Metaphorin'

“Why do you pronounce it toos-dee?” the son asked.

“For the same reason you pronounce it toos-day,” his father replied.

“But toos-day is the correct pronunciation. There’s a difference between a day and a D,” he retorted.

“Fur sure. Is there a difference betwixt a tomato and a to-mah-toe? Can you eat both? They’re called accents and while you recoil in horror at your old man’s pronunciation of Tuesday and wash with an r in it and Hawaii, I rejoice in accents. You ever hear anything better than a Pittsburgher pronounce shower without a w sound? It doesn’t get any better. Shauer.”

“I guess. But how long till it becomes un-intelligible?” he sheepishly asked.

“Puh-shaw. You put the cart before the horse. The abstracted words didn’t exist before the pronounced words my son. We kooky humans were talking well before we were writing. The alphabet and the writing of words follows the spoken language, not the other way around. What matters is the upshot of the communication. It’s why we understand someone who uses a double negative and says ‘I ain’t got no money.’ We know that cat is broke. And while you’re at it: notice the slang. Our language is full of metaphor and slang. Your mother says that after meeting me, I hung the moon. I think it is fun to parse that out and imagine it…but you want to get upset because I say warsh the clothes.”

“Ouch that r in there; it’s like nails on a chalkboard,” he shuttered.

“Nice simile…but could you make it a metaphor?”

“Putting an r in wash is the intellectual cancer in western civilization we didn’t know we needed.”

“Nice hyperbole in your metaphorin’ son.”

“Twasn’t hyperbole.”

When Ron Fell

It started out as a mistake. 

They were walking through a house that was for sale asking the realtor about square footage and utility bills and how old the roof is and stuff like that when a decorative owl caught her eye. The husband was looking out over the yard and asking the agent about acreage when she grabbed it to determine what it was made of. It was heavier than she anticipated so she thought maybe it was pewter but it also could have been nickel. 

Then her husband fell down the basement steps. From the top step. Ten steps in all. That kinda racket scares the shit out of you actually. Imagine a flesh covered bowling ball topping out at 200 LB’s falling down your basement steps. Not exactly quiet and not exactly un-fucking frightening. So when she ran over to the top of the basement stairs it didn’t register that she stuck the owl in her jacket pocket. She didn’t notice it when she saw her husband’s tibia poking under his skin like an eager mole of calcium, she didn’t notice it in the ambulance ride to the hospital while he whimpered like only a grown man who had fallen down the steps of a house for sale can whimper. 

She noticed it weeks later when she took the jacket off the hanger and wondered about the weight. Huh. The owl from the house where Ron fell. Well she wasn’t about to call the agent after the colossal embarrassment of dragging your husband from a showing because he fell down the basement steps. And she wasn’t about to visit the owners and explain that she mistakenly put the owl in her pocket. Who was going to believe that? It was a lose lose situation; so she perched that owl in her closet. It looked good in there. She smiled at it. Even if it was de facto stolen.

The next house they looked at it was obvious that Ron wouldn’t be going up or down any stairs as he was on crutches. And for some reason, being alone, in the bedrooms and the closets, and the bathrooms, while Ron and the agent du jour talked about this and that, she stole shit.

Cancel. The. Account.

“I regret to inform you that the deadline has passed.”

There was a silence birthing over the phone.

It was either a battle of attrition or a pissing contest. Neither one was thinking about if anyone ever really wins these.

Somewhere in the annals of manuals and according to Hoyle customer service decision trees an error was made. Undoubtedly.

But epistemologically speaking, only one party in this two party event, knew of this error; and this party was not going to divulge the mistake. Not even close.

The damn broke.

“I regret to inform you that you fucking need to waive the fucking fee!”

“Mr. Donaldson we cannot waive the fee.”

Notice the use of the safer pronoun we. Safety in numbers. The fabric of society -social capital- had been dying since the 60’s and was on death’s door at the moment but Mr. Customer service here invokes the we like we’re back in WWII manufacturing tanks or sewing uniforms for the boys on the continent.

“The fee can and will be waived. Because there was no fault on the part of the customer. This is bad business! This opt out tactic. Who do you think you’re dealing with? Opt out…my ass.”

“The deadline has passed and communication was made regarding the-

“You know what? Cancel the account.”

Another silence filled their phones like helium in a balloon.

“Mr. Donaldson we can spread the fee payment out over a number of months.”

“Cancel. The. Account.”

One of them was as cool as a cucumber now. Comfortable in the silence. Knew the outcome well in advance at this point.

“Mr. Donaldson?”

If Memory Serves

No doubt you’ve thought about memory if you’ve read/heard/seen this Senate Judiciary Hearing with Brett Kavanaugh and Christine Ford.

Ford’s memory and the accuracy of it are essential to who believes what. And who believes what matters…a lot. A lifetime appointment on the Supreme Court to determine if laws are constitutional is, a la Ron Burgandy, kind of a bid deal.

But there are those who wonder, like this guy, how she can remember certain things but not others. From 35 some years ago.

This whole thing has me thinking about high school parties and to be honest I don’t recall much. But then again there aren’t really any prompts. I’m sure if I perused my yearbook some memories would emerge.

Bu then again, my high school years and parties didn’t involve trauma.

Now of course trauma is a relative term. But there was nothing like what Ford asserts happened to her – trauma.

But when I think about it. I can remember one thing…similar.

You see there was a guy in our neighborhood; was on the high school football team, big guy, muscular, at least compared to me who didn’t break 100 lbs in the 9th grade…and didn’t life a weight till I was in my 30’s. And he wanted to bully me.

I wasn’t going to have it.

Now here’s the thing: I can recall vividly him on top of me, his knees up on my chest as he reigned down fists into my face as I tried to fight him off…to no avail.

I remember it.

What I don’t remember is the stuff on the periphery. I don’t know what year it was (had to have been 1984-88 because I was in High School), I don’t really know what season it was, or the exact time of day or the others who were there (maybe Jeff and Donnie?).

I remember being held down and punched…and punched.

So this idea that memory is all or none, is simply a red herring. A tactic to get you to look away, to avoid something uncomfortable, to take the road more traveled, of least resistance, the short view, that doesn’t require the heavy lifting of…change.

Don’t follow it.

You, we, will be better off.

Trying...

“I’m trying real hard Ringo…”

If you cogitate on that line for a few, I’m sure you will remember it’s from Pulp Fiction, where Jules, is talking to the restaurant thief.

Well, as I write this on my 48^th birthday, I have to admit, I’m trying real hard.

Trying hard to have some perspective; trying real hard to take the long view…of things. And trying real hard, super extra hard for this atheist, to have some…gulp…faith.

Faith that my 6 year old isn’t going to let the older kids at the bus stop, get to him.

Now I know that kids rib each other and taunt and all of that. I see my 6 year old taunt his younger brother. I know, you don’t have to tell me.

Knowing this, I left the bus stop this morning pissed as hell, at probably an 8 year old.

My wife has been telling me about the other two boys (the only other boys I might add) at the bus stop that don’t involve our son in hitting the wiffle ball.

And due to some scheduling I had to take our little guy to the stop the past two days. Yesterday I was able to distract him from them by throwing a Frisbee with him. I tried to do the same this morning but he just missed hitting a little girl in the head with a hard Frisbee so I had to put the kibosh on that…and he gravitated toward the wiffle ball action. Skip ahead and next thing you know the older kid is screaming at my son to “stop!”

This didn’t sit too well. And man I’m trying to be hands off because I know he has to learn to navigate this stuff on his own: peers, older kids, taunting, his emotions, all of it. I know that he’ll achieve success, not with his parents, but with his peers and I CAN’T DO IT FOR HIM. I can’t go to school and advocate for him and speak up if the older kids tease. I have to have faith in his abilities and his resilience.

Taking this long view, being hands off and letting things play out without intervening, is so very difficult, even though my parents were so laissez faire when it came to parenting (I was the 5th of six kids and quite frankly, they just didn’t have to time or the energy, along with the wisdom, to let me handle it). But in the moment it's so impossible to have perspective - when someone is screaming at your son. One wants to protect and harbor and shield and...short view things.

Where would that get him?

I’m trying real hard to not do for him and after having read The Self-Driven Child by Ned Johnson and William Stixrud I know that learning and navigating and overcoming and learning from these things are important in his development and his independence and his sense of...autonomy.

Autonomy is important. A law unto oneself. We all want it we all need it, we are dysfunctional without it or even the perception of it.

I know. Trust me.

Now here is what I have since come to learn: somehow this older kid, who is only 1 grade above my son, is two years older and per the grapevine as a transplant from New Jersey, can somehow be in the second grade when he’s 8 years old. By contrast I was in the 4th grade when I was 8 (due to my parents being done with kids after 6 and shipping me off to kindergarten when I was only 4 - and I wouldn’t turn 5 until I was in the first grade...which puts me at 8 years old in the 4th grade.

So if my little guy can handle this kid at the bus stop he’ll grow, learn, and be better prepared for future situations with kids who have been held back because of New Jersey.

Guess who else is learning and getting his resilience tested? Hint: he’s got two thumbs.

Here’s the passage from Pulp Fiction:

You read the Bible, Ringo?
Not regularly, no.
Well, there's this passage I got memorized. Ezekiel 25:17.
"The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides...by the inequities of the selfish…and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger...those who attempt to poison and destroy My brothers. And you will know I am the Lord...when I lay My vengeance upon you."
I been sayin' that shit for years, and if you heard it, that meant your ass. I never gave much thought
to what it meant. I just thought it was some coldblooded shit to say to a motherfucker...before I popped a cap in his ass. But I saw some shit this morning made me think twice. See, now I'm thinkin'
maybe it means...you're the evil man, and I'm the righteous man, and Mr. 9-millimeter here,
he's the shepherd...protecting my righteous ass in the valley of darkness. Or it could mean...
you're the righteous man, and I'm the shepherd, and it's the world that's evil and selfish. Now, I'd like that. But that shit ain't the truth. The truth is, you're the weak...and I'm the tyranny of evil men.
But I'm tryin', Ringo.
I'm tryin' real hard...to be the shepherd.

Some Things...Have...Happened

Whoa.

Some things have happened dear readers.

For one birth has happened, for the third time.

Wait, what was the middle part again?

For two, birth happened in the form of Scarlett Sol.

Truth be told I wanted Sol from this George Carlin bit:

So I’m not getting a ton of sleep but it comes with the territory. Speaking of territories, what all came with the Gadsden purchase?

Did I mention we moved about two months before the birth?

We like to have all of our stressful life events at the same time. More efficient this way. I do the same with sit-ups. I do 1000 right in a row and I am good for the year.

Been reading some books on male friendship. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t exist.

Been trying to keep up with the running and 15 miles a week feels like 150 at this point. My legs were so dead after four miles yesterday we had a wake for them right there at the Y treadmill. I keep reminding myself like Dory in Finding Nemo: just keep running, just keep running. 

I know someday the tots will be able to dress, feed, and hygiene themselves and I’ll be able to ramp up the miles in lieu of friendships or guitar slinging.

You might like this guitar slinging but you might not. Either way, my hits on SoundCloud just went up. Sucker.

Isn’t it? Simple?

Writing the stories you want to read. A novel idea. And the devil is in the details and tis easier said than done. But we all write our stories, even if free will is an illusion. I would like to tell you ‘illustrious’ is formed from ‘illusion’ but I would be fibbing. Still, seeing as how it is post-truth era and all, we write our own stories. Free from bias, genetics, nature, nurture, prejudice, all that nasty shit. Free as free can be. Then some.

So freely write your story. While you are at it, freely live your life; heck, then write your story. The order doesn’t really matter; as long as both are done freely. Free is an important concept here as you have probably picked up on. How doubly sweet would it be if the concept aligned with reality? Awesome sauce that would be.

Forget about that for now. Forget all about that Debby Downer reality nonsense and live it up. Live it down if you want, or sideways or caddy corner or b-line or waaaaay over there if you want. Live live live, live live. Beats the alternative am I right?

I am. Right.

Unless, reality matters. Because, I’m just spitabllin’ here, how can there even be a right if reality doesn’t matter and we are post-truth?

But if reality doesn’t matter then can’t we say that death is better than life? No because we are dead and can’t say anything. You are one astute fella.

Dead men tell no tales as they say. But if you watch enough crime shows, and I know you do, dead men (and women) do leave clues. Be it under the fingernails or some sort of substance found only under a neon glow stick of some sort.

This sure has been a long road to tell you to live and write your life. So simple. Isn’t it? Simple?

via GIPHY