In my first two years in California, i made one true friend.
A friend you know will be there. You'll always be connected.
I loved you, michael.
And in many ways, hardly knew you.
This is truer of more friendships than we realize. With michael especially, for in the year that i knew him, we spent more time in the living moment than in anecdotal sharing. Fleeting references to the past only...
It can be singularly bittersweet to learn the details of a friend's life, only after they've died. I was enabled in this by his memoir, "The Possible Happiness of Life". The last time we were together, he eagerly gave me the book. He was so happy to have finished it, after years of procrastination.
At a glance, we might have seemed unlikely companions. Me, a roaring rational empiricist. He, a new age spiritualist.
But the areas where we converged were ever more expansive than our divergences. Saving the world, finding the best in humynity, embracing the moment, sensualist exuberance...michael was one of the most huggable people you'd find.
After he died, of natural causes in a friend's chair, his unread book stared at me for months, partly because the spiritual aspects filled me with trepidation, and also because grief has its own agenda. But what a delight it turned out to be, with minimal spiritual ramblings. He approached that part of his life with joy, but perhaps understood that there are some aspects of spirituality that don't lend themselves to words, so one ought not even try (if only all spiritualists could locate such modesty). He never preached, and never stopped being genuinely curious.
The book unfolds in tales of a life...and what a life! A child of ultra-progressive parents, he attended Stanford, the Free University of Berlin, and then Harvard, before dropping out to volunteer for eugene mccarthy. After that, it was environmental activism in northern California and around the globe, an extensive retreat in Kathmandu, and sojourns on the greek island Hydra, where he renovated a 400 year-old ruin. He lived in Berlin before the Wall was completed, in a spiritual nature commune in Sonoma, and in San Francisco as a gay man during the AIDS holocaust.
Throughout, he continually manifested the ethos LIVE - CELEBRATE!
We met as housemates, in a little home in San Pablo, my first California residence. Our flatmates were a rwandan diplomatic student, and an affable fellow plagued by obsessive/compulsive bipolar disorder. At its best, it was a haven for camaraderie and curiosity. At its worst, hellish. Not a bad metaphor for life, i suppose. I became liberated before michael, and returned to help him move out (i helped him move twice his last year). After that, we got together every couple months, for companionship, cuisine, and maybe an episode of Star Trek.
Such a supportive, loving man...who had a romantic/sexual life more active than mine, even in his late seventies. Perhaps like me, he never found the great love of his life...and perhaps like me, he knew that was a silly metric by which to define a life. Yet i don't doubt that, again like me, he might have wished otherwise. At the end of his life, he was beloved by many, yet always as a presence who floated in and out of people's lives. Is he more of a possible mirror for me than i realized?
But life is what it is. All you can do is try to greet each day with integrity and hope.
Some questions, i'll now never be able to ask. Given his compassion for all life, his "zero population growth" advocacy and awareness of the environmental disaster we're visiting upon ourselves by trying to keep billions of humans eating other animals, i'm bufuddled over why he never became vegan.
I was enriched by knowing him, and diminished by his death. He lived a long life almost exactly as he wished, and at the end was as sharp and independent as ever. He died believing death was not the end.
A pretty happy life...and that's nothing at which to sneeze.
Thank you, sweet michael.
I'll always miss you.
Showing posts with label etc. Show all posts
Showing posts with label etc. Show all posts
Thursday, April 16, 2020
Tuesday, March 24, 2020
corona musings
One can't help speculate about the virus-response decision-making at our country's highest levels. I'm sure they considered not declaring a state of emergency, and letting things play out. Millions more might die, but...under the current shut-downs, lost wages and production are prodigious. Businesses are closing, some of which won't open again. The dow jones blahblahblah...well, if you can convince yourself those numbers mean anything, it just means that fairy tales are vital to the humyn psyche.
I'm sure the point was also made at the aforementioned meetings, that the people who would die would mostly be non-productive retirees, a disproportionate drain on the huymn services budget. People with "not much time left". Though a recording of that meeting might leave most queasy, i'm not condemning anyone unsentimental enough to make such assessments. Those in charge have an obligation to consider every aspect. Our government has never represented the interests of the people, but still...it can be a brutally hard job, even if you're only doing it terribly. This time, the more humyn choice was probably made. That sounds hopeful to me.
Or maybe this "state of emergency/shelter in place" is just a concession to the medical industry, to keep them being overwhelmed before we return to "business as usual" in a couple weeks.
And now...the corona comedy!
Before venues closed, i was ready to do this bit: "Did you hear the CDC announcement? It seems that one blood type, O negative, has a natural immunity to corona. And not just that, but anyone who has sex with someone O negative, becomes immune as well. So sharon, antoinette, wendy and karen together, and greg, you're all covered. You can thank me later." A little obvious, i know (i heard another comedian do a less-subtle version, and cringed), but this was for one specific crowd who knew me very well. The humor would have been amplified, because wendy and antoinette's significant others would be in the crowd.
OR...
I'm considering getting a friend, dressing in ties and white shirts, and knocking on doors as the "social-distancing jehovah's witnesses". We would stand not just six feet from the door, but six feet from each other, and try to get people to engage on matters of faith.
OR...
I'm planning, when it gets warm again, to go to the park to do my normal music practice/busking. But instead of sitting by the path with an open case, i'll sit six feet off the path, with a butterfly net extended and a sign saying "CORONA TIPS".
Enjoy your shelter. Do you have someone to love? Then screw you.
Hmph.
I'm sure the point was also made at the aforementioned meetings, that the people who would die would mostly be non-productive retirees, a disproportionate drain on the huymn services budget. People with "not much time left". Though a recording of that meeting might leave most queasy, i'm not condemning anyone unsentimental enough to make such assessments. Those in charge have an obligation to consider every aspect. Our government has never represented the interests of the people, but still...it can be a brutally hard job, even if you're only doing it terribly. This time, the more humyn choice was probably made. That sounds hopeful to me.
Or maybe this "state of emergency/shelter in place" is just a concession to the medical industry, to keep them being overwhelmed before we return to "business as usual" in a couple weeks.
And now...the corona comedy!
Before venues closed, i was ready to do this bit: "Did you hear the CDC announcement? It seems that one blood type, O negative, has a natural immunity to corona. And not just that, but anyone who has sex with someone O negative, becomes immune as well. So sharon, antoinette, wendy and karen together, and greg, you're all covered. You can thank me later." A little obvious, i know (i heard another comedian do a less-subtle version, and cringed), but this was for one specific crowd who knew me very well. The humor would have been amplified, because wendy and antoinette's significant others would be in the crowd.
OR...
I'm considering getting a friend, dressing in ties and white shirts, and knocking on doors as the "social-distancing jehovah's witnesses". We would stand not just six feet from the door, but six feet from each other, and try to get people to engage on matters of faith.
OR...
I'm planning, when it gets warm again, to go to the park to do my normal music practice/busking. But instead of sitting by the path with an open case, i'll sit six feet off the path, with a butterfly net extended and a sign saying "CORONA TIPS".
Enjoy your shelter. Do you have someone to love? Then screw you.
Hmph.
Sunday, August 25, 2019
ken hartman, 1968-2019
My oldest friend died this week.
Or less ambiguously, my longest-running friendship...the past thirty-six years or so. Ken was born two days before me, and we probably met in 8th grade. My oldest friend in the other sense, michael, died earlier this year. After a life remarkably shielded from death, it's been a year of loss - though i've still been shielded, in one sense. When ken and michael and irene and my grandparents died, i was far away.
Ken was the only person i've known well, whom i never saw do or say anything unkind. I don't want to make too huge a deal of that, for it's easy to be loving during good times. I'm sure he had less gentle moments. But still, in this self-absorbed, needy world, kindness like his is...remarkable.
Not that he was a peace-eyed flower child...he was an occasional crankypuss. But lash out? Never.
We became friends in the M.P.C. Youth Club, which i resisted joining because it was churchy and the domain of my "perfect" older sister. My parents forced me, though i refused to be in the yearly play. Did i want to drop out, and was told i could quit after one more year? Maybe. That second year changed my life, though...after being stunned by the acting of an older student, i begged my way into the cast, and was a performer ever after.
By then, ken and i were chummy. I suppose he was like me socially...gratefully (for me, at least) occupying that safe ground between the cool kids and the outcasts. There were a group of us...ken and i, robb wilson, cathy o'brien...the only real friends of my adolescence. We were emotionally stunted of course, being uptight, alienated kids from the suburbs. We never knew how to be emotionally deep, not even in the half-pretentious way common to college dorms. But we shared the kind of friendship that keeps people sane. We spent time at each other's homes, and for me, none moreso than ken's. I was their housesitter when he and his parents went away (with a diabetic cat i had to give injections...imagine!). He was a regular at the pool plunges and volleyball games in my backyard, and we formed a school intramural team, the Fish 2. Many were the evenings spent in his basement, listening to music (he loved King Crimson and Rush, which i didn't get, but we bonded over sting's jazzy stuff, and it was perhaps in that basement i first heard "Kind of Blue"). And movies...do you remember where you were the first time you saw "This Is Spinal Tap"?
The yearly play was our social touchstone. Ken's acting climb was slower...when i got my first lead, he and robb were hairy ishmaelites #2 and 3...witnessing my exuberance, he eventually groused that life wasn't so damned glamorous in the hairy world. Our senior year, he snagged a supporting lead in Bye Bye Birdie and acquitted himself well, though he never should have been asked to sing...somewhere out there, there's a dog still twitching. And his forced extemporization when an actor missed an entrance is the stuff of, um, legend.
In high school, i was in a two-actor short. When a festival beckoned and my partner wasn't available, mr. roche told me to pick an actor and direct it myself. I switched roles, giving my old part to ken. He was agreeably competent, and we had a dandy time.
Our collaboration blossomed after our first year at different colleges. He said we should produce a summer play in the M.P.C. Fellowship Hall - he would direct and produce, and i would star. We did three summers of some of the most wonderful theater of my life. The Odd Couple, The Real Inspector Hound, The Star-Spangled Girl...is it rose-colored vision to say those productions were more brilliant than anyone ought have expected? When i later did professional theater and realized that some amateur shows are better, it was those three i recalled most. The energy, the joy...no actor should want anything more. For our supporting casts, ken was a minimalist director - he picked actors who knew what they were doing, and let them do it (a method that resonated when i became a director). Our sets were delightful, and his publicity spot-on - we played to crowds of 50-150.
Most of all, the process was as wonderful as the product. High-spirited rehearsals, with raids on the kitchen for frozen Cool Whip, and fits of rehearsal giggles that count as the best laughter of my life, while ken drummed his fingers and contemplated throwing water at us...
We parted ways theatrically after that. I went on to roles on many stages. He did Rider College theater and a couple local productions, then his life found its center in marriage and employment, as an education retirement specialist. He once ran a seminar at a school where my mom taught.
For the next twenty-five years, i lived 90 miles away, then 1500, then 3000. He never saw the plays i produced. It would have been fun having him there...so many things i learned, that he had learned first. We'd talk maybe once a year, and i'd see him every two or three. When his multiple sclerosis arrived, he said that The West Wing did NOT get it right.
It's easy to second-guess how you could or should have been a better friend to someone going through dire times. Did i call enough? No. A couple years ago, i mailed him a cd of my songs that i'd recorded with another Youth Club friend. Ken would have adored it, but in his depression, he never listened. When i learned that death was near, i tried to call him everyday for his last week and half, to sing another song i'd written.
Charlie chaplin said that life begins at fifty. Perhaps he meant that that's when you're mostly free of the immaturities, obligations, bad education, and hormones of youth. That resonates with me...at fifty, i feel like my best times creatively and personally are ahead.
Yet now i must try to do what can't be done...come to grips with my same-age friend hitting that black wall.
When i got the call, my heart gripped. I'd held on to a hope that he might bounce back.
There is an emptiness now that will ever remain.
But ken hartman made my life more than it would have been. Those joys and resonances will always inform who i am. In my heart until i die...i love you, ken.
Or less ambiguously, my longest-running friendship...the past thirty-six years or so. Ken was born two days before me, and we probably met in 8th grade. My oldest friend in the other sense, michael, died earlier this year. After a life remarkably shielded from death, it's been a year of loss - though i've still been shielded, in one sense. When ken and michael and irene and my grandparents died, i was far away.
Ken was the only person i've known well, whom i never saw do or say anything unkind. I don't want to make too huge a deal of that, for it's easy to be loving during good times. I'm sure he had less gentle moments. But still, in this self-absorbed, needy world, kindness like his is...remarkable.
Not that he was a peace-eyed flower child...he was an occasional crankypuss. But lash out? Never.
We became friends in the M.P.C. Youth Club, which i resisted joining because it was churchy and the domain of my "perfect" older sister. My parents forced me, though i refused to be in the yearly play. Did i want to drop out, and was told i could quit after one more year? Maybe. That second year changed my life, though...after being stunned by the acting of an older student, i begged my way into the cast, and was a performer ever after.
By then, ken and i were chummy. I suppose he was like me socially...gratefully (for me, at least) occupying that safe ground between the cool kids and the outcasts. There were a group of us...ken and i, robb wilson, cathy o'brien...the only real friends of my adolescence. We were emotionally stunted of course, being uptight, alienated kids from the suburbs. We never knew how to be emotionally deep, not even in the half-pretentious way common to college dorms. But we shared the kind of friendship that keeps people sane. We spent time at each other's homes, and for me, none moreso than ken's. I was their housesitter when he and his parents went away (with a diabetic cat i had to give injections...imagine!). He was a regular at the pool plunges and volleyball games in my backyard, and we formed a school intramural team, the Fish 2. Many were the evenings spent in his basement, listening to music (he loved King Crimson and Rush, which i didn't get, but we bonded over sting's jazzy stuff, and it was perhaps in that basement i first heard "Kind of Blue"). And movies...do you remember where you were the first time you saw "This Is Spinal Tap"?
The yearly play was our social touchstone. Ken's acting climb was slower...when i got my first lead, he and robb were hairy ishmaelites #2 and 3...witnessing my exuberance, he eventually groused that life wasn't so damned glamorous in the hairy world. Our senior year, he snagged a supporting lead in Bye Bye Birdie and acquitted himself well, though he never should have been asked to sing...somewhere out there, there's a dog still twitching. And his forced extemporization when an actor missed an entrance is the stuff of, um, legend.
In high school, i was in a two-actor short. When a festival beckoned and my partner wasn't available, mr. roche told me to pick an actor and direct it myself. I switched roles, giving my old part to ken. He was agreeably competent, and we had a dandy time.
Our collaboration blossomed after our first year at different colleges. He said we should produce a summer play in the M.P.C. Fellowship Hall - he would direct and produce, and i would star. We did three summers of some of the most wonderful theater of my life. The Odd Couple, The Real Inspector Hound, The Star-Spangled Girl...is it rose-colored vision to say those productions were more brilliant than anyone ought have expected? When i later did professional theater and realized that some amateur shows are better, it was those three i recalled most. The energy, the joy...no actor should want anything more. For our supporting casts, ken was a minimalist director - he picked actors who knew what they were doing, and let them do it (a method that resonated when i became a director). Our sets were delightful, and his publicity spot-on - we played to crowds of 50-150.
Most of all, the process was as wonderful as the product. High-spirited rehearsals, with raids on the kitchen for frozen Cool Whip, and fits of rehearsal giggles that count as the best laughter of my life, while ken drummed his fingers and contemplated throwing water at us...
We parted ways theatrically after that. I went on to roles on many stages. He did Rider College theater and a couple local productions, then his life found its center in marriage and employment, as an education retirement specialist. He once ran a seminar at a school where my mom taught.
For the next twenty-five years, i lived 90 miles away, then 1500, then 3000. He never saw the plays i produced. It would have been fun having him there...so many things i learned, that he had learned first. We'd talk maybe once a year, and i'd see him every two or three. When his multiple sclerosis arrived, he said that The West Wing did NOT get it right.
It's easy to second-guess how you could or should have been a better friend to someone going through dire times. Did i call enough? No. A couple years ago, i mailed him a cd of my songs that i'd recorded with another Youth Club friend. Ken would have adored it, but in his depression, he never listened. When i learned that death was near, i tried to call him everyday for his last week and half, to sing another song i'd written.
Charlie chaplin said that life begins at fifty. Perhaps he meant that that's when you're mostly free of the immaturities, obligations, bad education, and hormones of youth. That resonates with me...at fifty, i feel like my best times creatively and personally are ahead.
Yet now i must try to do what can't be done...come to grips with my same-age friend hitting that black wall.
When i got the call, my heart gripped. I'd held on to a hope that he might bounce back.
There is an emptiness now that will ever remain.
But ken hartman made my life more than it would have been. Those joys and resonances will always inform who i am. In my heart until i die...i love you, ken.
Saturday, October 20, 2018
quandary
You're sitting in a park alone, on a beautiful afternoon. Perhaps making a little music for the world.
Someone wanders along and sits. Their energy is light, airy, and thoroughly entranced. They listen to you, chattering and singing with joy.
You quickly realize that their ecstatic state was not facilitated by oxygen alone. They're tripping. You're no pharmacology expert, but you suspect either mushrooms or acid.
They ask for pot, which you give them. But you have no paper or fire. They ask for water, which you give them. This person makes your heart swell, freed as they are from the utter meanness of what we call "normal life". You feel instantly protective, especially as no one else comes along looking for them.
Then the moral quandary begins. They get up and wander away. Should you follow, to make sure they're shepherded and safe? That could take many hours. Surely others will care for her, as you're in the epicenter of the mind-expanding culture, in Golden Gate Park by Hippie Hill?
Well...not necessarily. There is a dark side to that reality, as we're all pretty much incapable of not acting like shit when we come down (and even when we're high, the violence this society teaches us may manifest). There's also a large homeless contingent that calls this green space home. Some of that can be lovely - interactions with people who have a broader, more free perspective. But the homeless are treated horrifically by society, and horrible input will always rebound. There's also mental imbalance. Acts of violence both subtle and gross, are all too common.
To make this quandary more acute, this person is the epitome of predatory vulnerability. A fifteenish female.
What would you do if it were your child?
But following her presents problems. If she's moved on from you in her trip state, your continued presence could become a dark thing to her. You've been meaning for a while to get a new jacket. Your current one, which you got for free, has a dour feel to it, as it's of military color and design. I need a colorful jacket with turtles all over it! I decide that should be the new benchmark for any clothing i wear - something that a tripping person would find happy fun.
If you follow her, you could also invite the ire of those who might react unfavorably to a lone man following a female teenager around. There's so much paranoia in this world...justifiably so, sadly.
You decide that she's in a safe place, in the bright light of day with happy folk around. You continue playing your songs.
A few minutes later, you realize she left a purse and phone. There seems to be a wallet inside. Maybe she'll wander back...
An hour later, she hasn't returned. The shadows are lengthening, and you're feeling ill at ease over what's happened. You shoulder her purse, and set off in the direction she went. You spend the next twenty minutes biking every trail in a half-mile radius, talking to strangers. No one's seen her. A couple of teenagers think i should leave her purse where we were, but that just feels like begging for it to be stolen.
She'd told you that her phone was dead. Should you take her purse home, to search for contact information or get the phone working? A little voice inside you whispers "DON'T GET INVOLVED". If something horrible has happened, and you show up saying "Here's her purse!", all sorts of life-shattering ugliness could befall you. Should you find the nearest police station, to drop off the purse and tell what you know? Being rounded up (or just sought) by the police could turn her trip into a nightmare...if not immediately, then in repercussions from her parents or guardians, who may react harshly. Parental hypocrisy can know no bounds.
Home is nearby, so you go there. You plug in her dead phone, but quickly realize a flaw there - you don't have her password. You open the wallet, but there's only cash and a lone credit card. In retrospect, i didn't even look at the card to see her name. I go back to the phone, and get a break - i find a way to make the most recent calls appear without the password. I see a number with which she had multiple contacts, and call. I'm soon talking to someone who seems to be a housemate. She says that the mother can't come to the phone, as her english is broken, but that someone is coming for the purse. A couple hours later, an uncle arrives. We have a warm chat for five minutes. She's in the hospital being treated for dehydration, but his energy tells me she's fine. I hold back from saying that i knew she was tripping, only saying that she seemed "out of it".
It's funny...the fact that she asked for water tells me that on some level maybe she knew exactly what was happening. And her happy attitude makes me think the trip wasn't accidental. If those things were true, WHY was she alone?
How would i act if it happened again? A friend says i should have called the police...which is probably the most pragmatic path toward insuring her safety and my own irreproachability. But that choice feels a bit inhumyn, to say nothing of the bureaucratic disruption it would bring upon everyone involved, plus the increased anger and blame that might fall upon this teen. Should i have tried to find some teenagers willing to adopt her?
Another day in this strange world of alienation and escapism. There are all sorts of darknesses i'll never be able to protect her from, but i hope her trip had a happy come-down...
Someone wanders along and sits. Their energy is light, airy, and thoroughly entranced. They listen to you, chattering and singing with joy.
You quickly realize that their ecstatic state was not facilitated by oxygen alone. They're tripping. You're no pharmacology expert, but you suspect either mushrooms or acid.
They ask for pot, which you give them. But you have no paper or fire. They ask for water, which you give them. This person makes your heart swell, freed as they are from the utter meanness of what we call "normal life". You feel instantly protective, especially as no one else comes along looking for them.
Then the moral quandary begins. They get up and wander away. Should you follow, to make sure they're shepherded and safe? That could take many hours. Surely others will care for her, as you're in the epicenter of the mind-expanding culture, in Golden Gate Park by Hippie Hill?
Well...not necessarily. There is a dark side to that reality, as we're all pretty much incapable of not acting like shit when we come down (and even when we're high, the violence this society teaches us may manifest). There's also a large homeless contingent that calls this green space home. Some of that can be lovely - interactions with people who have a broader, more free perspective. But the homeless are treated horrifically by society, and horrible input will always rebound. There's also mental imbalance. Acts of violence both subtle and gross, are all too common.
To make this quandary more acute, this person is the epitome of predatory vulnerability. A fifteenish female.
What would you do if it were your child?
But following her presents problems. If she's moved on from you in her trip state, your continued presence could become a dark thing to her. You've been meaning for a while to get a new jacket. Your current one, which you got for free, has a dour feel to it, as it's of military color and design. I need a colorful jacket with turtles all over it! I decide that should be the new benchmark for any clothing i wear - something that a tripping person would find happy fun.
If you follow her, you could also invite the ire of those who might react unfavorably to a lone man following a female teenager around. There's so much paranoia in this world...justifiably so, sadly.
You decide that she's in a safe place, in the bright light of day with happy folk around. You continue playing your songs.
A few minutes later, you realize she left a purse and phone. There seems to be a wallet inside. Maybe she'll wander back...
An hour later, she hasn't returned. The shadows are lengthening, and you're feeling ill at ease over what's happened. You shoulder her purse, and set off in the direction she went. You spend the next twenty minutes biking every trail in a half-mile radius, talking to strangers. No one's seen her. A couple of teenagers think i should leave her purse where we were, but that just feels like begging for it to be stolen.
She'd told you that her phone was dead. Should you take her purse home, to search for contact information or get the phone working? A little voice inside you whispers "DON'T GET INVOLVED". If something horrible has happened, and you show up saying "Here's her purse!", all sorts of life-shattering ugliness could befall you. Should you find the nearest police station, to drop off the purse and tell what you know? Being rounded up (or just sought) by the police could turn her trip into a nightmare...if not immediately, then in repercussions from her parents or guardians, who may react harshly. Parental hypocrisy can know no bounds.
Home is nearby, so you go there. You plug in her dead phone, but quickly realize a flaw there - you don't have her password. You open the wallet, but there's only cash and a lone credit card. In retrospect, i didn't even look at the card to see her name. I go back to the phone, and get a break - i find a way to make the most recent calls appear without the password. I see a number with which she had multiple contacts, and call. I'm soon talking to someone who seems to be a housemate. She says that the mother can't come to the phone, as her english is broken, but that someone is coming for the purse. A couple hours later, an uncle arrives. We have a warm chat for five minutes. She's in the hospital being treated for dehydration, but his energy tells me she's fine. I hold back from saying that i knew she was tripping, only saying that she seemed "out of it".
It's funny...the fact that she asked for water tells me that on some level maybe she knew exactly what was happening. And her happy attitude makes me think the trip wasn't accidental. If those things were true, WHY was she alone?
How would i act if it happened again? A friend says i should have called the police...which is probably the most pragmatic path toward insuring her safety and my own irreproachability. But that choice feels a bit inhumyn, to say nothing of the bureaucratic disruption it would bring upon everyone involved, plus the increased anger and blame that might fall upon this teen. Should i have tried to find some teenagers willing to adopt her?
Another day in this strange world of alienation and escapism. There are all sorts of darknesses i'll never be able to protect her from, but i hope her trip had a happy come-down...
Sunday, June 7, 2015
not i, the jury
Yesterday, i reported for my first jury summons.
Contrary to the prevailing "howyagonnagetoutofit" attitude, i did so gladly. Eagerly would be overstating the case, as i can't say i relished the thought of a weeks-long commitment...so much writing time sacrificed, to say nothing of the ninety minutes it would take to get downtown by bike.
Yet it would be hard to overstate how moved i've always been by the movie TWELVE ANGRY MEN. In theory, there is nobility in our jury system. Of course the reality is far more corrupt, but...
Anyway, gladly i went.
The day started out in a gathering room where i and hundreds of others waited. Most trials are avoided at the eleventh hour, so there was a fair likelihood that few of us would be needed. The shepherd for our begrudging flock was a case lesson in how there are stand-up comedians who don't need a concert hall or cable special to shine. Quips flowed off him like water off a duck's back. All's the more credit, that he could be so enthusiastic and fresh with something he's done hundreds, if not thousands of times.
I sat and read my book for an hour.
Then another.
A group of thirty or so was taken from us.
I read on.
Another group was taken.
I read on.
During the third hour, another group was called...including number 350. Moi.
A bailiff shepherded us through a spinal tapian traverse of corridors and elevators.
Then another waiting area, outside a courtroom. Before long, we were ushered in.
One judge. Two bailiffs. A court reporter. An intern. Three lawyers across from one lawyer. Over the next five hours (including lunch break), forty-five jurists would be whittled down to seven. The only instant antipathy i felt was for the group of three - something a bit hard about them. The only person i felt instant sympathy for was the lone lawyer, who rather fit the cliche of public counsel to a T. A woman of color, underfunded and alone against the world's fat cats. The fact that the other lawyers were white men, only reinforced the image. Did the fact that i found her sexually desirable contribute to my feeling of sympathy? Of course.
The judge displayed a relaxed, almost playful demeanor that did our day's original comedian proud. He was always ready with inspirational quotes, when time needed to be filled. He didn't seem the least bit jaded or cynical.
Or perhaps he was on his best behavior once the room discovered we had a celebrity amongst us, a local TV news anchor doing his civic duty. Is that a cynical thought that is (for once) unjustified? The judge's demeanor seemed entirely unforced throughout. My only fleeting critique of him was that his sunny attitude felt almost inappropriate to the seriousness of the occasion. A man's freedom was at stake. But i veto that critique - the regulars in that room have to deal with stressful, horrible realities day in and day out. Humor is probably the healthiest reaction possible.
And indeed a man's freedom was at stake. I was a little surprised when i learned that the group of three was actually two lawyers and one defendant. I had imagined that we wouldn't know any of the case's specifics until the trial formally began, but here we were being told that this man before us was accused of petty larceny and aggravated assault. A robbery gone bad, resulting in a knifing.
I pondered our current jury selection process. There is something more than a little unsettling about counsel being able to hand-pick a jury. If we go further down that road, we'd allow lawyers to dismiss a judge they don't like. Isn't the truly impartial system one where judge and jury are selected entirely at random? I understand the opposing argument, and agree it has merit...i just don't think we should lose sight of the fact that our current process is like affirmative action - a horrible solution only marginally better than the problem it's trying to fix.
From trial to trial, jury selection occurs with varying degrees of transparency. On this day it would all be out in the open, except for sidebars wherein jurists could share anonymously something they felt was too personal. They would meet with the lawyers at the bench, while a white noise machine went on. This happened at least ten times. We were all given a sheet with a battery of general questions, and stood up, one by one, to give our answers. Name, occupation, residence and duration thereof, family life, relation to any officers, and past involvement with crime (either as victim, perpetrator, or relative of same). The judge made a sympathetic reference to the average person's fear of public speaking, and i got to see that reality play out more directly than i ever had before. There was one potential jurist who responded to a question with a semi-coherent ramble that went on for minutes, completely straying from the original point. When it came my turn to stand and talk (i was first up after lunch break, as it happened), would i be exempt from such stage fright? I had spent much of my life on actual stages, with hardly a quiver. But surprise - the fright got me! I completely forgot to answer the final question - i was going to say that i had one cousin doing time for grand larceny.
Why did i lose my composure, even a little? Was it simply because the context was so very different from theater, or indeed any other public speaking situation i'd experienced? Perhaps. Was it something to do with the one or two almost-brushes i'd had with the legal system, combined with my belief that our system of crime and punishment is hopelessly barbaric (and irredeemably corrupted by money as well)? Perhaps.
The judge's humorous demeanor almost swayed me into injecting comedy into my own speech. I was going to say that i had "no children...as far as i know". When the moment came, i left out the punchline (truthful though it was).
Having plenty of time to think about how i would present myself, the only thing i waffled on was whether i should mention i'd had a police officer uncle killed in the line of duty. It happened when i was so young however, i barely remember him. When the moment came, i mentioned it.
After we'd all had our turn, and answered any questions prompted by our declarations, the defense and prosecution had a chance to pose general questions, asking whether we all understood or agreed with such and such, and inviting any to offer a personal response. I had warmed up to the defense team just a bit...but they never quite lost that mercenary whiff. The younger one could probably sell a lot of used cars if the law thing doesn't work out, and at one point during a sidebar, the older one casually rested his hand on the defendant's back. It somehow felt both sincere, yet entirely planned so as to be visible to all. As for the defendant himself, he didn't strike me one way other the other.
By this time, our group had already been whittled down to twenty or so, with jurists dismissed either for health or scheduling reasons (we'd been informed that the trial might last two or three days). On the lunch break, i was curious as to whether any fellow jurists might offer to dine with me, and if so, what demographic would i attract. I've still got plenty of youthful energy, but my days of being mistaken for a twenty-something are probably behind me. One tries to not think of such things, but in a society so horribly ageist as our own, true equanimity is ever the illusion. It was a couple of twenty-somethings who invited me to join them. A legal clerk who bore a libido-arousing resemblance to anna paquin, plus a male gay hairdresser (i only mention this because it was turning out to be quite the day for walking cliches). We had charming and even somewhat personal conversations as we ate, and made plans to dine together again the following day. As it happened however, none of us would be picked.
Did i even want to be picked? I was struggling with that. The relative brevity of the trial swayed me toward wanting to do it. But something about the nature of the responsibility gave me pause. I tried to put such thoughts out of my mind...
During the group question period, i spoke up in response to a question about how we might react to a case founded on witness testimony, as opposed to forensics or surveillance. I said that i'd be leery about rendering a guilty verdict in such a case, as i was fairly up-to-date on research into the science of memory, which has revealed that human recollection is almost infinitely more fallible than we'd ever thought. Indeed, one of the points i brought up is that some scientists have theorized that there may come a time when witness testimony will no longer even be admissible.
Looking back, those may have been the words that sealed my fate, as it was perhaps last thing the state's attorney wanted to hear. But i felt so strongly about it, that i barely held my tongue when another jurist was questioned on the point, and opined that she thought people might get details wrong, but not the big stuff. Would it have been petty of me to propose that my esteemed colleague was obviously not a devotee of the Discovery Channel?
As we waited in the lobby before final selection, i felt a wave of unease...very much wanting to do my duty, but overtaken by the awareness the i don't believe in our system of punishment. The very notion of imprisonment...putting someone we don't like into a locked cage, not for days, but years? That, dear friends, is the very definition of barbaric. There is no justification for it, other than vengeance and problem-avoidance. And beyond that, the more i come to understand just how horribly broken our society is, how irretrievably damaged we all are before we're old enough to even know what the word "damage" means, the less able i am to stand in judgment over anybody's life. Every sister or brother on this planet is just a fucked up version of my own fucked up self. There are tiny steps we can make toward healing...but cruel retribution has no place therein.
As i sat there, another jurist chatted me up. He was eager to talk about his life, and the trial, and the use of negative space in art...
We were called in.
I had no idea what would happen.
The judge humbly thanked us all again, and called out seven names.
Number 350 was done for the day, and indeed the year.
The judge then invited the dismissed jurors to stay, but no one took him up on it. As we filed out, i was the only one who turned to the final seven, already sworn in. I gave them a little salute, as if to say "Go, brothers and sisters...try to do some good." Wait, the news anchor got picked? Hmph. Obviously they're not choosing based on merit, but on celebrity suck-up. Angling for a flattering news story about the local justice system. Hmph.
As i left the building, i shook hands with my new friend on the courthouse steps. It felt very much like the farewell scene between henry fonda and joseph sweeney...
Contrary to the prevailing "howyagonnagetoutofit" attitude, i did so gladly. Eagerly would be overstating the case, as i can't say i relished the thought of a weeks-long commitment...so much writing time sacrificed, to say nothing of the ninety minutes it would take to get downtown by bike.
Yet it would be hard to overstate how moved i've always been by the movie TWELVE ANGRY MEN. In theory, there is nobility in our jury system. Of course the reality is far more corrupt, but...
Anyway, gladly i went.
The day started out in a gathering room where i and hundreds of others waited. Most trials are avoided at the eleventh hour, so there was a fair likelihood that few of us would be needed. The shepherd for our begrudging flock was a case lesson in how there are stand-up comedians who don't need a concert hall or cable special to shine. Quips flowed off him like water off a duck's back. All's the more credit, that he could be so enthusiastic and fresh with something he's done hundreds, if not thousands of times.
I sat and read my book for an hour.
Then another.
A group of thirty or so was taken from us.
I read on.
Another group was taken.
I read on.
During the third hour, another group was called...including number 350. Moi.
A bailiff shepherded us through a spinal tapian traverse of corridors and elevators.
Then another waiting area, outside a courtroom. Before long, we were ushered in.
One judge. Two bailiffs. A court reporter. An intern. Three lawyers across from one lawyer. Over the next five hours (including lunch break), forty-five jurists would be whittled down to seven. The only instant antipathy i felt was for the group of three - something a bit hard about them. The only person i felt instant sympathy for was the lone lawyer, who rather fit the cliche of public counsel to a T. A woman of color, underfunded and alone against the world's fat cats. The fact that the other lawyers were white men, only reinforced the image. Did the fact that i found her sexually desirable contribute to my feeling of sympathy? Of course.
The judge displayed a relaxed, almost playful demeanor that did our day's original comedian proud. He was always ready with inspirational quotes, when time needed to be filled. He didn't seem the least bit jaded or cynical.
Or perhaps he was on his best behavior once the room discovered we had a celebrity amongst us, a local TV news anchor doing his civic duty. Is that a cynical thought that is (for once) unjustified? The judge's demeanor seemed entirely unforced throughout. My only fleeting critique of him was that his sunny attitude felt almost inappropriate to the seriousness of the occasion. A man's freedom was at stake. But i veto that critique - the regulars in that room have to deal with stressful, horrible realities day in and day out. Humor is probably the healthiest reaction possible.
And indeed a man's freedom was at stake. I was a little surprised when i learned that the group of three was actually two lawyers and one defendant. I had imagined that we wouldn't know any of the case's specifics until the trial formally began, but here we were being told that this man before us was accused of petty larceny and aggravated assault. A robbery gone bad, resulting in a knifing.
I pondered our current jury selection process. There is something more than a little unsettling about counsel being able to hand-pick a jury. If we go further down that road, we'd allow lawyers to dismiss a judge they don't like. Isn't the truly impartial system one where judge and jury are selected entirely at random? I understand the opposing argument, and agree it has merit...i just don't think we should lose sight of the fact that our current process is like affirmative action - a horrible solution only marginally better than the problem it's trying to fix.
From trial to trial, jury selection occurs with varying degrees of transparency. On this day it would all be out in the open, except for sidebars wherein jurists could share anonymously something they felt was too personal. They would meet with the lawyers at the bench, while a white noise machine went on. This happened at least ten times. We were all given a sheet with a battery of general questions, and stood up, one by one, to give our answers. Name, occupation, residence and duration thereof, family life, relation to any officers, and past involvement with crime (either as victim, perpetrator, or relative of same). The judge made a sympathetic reference to the average person's fear of public speaking, and i got to see that reality play out more directly than i ever had before. There was one potential jurist who responded to a question with a semi-coherent ramble that went on for minutes, completely straying from the original point. When it came my turn to stand and talk (i was first up after lunch break, as it happened), would i be exempt from such stage fright? I had spent much of my life on actual stages, with hardly a quiver. But surprise - the fright got me! I completely forgot to answer the final question - i was going to say that i had one cousin doing time for grand larceny.
Why did i lose my composure, even a little? Was it simply because the context was so very different from theater, or indeed any other public speaking situation i'd experienced? Perhaps. Was it something to do with the one or two almost-brushes i'd had with the legal system, combined with my belief that our system of crime and punishment is hopelessly barbaric (and irredeemably corrupted by money as well)? Perhaps.
The judge's humorous demeanor almost swayed me into injecting comedy into my own speech. I was going to say that i had "no children...as far as i know". When the moment came, i left out the punchline (truthful though it was).
Having plenty of time to think about how i would present myself, the only thing i waffled on was whether i should mention i'd had a police officer uncle killed in the line of duty. It happened when i was so young however, i barely remember him. When the moment came, i mentioned it.
After we'd all had our turn, and answered any questions prompted by our declarations, the defense and prosecution had a chance to pose general questions, asking whether we all understood or agreed with such and such, and inviting any to offer a personal response. I had warmed up to the defense team just a bit...but they never quite lost that mercenary whiff. The younger one could probably sell a lot of used cars if the law thing doesn't work out, and at one point during a sidebar, the older one casually rested his hand on the defendant's back. It somehow felt both sincere, yet entirely planned so as to be visible to all. As for the defendant himself, he didn't strike me one way other the other.
By this time, our group had already been whittled down to twenty or so, with jurists dismissed either for health or scheduling reasons (we'd been informed that the trial might last two or three days). On the lunch break, i was curious as to whether any fellow jurists might offer to dine with me, and if so, what demographic would i attract. I've still got plenty of youthful energy, but my days of being mistaken for a twenty-something are probably behind me. One tries to not think of such things, but in a society so horribly ageist as our own, true equanimity is ever the illusion. It was a couple of twenty-somethings who invited me to join them. A legal clerk who bore a libido-arousing resemblance to anna paquin, plus a male gay hairdresser (i only mention this because it was turning out to be quite the day for walking cliches). We had charming and even somewhat personal conversations as we ate, and made plans to dine together again the following day. As it happened however, none of us would be picked.
Did i even want to be picked? I was struggling with that. The relative brevity of the trial swayed me toward wanting to do it. But something about the nature of the responsibility gave me pause. I tried to put such thoughts out of my mind...
During the group question period, i spoke up in response to a question about how we might react to a case founded on witness testimony, as opposed to forensics or surveillance. I said that i'd be leery about rendering a guilty verdict in such a case, as i was fairly up-to-date on research into the science of memory, which has revealed that human recollection is almost infinitely more fallible than we'd ever thought. Indeed, one of the points i brought up is that some scientists have theorized that there may come a time when witness testimony will no longer even be admissible.
Looking back, those may have been the words that sealed my fate, as it was perhaps last thing the state's attorney wanted to hear. But i felt so strongly about it, that i barely held my tongue when another jurist was questioned on the point, and opined that she thought people might get details wrong, but not the big stuff. Would it have been petty of me to propose that my esteemed colleague was obviously not a devotee of the Discovery Channel?
As we waited in the lobby before final selection, i felt a wave of unease...very much wanting to do my duty, but overtaken by the awareness the i don't believe in our system of punishment. The very notion of imprisonment...putting someone we don't like into a locked cage, not for days, but years? That, dear friends, is the very definition of barbaric. There is no justification for it, other than vengeance and problem-avoidance. And beyond that, the more i come to understand just how horribly broken our society is, how irretrievably damaged we all are before we're old enough to even know what the word "damage" means, the less able i am to stand in judgment over anybody's life. Every sister or brother on this planet is just a fucked up version of my own fucked up self. There are tiny steps we can make toward healing...but cruel retribution has no place therein.
As i sat there, another jurist chatted me up. He was eager to talk about his life, and the trial, and the use of negative space in art...
We were called in.
I had no idea what would happen.
The judge humbly thanked us all again, and called out seven names.
Number 350 was done for the day, and indeed the year.
The judge then invited the dismissed jurors to stay, but no one took him up on it. As we filed out, i was the only one who turned to the final seven, already sworn in. I gave them a little salute, as if to say "Go, brothers and sisters...try to do some good." Wait, the news anchor got picked? Hmph. Obviously they're not choosing based on merit, but on celebrity suck-up. Angling for a flattering news story about the local justice system. Hmph.
As i left the building, i shook hands with my new friend on the courthouse steps. It felt very much like the farewell scene between henry fonda and joseph sweeney...
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
confluincidence
Would you believe that before today, i'd never been inside a V.A. hospital?
You would? Fair enough - i'm not surprised myself, considering that i'm not a veteran and haven't been hospitalized since i was a child.
But today...
Are you one of those people who believe that things happen for a reason, and that coincidences are just the universe talking to us?
You aren't? Good, me neither.
But today...
I'm pretty sure that never in my life have i been at the center of so many simultaneous coincidences, all aligning to create one singular effect. Were you inclined to NOT believe in coincidence, you'd have had a field day!
Why was i, a healthy non-vet, in a V.A. hospital? When i dressed and left the house today, i had no idea that's where i was heading. I have a client named woody, for whom i'd been doing handy work. When he called this morning asking me to work, he said he could pick me up, and wondered whether i'd mind making an extra stop, so he could keep a rehab appointment. I told him that was fine, and tossed a book in my pack. When we got there, i quickly realized it was a veteran's hospital. Approaching the entrance, i suddenly became self-conscious of my appearance. I wore heavy boots. Military issue shorts. An army green T-shirt, with military-style lettering. And just two weeks before, i'd buzzed all my hair off.
In other words, had you asked me ten years ago to "look like a soldier" when i left my house on this particular date, i could hardly have fulfilled that request any more toe-to-toply than what i happened to look like today.
Nor was the timing of my shearing the only coincidence. Given my pacifist leanings, on my own i'd never have been wearing camo shorts. But the leader of the NYC moving company i'd worked for had a military fetish. He instilled that into our company's language and appearance. I'm not one to throw away good clothing just because the reason i got it no longer pertains, so...
Before washing, i often get two wearings out of a work shirt. I had originally put on a grey automobile shirt this morning, but then i looked at my little pile of work shirts, and realized that it made more sense to wear a green one, as i have two of them, and if i didn't wear one today, i chanced later on looking like i'd been wearing the same shirt four days in a row.
And yet another shirt coincidence. When i was dressing, i completely forgot about the work shirt i'd already worn once, hanging on a hook - a white john lennon shirt.
So there i was, in army green.
But this shirt had lettering, remember? My self-consciousness suddenly jumped to another level of discomfort, as i remembered what my shirt said - "GO ROGUE: TRY PEACE".
My first wave of self-consciousness was over the fact that people were about to assume i'd been a soldier, and treat me accordingly. If addressed, i wasn't one to lie about such things, so i realized i might soon be facing the suspicious looks of people who wondered why i would impersonate a vet. My second wave of self-consciousness was over the message on my shirt. It was no longer a question of just being a dishonest weirdo - my hippiesque shirt might be insulting to some who had suffered in the service of this country.
Might this even get ugly?
It didn't occur to me to turn my shirt inside out. In a world where integrity gets kicked in the ass every day of our lives, i try to live by the words "be who you are". I try. So here are my chips, i thought. Let 'em fall. I didn't intend this, but won't run from it.
Would i feel comfortable, alone among military faces? Had my life's politics imbued in me an inescapably adversarial attitude toward anything military? I hoped not. Just don't ask me whether i "support the troops". I'm sure there was a good intent coming from whomever first coined that phrase, but like so many things, it quickly devolved into some bullshit litmus magnet for small minds, which carefully avoids the deeper issues. Do i love every sister, brother, grandparent, and child on this planet, regardless of where they've been and what they've done? Yes. Please don't ask whether i support the troops.
As my friend disappeared into the offices, i took a seat in the enormous lobby. I got my book out, but over the next forty minutes kept looking up into passing people's eyes. I was so curious, i almost put the book away entirely.
At first, i saw a lot of what i'd expected - harsh, severe faces reminiscent of my father's, a veteran with whom i'd had a contentious relationship since infancy. As i relaxed into the situation though, i found a few eyes less cold. Was it because my appearance marked me as one of them? How many had eyesight sharp enough to process the message on my shirt at a glance, given that some were ten feet away?
One of my conceits is that i fancy i could walk into any group of humans, and be completely at ease. It's easy to not draw attention to yourself, once you know the secret of looking like you're exactly where you're supposed to be (or even just actually feeling that). There's a big whiff of bullshit in that conceit, though. If i walked into a radical feminist office, a mosque, or an all-black bar, my centeredness might crumble nine times out of ten.
And then i finally got a look that i knew would stay with me, long after all others had been forgotten. A large, lean man walked past, looking like a bad-ass cliche. Big boots, military pants, a marine cap covering short hair...but this was no martinet or automaton. His bushy mustache made him look like he lived on a chopper. He'd probably had a distinguished service career, but if he'd been offered promotion to officer, he'd turned it down.
He and i would have gotten along great for a time, until my pacifist babble or his treatment of women (or whatever) drove us apart.
All of that may be utter crapola, of course. This person may have been none of those things. But whoever he was, he looked me in the eyes with a disarming directness not one stranger in a hundred can muster.
He nodded, and looked at me like he knew me.
Later, talking with my friend, i learned that my anti-war shirt might actually have endeared me to many of the vets. That was something i'd probably been aware of in the abstract...but when thrown into a situation like that, particularly when you're representing yourself in a way you didn't intend, your mind becomes a mix of assumptions you're trying to get rid of, and ones you know you can't.
If my friend had told me where we were going...
If i hadn't worked for that moving company...
If i hadn't had my once-a-year haircut...
If i hadn't replaced the first shirt i put on...
If i hadn't missed that once-worn shirt...
I'm not saying you should be impressed by these coincidences. I'm certainly not.
So was the friendliness of that unforgettable stranger a factor of seeing my shirt's message...or of not seeing it? Or neither?
I don't know.
Wouldn't it be nice if all writers ended their work with those three words?
You would? Fair enough - i'm not surprised myself, considering that i'm not a veteran and haven't been hospitalized since i was a child.
But today...
Are you one of those people who believe that things happen for a reason, and that coincidences are just the universe talking to us?
You aren't? Good, me neither.
But today...
I'm pretty sure that never in my life have i been at the center of so many simultaneous coincidences, all aligning to create one singular effect. Were you inclined to NOT believe in coincidence, you'd have had a field day!
Why was i, a healthy non-vet, in a V.A. hospital? When i dressed and left the house today, i had no idea that's where i was heading. I have a client named woody, for whom i'd been doing handy work. When he called this morning asking me to work, he said he could pick me up, and wondered whether i'd mind making an extra stop, so he could keep a rehab appointment. I told him that was fine, and tossed a book in my pack. When we got there, i quickly realized it was a veteran's hospital. Approaching the entrance, i suddenly became self-conscious of my appearance. I wore heavy boots. Military issue shorts. An army green T-shirt, with military-style lettering. And just two weeks before, i'd buzzed all my hair off.
In other words, had you asked me ten years ago to "look like a soldier" when i left my house on this particular date, i could hardly have fulfilled that request any more toe-to-toply than what i happened to look like today.
Nor was the timing of my shearing the only coincidence. Given my pacifist leanings, on my own i'd never have been wearing camo shorts. But the leader of the NYC moving company i'd worked for had a military fetish. He instilled that into our company's language and appearance. I'm not one to throw away good clothing just because the reason i got it no longer pertains, so...
Before washing, i often get two wearings out of a work shirt. I had originally put on a grey automobile shirt this morning, but then i looked at my little pile of work shirts, and realized that it made more sense to wear a green one, as i have two of them, and if i didn't wear one today, i chanced later on looking like i'd been wearing the same shirt four days in a row.
And yet another shirt coincidence. When i was dressing, i completely forgot about the work shirt i'd already worn once, hanging on a hook - a white john lennon shirt.
So there i was, in army green.
But this shirt had lettering, remember? My self-consciousness suddenly jumped to another level of discomfort, as i remembered what my shirt said - "GO ROGUE: TRY PEACE".
My first wave of self-consciousness was over the fact that people were about to assume i'd been a soldier, and treat me accordingly. If addressed, i wasn't one to lie about such things, so i realized i might soon be facing the suspicious looks of people who wondered why i would impersonate a vet. My second wave of self-consciousness was over the message on my shirt. It was no longer a question of just being a dishonest weirdo - my hippiesque shirt might be insulting to some who had suffered in the service of this country.
Might this even get ugly?
It didn't occur to me to turn my shirt inside out. In a world where integrity gets kicked in the ass every day of our lives, i try to live by the words "be who you are". I try. So here are my chips, i thought. Let 'em fall. I didn't intend this, but won't run from it.
Would i feel comfortable, alone among military faces? Had my life's politics imbued in me an inescapably adversarial attitude toward anything military? I hoped not. Just don't ask me whether i "support the troops". I'm sure there was a good intent coming from whomever first coined that phrase, but like so many things, it quickly devolved into some bullshit litmus magnet for small minds, which carefully avoids the deeper issues. Do i love every sister, brother, grandparent, and child on this planet, regardless of where they've been and what they've done? Yes. Please don't ask whether i support the troops.
As my friend disappeared into the offices, i took a seat in the enormous lobby. I got my book out, but over the next forty minutes kept looking up into passing people's eyes. I was so curious, i almost put the book away entirely.
At first, i saw a lot of what i'd expected - harsh, severe faces reminiscent of my father's, a veteran with whom i'd had a contentious relationship since infancy. As i relaxed into the situation though, i found a few eyes less cold. Was it because my appearance marked me as one of them? How many had eyesight sharp enough to process the message on my shirt at a glance, given that some were ten feet away?
One of my conceits is that i fancy i could walk into any group of humans, and be completely at ease. It's easy to not draw attention to yourself, once you know the secret of looking like you're exactly where you're supposed to be (or even just actually feeling that). There's a big whiff of bullshit in that conceit, though. If i walked into a radical feminist office, a mosque, or an all-black bar, my centeredness might crumble nine times out of ten.
And then i finally got a look that i knew would stay with me, long after all others had been forgotten. A large, lean man walked past, looking like a bad-ass cliche. Big boots, military pants, a marine cap covering short hair...but this was no martinet or automaton. His bushy mustache made him look like he lived on a chopper. He'd probably had a distinguished service career, but if he'd been offered promotion to officer, he'd turned it down.
He and i would have gotten along great for a time, until my pacifist babble or his treatment of women (or whatever) drove us apart.
All of that may be utter crapola, of course. This person may have been none of those things. But whoever he was, he looked me in the eyes with a disarming directness not one stranger in a hundred can muster.
He nodded, and looked at me like he knew me.
Later, talking with my friend, i learned that my anti-war shirt might actually have endeared me to many of the vets. That was something i'd probably been aware of in the abstract...but when thrown into a situation like that, particularly when you're representing yourself in a way you didn't intend, your mind becomes a mix of assumptions you're trying to get rid of, and ones you know you can't.
If my friend had told me where we were going...
If i hadn't worked for that moving company...
If i hadn't had my once-a-year haircut...
If i hadn't replaced the first shirt i put on...
If i hadn't missed that once-worn shirt...
I'm not saying you should be impressed by these coincidences. I'm certainly not.
So was the friendliness of that unforgettable stranger a factor of seeing my shirt's message...or of not seeing it? Or neither?
I don't know.
Wouldn't it be nice if all writers ended their work with those three words?
Monday, September 23, 2013
aphorism
"You get out of a relationship what you put into it"
Ah, words of wisdom. Aphorism. Succinct sayings we turn to in moments of bemusement or bemoanment. They reveal life's mysteries, truths, and follies.
Or maybe they're just pretentious prattle we cling to, to make life bearable. A feeble attempt to make sense out of senselessness.
Perhaps they're even both.
Whoops. I came dangerously close to coining an aphorism there myself. Since that's not my intent, let's move to the business at hand. Aphorism #1, come on down! Let's hold you up to the light, take a little nibble, cup your balls, and find out what you're made of.
"You get out of a relationship what you put into it."
Very pretty words. Very, very pretty...
And pretty stupid.
Perhaps those words might have merit in a healthy world, where people knew how to share and love. Where people didn't live in a crippled haze of fear and insecurity, never knowing whether their most basic needs (food, love, shelter, sex) will be met, never knowing if they suddenly won't be good enough, smart enough, strong enough, young enough, desirable enough, or fortunate enough.
But in this world, you can pretty much count on hardly ever getting out of a relationship what you put into it. The selfishness around us (and in us) runs too deep. We spend our lives chasing our needs, walking on thin ice above chasms of despair. Equality is the exception, not the rule. We embed inequality into the very structures of our social institutions...bosses and subordinates, pecking orders...elaborate justifications for the ultimate payoff, "I get to tell YOU what to do." Just a generation or two ago, our primary social institution (marriage) was the ultimate realization of that ethos.
We live in need of what others can give us, trying to maximize what we can get, so to keep away the demons of want. With everybody trying to maximize, nobody's trying to give. We learn the value of having people around who need us more than we need them. They always come through, pretty much whatever we do. But we also find ourselves chasing those who embody our own dreams of love, security, or vanity. These others, however, know where they stand.
Deep down, everyone knows where they stand.
What we learn as children on the playground is not how to act, but how to appear. Kindly and compromising.
But somewhere deep inside, every littlest child absorbs the truth of this world.
The law of the predator.
This aphorism has a close cousin, "You get out of life what you put into it". That's even more patently stupid than the first! Perhaps you're one of the lucky few, living a life sheltered from this world's more overt inhumanities and horrors. But brutality's reign on this planet is a long, long way from over. Starvation, war, rape, torture, homicide, genocide, patricide, infanticide, suicide, celibacy, monogamy, exploitation, racism, speciesism, sexism, classism. Are "good people" rewarded fairly in this world? That's a notion so preposterous i won't even insult your intelligence by listing the litany of ways they're not.
Perhaps a more realistic version of the aphorism is "You can't expect to get more out of a relationship than what you put in"?
No, that's actually EXACTLY what you can expect.
Or less. Far less. That's a fair expectation, too.
Perhaps the only realistic version is "You shouldn't expect to get more out of a relationship than you put in". But that's so watered-down, it amounts to little more than passive-aggressive finger wagging.
Next?
Ah, words of wisdom. Aphorism. Succinct sayings we turn to in moments of bemusement or bemoanment. They reveal life's mysteries, truths, and follies.
Or maybe they're just pretentious prattle we cling to, to make life bearable. A feeble attempt to make sense out of senselessness.
Perhaps they're even both.
Whoops. I came dangerously close to coining an aphorism there myself. Since that's not my intent, let's move to the business at hand. Aphorism #1, come on down! Let's hold you up to the light, take a little nibble, cup your balls, and find out what you're made of.
"You get out of a relationship what you put into it."
Very pretty words. Very, very pretty...
And pretty stupid.
Perhaps those words might have merit in a healthy world, where people knew how to share and love. Where people didn't live in a crippled haze of fear and insecurity, never knowing whether their most basic needs (food, love, shelter, sex) will be met, never knowing if they suddenly won't be good enough, smart enough, strong enough, young enough, desirable enough, or fortunate enough.
But in this world, you can pretty much count on hardly ever getting out of a relationship what you put into it. The selfishness around us (and in us) runs too deep. We spend our lives chasing our needs, walking on thin ice above chasms of despair. Equality is the exception, not the rule. We embed inequality into the very structures of our social institutions...bosses and subordinates, pecking orders...elaborate justifications for the ultimate payoff, "I get to tell YOU what to do." Just a generation or two ago, our primary social institution (marriage) was the ultimate realization of that ethos.
We live in need of what others can give us, trying to maximize what we can get, so to keep away the demons of want. With everybody trying to maximize, nobody's trying to give. We learn the value of having people around who need us more than we need them. They always come through, pretty much whatever we do. But we also find ourselves chasing those who embody our own dreams of love, security, or vanity. These others, however, know where they stand.
Deep down, everyone knows where they stand.
What we learn as children on the playground is not how to act, but how to appear. Kindly and compromising.
But somewhere deep inside, every littlest child absorbs the truth of this world.
The law of the predator.
This aphorism has a close cousin, "You get out of life what you put into it". That's even more patently stupid than the first! Perhaps you're one of the lucky few, living a life sheltered from this world's more overt inhumanities and horrors. But brutality's reign on this planet is a long, long way from over. Starvation, war, rape, torture, homicide, genocide, patricide, infanticide, suicide, celibacy, monogamy, exploitation, racism, speciesism, sexism, classism. Are "good people" rewarded fairly in this world? That's a notion so preposterous i won't even insult your intelligence by listing the litany of ways they're not.
Perhaps a more realistic version of the aphorism is "You can't expect to get more out of a relationship than what you put in"?
No, that's actually EXACTLY what you can expect.
Or less. Far less. That's a fair expectation, too.
Perhaps the only realistic version is "You shouldn't expect to get more out of a relationship than you put in". But that's so watered-down, it amounts to little more than passive-aggressive finger wagging.
Next?
Saturday, August 27, 2011
category 1
(i write this in my basement apartment, awaiting the arrival of the second hurricane of my life, thinking about the first...)
I lived on the Gulf coast of Florida for the better part of a decade. The Gulf is less storm-prone than the Atlantic. But a big one, at least category 2, was bearing down on us that year. The county went into "save your ass" mode, evacuating the lowland areas. My Iona home with my grandmother was low, so we loaded up the car and headed across town to Aunt Joyce, who greeted us with love and food. She'd made "hurricane cookies", enormous toll house creations that were chewy and carmelized, with a flat hurricane-eye center. A few hours and games later, the incoming storm was downgraded to category 1. I mulled this over, disappointed. I'd been expecting an event i'd remember for a lifetime. I'd been ready for a little heroism, even.
And now...category 1.
Ah well. At least i'm having fun in the company of loved ones.
But as the situation percolated in my craw, i decided i was going to make some metaphorical lemonade.
Not even i would be foolish enough to flaunt an evacuation warning for category 2. But...
I said goodbye, and drove across town to Bunche Beach. I parked, took my shirt and shoes off, and walked to the water's edge. There was no sign of any other life as far as the eye could see. A couple miles offshore, i could see the storm. It looked very dense. I walked into the water.
When it was up to my waist, i stopped. The storm was now a mile away, and the enormity of it was starting to register. It extended south, further than my vision could take in.
I waited.
A mild rain started falling. If you've never been in a body of water during a rainstorm, you're missing one of life's most indescribably beautiful experiences.
The storm was now a couple hundred yards away. All it looked like at this point was a wall, inexorably moving toward me. There was an enormity to it, a sense of forces that were greater than life, but there was also a feeling of gentleness and peace.
I waited.
Moving at about two feet per second, the wall continued.
Ten feet away, it hadn't lost its wall-like appearance...if anything, the opposite.
I took a breath...
And the wall enveloped me.
If i've ever felt more alive than in that moment, i can't imagine when. The force of the water was so intense, that had there been someone standing next to me, we never could have heard each other speak. I laughed and shouted into the universe.
I stood there until the torrent began to lessen. I splashed around for a bit, then walked back to my car.
Somewhere, there was a hurricane cookie with my name on it.
(And now life repeats itself, as once again an incoming hurricane has been downgraded to category 1. This time i'm a denizen of New York City. It doesn't occur to me to go to the beach, as the necessary public transit has been shut down, and for some reason [perhaps a touch of Gulf coast snobbery], i've never bonded with the beach in my eight years here. Only been to Coney Island once, and that was little more than passing through. Perhaps this summer i'll amend that.)
I lived on the Gulf coast of Florida for the better part of a decade. The Gulf is less storm-prone than the Atlantic. But a big one, at least category 2, was bearing down on us that year. The county went into "save your ass" mode, evacuating the lowland areas. My Iona home with my grandmother was low, so we loaded up the car and headed across town to Aunt Joyce, who greeted us with love and food. She'd made "hurricane cookies", enormous toll house creations that were chewy and carmelized, with a flat hurricane-eye center. A few hours and games later, the incoming storm was downgraded to category 1. I mulled this over, disappointed. I'd been expecting an event i'd remember for a lifetime. I'd been ready for a little heroism, even.
And now...category 1.
Ah well. At least i'm having fun in the company of loved ones.
But as the situation percolated in my craw, i decided i was going to make some metaphorical lemonade.
Not even i would be foolish enough to flaunt an evacuation warning for category 2. But...
I said goodbye, and drove across town to Bunche Beach. I parked, took my shirt and shoes off, and walked to the water's edge. There was no sign of any other life as far as the eye could see. A couple miles offshore, i could see the storm. It looked very dense. I walked into the water.
When it was up to my waist, i stopped. The storm was now a mile away, and the enormity of it was starting to register. It extended south, further than my vision could take in.
I waited.
A mild rain started falling. If you've never been in a body of water during a rainstorm, you're missing one of life's most indescribably beautiful experiences.
The storm was now a couple hundred yards away. All it looked like at this point was a wall, inexorably moving toward me. There was an enormity to it, a sense of forces that were greater than life, but there was also a feeling of gentleness and peace.
I waited.
Moving at about two feet per second, the wall continued.
Ten feet away, it hadn't lost its wall-like appearance...if anything, the opposite.
I took a breath...
And the wall enveloped me.
If i've ever felt more alive than in that moment, i can't imagine when. The force of the water was so intense, that had there been someone standing next to me, we never could have heard each other speak. I laughed and shouted into the universe.
I stood there until the torrent began to lessen. I splashed around for a bit, then walked back to my car.
Somewhere, there was a hurricane cookie with my name on it.
(And now life repeats itself, as once again an incoming hurricane has been downgraded to category 1. This time i'm a denizen of New York City. It doesn't occur to me to go to the beach, as the necessary public transit has been shut down, and for some reason [perhaps a touch of Gulf coast snobbery], i've never bonded with the beach in my eight years here. Only been to Coney Island once, and that was little more than passing through. Perhaps this summer i'll amend that.)
Saturday, August 20, 2011
good intentions
To what extent does having good intentions absolve one from culpability for the consequences?
I've found myself on different sides of this question.
A couple years ago, i made a comment to a lover that ended our relationship. She was telling me about how she'd lived through hardships, and i said that i had seen that in her face when we first met. Not just in her eyes, but in her skin, she had the look of someone who had survived alcoholism, or some such. One of my friends noticed it too. A couple weeks later, she said it was the most hurtful thing anyone had ever told her. I was stunned, and tried to assure her that my intentions had been nothing but gentle and loving. I was just agreeing with a point she was making. This was a woman who had experienced far more than her share of positive reinforcement in her life, concerning her looks. You might think that would have made her secure in her beauty...or perhaps you're not surprised it made her profoundly insecure in the other direction. I don't think my comment was the reason the relationship ended, though. The imbalances between us had already been there, and maybe she subconsciously needed something to grasp on whereby SHE could end the romance, thereby avoiding the possibility of rejection, a demon she had long grappled with.
Anyway...
There's a part of me that has long felt that intention is more important than effect. An understandable reaction to living in this world, where people generally take wayyyy too many things personally...because this is a society which fosters insecurity, rather than its opposite. Trying to anticipate the million and three ways that anyone might take something the wrong way is such a daunting task, that very often the only sensible thing to do is tend your own garden, be pure with your own intent. On the other side, of the 100 things the average person will take personally this week (or this day, or this hour), 99 of them should be ignored. Didn't get that job? Mom never liked you best? The popcorn server gave your friend an extra squirt of imitation buttery goodness, but not you? Do not take ANY OF THAT personally. It ain't about you.
Except that 100th thing. Get your shit together on that, willya?
But intention isn't everything, and it took a recent interaction with my Mom to remind me. She generally loves me, and wants happiness for me. But she's stuck in a rut where she wants HER definition of happiness for me, not mine. She frequently hammers me about getting published. She does it in a fairly gentle way, and with the best of intentions. But she knows that my definition of success is different from hers. At what point do her good intentions become irrelevant? At what point does she need to take responsibility for behavior which is controlling and hurtful? It's doubly tough to understand, when the mother i knew as a youth was so loving and accepting. But she's becoming another version of my father. I have to hope that somehow i'll be able to get through to her.
So in what way was my comment to my girlfriend (hurtful with the best of intentions) different from my mother's words (hurtful with the best of intentions)?
There's no one single answer, of course. But good intentions stop absolving us from our actions the moment we know or suspect we might hurt someone. Maybe sometimes even sooner.
Not that hurting someone is always wrong, of course.
Nobody said any of this was easy.
I've found myself on different sides of this question.
A couple years ago, i made a comment to a lover that ended our relationship. She was telling me about how she'd lived through hardships, and i said that i had seen that in her face when we first met. Not just in her eyes, but in her skin, she had the look of someone who had survived alcoholism, or some such. One of my friends noticed it too. A couple weeks later, she said it was the most hurtful thing anyone had ever told her. I was stunned, and tried to assure her that my intentions had been nothing but gentle and loving. I was just agreeing with a point she was making. This was a woman who had experienced far more than her share of positive reinforcement in her life, concerning her looks. You might think that would have made her secure in her beauty...or perhaps you're not surprised it made her profoundly insecure in the other direction. I don't think my comment was the reason the relationship ended, though. The imbalances between us had already been there, and maybe she subconsciously needed something to grasp on whereby SHE could end the romance, thereby avoiding the possibility of rejection, a demon she had long grappled with.
Anyway...
There's a part of me that has long felt that intention is more important than effect. An understandable reaction to living in this world, where people generally take wayyyy too many things personally...because this is a society which fosters insecurity, rather than its opposite. Trying to anticipate the million and three ways that anyone might take something the wrong way is such a daunting task, that very often the only sensible thing to do is tend your own garden, be pure with your own intent. On the other side, of the 100 things the average person will take personally this week (or this day, or this hour), 99 of them should be ignored. Didn't get that job? Mom never liked you best? The popcorn server gave your friend an extra squirt of imitation buttery goodness, but not you? Do not take ANY OF THAT personally. It ain't about you.
Except that 100th thing. Get your shit together on that, willya?
But intention isn't everything, and it took a recent interaction with my Mom to remind me. She generally loves me, and wants happiness for me. But she's stuck in a rut where she wants HER definition of happiness for me, not mine. She frequently hammers me about getting published. She does it in a fairly gentle way, and with the best of intentions. But she knows that my definition of success is different from hers. At what point do her good intentions become irrelevant? At what point does she need to take responsibility for behavior which is controlling and hurtful? It's doubly tough to understand, when the mother i knew as a youth was so loving and accepting. But she's becoming another version of my father. I have to hope that somehow i'll be able to get through to her.
So in what way was my comment to my girlfriend (hurtful with the best of intentions) different from my mother's words (hurtful with the best of intentions)?
There's no one single answer, of course. But good intentions stop absolving us from our actions the moment we know or suspect we might hurt someone. Maybe sometimes even sooner.
Not that hurting someone is always wrong, of course.
Nobody said any of this was easy.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
fanny pack!
This week is a new fanny pack week.
I've been wearing fanny packs since...well, a long time. I started wearing them probably ten years after the seven months in the 80s when they were fashionable.
I loves my fanny packs.
You might think anyone wearing one these days (who isn't an octogenarian in sandals and white socks) only does so to flaunt their unfashionability in the world's face. Nope, that's not why i do it...that's just an unexpected bonus.
I wear them for the same reason i do most everything. Purest practicality. Without all my carry-around stuff zippered up, it would fall out of my pockets whenever i'm upside down. It perplexes me that most people don't plan for the possibility of being upside down on any given day. I suspect a pack also makes a pickpocket's job harder...though i have no confirmation of that. Any professional pickpocket reading this, i'd be grateful for the lowdown.
Once in a while i'll take my wallet out, and put my fanny in my backpack for purely cosmetic reasons. Like for an audition...a fanny pack is such a symbol of silliness, it can become the only thing someone might remember. And other times, like when i'm doing storytelling for school kids, i've been known to ditch the fanny. But i'm weaning myself of that little remaining vestige of self-consciousness. To me, fanny packs are the perfect symbol for how stupidly sheeplike we are. If there had never been a fashion backlash against them, do you doubt that they'd be everywhere?
A fanny usually lasts about six months before needing to be replaced. Zippers break, pocket linings degrade...
All fanny packs are NOT created alike. I find them in thrift stores or garage sales, and usually have a replacement one ready months ahead of time. I can afford to be picky, which is good, as there are a lot of crappy fannies out there.
Dear dear...did i just say "crappy fannies"?
Let's move on.
Many fannies are embarrassingly cheaply made. Poor stitching, cheap material...there are also many middle-of-the-road fannies. I'll get one of these if the design or color or emblem are festive. Occasionally you'll find a really, really nice fanny...hand stitched, of quality material. The ultimate expression of fanny excellence however (for me, anyway), is the amount of zippers. The more, the better. Some fannies have only one zipper. A serious fanny-enthusiast would never consider one of these; all your contents get swirled together. You've got to be an extremely hardcore minimalist to not be affected by that.
Some wonder how fannies got their name, when they don't necessarily come in contact with the derriere at all. I can only surmise that they were intended to be worn with the main section resting on the rump. I often wear them like that, particularly when i'm running. A weighted fanny pack will bounce up and down with much force, something you do NOT want happening on your frontside (i'm assuming that applies only to the boys). The only other name i've ever heard for fannies is "bum bags", reinforcing the gluteal association. If you talk about fanny packs in the presence of anyone from England, expect titters or looks of surprise. "Fanny" means something altogether different on the other side of the pond. Imagine if you landed at Heathrow, and saw a sign saying "PLEASE PLACE YOUR PUSSY PACK HERE".
My new one is a doozy, one of the nicer ones i've ever had. I'm thrifty, so i'll often put up with a past-its-prime pack. But finally this week, my inner linings had fallen apart to nothing. My new one is made by Trailmaker, which means nothing to me, though it seems well-made. The really fantastic thing is the number of zippers...i think i've only had this many one other time in my life. Five, count 'em, five zippers. There's the main section, wherein i keep wallet and keys. There's a front section, wherein i keep change. There's a back section, wherein i keep scrap papers and business cards. And on the belt, two more little zippers. I keep lip balm in one side (which i only use a few times a year...i currently have a Cinnabon-flavored stick, which i've had for at least three years), and a lighter in the other (i don't smoke, but fire is a brilliant thing to have handy).
And that's my new fanny.
I try not to get too connected spiritually to "stuff", but i must confess, a nice new fanny can put a spring in my step for days.
So everybody...when you go out tomorrow, pat a stranger's fanny.
They just might pat yours.
I've been wearing fanny packs since...well, a long time. I started wearing them probably ten years after the seven months in the 80s when they were fashionable.
I loves my fanny packs.
You might think anyone wearing one these days (who isn't an octogenarian in sandals and white socks) only does so to flaunt their unfashionability in the world's face. Nope, that's not why i do it...that's just an unexpected bonus.
I wear them for the same reason i do most everything. Purest practicality. Without all my carry-around stuff zippered up, it would fall out of my pockets whenever i'm upside down. It perplexes me that most people don't plan for the possibility of being upside down on any given day. I suspect a pack also makes a pickpocket's job harder...though i have no confirmation of that. Any professional pickpocket reading this, i'd be grateful for the lowdown.
Once in a while i'll take my wallet out, and put my fanny in my backpack for purely cosmetic reasons. Like for an audition...a fanny pack is such a symbol of silliness, it can become the only thing someone might remember. And other times, like when i'm doing storytelling for school kids, i've been known to ditch the fanny. But i'm weaning myself of that little remaining vestige of self-consciousness. To me, fanny packs are the perfect symbol for how stupidly sheeplike we are. If there had never been a fashion backlash against them, do you doubt that they'd be everywhere?
A fanny usually lasts about six months before needing to be replaced. Zippers break, pocket linings degrade...
All fanny packs are NOT created alike. I find them in thrift stores or garage sales, and usually have a replacement one ready months ahead of time. I can afford to be picky, which is good, as there are a lot of crappy fannies out there.
Dear dear...did i just say "crappy fannies"?
Let's move on.
Many fannies are embarrassingly cheaply made. Poor stitching, cheap material...there are also many middle-of-the-road fannies. I'll get one of these if the design or color or emblem are festive. Occasionally you'll find a really, really nice fanny...hand stitched, of quality material. The ultimate expression of fanny excellence however (for me, anyway), is the amount of zippers. The more, the better. Some fannies have only one zipper. A serious fanny-enthusiast would never consider one of these; all your contents get swirled together. You've got to be an extremely hardcore minimalist to not be affected by that.
Some wonder how fannies got their name, when they don't necessarily come in contact with the derriere at all. I can only surmise that they were intended to be worn with the main section resting on the rump. I often wear them like that, particularly when i'm running. A weighted fanny pack will bounce up and down with much force, something you do NOT want happening on your frontside (i'm assuming that applies only to the boys). The only other name i've ever heard for fannies is "bum bags", reinforcing the gluteal association. If you talk about fanny packs in the presence of anyone from England, expect titters or looks of surprise. "Fanny" means something altogether different on the other side of the pond. Imagine if you landed at Heathrow, and saw a sign saying "PLEASE PLACE YOUR PUSSY PACK HERE".
My new one is a doozy, one of the nicer ones i've ever had. I'm thrifty, so i'll often put up with a past-its-prime pack. But finally this week, my inner linings had fallen apart to nothing. My new one is made by Trailmaker, which means nothing to me, though it seems well-made. The really fantastic thing is the number of zippers...i think i've only had this many one other time in my life. Five, count 'em, five zippers. There's the main section, wherein i keep wallet and keys. There's a front section, wherein i keep change. There's a back section, wherein i keep scrap papers and business cards. And on the belt, two more little zippers. I keep lip balm in one side (which i only use a few times a year...i currently have a Cinnabon-flavored stick, which i've had for at least three years), and a lighter in the other (i don't smoke, but fire is a brilliant thing to have handy).
And that's my new fanny.
I try not to get too connected spiritually to "stuff", but i must confess, a nice new fanny can put a spring in my step for days.
So everybody...when you go out tomorrow, pat a stranger's fanny.
They just might pat yours.
Monday, October 11, 2010
the paper, the news
Why did i stop reading the paper and watching the news a long time ago?
This week, in reverse order...
p. 43 - The weekly installment "The Justice Story", an in-depth look at notable or bizarre violent crimes in NY history. Glamorization? Yup.
p. 41 - A Canadian woman becomes ordained, and may be excommunicated.
p. 29 - Eleven female college students hospitalized after a college party in Washington State. They were drugged into semi-consciousness, so they could be raped.
p. 28 - Four gay American teens killed themselves last month, unable to cope with the stress of coming out. The primary story involved a college freshman whose roommate posted hidden video online of the student having a sexual encounter.
p. 24 - The editor of Playboy Indonesia is jailed for two years, for publishing pictures of partially-exposed breasts.
p. 16 - A jailed Chinese dissident remains unaware he has won the Nobel Peace Prize.
p. 8 - A British aid worker is killed by her captors in Afghanistan.
p. 6 - An Emmy-winning Fox reporter is arrested for molesting a four year-old girl.
p. 4 - Seven Bronx youths arrested for violently torturing and sodomizing gay men.
p. 1 - A professional baseball team is celebrated for winning a playoff series. The athlete glamorized on the cover is a confessed cheater.
There are two choices in this society...desensitization, or some middle ground between desensitization and torment so profound that it would literally kill you if you tried to take it all in.
This week, in reverse order...
p. 43 - The weekly installment "The Justice Story", an in-depth look at notable or bizarre violent crimes in NY history. Glamorization? Yup.
p. 41 - A Canadian woman becomes ordained, and may be excommunicated.
p. 29 - Eleven female college students hospitalized after a college party in Washington State. They were drugged into semi-consciousness, so they could be raped.
p. 28 - Four gay American teens killed themselves last month, unable to cope with the stress of coming out. The primary story involved a college freshman whose roommate posted hidden video online of the student having a sexual encounter.
p. 24 - The editor of Playboy Indonesia is jailed for two years, for publishing pictures of partially-exposed breasts.
p. 16 - A jailed Chinese dissident remains unaware he has won the Nobel Peace Prize.
p. 8 - A British aid worker is killed by her captors in Afghanistan.
p. 6 - An Emmy-winning Fox reporter is arrested for molesting a four year-old girl.
p. 4 - Seven Bronx youths arrested for violently torturing and sodomizing gay men.
p. 1 - A professional baseball team is celebrated for winning a playoff series. The athlete glamorized on the cover is a confessed cheater.
There are two choices in this society...desensitization, or some middle ground between desensitization and torment so profound that it would literally kill you if you tried to take it all in.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
a moving story?
(If you're like me, you find most "day in the life" articles boring, so i won't be offended if you skeddadle quick. A friend once requested posts of this nature, so here i am. I suspect however, that this may be the only one i write. The non-egotistical challenge is to pick a day when nothing amazing happens. You can choose a random date ahead of time, but then there's the temptation to do something you might otherwise not have. I decided midway through today that today would be the day, and the only change in my behavior is that i chose not to briefly watch a televised football game...i've been distancing myself from spectator sports for years, but i do love those Peyton commercials.)
In the middle of a quickly-forgotten intense dream, i awaken to my alarm clock at 5:45AM. I rarely use it, but today i have a moving job at 8 in Brooklyn. A similar train/bike journey this week from my temporary home here in Jersey City took me exactly an hour, but i give myself more time, as the weekend PATH train service is irregular.
I've been doing small moves for five or six years, the past three almost exclusively with a tiny company. It says a lot that i would give up my usual freelance ways. Moving Forces is run by a dedicated kook named Robin. His German heritage manifests in an almost military attitude (including uniforms...we actually had to talk him down from full military gear, with medals), and his Brazilian heritage manifests in the ducky stickers he puts on pay envelopes. That i would wear any uniform at all, is quite something. I've never written about my moving jobs because, despite occasional moments, they've never felt fascinating enough. I like constantly meeting and helping new people, and if i'm not doing something creative, i love work that is purely physical.
Yogeesh, with whom i'm staying, is flying off on a business trip. He said he'd leave around 3, and i told him i'd probably be home before then. It's a two-person job today, loading and unloading with my best friend in the company, Mike. The client is Laura. I spoke to her on the phone yesterday, and she sounded nice.
For breakfast, i have Raisin Nut Bran and rice milk. I watch some of the Cuba episode of WEST WING...since it's one of the lamer episodes, i don't mind keeping the sound very low.
Arrived at Journal Square station, only a block away, i have to wait for the World Trade Center train longer than i'd hoped. There are no Jersey bridges to Manhattan except the GWB, many miles north, so i'm stuck. Arrived in Manhattan, i pedal to the Manhattan Bridge, and i'm on time in Brooklyn, barely. Laura is delightful. She has a mate, and they have a great attitude, happy to pitch in. He seems a decent fellow, but i find Laura compelling and attractive, and somewhere in that is the thought that i'd be better for her than he. Pretty spiritually stunted, yes? She's intelligent, athletic, centered, quirky, and genuine. Throughout the day, i suspect that she's attracted to my vibration, too...she and i end up together too many times for it to be coincidence, or just my own attraction playing out.
They have too much stuff for one trip, but fortunately they're only moving six blocks. They're on the second floor, up a long flight, and i'm wearing braces, as i have minor repetitive stress knee injuries. Unspokenly, i assume responsibility for packing the truck (Mike knows about my knees). But even with stairs on both ends today, my knees suffer no tenderness. At their new place, the work gets more intense. It's on the third floor, and the labor is non-stop...a long straightaway, then up and down stairs with heavy loads. They couldn't get as as many small boxes as they wanted, so there are big boxes of tremendous weight. I sing "Give Up the Funk" and "Beast of Burden" as i work. In hour three, my arms get a little rubbery. I'm in great calisthenic shape...but in winter, moving jobs dry up, and this is my first move in over a month. Different muscles. Eventually, i feel my feet charley horsing, something that happens maybe once a year, my right pinky toe seizing and flipping over. I work through it without slowing down.
We return for the second load. The clients order pizza. Ever since my infatuation with a vegan girl last month, i've returned to nearly vegan ways, but i'll eat pizza today.
We finish up, working 5.5 hours. It wasn't the toughest move ever, but it was perhaps the toughest when i wasn't in moving shape. All throughout, i'd been trying to decide what to do with my feeling for Laura. I want to give her my card...but i don't. It's a tough call, spiritually. Their relationship seems happy, and i want to cherish that, but i'm ever-increasingly uncomfortable living in a society which says the feelings she and i have are "wrong", or that they have to be treated as some threat. As we all part ways, there is plenty of opportunity for me to say anything to her...again, no coincidence on her part, i think. She even forgets something, requiring one final walk by me after they're already in the empty van, ready to go. With my final words to her, "I hope our paths cross again", i try to walk the excruciatingly fine line between sincere and pointed. As i ride home, it's hard to not think of calling her tomorrow, to thank her for her great attitude and lovely tip.
There was one more human who had a part in this play...in the last hour, an estate agent came to show a room in the complex. I noticed her beautiful, bouncy hair from far away, and told her so. We seemed to have a connection, and i almost pursued it, but didn't...partly out of devotion to Laura, partly because she maybe wasn't my type physically, and partly because i suspected she and i didn't have so much in common. Perhaps my thoughts tarried on her so i could sublimate my feelings for Laura, or perhaps it was just a testament to the non-exclusive power of sexual attraction.
After muscles charley horse, they stay fluttery for hours sometimes. On my bike trip back into Manhattan, it's misty, so my brakes are dodgy. At one point, another biker pulls in front of me, and i have to slam my feet to the ground. My right foot goes into a paralyzing seizure, much worse than the earlier toe flip. I'm in a bit of a semi-stupor from the day's effort, and know i'll feel the effects for another day or more. I wonder how many pounds i lifted today...thousands? On days like these, i like to treat myself to takeout. I finish my pizza on the train, then back in Jersey i get a Naked protein juice smoothie (my favorite beverage), and a banana (potassium is good for charley horses, i hear), and some potato kathi rolls. Arrived home, it's around 3, and Yogeesh is gone. I watch the rest of the Cuba episode as i eat, then part of "In God We Trust". My muscles are in such a profound state that when i get up after eating, the pain in my torso makes me cry out. My fingers(!) are even affected, as i can't fully "grasp". I take a long, hot, wonderful shower. As much as i always try to appreciate what i have, it takes a day like this, and imagining NOT having access to a shower, to make one really appreciative. I check e-mails, apartment ads, and make one call, but it's too far from the city...i check W4M personal ads, nothing there either. I walk and feed April, Yogeesh's dog. Rubbing athlete's foot cream into my right foot, it seizes again.
I picked up a Sunday paper, the only paper i occasionally read. I read Doonesbury, and skim the entertainment and sports sections, and my weariness makes me fully nap-ready, but amazingly i don't quite fall asleep, though i'm down for an hour. I call my brother, and share with him the silly news that the Cowsills have re-formed. I work on this article, until i get hungry. The kathi roll was too spicy, so i'm not done giving myself treats. I order Chinese...scallion pancakes, and fried tofu with broccoli and brown rice. I watch the rest of the WEST WING episode, Alan Alda is great...and the "Bounty" episode of ENTERPRISE. It's 11 when i return to writing. My strange day has resulted in some flatulence so stanky i nearly disgust myself. I check ads and e-mails again...the only one is from a penpal in Nova Scotia who thinks we may have a soul mate connection. She's written a blog article about an ongoing feminism debate we're having, but i don't have the emotional strength to read it. Our connection has been tough since she told me about the soul mate stuff...i've had too many spirit-scraping online romances which never translated to love in the real world, and i'm so battered and in need of simple physical healing.
In order to circulate healing energy and because orgasmic waves feel so wonderful, i do some taoist self-love (i.e. masturbation). I check in on the computer one last time, then at 1AM i head off to slumber...
In the middle of a quickly-forgotten intense dream, i awaken to my alarm clock at 5:45AM. I rarely use it, but today i have a moving job at 8 in Brooklyn. A similar train/bike journey this week from my temporary home here in Jersey City took me exactly an hour, but i give myself more time, as the weekend PATH train service is irregular.
I've been doing small moves for five or six years, the past three almost exclusively with a tiny company. It says a lot that i would give up my usual freelance ways. Moving Forces is run by a dedicated kook named Robin. His German heritage manifests in an almost military attitude (including uniforms...we actually had to talk him down from full military gear, with medals), and his Brazilian heritage manifests in the ducky stickers he puts on pay envelopes. That i would wear any uniform at all, is quite something. I've never written about my moving jobs because, despite occasional moments, they've never felt fascinating enough. I like constantly meeting and helping new people, and if i'm not doing something creative, i love work that is purely physical.
Yogeesh, with whom i'm staying, is flying off on a business trip. He said he'd leave around 3, and i told him i'd probably be home before then. It's a two-person job today, loading and unloading with my best friend in the company, Mike. The client is Laura. I spoke to her on the phone yesterday, and she sounded nice.
For breakfast, i have Raisin Nut Bran and rice milk. I watch some of the Cuba episode of WEST WING...since it's one of the lamer episodes, i don't mind keeping the sound very low.
Arrived at Journal Square station, only a block away, i have to wait for the World Trade Center train longer than i'd hoped. There are no Jersey bridges to Manhattan except the GWB, many miles north, so i'm stuck. Arrived in Manhattan, i pedal to the Manhattan Bridge, and i'm on time in Brooklyn, barely. Laura is delightful. She has a mate, and they have a great attitude, happy to pitch in. He seems a decent fellow, but i find Laura compelling and attractive, and somewhere in that is the thought that i'd be better for her than he. Pretty spiritually stunted, yes? She's intelligent, athletic, centered, quirky, and genuine. Throughout the day, i suspect that she's attracted to my vibration, too...she and i end up together too many times for it to be coincidence, or just my own attraction playing out.
They have too much stuff for one trip, but fortunately they're only moving six blocks. They're on the second floor, up a long flight, and i'm wearing braces, as i have minor repetitive stress knee injuries. Unspokenly, i assume responsibility for packing the truck (Mike knows about my knees). But even with stairs on both ends today, my knees suffer no tenderness. At their new place, the work gets more intense. It's on the third floor, and the labor is non-stop...a long straightaway, then up and down stairs with heavy loads. They couldn't get as as many small boxes as they wanted, so there are big boxes of tremendous weight. I sing "Give Up the Funk" and "Beast of Burden" as i work. In hour three, my arms get a little rubbery. I'm in great calisthenic shape...but in winter, moving jobs dry up, and this is my first move in over a month. Different muscles. Eventually, i feel my feet charley horsing, something that happens maybe once a year, my right pinky toe seizing and flipping over. I work through it without slowing down.
We return for the second load. The clients order pizza. Ever since my infatuation with a vegan girl last month, i've returned to nearly vegan ways, but i'll eat pizza today.
We finish up, working 5.5 hours. It wasn't the toughest move ever, but it was perhaps the toughest when i wasn't in moving shape. All throughout, i'd been trying to decide what to do with my feeling for Laura. I want to give her my card...but i don't. It's a tough call, spiritually. Their relationship seems happy, and i want to cherish that, but i'm ever-increasingly uncomfortable living in a society which says the feelings she and i have are "wrong", or that they have to be treated as some threat. As we all part ways, there is plenty of opportunity for me to say anything to her...again, no coincidence on her part, i think. She even forgets something, requiring one final walk by me after they're already in the empty van, ready to go. With my final words to her, "I hope our paths cross again", i try to walk the excruciatingly fine line between sincere and pointed. As i ride home, it's hard to not think of calling her tomorrow, to thank her for her great attitude and lovely tip.
There was one more human who had a part in this play...in the last hour, an estate agent came to show a room in the complex. I noticed her beautiful, bouncy hair from far away, and told her so. We seemed to have a connection, and i almost pursued it, but didn't...partly out of devotion to Laura, partly because she maybe wasn't my type physically, and partly because i suspected she and i didn't have so much in common. Perhaps my thoughts tarried on her so i could sublimate my feelings for Laura, or perhaps it was just a testament to the non-exclusive power of sexual attraction.
After muscles charley horse, they stay fluttery for hours sometimes. On my bike trip back into Manhattan, it's misty, so my brakes are dodgy. At one point, another biker pulls in front of me, and i have to slam my feet to the ground. My right foot goes into a paralyzing seizure, much worse than the earlier toe flip. I'm in a bit of a semi-stupor from the day's effort, and know i'll feel the effects for another day or more. I wonder how many pounds i lifted today...thousands? On days like these, i like to treat myself to takeout. I finish my pizza on the train, then back in Jersey i get a Naked protein juice smoothie (my favorite beverage), and a banana (potassium is good for charley horses, i hear), and some potato kathi rolls. Arrived home, it's around 3, and Yogeesh is gone. I watch the rest of the Cuba episode as i eat, then part of "In God We Trust". My muscles are in such a profound state that when i get up after eating, the pain in my torso makes me cry out. My fingers(!) are even affected, as i can't fully "grasp". I take a long, hot, wonderful shower. As much as i always try to appreciate what i have, it takes a day like this, and imagining NOT having access to a shower, to make one really appreciative. I check e-mails, apartment ads, and make one call, but it's too far from the city...i check W4M personal ads, nothing there either. I walk and feed April, Yogeesh's dog. Rubbing athlete's foot cream into my right foot, it seizes again.
I picked up a Sunday paper, the only paper i occasionally read. I read Doonesbury, and skim the entertainment and sports sections, and my weariness makes me fully nap-ready, but amazingly i don't quite fall asleep, though i'm down for an hour. I call my brother, and share with him the silly news that the Cowsills have re-formed. I work on this article, until i get hungry. The kathi roll was too spicy, so i'm not done giving myself treats. I order Chinese...scallion pancakes, and fried tofu with broccoli and brown rice. I watch the rest of the WEST WING episode, Alan Alda is great...and the "Bounty" episode of ENTERPRISE. It's 11 when i return to writing. My strange day has resulted in some flatulence so stanky i nearly disgust myself. I check ads and e-mails again...the only one is from a penpal in Nova Scotia who thinks we may have a soul mate connection. She's written a blog article about an ongoing feminism debate we're having, but i don't have the emotional strength to read it. Our connection has been tough since she told me about the soul mate stuff...i've had too many spirit-scraping online romances which never translated to love in the real world, and i'm so battered and in need of simple physical healing.
In order to circulate healing energy and because orgasmic waves feel so wonderful, i do some taoist self-love (i.e. masturbation). I check in on the computer one last time, then at 1AM i head off to slumber...
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
dollar hats
Quick, this may be a once-in-a-lifetime event! I've had a CAPITALISTIC IDEA! You and i (assuming you're a hat manufacturer) must market a product called the dollar hat. It combines two prime idiot loves, fashion and money, so of course it will be a huge seller in this spiritual wasteland. The design of the hat is very similar to a baseball cap. In both the crown and the bill, there is a slot covered by clear plastic, into which you slide and display paper money. The standard dollar hat will of course have a dollar, but people's personalities will be expressed by their choice of currency. Pretentious assholes will try to outdo each other with higher denominations, but more impressive will be the caps that display rare bills (the $2, or a Wilson), old bills (ones from the wearer's year of birth will be quite popular), or foreign bills (how hip would it be to wear Chinese paper pennies?). As a by-product, penny loafers may come back into vogue. Sorry. I hereby datestamp copyright this idea, in a manner which is blogistically and otherwise legally binding. Send the contracts, please.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
ad-vice squad!
What percentage of the advice you receive in your lifetime should you discard? 35%?
How much of the advice we receive, good intentions notwithstanding, is not really about us at all, but about the person doing the advising?
45%?
Think about your dreams and fears. Your biases and desires. Your regrets and angers, and your wish to shape the world. Now think about a time you gave advice, and try to separate your ego from the advice you gave...think about the person you advised, and whether your advice would have been different had you been able to think only of that person...their dreams, their happiness, nothing else.
55% discard rate, perhaps?
Look kindly upon the person who starts advice with, "If I were you...". At least they're not deluding themselves into thinking they can remove self-interest.
65%?
They say that the only man you can ever trust is your father. They're mostly right, except for the part about ol' Dad. Sadly, Daddies are among the most egregious "own-image" molders in the whole world (Mommies, too).
So, 75%?
Tyrants shape the world by force. The rest of us just give advice.
85%?
Ancient Chinese maxim: he who gives advice seeks to fill his own emptiness (okay, maybe it's not ancient or Chinese).
95%?
Now you're just being paranoid. You're bound to get some good advice in your lifetime.
At least from me, anyway.
Right?
How much of the advice we receive, good intentions notwithstanding, is not really about us at all, but about the person doing the advising?
45%?
Think about your dreams and fears. Your biases and desires. Your regrets and angers, and your wish to shape the world. Now think about a time you gave advice, and try to separate your ego from the advice you gave...think about the person you advised, and whether your advice would have been different had you been able to think only of that person...their dreams, their happiness, nothing else.
55% discard rate, perhaps?
Look kindly upon the person who starts advice with, "If I were you...". At least they're not deluding themselves into thinking they can remove self-interest.
65%?
They say that the only man you can ever trust is your father. They're mostly right, except for the part about ol' Dad. Sadly, Daddies are among the most egregious "own-image" molders in the whole world (Mommies, too).
So, 75%?
Tyrants shape the world by force. The rest of us just give advice.
85%?
Ancient Chinese maxim: he who gives advice seeks to fill his own emptiness (okay, maybe it's not ancient or Chinese).
95%?
Now you're just being paranoid. You're bound to get some good advice in your lifetime.
At least from me, anyway.
Right?
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
germany's greatest generation
The glorification of "America's Greatest Generation" makes me sad. Not merely for pacifist reasons. Calling the generation who fought WWII the greatest, is a sentimentality that's difficult to reconcile with facts. My question: why do people who honor that generation not shower equal or greater praise on the generation of Germans who fought against them?
Soldiers aren't leaders or politicians. In our lifetimes, no soldier has ever played a part in deciding whether or not their country goes to war. Soldiers answer a call to duty. They go where their leaders point, and when they arrive they don't have the luxury of reflection. They kill or die.
Measurably, this is what the "greatest" generation did. The richest country in the world brought an end to a war in which every country but us absorbed unfathomable, horrific devastation.
The generation of Germans who fought that war almost conquered all of Europe and Russia. If you're not impressed, you don't understand how relatively small a country Germany was. The frontline soldiers didn't know about atrocities committed on Jews, Gypsies, and Poles. Inasmuch as they knew anything, they looked upon concentration camps just as our own brave boys looked upon Japanese internment camps. Perhaps unfortunate, but necessary. The Germans who fought the war simply answered the call to duty, as any soldier does, because they loved their families and their country. The idea that one army can be morally distinct from another is illusion. There's never been a noble gathering of killers.
As i write, there are seventeen global wars being fought. Since no one is suggesting that America's current warriors will ever become our greatest generation, my wish is that the other thirty-three living generations of soldiers be the last "greatest" generations this world ever knows.
Soldiers aren't leaders or politicians. In our lifetimes, no soldier has ever played a part in deciding whether or not their country goes to war. Soldiers answer a call to duty. They go where their leaders point, and when they arrive they don't have the luxury of reflection. They kill or die.
Measurably, this is what the "greatest" generation did. The richest country in the world brought an end to a war in which every country but us absorbed unfathomable, horrific devastation.
The generation of Germans who fought that war almost conquered all of Europe and Russia. If you're not impressed, you don't understand how relatively small a country Germany was. The frontline soldiers didn't know about atrocities committed on Jews, Gypsies, and Poles. Inasmuch as they knew anything, they looked upon concentration camps just as our own brave boys looked upon Japanese internment camps. Perhaps unfortunate, but necessary. The Germans who fought the war simply answered the call to duty, as any soldier does, because they loved their families and their country. The idea that one army can be morally distinct from another is illusion. There's never been a noble gathering of killers.
As i write, there are seventeen global wars being fought. Since no one is suggesting that America's current warriors will ever become our greatest generation, my wish is that the other thirty-three living generations of soldiers be the last "greatest" generations this world ever knows.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
subway attack!
I'm sure it's all over the news by now. There was an explosion in the NY subway system a few hours ago. I was at the Metropolitan Ave. G station in Brooklyn. Ground zero.
And i'm alive.
Okay, it was most likely some mechanical failure on the train that caused the explosion. The equivalent of a car backfiring, perhaps. No one was hurt. So let's not pander to the atmosphere of fear in this country, and the stupid "security" subway announcements that have become part of our lives, making us look at one another with mistrust and race paranoia.
Still in all, you don't want to be near a train when it backfires.
I was on the opposite platform, almost directly across from the explosion. The train had just begun to pull out. BOOOOOOM! I saw a yellow explosion under the train. Everyone around me ducked or jumped back. I whipped my fists up. The train kept moving, and came to a stop thirty feet on. I couldn't see any remains that gave a clue to the origins of the explosion. Within a few minutes there was a smoky haze as far as the eye could see. The police arrived, and soon unloaded the train and sent everyone on their way. There was speculation on our side of the track that the station would be shut down, which would cause an hour or two delay in getting home to Queens. But no, ten minutes later, our heroic train came down the line.
There was no clapping. New Yorkers don't impress easily.
But let me just reiterate, you don't wanna be near a train that backfires. I was 25 feet away. I don't think there was shrapnel, but if you had been within a ten-foot radius of the blast, there would have been hospitalization. I wish i had been able to catch the reaction of the people directly over the blast. But when an explosion like that occurs, your attention is only on the source.
The great subway attack of 2008. Boo.
And i'm alive.
Okay, it was most likely some mechanical failure on the train that caused the explosion. The equivalent of a car backfiring, perhaps. No one was hurt. So let's not pander to the atmosphere of fear in this country, and the stupid "security" subway announcements that have become part of our lives, making us look at one another with mistrust and race paranoia.
Still in all, you don't want to be near a train when it backfires.
I was on the opposite platform, almost directly across from the explosion. The train had just begun to pull out. BOOOOOOM! I saw a yellow explosion under the train. Everyone around me ducked or jumped back. I whipped my fists up. The train kept moving, and came to a stop thirty feet on. I couldn't see any remains that gave a clue to the origins of the explosion. Within a few minutes there was a smoky haze as far as the eye could see. The police arrived, and soon unloaded the train and sent everyone on their way. There was speculation on our side of the track that the station would be shut down, which would cause an hour or two delay in getting home to Queens. But no, ten minutes later, our heroic train came down the line.
There was no clapping. New Yorkers don't impress easily.
But let me just reiterate, you don't wanna be near a train that backfires. I was 25 feet away. I don't think there was shrapnel, but if you had been within a ten-foot radius of the blast, there would have been hospitalization. I wish i had been able to catch the reaction of the people directly over the blast. But when an explosion like that occurs, your attention is only on the source.
The great subway attack of 2008. Boo.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)