Category: matthew66

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.

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.

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).

11 August 2015

I fear that Milli is no more. I last saw her on the evening of July 2nd when I let her out to do her savage jungle bit. No sign of her the next morning. I didn’t think a great deal of it, about a half a dozen times over the past few summers she would “go feral” and be missing for two or three days, then return completely unconcerned about the emotional trauma I’d endured. I probably deserved it, considering what I’d put my own family through. But nevertheless, after shouting through the woods and walking through the neighborhood and visiting the local animal shelter, and revisiting old haunts. I’ve just about given up on her. There’s no telling. The likeliest scenarios that I imagine are that she’s run afoul of a bigger and meaner animal out in the wild, her aging body finally betrayed her during a critical leap and she plummeted to mortal injury, or, my personal favorite: She went out, had herself a good romp, a good shit, and a good hunt. She curled up on a comfy pile of leaves, went to sleep with a belly full of fresh rodent, and slipped peacefully into The Great Pain-Free.

She’s not saying. I miss her, and I’m lucky to have known her.