Author: admin

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.

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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.