Mittens On The Motorway

Saw a man on my commute this morning. Seemed a normal individual from my car lane to his. Seemed. My commute is, at this particular stretch, usually stop-and-go where 25mph feels like light speed. So why, why did this man don driving gloves; professional, black leather, thin, driving gloves?

How many people wear driving gloves? For their 9am commute?

I feel confident he was not filming an action scene for a blockbuster or even a home-made film as no camera was in sight. Plus he never got above 20mph.

But still, from my window to his, on both hands, driving gloves.

It wasn't even a convertible. It wasn't a vet. It wasn't a mini. It wasn't sporty...at all.

Why would he do this to himself?

Why would he do this to me?

Driving gloves?

Silly Little Freak

Started The Power of Myth last night after rummaging for something to read while I soak my aching legs in a tub filled with hot water. You humans call this a bath. So strange a word: bath.

Anyhoo, this Joseph Campbell has made me think.

I am pretty sure I am teaching this fall. The class starts Saturday and the community college is "pretty sure" I'm teaching it. Solid. Nothing like the 11th hour to cobble together 15 weeks of learning material.

I like teaching Psych because it is dynamic and easily engaging for neophytes; easy to light a thinking fire if you will. And I know you will you silly little freak.

Anyhoo, this Joseph Campbell said that "Preachers err by trying "to talk people into belief; better they reveal the radiance of their own discovery."

Pretty sweet huh? I get excited about learning and I think this little contagion spreads in my classes. Now granted, the radiance of my discoveries surely doesn't meet the criteria for science, nor does it even guarantee my discoveries will be radiant for you or my neophytes, but it does mean there is radiance.

Radiance is a good thing. Just don't get too close to the radiance fire you silly little freak.

That Funny Feeling

“Here it comes, that funny feeling again.” – Sammy Hagar

This pic.

 This innocent, little picture.

It is like he spanned five years in the blink of an eye. The body of a boy and no longer a toddler, the vibrant outgoing personality aging before my eyes but hurting my heart…because…dammit…there it is again…the wistfulness. He’s four and I’m wistful!?!

It’s just that, I guess… because  I’ve been there: at birth, cutting the umbilical, the late nights but tender mornings, the first baths, the tears at drop-off, the Gymboree on Saturdays when he was afraid of the parachute, the birthday parties battling Vader, quoting Iron Giant (“This place is perfect!”)…I was there…and now this? He’s King of Summer all of a sudden? In a Superman shirt no less!

You do it Ju Ju. You go. You be King of Summer!

I’ll be here.

Fred!

Need some good news.

Need a good feeling.

Need to be wanted.

Add some more needs while you're at it why doncha?


I just had a thought and it made me feel good.


I am either a very bad parent or an awesome parent because:

My two sons love a James Brown song titled Doin' It To Death, so much so that I can spout off beginnings of lyrics and they can finish.

Examples: Gonna let Fred blow... about two choruses

or

Feel so down...I got to get in D!

Echoes Of A Lost Humanity

This.

I can't help it. He's five. My oldest is 4, 5 in November.

Can't even watch the whole thing. Can't turn the volume up.

Don't want to hear it. Afraid of what I'll hear.

Echoes of a lost humanity.

Allison Reynolds

When you grow up your heart dies.

Your wistfulness and nostalgia are proof of this.

How do you explain your feelings when you see it is move-in day at your Alma Mater? 

Dying From Hope

I am dying.

I have a disease.

A disease that is/was fully preventable.

The irony is that this disease is a result of hope. Yes hope.

I, (cries one tear) am a Browns fan.

The Browns (sheds second tear) will be terrible in 2016-2017. Their quarterback will be a basket case not to mention his knees are made of potato chips. The running game will be abominable. The receivers will end up on used car lots. The pass rush will not. The pass defense will highlight wikileaks. The players will suffer from chronic losing and the coaches will begin to drool and shake.

And me, I will die a little more, just like I’ve been doing since 1987.

Hyperbole, Literally

Look man the death of John Saunders from ESPN made me sad. I liked him as a commentator. But for the love of fucking fucks when ESPN decides to air a moving, stirring tribute to him and misuses the word literally…well, some things need to happen. Talking about his daughters, John Ley said “They were literally the lights of his life.” Fuck! You get paid to write and talk into a microphone and you go and say something like that. Dammit man. I know my timing is bad, a man just died, but fuck, you are using the word in exactly the wrong way. Literally the lights of his life? Did he strap them to his car so he could see the road at night? Did he have them on his bedside table for a little night reading? Daughters aren’t fucking lights! They are human beings. God dammit why can’t people get this?

We should cancel the Olympics immediately, postpone the election, close all Starbucks until we have a nationwide seminar on the use of “literally”.

Dah! Here is an example:

She took my breath away.

This is figurative because I could still breathe when I saw her.

Asthma took my breath away.

This is literal because I couldn’t breathe.

See? Fuck!

They were the lights of my life.

This is figurative because they are human beings, not light bulbs.

They were always borrowing money from me and sneaking boys into the basement.

This is literal because I went broke in a hurry and the boys practically emptied the keg downstairs.

Dammit people, let’s literally do this. Now. Before it’s too late. Our very existence depends on it.

See now, that is hyperbole.

Or is it?

No Need For Verbosity Or Unnecessary Vocabulary Like Verbosity

I recently wrapped up Steve Martin’s Born Standing Up and have to say it was a wonderful look into important years of his life.

One fun connection for me was that Mr. Martin studied philosophy in college and he even mentioned Continental Rationalism and Symbolic Logic courses in the book. Those of you paying any attention to this blog know that I am somewhat versed in both and have been known to point out Leibnitz motifs in our modern world, especially the best of all possible worlds in relation to suffering.

Now what brought me to Born Standing Up was research into memoirs as I write my own. I began with Bill Byrson’s The Life and Times of The Thunderbolt Kid. I’m taking memoir recommendations so feel free.

Both writers share a very concise approach with no need for verbosity or unnecessary vocabulary like verbosity. And both are very funny. Now truth be told, though the Martin book is about his foray into and departure from stand-up comedy, it is mostly about his process and also the business of comedy, much of which is very pedestrian…like a job. Who woulduh thunk it? Bryson’s book, while about growing up in the 50’s, was laugh out-loud funny.

But, both books made me think; Bryson about the incredible advance of the country post WWII but also about the unknown fallout from some of our own nuclear testing, especially the Bikini Atoll and Martin about the importance of early performance experience (he performed magic tricks from a very early age) and the importance of music as it relates to the imagination. As an aside, my father who picked up the banjo as his very first instrument and who could play the ubiquitous Foggy Mountain Breakdown, conveyed to me that Steve’s banjo playing on The Crow: New Songs for the 5-String Banjo was really groundbreaking and incredible.

But gogdammit! Both books made me wistful. What the fuck is it with me and wistfulness?

A passage from each for you:

“I was alone with him in the bedroom; his mind was alert but his body was failing. He said, almost buoyantly, “I’m ready now.” I sat on the edge of the bed, and another silence fell over us. Then he said, “I wish I could cry, I wish I could cry.”
                At first I took this as a comment on his condition but am forever thankful that I pushed on. “What do you want to cry about?” I said.
                “For all the love I received and couldn’t return.”
                I felt a chill of familiarity.
                There was another lengthy silence as we looked into each other’s eyes. At last he said, “You did everything I wanted to do.”
                “I did it for you,” I said. Then we wept for the lost years. I was glad I didn’t say the more complicated truth: “I did it because of you.”

I was waiting only for the moment when I was invited to step up to the toy box and make a selection.
                When that moment came, it took forever to decide. Every little package looked so perfect and white, so ready to be enjoyed. Eventually, I chose an item of middling size and weight, which I dared to shake lightly. Something inside rattled and sounded as if it might be die cast. I took it to my seat and carefully unwrapped it. It was a miniature doll – an Indian boy in a papoose, beautifully made but patently for a girl. I returned with it and its disturbed packaging to the slightly backward-looking fellow who was in charge of the toy box.
                “I seem to have got a doll,” I said, with something approaching an ironic chuckle.
                He looked at it carefully. “That’s surely a shame because you only git one try at the gift box.”
                “Yes, but it’s a doll, I said. “For a girl.”
                “Then you’ll just have to git you a little girlfriend to give it yo, won’tcha?” he answered and gave me a toothy grin and an unfortunate wink.
                Sadly, those were the last words the poor man ever spoke. A moment later he was just a small muffled shriek and a smoldering spot on the carpet.
                Too late he had learned an important lesson. You really should never fuck with the Thunderbolt Kid.