Month: December 2017

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A Profane and Pejorative Puzzle

31 December 2017

I should probably begin by stating that I no more believe in “bad words” than I do “dangerous weapons”. There are good and bad people and they will avail themselves of fitting or inappropriate tools.

“But, Genial Gene,” I hear many bleat, “some words are just nasty!”

Now now, I realize that in the real world some people have a real visceral reaction to certain sequences of phonemes. I get it, and I try to be careful.

George Carlin tried codifying the constraint in 1972 (though I suspect his list adhered more to the demands of his bit than to etymological rigor) with his “Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television” (In Dog Latin: feci copulat ure cunnum fellatrix oedipus mammaria — or, in the original Klingon: shit fuck piss cunt cocksucker motherfucker tits).

Carlin’s list didn’t last long. In the late seventies Debbie Reynolds performed a sketch on her television variety special in which she lampooned Jimmy Carter, Walter Mondale, and Dolly Parton, referring to them as “Grits and Fritz and Tits.” Somewhat later, in the early eighties, I was startled to realize how many tough cops and crusading ADAs were routinely “pissed off.” After 10 pm, of course. Clearly the FCC had backed off on a couple of their proscriptions. Still, the rest of the list seemed to remain intact for the rest of the 20th Century.

Today, on many a late night cable drama you’ll hear tough cops and cynical suspects calling each other on their “bullshit excuses” or “bullshit charges.” Four remain, and seemingly firm, in spite of Charles Rocket’s not believing he had been “fucking shot” at the end of Saturday Night Live’s Dallas parody. But that was only in the Eastern and Central Time Zones. Tape delay permitted the offending utterance to be expunged elsewhere.

Culture evolves, often slowly and painfully, sometimes abruptly. Three words have dropped off Carlin’s list, but a couple of others might have since been added. This brings me to what I call “The FCN Rule.” This stipulates that a courteous person will avoid saying (at least) fuck or cunt or nigger in front of strangers unless those strangers have bought tickets to hear his act. There are a lot of other things it is wise to avoid saying in public, but those three are the cream. Conceding the rationale of the list, “Nigger” certainly belongs there, as its history is particularly violent and ugly. It is rich and potent, meaning both subordinate and pariah. It‘s almost too perfect a pejorative, both in its origins, and in the physiognomic effect it has on the speaker. Feel the muscles of your face as you pronounce the word. It begins with a sneer, and it ends with a growl. We couldn‘t come up with a better way to express disdain and contempt and threat all in one breath if we tried to build one from the ground up. (“Faggot” is likely also on the list by now, even though I suspect that many Brits will still bum fags from their mates.)

The whole notion of profanity puzzles me. What puzzles me even more is the notion of insulting someone by calling him a cunt, a dick, an asshole, or a cocksucker. Sure, I get that being equated to a body part is limiting, dehumanizing, and insulting. But those particular parts, and that particular act, are all GOOD things. Granted, not all of us are into anal sex, but the asshole is still for most of the rest of us a regular source of comfort and relief. A good thing. Not that I’m about to start hurling insults, I’m just not the sort myself to be getting all worked up over what seems to me to be a trivial slight or a juvenile jest.

Such circumspection is not an indictment of the words themselves, just taking credit for a little bit of social grace. I will endorse circumspection as long as I’m obliged to live in the real world, but I will never surrender any words unconditionally. As a writer (strictly amateur) and an actor (much more accomplished amateur) I consider the English language to be both my tool kit and my toy box. It is imprudent to surrender useful tools, and it’s no fun giving up your toys.

Still, to avoid Cletus bitch-slapping me for inadvertently insulting his mom, I’ll try to watch the lip. Just be careful ya don’t ask me any direct questions…

update 211105 – An Oedipal Romantic at the Excremental Exhibition
The faculty at Hogwarts know better than to say “Voldemort” because in a fantasy world where magic is real, incantations hurt people.  Meanwhile, in the real world, awkward and embarrassed parents will spell out the words that they’re not yet ready to explain to their children.  Elsewhere, legal departments and broadcast executives will proscribe the use of those same words on the air.  Often, in the name of accurate reporting, it is necessary to allude to the forbidden phrases rather than to quote them, so as not to incur stockholder-unfriendly monetary penalties.  This results in such silly constructions as “F*** Joe Biden” and “S***hole Countries.”  This is just practical business sense.  But when grown-ups are talking to each other, saying such things as “F-bomb” or “N-word” just requires additional effort.  In fact, it’s a little insulting.  The offending utterances may not actually register in our ears, but we can still hear them in our heads.  Unless I misremember, the comedian Louis CK said that he resents it when people say, “the N-word,” because he knows that they mean “nigger.”  They want him to understand that that’s what they mean, but they’re making him do the extra work of filling in the blanks.  I agree with Louis; if you want it in my head, put it in my ear.  Unless you’ve come up with a new and clever euphemism.  In that case, go ahead and impress me with your wit or your inventiveness.  Humor and poetry are always welcome.  Otherwise, if you’re not saying what you mean, then you don’t mean what you say.

These comments are sponsored by The Confederate Mint (purveyors of metallic securities in gold, silver, copper, and lead).  For sample sheets of Metallic Certificates (total face value One Tenth Silver Dollar) send One Silver Dime plus a self-addressed stamped envelope; or
Four United States Legal Tender Federal Reserve “Dollars” in scrip, check, or money order, to Greigh Area Associates,
c/o Gene Greigh // 401 Rio Concho Drive, #105;  San Angelo, Texas;  76903

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ca. Ninety-nine per cent…

12 November 2017

..of the time, the way you swing your wing wang is the least interesting thing about you. Of course, when it is interesting it’s REALLY INTERESTING,. Ideally, that’s for a select audience, so it’s generally best kept to oneself.

..of the efforts of today’s “conservatives” is spent protecting the leftie progressive gains opposed by yesterday’s “conservatives.” This is why it is so important to vote for Republicans™ — so Dubya (BHWB43) can get a Chief Justice on the bench to protect federalized RomneyCare (2.0). Other crimes to which modern “conservative” Republicans™ are accessories after the fact: the Income Tax, Prussian-style government indoctrination (a.k.a. “public education”), Social(ist) “Security”, and the F’eral Reserve.

..of all job applications were an ultimate waste of my time, but only ninety per cent of the job interviews. Math majors may chime in here.

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Accident Report

6 April 2016

There seems to be a pattern emerging. About once every forty-six years, according to the data to date, I am going to blunder out into traffic and wreak inconvenience upon innocent strangers. Now, seriously, I don’t really mean any harm. The trouble is, I don’t seem to mean anything at all in those moments. In 1970, for those of you tuning in late, I was actually trying to watch the traffic but I was gulled by Steve Ramos who gestured for me to cross, so rather than noting the bread truck bearing down on me…

But you’ve all heard that tale before.

But wait, I should probably stress before I go any further that EVERYBODY IS OK!

Well, okeh, not “AOK” okeh. I for one am still on the mend from a little buffeting and cracked ribs, and I am gratified to report that as far as injuries go, I got the worst of it. As far as restitution for property damage, well, I got the worst of that, too. GEICO took a hit on behalf of the others, but that’s their job. Right? As for me. I eat my own damages. So happier endings, anyway.

So… the details:

On my way to work Friday night (18 March) in my “new” (1998) Buick and I’m just cruising up the off ramp from the Interstate attempting to signal my intended left turn to get to work on time — by which point its signage is visible from the block or few away. For some reason, the turn signal is not engaging so I fiddle with that as I ease to a gentle reflexive stop at the intersection. Still monkeying with the switch I vaguely realize that I’m probably leaning on the detent somewhere along the linkage.

“To unimaginative vocabulary with it, then,” says my deliberative mind, or something like that, “it’ll all be moot once I’ve actually turned left.”

Somewhere along here, I think, is where my reflexive mind starts giving itself airs, thinking it was just as important as the autonomic mind. “Left turn?” it asks brightly. “I know how to turn left! You wanna go left? We can go left! We turn left all the time!”

Meanwhile, my deliberative mind is till focusing on my new turn signal challenge and watching the flashing green light green light green light on my dashboard.

“What?” asks the reflexive mind. “Green light? Left turn? Green light! Left turn! LET’S GO!”

Suddenly, my deliberative mind snaps to keenly urgent attention. I see that I am entering the intersection and that on my left is a little yellow —

BAM! Sudden violence and motion and then I am stopped with airbags deployed (sadly, weakly, and seemingly ineffectually, I might add) and my front left is crunched up against the front left of an oncoming white SUV. Outside of my wreck are kindly and solicitous people enquiring after my welfare and I assure them that I feel physically fit, if a bit shaken. Because of the crunch action on the left side, I am unable to exit my door, so I have to crawl over to the co-pilot’s port, retrieving my ever-full lunch bag and my ever-faithful notebook before exiting.

Outside finally I notice one of the helpful gents was on his phone so I asked him if he’d called the police.

“I’m talking to them now.”

“Thank you,” I said, but brought out my own phone anyway as I wanted to call work and explain that “One, I’m not going to get to work on time tonight. Sorry about that, but, two, that cluster of flashing lights (by which time the police and ambulance and firetruck have all arrived) you can see from our parking lot is me. Stay tuned for developments.”

So eventually a police officer gets around to me, after getting reports from other witnesses, and I claim to have no specific recollection of seeing a red or green light over the intersection. Officer Friendly (alias) says that he is probably going to have to cite me for running the light, and I agree that that seems apt. He indicates that if I prefer I could call in before court and they would quote me a fine and I could mail in a check. That seems a little insufficient to me, but I say nothing about that. I just thank him and go back to dealing with the tow guy.

I must point out here, that throughout the entire experience, every person I encountered, from the working officers and standing around EMTs and idle firemen and witnesses, and even my hapless victims, all were perfectly polite and courteous and seemed to care most about everybody’s physical well-being.

I suppose said hapless victims were also mollified by the fact that I have remained in good standing with my bookie for decades and so they were out only their irreplaceable time (but in exchange for memories to last a lifetime? — possibly too short with me on the road.)

I may owe a great measure of gratitude for their courtesy to the fact that I was not stinking of liquor or reeking of weed, that my manner was perfectly alert, if embarrassed and contrite, but in all respects sober. Near death experiences are at the very least sobering.

Upon reflection… the physics. Reconstructing it from the visual aftermath and my own experience, this is what happened.

I was sitting at the intersection facing south. Yellow mustang has the right of way and is traveling west at 40 mph. I enter the intersection from mustang’s right and he clips my front left side caving in my door, giving me a hearty body slam, imparting stretched tendons and muscles in my shoulders and neck, deep bruises through my left torso, and cracking one or two ribs as well.

Because it was an off-center impact (and this narrative is hauntingly familiar) I spun clockwise as I was pushed west. Because the mustang was much lighter than my buick, and because the conservation of momentum will allow no exceptions, yellow mustang took up my southward momentum and slid halfway down the entrance ramp to the Interstate where they did not want to go. Because it was the smallest car involved in the incident, that’s where the ambulance parked, but again, it left with no passengers.

My heavier tank, however, took up the mustang’s westward momentum and bounced right (and spun) until it came to a stop in the corner of the aforementioned white SUV, which faced east, was probably traveling east, and had a little more time to start slowing down before I stopped him.

Since I had broken ribs before, I immediately recognized the symptoms as well as recalled the prognosis, so I felt no need to listen to a doctor tell me to do exactly what I intended to do and to expect exactly what I expected, and then add the phrase, “Three Hundred Dollars, please.”

I eventually made it to work, of course, and was then obliged to recount the whole event. Apparently, my colleague derives vicarious glory by recounting my misadventure. When I arrived at work the next night I was greeted like a conquering hero. Folks were amazed that I was working with cracked ribs the second day, let alone the fact that I came in directly from the event and worked the rest of my shift.

As I patiently explained to them, with cracked or broken ribs the least uncomfortable position is standing up, so I could be at home and in pain, or at work and in pain and getting paid for it.

Court was mostly anti-climactic, but still satisfying. It was a great relief to stand before the magistrate and hear him actually read the charge.

“Failure to follow traffic advisory devices resulting in a collision.”
He did NOT say, “…resulting in injury or fatality.”

I copped to the charge.
He asked me how I felt about it.
I told him that I felt enormously stupid and lucky.
He asked if I carried insurance and I assured him I did.
He pronounced sentence and we were done.
I paid the clerk the assessment and tried very hard not to float all the way out the door.

According to Daniel Webster (I think), “God protects drunks, fools, and the united States of America.” Whatever the cause, I will take good luck.

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Moebius chapter w

Seventeen years isn’t such a long sentence, in retrospect. I’ve done it once, I reckon I can do it again. I didn’t think I’d have to, but Klint and Ojuxit had other plans. It may not be a full seventeen years. Klint may well chicken out (or otherwise quit) on this sooner than that. On the other hand, of course, Ojuxit may be resolute in her position that my love of fear is insufficient, even as my love for them remains undiminished. Time will tell, and the dude will abide.

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from Two Hearts & Two Homes

1 April 2022
The evictions are finalized today, though the process has been both protracted and agonizing. And portents presage more anguish to come.

10 September 2022
The letter continues. It’s arguably reconstruction work on a bridge that I never intended to burn. Nor will I now, even though from my side of the stream, it still looks mostly like ashes.

11 September 2022
Finally finished said letter. Began over a week ago and wrote much more than they will ever see. After heavy editing and brutal redactions, it’s finally ready to go into an envelope and of course it is now the “wee, small” hours of Sunday morning, so mail won’t go out until sometime tomorrow. My timing remains superb!

12 October 2022 — “Hard Times for Lovers?”
( or — “Why does fortune smile on some, and let the rest go free?” )

Three strikes and I’m out? That could be the case. I’ll give it another shot and begin to compose the possibly THIRD (and final?) attempt to maintain contact. I’m not very good at quitting, so maybe I should try harder. But that notion just aggravates the sadness and sense of loss. They’ve said they’re done with me in many regards, but still offer caveats on the order of “that doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends.” But I’m beginning to get the impression that that was one of those “white lies” intended to spare my fuh-fuh-feeeelings. It may have sounded like “good-by” but maybe it was really just “good riddance.” Or maybe not. My durable optimism resists the notion, even in the face of mounting evidence.

So, here goes, but trying to be attentive to the syllable count, as that has also been contentious:

Dear Sugar and Bud,

I think I may have finally beaten the bedbugs. Between the poisonings, washings, airings, “latherings, rinsings, and repeatings,” followed by the suffocation and/or starvation imposed by the move and subsequent storage, there’s been little sign of them. Except… About a month after moving in here, still without my bed and other bits of furniture (more about which anon), I saw a solitary bedbug crawling on Tichelle’s quilt. I immediately stomped it, wrapped it in a tissue, crushed it, and dropped it into the toilet. Somehow, that egg managed to sit for months before quickening, then feasting on microscopic dander until emerging into the light and unto its doom. That was months ago, and since then there has been no sign beyond the residue left on the mattress.

I have found it surprisingly difficult in this town getting people to take my money. Okeh, maybe that sounds like it should be easy, but I predicate the transfer on MY getting stuff in return. Because of the time it took, and the impending storage fees, I took delivery to Willo‘s and L’Historienne‘s garage. Altering the contract after the fact to take delivery on the tenth floor here would likely have cost another kilobuck or so. The smaller items I could move in my car, which left the box spring, mattress, dresser, bicycle, and mirror which all would not fit. I began to look for help, even arranging a local mover to do the job, carefully carving out my time for the event, and nobody showed up. No notice, no cancellation, no explanations, nothing.

L’Historienne walked the bicycle over herself. I met her about halfway and took over. That was the last of them, and the easiest. But before that, on a couple of successive weekends after work, I borrowed a hand-truck from the QuikkStopp, and moved them under cover of night. It was still hot, but out of the direct sun. The four biggest items took two separate nights, two round trips each, at over four hours per episode. They were heavy and awkward, but I am stubborn, and did not hurry.

And speaking of stubborn — Tichelle has gotten a taste of wet canned catfood, and I think she will not be looking back. I’d bemoaned her isolation and separation from the frolicsome outdoors, and thought maybe that was a factor in her declining appetite and energy levels. She was beginning to get pretty thin, and I was worried that she was coming to an end (as are we all) but was unwilling to let her go. When I opened that first can of Li’l Friskies Beef Bits she took immediate notice and started to explain to me that I may have “stumbled blindly into the truth” (aka “the Kondracke Effect”). Her appetite and overall mood seem to have improved, and now, of course, I feel badly for not having thought of it sooner.

So now, she and I are both feeling much better than before.
I hope ya’ll and your multitude of cats are as well.

As usual…

22 October 2022 — “Turn Around Bright Eyes.”

Well I guess three strikes is it.
I also agonized over more specific birthday greetings.
Of course, I was paralyzed with indecision, so I didn’t.
If I had, of course, the action could easily have been perceived as irony, sarcasm, or snark. Whereas not to would be neglect. They had gotten very good at finding the wrong in my every move.
When or whether to write again? I should give them a little more time. They’ve already gotten the space they required, even if they did evince some degree of melancholy during the actual execution.

31 October 2022 — “Where Did We Go Right?“

I thought it involved telling the truth, but that turned out to be disastrously off the mark. But having no taste for casual lies, nor much talent at pretending that broad stereotypes are not rich with humor, I seem (note the use of “I” as in I am taking the blame for my failings, and I am inept at some things, and I don’t know how not to be me without sickening myself — and the use of “seem” as in “not certain, but evident” or “appears to me”) to have cornered myself. So be it.
Still… three strikes is customary in sports wherein there is no crying, but so are four fouls. So… as if they care…

On the other hand, it’s not a case, in the no crying game, of three strikes AND four fouls, but three strikes OR four fouls. I’m not sure yet what a foul might be in this context, and it probably doesn’t really matter, because it HAS been three strikes. What I mean is, that when I write, I have swung. If it is not answered, that is a miss. And it has been three. And it’s been less than two weeks since my last swing, so… Give it a full month, maybe. These are slow pitches, after all, even if Sober October has flown by.

So I’ll risk the accusations of neglect, rather than of deliberate denigration. There’s danger on both sides of this coin. When both options are dangerous, it’s easier to choose the one that is less work. And it may be more fitting to resume a lost cause on the anniversary of Jack Kennedy’s murder. That aligns with the death of my dreams along with the death of the dreams of Camelot.

21 November 2022
And corresponds neatly if not comfortably with the death of Tichelle.

4 December 2022
In this game in which there is “no crying,” you get three strikes and then you’re out. I have swung (or written, or tried, or asked…) three times, and missed, so that should constitute three strikes. But analogies are not perfect. Maybe I can bend it a little. If I haven’t “swung and missed,” maybe I’ve only “fouled” three times. I haven’t literally struck out, so a fourth attempt might not be unreasonable. (But is dead kitty the proper entre? More contemplation seems to be in order.)

17 November 2022
Tichelle’s appetite dropped off considerably about a month ago, and she’d spent most of her time sleeping, but otherwise not complaining. I had tempted her for a while with more expensive savory cat treats, and she’d showed a little interest in the novelty, but that soon had also lost its appeal. I heard her moving under the bed Wednesday night, and when I awoke Thursday morning, she was still there, sleeping. I’d kneel down throughout the day to check on her and scritch her chin or ears and she’d purr softly, and I’d check her again in an hour or so. Finally, a little after five in the afternoon, I found her dead. Her feline dignity had remained intact to the last and she’d rarely missed her cat box, only hanging her ass over the newspapers a couple of times in her last few weeks. She was far from my favorite among cats, being only basically cat smart and probably the scarediest I’ve ever met, but I didn’t dislike her, and we were pack. The nest is pretty quiet these days.

16 December 2022
(Okeh, there’s that. They never said they disliked my cat, so that might work. Then I could say something about how excited I am about “Moebius Trip,” but I can easily see that backfiring. I’ve heard too often that writing, along with masonry and understanding history and Austrian economics and speaking English are just ways of “looking down on people who have given me money!” Maybe news about L’Historienne and Willo would be welcome. But they’ve had their “issues” with L’Historienne, too, so maybe that’s also a sore spot. Or, I suppose, I could get a hint, buy a clue, and maybe just leave them alone. If they’re done with me maybe slamming my head against that wall isn’t such a fruitful notion as I’d hoped. I must do something to tone down this optimism about people. Thinking well of them seems almost as offensive as telling them the truth.)
19 December 2022 — Their additional gift may be the fewer bad jokes that “weren’t even very funny to begin with.”

10 January 2023
Cohabitation and moving are both great opportunities for the blending, confusing, and loss of properties, and in my haste to tease things apart, many errors were committed. And I still mourn the loss of the X-Men &c…
I return these to you, plus bonus (?), with my compliments (and thanks), and confess that one remains with me, proudly standing on my bookshelf next to Nathan’s own “slim volume.”

20 January 2023
Given the “slow pitch” nature of book rate postage, I could very well still be in mid-swing of my fourth foul. Meanwhile, my “nasty” FascBuch comment (“Anybody else getting tired of being right too much?”) probably doesn’t help. Maybe if I’d been less right or less honest, I’d have been more agreeable and therefore now be enjoying the stable-triad semi-retirement life that I’d earlier imagined.
But it wouldn’t be stable at all, if it were based on lies and errors. Maybe they’re better off without me. Maybe I’m better off without them (though it still doesn’t feel like it.)

15 February 2023
After three “strikes” or even four “fouls” I’m probably “out” for good. But, like Molly Tobin (later Brown), “I may give out, but I’ll never give in, least of all to the likes of you*!” So, swing five… (*this unfortunate pronoun, while quoted, also offers the eagerly aggrieved another opportunity to seize offense. So be it…)
Greetings Axes!
Receiving this document (see reverse) was bittersweet. On the one hand, it is nice to be finally getting the care (from the VA) that I was promised for the past several decades. And of course, I am melancholy when I reflect on how much joy reviewing EOBs would bring. But mostly, I am reminded of the many many many times that uninsured Lethargy Lad attempted to settle up on behalf of Drama Queen or any of the young Lethargy League. Rather than being delighted by the token offer (e.g. $14.00) from non-existent bookies, they would demand payment in full (all $87.00) right fucking now! Clearly, it’s better now to be on this side.
I’m still not accustomed to my recent catlessness. While I’ve had offers of kittens, I am hoping to put the hernia surgery behind me first.
Meanwhile, I continue to work (part-time), eat my savings, and struggle with Social Security’s evil website that keeps locking me out because I mis-key (?) needlessly cumbersome passcodes. I guess I’m just going to have to muzzle up and pretend I’m a surgeon or a scrub nurse (the SS office remains F’eral turf), show up, and start crying until I actually get some portion of my money back. I mean, crying should be okeh, right? Social Security ain’t baseball!

1 March 2023
You’d think the solution to trying too hard might be trying less,
but that’s never worked for me, either.

4 March 2023 — So Many Other Hands — So I’ve “swung and missed” five times, clearly striking out at least once. BUT. Doesn’t “Team Gene” have another four “at bats” just this inning alone? Or maybe 76 more for the whole game? A bit of a commitment, sure, but I’ve also written novels on spec. My lack of patience wasn’t on those particular lists of failings, so we shouldn’t be ruling it out. But I’ve also bailed on more novels than I’ve finished. Maybe more countin’ and cogitatin’…

28 March 2023 — A Taste of Fruits and Blossoms
Strawberries on my dishes,
Strawberries on my mind.
Never leaving any pleasant memories behind.
I remember “leave me alone forever,” and wonder what awaits.

9 April 2023 — Before stepping onto the tripwire that launched the quills, I gleaned a brief and ambiguous message of hope, heralding unspecified restoration and recovery. But as I reflect, I recall that it may have been couched in caveats and codicils.
Meanwhile, my printer seems to have spontaneously fixed itself sometime in the last few months, so the laborious hand-written missives should be rather less. During the same period, the first chapter of my new novel was also rendered by hand, for the hardcopy backup of course, though the original text remains online.
Some correspondents have expressed their appreciation for the news and the efforts involved in handwritten letters (“No one puts pen to paper anymore.” — Manny). Others may have… not.
Five strikes may well have to be it, unless I fancy inviting more thorns.

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Confessions and Reparations

setup 190125: Fumbling for my new phone while coasting to a stop at an intersection I allowed myself to become distracted and tapped the rear bumper of the motorist in front of me. The experience was neither pretty nor pleasant, even as all involved generally were.

Father O. Victim
His Address
Golden Lamb, Cincinnatistan

Father, Please forward the enclosed to your daughter with my respects and compliments. I’m quite sorry that she’d been having a difficult Wednesday, and sorrier still that I contributed to her distress.

I applaud your intercession on her behalf. I have a sixteen year old daughter myself, and can certainly appreciate the protective impulse. I look forward to an amicable resolution to this current issue and encourage either or both of you to contact me for any additional assistance I may render.

Innocent Victim
c/o Father O. Victim
His Address
Golden Lamb, Cincinnatistan

Ms Victim, Once again, please accept my apology for my carelessness this Wednesday afternoon. I’m quite sorry that you’d been having a difficult day, and sorrier still that I contributed to your distress. I appreciate your agreement to take our troubles off the street and over to the [shopping center] parking lot. While we might both have technically left the scene of an accident, I think that it was probably the prudent and proper measure to take so as not to inflict our difficulties on the rest of the line-up of cars behind us.

I am grateful that my lapse of judgment did not result in any injury or more serious damage to your property. I am also grateful for your father’s intercession on our mutual behalf. I look forward to an amicable resolution to this current issue and encourage either or both of you to contact me for any additional assistance I may render.

Cordially, gratefully, & deeply embarrassed, 13 December 2007

For the next few weeks there passed an exchange of communiqués regarding assessment of damages, presentation of estimations, and authorizations of commencement. Finally, Father sent me a bill.

Father O. Victim
His Address
Golden Lamb, Cincinnatistan

Father, Once again let me offer my thanks for your understanding and forbearance. As unfortunate as my mishap last month may have been, I am grateful that you and Innocent realized that there was nothing to be gained by making it worse.

I received the initial estimate and was relieved to note that the cost of my error was considerably less than I first feared, and was even more pleased to see that you intended to shop around for parts and perform the work yourself. I am delighted that we are soon to conclude the affair.

Perhaps my sense of these things has been warped by my ten years of living in Hawaii’s inflated economy, but in reviewing your itemized bill, I have to say that your terms are NOT acceptable. $7.35 per hour for skilled mechanical labor (back breaking, knuckle busting, and tedious as it can be) seems to be out of line. Admittedly, you’re not carrying the same overhead that the pros do (taxes, shop rent, insurance, graft, &c.), so I fully understand and appreciate your not charging the $42.00 per man hour that was indicated on the previous estimate, but still, $7.35 is offensive to my sense of proportion.

Enclosed, therefore, please find my draft for $350.00 [rather than the requested $275.00.] If you consider it to be too much, you are of course free to split the difference with your neighbor/aide, give the balance to the Libertarian Party, the Red Cross, or the local home for wayward cats, or even take Innocent to dinner as a belated palliative for the temporary emotional aggravation that I unwittingly and carelessly inflicted.

Cordially & gratefully, 22 January 2008

update 190125: Mr Victim wrote back to thank me for my understanding, (as if I weren’t already motivated to correct my error as best I could) and to let me know that he had used the extra dough to provide meals for both Innocent and his neighbor/assistant.
Everybody screws up, but grown-ups try to fix it. I hope I have acquitted myself as admirably as Mr Victim suggested in his final missive.

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Without Authority

211014  —  Initiative without authority is trespass or vandalism?

On Sunday night, the kitchen drain slowed way down.  I tried coaxing it with agitation from the garbage disposal, and that generated a bit of backwash debris coming back up, but it did not appear to speed anything up.  By Monday it wasn’t moving at all.  Went out to the local ChowMart™ and bought a half a gallon of drain de-clogger solvent and came home.  Spent the rest of the day bailing the sink, dumping in solvent, and hoping for the best.  Still no good.  Repeated the process in accord with product instructions, all to no apparent avail.
Tuesday morning the sink was still filled.  This time, I went to JohnBoy’s™ and scored another half gallon of solvent and spent that day repeating Monday’s dance.  Went to bed with another weighty load on top of the plug, but upon waking on Wednesday the sinks were empty.  A good sign, I thought, but I also realized that a very slow leak was not going to be good enough.  I bailed the sink again, then disassembled the trap underneath, hoping to manually remove the clog in the gooseneck, but I was not so lucky.  The trap was well scrubbed by the persistent solvent treatment, so I peered into the pipe disappearing into the wall and was faced with a painful decision.  I could try untwisting a wire hanger and snake it myself, thereby risking inflicting additional damage to Sugar’s and Bud’s property.  Or I could go to the hardware shop and find a drain snake and spend another day of mostly fruitless labor.  Or I could surrender and contact a bonded plumber who might fix the problem in a matter of minutes and for only a few hundred bucks.
So I filled up the sink again, so that more pressure would rest on that clog, no matter where it was, and I would go look up plumbers on-line.  After about two minutes of just sitting, trying to decide whether I was next going shopping for tools, or surrendering to the pros, I heard a characteristic gurgling from the kitchen.  Walking back in, I found empty sinks again, so I tried filling them, but the drainage now seemed to be working just fine.  So I tightened up the connections on the reassembled trap and decided to be grateful for my efforts that moved that clog far enough to the trunk so that it finally fell out while I agonized over sucking up an expense or risking greater damage.
Sometimes I actually do something right.  But don’t let that around; I’ve got a well-earned reputation to protect.

12 April 2024 — Still no indication from the beneficiaries of my efforts that they were ever aware of this particular issue.  And that’s probably a very good thing, too.  Having learned over and over that no good deed goes unpunished, this could have been seen as an even greater offense than merely enduring a summer of tepid showers before having the water heater replaced.  I remember how much consternation THAT evoked.

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Eulogy for a Drama Queen

preface from 24 July 2017: My heart breaks this morning. It breaks for Robyn, of course, but it also breaks for all who loved her. She was my friend, my foil, my wife, the mother of my daughter, and, briefly, my antagonist. Ultimately, she was a cherished friend and a phenomenal talent, and she left indelible marks on my heart.

I hope I’m in the right church…
I have to wonder…

Years ago, when people might enquire after our religion, or in what faith we were raising our daughter, Robyn would as likely as not beat me to the punch — thereby sparing the world yet another episode of didactic tedium — and brightly chirp, “We’re Thespians!”

How right she was.

I think we all build churches — the Sikhs, the Sunni, and the Secular alike. Most of us have some need to gather with those of like mind, so we build churches for fellowship, to share our lives and to mark our milestones, to promote our heritage, and to celebrate our community with pageantry and poetry. To tell stories of life, and struggle, and meaning.

We are also all flawed and unfinished, so we build churches for instruction, and we call them temples, or mosques, or libraries…

Or Theatres…

Robi loved the theatre. She loved the drama, she loved the language, she loved the costumes and the set design and even the set construction. She was never so happy as when she was spattered with paint.

She loved the camaraderie of the collective creation — taking the author’s words and giving them the actors’ voices and the director’s vision and bringing them to life in the minds of the audience.

In the faithful attendance of our religious duties (a.k.a. “rehearsals”) we always put the work before the fun, and we ALWAYS had a LOT of fun!

We made worlds together, night after night (plus Sunday matinees!), and it is as close to working magic as I’ve ever come.

So we build churches for fun, too!

We build churches for fellowship.
We build churches for instruction.
We build churches for fun, and we build churches to reaffirm our faith and to bolster our guiding principles —

Do your part.
Respect the persons and property of others.
Keep your promises.

Toward these ends, said Robyn, the theatre serves as well as any other proper church. Of course, in the House of Thespos, we say it a little differently, but the universal wisdom still shines through —

Learn your lines.
Keep your grubby mitts off the prop table!
And… The Show Must Go On!

Also, in OUR church, when God (a.k.a. “The Director”) speaks, we either obey, or we’re outta the show!

So… the right church?
I should think so!

This church isn’t the boards or the bricks.
It’s the gathering of celebrants confessing their creed.
The theatre isn’t the venue, it’s us!
The audience, the players, the ushers, the house…
The temple isn’t built with sticks or steel.

It’s a house of human hearts, and Robyn’s heart beats strong today, inside of all of us who’ve gathered here.

(presented 9 September 2017, Ashland, Oregon, usa)

update 180116: I am not the worst singer in the world. The odds are too steep against it, what with seven billions of us. However, I am accustomed to being the worst singer in the room. Nevertheless, after delivering the touching testimonial above, I led the gathering in a rendition of what Drama Queen (aka Diva Dearest) once called “our church’s most sacred hymn,” There’s No Business like Show Business, by Saint Irving Berlin.

I should probably also point out that Busy Body (aka Early Riser) was in attendance that day, too. My Former Arch-Nemeses were never rivals, never foes. Never pals, either, but they were respectful of and sympathetic towards each other, both understanding the trials of Life with Lehr
(the follow-up sitcom to I Loathe Larry).

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A Lethal Mistake?

“If you think it’s an unfair stereotype, don’t live up to it.”
— Chief Smitherman, The HERO Act

28 October 2021 — Did She Save Me?
Prior to January Ninth I was seriously considering taking the jab if Klint and Ojuxit thought that it would make them more comfortable around me.  I didn’t believe that it was medically necessary, nor even wise, given my previous experimental vaccines, and my own naturally vigorous immune system.  In fact, I thought, and still think, that the injection presents a greater risk than it mitigates (your mileage may vary), but I was in love, and I thought that it was a reciprocal relationship.  On the Ninth I was informed that my ring been removed.  Now that there’s no hope, there’s no point.

update 221009:  A year or so more of data now, indicating spikes in myocarditis and Bell’s Palsy, and an alarming abundance of otherwise healthy young athletes dropping dead on the field, have done much to vindicate my fears, but nothing to mitigate my sadness.  While I’d always expected to outlive them, based on our respective family histories and lifestyles and diets, I now expect even earlier demises for them than before.  I guess on a practical level it makes no difference; I’m already without them.  But, like Tarzan, I believe that “where there is life, there is hope.”  I like to believe (contrary to the evidence) that reason will eventually win out over resentment and that people will come to their senses.  In general, however, they tend to die before that.

230531 — My gratitude continues to grow daily.  Those declining the jab are still experiencing zero side-effects from the experimental “treatment.”  Whereas I, post surgery, remain healthier, stronger, and more vigorous than most ‘Mericans a generation or more behind me.  I was squatting to admire a blossom at the park the other day and L’Historienne remarked, “I don’t think there are very many 67 year olds who can do that.”  I pointed out that people my age (at the time) have been expressing their envy at my flexibility for at least twenty years.  And it ain’t ’cause I’m in such great shape either.  Sadly, it’s that most of the sheeple are complaisant, stupid, and fat.  230601 — And on the subject of gratitude, I’m still drinking Sykson‘s whiskey, thanks to Joguv‘s handing it over to me to keep it out of Sykson, who apparently could no longer handle his alcohol hobby.  It’s cheap whiskey, hardly fit for sippin’, and ice barely helps, but it still goes nicely into that occasional late evening cup of coffee.  Also the money helped a lot. The fact is, in strictly financial terms, I’m in much better shape for having known Joguv and Sykson and Klint and Ojuxit.  I am grateful for them all, even as I continue to fear their particular wraths.

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The Less You Say

191201 — On Talkin’ ‘Merican  —  In English, one says, “My use of proper grammar and pronunciation tends to alienate many of my colleagues, customers, and confederates.”  Translated, that would be, “Me not talkin’ ‘Merican good wen piss my team members, guests, an’ peeps.”

“I wanna be like – I wanna be like —  most girls.”
“It’s so hard when my girls aren’t around me.”
“We only like the popular bands.”
“We all dress like [her] to express our individuality.”
“Oh man!  It’s got a mean face on it.  Huh-uh!”
It’s inaccurate to refer to these fools as “sheep.”
Sheep don’t write such bad poetry.

Glossaria Vulgaris     19 April 2020  (or, The Tricks of the Treacherous)
When they say “we” it means “you.”
When I say “we” it means “us.”
When they say “kill” it means scold, demean, or belittle.
If I said “kill” it would mean that I’m threatening you.
When I hear “seems” it means appears or resembles.
When they hear “seems” it apparently means “always is.”
When I hear “many” it means “a lot, but not all.”
When they hear “many” it means “all, but especially YOU.”
When they say “Gimme” it means “may I have?”
When I say “Gimme” it means that I am a discourteous jerk.
When they say “what do you mean” it means “why did you?”
When I say “what do you mean” it means “what do you mean?”
When they say “are they not open” it means “are they not closed?”
If I said “are they not open” it would mean “are they closed?”
When they say “I need” it means “Gimme.”
When I say “I need” it means that I think I’m dead without it.
When they say “just” it means nothing.
When I say “just” it means “this, only this, and nothing but this.”
Contemporary social graces demand that I learn their code.  ‘Merican sensibilities demand that they ignore mine, because proper English is muh-muh-muh-mean, and BORRRRRing, and is mos’ def’ not groovy, hep, gear, bitchin’, boss, or sick.  Though it can be a little gnarly.

210109 – I would have to be delusional  —  to suspect that I might have contracted an unknown virus before most people suspected it even existed.  But as I reflect on the facts and the timing, it still seems to be the likeliest of scenarios (see “Black wit versus Vigorous Immune System” elsewhere in this file).  Nevertheless, as an unreliable dource of data, having just received confirmation of my latest sense of dismissal, generously fortified now with distrust, I know that I can never offer any meaningful reassurance.  And yet, still, says we “need to talk” about all this.  Why?  If I am indeed not trusted, what difference does it make what I say?  Every word is from a source that has been deemed deranged or delusional, and certainly not trustworthy.  Aren’t I a threat to the health and safety of strangers AND the people about whom I have claimed to care?  My assiduous observation of the SPIRIT of prudent hygiene has kept me generally healthier than most of the people around me, but history and logic don’t count.  What I understand now is that if a virally laden droplet were to land on the wet welcoming membrane of my eye, or her eye, or his, flourish thereafter, and subsequently produce thousands of offspring who were then released to the wild through exhalation or flatulence, again from which uncertain body, there would be no way of proving that it wasn’t caused by my licking doorknobs and toilet seats.
And therefore I could never be forgiven.
The end, apparently.

210204 — The more I know, the less I say.
I know it’s supposed to be the other way around, but for me, when I learn what else annoys my friends and family, I have learned what else to drop from my social repertoire.  As I say less, the conversation becomes less rich, less honest, and less interesting.  So soon enough, the complaint becomes, “Why don’t you talk to us anymore?”  It’s really very simple.  I don’t understand why it isn’t obvious.  Am I really that much smarter than Earth People?  Okeh, I’ll try to be clearer.
The more things I discover that I should NOT say, the less is left.
I do still care, but I frankly don’t dare.

210324 —  A Great Shopping Day!  Mostly Muzzle Free!
But not for me.  I’m in the middle of my promised “To-the-Letter” compliance exercise, so I entered the local ChowMart™ wearing my customary mask AND bandana, because as long as I’m going to look like a compliant “good citizen” I still prefer to affect the “Full Bandito” self-palliating illusion. Nevertheless, I was delighted to count all the naked faces in the shop.  And the free-breathers had us outnumbered!  In fact, I made it a point to thank the shop clerk who consummated my purchase for the view of his beautifully unclad face.  Between returning sanity, fresh air, and deadly ultra-violet radiation, these tender viri don’t stand a chance.  (Though their fan club will continue to shelter them in dark and damp places near their moist and mottled faces.)
update 210325, clarifications:  “‘To-the-Letter’ compliance” is not only redundant, it is inadequate, insufficient, unsatisfactory, and fruitless.

210801 — Adventures in Bad Lyrics, special edition —

If Mike Campbell & Ian Axel said to me, “Say something, I’m giving up on you,” should my reply have been, “Good-bye?”

If they said, “I’ll be the one if you want me to, anywhere I would follow you,” I would know better. I’ve always known that I had no shot at primacy; the most I could hope for was secondary (and likelier tertiary), and I witnessed no followers for my leads.

Or if they said, “Say something, I’m giving up on you,” maybe I should have said, “please don’t.”

If they said, “I will swallow my pride, you’re the one that I love, and I’m saying good-bye,” I would remain skeptical. Swallow that pride? I don’t see efforts to yield or compromise or accommodate. I either measure up or get out seems to be the case. And again with, “The One.” I’ll never believe that from anyone. Maybe I’m the only one wired this way but NO ONE has ever been “The One” for me. I’m not even sure such a concept makes any sense. Perhaps I was one of a rarefied set, but that’s still not “The One.”

I think leading with “good-bye” would be easier to understand, and ultimately kinder to all. Pretending to preserve what never was just aggravates the anguish.

210830: The Comfort of Trust vs Mutually Assured Destruction
Having someone in your life whom you can trust is a boon.
Unfortunately, according to those I love most, I am no such asset.
I presently have keys to the houses owned by Klint (and Ojuxit.) I expressed my pleasure today at the thought that Ojuxit had found a couple of close neighbors whom she trusted enough to give a key. Later, I reflected that I, dismissed, detached, distrusted and rescinded as I have been, still hold keys to both! Just a matter of time before they finally get fed up and demand their property back. For now, what secures their property in my custody, except perhaps the knowledge that most of mine remains in theirs? Without trust we must instead rely on Mutually Assured Destruction.
Meanwhile, I’ll continue to take advantage of my temporary good fortune.