On a recent Sunday morning I started to sing a couple of hymns from my churchgoing days, before I turned 16. "The Prayer of St. Francis" was one:
Oh, Master grant that I may never seek
So much to be consoled as to conso-o-o-le,
To be understood as to understand,
To be loved as to love with all my so-o-o-ul...
Make me a channel of your peace...
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned...
And in dying that we're born to eternal life.
With respect to that eternal-life part, renowned physicist Stephen Hawking recently caused a stir by saying heaven is a fantasy. Apparently nobody told those Rapture people, or maybe somebody did and they said, "Fuck Stephen Hawking." For the 10 or 12 people out there who read this and don't know who the Rapture people are, they're the ones who believed that some kind of divine process was going to absorb the deserving among them into heaven on May 21. Didn't happen, by the way. Harold Camping, who spearheads that movement, now says the shit is really going to hit the fan on October 21. We'll be judged, rewarded or destroyed along with the rest of the world.
Color me mildly skeptical, but maybe they could persuade me to get on board. If so, though, I'd like some insurance. I would like Mr. Camping to guarantee that I'll receive compensation if, in fact, the world doesn't end in October. Because when I cross that line and have complete conviction that October is it, I'm going to quit my job. And I'm going to spend my money. And I'm going to eat what I want and drink what I want and stop exercising. You get the picture. Live every day like it's your last because pretty soon it's going to be. Unless it's not.
So when I get to October 21, at the ostensible tail end of my brief Bacchanalian existence, who's going to support me and my family? I bought a Blu-ray player and surround-sound system, man, and now I'm busted. You're telling me life goes on now? I don't get sucked into heaven or die some sort of horrible death (now, anyway)? You can't do that to a poor sot like me and just say, oops, the Rapture has been postponed. Where's the accountability here?
If the Rapture were to happen, YouTube would go ape shit, until it was destroyed. I mean, everyone has a cellphone video camera. I give that Rapture video four stars. It doesn't quite measure up to the Mentos-and-Coke geyser, but it's not bad. Speaking of cellphones, I have to believe all those people floating up into heaven would interfere with service. Some people would be more pissed about that than having been left behind. "OMG, my texting isn't working." FYI, I'd be RFLMAO, FWIW.
So instead of being marginalized and relegated to the lunatic fringe, these people get mainstream-media coverage. The Wall Street Journal, New York Times, Washington Post, etc. At least they did do some almost-tongue-in-cheek stuff. The WSJ published a piece about how people are making money off of the believers by, for example, saying they'll take care of the pets after the owners ascend to heaven. Not sure why the pets wouldn't go to heaven, too. Not a dog-friendly place, I suppose. Can't have St. Peter stepping in dog shit. But, aside from maybe a reference to it as a curiosity, why do these people receive press coverage at all? Because the media have to fill up TV channels and website and, still, even print in some cases? And here I am, culpable as well by writing about them, for the 10 or 12 of you out there. I get the irony. I still don't even understand the apparent contradiction between God being all-forgiving but some people not making it to heaven. Repent and you're saved, motherfucker. Or maybe not. I need one of those dummy books--"The Dummies Guide to Heaven." Yellow and black cover with flitting people.
This whole affair just calls to mind what the Metro security guy said to the throngs on the train platform in D.C. over the Easter/Cherry Blossom weekend a few years ago: "Act like ya got some sense."
Friday, June 10, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
Execute
On a radio show recently, the hosts were playing a game called "Who Should Be Arrested?" They came up with fat women in spandex, people texting and walking, groups of people taking up the whole sidewalk, people crossing the street who walk more slowly as your car approaches, etc. The people who walk more slowly crossing the road, what are they trying to prove, that I won't run them over? They make me want to run them over by doing so.
At an amusement park recently, my son saw a sign on the cable cars traversing the park that said people throwing stuff out of the cars, potentially onto unsuspecting passersby below, would be prosecuted. Except he mistook "prosecuted" for "executed." Then I considered and figured all right, I'll go with execute. So my version of the game is "Who Should Be Executed?"
To wit:
--People who cut in line at amusement parks. Or anywhere. The amusement-park cutters should be made to stay on that particular ride until they, well, die.
--People who are at the back of the line in the store, let's say Walmart, who don't afford the people in front of them the opportunity to go to a newly opened register first. In other words, the line is long, some people have been waiting for a while, the store finally decides to open another line, and the motherfuckers who just got in the back of the long line scurry over to be first in the new line.
--Aside from people walking and texting, people driving who are doing anything on the phone.
--People who have no apparent handicap who park in handicapped spaces. Maybe they shouldn't be executed, but they at least should be maimed and subsequently denied the right to park in handicap spaces.
--People who park in the fire lanes at convenience stores; in fact, anybody driving who only has consideration for himself and is willing to inconvenience anybody else.
--People who line up at the Academy Awards to watch the stars on the red carpet.
--The stars on the red carpet.
--Republicans.
--Democrats.
--People who don't pick up dog shit off my lawn.
--Anybody who hurts a kid, especially since I just read a story about a baby stuffed in a suitcase in Pennsylvania.
--Pedophiles, for sure, and any other sexual predator.
--Drivers who go 50 mph in 25-mph zones.
--Drivers who go 25 in 50-mph zones.
--People whose car stereos make the windows in my house vibrate when they pass.
--Adults who eat with their mouths open.
--Adults who make noise when they eat (they're usually the ones with their mouths open).
--The guy who sat behind me in the quiet car on the train and cracked his gum for an hour, blowing little bubbles or whatever.
--Litterbugs.
--People for whom you hold the door who don't acknowledge that you've held the door, as if you're meant to be their door holder. Maybe they're distracted. If so, they should get undistracted and say thanks for holding the fucking door.
--People who don't hold the door for you, even though you're four feet behind them.
--Kids who wear their pants halfway down their asses and their baseball caps cocked at an angle to their skulls. They should at least be marked with a red-hot branding iron right through the underwear that's showing.
At an amusement park recently, my son saw a sign on the cable cars traversing the park that said people throwing stuff out of the cars, potentially onto unsuspecting passersby below, would be prosecuted. Except he mistook "prosecuted" for "executed." Then I considered and figured all right, I'll go with execute. So my version of the game is "Who Should Be Executed?"
To wit:
--People who cut in line at amusement parks. Or anywhere. The amusement-park cutters should be made to stay on that particular ride until they, well, die.
--People who are at the back of the line in the store, let's say Walmart, who don't afford the people in front of them the opportunity to go to a newly opened register first. In other words, the line is long, some people have been waiting for a while, the store finally decides to open another line, and the motherfuckers who just got in the back of the long line scurry over to be first in the new line.
--Aside from people walking and texting, people driving who are doing anything on the phone.
--People who have no apparent handicap who park in handicapped spaces. Maybe they shouldn't be executed, but they at least should be maimed and subsequently denied the right to park in handicap spaces.
--People who park in the fire lanes at convenience stores; in fact, anybody driving who only has consideration for himself and is willing to inconvenience anybody else.
--People who line up at the Academy Awards to watch the stars on the red carpet.
--The stars on the red carpet.
--Republicans.
--Democrats.
--People who don't pick up dog shit off my lawn.
--Anybody who hurts a kid, especially since I just read a story about a baby stuffed in a suitcase in Pennsylvania.
--Pedophiles, for sure, and any other sexual predator.
--Drivers who go 50 mph in 25-mph zones.
--Drivers who go 25 in 50-mph zones.
--People whose car stereos make the windows in my house vibrate when they pass.
--Adults who eat with their mouths open.
--Adults who make noise when they eat (they're usually the ones with their mouths open).
--The guy who sat behind me in the quiet car on the train and cracked his gum for an hour, blowing little bubbles or whatever.
--Litterbugs.
--People for whom you hold the door who don't acknowledge that you've held the door, as if you're meant to be their door holder. Maybe they're distracted. If so, they should get undistracted and say thanks for holding the fucking door.
--People who don't hold the door for you, even though you're four feet behind them.
--Kids who wear their pants halfway down their asses and their baseball caps cocked at an angle to their skulls. They should at least be marked with a red-hot branding iron right through the underwear that's showing.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Santa God
My 6-year-old son as we drove past a church recently: Why do they build churches?
Me: So people can go and pray to God.
6-year-old: Is God real?
Me: Some people think so, and some people don't.
6-year-old: It's impossible for anybody to know.
Me: That's true.
6-year-old: Not even Santa Claus.
It's pretty clear where God stands in relation to Santa. And good for him; as far as I know, people aren't killing in the name of Santa.
Me: So people can go and pray to God.
6-year-old: Is God real?
Me: Some people think so, and some people don't.
6-year-old: It's impossible for anybody to know.
Me: That's true.
6-year-old: Not even Santa Claus.
It's pretty clear where God stands in relation to Santa. And good for him; as far as I know, people aren't killing in the name of Santa.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Six Feet Under?
Any bloodline is a carving river and parents are its nearest shores.
--Ivan Doig
I had occasion to be in my father's neighborhood recently. The land of my old man. That happens to be a graveyard, to which I stopped in, as opposed to whistling past. Townes Van Zandt rumbled "Flying Shoes" on the car stereo, the musical backdrop to my quest for his grave. I didn't plan it that way. Just a mystical moment before I stepped out into the residue of a rainstorm that left wet grass and still, roadside puddles.
My father rests in a corner in the far reaches of this particular cemetery, adjacent to a rusted chain-link fence that sequesters a residential yard featuring sparse grass, an aboveground pool, an empty aquarium, a disheveled blue tarp and a nonbarking dog who has at least some German shepherd in him. Sun-worn shingles. Relatively small planes from the nearby airport pass overhead, propeller sounds slicing through the space that divides us.
My father expired, like old milk, in 1979 at age 50 and would have been approaching 82 had he not drunk himself to death. The worker who led me to the grave told me they were "multiple graves," more than one person in a hole.
"He's in the same one as Fannie," he said. The dearly departed Fannie Payne. She entered the world in 1909 and left in '79, same as Dad. I wondered about her lot in life. Their grave markers measure about 2 feet by 8 inches and bear the names and birth and death years. Fairly straightforward.
"Are they separated with something...just dirt?" I asked.
"They each have their own cement crypt. One on top of the other. Some welfare people from Trenton."
"So this would have been the budget plan?"
"Yeah. Sometimes people want to move the person who's underneath, but the family of the person on top says 'You're not moving my relative.' "
Maggie Collins' marker abuts my father's on top. If someone had told me more than one person occupied each grave and asked me to guess who lay where, I would have said Maggie reposed with my father, based on grave-marker position. But he said it was Fannie.
Nearby, three people appear to be entombed together, their markers aligned like rungs on an abbreviated ladder. Wet dirt, not quite having graduated to mud, partially obscures one engraving, and a severely trimmed arborvitae casts its shadow over the gravesite like a slumping sentinel. I push aside some of the dirt with my thumb and it leaves a slug trail on the granite. A woman, age 40, and two boys, 22 and 10. Same last name. A mother and her progeny? A sister with her brothers? Seems unlikely, given the ages. Did they go in a car accident? Did someone gun them down? Did they drown swimming together? I'm gathering they didn't get smothered by an avalanche while back-country skiing, given the pauper's grave. Do the mom and 10-year-old lie in a single, cold, cement embrace?
Nobody appears to tend to these graves, other than the landscapers, who must weed-whack the encroaching grass lest it envelop each stone. A partial bouquet has blown over into this potter's field from the area in which those who were at least somewhat more well-heeled reside.
I don't pray at the graveyard. I don't talk to my father. I wonder who paid for this. His siblings? They couldn't have come up with a more-well-appointed final resting place? Didn't they hold him in high-enough esteem? I suppose it doesn't matter. It's good money after bad.
More questions arise, few answers. Does anyone else visit you, Dad? Would I even have called you Dad, or would it have been Pop? Would we have fished? I wonder whether we would have drunk together and contemplate an after-dark graveside drink. Did you love your kids? How could you not? What did you lack that enabled you to walk away? Were you that weak, or just that selfish? Did disease render you incapable of any other course of action? Were you such a shit-heel that I ended up better off because you died? Is it better not to have known a man such as you, of whose DNA I am half-composed? Were I to have known you, I might have been better able to channel my rage. Instead, those unanswered questions linger like briers on a shoelace. I'd prefer to take my sorrow straight, like Iris Dement.
My own two boys seem to have a particular affinity for me. They're not quite old enough to recognize that they know much more than I do, but the little one, especially, is unabashedly affectionate. He wants to wake up to say goodbye on days when I have to leave for work early. He mauls me when I arrive home. And I'm a better man for it. My father denied himself that opportunity and, so, denied me. He could have been a drinker and a good man and a flawed but present father. Instead, he was just a drinker.
A life, for me distilled into a stone slab, like the distillation of spirits that course through me.
--Ivan Doig
I had occasion to be in my father's neighborhood recently. The land of my old man. That happens to be a graveyard, to which I stopped in, as opposed to whistling past. Townes Van Zandt rumbled "Flying Shoes" on the car stereo, the musical backdrop to my quest for his grave. I didn't plan it that way. Just a mystical moment before I stepped out into the residue of a rainstorm that left wet grass and still, roadside puddles.
My father rests in a corner in the far reaches of this particular cemetery, adjacent to a rusted chain-link fence that sequesters a residential yard featuring sparse grass, an aboveground pool, an empty aquarium, a disheveled blue tarp and a nonbarking dog who has at least some German shepherd in him. Sun-worn shingles. Relatively small planes from the nearby airport pass overhead, propeller sounds slicing through the space that divides us.
My father expired, like old milk, in 1979 at age 50 and would have been approaching 82 had he not drunk himself to death. The worker who led me to the grave told me they were "multiple graves," more than one person in a hole.
"He's in the same one as Fannie," he said. The dearly departed Fannie Payne. She entered the world in 1909 and left in '79, same as Dad. I wondered about her lot in life. Their grave markers measure about 2 feet by 8 inches and bear the names and birth and death years. Fairly straightforward.
"Are they separated with something...just dirt?" I asked.
"They each have their own cement crypt. One on top of the other. Some welfare people from Trenton."
"So this would have been the budget plan?"
"Yeah. Sometimes people want to move the person who's underneath, but the family of the person on top says 'You're not moving my relative.' "
Maggie Collins' marker abuts my father's on top. If someone had told me more than one person occupied each grave and asked me to guess who lay where, I would have said Maggie reposed with my father, based on grave-marker position. But he said it was Fannie.
Nearby, three people appear to be entombed together, their markers aligned like rungs on an abbreviated ladder. Wet dirt, not quite having graduated to mud, partially obscures one engraving, and a severely trimmed arborvitae casts its shadow over the gravesite like a slumping sentinel. I push aside some of the dirt with my thumb and it leaves a slug trail on the granite. A woman, age 40, and two boys, 22 and 10. Same last name. A mother and her progeny? A sister with her brothers? Seems unlikely, given the ages. Did they go in a car accident? Did someone gun them down? Did they drown swimming together? I'm gathering they didn't get smothered by an avalanche while back-country skiing, given the pauper's grave. Do the mom and 10-year-old lie in a single, cold, cement embrace?
Nobody appears to tend to these graves, other than the landscapers, who must weed-whack the encroaching grass lest it envelop each stone. A partial bouquet has blown over into this potter's field from the area in which those who were at least somewhat more well-heeled reside.
I don't pray at the graveyard. I don't talk to my father. I wonder who paid for this. His siblings? They couldn't have come up with a more-well-appointed final resting place? Didn't they hold him in high-enough esteem? I suppose it doesn't matter. It's good money after bad.
More questions arise, few answers. Does anyone else visit you, Dad? Would I even have called you Dad, or would it have been Pop? Would we have fished? I wonder whether we would have drunk together and contemplate an after-dark graveside drink. Did you love your kids? How could you not? What did you lack that enabled you to walk away? Were you that weak, or just that selfish? Did disease render you incapable of any other course of action? Were you such a shit-heel that I ended up better off because you died? Is it better not to have known a man such as you, of whose DNA I am half-composed? Were I to have known you, I might have been better able to channel my rage. Instead, those unanswered questions linger like briers on a shoelace. I'd prefer to take my sorrow straight, like Iris Dement.
My own two boys seem to have a particular affinity for me. They're not quite old enough to recognize that they know much more than I do, but the little one, especially, is unabashedly affectionate. He wants to wake up to say goodbye on days when I have to leave for work early. He mauls me when I arrive home. And I'm a better man for it. My father denied himself that opportunity and, so, denied me. He could have been a drinker and a good man and a flawed but present father. Instead, he was just a drinker.
A life, for me distilled into a stone slab, like the distillation of spirits that course through me.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
A Gay Old Time
This is not an indictment of gay people; in fact, I think I'm half-gay. A jury of my peers this past New Year's Eve came to the conclusion that I do decidedly gay things, like take care of all the plants in the house. I also think "The Sound of Music" is a great movie, and I occasionally listen to Mary Chapin Carpenter. So this is like when Jews say things about Jews (they're allowed because they're Jews).
But the recent Supreme Court decision allowing a fringe church group to conduct antigay demonstrations near funerals of dead servicemen got me thinking about what is gay. (By the way, the church people say the soldiers deserved to die because the U.S. tolerates gays.)
--A dick in the mouth is gay, unless you're a woman.
--A clit in the mouth is gay, unless you're a man.
--A dick in the ass is gay, unless you're a woman.
--Putting your dick in another guy's ass is gay, no matter what.
--Sweaters are gay, and sweater vests are uber-gay.
--A man wearing earmuffs is totally gay.
--Clogs are fucking gay.
--Not eating meat is gay.
--Driving a Prius--gay.
--Smart cars are gay.
--BMWs aren't gay, necessarily, but they are dickish.
--Wearing my childhood Superman cape as an apron, which my gay cousin did when were about 6 years old, is gay.
--Spandex, with nothing over top, is gay, unless you're a chick (and not a fat one).
But the recent Supreme Court decision allowing a fringe church group to conduct antigay demonstrations near funerals of dead servicemen got me thinking about what is gay. (By the way, the church people say the soldiers deserved to die because the U.S. tolerates gays.)
--A dick in the mouth is gay, unless you're a woman.
--A clit in the mouth is gay, unless you're a man.
--A dick in the ass is gay, unless you're a woman.
--Putting your dick in another guy's ass is gay, no matter what.
--Sweaters are gay, and sweater vests are uber-gay.
--A man wearing earmuffs is totally gay.
--Clogs are fucking gay.
--Not eating meat is gay.
--Driving a Prius--gay.
--Smart cars are gay.
--BMWs aren't gay, necessarily, but they are dickish.
--Wearing my childhood Superman cape as an apron, which my gay cousin did when were about 6 years old, is gay.
--Spandex, with nothing over top, is gay, unless you're a chick (and not a fat one).
Friday, February 18, 2011
A New Reality
I may pitch a new reality TV show on which I, and maybe some friends, sit around and watch reality TV shows and critique them.
I admit, I'm not up on all of these shows, but there's time, especially if I can make a living out of it. The obvious one to start with would be "Jersey Shore," but I haven't seen it enough to deliver much of a commentary. I'm sure it wouldn't take me long to adjust, though, once I started watching an episode. These people seem to have become part of the popular culture. I'm sure Snooki's book rivals Hemingway. The guys I've seen look like they're on steroids. What I really wonder about this one is who the fuck came up with the idea to have this show? Did people audition for it? To pass the audition, do you have to be an obnoxious asshole? So many questions.
I guess part of the problem is that we have so many channels and so much time to fill. Eventually you run out of "paid programming." That phenomenon likely gives rise to such shows as "Swamp Men," which is not to be confused with "Swamp Loggers," "Swamp People" or "Ax Men." Swamp is so in. In "Swamp Men," they basically move alligators around in a swamp run by the Seminole Indian tribe in Florida. "Nuisance" alligators, the ones that become acclimated to people and therefore pose a threat. Sometimes they drive around on ATVs dragging fencing or whatever over a field to disperse the water-buffalo shit. And the main guy, Ed, always has a dip in his mouth. And by dip, I mean Copenhagen or whatever, though you don't see him spit. At least I'm guessing it's Copenhagen, and not some pussy shit like Skoal pouches.
"Swamp People" shines a revelatory light on people making their livings off of the Atchafalaya River Basin swamp in Louisiana. Now, far be it from me to question people snagging alligators with a giant hook attached to a rope and then shooting them. If I had more leisure time, I might pursue that myself for shits and giggles. And they ain't discussing Shakespeare's sonnets out there. Or maybe they are but don't show it on TV. Don't want to ruin the image.
The guys on "Swamp Loggers," on the other had, basically retrieve underwater logs. I don't know shit about logging, but aren't there enough fucking trees aboveground to use for harvesting timber? The "Ax Men" do it. Does water-logged wood have more value for some reason? A quick Web search failed to provide a satisfactory answer. And these guys apparently have to watch out for alligators when they dive to attach a chain or whatever to a submerged log. Maybe they should have a joint episode of "Swamp Loggers" and "Swamp Men" in which the gator guys hook the alligators when they try to eat the loggers. Even more entertaining would be the gator guys hooking the logger guys. Or maybe the "Jersey Shore" people could go swimming, and the gator guys could hook them. I would DVR that.
I like "Billy the Exterminator." This guy Billy, also in Louisiana, seems decent enough. He dresses like a cross between a Goth and a metalhead or something. Sometimes he shows up at these houses in rural Louisiana or whatever, and the people look like, "What the fuck?" Of course, the reaction was the same when he hunted an alligator at a preppy-looking golf course. Sometimes his brother, Ricky, goes along with him. When it comes to snakes, Steve Irwin and Jeff Corwin they ain't. Ricky apparently has an allergy to bees. That must explain why he goes into a bee-infested shed in an effort to, well, exterminate the fuckers. Oh, the drama. As interesting as these guys are, even more interesting are the shit piles in which some of these people live. You didn't know your family-room ceiling was about to cave in because of the knee-deep expanse of bat shit in the attic? You really wonder why that brigade of rats is hanging around? Then Billy says something like, "Gee, I'm just really glad I could help old Mrs. Jones out." Yes, well, at least she won't have bat-guano-laced drywall falling on her head anytime soon. She'll just wallow in her own shit.
My kid likes "Pawn Stars." That show can be entertaining sometimes. Can Chumlee really be that retarded? Those two fat asses don't look they want to work too hard. That's part of the charm, I suppose. The crusty old man, the personable-but-fed-up-with-the-young-people father and the two lazy fat asses. Yes, shows are edited. Maybe those guys aren't big slackers and just play the roles. "Pawn Stars" spawned a spinoff, "American Restoration," in which this guy Rick fixes up old gas pumps and the like. Maybe someone will film me refinishing a piece of furniture. "Shut that damn dog up," I could yell when my German shepherd squeals at the garage door. Wouldn't that be a scream?
The guys on "American Pickers" go around buying old shit from mostly old people who wear overalls and sport less than a full complement of teeth. These people must have gotten rejected by "Hoarders," so the guys get in their van and snap up old Coke signs. Fascinating. If I were trapped in a van with either one of them, I'd try to buy a gun at the first stop and blow my fucking head off.
Probably my favorite reality show is "Celebrity Rehab With Dr. Drew." Even though it takes liberties with the word "celebrity," I can't turn away from the impending train wrecks. Can you tell me who Frankie Lons is? How about Jason Davis, Janice Dickinson or Rachel Uchitel? Everybody knows Leif Garrett, of course, and Jeremy London. Nobody tops Eric Roberts, though. It's a long way from "The Pope of Greenwich Village" to "Celebrity Rehab." I'm not mocking anyone with an addiction, especially someone trying to get it under control, but why play it out in front of the camera? For some of these "celebrities, I guess it's their 15 minutes.
I've provided a less-than-exhaustive rundown of reality shows. I know "real" housewives exist. Alaska alone has "Gold Rush Alaska" and "Alaska Wing Men" and "Alaska State Troopers." That bounty-hunting dog is tracking down bail skippers, some girl is 16 and pregnant, rednecks are getting married and Fitty Cent is doing something. I just don't have time to watch them all. Not when the gators await snagging.
I admit, I'm not up on all of these shows, but there's time, especially if I can make a living out of it. The obvious one to start with would be "Jersey Shore," but I haven't seen it enough to deliver much of a commentary. I'm sure it wouldn't take me long to adjust, though, once I started watching an episode. These people seem to have become part of the popular culture. I'm sure Snooki's book rivals Hemingway. The guys I've seen look like they're on steroids. What I really wonder about this one is who the fuck came up with the idea to have this show? Did people audition for it? To pass the audition, do you have to be an obnoxious asshole? So many questions.
I guess part of the problem is that we have so many channels and so much time to fill. Eventually you run out of "paid programming." That phenomenon likely gives rise to such shows as "Swamp Men," which is not to be confused with "Swamp Loggers," "Swamp People" or "Ax Men." Swamp is so in. In "Swamp Men," they basically move alligators around in a swamp run by the Seminole Indian tribe in Florida. "Nuisance" alligators, the ones that become acclimated to people and therefore pose a threat. Sometimes they drive around on ATVs dragging fencing or whatever over a field to disperse the water-buffalo shit. And the main guy, Ed, always has a dip in his mouth. And by dip, I mean Copenhagen or whatever, though you don't see him spit. At least I'm guessing it's Copenhagen, and not some pussy shit like Skoal pouches.
"Swamp People" shines a revelatory light on people making their livings off of the Atchafalaya River Basin swamp in Louisiana. Now, far be it from me to question people snagging alligators with a giant hook attached to a rope and then shooting them. If I had more leisure time, I might pursue that myself for shits and giggles. And they ain't discussing Shakespeare's sonnets out there. Or maybe they are but don't show it on TV. Don't want to ruin the image.
The guys on "Swamp Loggers," on the other had, basically retrieve underwater logs. I don't know shit about logging, but aren't there enough fucking trees aboveground to use for harvesting timber? The "Ax Men" do it. Does water-logged wood have more value for some reason? A quick Web search failed to provide a satisfactory answer. And these guys apparently have to watch out for alligators when they dive to attach a chain or whatever to a submerged log. Maybe they should have a joint episode of "Swamp Loggers" and "Swamp Men" in which the gator guys hook the alligators when they try to eat the loggers. Even more entertaining would be the gator guys hooking the logger guys. Or maybe the "Jersey Shore" people could go swimming, and the gator guys could hook them. I would DVR that.
I like "Billy the Exterminator." This guy Billy, also in Louisiana, seems decent enough. He dresses like a cross between a Goth and a metalhead or something. Sometimes he shows up at these houses in rural Louisiana or whatever, and the people look like, "What the fuck?" Of course, the reaction was the same when he hunted an alligator at a preppy-looking golf course. Sometimes his brother, Ricky, goes along with him. When it comes to snakes, Steve Irwin and Jeff Corwin they ain't. Ricky apparently has an allergy to bees. That must explain why he goes into a bee-infested shed in an effort to, well, exterminate the fuckers. Oh, the drama. As interesting as these guys are, even more interesting are the shit piles in which some of these people live. You didn't know your family-room ceiling was about to cave in because of the knee-deep expanse of bat shit in the attic? You really wonder why that brigade of rats is hanging around? Then Billy says something like, "Gee, I'm just really glad I could help old Mrs. Jones out." Yes, well, at least she won't have bat-guano-laced drywall falling on her head anytime soon. She'll just wallow in her own shit.
My kid likes "Pawn Stars." That show can be entertaining sometimes. Can Chumlee really be that retarded? Those two fat asses don't look they want to work too hard. That's part of the charm, I suppose. The crusty old man, the personable-but-fed-up-with-the-young-people father and the two lazy fat asses. Yes, shows are edited. Maybe those guys aren't big slackers and just play the roles. "Pawn Stars" spawned a spinoff, "American Restoration," in which this guy Rick fixes up old gas pumps and the like. Maybe someone will film me refinishing a piece of furniture. "Shut that damn dog up," I could yell when my German shepherd squeals at the garage door. Wouldn't that be a scream?
The guys on "American Pickers" go around buying old shit from mostly old people who wear overalls and sport less than a full complement of teeth. These people must have gotten rejected by "Hoarders," so the guys get in their van and snap up old Coke signs. Fascinating. If I were trapped in a van with either one of them, I'd try to buy a gun at the first stop and blow my fucking head off.
Probably my favorite reality show is "Celebrity Rehab With Dr. Drew." Even though it takes liberties with the word "celebrity," I can't turn away from the impending train wrecks. Can you tell me who Frankie Lons is? How about Jason Davis, Janice Dickinson or Rachel Uchitel? Everybody knows Leif Garrett, of course, and Jeremy London. Nobody tops Eric Roberts, though. It's a long way from "The Pope of Greenwich Village" to "Celebrity Rehab." I'm not mocking anyone with an addiction, especially someone trying to get it under control, but why play it out in front of the camera? For some of these "celebrities, I guess it's their 15 minutes.
I've provided a less-than-exhaustive rundown of reality shows. I know "real" housewives exist. Alaska alone has "Gold Rush Alaska" and "Alaska Wing Men" and "Alaska State Troopers." That bounty-hunting dog is tracking down bail skippers, some girl is 16 and pregnant, rednecks are getting married and Fitty Cent is doing something. I just don't have time to watch them all. Not when the gators await snagging.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Safety First
When a friend told me he wanted his kids to feel safe, like he had always felt when he was growing up, I thought, wouldn't that be nice, what a novel concept, for a child to feel safe. The last word I would use to describe how I felt as a child would be "safe."
It wasn't the first thing I thought when I had a child, either. I thought, "What the fuck?" I felt, and still feel, like I don't know shit. Like I was out of my depth and about to drown. Like someone made a terrible mistake, allowing me to go down that road. But sometimes I look at those people who torture toddlers and bury them in the woods, and I feel somewhat more qualified. Somewhat.
So I try to make my kids feel safe. I mean, they have enough to worry about: spelling tests, crocodiles under the bed, ghosts, all manner of strange noises and monsters in the closet. No need for them to worry prematurely about the monsters out in the world, or within their own father.
Safety remains illusory for me. I once knew someone who said she felt safe with me, and I wondered how she could, when I didn't feel safe from myself. Like now. Pockets of safety exist, the kind you want to bottle, but they slip away like a train. Safety and comfort retain appeal, perhaps because they remain elusive. The chase holds the thrill, not actually obtaining the object of pursuit?
Perhaps comfort and the perception of safety breed complacency and, because of that, one should strive to avoid them. I'd like to try it. Mostly I remain resigned to never knowing the comforts of safety. But the hunt keeps me occupied. Maybe I should enjoy the rare moments of peace when they arrive and not wonder about their duration.
It wasn't the first thing I thought when I had a child, either. I thought, "What the fuck?" I felt, and still feel, like I don't know shit. Like I was out of my depth and about to drown. Like someone made a terrible mistake, allowing me to go down that road. But sometimes I look at those people who torture toddlers and bury them in the woods, and I feel somewhat more qualified. Somewhat.
So I try to make my kids feel safe. I mean, they have enough to worry about: spelling tests, crocodiles under the bed, ghosts, all manner of strange noises and monsters in the closet. No need for them to worry prematurely about the monsters out in the world, or within their own father.
Safety remains illusory for me. I once knew someone who said she felt safe with me, and I wondered how she could, when I didn't feel safe from myself. Like now. Pockets of safety exist, the kind you want to bottle, but they slip away like a train. Safety and comfort retain appeal, perhaps because they remain elusive. The chase holds the thrill, not actually obtaining the object of pursuit?
Perhaps comfort and the perception of safety breed complacency and, because of that, one should strive to avoid them. I'd like to try it. Mostly I remain resigned to never knowing the comforts of safety. But the hunt keeps me occupied. Maybe I should enjoy the rare moments of peace when they arrive and not wonder about their duration.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Fanatic
As the weekend approaches, so too does that most American of rituals: football. I like football okay, mainly because I'm in a few low-stakes betting pools, but I don't absolutely have to watch games. I nominally root for a particular team, though I don't beat my wife if the team loses.
No team flag hangs from the front of my house, nor does a 10-foot tall inflatable football player adorn my front lawn. I don't attend games, so it goes without saying that I don't arrive in the parking lot in the morning and start drinking. News reports this week said police in Foxborough, Mass., home to the Patriots, put 102 people in protective custody because they were intoxicated during Monday's game against the Jets. I bet many of those people had Pats jerseys on, which begs a question: Presumably these people are adults, so why would they wear, say, a Tom Brady jersey? When I hit the convenience store Sunday morning, depending upon which local team plays at home, I'm apt to encounter a throng of people proudly sporting their team's insignia.
All right, so what? Not a big deal. They're not hurting anybody. At least not until they get shit-faced and loudly profane in the presence of minors. I've witnessed near-physical altercations in drinking establishments because, well, somebody liked the Cowboys and somebody else didn't.
So I'm left to puzzle over such strong identification with people who, for the most part, live radically different lives from the majority of the population. These fans who so identify with their teams talk about them as if the fan is actually a member of the team, saying "we," for example, in reference to the team. an Eagles fan might say, "We're going to beat the shit out of the Giants." Make that "fucking shit," since it's an Eagles fan. Sometimes a fan's attire makes it seem as if he or she actually will play that day. Are their lives otherwise so bereft of significance that they have to fashion themselves near-athletes? This phenomenon isn't limited to football or even professional sports. Some youth soccer coaches dress like they're playing in the World Cup.
Sports offer an escape. It's just the extent to which some people are escaping.
No team flag hangs from the front of my house, nor does a 10-foot tall inflatable football player adorn my front lawn. I don't attend games, so it goes without saying that I don't arrive in the parking lot in the morning and start drinking. News reports this week said police in Foxborough, Mass., home to the Patriots, put 102 people in protective custody because they were intoxicated during Monday's game against the Jets. I bet many of those people had Pats jerseys on, which begs a question: Presumably these people are adults, so why would they wear, say, a Tom Brady jersey? When I hit the convenience store Sunday morning, depending upon which local team plays at home, I'm apt to encounter a throng of people proudly sporting their team's insignia.
All right, so what? Not a big deal. They're not hurting anybody. At least not until they get shit-faced and loudly profane in the presence of minors. I've witnessed near-physical altercations in drinking establishments because, well, somebody liked the Cowboys and somebody else didn't.
So I'm left to puzzle over such strong identification with people who, for the most part, live radically different lives from the majority of the population. These fans who so identify with their teams talk about them as if the fan is actually a member of the team, saying "we," for example, in reference to the team. an Eagles fan might say, "We're going to beat the shit out of the Giants." Make that "fucking shit," since it's an Eagles fan. Sometimes a fan's attire makes it seem as if he or she actually will play that day. Are their lives otherwise so bereft of significance that they have to fashion themselves near-athletes? This phenomenon isn't limited to football or even professional sports. Some youth soccer coaches dress like they're playing in the World Cup.
Sports offer an escape. It's just the extent to which some people are escaping.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Matters
A man named Andy Andrews appeared on my TV screen a few Sunday mornings ago on one of the multiple praise-God channels. A late-middle-age couple who appeared to be husband and wife hosted this program, and they spoke of redemption and rescue from the edge of the abyss. The first thought that occurred to me, though, was whether this fucking guy's name really is Andy Andrews. Is his full name Andrew Andrews, but that was too weird, so he made it Andy Andrews? Apparently that is his name, and he has a website that bills him as an inspirational author and speaker.
On this particular show, or at least the part I watched (sometimes I just can't change the channel, so mesmerizing a spell having been cast by such peculiarities on my screen), these people discussed a book by Mr. Andrews called "The Butterfly Effect: How Your Life Matters." From what I gathered, Andy Andrews asserts in this book that everything everyone does matters. He says on his website that "every single thing you do matters...."
As an example, Andy Andrews cites Joshua Chamberlain, whom he describes as "a school teacher from Maine who made one move 150 years ago that positively impacted an entire nation. By charging the enemy without ammunition–and defeating them–he set off a butterfly effect that lasts to this day." Andy on this TV show said Joshua Chamberlain's actions at Gettysburg during the Civil War altered the course of history to such an extent that otherwise the world would not exist as we now know it. While Joshua Chamberlain indeed appears to have exhibited gallantry at Gettysburg, Andy may have been reaching. How the fuck does he know what would have happened had Joshua Chamberlain not ordered his men to charge? The North might have won, anyway. Or maybe the South. Andy contended that had Mr. Chamberlain not singularly preserved the Union, nobody would have stopped Hitler. Andy can't know this, but he used it as the foundation of his argument that everything we do matters.
Let's not even take him literally, like that piss I just took matters to anybody but me. Let's say a ripple effect exists. My mother has told me a story roughly seven thousand times about how she once buried herself as a child in a pile of leaves in the gutter of the street and her father dashed to her rescue and fished her out just before a car about to park would have run over her. For the sake of argument, let's also say this isn't apocryphal. It logically follows that if the car had compacted her along with the leaves, conception of my siblings and I never would have transpired.
So, how would that have changed the world? Much as I considered the majority of my youthful indulgences significant, in retrospect I'd have to say they didn't much matter. Okay, I got good grades, went to college on a scholarship and got decent jobs. As a result, I own a house and my kids have a relatively cushy situation. That doesn't matter to too many people, aside from my immediate family. But as far as I can tell, I haven't changed history's course. Wait. Maybe if I hadn't bought that house, a group of terrorists would have moved in and hatched a nefarious plot in which they would have blown up the local elementary school and killed the future doctor who was going to come up with the cure for cancer. Maybe that will be one of my kids. Maybe one of my kids will become president and keep us out of a war that otherwise would have cost the lives of thousands. Probably the older kid. The younger one would get us into a war. But I can't hang my hat on either of those. I'd like to have Clarence the angel visit me and show me the world as if I had never existed. Alas, it won't happen.
And I can't help but think that so much of what I do and have done makes a difference to a relative few. That's enough, especially as it relates to the children. But the premise that we all matter remains unconvincing.
What about all the stuff that matters in negative fashion? The father throws his toddler off a bridge in Baltimore. The mother drowns her babies. Or drives her car into the canal with the kids still alive and strapped in the back seat. Those kids won't cure cancer.
Beyond the obvious and the immediate, we just can't know what matters. If I punch you in the fucking head, it will hurt. I get that. Putting my dick in a vise, likewise. On the other hand, surely winning the lottery would please me, at least for a while. Only pretenders claim to know anything beyond. The Pollyannaish fucks who try to persuade you that they know. They believe it, though, and that makes them dangerous.
On this particular show, or at least the part I watched (sometimes I just can't change the channel, so mesmerizing a spell having been cast by such peculiarities on my screen), these people discussed a book by Mr. Andrews called "The Butterfly Effect: How Your Life Matters." From what I gathered, Andy Andrews asserts in this book that everything everyone does matters. He says on his website that "every single thing you do matters...."
As an example, Andy Andrews cites Joshua Chamberlain, whom he describes as "a school teacher from Maine who made one move 150 years ago that positively impacted an entire nation. By charging the enemy without ammunition–and defeating them–he set off a butterfly effect that lasts to this day." Andy on this TV show said Joshua Chamberlain's actions at Gettysburg during the Civil War altered the course of history to such an extent that otherwise the world would not exist as we now know it. While Joshua Chamberlain indeed appears to have exhibited gallantry at Gettysburg, Andy may have been reaching. How the fuck does he know what would have happened had Joshua Chamberlain not ordered his men to charge? The North might have won, anyway. Or maybe the South. Andy contended that had Mr. Chamberlain not singularly preserved the Union, nobody would have stopped Hitler. Andy can't know this, but he used it as the foundation of his argument that everything we do matters.
Let's not even take him literally, like that piss I just took matters to anybody but me. Let's say a ripple effect exists. My mother has told me a story roughly seven thousand times about how she once buried herself as a child in a pile of leaves in the gutter of the street and her father dashed to her rescue and fished her out just before a car about to park would have run over her. For the sake of argument, let's also say this isn't apocryphal. It logically follows that if the car had compacted her along with the leaves, conception of my siblings and I never would have transpired.
So, how would that have changed the world? Much as I considered the majority of my youthful indulgences significant, in retrospect I'd have to say they didn't much matter. Okay, I got good grades, went to college on a scholarship and got decent jobs. As a result, I own a house and my kids have a relatively cushy situation. That doesn't matter to too many people, aside from my immediate family. But as far as I can tell, I haven't changed history's course. Wait. Maybe if I hadn't bought that house, a group of terrorists would have moved in and hatched a nefarious plot in which they would have blown up the local elementary school and killed the future doctor who was going to come up with the cure for cancer. Maybe that will be one of my kids. Maybe one of my kids will become president and keep us out of a war that otherwise would have cost the lives of thousands. Probably the older kid. The younger one would get us into a war. But I can't hang my hat on either of those. I'd like to have Clarence the angel visit me and show me the world as if I had never existed. Alas, it won't happen.
And I can't help but think that so much of what I do and have done makes a difference to a relative few. That's enough, especially as it relates to the children. But the premise that we all matter remains unconvincing.
What about all the stuff that matters in negative fashion? The father throws his toddler off a bridge in Baltimore. The mother drowns her babies. Or drives her car into the canal with the kids still alive and strapped in the back seat. Those kids won't cure cancer.
Beyond the obvious and the immediate, we just can't know what matters. If I punch you in the fucking head, it will hurt. I get that. Putting my dick in a vise, likewise. On the other hand, surely winning the lottery would please me, at least for a while. Only pretenders claim to know anything beyond. The Pollyannaish fucks who try to persuade you that they know. They believe it, though, and that makes them dangerous.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Happiness
Here's a New York Times headline from Nov. 16, 2010:
When the Mind Wanders, Happiness Also Strays
The article goes on to say, basically, that people who focus on the task at hand are more likely to be happy. That when the mind strays, unhappiness can follow. Even people who think about pleasant activities when their minds wander are vulnerable to, if not unhappiness, then being less happy than those whose minds weren't wandering at all.
Furthermore, even enjoyable activities don't necessarily stop the mind from wandering, and the evidence indicates that a wandering mind causes unhappiness, as opposed to unhappiness causing a wandering mind.
When the researchers contacted people to determine their states of mind, people engaged in sex were happy, at least until the phone rang. Personal grooming, commuting and working ranked low on the list of happiness-producing activities. I can see that. I hate brushing my fucking teeth. I also commute too much, which can really suck.
But back to the matter at hand. The article contains a quote: “Life is not long,” Samuel Johnson said, “and too much of it must not pass in idle deliberation how it shall be spent.” It contains a few other quotations, similar in nature. Reminds me of John Lennon's observation that life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.
I've conversed with therapists on the mind-wandering subject and self-talk. They both possess destructive capabilities. Positive self-talk requires so much effort after conditioning has instilled in one a proclivity to skew toward the negative. Like John Hiatt says, "It takes every drop of energy just to run my brain." So, then, the challenge lies in preventing the mind from wandering. I'm relatively ignorant when it comes to meditation, but it seems as if that's one of the objectives, to not think about anything. How do we do it, stop the mind from wandering? The more you think about keeping the mind from wandering, the more it wanders. The more it wanders, the more unhappy you potentially become. I don't know if people can learn to keep their minds from wandering. I think you can learn to cope more effectively when your mind does wander, but I have a natural predisposition to mind wandering. If I didn't, I guess I couldn't write any of this shit. I've long since resigned to being fucked when it comes to that.
When the Mind Wanders, Happiness Also Strays
The article goes on to say, basically, that people who focus on the task at hand are more likely to be happy. That when the mind strays, unhappiness can follow. Even people who think about pleasant activities when their minds wander are vulnerable to, if not unhappiness, then being less happy than those whose minds weren't wandering at all.
Furthermore, even enjoyable activities don't necessarily stop the mind from wandering, and the evidence indicates that a wandering mind causes unhappiness, as opposed to unhappiness causing a wandering mind.
When the researchers contacted people to determine their states of mind, people engaged in sex were happy, at least until the phone rang. Personal grooming, commuting and working ranked low on the list of happiness-producing activities. I can see that. I hate brushing my fucking teeth. I also commute too much, which can really suck.
But back to the matter at hand. The article contains a quote: “Life is not long,” Samuel Johnson said, “and too much of it must not pass in idle deliberation how it shall be spent.” It contains a few other quotations, similar in nature. Reminds me of John Lennon's observation that life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.
I've conversed with therapists on the mind-wandering subject and self-talk. They both possess destructive capabilities. Positive self-talk requires so much effort after conditioning has instilled in one a proclivity to skew toward the negative. Like John Hiatt says, "It takes every drop of energy just to run my brain." So, then, the challenge lies in preventing the mind from wandering. I'm relatively ignorant when it comes to meditation, but it seems as if that's one of the objectives, to not think about anything. How do we do it, stop the mind from wandering? The more you think about keeping the mind from wandering, the more it wanders. The more it wanders, the more unhappy you potentially become. I don't know if people can learn to keep their minds from wandering. I think you can learn to cope more effectively when your mind does wander, but I have a natural predisposition to mind wandering. If I didn't, I guess I couldn't write any of this shit. I've long since resigned to being fucked when it comes to that.
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