minx who you can’t help but to like. For the past half year or so I’ve been stuck on Charles Dickens, Anthony Trollope, and now Thackeray, a group who I consider a set, like I used to consider the movie actors Dustin Hoffman, Robert DeNiro and Al Pacino a set back in the seventies (now that they’re older they don’t seem so anymore). Dickens is the sentimental one, Trollope the amiable one, and Thackeray the witty one. I really endorse this book and encourage everyone to read it. It’s one of those rare books where the author is omniscient, yet reveals himself to reader, like the puppet master exposing himself to the audience during a performance. Thackeray pulls that off brilliantly. It is a masterpiece. Anyone who’s read Vanity Fair knows what I’m talking about.

Monkey Business

2007-02-23T12:10:00.000-08:00

A story making headlines right now is the account of chimpanzees observed to sharpen sticks and using them to spear small, lemur-like creatures for food. Doesn’t it send chills down your spine to hear of this advance, not unlike the first time you viewed our ape ancestors getting the idea to use bones as weapons at the beginning of 2001: A Space Odyssey? The research team, headed by Iowa State University anthropology professor Jill Pruetz, made this discovery between March 2005 to July 2006 in Fongoli, Senegal. Isn’t it funny how discoverers are often congratulated for what they discover, as if (using the present instance) the fact that some chimps are smart enough to sharpen sticks stands as a reflection on themselves? Of course, recognizing the importance of what you see is what makes discovery a laudable thing; and, I suppose, to actually go looking for something and finding it, instead of stumbling upon it, must make it especially fine indeed . . . or does it?

With all this in mind, I recently set up a hidden observation post in my kitchen to test my hypothesis that hungry teenagers, when left on their own and having no money to order pizza, will find a way to feed themselves using what’s available. The two subjects were Daughter Number 1 (19 years old) and Daughter Number 2 (16 years old).

Scanning my notes, here, in brief, are my findings:

8:03 PM: DN1 enters holding stomach, an evident sign of hunger. Attempts to open refrigerator door with teeth. Fails and leaves.

8:32 PM: DN1 and DN2 enter. DN1 shows DN2 refrigerator. Attempts by DN2 to open refrigerator by butting door with head ultimately fail. Finally, DN1 uses her hands and succeeds in pulling the door open.

Skimming ahead, we find both subjects eventually come into possession of a jar of Prego spaghetti sauce, a box of vermicelli, and a cooking pot.

9:52 PM: DN1 fills pot with water and sets on stove. Both subjects watch the pot intently.

10:21 PM: DN2 indicates to DN1 that heat must be applied to boil the water. Both subjects turn their attention to the knobs at the top of the stove.

10:22 PM: DN1, by twisting the knobs, causes fire to appear in one burner. Both subjects scurry in fright to far side of kitchen.

10:23 PM: DN2 sets pot on top of the gas flame.

Skimming still further ahead, we find that both subjects, by working together, boiled the spaghetti, drained the water, separated it out onto two plates, and poured sauce onto each mound, all very complex tasks. But what follows is something no teenager has ever been recorded to do:

11:10 PM: DN1 places dirty plate into dishwasher.

There, my discovery — and completely unlooked for! A teenager actually attempting to clean up after herself! This, I suggest, is extremely rare, and to actually have the event witnessed and recorded is unprecedented!

Please look for the full article to appear soon in the scientific journal Nature.

It’s Nap Time

2007-02-20T13:35:00.001-08:00

Last week’s big news story (for me, anyway) was about how on-the-job naps are healthy for you — in fact, according to one Greek study, naps in the workplace might even help your heart by reducing stress. Why hadn’t anyone thought of this before, a midday nap? What a concept! I’m trying to come up with a name for it. Let me see, let me see . . . you sort of “sequester” yourself when you take these naps, so possibly we can base this new word on “sequester” . . . only I don’t like “quest” being in there, it‘s too active; maybe if we were to mute that down a little, we could get something like “see-ester.” And then, being from Boston, I’d like to show my hometown spirit by accenting it to “see-estah.” There! What do you think? I like it. It’s a work in progress — your suggestions are welcome.

I have long believed in the five minute, afternoon catnap. Less than five minutes is not long enough, yet anything longer than five minutes can zonk you out for the rest of the day. My batteries tend to run low somewhere between 1:30 and 3:00 in the afternoon. If I get so tired I need to use one hand to hold my eyelids up, what I typically do is close the door to my office, lay down on my back on the carpet, rest my head on my hands with fingers interlaced, and drift off into a shallow snooze until I’m awakened by my own snort. I stay there for another thirty seconds for the cobwebs to clear, and then I uncertainly get back on my feet like a newborn colt first struggling to stand. Before you know it, I’m back at it, refreshed and ready to attack the rest of the day.

How do you view napping at work? Is it okay, or do you hold fast to the old school, American work ethic and think it’s wrong as sin? Is it better hazy than lazy with you? Do you think snooze eventually leads to booze? Should it be forty hours, not forty winks? Or is there something to this nap business? Do you, in fact, nap yourself? Confess! Confess!

Accountants I Have Known

2007-02-12T18:29:00.000-08:00

In the beginning, there was just me. I know it was just me, because “me” was all I could claim when I filled out my federal and state income tax forms. My strong suit was never math, but I could, if I tried hard enough, follow a simple set of instructions. All I needed was a pencil, an eraser, a W-2 form, the blank income tax forms, and those instructions which took me through the whole process step by step. Nothing fancy — which was the way it had to be, for fancy would have surely undone me.

I put the task off each year, sometimes right to the very brink. I can vividly recall one April 15th when I found myself at the post office near midnight finishing up my forms while anxiously stealing glances at a wall clock whose minute hand seemed to move like a propeller. I have no idea why I hated doing my taxes so much, because I always received money back from the government. I suppose I equated it with homework, that laborious affliction that had dogged me for most of my young existence. But I always got the job done.

When I married, there was just me and her. I know it was just me and her, because “me” and “her” were all I could claim at tax time. My wife and I didn’t own anything and there were no little Schprocks to deduct, so my time-honored method of following instructions with a number 2 pencil still held. However, time gradually brought changes, and eventually Daughter Number 1 came along, followed by a condo and a house, and then Daughter Number 2 made her appearance, and finally the missus decided it was time I ceded my job of filling out tax forms to someone who actually knew what he was doing.

Our first accountant was a young guy who advertised his services by stapling flyers to telephone poles with a row of contact information tags at their bottoms. He was a chubby fellow with closely cropped, curly blonde hair and wore tiny, steel-rimmed eyeglasses. He came to our house, accepted all our tax information, asked us a few questions in his most businesslike manner, and then we didn’t see or hear from him again for a month and a half, dangerously close to the filing deadline. We received money back that year, but my wife, who has a nose for money, instinctively knew we could have done better.

A friend of ours recommended a woman she had used for a number of years, so we gave her a try the next time. On the day of our appointment, we loaded both the kids into our station wagon and drove to her house, which was not particularly easy to find. The woman, whose name was Nora, lived in a two-family house with her young son and husband, the latter a Russian immigrant. I rang the bell and immediately heard the vicious barking of a large dog. The door opened and a gigantic german shepherd with glaring, satanic eyes leapt onto the glass of the storm door a perfect picture of rage, its face pressed against the pane in profile, snarling murder and slavering all over the glass. Presently a rotund, bespectacled woman in her thirties grabbed the beast by its collar and dragged it growling and snapping away from the door. From somewhere within we heard a door slam and Nora returned to admit us into her house.

Nora was a genial person. She had the four of us sit in a row on the couch in her living room while she mannishly plopped herself down on the coffee table in front of us, legs apart and forearms resting on thighs like a coach giving a low-key locker room talk to his team. We gave her all our documents and she went through everything on the spot, asking us questions and afterward handing back what she didn’t need. Nora had a bustling air but was in no apparent hurry to usher us out; she liked to talk and kept us there chatting for quite a while. I particularly remember a large aquarium nearby filled with beautiful tropical fish that constantly drew my attention and made it hard for me to focus on what she said. In the end, we decided we liked her and used her for some eight or nine years.

One year, the missus and I arrived for our appointment and, after going through the usual preliminaries with the german shepherd (a different, younger one, but just as menacing; the old one had died), we sat down with Nora in our accustomed way, with us on the couch and her on the coffee table. However, this year was different: she quickly informed us that her husband had left her, leaving her alone with her son and baby daughter. Now, we had seen Nora every year during tax time and had struck an easy friendship with her, but we were by no means intimate and never intended to be. However, despite this footing of light familiarity, she took us through the whole thing, how he had evidently married her only to secure his legal status in this country and had secretly taken up with a female office coworker; how he had practically disowned his children and, in the months leading up to his desertion, rarely had sex with her. It was uncomfortable in a rather juicy way, and the missus and I made all the correct disapproving sounds at the right times. Our tax consultation was more incidental than anything else during that meeting, and we eventually left with our minds reeling over this bizarre intelligence.

A couple of weeks later Nora mailed to us our tax forms. For the first time ever, we actually owed the government money.

We paid her bill, and then the missus tried another accountant recommended by the same friend who had put us on to Nora (this friend had given Nora up the year before). Just my wife went — I didn’t have a chance to attend this meeting. Incredibly, using the same facts and figures Nora had, the new guy managed to make it all work out so we received money back — I think it had something to do with repairs done to our gutters and a little known tax loophole. Whatever the case, we were naturally quite pleased, and were understandably disappointed the following year when we learned he had given up doing taxes altogether.

Another friend of my wife’s told us about her accountant whom she absolutely swore by: Bob. The missus made the appointment and we went to meet Bob at his house one chilly, clear Sunday morning.

Bob, who is white, lived, as he does now, in a rundown, gritty, minority section of Boston. It is an area of the city that makes a caucasian visitor keenly aware of the paleness of his skin, and forces on him the unaccustomed sensation of being a minority himself. His apartment occupied the bottom floor of a triple-decker whose exterior sported dirty vinyl siding of indeterminate color and blistering paint on its trim. To the right of the door were three mailboxes for each of the units with corresponding buzzer buttons below each one. Taped to Bob’s mailbox was his business card, which informed the reader that Bob was an attorney-at-law, a tax consultant, and justice of the peace.

After repeatedly pressing the buzzer and hammering at the door for several minutes, Bob appeared. Small in stature, gnomish in face, dressed in a navy V-necked sweater with white shirt collar and tie, along with brown slacks a quarter-inch too short and sneakers, Bob was one of those people who could be any age. Convincing arguments could be made for him being thirty or fifty. His style of hair, clothing and eyeglasses suited 1983 just as well as 2003. He welcomed us in, conducted us through a small hallway choked with piles of cardboard boxes that climbed the walls at either side, and had us sit in his waiting room while he returned to a client in the room next door.

The waiting room was furnished with unmatched armchairs and a sofa possibly rescued from the curb on trash day; there were a couple of battered, gunmetal grey filing cabinets on one wall, and a small black and white portable TV played a morning news program at a volume several decibels higher than what is comfortable. There were out-of-date magazines spread on a low table bearing mailing labels not addressed to him. The room hadn’t been vacuumed or dusted for a long time. We seated ourselves and patiently watched TV.

Finally Bob was ready for us. He led us into his office which had, in every available corner and nook, more stacks of cardboard boxes crammed with documents. Although not trained as an archaeologist, I nevertheless made the natural assumption that the ones nearest to the top were the most recent, and those boxes at bottom that provided the foundation for these freeform structures which rambled throughout his apartment represented another era. Conceivably, Jimmy Hoffa could have been segmented out into several of those bottom boxes, or perhaps an early draft of the Mayflower Compact was in one. Bob bade us sit in two low chairs placed before a monstrous, battered, ancient oak desk. He stepped around this desk and seated himself in a high-backed office armchair that made him look even more diminutive than he already was. Before him sat an enormous, putty-colored computer monitor. The surface of his desk was a wilderness of clutter: stacks of papers, sorting trays, paperweights, a lamp, a stapler, a three-hole punch and so on. The only clear area was the part immediately around his mouse pad.

There are some people who can, either through sheer force of their personalities or by the way they carry themselves, improve things without altering. They can make cheap, commonplace gadgets seem like fine instruments in their hands, or can impart dignity to squalor with the healing essence of their being. They can appear stately while wearing a rough burlap sack with three holes poked out for two arms and a head, and an old rope tied around their waists for a belt. They can look commanding while seated in a broken-down old buggy drawn by a broken-down old donkey. These rare people can rise above their situations; or, more accurately, they can raise up their situations through their mere presence. Bob was such a person. In his hands, the antique computer became a machine of infinite capacity, and his desk a veritable command center. Bob’s chair was a throne and Bob himself a sultan, ruler of all he surveyed. We instantly knew without being told that when Bob was silent we shouldn’t speak, and when Bob asked questions in his staccato way, we needed to look sharp and answer those questions directly. He was bossy, yet not off-putting. Everything he said was said with conviction and a true note of authority. Here was an accountant, we saw. Here was a man.

Bob’s style was to actually fill out the various tax forms on his computer while we sat there, so we were asked many questions while he tapped away at the keyboard and were required to produce more documents than we had; in the end, a second visit was necessitated to provide him with what was missing. Here were his rules for contacting him: the best times to call were roughly from 3:00 in the afternoon until 5:30, but there was no guarantee he’d pick up the phone if he was busy with a client . . . and it made no sense to leave a voicemail because he wouldn’t listen to it; voicemail was only there to let people know he was still breathing. We shouldn’t send him a fax either, because chances were good he’d never get around to reading it or processing it. Mailing him was even riskier than faxing. You had to actually catch him and hand things to him personally. No other way worked.

So from that day to this I have been in the habit of going directly to Bob’s house to transact any business with him, because whenever I call him, he never picks up the phone. Never. And I will tell you from where the patience to do this springs: Bob delivers. Big time. In the last four years we have had him prepare our taxes, Bob has gotten us oodles of money back. He finds the right forms, he keys in the right numbers, and we enjoy the largesse of the United States government. Last year in particular we got a bundle back from Uncle Sam. So Bob is our man.

Last Saturday I cycled over to Bob’s house to make our appointment for this Sunday morning. He looks the same as ever, just as I suspect he will twenty years from now. We’ll endure the clutter, the loud TV and his sometimes abrasive manner, because we know he will come through. There’s God, there’s family, there’s country, and then there’s Bob. God bless Bob.

This Does Not Compute

2007-02-10T16:41:00.001-08:00

I just got done reading a TIME article on the human brain entitled, “What Is Consciousness?” It turns out we’re robots after all. Who’da thunk it? There is no dichotomy of “mind” and “brain,” but simply “brain.” Spirituality, the afterlife, a soul, all that ethereal stuff is merely wishful thinking (scientists can actually replicate a near-death experience; the blue light at the end of the tunnel has a switch). Free will? We react to stimuli. All poetry, art and inspired thought comes down to a matter of chemicals and tissue. So hand me a tissue.

The next time I get in trouble, I’m going to blame my big dumb brain. It wasn’t me, it was the freaking neurons. Those little guys have been flying around in there like crazy lately. Officer, I couldn’t help speeding, the neurons drove me to it. Honey, I’m sorry I blew the mortgage payment at the track. Love me, hate my neurons. Boss, you’re right, I shouldn’t show up three hours late in a drunken stupor. Can you somehow convince my brain of that? Because it sure as hell won’t listen to me.

Here’s my favorite paragraph from the article:

“Another startling conclusion from the science of consciousness is that the intuitive feeling we have that there’s an executive ‘I’ that sits in a control room of our brain, scanning the screens of the senses and pushing the buttons of the muscles, is an illusion. Consciousness turns out to consist of a maelstrom of events distributed across the brain. These events compete for attention, and as one process outshouts the others, the brain rationalizes the outcome after the fact and concocts the impression that a single self was in charge all along.”

In other words, my brain is a little like Alexander Haig. There’s a cheerful thought.

Let me quote another paragraph that didn’t appear in TIME:

“What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals!”

Must have been a hell of a robot who wrote that one.

Terror Strikes Beantown

2007-02-01T13:27:00.000-08:00

Today’s Terror Warning Level: Mauve

As most of you probably know, Boston was recently terrorized by a little character named Err from the Adult Swim cartoon show Aqua Teen Hunger Force. For many residents, this event brings back harrowing, barely-repressed memories of the time when Magilla Gorilla climbed the statehouse dome and flung bananas down at the mayor back in 1968, or that other incident in the late eighties when Master Splinter and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles held the city under siege until the pizza shops agreed to stop offering anchovies as a topping. The citizens of Boston have certainly endured more than their share of terrorism over the years.

As a public service, The Schprock Report offers this brief list Bostonians can keep handy to help us battle the terrorist threat together.

• Know the difference between a terrorist cell and a terrorist cel.
• Report any unattended Happy Meals you may see, especially near bridges, LNG containers and swing sets.
• Recognize the many shapes WMDs can take, from oversized mallets to exploding cigars.
• Most followers of Islam are our friends and pose no threat whatsoever, but watch out for obvious giveaways like guys named Ali Al-Badguy McKillsalot.
• If you’re in a crowded marketplace and someone yells, “Ah-bee ah-bee ah-bee ah — that’s all folks!,” run like the hell.

• How did Jonny Quest’s dad, Dr. Benton Quest, come to adopt Hadji anyway? Did “Race” Bannon even look into that? Is Hadji really in this country legally? (Editor’s note: not knowing an old cartoon can cost you your life.)
• Vigilantism is no answer; law enforcement should be left to trained professionals, not amateurs. For more information, please visit justiceleagueofamerica.org.
• Report any coyote you spot carrying a wooden crate marked “ACME” with a long fuse trailing from it.

The Schprock Report invites all readers to add their potentially life-saving tips to this list in the blog’s comment section. Thank you in advance for your help.

The Love Boat

2007-01-31T10:15:00.000-08:00

A month ago the family and I joined two other families on a Caribbean cruise. I had never been on a cruise before (although I’ve read about them and, of course, watched The Love Boat when I was a mere child), but have always wanted to experience what it’s like. Well, it was loads of fun and I ate too much food! The kids had a ball and the older folks had a great time as well. Here’s a few pics:

The missus and I on Deck 4.

Here we are in our tiny stateroom that managed to house the four of us comfortably.

The three daddies on New Years Eve.

Mr. and Mrs. Schprock on New Years Eve.

Daughter Number 1 looking slightly demented.

Daughter Number 2 looking quite demented.

The Schprock family in front of the Atlantis Hotel in Nassau.

DN1 and DN2.

DN1 with some Latin singer heartthrob I never heard of before.

The missus and DN1 in Key West.

Exploring My Feminine Side

2007-01-26T13:08:00.000-08:00

The other day, as an experiment, I thought I’d stop repressing my feminine side for 24 hours and actually let it call the shots. All my life my masculine side has had its way, so, in the interest of fairness, I decided the considerate thing to do was to give my feminine side its one day in the sun. Why the hell not, right? Read on, gentlemen, and as you do, I ask you to think twice before trying such a thing yourself.

When I woke up that morning, my feminine side inspected my face in the bathroom mirror and decided it didn’t like those bags under my eyes, so it obsessed about them for 10 minutes while I argued my eyes looked just fine. Finally, my feminine side declared it didn’t care any longer, and people would just have to love me for my mind instead, which sounded all right to me. Then I changed into my cycling clothes (I commute to work by bike every day), which meant I put on a pair of those black, stretchy tights used for the cold weather. My feminine side insisted I review myself before a full length mirror before I left the house looking that way. I said it didn’t matter, because that was what I was going to wear, like it or not, but my feminine side insisted. So I walked into my daughter’s room and let my feminine side have a good look at myself in her mirror. My feminine side wondered if the tights made me look fat. I said, “Fat! I’m skinny as a rail!” “Really?” asked my feminine side, suddenly sounding rather pleased. “Do you think so?” “Oh, for Christ’s sake, let’s get out of here,” I said.

Of course, I couldn’t leave without going to the bathroom one last time, because my feminine side didn’t want to get caught outside and suddenly have to go pee without a restroom handy. Eventually I hopped on my bike and pedaled into work.

Arriving, I showered and changed into my work clothes. My feminine side wondered if I had ever heard of an iron, and who picked my wardrobe out for me anyway, Stevie Wonder? I said, very funny, and thanked it for not asking why I don’t use conditioner. Then I went to my office and my feminine side asked how could I work in such clutter and hadn’t I heard of feng shui? I said, no, but I’ve heard of wang chung, and my feminine side said it didn’t get it and wondered if that was supposed to be a joke. Then Fred, one of my coworkers, came by, and we talked about football and women for a half an hour while my feminine side just listened and clucked its tongue every now and again.

When Fred left, my feminine side asked, “Is he a friend of yours?”

“You know he is,” I said. “We hang out at work all the time.”

“And you think all those horrible things he says about women are true?”

“Feminine Side, I’ll only say this: Fred wishes all those horrible things he says about women are true.”

“Men!” said my feminine side.

At lunchtime, my feminine side refused to go along with my desire for a brontosaurus burger with curly fries and a chocolate shake. Instead, I wound up going to that new vegetarian restaurant, Green Cuisine, and ordered the salad bar with a bottle of designer water. “Bean sprouts!” I said disgustedly as I moved through the line. “Pea pods!” “Yummy!” said my feminine side. “And don’t forget the fat free dressing.”

That afternoon, my feminine side begged me to ask another coworker of mine, Betty, what that captivating scent was she was wearing. “Aw, come on,” I said, “I feel stupid asking that.” But my feminine side really wanted to know because it smelled just heavenly; so, of course, I had to do it.

“Betty,” I said, “what is that captivating scent you’re wearing?”

Betty gave me a strange look. “Why do you care?”

“Um, I might get it for my wife.”

“It’s Bootylicious, by L’Oreal,” she said.

“Oh, Bootylicious, huh? Sounds trés chic. Um, wait a minute, hold on a sec. Does that skirt you’re wearing come in hunter green?”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, and who makes that lip gloss you’re wearing?”

“Schprock,” said Betty, looking annoyed, “I’ve got work to do.”

“Sure, Betty,” I said, letting her pass. Then, as she quickly walked down the corridor away from me, I called out, “Love your shoes!”

After work, I stopped by Blockbuster to rent some DVDs. As I headed straight for Rambo 13: No Real Reason, Just Because and Jackass: The Director’s Cut, my feminine side stopped me cold. “You are not going to watch those, are you?” my feminine side asked. “Well, yeah, why? What did you have in mind?” My feminine side told me and I burst out laughing. “You can’t possibly be serious!” I managed to say through my tears. “Ha! Ha! Ha! That’s too much!”

After a minute or two, I regained my composure and asked, “Really, what should I get?” There was no response. “Feminine Side?” I asked. Nothing.

My feminine side had evidently stopped talking to me.

In the end, I left with six Julia Roberts movies and The Notebook. Later that evening, I sat down to watch the movies with my two daughters after we first talked about the boys at their schools. Still later, when I retired to bed with my wife, I asked her if maybe we should shop for some nice, silk sheets with a floral pattern that picked up on the wallpaper. Finally, mercifully, I fell asleep.

Well, I’m back to my regular self, I’m pleased to say, although I have to admit that day gave me a real education. Yep, I’m back to my good old, secure-in-my-masculinity, mild-mannered self. Only . . . a little word of advice: right around the 21st of the month, it’s probably best to step lightly around me. If you know what I mean.

Schprockie Balboa

2007-01-23T18:08:00.000-08:00

Which is that culture that believes your dead ancestors look down upon you and, through subtle means, guide you and impart their wisdom? Is it Native American? Or is there more than one culture that believes in that? Anyway, consider that at any given moment, your grandfather or great-grandfather or great-aunt on your mother’s side might be looking down at you — say, right now, for instance. Weird, huh? What I mainly want to know is, who the hell is charge of me, and is he or she really doing the job? Because I’ve done a lot of boneheaded things in my life, far too many for a supernatural agency not to notice. Where was, say, great-uncle Hjalmar when I bought that lemon-yellow Chevy Vega back in 1977, the one that kept breaking down and never ran right? I knew it was supposed to be a crappy car, but I went ahead and bought it anyway. If Uncle Hjalmar had just once told me, in a thin voice barely heard above the breeze, “No, Schprockie, no — Consumer Reports says Vegas suck,” that would have stopped me. I wouldn’t have bought that car. Of course, Uncle Hjalmar only spoke Swedish, which I don’t understand, and Uncle Hjalmar probably was never interested in Consumer Reports, even in heaven, but still, a little help, you know? Come on, ancestors, I’m dying here! And don’t just say it’s my “destiny” every time things go awry either. I’m wise to that.

Wouldn’t you like to have what Luke Skywalker had with Obi Wan Kenobi? When things start going wrong and panic sets in, right there at that critical moment a tiny, bearded, monkish specter with a shimmery, sparkly aura appears and calmly reminds you to use the Force. Of course! How stupid of me! The Force! That’s just what the situation needs! Or how about a guardian angel? A minature, white-robed, winged fellow foreseeing trouble and helping you avoid it 24/7 with no coffee break? Wouldn’t that be great?

This is who I want for my spirit guide: Mick from Rocky. Just at the moment I start to do something stupid, I want a little, wizened old guy with a hearing aid jammed into his cauliflower ear to yell out in a gravelly voice: “Schprock, you bum! Your wife don’t want no bowling ball. Get her roses, for crissake!” Or: “Goddammit, Schprock, that’s the dessert fork, not the salad fork, and you don’t drink no wine outta no straw!” Or, if he was there with me on that fateful day in 1977: “Whaddaya you think that car’s painted yeller for, Schprock? Huh? Now get over there and talk to that guy about the ’73 Pacer instead.” Boy, Mick could have sure helped me out.

Question du jour: if you had your choice, whose spirit would you like to guide you?

Big John Mooney

2007-01-21T07:44:00.000-08:00

I’ve been working for this old graphic design studio now for some twenty years and I’ve seen a lot of things. Many people have come and gone through the door, so to speak. I know an intern I used to order around who went on to become a bigwig in a prestigious Boston ad agency, and who could now buy and sell me several times over as the expression goes; and there are several others who have done very well for themselves besides. There has been gossip, drama, scandal, and all the other things you expect when you’ve been in one place for as long as I have. But for me, the most memorable character I can think of who I ever had the pleasure to work with was none other than Big John Mooney.

It was July of 1988 as I recall. One Wednesday morning our boss walked over to our section to announce he’d hired someone new. We’d gotten quite busy lately, he explained, and another hand was needed. “His name is John Mooney,” the boss said, “and he’s supposed to be the best paste-up man in the business.”

“Really? But what’s he like?” asked little Sally MacCrae, who always wanted to know everything about everybody.

“Well, this guy interviewed well and all that,” replied my boss thoughtfully. “Knows how to hold his side of the conversation, that’s for sure. His portfolio is terrific. But here’s one thing about him you’ll notice right away: he’s very large.”

“He’s . . . large?” repeated Sally.

“I believe I said ‘very large,’” corrected the boss. “Hell, you’ll find all that out on Monday. Now everyone, let’s get to work. We’ve got a catalog and two brochures to produce.”

Bringing a new person onto the staff wasn’t an everyday occurrence and this got everyone talking. Besides Sally MacCrae and myself, there was Peter Pepperton and Billy Joe Whiffle. Peter was an illustrator as well as a designer, particularly good with the airbrush, and thought that whoever this John Mooney was, he, Peter, was the indispensable one in the studio and should remain so. Billy Joe fancied himself a first-rate paste-up artist and took the boss’s claim of John Mooney being the best a bit personally. Me, I knew how to cut up a galley of type and paste it down on the board straight all right, but I made no pretensions to anything. With all the work we were getting, another pair of hands seemed welcome to me. Sally was just caught up on John Mooney being large.

“Large? Large in what way?” she wondered.

“What way are you hoping, Sally?” asked Peter Pepperton with a look that brought a blush to little Sally MacCrae’s cheeks.

The next day, which was Thursday, brought a crew of forty carpenters into our studio who marched straight in and went to work on a corner of the studio. They knocked down a wall and extended the space some twenty feet. Then they raised the ceiling by ten feet and finished the day by reinforcing the floor with three inch steel plates and widened the doorway leading into our office as they left. I can tell you it was amazing we got any work done at all with the dust they raised and the ruckus they caused. Then the day following that, an eighteen-wheeler pulled up to our building and twenty men unloaded a drafting table the size of patio deck and a swivel chair you could have parked a Volkswagen Beetle on. We four stood around and stared in wonder once everything was installed.

“I’m beginning to think I know what the boss meant by John Mooney being large,” said Billy Joe Whiffle in evident awe. Peter Pepperton let out a low whistle. I hoisted Sally MacCrae onto the chair. “You can dance on this thing!” she exclaimed from above, twirling around as she said it. “He must have an ass the size of Kansas!”

Monday couldn’t come soon enough for us. As if by mutual consent we all reported to work early so we could each witness the arrival of our new coworker. Our usual hours were from nine to five, and, as the clock ticked down to nine o’clock, we began to wonder if this could be some elaborate practical joke played on us by our boss. How ridiculously out of scale this person had to be! Surely no one of such dimensions existed. And yet, even as this doubt entered our heads, a slight tremor in the floor became detectable at precisely 8:59. Sally and I looked at each other, and then at a pencil cup nearby that made a steady progress across a table top as the vibrations, regular as footsteps, became stronger and stronger. “Holy Christ,” I heard Peter Pepperton say under his breath. “That couldn’t be . . . ?”

The door opened and first I saw an arm, followed by a foot and a leg. Then came a chest, another arm, another foot and another leg. Then a head, a prodigious head, a very manly and one might say shapely head, only several times larger than expected of a human being, came through the door. And finally, with all his parts collected in one place, there stood, or rather crouched, with his head canted to one side because the cathedral ceiling was still a bit too low for him, the estimable person of Big John Mooney.

“Holy Christ!” repeated Peter Pepperton, only much louder this time. “Sweet Jesus in heaven!”

“Um, hello…” I said, tentatively extending a hand and wondering if people that size could shake hands in any conventional way.

“Welcome,” said little Sally MacCrae, appearing very flushed in the face and sounding a bit dazed.

“Don’t kill us,” said Billy Joe Whiffle. “Please.”

At this Big John Mooney laughed with all the resonance and reverberation of a pipe organ at full volume and with every stop pulled. “Haw! Haw! Haw!” guffawed Big John Mooney, showing perfectly white, straight teeth the size of silver dollars. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” He evidently thought Billy Joe Whiffle was kidding.

I must describe for the reader what Big John Mooney looked like. He was certainly huge, bigger than any human you ever saw, but he was proportionate in his hugeness. If you saw him in a photograph with nothing in it to indicate scale, you would assume him to be a rather handsome man and nothing freakish at all. Although Sally MacCrae disagreed with me, I thought he resembled the movie actor Cary Grant in the face, only with a mustache. She thought he had a classical look, like you might see in ancient Greek or Roman statues. His arms and chest were extremely powerful, like a wrestler’s, and his thighs reminded you of mighty sequoias. He dressed very stylishly, and we later learned he employed a team of tailors to fashion a new wardrobe for him every spring and fall using equipment made especially for him. But his outstanding attribute were the many expressions the mobile features of his face could make as he spoke. He was very good with a joke or story, which he told in a sonorous voice that nearly knocked the wind out of you, and I truly believe that if his size was more in line with that of ordinary people he could have been a first rate actor. He was a presence. If Big John Mooney was in the room, he was indisputably in the room. Without a doubt Big John Mooney could make you know he was in the room.

So that was how we met. Big John Mooney was shown to his workstation and he produced from an enormous suitcase he carried a two gallon jar of rubber cement, a yard-long metal triangle, a jumbo X-acto knife and a colossal set of Rapidiographs. In his other hand he clutched a T-square twice the size of any legendary broadsword wielded by any legendary knight. He sat down in his chair, assembled his tools just so, taped an illustration board down to his table, and set to work.

I am afraid we forgot our manners that day. When a new person comes within your midst, it is customary to welcome him and make him feel at home, to glad-hand him and see he feels a part of the team, but there your solicitations and keen attentions should end to allow the new guy a chance to acclimate himself, breathe, settle in, find his rhythm, and so on. At first we tried to do just that. But there he was, filling the room in that way I’ve mentioned, already launched into his work of ruling boards (or “mechanicals” as we sometimes called them), cementing and cutting up galleys of type, sizing photos, and applying acetate overlays, all the while singing or humming or keeping a running commentary on what he was doing for anyone who would listen. One by one we carried our stools over to where he worked to stand on them to watch his progress. For so large a man he went about his business very delicately and nimbly and with absolutely no wasted movement. His two hands could operate quite independently of each other like a pianist delicately tinkling the high notes with his right hand while hammering away at the lowest bass notes with his left. All of his decisions were quick and assured. He enjoyed the attention he was getting and starting telling us stories as he worked, every now and then cracking a joke or two, or singing a snatch of an Italian aria, or throwing in some phrases of ancient Greek and Latin which, though unintelligible to us, were nice to listen to. Big John Mooney was no ordinary man — this we quickly learned.

That day the boss gave him a 120-page catalog. Now, we designers often work in spreads, or the left- and right-hand pages together as a reader would view them in an open book. If you could get six spreads laid out in a day, that was considered quite good. Eight spreads in a day was exemplary. But on this day, as we stood and watched, Big John Mooney laid out the entire catalog! I closely followed his every movement, knew exactly what he was doing, saw the logic of everything, and still could not believe the rate at which he went. He stacked one mechanical after another beside him like cordwood . . . and all the while he talked. When I say he talked, I mean he talked and talked and talked. He talked about sports and politics, science, philosophy, literature, movies, music, astrology, fashion, gossip, history, art, and everything else. No subject was dry to him. Of course he included us, it was a discussion in the dictionary sense of the word, but a discussion he directed while the boards piled higher and higher on the counter next to him. He even gave us nicknames that day. Billy Joe Whiffle became “Waffler,” Peter Pepperton “Pepsi” or “Dr. Pepper,” Sally MacCrae “Li’l Sal,” and I was dubbed “Schprockie.” I believe it was then that Billy Joe Whiffle and Peter Pepperton began to conceive a strong dislike for Big John Mooney (whom we all simply called “Mooney”), as I think they were not entirely satisfied with their new names. Sally MacCrae didn’t mind being called L’il Sal, and, having been called Schprockie all my life by many people, I took no offense . . . but, of course, I am a rather mild person and not easily offended anyway.

The boss was quite pleased by Big John Mooney’s production, and his estimation was further enhanced when he discovered Mooney could render the finest illustrations in any medium, be it pen and ink, watercolor, marker, airbrush, oil or acrylic. This was very disconcerting to Peter Pepperton, who, up until that time, considered himself (if no one else would) a prodigy when it came to that. Big John Mooney could also “hand comp” any typeface, be it Helvetica, Caslon Old Style, Times Roman, Copperplate, Garamond, or any of the others. This upset Billy Joe Whiffle, who considered imitating typefaces by hand his specialty for those times when we had to present to a client an approximation of what a brochure cover or advertisement might look like when it came to be printed. Myself, I simply enjoyed watching Mooney work and asked him many questions which he answered patiently, telling me little tips and coaching me here or there. I think Big John Mooney might have had a soft spot in his heart for me, or at least it was my conceit to think so; but whatever portion of his heart my interests might have occupied, there was another in the studio who owned a greater share of that heart, although not everyone knew it immediately.

Big John Mooney, it has been established, was very big; and it may be noted that Boston, as far as cities go, is rather small; so before too long people began to notice Big John Mooney. If he took the train into work, he would have to sit on top of it and straddle the car as it it were a horse. If he rode his giant bicycle, he would ride it on the Massachusetts Turnpike and often outpace the cars as he pedaled. Sometimes he would pack his clothes in a waterproof sack and swim the Charles River into work. When that same river froze in the winter, he skated. Wherever he went, he was sure to carry his enormous T-square, which he would clutch in his hand or slip through his belt like a sword. Walking in a crowd, he was Gulliver among the Lilliputians, and people, after having gotten over the initial shock of seeing someone of his size strolling with such an immense, shining, stainless steel T-square, whistling a tune to himself and for all the world affecting a complete unconsciousness of the stares he attracted, would call up to him and make little witticisms at his expense. Here Big John Mooney showed a particular gift for repartee, and he gave back even better than what he got, but all in good fun. This in time made him a great favorite, and everybody looked forward to the moment when Big John Mooney and his T-square would come by, already having in mind what they would say to him and wondering what pithy rejoinders their comments might earn.

I suppose it makes sense that, being a big person, he had an appetite commensurate with his tremendous bulk. This was quite true: he could really pack a meal away. Very soon after Mooney installed himself in my company, he made arrangements with the local eateries and coffee shops to provide for requirements as astronomical as they were gastronomical. On alternate mornings, Starbucks and Dunkin’ Donuts sent over cartloads of pastries and coffee served in recycled oil drums. His lunches went this way: on Mondays, Pizza Hut baked a 20 foot diameter pizza with onions, mushrooms and green peppers in a massive brick oven Big John Mooney constructed himself for their use. Tuesdays, Subway fashioned a tuna sub (with everything on it) that, when complete, stretched from Berkeley Street several blocks on down to Exeter Street. On Wednesdays, Mooney indulged in the Beijing Restaurant’s family-style bean curd served over vegetarian fried rice, cooked in a wok converted from a retired NASA satellite dish. Thursdays, Sbarros spent all morning preparing a spinach and feta cheese calzone the size of a Hummer. Mooney’s weekly lunch schedule rounded out with Friday, when Captain Joey Baggadonitz, skipper of The Rubber Ducky, sold his entire catch of fish to the Legal Seafood Restaurant, which they then deep-fried in batter and delivered to our illustrious colleague in a dump truck.

I have mentioned that Big John Mooney attracted attention — that he certainly did, but most particularly he drew the notice of the ladies. They adored him to distraction. They became giddy in his presence. They giggled and pointed and made perfect fools of themselves. They thought him the most marvelous man in all of God’s creation. In a very short time, Mooney was recognized as Boston’s most eligible bachelor. He was handsome, dressed smartly, witty and not shy. Women everywhere dreamed of being with Big John Mooney. A local television news anchorwoman, in a mad moment, once proposed marriage to him while on the air. Even the married ladies, previously contented with their lot, began to give their husbands sidelong glances and admit that, though they might walk down the aisle again with their spouses if given the chance, they still, all in all, weren’t Big John Mooney, were they? And the husbands and other men of Boston, seeing Big John Mooney stride down the sidewalk with his T-square gleaming in the sun and watching every female head swivel around in his wake like so many springtime flowers stretching themselves to the sun’s radiance, might, for a moment, stand up a little straighter, or possibly puff their chests out a bit more, or suck in their stomachs, or hold their chins a little higher, and think maybe they had something to offer too; but ultimately they saw the futility of matching themselves up against such a man. Shoulders slumped, chests caved in and eyes fell to the ground. Whatever these poor mortals might do in life, however grand their achievements or whatever mark they might leave on this world, none of them could ever ever ever be Big John Mooney. It was lunacy even to try.

Well, things changed in the studio. After a few months Big John Mooney became the “go-to guy,” and it developed that everyone else’s new job was to simply keep the go-to guy going. Peter Pepperton was told to stop doing illustrations and design layouts in order to maintain Mooney’s airbrush and compressor, Rapidiographs, watercolor brushes and other art implements. Billy Joe Whiffle ceased his production work and spent his time refilling Mooney’s rubber cement jar (which frequently ran low) and kept the supplies from running out. I cut up the illustration boards for Big John Mooney and applied tissue overlays on them to protect his fine handiwork when he was through. Sally MacCrae mainly answered the phones (half the calls were for Mooney) and did what she could to keep his vast workstation neat. Our relationship to Big John Mooney soon became roughly that of pit crew to race car driver.

Peter Pepperton and Billy Joe Whiffle bore their new duties with black looks and insolent replies to anything asked of them. They began to whisper between themselves in a conspiratorial fashion and cast baleful looks at the rest of us, having already decided that Sally MacCrae and I were satisfied with the new order and therefore not privy to their opinions. The truth was, I felt my talents were being somewhat wasted too; but observing Big John Mooney at work was an education I wouldn’t have missed for the world. I suppose I idolized him. Not only was he the best designer I had ever seen, I had never been exposed to anyone half so witty and well-read and charming as he. It was no wonder to me why Mooney was so popular, and why his pictures frequently appeared in The Boston Herald or The Boston Globe, such as the one with the mayor standing smiling next to his belt buckle, or the snapshot of the senate president seated smugly beside Mooney’s left knee, or the photo of him with Tori Steele, the weeknight anchorwoman of FOX 25 News at Ten, with her arm wrapped proudly around his little finger. Sally MacCrae, I could tell, worshiped Big John Mooney. I think she even spruced up her appearance for the big guy. I always thought Sally was pretty, but lately I noticed her hair was styled just a little nicer than previously and she wore slightly more make-up than before. Certainly she had a special way with Big John Mooney. No one could make him laugh more than her.

One day Peter Pepperton and Billy Joe Whiffle had a long meeting with the boss in his office. When they emerged, they smiled at each, glanced over at Big John Mooney, and smiled some more. I didn’t like it much. There was something decidedly malicious in their smiles.

That afternoon I found an opportunity to accost Billy Joe Whiffle in private. “What the hell was that all about?” I asked him.

“Just a little discussion with the boss, Schprockie, nothing to get in a snit over.”

“About what?”

“Oh, you’ll see. All in good time. You know that expression about how you can’t stop progress? We’re giving progress the big green light. Oh yeah. Progress is going to come in and knock this place on its ass.” Then he chuckled and walked away.

That following Monday the UPS guy, the one who always wore his brown shorts even in the coldest weather, delivered four boxes. One of them had a large logo of an apple with a bite taken out of it. He stacked them over in a corner near the water cooler. After he left, Sally MacCrae and I found a moment to examine the boxes.

“What does this mean?” she asked nervously.

“This is what Peter Pepperton and Billy Joe Whiffle talked the boss into,” I said, pointing at the Apple logo. “This is progress come to knock us all on our ass.”

On Tuesday morning we had a visitor. He was a smallish man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with thin, sandy blonde hair and a pair of thick-lensed spectacles that might easily have weighed five pounds. He wore a white short-sleeved dress shirt with a navy blue tie that had little yellow sailboats embroidered into it. His shirt pocket was absolutely crammed with pens. There were highlighters of every possible hue, along with a black pen, a blue pen, a red pen, a green pen, a purple pen, and a host of other pens to keep them company. The whole left side of his shirt sagged under their weight. He entered our office and looked at us. We looked back at him. Finally I asked, “May I help you?”

“Yes, my name is Charlie Primrose. I’m here to set up the computer.”

“Oh,” I said. For some reason I glanced over toward Big John Mooney. Mooney, who was laying out a brochure for a furniture store, briefly looked up, grinned, said nothing, and resumed his work with an air of perfect nonchalance.

It turned out this computer Charlie Primrose came to set up was to be a grand experiment. Peter Pepperton and Billy Joe Whiffle had argued to the boss that computers were the coming thing: the day was nigh when everything would be done on the them, and the sooner we converted over to the new way, the better it would be for us in the long run. The boss was skeptical and needed to be convinced. He insisted on a demonstration. And there was Charlie Primrose to do just that.

Charlie set up the computer, monitor, keyboard, mouse, mouse pad, printer and scanner on a table in the reception area. The boss came over and surveyed what Peter Pepperton and Billy Joe Whiffle assured him was the future. The black and white monitor resembled a TV and stood on a swivel stand. The keyboard was more or less arranged like an ordinary typewriter keyboard. The computer itself lay beneath the monitor and hummed. The flatbed scanner was placed on the left side of the table and the printer on the right.

“All right people!” called the boss. “Let’s have a meeting. Charlie here is going to run through what this thing can do.”

We all grouped around the table with Charlie sitting before the computer. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat and spoke.

“This is a Macintosh computer. I have installed on it several programs that can do everything you’re doing now in this studio. This computer and the programs I mentioned will replace all those drafting tables, T-squares, triangles, X-acto knives, jars of rubber cement, illustration boards, masking tape, the stat camera, overlays, Rapidiographs, compasses, typesetting, french curves, circle templates, brushes, paints, inks, etc., etc. With me so far?”

Big John Mooney snorted a short laugh. I said, “Come on, you can’t be serious.”

Charlie Primrose pointed at a stack of mechanicals next to Mooney’s table. “See those?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“All of those will fit on these,” he said, flipping onto the table several small floppy disks.

“Now I know you’re kidding,” I said.

Charlie Primrose was not kidding. We very quickly learned that it was not within Charlie Primrose’s composition to kid. The group of us stood and watched Charlie launch the layout program, and then he swiftly and efficiently showed us how to construct a simple brochure. It was just like magic. After that, Charlie made a simple line illustration in another program, and then in still another program he applied an airbrush effect to it. At the end of his demonstration we were fairly blown away.

“So what do you think?” Charlie Primrose asked while adjusting his glasses.

“This is big,” said Peter Pepperton.

“Really big,” said Billy Joe Whiffle.

“I don’t know what to say,” I said.

“Wow,” said little Sally MacCrae.

Then Big John Mooney spoke. He had been silent all this time, but now he spoke. Things done on a computer look like they’re done on a computer and that’s the problem, Big John Mooney said. Artwork becomes sterile and inherently lacks the beauty and warmth of what is done by hand, he explained. Certainly people who have no talent will think they have found a way into the graphic design field, but, if they delude themselves into believing computers will make up for their shortcomings, they’re sadly mistaken, because if you put crap in, you’ll surely get crap out. Then he tossed in that quote from Thoreau about “improved means toward unimproved ends,” and finished by telling Charlie Primrose he could easily outpace the computer using only conventional means.

“What you say is quite amusing, Mr. Mooney,” Charlie said coolly, “but I suggest it is you who are deluded. Doubtless you are reluctant to give up something you’re very skilled at, which is understandable. But let me assure you, you have no chance against this computer. None whatsoever.”

Big John Mooney suggested it was Charlie Primrose who was at the disadvantage, and in saying so used a figure of speech that made Sally MacCrae blush.

Here the boss intervened. “Look, I have a way to prove it. We’ve got a catalog job that just came into the studio. Let’s say you do it your way, Charlie, and Mooney, you do it yours. Who ever finishes the catalog first proves his point. Charlie, if you win, we’ll buy three more computers. Mooney, if you win, things stay the same. Sound fair?”

Both parties readily agreed.

I mentioned that Big John Mooney had an admirer in Tori Steele, the FOX 25 News at Ten anchorwoman. Somehow or other she caught wind of this challenge and decided to play it up big over the objections of her news director and several of the show’s producers, who remembered all too well her unfortunate proposal of marriage to Mooney the month before. “Our top story tonight,” she announced that night, her ice blue eyes boring straight into the camera’s lens, “It’s Man vs. Machine as Boston area graphic designer John Mooney goes one on one with a computer. Who will win? FOX 25 News will take you there with complete coverage.” Behind her was a graphic of Big John Mooney staring wrathfully into the glow of a computer monitor.

The following morning everyone showed up at the studio: Peter Pepperton, Billy Joe Whiffle, little Sally MacCrae, Big John Mooney, the boss, Charlie Primrose with a couple of assistants, Tori Steele with her make-up artist, hairdresser and camera crew, and, of course, yours truly, good old Mr. Schprock.

“To make things fair,” said the boss when it turned nine o’clock, “we have provided Charlie with a Word file of the copy, while you, Mooney, have the galleys of type already set. You have each been given an identical set of images. The catalog is exactly 180 pages plus cover. Everyone got that? Good! So let’s go!” And with that, the great race began.

Charlie Primrose had, for that day, dispensed with his traditional shirt and tie in favor of a track suit and headband, but still managed to find a place for his many pens and highlighters in the jacket pocket. He had with him a young man by the name of Brent Snodgrass, who loaded images for him into the scanner, and a young woman named Betty Blankenship, with whom Charlie talked strategy. Both Brent and Betty had the same predilection for pens that Charlie had. Brent imitated Charlie’s look from the day before with the white short-sleeved dress shirt and tie combo with bulging pocket. Betty opted for a very becoming pink, shiny, unicorn-themed pencil case with shoulder strap. All in all, they made a formidable trio.

Before swinging into action, Big John Mooney introduced Tori Steele to little Sally MacCrae. They were a study in opposites: Sally, who might not have reached five feet, wore her everyday clothes, while Tori, towering over her in high heels and even higher hair, sported a tight-fitting, pin-striped business suit with linebacker-size shoulder pads. “So you help out around here, do you?” asked Tori Steele, peering narrowly down at Sally. “How . . . nice. Just do me one favor. Try not to lean into the shot too much as we film this, will you? That’s a good girl.” Then she turned on a spiked heel and strode away to speak to her cameraman.

I suppose the best word one can use to describe that day was “intense.” Once work began, things quickly gathered to a fever pitch and never let up. Mooney’s movements became almost impossible trace so fast they became. He ruled the boards, sized the photos and cut up the type in record time. While he worked, Sally fed him pastries and put a straw to his lips for his coffee; later she switched to great chunks of family style bean curd and vegetarian fried rice washed down by bucketfuls of Mountain Dew. He never missed a beat. Peter Pepperton and Billy Joe Whiffle deliberately obstructed progress by faking forgetfulness and incompetence. I caught Billy Joe Whiffle allowing Mooney’s rubber cement bottle and supplies to run dangerously low several times, so, after a brief confrontation with him, I took over. Between that and shooting stats, my hands were full.

The hours wore away, the stack of mechanicals piled higher and higher next to Mooney’s drafting table, and Charlie Primrose clattered away at his keyboard and clicked his mouse while Brent and Betty scurried here and there. Charlie’s printer whirred continuously. I could see it was going to be close judging by the thickness of the printouts pouring out of the machine. I think Mooney could sense it too as he incredibly picked up on a pace that already bordered the superhuman. The clock continued to tick. How would it end? we all wondered. How would it end?

Ah, dear reader, I will tell you how it ended. At first it appeared to be a draw. In the early evening, Mooney put down his T-square at the precise moment Charlie Primrose’s printer shot out his last printout. Everyone was exhausted. Tori Steele and her crew had done three remote reports that afternoon and looked all done in. Sally and I had worn ourselves ragged providing for Big John Mooney while Peter Pepperton and Billy Joe Whiffle made a great show of looking busy and doing nothing. Brent Snodgrass and Betty Blankenship slumped to the floor in unison when the last sheet popped out of the printer. Charlie Primrose allowed his hands to drop limply to his sides as he looked dully into the computer monitor. Big John Mooney wearily rubbed his eyes.

“That’s it?” said the boss, incredulously looking about him. “That’s it? It’s a tie?”

Charlie roused himself as if from a dream. “No, not exactly,” he replied weakly.

“What do you mean?”

Charlie reached into the printer and plucked the last two sheets from it. He handed them to the boss, slumped back into his chair, and immediately passed out.

The boss looked at the printouts. “The business reply card.” he said. Then he turned and stared inquiringly at Big John Mooney. “Mooney, did you do the business reply card?” Mooney’s face registered a blank. He turned to me. “Schprock, did Mooney do the business reply card?”

Alas, Mooney hadn’t done the simple six inch by four inch business reply card. He just didn’t think of it. Nor had I, nor had Sally. And that meant Charlie Primrose won.

The stunned silence that followed was finally ended by Tori Steele curtly announcing to her team, “That’s a wrap, boys.” Her make-up man and hairdresser each uttered a groan of relief. I patted Big John Mooney’s shoulder consolingly with my comparatively tiny hand. “But it was close though, wasn’t it?” I said as cheerily as I could. “On another day you’d have beaten that computer.” A little tear dislodged itself from Sally MacCrae’s eye as she placed her even tinier hand on Mooney’s other shoulder. Peter Pepperton and Billy Joe Whiffle, I plainly saw, could hardly contain their glee.

Big John Mooney packed up all his stuff and left us that night. After the boss had left, and Peter Pepperton and Billy Joe Whiffle and Charlie Primrose and Brent Snodgrass and Betty Blankenship and Tori Steele and Bruce the make-up man and Devon the hairdresser and the whole camera crew had left, everything went back into his enormous suitcase: the giant rubber cement bottle, the six inch X-acto blades, the bread loaf-size kneaded eraser, the three foot compass, everything. I held a sobbing, shaking Sally MacCrae as we watched Mooney sling his colossal T-square over his shoulder and dejectedly walk out through our door for the last time. His massive frame filled the doorway, his T-square gleamed briefly in the hallway light, and then he was gone.

Peter Pepperton and Billy Joe Whiffle might have thought they won something, but the price they paid for their petty victory was having to learn the computer themselves. Billy Joe Whiffle in time gained a proficiency at it, but Peter Pepperton was never any good tapping at the keyboard and clicking the mouse and soon left for somewhere else where progress hadn’t come and knocked it on its ass yet. As it turned out, I actually had a flair for the Mac, and Sally MacCrae, despite a depression that settled in on her and wouldn’t leave, did all right herself. But, as I say, Sally was desperately unhappy. Clearly she had fallen in love with Big John Mooney. Nothing could cheer her up.

One day, after six or seven months went by, Sally MacCrae stopped coming in to work or answering her phone. This was very bad, I thought. At the end of a week, I worriedly drove to her apartment and wound up speaking to Sally’s landlady. This is what she told me: Sally had a received a letter in the largest envelope her landlady had ever seen. The post office needed to tie it to the roof of a mail truck just to deliver it. The stamp itself was roughly the size of a tabloid newspaper. The postmark, the landlady recalled, was from Texas, where, she added significantly, everything was big. Whatever was in that letter must have influenced Sally MacCrae to leave, because the following day she loaded a few necessary items in her Cooper Mini and did just that. And no one, dear reader, has heard from her since.

And Big John Mooney? Strange stories have come in from time to time. Some suspect he might really be reclusive billionaire Sean Rooney, who made a fortune investing in such niche markets as slide rules, 8-track tapes, rotary telephones, Pet Rocks and phonograph players. Others claim he went on to serve as the actual model for the Paul Bunyan Restaurant chain statues that look down upon motorists throughout our fair land. Still others believe he’s the landscaper for the mansion the government secretly provides for Elvis, Big Foot, JFK, Hitler, several extraterrestrials, and the Loch Ness monster. Now, I have no idea whether or not those, or any other speculations, may be correct, but I’ll bet this: that wherever Big John Mooney is, little Sally MacCrae is with him. And, reader, if that is true, I wish them both the greatest happiness in the world.

What I’ve Been Doing

2006-12-18T05:10:00.000-08:00

Well, my life has been busy and unusually complicated these last few months. Certainly there are people in this world who have lives busier than mine, whose every waking moment may be consumed by issues of unparalleled importance, and on whose shoulders rest matters of universal interest; there are people, I may even suppose, whose slightest whim or decision can affect the lives of millions; but, as I am not an NFL head coach, I can’t make such a claim. Yet even so, I can still say I have been feeling particularly tried and tested of late.

There have been a couple “family emergencies” I’ve had to deal with, and last September I rashly volunteered to become the chapter leader of a support group for stutterers which turned out to be more work than I planned on at the worst possible time. However, the main cause for my distress has been the production of a school book publisher’s catalog that simply will not die. The original deadline for it to go to the printer was just before Thanksgiving, but now the “drop dead” date has been moved to December 22. Our client, the notorious Ms. Smith, coiner of the phrase “I’d rather get shot,” is at it again, making my life miserable. It’s been one headache after another. At one point, Ms. Smith was even hospitalized for exhaustion. But as we stand poised near the denouement of this grand, overdrawn tragicomedy, I find myself with a moment to breathe and an opportunity to offer to my two or three readers actual comments Ms. Smith has written on layout proofs we have submitted to her. These are unedited words of criticism taken directly from the pen of Herself. Enjoy.

“Did someone who hasn’t seen the rest of the catalog design this section?”

“This spread is very poorly done. Please spend some time designing this — let me know if you need direction.”

“This looks empty and boring. Please work on design and layout. The page is not well laid out.”

“The flow on this page does NOT work. Please spend time laying out this spread.”

“I’d prefer you take more time to design something than to give me a spread like this. It’s frustrating.”

“This layout is very poorly done. Please spend some time making this page and spread attractive and balanced.”

There’s more, but you get the idea…

Not Dead Yet

2006-12-02T11:08:00.000-08:00

For those fearing for the health of your old pal Schprockie and wondering if the Grim Reaper has paid the dear old fellow a visit, I am as robust as ever. My overlong silence has not been due to injury or death, but rather because of a severe shortage of time. So many things have converged upon me at once that, in order to meet all the demands, harsh measures were called for. When there is a battle at sea, and a frigate finds itself obliged to speed away from a man o’ war, having first spread all its canvas and still seeing itself in danger of being overtaken, it is the wise captain who lightens his ship by pitching things overboard. Sometimes the heaviest items are of the most value; however, in the last extremity, they can only be burdens. First the cannons are heaved into the sea, which surely pains the captain; then the barrels of grog go next, doubtlessly grieving the crew; but if, in the end, the frigate can make its escape and live to fight another day, then the jettisoning of such valuables is justified. So, in this way, like a dutiful captain, I found myself compelled to toss my blog into the drink.

Things are still very busy for me and I can neither promise regular posts nor regular visits to the blogs of those who favor me with their kind attention. I suppose if there ever was a natural time to end a blog, this would be it, but I have hopes that my life won’t continue to be so nutty, and I can once again abuse the English language in such a painful and public way.

80 Hour Man Takes Command

2006-09-23T07:40:00.000-07:00

Sorry about becoming the invisible blogger. I haven’t had much time to write or read in between my suddenly hectic job and more-complicated-than-usual personal life. Sometimes it’s not easy being Schprock. I hope to come round to your neck of the woods real soon to leave some comments, and in that way dispel those alien-abduction rumors circulating about me.

Last Tuesday I attended a Red Sox game with my esteemed colleague, 80 Hour Man. Now, 80 Hour Man has, from time to time, been roughed up a little in this space, but today I have come to praise him. He did good and I want to tell you all about it.

Our tickets were for seats in the extreme right field section of Fenway Park, over to the fair side of the Pesky Pole. Not far from us was that nether world known as the bleachers, and you could, from time to time, catch the strong odor of alcohol and the unhealthy reek of many unwashed bodies wafting over to us from that direction. Perhaps it was this stench of drunkenness and depravity that had its influence on our more cultured section, I’m not sure, but whether it was the bad breeze or just or our bad luck, the two ticket holders who seated themselves behind us began to loudly demonstrate to our entire section the behavior of an early evolutionary stage in man’s development, perhaps the one just after our ancestors stopped using their knuckles to walk. They became boisterous and profane. Now don’t get me wrong: I’m not the prissy type who gets shocked by a little boorish behavior, and sometimes the loud, coarse ones you hear in a crowd can often make up for their crudity and lack of social grace by saying some funny things. Not so with these guys. Despite being over 21— as shown by their ability to legally purchase beer — their humor and intellectual capability was stuck somewhere between grades 5 and 6. The word “fuckin’” had to be in every sentence they uttered; for instance, ballplayers they didn’t like were “fuckin’ homos,” an epithet I haven’t heard since junior high. There was absolutely no wit to anything they said. Believe me, Biff from Back to the Future seemed a Rhodes scholar compared to these two knuckleheads.

At one point the louder of the two — the alpha male if you will — bought a bag of peanuts. As he ate them, he started tossing the shells at the fans seated some five or six rows in front of us. Finally, a man of middle eastern descent turned and glared at him. This drew from our intellectual friend this comment: “What the fuck are you lookin’ at, Taliban?” and then he commenced, from time to time, to throw peanut shells directly at him.

80 Hour Man and I looked at each other rolled our eyes. At one point I said, “Where’s Clint Eastwood when you need him?” I started to cast about in my mind for something I could do that would a) save this night from becoming a disaster and b) not involve grave physical harm to myself. I thought of discreetly leaving to find security to report them. But before I could formulate any concrete plan, 80 Hour Man turned to Alpha Male and said, “Throw one more of those and I’m calling security.”

Alpha Male said, “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not?” asked 80 Hour Man.

“Because I’ll punch your fuckin’ head in.”

I could tell as Alpha Male said that he was feeling a little put on the spot. There wasn’t a whole lot of conviction behind the statement.

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you,” said 80 Hour Man.

“You’re not so tough.”

“We’re all here to enjoy a ball game.”

“So why do you have to spoil it for the rest of us?” said Alpha Male.

Then he and his buddy got really quiet. No more peanut shells were thrown. A minute later they got up from their seats and walked away. And that was the last we saw of them.

So that was all it took to rid ourselves of two bullies. I give 80 Hour Man all the credit in the world for standing up to those morons. And the truth is, 80 Hour Man does look kind of tough. He looks like he could handle himself in a fight. He’s kind of burly, his lined brow has a distinctive, prominent scar that runs crosswise against its furrows, and his blue collar manner of speaking is done in a naturally resonant, forceful voice. I wouldn’t screw with him.

And as far is those two miscreants are concerned, I think I more pity them than anything else. It looks like it will take them a long, long time to wise up. I doubt very much their tough guy posturing will take them far in this world, and what I saw of their intelligence is not at all promising. They were simply a pair of very unpleasant clowns. It was pathetic really.

Who’s Your Favorite Beatle?

2006-09-14T14:26:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine once claimed there exists an entire branch of psychology based on who your favorite Beatle is. While that is very likely not true, it ought to be. What better way to classify one’s personality than to determine whether or not you’re a Ringo-person, a Paul-person, a George-person or a John-person? As a therapist, imagine the thrill of diagnosing a Ringonian with latent Paulistic tendencies, or a Johnoid-Georgophrenic suffering from a Yoko complex? Instead of asking for someone’s astrological sign at a nightclub, why not ask who their favorite Beatle is? Is it John, the smart one? Or is it Paul, the cute one? Or how about Ringo, the funny one? Or George, the shy one? So much information can come from that one choice.

Growing up, my favorite Beatle was John. I thought he was the natural leader of the group; I felt he was clever and witty, his singing style was really cool, and he was the handsomest of all the Beatles. I liked all his transformations, from the fresh-faced mop top as he appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show to the brooding, politically-active poet with the funky round glasses. He had an edge. He was the wise kid in your algebra class who never looked at the board and doodled in the margins of his textbook, the one the teacher was a little afraid of, the type your parents would really prefer you not to hang out with.

I’m thinking of the Beatles because last Saturday night I went to a concert performed by a group called Beatlejuice, a band which plays nothing but Beatles songs and does them surpassingly well. The front man is Brad Delp, former lead singer of the rock group Boston, an extremely charismatic guy who can imitate both Paul’s and John’s singing voices. The five-man group also features a keyboard man whose synthesizer can replicate all the studio effects the Beatles did in their later albums, such as Sgt. Pepper’s and the white album. And they don’t even attempt to look like the Beatles, something I appreciate (they’re all in their fifties anyway). Their appeal crosses all demographic lines — indeed, that night there were as many people under twenty as there were over sixty. I was a little disconcerted when the octogenarian sitting next to me whipped her bra onto the stage and yelled, “I love you, Ringo!” but other than that it was a hell of a show. Last Saturday was the third time I saw Beatlejuice.

The next day I found myself in “Beatles-mode” and dug out an old VHS tape the missus bought one time called The Beatles Unauthorized, a 51-minute compilation of old, black and white film clips showing a couple of Beatles concerts, several of their press conferences, and various news and TV show segments. The sound quality was extremely poor and the cinematography was generally on a par with how your great-grandfather might handle a camcorder. It showed the Beatles’ first concert in the U.S. (which was broadcast on closed-circuit TV in theaters) in Washington, DC, on a small, spare stage set in the middle of an auditorium ringed by screaming teenagers. Ringo’s drum set was placed on a tiny, round platform that was designed to rotate, so in between songs the lads could spin it 180 degrees to face that portion of the audience they previously had their backs to. Every time Ringo beat on the drums the platform wobbled like a teacup perched precariously on a bony knee. There were a few boxy amplifiers set to either side of Ringo’s drums like you might expect to see at a high school dance, two microphone stands, their guitars, and that was it. Just the boys in their Beatle suits, Beatle haircuts and Beatle boots. You could tell they couldn’t even hear what they were doing all that well; they more shouted than sung. And meanwhile every screeching adolescent girl in the joint achieved catharsis at a decibel level previously thought unattainable by humans.

You really get the idea from watching that tape that the Beatles were just kids made of flesh and bone, not the gods we thought they were. They seemed so frail and unprotected on that bare stage. When they had poor Ringo nearly throw out his tonsils singing “I wanna be your lover, baby, I wanna be you man” in all that din, I thought of how sore his throat must have been the next day and how hot and uncomfortable he looked in that suit, whacking away at his drums on a fragile, unsteady platform. Being a Beatle must have been completely nuts.

So who is your favorite Beatle? And why? And no claiming you don’t know anything about the Beatles, because that’s like saying you never heard of Mozart.

I Been Busy, Man

2006-09-11T17:39:00.000-07:00

It’s gotten pretty gosh darn busy at work, folks, so I’ve had to take my blog-generating synaptic junctions offline to reroute emergency mental power to the old job. It’s an onerous thing to ask of my four brain cells, all this effort and thinking, but I do get money for it, money which I can then turn around to use to stimulate the economy with, so working a little harder and blogging a little less can sometimes be good for me and good for the country. So the next time you hear some positive news about the gross national product or the consumer price index, think of good old Mr. Schprock working hard for America.

Lord Hamlet at the Ball Park: The Lost Scene

2006-09-04T18:55:00.000-07:00

Another “lost scene” from Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, has been discovered, this time behind a pickle barrel in Grimsby’s Grocery and Fish Bait Store just off the interstate. As with Lord Hamlet at the Deli, its authenticity is in question, but all are in agreement on one thing: it smells to high heavens! You be the judge:

Act III, Scene ii, the box seat section directly behind home plate at Fenway Park

Enter Hamlet, Ophelia, Horatio, Polonius, Claudius, Gertrude, courtiers and attendants

HAMLET: Have we our seats located, my good Horatio?

HORATIO: Ay, my lord, or so our tickets stubs declare.

CLAUDIUS: Of this game “baseball” that the multitudes so love,
I will ask thee straight, my cousin Hamlet:
Doth it merit such devotion as this
That the rabble should squeak and gibber
In terms wild and most passionate
As if their very souls were entwined in the outcome?

HAMLET: Indeed, thou mayest rely well upon their devotion.
Baseball is, as t’were, a pageant of life,
Wherein one may see in miniature
Affairs of great pith and moment
Which daily rock this sore distracted globe.
Each team is, in allegiance to its hue, a warlike nation,
Each player a soldier or statesman,
Each contest a battle pitting the ambition and
Aspirations of one country ’gainst the other.
Yea, the world is a ball field,
And all the men in it merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances,
Their times at bat, their RBIs and their slugging percentages.
In his career, a ballplayer plays many roles,
His designations being seven.
First we see the rookie,
Uncouth and and hazed by his teammates,
Desperate to stay where fortune hath delivered him;
Next comes the sophomore, his talent tried,
His spot in the batting order assured;
Free agency then follows,
Wherein, according to his addition,
Great remuneration may come a ballplayer’s way;
Then comes the ten-and-five player,
Who hath ten years in the league played
And five of those with the same team, and
Holds great sway in how management may treat him;
His powers declining, the next stage
Finds a ballplayer the DH or pinch hitter,
His value on defense much diminished;
Then our ballplayer,
Should his wisdom and people skills prevail,
Becomes manager
Marshaling his troops and sending them forth,
Deciding when to steal, when to
Hit-and-run and when to change pitchers
The game and season slave to his word.
His last designation is that of bench coach,
The ballplayer’s big manly voice,
Turning toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.
The team, but babes to him now,
Listen to his wise saws and oft-repeated tales of times past
With knowing winks and rolling eyes
As he lapses by stages into mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

OPHELIA: O my lord! — but look what hath appeared before you!

HORATIO: Start my eyes! ’Tis an apparition from beyond our world
Or my mind much deceives me!

HAMLET: Is it my father? Is it the king?

HORATIO: A king he be, or sultan as some say
Bedecked not in robes of purple
But in flannel pinstripe.

GHOST: List! List, list, O list!

HAMLET: I attend, noble spirit, say on!

GHOST: I am he who was the Bambino
Whose potent bat of wood could
Send a seaméd horsehide sphere
Punching through the blue welkin
And into the reaches of eagles.
One season did I launch that bleachéd orb
Some sixty times past the field of play
Where no ballplayer could touch it
And trotted with mincing step
Round the diamond to great acclaim.
Four and thirty years didst my record thus stand
’Til another knight, who like I in pinstripe clad,
Bested my feat by one in terms most commendable.
But now, but now — I can hardly speak of it—

HAMLET: Tell us, O ghost, I beseech you — say what grieves you!

GHOST: Three usurpers — not men, but augmentations of men,
Not as God designed them — who through a forgéd process hath
In exchange for their souls and honor and consciences clean
Transformed themselves from laboratory rats to Hercules all.

HAMLET: My prophetic soul! ’Tis as I suspected!
He speaks of Sammy Sosa, Mark McGuire and Barry Bonds!

GHOST: Sosa, but so-so; McGuire, but a liar; Bonds, but a con…

HORATIO: An honest and clear-sighted ghost he is, my lord, I’ll warrant it.

HAMLET: But what is to be done, O Bambino, I prithee tell us.

GHOST: I charge thee to compel the commissioner —
Who, though his name be Selig,
Hath not sea legs for these tempest-tossed times —
To hang an asterisk by their names;
And this asterisk should be a large one,
Magenta in color like an envenomed wound,
Unsightly to behold, a smirch upon the page;
And in token of which I have already lifted my curse
Upon this team whose crimson hose I once wore,
And I name as my inheritor Big Papi,
For his strength comes from rice and beans
Much like mine did from hot dogs and beer.

HAMLET: I swear I shall bring all I have to bear upon this quest.

GHOST: Remember . . . remember . . . an asterisk…

HAMLET: O what a wrong there is to be righted
When honor is stained and integrity blighted
Onward and from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!

Exeunt

A Human Trait

2006-08-30T15:38:00.000-07:00

Last week, Turner Classic Movies had The Dirty Dozen on. I didn’t stay up to watch it, but it reminded me of the last time I saw The Dirty Dozen when Daughter Number 2 was probably in the first or second grade. For any of you not knowing the plot, a bunch of convicts with life sentences are given a chance for freedom if they can complete a suicide mission behind enemy lines during World War II. Toward the end of the movie, a whole mansion-full of Nazi bigwigs and their wives are having a big bash. The dirty dozen’s objective is to wipe them all out by planting explosives everywhere. So as we watched this, DN2 asked me what the dirty dozen were planning to do. I explained that the good guys, the dirty dozen, were going to kill the evil bad guys, the Nazis. “What did the Nazis do?” she asked. “They caused a huge war that lead to a lot of deaths and suffering.” “But their wives?” DN2 pursued. “What did they ever do?” “Well,” I said, “I guess that’s guilt by association,” an answer she neither understood nor was satisfied with. “But they didn’t do anything!” she insisted. Then, after seeing Charles Bronson or one of the other actors throw an explosive device into a ventilator shaft, she turned to me on the verge of tears and asked, “Why don’t they stop?” A second after that, we switched to All That on Nickelodeon.

When Daughter Number 1 was a very little girl (I’m guessing pre-kindergarten), we took her to an older kid’s birthday party. Featured as the climax of the festivities was a straw piñata in the shape of a donkey hung from the ceiling — all the kids lined up for their turn to be blindfolded and given a stick to whack it with. DN1 had never seen this before, and even I have to say the children (all of them peeping under poorly tied blindfolds) really attacked the effigy with maniacal glee. Anyone doubting we humans are descended from a lower, more bestial order of life should have seen those pink-cheeked cherubs get medieval on the poor donkey. While this went on, DN1’s hands went to her mouth and her eyes grew wide with fright. When the final, killing blow eviscerated the piñata and candy spewed everywhere from the wretched thing’s bowels, DN1 burst into tears and was inconsolable for at least ten or fifteen minutes afterward — and I didn’t blame her a bit for feeling that way.

When I was a little boy, one of my friends was given the Little Golden Book version of the gingerbread man story, which told the tale of the swift, mischievous gingerbread man who wouldn’t come to heel and accept his station in life as a pastry. At the climax of the story, the gingerbread man needed to cross a brook and made a deal with a crafty fox to give him transport. First he rode on the swimming fox’s back; but, when the back became submerged under water, the gingerbread man was forced to stand on the fox’s head. This goes on until eventually the gingerbread man is given no other recourse but to perch himself on the fox’s nose or drown — all according to the diabolical fox’s plan. Finally, when the fox opened his mouth to eat the gingerbread man, the illustrator of the book showed a freeze frame of the moment just before the fox bit down on the poor little gingerbread man. He caught the expression of horror on the gingerbread man’s face, his mouth and eyes perfect O’s of white icing, and the cunning, wicked look in the fox’s eyes, his teeth sharp and cruel. I was stunned, knowing that a split second later this sentient, playful creature, the gingerbread man, would have his life extinguished by a barbaric fox who viewed him as nothing more than a food source, a thing to eat, digest, and put out of his memory without the merest pang of conscience. He had no appreciation at all of what a wonderful, funny life the gingerbread man led. The monstrosity of the act fascinated me; I was horrified, yet held in thrall.

It’s a pity that part of growing up means inuring yourself to acts of inhumanity, either in fiction or even on the evening news. DN2, who wept for the Nazis’ wives, now has no problem playing the most violent video games. DN1 can watch your basic slasher/horror flick without it costing her a night’s sleep. And I, of course, can handle just about anything I hear or see. A great human trait we all share is really a double-edged sword: we can adapt to anything given enough time.

Wedding Bells

2006-08-29T05:38:00.000-07:00

This weekend the family and I drove up to Maine. The missus and I were invited to a wedding in the pretty little town of Edgecomb, on the grounds of a beautiful former farm there, of two people in their forties, each getting married for the first time. Let me ask you this: do you think it’s different getting married for the first time at that stage of life? I can understand how people in their forties taking their second, third, fourth, or fifth waltz down the aisle might view the whole exchange of vows with a slightly jaundiced eye — you know, perhaps thinking, “yeah, yeah, richer and poorer, sickness and in health, wrap this up and crack open the champagne” — but how about for the first time at that age? Is there anything in it like the innocence and mystery we see with younger folks tying the knot? Can the mystery and innocence be present, mixed in with a little wisdom and experience? Could it possibly be better and more rewarding to wait until that age to get married? I wonder.

The ceremony was high in content and brief in length, my kind of wedding. The justice of the peace invited the guests to offer whatever advice or observations they thought appropriate to the couple before the I do’s were officially spoken, and two good friends of the groom stepped up and made some poignant, extemporaneous remarks that really helped make the occasion memorable. After the ceremony there was no DJ or band, no throwing of bouquet or garter, no dancing, just eating, drinking and socializing with some jazz CDs playing in the background. The bride wore red, which I thought an interesting choice (it had me thinking of the scandalizing red dresses in the movies Gone With the Wind and Jezebel — thank God Aunt Pitty Pat wasn’t there!). All in all, it was a wedding for grown-ups: low-key, almost casual, a chance for friends to gather to celebrate the good fortune of two well-deserving people. One of the best weddings I’ve ever been to.

The kids didn’t go to the wedding (we thought they’d be bored, but later wondered if perhaps they would have liked it); instead they stayed behind in a cottage we rented at the Gosnold Arms in New Harbor, Maine. The hotel is directly across the street from a small harbor where the fishermen ply their trade, so quiet and tranquil a spot you’d think the laws governing time didn’t apply there. The missus and I enjoyed the picturesqueness of the spot; the girls appreciated the cable TV. On Sunday we went to Booth Bay Harbor, a delightful little tourist trap with crisscrossing streets jammed with quaint, eccentric little shops like so many houses and hotels on a Monopoly board. The rain, which threatened all day, held off until we loaded into the car and headed on home. All in all, a great family weekend.

A Father/Daughter Moment

2006-08-25T05:12:00.000-07:00

Ladies, remember the first time your father shaved your mohawk? Didn’t it make you feel like Daddy’s special little girl?

Have a great weekend everybody!

Pete’s Moon

2006-08-22T14:05:00.000-07:00

Well, he’s doing it again. Jason of Clarity of Night is holding another short fiction contest. The object of the game is to write a short story no longer than 250 words in length based on the photograph above. So start your pencils!

Here is my submission:

The campfire burned low and the ponies were hobbled for the night. The two cowboys lay back on their bedrolls looking up at the unsettled sky, idly watching a fierce, bright moon strain hard against a cover of tight, curdled clouds.

“This night puts me to mind of when old Pete died,” said the older man.

“He shot hisself, didn’t he, Reb?” asked the other.

“It was his gun what done it, with his finger on the trigger.”

“Why do you suppose he done that for?”

“I reckon that old moon told him to,” replied Reb.

“Shucks,” chuckled the younger man, but then he noticed Reb no longer lay there. He sat up straight as a plank and looked all around him. “Reb!” he called out. “Where you gone off to, Reb?”

The night wore on and the moon traveled high, its brilliance barely contained by the imprisoning clouds. Buck grew more and more skittish not finding Reb anywhere, his frantic halloaing answered only by the insolent bark of coyotes.

Finally, past midnight, the moon broke through the clouds and bore right down on poor Buck. Durn thing is brighter than the sun! he thought. And bigger, too.

Two days later Reb rode into town with Buck, stiff as a new boot, draped over his pony’s back. Reb had tied Buck’s hat to one of the panniers. Buck’s spurs gleamed dully as his feet bounced in rhythm to the pony’s sway. In his right hand, Buck held his pistol tight.

Forbidden Fruit

2006-08-21T19:18:00.000-07:00

What’s your favorite food? If you were marooned on a desert island and allowed only one food, what would it be, this one thing you desire above all others and will never tire of? Is it something fancy with an unpronounceable French name, or is it something the French might call Le Big Mac? Is it spicy or sweet, salty or fatty, all natural or conceived in a laboratory? Is it good for you or bad for you? Would your dentist approve or disapprove? What is it?

The food I love most in this world is a fresh, plump, red, juicy tomato. I like to eat tomatoes like apples, sprinkling a little salt on the bite mark before I go in for another chomp. This year my fondest prayers were answered when the missus planted a garden that has yielded a bumper crop of cherry tomatoes and regular tomatoes. A couple of weeks ago, the harvest began.

Ah, but here’s the problem: tomatoes make my face break out! It’s true. Even though I turned 50 this year, in this one respect I’m still a part of the Clearasil generation. I’ve battled acne all my life and have taken medication for it since junior high. The medication works very well, but modern science still hasn’t come up with the answer for the tomato, and now I’m suffering from over-indulging in my personal forbidden fruit. Last week my face was literally sore and took on the topography of the Appalachian mountain chain. Since then I’ve stopped eating tomatoes and things are returning to normal, but every time I walk into the kitchen what do I see but mounds of delicious, shiny, red tomatoes calling out to me! Why? Why is life so unfair?

********

Well, if anyone ever wondered what goes on in the mind of your humble servant, what truly makes him tick, you may end this speculation and find out for yourself. The fabulous Flood has interviewed yours truly in her blog, an interview which will no doubt lead her to block my access to it forever. Please, no frivolous lawsuits if learning my innermost thoughts and desires leads to hysterical blindness, uncontrollable facial tics, extreme mental anguish or other such maladies. You’ve been warned.

Schprock Takes Another Holiday

2006-08-15T05:00:00.000-07:00

Well, I spent all of last week at my beloved home away from home, the World Fellowship Center (aka Hippie Camp) in Conway, New Hampshire. It was “bike week” and, as I am the only one in the family committed to practicing this truly perfect form of human propulsion, I went away all by my onesies. World Fellowship has a small campground where you can stay for really, really cheap, so I brought along my nearly 30-year-old mountain tent and my sleeping bag and so placed myself a little closer to Mother Nature.

Folks, I had a blast. Good food, good company, good weather and good exercise. Most mornings we went on 25–30 mile treks except for Wednesday, when a guy named Jerry and I went on a “century,” a 100-mile bike trip through the beautiful White Mountains. It was absolutely idyllic. New Hampshire has this scenic stretch of road that cuts through a part of the White Mountain National Forest called the Kancamagus Highway whose summit reaches nearly 3,000 feet. We began our trip by pedaling up that to be rewarded by a spectacular view at the top. There I met a fellow cyclist named Larry who appeared to be somewhere in his late-sixties, early-seventies. He attracted my notice because his bicycle was loaded down like a pack mule. Every conceivable spot where you could hang a pannier or other type of bag was taken up. When I inquired about his journey, Larry told me he started off in Washington state on June 1st and had been following an eccentric zig zag route that has taken him from as far north as Canada to all the way down to parts of the US south. His destination point was Bar Harbor, Maine, which he should have reached last Saturday. He had already gone 4,600 miles when we spoke!

Going off alone to Hippie Camp was sort of a gutsy thing for a shy guy like me to do. I am not a particularly social animal, so placing myself in a situation with strangers to all sides of me was not done without some trepidation. When I try, I can be reasonably engaging — in fact, in college I was generally taken for the genial, easygoing type. But I do put up barriers and sometimes these barriers can be hard to overcome. However, the great thing about World Fellowship is the general atmosphere of friendliness and acceptance. When you eat in the dining hall, you find yourself seated at a long table among roughly ten other people. Handshakes and introductions are de rigueur and often you are asked where you’re from, what you do for a living, how long you’ve been coming to World Fellowship and so on. If you have any social skills at all, it’s impossible not to apply them and improve upon them. As a result I made several friends with whom I plan to keep in contact.

This experience isn’t all that different from the overnight camp I used to go to when I was a kid (which, coincidentally, is only 12 or 13 miles away from World Fellowship Center in West Ossipee, NH). My parents used to drop me off with my trunk, instruct me to write home, and then peal away in their car in a cloud of dust and flying road debris, leaving me alone in a cabin with a bunch of strange kids whose space I was supposed to share for two weeks. But it always wound up that when Mom and Dad came to pick me up I didn’t want to leave. To this very day, one of my ideas of earthly paradise is good old Camp Calumet Lutheran.

Last week I actually had a chance to go visit my old camp — I hadn’t been there since 1973 when I was a C.I.T. Incredibly it was exactly the same. Exactly. All the buildings were still in their accustomed spots painted red with white trim. When you walk from Luther Hall to the dining hall where the main office is located, Lake Ossipee is on your left and the girls’ cabins are lined up on your right, all of them named after women from the Bible. It was just like going back in time, only here I was older, taller, and, unfortunately, playing the role of interloper. I was quickly accosted by one of the camp directors and after regaining consciousness from the tasing she gave me (just kidding!), I explained I used to be a camper there as a kid. The director kindly told me I couldn’t go anywhere without an escort, which of course was perfectly understandable and was, quite naturally, unacceptable to me, so I thanked her and left. But that was enough. Perhaps next year I’ll talk Daughter Number 2 into going for a week or two to Camp Calumet and then, when we drop her off, I’ll wallow in nostalgia to my heart’s content.

A great discovery was a tiny theater found in the nearby town of Tamworth called the Barnstormers Theater. During one of our rides we came across it and I made mental note to come back to attend a performance. The play was The Lion in Winter and it really was very well done. The actor who played King Henry did a passable, if unintentional, imitation of Sean Connery (I kept waiting to hear him call his royal mistress Miss Moneypenny), and I found the play itself to be smart and funny, full of memorable lines and reminiscent of Shakespeare. I recommend it to everyone.

One last note and I’ll let you go: I met a man named Marc Mauer who is the executive director of The Sentencing Project in Washington, D.C., an organization “that promotes criminal justice reform and the development of alternative forms of incarceration.” All last week I made idle chit-chat with him at mealtimes and found him very pleasant company. On Friday he gave a presentation based on his book, Race to Incarcerate, a publication which questions the conventional wisdom of battling crime by building more and more prisons. I found him to be an extremely persuasive speaker who could adroitly field a barrage of questions from his listeners by simply having all the facts at his fingertips. I purchased his book and am reading it now. I won’t choose to go into it at this moment, but one tidbit I think worth bringing up is this projection: among American males born today, African-Americans stand a 1 in 3 chance of spending some time in a prison, as compared to 1 in 8 for Hispanics and 1 in 16 for whites. Now I know what conclusion your typical skinhead will draw from this statistic, but you have to believe that economic factors play a large role in this, along with a healthy helping good old fashioned prejudice (i.e., crimes that might merely put a white person on probation land a black guy in the slammer).

That’s all I’ve got. Thanks for stopping by.

So What Was the Deal with Mr. Tuttle?

2006-08-12T09:48:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay, so I got everyone wondering about the bear in the story about Mr. Tuttle. What? Is it unusual to have a circus bear in the back seat of your car all of a sudden? I don’t know, maybe it’s a generational thing. Back in my day, lots of people had bears in their back seats. We even had expressions for it. Like when we paid for something at the local five and dime, we used to say as we counted out the money, “Here’s your three dollars and there’s twenty-eight cents for the bear in the back seat.” Honestly! Your parents never told you about that?

All right, I can see this isn’t going to work with you guys. Tough crowd. So I guess I’ll just have to explain my thinking.

You see, just recently I saw the Shakespeare play The Taming of the Shrew. To make sure we’re all on the same page here, let me point out that a “shrew” in Shakespeare’s sense is a caustic, scolding woman, someone very difficult to get along with — so get those images of a stout fellow in lion tamer garb subduing a tiny field mouse with whip and chair out of your head . . . it’s not the same thing at all. And, thankfully, there were only “shrews” in Shakespeare’s day — nowadays all woman are consistently congenial and the pleasantest creatures on earth. But for the purposes of explanation, we must imagine that there could have existed at one time a woman who was hard to please.

Anyway, this fellow named Petruchio sets out to marry the shrew Katherina for her money; but, not being satisfied with merely that, he also determines to break her of her “froward” ways and mold her into the kind of wife he wants. His program calls for him to do many lunatic, nonsensical things to completely throw Katherina off her game, and one of the actions he takes is to dress up in a ridiculous costume for their wedding. The whole wedding party can’t believe why he shows up so attired, but, despite their protests, he goes through the wedding in that costume without once explaining how he came to be dressed so, passing the entire thing off as a long and tedious tale.

Well, from that I got the idea of writing a story about a staid, quiet couple whose uneventful lives get a jolt when the husband goes completely out of character and appears in the middle of the night drunk and wearing outlandish clothes. To crown it all, I had him arrive home with a bear in the back seat of his car, leaving to his wife’s (and the readers’) imagination how this humdrum man came to be in this condition. The wife, who loves him, eventually reasons that to demand an explanation of her husband’s outrageous actions might threaten the very underpinnings of their marriage — in other words, if he confesses to one thing, then she would of course have to react in a certain way, and so on and so forth until any hope of recovering the placid life they once enjoyed becomes destroyed. She knows he’s a good man and thinks it wise to forgive him his one indiscretion, this blip on the screen as it were, and keep herself in the dark. I little counted on readers getting hung up about the bear, but now I can see that that was indeed a provocative element in the story.

So what can I say? I am blessed to have intelligent, critical readers who have the patience to read my whimsical little tales and give me the feedback I so desperately need. So thank you one and all . . . I mean it, you guys — you’re the best.

And, by the way, I had a wonderful vacation this past week and will file my report soon.

Mr. Tuttle

2006-08-05T12:46:00.000-07:00

I’m on vacation this week and Internet access for me will be spotty at best — but, being the considerate guy I am, I’ve left you all with a tender tale of true love. So grab a box of Kleenex and enjoy!

Mrs. Tuttle was a large woman. She would admit to being big-boned, and sometimes, during moments of unrestrained frankness (when perhaps she went a cocktail too far), she might even have referred to her figure as “generous.” Mrs. Tuttle sewed many of her own dresses using patterns she hoped would help diminish her wide hips and reduce her vast bust. Her height rivaled that of most men and her hands, which were large, strong, raw and big-knuckled, she often kept concealed within delicate silk gloves. She applied make-up quite liberally to her face and wore her perfume a bit too heavily; everyone could always tell which room Mrs. Tuttle had just been in. She affected a feminine walk as best she could with feet jammed into shoes a size too small. One town wag once remarked that Mrs. Tuttle walked like an elephant on a tightrope.

She belonged to all the right clubs. At various times Mrs. Tuttle had been president of the Historical Society, the Book Club, the Garden Club, the Daughters of the American Revolution, and the Ladies’ Auxiliary Firefighters. She headed the church’s altar guild and supervised the coffee hour after the church service was over. She was lead mezzo-soprano in the church choir.

Mrs. Tuttle had been married to Mr. Tuttle for 32 years. High school sweethearts, the Tuttles never had children. When people inquired, Mrs. Tuttle always replied, “Oh, I’ve never needed children. Mr. Tuttle is my boy.” Then she added importantly, “He’s my very big boy.”

Mr. Tuttle was, in fact, not so very big. Nor was he so very small. Being neither tall nor short, Mr. Tuttle was also neither thin nor fat. He was neither handsome nor homely. You couldn’t say he was particularly virile, yet neither was he effete. He wasn’t a shy man, but you couldn’t call him outgoing either. Mr. Tuttle’s hair was wispy and sand-colored and receding at the hairline. His eyes, which appeared miniscule through the strong lenses of his round spectacles, were a washed-out blue; his mustache was weak, his face pale, and he spoke in a soft, reedy voice as if he only had half a lung. Looking at him, you couldn’t help thinking Mr. Tuttle was slowly being rubbed away by an eraser.

The Tuttles owned a ranch house in a suburb 15 miles west of Boston. Mr. Tuttle worked for an accounting firm in the city and always took the train unless he knew he had to work late that night; in that case, he drove his car. The Tuttles rose at the same time every morning and, while Mr. Tuttle shaved and showered, Mrs. Tuttle prepared his breakfast and fixed his lunch. When Mr. Tuttle arrived at the table, there would be fried eggs if it was Monday, french toast if it was Tuesday, scrambled eggs if it was Wednesday, grapefruit and toast if it was Thursday, and cream of wheat if it was Friday. Mrs. Tuttle laid the newspaper out with the sections slightly separated so Mr. Tuttle could easily choose which parts of it his inclinations that morning led him. When she finished with all her work, Mrs. Tuttle would sit down across the table from him with a big plump in her chair and say, “Well, Tuttle, mind the time,” or, “They say rain today, Tuttle, so bring your umbrella.”

Mrs. Tuttle adored her husband. She inspected his suit jacket for lint or stray hairs every morning before he put it on and she always helped him into his overcoat at the door. The night before, Mrs. Tuttle would dutifully lay out his clothes and you could always tell which day of the week it was by which tie Mr. Tuttle wore. His wing-tip shoes gleamed and his homburg hat with the feather in its band was always well-brushed. A glance at Mr. Tuttle would tell anyone he had a wife who looked after him.

One morning Mr. Tuttle informed his wife he needed to work late that night; it was tax season and it couldn’t be helped. He would have to take the car. The couple owned a black Studebaker Commander which Mr. Tuttle kept in tip-top condition. It sat in their driveway on four sturdy whitewalls like some great, regal, mythical beast held in abeyance, awaiting Mr. Tuttle’s Zeus-like animating touch. It gave Mrs. Tuttle a thrill to see her husband take control of it. He looked magnificent behind the wheel. That morning she stood on the doorstep and watched Mr. Tuttle as he backed the car out of the driveway and rumbled away down the street.

Then Mrs. Tuttle busied herself for the day. She straightened up the kitchen and dusted and vacuumed the living room. She changed the sheets on the beds and put a load of clothes into the washer, which later she wrung out and hung on the line. At ten o’clock, Mrs. Tuttle brewed herself a cup of tea and settled into the big armchair to listen to Our Gal Sunday and Young Doctor Malone on the radio. When Young Doctor Malone was over it was eleven o’clock and time to take her bath and prepare to meet the girls for their trip into Boston.

Twice a month, Mrs. Tuttle, Shirley Nordstrom and Alice Lundquist rode the train into Boston for some shopping. Shirley usually picked the girls up in her Packard and drove them all to the station where they took the train to North Station and then transferred onto the subway. At Downtown Crossing, Mrs. Tuttle liked to spend long hours in Jordan Marsh, Filene’s and Filene’s Basement, lingering at the perfume counters, the jewelry counters and in the lingerie department. Mr. Tuttle didn’t make an awful lot of money so her purchases had to be well-considered and within budget. All the while, she and Alice Lundquist kept up a steady stream of talk. Alice liked to complain about her husband, who, according to her, was just plain cheap and mean. Mrs. Tuttle would listen sympathetically and occasionally put in: “Oh, no, Mr. Tuttle would never say that!” or “Mr. Tuttle knows how to treat a woman. Your Frank should speak to Mr. Tuttle.”

On the ride home that day, Mrs. Tuttle thought about her life with Mr. Tuttle. It was all she dreamed of as a young girl. True, she didn’t marry an orthodontist like Shirley Nordstrom and have her own car, but she did all right with Mr. Tuttle. Their home was modest, but it was clean, well-furnished and modern. They hadn’t bought a television yet, but Mrs. Tuttle had just about everything else she could want. She had a wringer/washing machine, an Electrolux vacuum, a hi fi and a garbage disposer. Most days her clubs kept her busy, and on the weekends she and Mr. Tuttle would get together with either the Hendersons to play bridge or the Colsons to play canasta or the Whites to play Scrabble. Saturday was the day Mr. Tuttle donned his green coveralls and worked in the yard while Mrs. Tuttle tended her flower beds. On Sundays, her sister and brother-in-law came to visit after church, and while she made sandwiches and potato salad with Louise, Mr. Tuttle and Bill liked to sit in the screened-in porch to listen to the ball game and drink Narragansett beer. Sunday nights, Mrs. Tuttle mixed drinks and sat down on the divan next to Mr. Tuttle to listen to Lux Radio Theatre. It was heavenly.

Mrs. Tuttle arrived home very late in the afternoon and made a small supper for herself. She bought a new hat that day and left the box out on purpose so she’d remember to show the hat to Mr. Tuttle. After cleaning up the kitchen, she took the clothes in from the line and folded them. At seven o’clock she tuned into NBC to listen to that new show, The Six Shooter, starring Jimmy Stewart. Later, at eight o’clock, she listened to Gunsmoke on CBS.

After writing a letter to her mother, Mrs. Tuttle retired for the night. She knew Mr. Tuttle would probably be kept at work until quite late and wouldn’t expect her to wait up for him. She made herself comfortable in bed with the new book by Norman Mailer, the one the book club would be discussing next Thursday, and read it for an hour or so. Then at around 10:30 she felt quite drowsy and turned the light off to sleep.

It must have been around two in the morning when a loud sound woke her up. Although she had been dreaming and was still in that funny state of semi-consciousness, Mrs. Tuttle had the distinct impression that an automobile had crashed into her house. It felt almost like a physical blow. She sat up erect in bed and strained her ears to hear more. Nothing. She listened a little longer and finally heard a car door slam.

She clicked on the lamp next to her and saw her husband was not yet in his bed. Could that have been Mr. Tuttle? She called out to him in a timid voice: “Tuttle? Tuttle?”

No reply.

Eventually Mrs. Tuttle summoned her nerve and got out of bed. She put on her robe and slippers and went to the closet to get the baseball bat. The Tuttles didn’t keep a gun, but they had a 32 ounce Georgia Cracker from when Mr. Tuttle was a boy. With the bat gripped firmly in her right hand, Mrs. Tuttle stepped out of the bedroom and padded softly across the length of the house to the door which lead into the converted garage. She put her ear up against it.

Mrs. Tuttle heard the garage’s outside door open and the sound of stumbling footsteps on the linoleum floor. Then she heard the sliding door to the utility closet open and, after a moment, the sudden din created by several large, heavy objects crashing to the ground. Then there was a scrambling noise, like a raccoon foraging madly in a trash barrel, followed by a couple of loud oaths.

“TUTTLE?” she shouted from her side of the door. After a brief pause, she barely heard a small voice from within the room quaver, “Oh no!”

It was unmistakably Mr. Tuttle.

Mrs. Tuttle turned the doorknob and entered the room. It was pitch black inside; Mr. Tuttle hadn’t turned on the lights. She reached over to the light switch and snapped it on.

“Mr. Tuttle!” she exclaimed.

There he was at the utility closet standing in a clutter of junk, his leg hopelessly entangled in a badminton net. He held in his hands a pair of Indian clubs. But that wasn’t what shocked her. Her husband, Mr. Tuttle, the love of her life, was wearing on his head an oversized baby’s bonnet, his white shirt was grimy and smeared with either lipstick or blood, his pants had been replaced by a Scottish kilt and he wore combat boots painted gold.

Mrs. Tuttle was speechless for a moment.

“What is this? What’s happened to you, Tuttle?” she finally demanded, loudly and with a hint of hysteria in her voice.

“Now, my dear, there’s an explanation for this, a perfectly good explanation.”

“For this?”

“It’s not what it seems, Mrs. Tuttle, believe me!”

She paused a moment to fully take in the sight and exclaimed once again, “Mr. Tuttle!” not believing the evidence of her own eyes. She stepped closer to him. His legs appeared so thin and white and his knees were very knobby. Mr. Tuttle was ashamed of his legs and never wore short pants, not even in the hottest weather. And here he was in a kilt!

“What were you doing just now?” she asked.

“Returning these,” said Mr. Tuttle, holding up the Indian clubs.

“And just what were you doing with them?” she pursued.

“That’s a long story, my dear.”

Mrs. Tuttle sniffed the air. “Are you drunk?”

“Not so very.”

So, she thought to herself, you were working late, eh? A lie! This man had the effrontery to lie to her! “I’m ashamed of you, Tuttle!” she said with all the disdain she could put into it. Then after a moment she asked, “Was that the car I heard?”

“That? Oh, yes, it was the car. Regrettable, but easily mended, I think.”

Mrs. Tuttle stomped by him and out the door into the driveway. The streetlight illuminated the scene as a composition of mostly highlights and shadows. At first the car looked all right, but when she inspected the front she found the bumper pushed in like the damaged prow of a boat. Several feet away she saw what had been done to the house. Mr. Tuttle had evidently backed the car away after striking it.

Mr. Tuttle appeared by her side. “It’s really better than it looks,” he assured her.

“But . . . but our car! Our beautiful car!” Mrs. Tuttle said gesturing toward the Studebaker with outspread arms. How many hours had Mr. Tuttle spent washing and waxing the car, and changing the oil and the spark plugs? Then she saw something inside it and instantly let out a piercing scream.

Something very large was in the car. With the light so uncertain it was impossible to tell what it was, but a dark, amorphous shape with black fur appeared to move about in the back seat. “Tuttle!” she shrieked. “In the car! Is it . . . some sort of dog?”

“Shush, shush!” said Mr. Tuttle. “The neighbors!” He tentatively laid his hand our her shoulder. She shrugged it off.

“Tuttle! What is that in that car?”

“If you calm yourself, I’ll tell you. It’s nothing to be frightened of,” said Mr. Tuttle. “Now please, shush. Are you calm now, my dear?”

“Tuttle,” she said in a more even tone, “I demand an answer!”

“That,” said Mr. Tuttle, pointing inside the car, “is a bear. A small, trained circus bear. Very gentle. Quite domesticated. I think you came nearer the truth when you called it a dog.”

Mrs. Tuttle stared at Mr. Tuttle. At first Mr. Tuttle didn’t return her look, but after a half a minute he did. It wasn’t done defiantly, but it certainly seemed unapologetic the way he gazed back at her. They locked eyes like that for a long time, neither one saying a word.

Mrs. Tuttle felt that what was happening was important, a milestone in their marriage. She hadn’t had time yet to reason the whole thing out, but she couldn’t escape the feeling that this event was a crisis masquerading as a comedy, and what she said next would set their relationship on an irrevocable course for either good or ill. Her husband certainly looked absurd. The baby’s bonnet, the lipstick (for she knew now that that was what it was), the kilt, the ludicrous combat boots — how could there be a satisfactory explanation to all this? How could anyone explain a bear in an accountant’s car at two o’clock in the morning?

She looked at him. He looked at her. The bear pawed at the window of the car. Her mouth showed the faintest trace of a smile. So did his.

“Oh, come on to bed, Tuttle,” she said at last. “And take that ridiculous bonnet off your head. I’ll wake you up early so you can return that bear to wherever you got it from.”

She stepped aside to allow Mr. Tuttle to lead the way. As she followed she looked him up and down, not missing a detail, and suppressed a giggle. Mr. Tuttle was her boy all right, she thought with a pang in her heart. Her very big boy.

Circle Logic

2006-08-02T05:28:00.000-07:00

The effervescent Tiff has invited everyone to write a short story about the above picture in 500 words or less. Here’s my humble submission for the Pulitzer committee to consider.

Professor Pi had had a rough day. Things weren’t going very well at all with his government-funded Circle Alignment Project. Perkins over in purchasing mistakenly ordered 50 three-and-a-half foot ovals that morning, and some joker replaced the round pegs with square ones so they wouldn’t fit into the round holes anymore. To crown it all, late that afternoon word reached the Center for Circular Sciences that Doctor Isosceles of the Triangular Think Tank had successfully aligned seven triangles with an margin of error of only one-billionth of an inch; this bested the work of their rival, Professor Quad’s nearly perfect “six squares of straightness.” Professor Pi’s assistant, young Wilkens, delivered the bad news to the professor himself. The esteemed man of science had just settled down to his customary tea and Oreo cookies when Wilkens burst into his office.

“What? Seven? Impossible!” spluttered Professor Pi, upsetting his teacup. “We haven’t done six yet! It’s these damn circles — they keep rolling, never stay put.”

“Professor, I needn’t remind you that the Senate Select Sub-committee on Geometric Shapes makes their recommendation this Thursday.”

“Right you are, Wilkens. As things stand now, Isosceles’ triangle will be a shoo-in. Cancel all your plans, my boy. Our only hope is action!”

The experimental four foot high Velcro circles had shown promise by staying fixed to their receptor bases, but ultimately had to be scrapped because the professor’s carpet slippers kept sticking to the floor and the fuzziness of the circles threw off the measuring instruments. Titanium, copper, steel, and lead were all tried, but as soon as the last circle was put into place, one of the others would start rolling out of line. Throughout the night and well into the following day, Professor Pi and Wilkens labored over the problem of beating Doctor Isosceles and his seven totally trued-up triangles.

At midday the professor and Wilkens took a break at the diner next door. As Pi sat slumped dejectedly over the counter staring glumly at his tuna melt and Coke, he glanced over to see Wilkens about to dunk a chocolate-glazed donut into his coffee. “That’s it, Wilkens!” cried the professor as he seized the donut from his surprised protege. “Back to the lab!”

It was a black day indeed for both Doctor Isosceles and Professor Quad when the news hit. The bold headline type of The Washington Post proclaimed: “Senate Adopts Circle as National Shape!” Then the subhead ran above the professor’s picture: “Professor Pi unveils new design; first man to align eight circles through use of “stabilizing holes”; Nobel Prize considered.”

Yes, by God, the professor did it!

Achieve the Body You’ve Always Dreamed Of!

2006-08-01T05:55:00.000-07:00

Above is a picture taken of me during a break in my annual Martha’s Vineyard bike tour last Saturday. But friends, I’m not here to talk about the ride. Instead, what I want you to do is take a close look at my sculpted physique. What do you see? A finely developed chest, mighty arms pulsing with power, an abdomen as firm as the expression of resolve on my face, a tree trunk-sized neck with veins standing out in stark relief — all in all, an incredible specimen, wouldn’t you say? Well hold onto your hats everybody, because what I have say next will shock you senseless: I achieved all of this without steroids or any other kind of bodybuilding supplement! That’s right: no hydroxycut, xandrine, Met rx, EAS myoplex, whey protein — none of those. And here’s the kicker: I don’t even lift weights!

How did I do it? Over the years I have developed a body sculpting program based on certain exercise principles I call “muscle mass magnifiers.” Just how they work is a mystery even to myself, but you can’t argue with results. And what do I call this unorthodox training regimen? Schprock Hard! That’s right. And now I’m offering the Schprock Hard! workout program to the general public.

If you are at least 18 years old and have a credit card, please use the comment link below to enroll in my intensive 12 week course. After Schprock Hard!, you’ll never walk away from the mirror disappointed again. And for you skeptics, I invite you to check out the picture below of my riding buddy, James T. James has agreed to take my course and allow his progress to be charted. As you can see, there’s a lot of work to be done, but I will guarantee that within 12 weeks those puny biceps and pecs will be ten times the size they are now and absolutely Schprock Hard! So don’t delay! Contact me now so you can have the body you’ve always dreamed of!

Genius? Hero?

2006-07-28T06:01:00.000-07:00

Yesterday at work we had a discussion about the films of M. Night Shyamalan. My contention was that, although the filmmaker has oodles upon oodles of talent and all those comparisons to Hitchcock are justified, maybe, just maybe, it’s time for Shyamalan to stop being such a one-man band and hire on a writer or two to help him out with his next picture. I well understand the great ego-satisfaction one gets from proclaiming, “I did it all myself!” but in this moviegoer’s humble opinion, Lady in the Water would have either (a) been much, much better, or (b) never been made at all, had the gifted auteur submitted to a little collaboration. It still would have been an M. Night Shyamalan movie even though he couldn’t claim he did everything himself, just like Hitchcock movies are Hitchcock movies despite the fact Sir Alfred didn’t write the scripts. Shyamalan could be the idea guy, the vision guy — you know, “story idea by M. Night Shyamalan,” “directed by M. Night Shyamalan,” “catering services provided by M. Night Shyamalan,” “Best Boy: M. Night Shyamalan,” and so on. It would still be his picture.

Then I started wondering who in the cinematic world has been a consistently successful writer/director. I didn’t have to think very long. It’s someone everybody recognizes: Woody Allen.

I can’t recall a single Woody Allen movie I haven’t liked. I love his ideas and I love how he brings them off. The first movie of his I ever saw was Bananas, which was a riot. Annie Hall was a masterpiece, one of the few movies technically a comedy that won Best Picture. He can do any genre you can think of, and, what’s more, they’re never hackneyed or shallow knock-offs, but pictures of quality and depth. I just recently watched Match Point, which I recommend everyone go see. TCM had Broadway Danny Rose on the other day, which was a great little movie. Bullets Over Broadway is a nearly perfect film. Love and Death, Sleeper, A Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy, Play It Again, Sam, and on and on and on. The dude puts out a film a year, he’s a veritable movie-making machine, and they’re all good.

Every now and again I get asked who my hero is. My stock answer for years has been Benjamin Franklin (and someday I’ll get into why). But I might change that to Woody Allen. I believe he’s a genius — and not just a comedic genius either. What do you think?

No Accounting For It

2006-07-26T07:41:00.000-07:00

I am the family accountant. Well, maybe that overstates it slightly — let’s just say I’m the adder and subtracter of family funds. I’m the bill-paying guy with the Radio Shack calculator. Every Sunday I sit down at my little desk and decide who gets their money and who doesn’t. At the end of each month I balance the checkbook, which is an onerous task because we use our check card for everything, so the bank statement, when it arrives, is often confused with the greater metropolitan Boston telephone book. One month the mailman needed a forklift to deliver it. I can’t prove it, but I believe our monthly statement is longer than Santa’s Naughty or Nice list. It’s pretty damn long. But I dutifully hunt down every deposit and expenditure, check them off, and then, at the end, discover how bad my arithmetic has been for the past few weeks.

When we lived at the old house, bill paying was simple. After the first few years, after we finally got past that stage where we were just barely scraping by and I had to work two jobs, after the missus and I had gotten some significant increases in pay and refinanced the house several times, it became “see bill–pay bill.” Every Sunday I sat down, put the bills in front of me and wrote checks out for every one of them. Boom, boom, boom. Done. It was beautiful. Nowadays, with the new house and the rental properties and the added expenses that have cropped up, I’m forced to play this little game where I make note of the amount of the bill, find out when it’s due, and calculate when the nearest Sunday is I can write a check for it without the payment being late. I’ve got one funky escrow account I use to pay the mortgages from and another one for the property tax and homeowner’s insurance. For an absent-minded, former C average math student whose left brain couldn’t punch its way out of a wet paper bag, this can often seem risky and little scary.

But as challenged as I am in the arena of quadratic equations and square roots, I would like to go on record as the man who coined a brand new bean-counting term. Although the Massachusetts Board of Public Accountancy will never recognize my long-repressed and hardly-evident mathematical genius, someday CPAs everywhere will pick up and apply this word. Want to know what it is? See, you know how when you’re adding and subtracting your deposits and expenditures the running tally is usually a number like $457.32 or $893.21? Pretty random, right? But every once in a while, when, say, the tally number is $632.78 and you just entered a purchase you made for a gasoline fill-up at, oh, $259.78, the new tally number becomes $373.00 even. Just zeros to the right of the decimal point. It’s like a little miracle, isn’t it? Well, here’s my name for that: the “square-up.”

So the next time you’re doing your figuring and ciphering in your checkbook and that happens, you just remember old Schprockie’s word for it.

John Lester

2006-07-24T10:22:00.001-07:00

Every time I get a chance to sit down and watch a Red Sox game, John Lester is pitching. I swear it’s unplanned — it just works out that way. With all honesty I can tell you I don’t even know the Sox’s starting rotation — and, by the way, it can be argued that manager Terry Francona doesn’t know either — so it’s not as if I’ve calculated which day Lester starts so I can plant my fanny in front of the TV set just to watch him.

For those who don’t follow the Boston Red Sox (and I would like explanations for why this is from those people apparently lost in hardball wilderness), John Lester is the rookie lefty starter who by happenstance has found himself up in the big leagues at the grand old age of 22. In spring training, the Sox pitching staff was all set, but then things happened, guys got hurt, and suddenly young arms were being called up from the minor league club like bad guy reinforcements in a kung fu movie. Half the Sox pitchers don’t even need to shave yet. And this one kid, John Lester — who looks like he should be delivering papers instead of being written up in them — has actually held his own. He has five victories, no defeats, and a bunch of no decisions — like yesterday.

Here’s the problem with John Lester: he has this habit of getting behind in the count (throwing more balls than strikes to the batter) and waits until there are two runners in scoring position, only one out, and he’s down to the hitter three balls to one strike before he proceeds to wriggle his way out of the jam while taking a coffee break in between every pitch. It drives me bananas! I age a year every time I watch him pitch! Somebody tell that kid to throw strikes!

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Anybody who knows me knows I’m a big M. Night Shyamalan fan (pronounced sha-man-ah-lam-ah-lan-ah-lam-ah-lan-ah-man-oh-man). He almost lost me with The Village, but I managed to hold on and ultimately decided I liked it — I even own the DVD. But after watching Lady in the Water last Friday, all I can say is: Sorry, Night, this time I can’t do it. I can only suspend my disbelief so far and for so long. I’ll patiently wait for your next film.

One movie I saw this weekend which I highly recommend is Match Point, a masterpiece by Woody Allen. People who have seen Crimes and Misdemeanors know Woody is capable of this — in fact, having seen Crimes and Misdemeanors, I wasn’t all that surprised by the ending. It is powerful and beautifully filmed. To those who haven’t seen it, I have this to say: Watch it. Watch it! WATCH IT!

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That’s all I’ve got. Maybe next post I’ll discuss life or the universe or something.

An Arm and a Leg

2006-07-20T05:25:00.000-07:00

In 1999, a human kidney was put up for sale on eBay (as many of you may know, our bodies can get along fine with just one). The bidding was up to 5.7 million before eBay finally put a halt to it. And that makes me wonder…

As with most Americans, the missus and I are in debt up to our eyeballs — that’s right, I said it, “up to our eyeballs.” We own several properties with some pretty hefty mortgages on them, we’ve got one kid in college and another one on the way, we sometimes get a little too casual with our credit cards, we have things breaking down that need fixing, and I’ve got this nasty habit of buying expensive Impressionist paintings for use as decorative place mats. So this leads to my question: just how much is an eyeball worth? I’ve got two. If you ask me, depth perception is way overrated. Could I pay off a couple of mortgages with an eyeball? Or four years of college at least?

What body parts would you be willing to sell and what prices would they bring? Kidneys are the easiest and, as I’ve mentioned, an eyeball makes sense. What about your little toe or the cochlea of your left ear or several feet of intestine? What sort of prices would those fetch? Or how about a lung? Lungs must be worth something. There must be lots of people who would shell out a lot of dough for a lung. My lungs are top notch. I’ve got lung capacity like you wouldn’t believe. Maybe there’s a store out there called Lungworld that deals in lungs and lung-related items. Come on down to Lungworld and see what we’ve got! We’re practically giving them away!

Hmmmm…

Anyway, to continue along in this incredibly morbid vein, here is a very odd thought that struck me this morning as I changed my cat’s litter box. So help me God I really thought this. I wondered if I could, to save the lives of my family, eat dirty kitty litter. Let’s say someone like the Kevin Spacey character from the movie Seven breaks into my house, ties up my family, and makes a deal that if I eat a certain quantity of dirty, stinky kitty litter — you know, the kind with that really pronounced ammonia-urine odor that makes you want to turn your head and go “Whew!” — in a certain period of time, he would release my family unharmed. I honestly don’t know if I could do it. Could you?

Okay, okay, that was weird — the next post will be much nicer, I promise.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

2006-07-18T06:19:00.000-07:00

I took last week off from work so I could spend it on a ladder. Fun, fun. The plan was to scrape and paint the backside of a house and a deck. As it turned out, it rained every day but one. Of course. But I did almost finish the back of the house.

If there’s one thing I hate in this life, it’s scraping paint. If I were condemned to scrape paint for a living — with no other options available to me — I think I’d hammer my own skull in to end it all. It seems there’s always more peeling or loose paint to scrape no matter how long you attack a given area and the job never seems neatly tied up. And awkwardly hanging off of an extension ladder with your body contorted every which way to get to a little spot that stubbornly refuses to yield to the healing touch of your scraper is not my idea of vacation fun. But at least I got plenty of fresh air, right?

The family and I did spend Friday through Sunday at my personal Happiest Place On Earth, the World Fellowship Center in Conway, New Hampshire. I call it “Hippie Camp” because they’re all about peace, love and understanding. It’s pretty rustic there, but the people are friendly and the food is great. I started reading Light in August by William Faulkner while sitting on the big porch that surrounds Lloyd Lodge. Up till now, the only thing by Faulkner I ever read was a short story called A Rose for Emily. His writing style takes a little getting used to, but I’m enjoying it. I like how he plays with the chronology of his tale. It could be that this Faulkner guy is a pretty good writer. I’ll let you know.

The Little House on the Common

2006-07-13T08:43:00.000-07:00

I’m on vacation this week with loads of plans to keep myself busy, but I did have enough idle time to write this “folktale.” I hope everyone enjoys it!

A couple of hundred years ago, in a small town you never heard of, a tiny house no bigger than an ordinary tool shed appeared one morning on the common. When everyone had gone to bed the night before all there had been was a scrubby, nondescript public common, just a place to allow your cow or sheep to graze; yet that morning, as if by magic, an entire small house had evidently sprung up overnight. It was painted in seven or eight bright, fantastic colors which accentuated the intricate wooden scrollwork that danced along its eaves and the many panels of its door. Walking around the little house, you could see it had no windows. As odd a sight as that was, stranger still was the carefully manicured shrubbery that encompassed the colorful structure as if the house had always been there, despite the certainty that it could only have been in that spot for a matter of a few hours.

The widow Marbury, who was always in the habit of waking early and going for long strolls before the rest of the town was up, was the first to discover it. As you can imagine, the tiny house was quite eye-catching, so she had no trouble noticing it. The widow walked right up to the house’s front and read the sign tacked neatly to its door:

Things of value that fit through this door
Carry them in to set on the floor
Dawn will show it worth the trouble
When what you brought has now come double

THREE DAYS!

The old woman wasn’t long in rousing her nephew, Tom, who in turn went straightaway to the mayor’s house and banged on the honorable man’s door perhaps a bit too loudly for the hour. The mayor, still in his nightshirt, listened rather grumpily to what Tom had to say about the mysterious structure, but was finally prevailed upon to dress to come see for himself.

“What can this mean?” asked the mayor, indicating the sign on the door when he and Tom reached the site.

“Why, I think it means what it says, that whatever things of value you place in there will be doubled come morn,” replied Tom.

The mayor took a slow walk around the house, taking in the perfectly new condition, the outlandish colors, and the neatly clipped hedges rooted firmly in the ground. “But Tom, where did all of this come from?”

“Aunt?” inquired Tom of the widow Marbury who was standing nearby. “You saw it first. Have you any idea?”

“Not really, Tom, but there was quite a bit of talk of spirits in the wood when I was a girl. Perhaps it was they who brought it here.”

“Now Hester,” said the mayor reprovingly, “we’ve all heard those stories. But that’s what they are — stories!” Yet, even as the mayor told her that, there was a trace of doubt in his own expression. As we all know, in the face of the unexplained, it’s an easy thing to become susceptible to wild theories.

“Maybe we should ask some of the tradesmen for their opinion?” Tom suggested.

“Good idea, Tom. I’ll wake the carpenter and you rouse the blacksmith and the gardener.”

Tom and the mayor went on their respective errands and returned with the persons whose expert advice might help unravel the mystery. First the blacksmith approached the house and inspected the door hinges and latch. “They are of the finest quality,” he pronounced. “I could do no better myself, and I am the best around.” Next the carpenter took a long, careful scrutiny of the entire structure from the outside. “The craftsmanship is first rate,” he said. “I know of no one — excepting myself of course — capable of producing such work.” Meanwhile the gardener, crawling on his hands and knees, felt the roots of the shrubs. “I’ll be dashed if I can explain it,” he said finally. “I would swear these plants have been here for five or six years!”

“Well,” remarked the mayor, “this exercise has only served to deepen the mystery, not clear it.”

By this hour, most of the town’s inhabitants were up and starting their daily business. Naturally, the sight of the gaily-colored house attracted everyone’s attention and by 9:00 nearly the entire town had gathered around the structure. After the initial shock of seeing such a strange house set in the middle of the common had worn off, what excited the most speculation was the meaning of the sign.

“I understand what the first part means,” said a farmer with a grey beard, “but what’s that bit about three days?”

“Maybe the offer’s only good for that long,” hazarded the dairyman.

“I don’t trust it!” cried the butcher. “We don’t know where it came from or how it got here!”

“Auntie here thinks it came from magical folk,” put in Tom. “She says the woods are full of ’em.”

This shut the butcher up, because he just that moment remembered a two-headed pig he saw as a boy. It would be like magic to happen at odd times like this. A soft murmur went through the crowd. Many others remembered incidences of magic, too. Trudy, the dairymaid, knew that with some cows you have to softly recite the Lord’s Prayer into their ears to make them give milk. Mrs. Slater once saw her dead uncle reading the Bible in her sitting room one night, just as if he were still alive. Even the constable, a sober, cynical man, thought of the rowboat that continued to ply the pond for three nights after its owner, Mr. Marbury, the widow’s husband, died from drowning. His body was never found. It was exactly as if the boat couldn’t rest until it discovered its owner. Finally Marbury’s nephew, Tom, had to capture the boat himself and tow it back in to tie up.

“So what should we do about the house?” someone in the crowd asked. “Should we test what the sign says?”

“Absolutely not!” retorted someone else. “It’s a trick!” A general murmur of assent followed that statement.

On hearing this, the widow Marbury returned to her house, opened the strongbox she kept under a loose floorboard beneath her bed, and extracted from it 60 gold pieces. Before the crowd could disperse she arrived with the gold, showed it to the mayor, and went to open the door of the small house.

“Auntie, don’t!” exclaimed Tom. “That’s just about all you have!”

“Hester!” implored the mayor. “Think about what you’re doing!”

“If what that sign says is true,” said Widow Marbury, “then doubling these coins will give ease and comfort to my old age. I’m willing to take the risk if no one else will.” With that, she threw open the door to reveal a perfectly bare, wooden cabin. She knelt down and placed the gold pieces on the floor as the sign directed. Then she closed the door.

Just as she started to leave, Tom rushed past her and grasped the door handle. “I won’t let you do this, Aunt!” he said. He jerked at the door but it wouldn’t open. “Someone help me!” he entreated after several tries, glancing specifically at the blacksmith as he said it. The brawny smithy strode up, expertly worked the latch and gave the door several good tugs. It was immovable. “I’m sorry, lad, but it will take an axe to get in there now. Are you sure you want to break the door down?”

“Tom,” insisted his aunt, “let me have my way, please!”

So that was how matters stood for the rest of the day. Come daybreak the following morning, a small crowd was seen assembled in front of the house as the first rays of sunlight illumined its bizarre, multicolored front door. Widow Marbury was there, along with Tom, the mayor, the blacksmith, and several other townsfolk. Sounds of astonishment accompanied the discovery of an amendment to the sign revealed by the gathering light — it now read “TWO DAYS!” instead of three.

“It’s witchcraft, plain and simple,” someone said in an awestruck voice.

After a moment’s pause, the mayor said, “It’s sunrise, Hester. Time to give it a try.”

Widow Marbury grasped the handle and the door opened with ease. With the mayor right behind her, she bent down and scooped up a collection of gold coins that lay on the floor, which she then poured into a small sack the mayor had ready for her.

“Let’s go to my office and count them there,” said the mayor, striking off at once to the center of the little town with the crowd following him.

To everyone’s amazement, the neatly arranged stacks of coins on the mayor’s desk tallied to exactly 120, precisely double what the widow placed in the house the preceding day!

News of what happened swept instantly through the little town. Nearly half the inhabitants were ready at that moment to gather anything they possessed of worth to place in the little house on the expectation of doubling their wealth. Yet there were many who suspected a trick of some sort. Most of the people of this second group were older and better educated. Among them were the parson, the judge, and several prosperous merchants.

“You know the old saying,” cautioned the judge to the dairyman, “of how things that appear too good to be true are often just that. Are you willing to risk all you’ve saved and worked for only to lose it all to an elaborate deception?”

The mayor called a special town meeting. First he described to everyone what had happened with the widow Marbury’s gold coins. Then he told them that it appeared the door to the little house could be opened and closed only one time on a given day, so whatever they decided, their actions needed to be well-considered. Finally he drove home the point that their time had dwindled from three days to two.

After the mayor came the parson. He read to the assemblage several passages from the Bible warning of the devil’s deceitful works. He called the little house, appearing as it did in so fanciful and innocuous a way, as a test of faith and righteousness. He exhorted them to not give way to base materialism in the quest of ill-gained riches.

Next spoke the wealthiest merchant in town. He described for the audience every devious trick he and his other brothers in commerce had heard of and fell prey to. “You develop an instinct for these things,” he warned. “Something here isn’t right — I can just smell it! After all, all anyone needed to do was add 60 gold coins to what was in there at the start.”

After the merchant, several other worthies got up before the people and spoke their words of wisdom and admonishment. Finally Tom stood before the crowd.

“What they all say sounds reasonable and true,” he said a bit timorously, being unused to speaking before crowds. “I have an idea. The sign gives us three days. We’ve used one and we have today and tomorrow. Let’s use today to test the house and see what it does.”

“What do you propose, Tom?” asked someone.

“Well, the only thing I have of value is my pig. Everyone knows it — it’s a roan with a big patch of white on its right eye. There’s no other pig like it. I say we put my pig in the house. If two roans come out tomorrow morning, then I think we’ve got something.”

There was general agreement to what Tom said. Many admired him for taking the risk for the sake of the whole town, as everyone knew what an investment a pig was. Nearly every household had one, and sometimes a family would put up with mild privations — or more — for the sake of their pig, knowing what a profit it could bring.

Late that afternoon, Tom laid fresh hay and feed in the house and then led his pig into it. After shutting the door, he checked to see if it would open again, but, as what happened the day before, it wouldn’t budge. The pig was locked in for the night.

Come the following day, a crowd twice the size as that of the previous morning waited in front of the little house for daybreak to arrive. As expected, the sign on the door now read “ONE DAY!” when dawn grew bright enough to read it.

“I think you can open the door now, Tom,” said the mayor.

The door opened with no effort and immediately Tom’s pig came trotting out, grunting and squealing peevishly. A half a minute went by. “Well, where’s the other pig?” asked someone in the crowd. Tom looked hesitantly at the mayor and then, just as he moved to step into the house, another pig, identical to the first, burst out between his legs!

The event caused an absolute furor in the town. Wherever this strange, enchanted house came from, whether from heaven or hell, made by men or crafted by fairies, people were now convinced that what the sign said was true. Everyone dashed home to gather up all their valuables: money, jewelry, things made from precious metals, anything they could get their hands on. The mayor, as excited as the rest but thinking of the public good, had the presence of mind to station four armed guards at the front of the house and, after consulting with the blacksmith and the carpenter, called for another special town meeting to be held at two o’clock that afternoon.

The tenor of this meeting was completely different from that of the preceding day. There were no more words of caution to be heard; the only purpose was to devise a fair and equitable way for all the households in the town to have access to the magical house. After a few opening words, the mayor ceded the floor to the carpenter and blacksmith, who late that morning had spent an hour or so measuring the interior of the house and consulting with each other.

“Obviously,” began the carpenter, “we can only fill half the house. That stands to reason. So here’s the plan the blacksmith and I have devised to fill it. After careful measurement and calculations, we have determined that each household has a right to exactly one cubic foot of space — no more, no less. At this moment, we’re having all our apprentices construct containers for everyone to exactly those dimensions. Each home will get exactly one box to fill as they please. Then, at six o’clock this evening, we’ll systematically load them all into the house, completing the job before sunset. Are we all agreed?”

The carpenter’s and blacksmith’s proposal was carried with unanimous enthusiasm.

As you can imagine, some families in the town were wealthier than others, and, for those people, some hard choices had to be made. Then there were those like the music instructor who had the misfortune of owning valuables too large to fit in her box, such as her piano and harp. And then there were the poor families who had nothing of value to place in their boxes. The richer people went around making deals with the unlucky and the poor to fill the extra space in their boxes, promising them half of their doubled capital. The activity and dealmaking went on at an incredible, frenzied pace. Never had the little town been in such an uproar.

At last six o’clock arrived. The entire population turned out with their boxes laden with valuables. All of the various gems and precious metals were represented; long silver candlesticks were carefully broken in two so they’d fit in the box to be mended later, and gilt picture frames were dismantled so they could go into their boxes. Someone managed to stuff two laying hens in his box. Widow Marbury and Tom agreed to share a box because they had already profited from the little house; even so, they still had space left over for the mayor’s gold cufflinks and and his wife’s silver napkin rings. Perhaps the most common items were small silver eating utensils and hard currency, which used the box space most efficiently. One by one, each box was placed into the house until precisely half of its capacity was filled just as the sun was beginning to set.

“Close it up,” ordered the mayor, and the door to the magical house was sealed and confirmed by the blacksmith to be perfectly locked.

Naturally an armed watch was stationed for the night. At midnight, the guard was relieved by the next shift. The widow Marbury thoughtfully appeared at that time with a tray of tea to aid the men in their wakefulness. And so the long hours of the night wore on.

At daybreak, the townspeople were dismayed to see the all four members of the watch fast asleep at their posts. Some found it a bit disconcerting that the sign which trumpeted the little house’s magical properties no longer hung on its door. The blacksmith tried the latch but it was locked against him despite the sun having risen by this time. Finally the order was given to break the door down.

The carpenter and the mayor were the first to step inside. What they saw was quickly transmitted to the crowd outside. Everything was gone! All the town’s wealth had disappeared!

And so had the widow Marbury and her nephew Tom.

Nothing Beats Technicolor

2006-07-07T07:44:00.000-07:00

Over the past long weekend, Turner Classic Movies presented the two great film masterpieces of 1939: Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz. Both were filmed in an antiquated film color process known as Technicolor, which even today still amazes me with its warmth, richness and almost otherworldly beauty. What is it about Technicolor that makes you feel like you’re dreaming what you’re seeing? You know the costumes, sets and skin tones in real life didn’t actually look that way, but who cares? Compared to the high-tech, digital color of today, Technicolor is like an old oil painting executed by a Renaissance master placed next to a hastily-brushed acrylic knocked off by a Pratt Institute dropout.

It may interest people to know that first color movie probably was done as long ago as 1901 — and I don’t mean “tinted” either, a trick that was used a lot in the silent film era. The problem was you had to break up the colors three ways — red, green and blue — and then align the images on three strips so they’d all work together to look natural. Nothing was very successful or practical until Technicolor came out in the early thirties with its “dye imbibition” system. The studios were initially put off by the expense and extra work involved in this latest evolution of the Technicolor process until the immensely popular Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, the top-grossing film of 1938, made Technicolor seem like a great idea.

I think a wonderful marketing idea today would be to film an entire motion picture in old fashioned Technicolor and play it up big. However, you can understand why cinematographers and studios wouldn’t want to shoot in Technicolor. Beside the expense, Technicolor requires extremely bright lights on the set and extraordinary care in color balancing. But what a look! Can you imagine Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler looking any differently? How about those ruby slippers Dorothy wore? Would the Wicked Witch of the West be the same green? And think how Tom Cruise or Angelina Jolie would look in glorious Technicolor. Folks, if I had my way, we’d all live in a Technicolor world.

Heaven and Hell

2006-07-05T10:06:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, in a faraway village so deeply buried and lost in antiquity that no one will ever know its location, there lived a rich merchant whose wife bore him two sons. They were fraternal twins; meaning, of course, that the two boys were in no way identical. One son had a face of unsurpassed beauty, as if God had mistakenly allowed one of his own angels a mortal existence, while the other son was as ugly as the brother was handsome — indeed, some townspeople believed Satan himself was responsible for the abomination. It was said the midwife, when she delivered the ugly son, shrieked so loudly the neighbor’s pear tree dropped all its fruit at once and every cow in the village stopped giving milk for two months. I don’t know if that is true, but we may trust that the ugly son was exceedingly hideous.

The handsome son was named Heaven and the ugly son was named Hell. On their third birthday, the mayor of the town ordered the merchant and his wife to place veils over the faces of their two offspring when they appeared in public, as there had been several instances of madness caused by the sight of Heaven’s extreme beauty and Hell’s incredible ugliness. Father Rolignio, the parish priest, advised the couple to take the further step of removing all mirrors from their house lest their sons, when they reached the age of reason, should accidentally behold their own countenances and lose their minds. “And I would advise you to not look at them either,” the priest continued, “if you wish to preserve your sanity.”

So the merchant had all the mirrors removed from his house, his wife wove nearly opaque veils to place over their sons’ faces with strict instructions never to remove them, and life went on until the boys reached maturity. Then each began to grow beards which felt very uncomfortable under their veils, giving rise to the problem of how to shave their chins. Although no one had seen either of their faces for well over ten years, it had become an accepted fact that to gaze upon their countenances would cause instant lunacy. So the merchant hired Aggripina, the old blind women whose fingers were said to have eyes, to shave Heaven and Hell every day, as the brothers themselves couldn’t do it without gazing upon their own images in a mirror.

Many people asked Aggripina (who at the time of this story was over 120 years old) if she could describe Heaven and Hell’s looks from how their faces felt. Aggripina said, “Heaven has a strong chin and Hell has a bold nose; but if you wish me to tell you how handsome is the one or how ugly is the other, I have been blind from birth so I don’t know what to call handsome or ugly.” So her questioners went away disappointed.

With their veils on, it was nearly impossible to distinguish Heaven from Hell. They had both grown into fine, strapping lads. Their education had been the same, their manners were impeccable, in athletics they were unrivaled, and every pretty maid in the village counted them both as the highest standard of gallantry and masculine grace. There was even a rumor that Heaven was in fact Hell and vice versa, owing to an accidental switch of identities somewhere in their childhood. The young men of the village envied Heaven and Hell and wished that they themselves had some affectation like a veil covering their faces to attract attention and sympathy.

As the years passed, there was one girl in the village, a maiden of some 17 years named Terraina, who became considered the most beautiful young woman of her time. One village youth who was quite smitten with her — Braggondo the lute player, it was — wrote many long ballads that dwelt upon Terraina’s loveliness. One song focused on her skin, which Braggondo praised as delicate and white as lily petals. Another song rhapsodized about her hair, raven black and falling in many long and shiny tresses, like a mountain waterfall that catches itself on small rocky ledges on its way down. Yet another concentrated on Terraina’s voice, which equaled the lark’s in its musicality. And still others spoke of the sweetness of her breath, the color of her eyes, the whiteness and evenness of her teeth, her grace of movement, and on and on and on.

Although Terraina had many suitors, she fell hopelessly in love with both Heaven and Hell. She couldn’t make up her mind which one she loved more. One day Heaven would rescue a child from being trampled by a coach-and-four and Heaven would own her heart for a while. Then Hell would take first prize in an archery contest and Terraina felt certain that is was Hell, not Heaven, who could make her happy. Heaven and Hell were not insensible to Terraina’s notice of them and this caused a slight rift between these two brothers who had grown up the best of friends. When Hell returned from a hunt, he was sure to offer Terraina’s family the haunches from the boar or stag he had killed; Heaven, not be be outdone and who could expertly paint in oils, executed a portrait of Terraina from memory of so startling a likeness that Terraina pronounced it the very image of herself stolen from the mirror. And so this contest between the two brothers went on for some time.

Everyone in the village knew that this could not continue and that Terraina had to make a choice. The awareness of this gave Terraina many long hours of consternation. Finally she decided that if she had to choose, she would have to choose the handsome brother. But the rumor of Heaven and Hell’s switched identities complicated matters. What if she married Heaven only to find out that he was, in fact, Hell? Terraina needed to know.

One night Terraina visited Aggripina in her cottage. Terraina knew Aggripina couldn’t tell which brother was handsome or which one was ugly, but the old woman was the only one in the village given access Heaven and Hell’s faces. Terraina offered Aggripina forty gold pieces — all she possessed — to allow her to go in the old woman’s stead the next day to shave the brothers. It is very difficult to blame Aggripina for accepting the bargain because in those days forty gold pieces represented a lot of money — you could buy two horses and a cart with that. As part of the exchange, Aggripina loaned Terraina some of her clothing, including a shawl which Terraina could use to obscure her face by wearing it over her head.

The next morning Terraina reported to the merchant’s house disguised as Aggripina. She shuffled slowly and bent over in imitation of the blind woman. The merchant’s servant led Terraina into the customary room where Heaven and Hell sat waiting on their stools.

“Good morning,” said Heaven to whom he supposed was Aggripina.

“Good morning,” replied Terraina in a raspy voice.

“Aggripina,” commented Hell, “you don’t sound like yourself this morning.”

“It is my old complaint, young master,” said Terraina, making her voice sound raspier still, “nothing to trouble yourself about.”

“Yet look at you! You don’t seem nearly so stooped and your movements are almost youthful,” remarked Heaven.

“Young masters, don’t make sport of a poor old woman,” returned Terraina, growing alarmed.

“But I think Heaven is right,” said Hell. “You do seem different this morning, Aggripina.”

“Now, now, lads, enough of this chatter. Heaven, we’ll start with you — lift your veil so I can shave you, there’s a good boy.”

“But Aggripina! See how you grip the razor! You have gone from being left-handed to right-handed!” exclaimed Heaven.

“That is true,” said Hell, “you have always used your left hand to be sure.”

“Ay, lads, the palsy has affected my left hand too much today, so I must shave your chins with my right.”

“And Aggripina,” pursued Heaven without the slightest motion to lift his veil, “why, if I may ask, do you wear your shawl in that way? My brother and I can’t see your face.”

“I am a blind woman, so it matters little how I wear my shawl.”

“Well, well,” said Hell, “we are seeing many changes in our old friend today, are we not, brother?”

“Indeed,” agreed Heaven, “another woman entirely, wouldn’t you say?”

Finally Terraina could stand it no longer. She threw off the shawl and stood erect before them, her soft cheeks overspread with crimson. Heaven and Hell started to laugh, for they were not stupid and had known soon enough that it was really Terraina in Aggripina’s clothes. They laughed and laughed for several long minutes and enjoyed her embarrassment immensely.

“It is all very well for you both to laugh,” said Terraina finally, “but surely you must appreciate the bind that I’m in. It is clear that I must choose one of you.”

“True, true,” said Heaven. “Hell and I have been on tenterhooks for far too long.”

“And yet I have seen neither of your faces. How can you expect a woman to make a choice under such a condition?”

“That’s nothing!” retorted Hell. “Heaven and I can’t recall ever seeing our faces!”

“Well, this is intolerable! It’s not to be borne! I tell you now that I will never make a decision unless you both lift your veils and let me see you!” And with that, Terraina crossed her arms and stomped her pretty little foot and made a stubborn expression that at once impressed the two brothers with her inflexibility on the matter. What were they to do?

Several hours later the same servant who allowed Terraina into his master’s house discovered the three bodies of Terraina, Heaven and Hell lying on the floor of the shaving chamber. The servant, before he went completely out of his head, reported to the merchant that Hell’s expression was one of exquisite bliss, while Heaven’s showed profound horror. Terraina’s expression was enigmatic, yet strangely peaceful. The constable was called in after the two brothers’ faces were safely covered and conjectured the following: that Terraina had somehow inveigled the two brothers to reveal their faces, which lead to her death, and that the brothers, for their part, had incautiously unveiled themselves while facing each other, and so caused their own deaths. The inquest agreed with the constable’s supposition with very little deliberation, and the matter was closed.

In the churchyard, for years and years and years until time had effaced it from the sight of all men, there stood in its center three headstones, those of the two brothers flanking that of the woman they loved. And from that time to this, Terraina has always been remembered as the one who paid the price for coming between Heaven and Hell.

The Everyday Worst Case Scenario Handbook

2006-06-30T08:08:00.000-07:00

A project I recently completed here at work is a spoof of an actual book entitled The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook by Joshua Piven and David Borgenicht. Our client’s version of it was a 24-page, tongue-in-cheek pamphlet designed to help the company’s sales staff overcome presentation nightmares resulting from a host of possible technical glitches. Our client’s spin-off actually contains useful information to help the poor salesperson maintain his calm in the face of computer freezes, power failures, lost internet connections, projector malfunctions and so on.

Anyway, I was given the Piven and Borgenicht book to base my design on and have it here in my hand right now. With this guide, anyone can learn how to escape from quicksand, break into a car and hot-wire it, fend off a shark, wrestle an alligator, take a punch, jump from a building into a Dumpster, leap from a moving car, perform a tracheotomy, deliver a baby in a taxicab, land a plane, survive if your parachute fails to open, etc., etc.

To give you one example, here’s how the authors say you should execute a fast 180 degree turn in your car:

“1. While in drive, or a forward gear, accelerate to a moderate rate of speed (anything faster than forty-five miles per hour risks flipping the car).

“2. Slip the car into neutral to prevent the front wheels from spinning.

“3. Take your foot off the gas and turn the wheel ninety degrees (a quarter turn) while pulling hard on the emergency brake.

“4. As the rear swings around, return the wheel to its original position and put the car back into drive.

“5. Step on the gas to start moving in the direction from which you came.”

Easy, right?

This and the other skills listed in the book are valuable to be sure, but how often in our lives (if at all) will we ever need them? That’s why I think these same two authors should write another book called The Everyday Worst Case Scenario Handbook that covers situations you and I are more likely to run into. For instance, I think we all would welcome advice in cases where you, say, get caught: in a bathroom stall without toilet paper; picking your nose in public; accidentally farting in an elevator; cheating on your spouse; napping on the job; locked outside of your house or apartment naked; mistaking a regular party for a costume party; asking a woman when her baby is due when she isn’t even pregnant; sneezing a messy sneeze with no Kleenex in sight; using your boss’s tie as a napkin while in a drunken stupor; ogling a woman with her jealous husband/boyfriend standing right next to you; or waking up in a jail cell paired with an amorous cellmate nicknamed “Foot Long.”

I have heard that the best thing you can do when caught napping on the job is to straighten up with your eyes still closed and solemnly say, “amen.” For the nose-picking, I suppose the Seinfeld Defense, claiming it was a “rub,” not a “pick,” might be your best option. And for the fart in the elevator scenario, I have a quick story: one time I boarded an elevator just as the only occupant in it left. Upon entering, my sense of smell was immediately pummeled by the unmistakable odor of human-generated methane — obviously the last passenger experienced a profound and regrettable lapse in discretion. As luck would have it, I only traveled two floors up when the elevator stopped to pick up several more passengers. As I was the only one in the cab when they entered, what could I say? We all know the old “he who smelt it, dealt it” rule. A story of how, “yes, I acknowledge the poo poo smell, but it wasn’t me, honest,” would surely be damning. So I think, whether innocent or not, the only thing to be done in that situation is try not to blush.

How would you handle any of the predicaments listed above? Or do you have others you’d care to add?

L'Oeuf Craqué

2006-06-28T06:20:00.000-07:00

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for visiting my blog. Today’s post is truly groundbreaking, for this morning, here on stage at Boston’s famed Hatch Shell, I will perform my blog entry through the magic of interpretive dance. I will describe for you, without words, my breakfast. I entitle it, L'Oeuf Craqué, which is French for “The Cracked Egg.” I will tell my story from the point of view of the egg.

Before I begin, a few words of acknowledgment. I would like to thank Madame Tortue for her weeks of patient instruction — without her, this post would be impossible. I am indeed indebted to Leotard House for my costume and Mister Gigi for styling my hair. I am extremely grateful to James Levine and the Boston Symphony Orchestra — all of them assembled behind me — and the inestimable John Williams for composing the score for L'Oeuf Craqué.

The ostriches for the egg dream sequence were furnished by Buck’s Wild Animal Farm of Nashua, New Hampshire. The trained elephants are on loan from Barnum and Bailey. The howitzers were supplied by the Massachusetts National Guard.

And now — L'Oeuf Craqué.

However, before I begin, I must point out that the use of any kind of recording device, video or audio, is not permitted. I especially object to flash photography for safety reasons. Certainly it would upset the mountain lions in Act III, La Danse des Secoueurs de Sel et Poivre, or “The Dance of the Salt and Pepper Shakers.”

Thank you very much for your kind cooperation.

And finally, ladies and gentlemen, L'Oeuf Craqué.

This dance will be in three acts, by the way. We will begin with Act I, Eau Bouillant, or “Boiling Water.”

Maestro, please.

It may interest the audience to know that I prepared for this by spending an entire day alone in my room with an egg.

I must beg from all of you your undivided attention as I begin L'Oeuf Craqué.

There will be an intermission between the second and third acts.

L'Oeuf Craqué.

Beginning now.

Performance Artist Wrenches Back

(BOSTON) A middle-aged man calling himself Mr. Schprock used the Hatch Shell amphitheater, without city permission, to perform an interpretive dance mystified onlookers believe was called “Loaf Crack.” The slender man, appearing in tight purple leotards and feathered headdress, introduced street musician Willie “Sterno” Williams as the Boston Symphony Orchestra, and claimed two stray dogs sleeping on stage were really trained elephants.

Before police could arrive, Mr. Schprock wrenched his back shortly after beginning his dance and lay spread-eagle on the stage floor.

“He said, ‘my god . . . my god . . . the wretched pain . . . kill me now . . .’” one witness quoted him as saying.

In his rambling introduction, Mr. Schprock called his performance a “groundbreaking blog post,” causing most observers to scratch their heads.

The “artist” is resting comfortably at Massachusetts General Hospital. City officials will likely not press charges.

Politics

2006-06-27T05:46:00.000-07:00

I rarely comment on international politics because I’m invariably ignorant of the details, but this morning I thought I’d say a few things that might be total nonsense or actually have some validity — you be the judge.

Nothing is more complicated than the Israeli-Palestinian situation. From afar, it appears both sides are intractable and drowning in bad blood. The Palestinian people elected a government led by a party whose sole reason for existence is to bring about the extermination of Israel. Now this latest incident involving the murder of two Israeli soldiers and the kidnapping of another threatens to destroy a shaky 16-month long peace. Both sides have had their points and justifications for this excess and that over the years and, yes, there have been injustices and raw deals each can point to.

But for crying out loud, can’t Hamas declare a jihad against corruption in their own government? Can’t aspiring suicide bombers instead sacrifice time and energy, rather than lives, promoting municipal projects? I’d love to see a group of Palestinian youths charge toward irrigation ditches with fanatical expressions on their faces and shovels held high shouting, “Allahu Akbar!” If they need to blow themselves up, why can’t they do it on a hillside to clear the way for a new road to be built?

But of course there’s always the possibility that the next time a poor, deluded, 19-year-old Palestinian lad — with his whole life ahead of him — is convinced into detonating himself in a Tel Aviv marketplace, it will prove the final straw to break the will of Israel. “That’s enough, you win!” the Knesset just might say. “Give us 30 days to move out of the country. We’ll leave the keys on the counter.”

Storytime 2

2006-06-26T06:01:00.000-07:00

Hey everybody, Jason is sponsoring another short fiction contest. The rules are simple: write a story based on the photo above that doesn’t exceed 250 words. It’s loads of fun and everyone should try it. Here’s my entry:

Midnight Call

“You know, Dodson, I believe you,” Duffy was saying. “Me? I don’t think you ever crossed Eddie.” He shifted his bulk in the chair. The man was a mess: sweat-stained collar, fat gut spilling over his trouser tops, pasty complexion. Dodson watched him light another cigarette and inhale the smoke deeply. Duffy looked like a pig trained to walk on two legs. Dodson would have told him so too, but for the duct tape.

“You’re lucky he gave you this chance,” Duffy continued. Then he glanced at the clock, a wind-up Baby Ben. “Uh oh,” he said with a snorting laugh. “Tick, tock, tick, tock.”

Duffy took another long pull from his cigarette and regarded Dodson through squinted eyes. A minute passed. Finally he said, “See those telephone wires outside the window?” Dodson pulled at the chair’s leather restraints to spy a telephone pole pierced through by cables, rigid as a crucifix against a murky sky. “Sound travels very quickly through those things. Dial a number, make a connection, and . . . salvation!” whispering the last word with outspread hands, like a conjurer. “If your friend dials that number.” Pause. “And tells us what you say happened, happened.”

Suddenly the alarm clock shattered the air with its bell. Duffy reached over and cut it off.

Then he picked up the pistol.

“I am truly sorry, Dodson,” he said.

Duffy fired once, a loud, banging shot that momentarily impaired his hearing.

But he heard the telephone ring afterward all the same.

Lost

2006-06-21T12:19:00.000-07:00

John H., coworker and owner/proprietor of Random Squeegee, loaned me his DVDs of season one of Lost a couple of weeks back. I watched the first couple of episodes and thought, “Hmm, entertaining. Not bad.” — but the more I watched, the more hooked I became. Now I’m practically injecting the show into my veins. It often goes a bit over the top and sometimes you say to yourself, “No one would ever do that!” but the series has a way of taking hold of you. I might eventually have to go into rehab to get weaned off of Lost the way they use methadone to treat heroin addicts, only this clinic will expose me to old reruns of Gilligan’s Island to get me clean. However, right now I’m on the junk and I’m loving it.

For those unfamiliar with the show, a passenger jet breaks apart during mid-flight and the people seated in the midsection of the plane land on an uncharted tropical island. There are something like 47 survivors and, as the series continues, you find out that many of them have strange and interesting histories and some of their antecedents are even interconnected. The island itself is tres, tres mysterious. Compasses don’t act normally, you have to watch out for polar bears, there’s some creepy “force” that roams around scaring the bejesus out of people, and the main characters take turns falling into introspective reveries at the drop of a hat. Although I’m still not finished with the first season, I have already encountered The Hatch, The Frenchwoman, The Cable, The Others, and so on — all of them veiled in darkness and secrecy.

But here is something only hinted at: somewhere on the island there must be The Gym. It’s never mentioned, but just about every main character on the show is pretty buff, so it must exist. How did it get there? Why do the characters never speak of it? Why don’t we hear of The Treadmill, or The Nautilus, or The Inclined Sit-Up Bench, or The Chin-Up Bar? Why don’t we ever hear Kate say, “Shut up, Sawyer, I’m going to work out”? Somewhere deep in the bowels of The Gym there must exist The Trainer and The Nutritionist. When will the creators of Lost explain them to us?

A Long Day’s Journey into a Long Day’s Journey

2006-06-20T11:06:00.000-07:00

Previously on The Schprock Report:

********

SCHPROCK: A Father’s Day gift for me, Pumpkin? Will I like it?

DAUGHTER NUMBER 2: Well . . . Depends.

********

CLIENT 1: …and that’s the last of the edits. You can pack this catalog off to the printer now, Schprock.

SCHPROCK: Wow, it’s all done. It’s finally over. On to other things. What a relief!

(sinister music with the shaky violin bow-action in it)

CLIENT 1: Yes, Schprock. This job is completely put to rest. You won’t hear about it again. Absolutely.

(hangs up phone)

SHADOWY CLIENT 2: He doesn’t suspect the printer is incompetent and will ask him a million questions?

CLIENT 1: (gives Shadowy Client 2 a “knowing” look and starts laughing) Ha ha ha!

SHADOWY CLIENT 2: Ha ha ha!

CLIENT 1 AND SHADOWY CLIENT 2 TOGETHER: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

********

And now, The Schprock Report:

I belong to a cycling club that calls itself the Charles River Wheelmen — but don’t let the name fool you: there are Wheelwomen as well. An average tour usually lasts somewhere between 40 to 60 miles, and, on a nice day, as many as 100 hundred cyclists might show up at the starting point. The fitness levels among the participants vary, but generally everyone is in pretty good shape. For me, 45-50 miles is a pretty decent workout. When I go on those 60–65 mile jaunts, I feel like I’m pushing myself a bit. However, last Saturday, I did a very silly thing: I cycled the entire 130 miles from Boston to Provincetown, the town at the very tip of Cape Cod. Oy!

We met at the Gillette Company parking in South Boston at 4:45am. Besides myself there were probably only 20 other cyclists, an indication that this tour might not be for those only moderately in shape. I joined a group of six guys who decided to take the “scenic route” down, which added another 10 miles onto the 120 miles I was expecting. These guys seemed older than me, so I felt safe with them.

Well, it turned out that one of the semi-senior citizens I attached myself to was in reality a bike-pedaling robot. He never rode especially fast, but he never tired, he just kept going and going and going. The first 80 miles I thought were relatively easy, but after encountering a patch of hills some 15 or 20 miles past the Sagamore Bridge, Robocyclist and my usual riding buddy, Doc, kept going while I slowed way down. Way, way down. Waaaaay down.

Then began my grim battle with fatigue, unquenchable thirst, and leg cramps for 50 long miles. Every now and again I’d catch up with Doc and Robocyclist just as they were just finishing up a break and then the punishment began anew after a five minute respite. I carried two water bottles with me and typically drank both of them down within an hour. Our route took us through many residential streets and, as I passed houses with pickup trucks parked in front, I flirted with the idea of asking a truck owner how much he’d charge me for a ride into Provincetown. The worst were the leg cramps. I could feel them coming on and vainly tried to pedal my way through them, but inevitably my calves and thighs would seize up and pedaling became impossible. Have you ever had a major leg cramp? It feels like your whole leg is making a tight fist while being shocked with a thousand volts of electricity. Painful. My only answer was to get off and walk the bike for a while until I felt my muscles had settled down. And, of course, everybody passed me on their bikes while I did that. How humbling, especially when some 20-something young chick asks me if I’m all right as she shoots by on her bike.

I will say this for myself: I made all it the way down — and I know at least one person didn’t. Toward the end, I followed a strategy of coasting whenever possible. And I vowed to myself never, ever would I do this trip again. Never!

Of course, on the 4:00 ferry ride back to Boston (which I just barely made), I was already planning on training extra hard for next year’s Boston to Provincetown tour. They’ll call me the Schprocket Rocket then! Oh yeah!