Piles of Paper & Real Cowardly Racism

June 21, 2012:  It’s a combination day, where I’m toiling through my paper pile and sorting through the myriad mental observations cluttering my precarious mind (Space Case and my Youtube video, of course, among them) ...

I jot notes and ideas, paragraphs, thoughts, and more and more on folded up pieces of paper, and it’s only every so often that I review the enormous collection I’ve accumulated—the somewhat unused ones that weren’t for a current story or project—the ones that collect in my drawers and atop my night table …

For instance, here’s one in which I briefly recount an interesting dream wherein I was riding on a bus with Hitler and asked him for his autograph.  (I can’t detail this one, because somehow the paper got all wet and the thick red ink ran all over the place.) I remember I was somewhat embarrassed about asking him—he was, after all, Hitler—but I think we eventually fell into a kind of light conversation, keeping it off the war and his being a Nazi.

And speaking of Hitler, I wanted to share the great moment I had yesterday at the Motor Vehicle office in Norwalk, CT. It was incredibly crowded, but I was still all the chipper comrade where my friends on line were concerned, bantering away with the friendly convivial gloss particular to civil service stress. Of course, all we all kept talking about—the lady in front of me, and the lady in back—was the longness of the lines, etc., and how long and long they were, and how grouchy the workers would be when we finally got up to the front of the line the following afternoon, etc., etc.

“And you notice, ubba-zubba-zubba,” the woman behind me said quite confidentially.

“I’m sorry, what?” I said, being deaf and all.

“They’re mostly minorities,” she whispered about the workers, quite sure I’d understand her point.

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I simply asked, “Are you a racist?” and it wasn’t a rhetorical question. I’m just surprised when I meet one, at least in Fairfield County, Connecticut.

“No, no!” she assured me quickly. “I’m not racist.” And I always find it interesting how rarely a racist will admit to being racist. That kind of annoys me. I find the lack of conviction even more appalling than the practice. If I were a racist I’d be adamant about my racism; I’d be the raciest! But nowadays, you can’t even draw passion from a bigot. I mean, what’s the world coming to?!

Ironically, she was sent to the front of the line by a sort of wandering information guy who felt her case was worthier than mine (or something), and replaced behind me by a very dark-skinned woman who in all probability was some kind of minority or other. (I didn’t ask, but had I known I was going to Blah-ugh! about this, I might have.)

Anyway, when I finally reached the front of the line, the minority worker—I mean, she was clearly not in the majority—was remarkably friendly and polite (except when she called me Tubby, which I didn’t appreciate). No, seriously, she was a princess, and I even made a point of complimenting her, and said, “Y’know, you’ve been really polite, lady. You were basically as polite as a normal person.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well, I mean, as a minority, it’s not quite as usual for you to be so civil, even though you’re a civil servant, and so I just wanted to mention that you carried your handling with the articulate dignity of a dignified and articulate gentleman, but like a lady gentleman.” (I may not be quoting myself here exactly, but it was that kind of idea I expressed, and she was thankful to the end.

“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you,” she said in that way minorities have. “You really have been nice to be so pollutioning and acknowledgating,”she said she said.

“Yes, I am,” I sighed, "and thank you for being so articulate and dignified, as minorities have such a hard time being. You is truly a articulate and dignified lady gemmun!” I rambled.

Ah, yes! Another breakthrough in minority-normality relations.  We’ve come a long way, baby, and that’s not even beginning to dive into the large, long messy pile of papers with all sorts of other ideas I have cluttering about on my bed at just this very moment …

A Short Essay on Planned Hopelessness

April 3, 2012: Owing to the abbreviated Connecticut winter, everyone's coming forward with their new and strange predictions for the coming summer. My neighbor, who I don't really know and who I'll certainly take steps to avoid throughout the warm weather, was recently -- just last week, in fact -- expounding on the great number of deer ticks we can expect in the coming months.

"It's gonna be a bad year," she said, eyeing the automobile in our driveway as if she were considering how well it might serve her to develop a relationship with our family.

The thing is, nobody ever seems to predict GOOD years. It's never going to be a great year for people who dislike bugs, or a mosquito-free season of sunshine. These amateur prophets all seem to operate with a Nostrodamus-like leaning toward doom and hopelessness, and never offer portents of positive possibilities.

It's the same with cold seasons and flu. People love to declare, "Something's going around" and "Everyone's sick!" but no one ever observes, "Gosh, have you noticed how well everyone seems these days?!" Aren't there ever times when things AREN'T going around?!! Can we ever marvel at how healthy our community is feeling?

Meanwhile, I'm trying to decide how aggressively I should continue the marketing of my new e-novel SPACE CASE, which as you know is dirty and violent and the perfect book for our disturbed, voyeuristic culture. A friend suggested that I create a "page" on Facebook, and saturate all my "friends" with postings, as this is the way of the present. It all seems terribly rude and intrusive to me, and yet -- as I'm growing more and more fed up with mankind and its failure to save trees, halt text-messaging, and stop making movies with Will Farrell -- I'm beginning to think my noble, self-conscious efforts to save people trouble and intrusion are being wasted on the wrong species.

Interestingly, it may just be my own negative projection that's making this so hard for me. Perhaps I need to stop assuming my marketing scheme is riddled with the tick-like parasites of importunity. Perhaps I should let go of looking darkly toward the future and trust in the process ... and E.J. ... and these in no particular order ...

Hmmm ... Perhaps I'll just go and make another chocolate cake. Ticks and success have waited this long ...

That Ugly Singer

November 21, 2009: Has anyone noticed how ugly this woman Susan Boyle is? She looks like someone painted a face on a giant big toe, then put a wig on it. I was just about to start writing a movie review of "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade" when I stumbled upon her picture and felt it was much more important that I report on her ugliness, rather than the film.

In case you don't know, she's that British singer from that British TV show that everyone loves so much. But I suspect it's primarily because she's so ugly and yet can sing fairly well that people like her. I guess she sings alright, but as an Oscar Wildian conoisseur of Beauty and Truth (and their subtle, if fabricated, connection), I have a hard time separating her innate ugliness from whatever chipper art she may produce.

Knowing me as you all do (or pretend to, those of you who merely suck up to me in order to say you know someone who writes a popular blog), you know that I've long maintained that appearances mean little to me. But did you ever stop to think that I was lying? In fact, they mean a great deal, and while I still struggle on a daily basis to even get my face shaved, my cologne applied, and my cuticles sanded, when it comes to looking outside of myself at others, I consider it my God-given American right to not be subjected to anything less than a striking, soigne apparition.

I grew up in a little town called Westport, in Connecticut, and here appearances are very important. Then I moved to Los Angeles, where appearances are vitally important. To now ask me to suddenly separate all of my most fundamental beliefs from what is, in essence, the good-natured choices of those with the luxury to be liberal, seems ridiculous and almost rude on your part. (What's your problem, anyway? Don't I do enough for our relationship without being asked to endure disturbing visions of the dissipated?)

Some of us don't have the luxury of accepting everyone as they are. We've been bred to be intolerant, and so our views and needs should always be given priority, if only because we suffer much more than other people, and at far, far less.

Again, I'm not disputing Ms. Boyle's right to exist, but merely her right to exist so publically. There's a reason God gave her a grand, old voice, I'm sure, and part of it involved His hope that she'd keep that hideous face of hers under wraps.

TravelBlah-ugh! -- Go Stratford, CT

October 1, 2009: It could be any American town, and yet it's probably unique in ways I was too bored to discover. Still, having two hours until my car was ready, I took the time to explore this staid little Connecticut coastal town they call Stratford.

My first disappointment came at the railroad station, where I'd hoped to use the bathroom. You see, there was no bathroom. There was no railroad station, only a muffin shop, with a generous-hearted proprietor (who sadly feels compelled to flood his potentially pleasant place with the obtrusive scream of a wall-mounted television. I ask, Are there no longer any places to go without being bombarded by these fucking things?!) Even stranger, the station house on the eastbound side has been turned into a helicopter museum of all things. I mean, to quote Reggie in the movie "Phantasm," "What the hell is goin' on?!"

Heading out, I realized train travelers are forced to buy their tickets from ugly electronic vending machines, rather than quaint, Yankee-accented older men in blue uniforms, as it should be. Such progress they've made in Stratford. How soon until they install vending urinals and make us pee into timed receptacles that snap shut if we go on too long?

Downtown Stratford is split by the elevated Interstate-95, which rips through the community like fungus on fire. Emerging in the light on the south side, I was disappointed to see the town's center feeling somewhat dried up and lifeless. Needs are getting met at strip malls these days, where people feel safer going to stores they've learned the jingles to, from television. Here, it's sad and hopeless, just like George Bush wanted it!

Choosing a side street, I found a lovely string of Victorian-era homes -- priceless properties that, owing to the ongoing proliferation of new ugly construction, I don't think people generally appreciate. I skulked here and there, trying not to look suspicious, but feeling suspicious nonetheless. I began to discover the pleasant vibration that is Stratford off the beaten trail.

Eventually I emerged close to the water, and was thrilled to remember that Long Island Sound cures everything. A little shack was selling "Fresh Fish & Chips." Is it really fresh? I wondered. Who can we believe when they take away our train stations and replace them with helicopter museums?!

I found a small dock that was, oddly enough for a Thursday morning, busy with visitors -- mostly seedy, bearded motorcycle-type men who smoked and acted suspicious. The view over the water was gorgeous, but there were a lot of bees being frantic on the dock, probably sensing their imminent death with the cold weather, or the smoking men, who could start stomping them at any minute. A surly old fisherman didn't return my wave, perhaps fearing I was competition, poised to usurp his cod or something ... I moved on ...

The political season is underway, and there were many lawn signs for local candidates. I became suspicious at the idea of voting for "Dom Costello for Mayor." The "Dom" part aside, how could I trust a Costello not to do something to infuriate Abbott? "Unaffiliated candidate" indeed!

Turning back inland, I was led to a great, open field, which offered a grand veteran's monument, including wars I didn't even know we'd had. From there I found a funeral, with a flower shop right next door, which I knew did good business. The library was next, and they had a toilet I took the time to enjoy ... Stratford was growing on me!

Heading back toward the center, I passed a man who looked like the Village Fool. We greeted each other warmly. Nearby I spotted an old box of Lorna Doone cookies. There were lots of churches, too, and this all seemed to make the community a better place. I stopped at one church to explore a little thrift shop in the back, but I didn't stay long, as it smelled like a dirty diaper. I did, however, make another bathroom visit in the building, as I just can't seem to say No to a free toilet.

All in all, Stratford was a pleasant place to kill a couple of hours, and isn't that so much of what our lives have become about -- killing time until we die? Don't take my word for it. Take a morning there yourself, explore the toilets, and wonder why we, as a population, feel we need to even leave our houses when we have toilets and televisions of our own.

The Nakedness of Nature

September 24, 2009: Another post due, I turn to last week's overnight camping experience with my son's scout troop.

Please understand, much as I might feign the manly guise of the rugged New England boy -- (and I know many of you see me as being the zenith of strapping manhood, and I appreciate that) -- alas, I am in actuality but a frail example of modern man, strung to the numbing comforts of his technological life-support systems like a moldy yard dog tethered to his post. So to send me out into the cold woods of upstate Connecticut, regardless of the related good cause, is somewhat akin to pouring an innocent fresh-water guppy into a sour salt-water tank.

The carryings-on of the more demonic scouts aside -- the distasteful habits of the more military-minded fathers, including the one who went for laughs by passing gas at the dinner table -- it was all ultimately a positive growth experience for my offspring, and therefore for me (since I'm so codependent). It was a unique opportunity to practice patience and tolerance, to find a chance to be of service, and to -- at least for a few moments here and there -- pretend that I was something grander and more savage than the meek, wiley little city slicker I am.

The real test came at night, when it got dark. It got really dark. It was bizarre. I didn't know they still made darkness that dark. I felt constantly for the little flashlight in my pocket like it was my drugs (were I still doing them). I began to wonder what would happen if I dropped my keys, or my chapstick. This was the real wild. It wasn't for me. I'd progressed beyond this. I was too civilized. I'd evolved beyond this, as sensitive men are wont to do.

Late night didn't bring sleep, but there were a terrifying variety of strange sounds bubbling throughout the camp. Our scout leader snored incessantly, and the baritone echo rumbling across the small meadow made me sure at one point that a black bear had entered the area and was foraging about for the remains of our pork-and-bean dinner. Around 2 a.m. I thought I heard a cougar -- that awful hissing snarl so familiar to anyone's whose been chased by one. He crept stealthily into camp and began considering who to eat first. I held my breath, re-experiencing that faux defense mechanism of childhood, wherein you hold your breath and pull your feet close, hoping therefore the enormous mountain lion won't be able to rip your tent open and chomp your skull. Several minutes later, however, I realized it was someone pulling their tent zipper open and shut, so that was a relief. Yet another disaster averted. Still, I kept my feet close, as well as my flashlight and chapstick.

It wasn't all bad, of course. At five a.m., stumbling my way through the site to the latrine -- (I'd had to go all night, but was trying to be rugged) -- I got to see a wealth of clear white stars speckling the sky. I stood observing them for a beautiful breathless minute, until I realized I was literally standing on the corner of someone's tent. I scuttled away like a frightened vole, tripped on a rock, and ultimately hit my head on the metal pole suspended over my tent.

All in all, it was a valuable and cherishable experience, except for a lot of it. I won't say everyone is ready to journey to the wild, as I have done, but for you city-fied gentry, it may be time to start considering the value and opportunities of facing your forestry demons and becoming one with the bitter soil that is nature at her buck-nakedest ...

And until next time, my time is up ...

Squirrels Mating

August 27, 2009: Already facing considerable demand for another entry, I decided to throw my weekly plan to the wind and give the public what it wants.

At the same time, I wanted to focus on something relevant and somewhat informative. That's when I remembered these two squirrels I saw trying to mate yesterday.

It was quite a spectacle. While they both seemed interested -- of course, who knows what really goes on in a squirrel's mind -- they didn't seem to have the least idea how to begin! (It was like watching a pair of humans.) First the male got behind the female. Then the female turned around and tried to get behind the male. Then they both sort of put their tails against each other's and started backing up, like they were some pair of Kama Sutra squirrels. On top of that, you have to understand that the whole thing was taking place on the side of a tree, so they couldn't have been very relaxed to begin with.

Part of me suspects that the excessive urbanization of Connecticut is to blame. Squirrels want to mate, but they don't even remember how, or they're too frightened to let their guard down. I blame the government for this. (Isn't that what "blogs" are for, after all?!)

I'll try to find out more about this situation, but keep your eyes open. If you see pairs of squirrels acting strangely, at least do your part by averting your eyes. It may help relax them.