misery

Is anybody out there?
I'm adrift, and I don't care.
I'd run away, but do not dare,
terrified, not knowing where
my feet, (such a clumsy pair),
would lead me, blindly unaware
of the concept of destination.

Adios

There are problems with my blog. Not the blog itself, which is pristine and impossible to even remotely duplicate. The problems are technical in nature. Since I am a technophobe, I'm going to avoid it for a while, to see if it goes away, like the common cold. I must say that BlogSpot, and the Almighty Google itself, are less than helpful to anyone who isn't computer literate, but I'm not complaining. I'm just bitching.

Peter Seamus O'Toole is Dead

Peter O'Toole was one of those guys you would have liked to have known. He was handsome, clever, talented, and drank too much. A man much like myself, I might say, if I were so immodest. Some day, the blogosphere will be reeling with the news that Wormstooth is dead. Don't cry, it's not happening any time soon, but it will happen. It's not healthy to dwell upon such things, and we are actually encouraged to never think about death. If you talk about it too much, people will start to look at you with ill-concealed concern. After all, why would you think about something that is at least as significant as your birth, and as inevitable as the coming and going of the tide?
 I worked in a cemetery when I was young, and buried a few people. And, one time, many years later, I had to verify that someone who appeared to be dead, who was totally unresponsive, was indeed dead. Incredibly, it occurred to me to ask for a hand mirror, which I placed before the mouth and nose of the recently departed, to prove to his grieving widow that he was really gone. He was gone.
 As you get older, you begin to realize that the finish line is a lot closer than you'd like it to be, but you also know that there's not much you can do about it, other than diet, exercise, dress too young for your age, dye your hair an unnatural color, and suck in your gut just before you look in a mirror that some day won't register any moisture from your lungs.
 When I was a boy, my Uncle Howie's dog died. That night, it occurred to me that, some day, people I loved would die, and I cried myself to sleep.

Eating Cats

I just ate a dish of corned beef hash and fried eggs. Slathered in ketchup. I'm not supposed to consume much sodium, or cholesterol. Or alcohol, or sunshine. I have high blood pressure and skin cancer, but both are under control, so the literary world can breathe a sigh of relief. I plan to annoy people for many years to come, especially my doctors, some of whom I've already outlived. I can survive on pure stubbornness for the foreseeable future.
  As I was enjoying my banquet, hot off the cast iron pan, and lubricated with cold beer, I wondered what this so-called "hash" really was. The producers say it consists of beef, rehydrated potatoes, sugar, and enough salt in various forms to dry up Lake Michigan. In today's world, in a "developed" country, one must have faith that what they tell you is true. In the old days, I would have made the hash myself, with my own butchered beef, home-grown potatoes, and salt bought or stolen from wherever people used to get salt. Today, it's far less complicated. You just have to have faith in your food, like you have to have faith in the dollar. Atheists laugh at people who have faith in God, in Jesus, in Muhammad, Krishna, and all the countless other objects of their devotions. Yet those same people have faith in our monetary system. They have faith that, when they drive seventy miles an hour on the highway, their vehicle won't fail miserably, fall apart, and result in a horrific jumble of metal and plastic that is the final punctuation mark of their lives. They believe in hash, and that their car won't turn them into it.
 Years ago, I was lucky enough to travel in Italy for a few weeks. My wife speaks Italian, and strikes up a conversation with anyone who stops to listen. We were on a train, traveling across endless barren lands, between glorious cities. A friendly young woman spoke casually to us, advising us on the best places to see in her country. We were hippies, my wife in a pony tail and beads, me with a half-grown beard and bell-bottom jeans. She studied us with obvious, but not rude, curiosity. One of the bits of advice she gave us was, "If you visit Torino, when you order steak, make sure it's a big piece. Small pieces of meat may be cat." We didn't go to Torino, but the advice stuck with me all these years.
 I don't know why, but that lovely hash I just enjoyed reminded me of that long train ride during that hot, dry summer afternoon in Italy, listening with rapt attention, breathing the arid air that came all the way from Ethiopia. Americans call Torino "Turin", for some reason. Anyway, if you go, avoid the chipped beef.

A Soldier Hiding in the Woods

Cold and darkly slips the creek,
to sleek the stones that love the ground,
as through the piny branches sound
the secret whisperings of the wind.
The moon swims in the water's shine.
The sky says nothing many times,
but dances just behind the pines,
and never laughs, but only grins.
One lonely heartbeat whimpers by,
at war with love, on wounded wings,
and deaf to simply quiet things
like loving stones and smiling wind.
Obviously insane little birds fly by,
and cry, "But why? But why?"

How to Avoid Winning the Lottery

The Mega Millions lottery prize has reached about $400,000,000. After taxes, your lump sum payout would come to well over $200,000,000. The odds are approximately 278 bajillion to one. Seems fair to me, so I took the plunge.
 I've read of people who won big lottery jackpots and promptly ruined their lives. They stopped hanging out with their real friends, because no one could afford to keep up with them. It's called an embarrassment of riches. If you walk into the local pub, everyone knows who you are, and there's a palpable expectation in the smelly, urine-tainted air that you will set up the bar all around for folks who never gave you the time of day. If you buy a Mercedes, they'll ask why you didn't buy a Ferrari.
 You can't live in your old neighborhood, because everyone will resent your wealth, and assume that you're only staying there to flaunt your good fortune, to rub their noses in it. So you move away to the most expensive place you can find, where nobody talks to you because you are nouveau-riche, and obviously lack the type of class required for acceptance in the Country Club. You never liked golf anyway, but still.
 What to do? You could buy an island and sit under a coconut tree all day. You could buy a yacht and sail around the seven seas, a man without a country. You've become a prisoner of your wealth, and worry all night long about kidnappers plotting to steal your loved ones and kill them unless you  give the scoundrels all your money. It would serve them right if you gave them all of it. Then they could suffer just like you!
 One poor guy actually committed suicide because he couldn't handle the burden of wealth. Others have spent the money so recklessly that they wound up with nothing, and even went bankrupt. I'm telling you all this out of a feeling of concern. It's easy to see how money can ruin your life, leaving you a poor, lonely wretch, a pathetic shell of what you once were.
 Fortunately, (no pun intended), there's a surefire way to avoid the many pitfalls that go with extraordinary luck. Don't buy a ticket. I'm willing to bear the cross myself, in my own humble way. I'll let you know if it happens, as soon as I stop screaming with joy.

Hola, Mexico!

I'm just wondering, who is reading this blog from Mexico. Yo hablo Espanol, poqueno. Pero, estan muchos anos quando yo esta en la esquela, y yo estoy un poco stupido!

Baby, It's Cold Outside

It's not technically winter yet, but here in New England it sure feels like it. The Sun goes down at about 4:30. Well, no, the Sun doesn't actually move at all. The pretty blue marble we call Earth is revolving and spinning around the Sun, and makes it appear that our warm and light-giving friend is saying goodbye. When we finish our daily spin, the good old shining Sun will be there for us, just like always.
 Scientists, the magical wizards of the modern world, tell us that the spinning of our home planet cause our days and nights, while the revolution causes the seasons. We all know that, some time ago, the Church persecuted anyone who suggested that the Earth was not the center of the Universe. But, hey, it was an honest mistake. In those days, popes, priests, and bishops were in complete charge of all knowledge, and it was considered a horrifying madness to disagree with them. If you spoke against the wisdom of the protectors of the faith, you might even be, (dare I say it?), Possessed By The Devil!!!
  Today, there are a lot of people who say the entire solar system was created in seven days, about seven thousand years ago. They don't believe scientists who say that, by carbon dating, they can tell that mankind alone is much older than that, to say nothing of dinosaurs that lived millions of years ago. Some even go so far as to say that these dinosaur bones have been planted by scientists as part of an elaborate hoax, designed to shake believers in the Bible.
  I'll be perfectly honest with you. I know personally that God exists, and that the whole Universe loves all of us, no matter what kind of jerks we are. Don't ask me to clarify. It's none of your business. And that's my point. If you are sure that God exists, or if you feel the need to believe in God for your own peace of mind, just do it, man! Know it or believe it! Just don't think you need a book or a travelogue to guide you through life. Goodness is obvious. Evil sucks. Do you need proof of goodness? Just look out your window. The whole world and the sun and the moon and the stars are manifest goodness, if you just pay attention. Do you need proof of evil? Watch the news.

Mandela

Nelson Mandela got a world-class sendoff today. More than one hundred world leaders gathered to pay homage. Mandela did 27 years in South African prisons because he objected to native South Africans, including himself, being relegated to second class beings, with no rights given to them by the ruling class, descendants of Dutchmen who heard of the country's rich natural resources and decided to hurry down there to take it for themselves.
 Mandela first tried to change things by organizing protests. This was frowned upon. The Afrikaners, as the Dutchmen called themselves, had no interest in changing anything. They stole the country, fair and square, and that was that. After a while, Mandela decided they needed further persuasion. He resorted to violence, was arrested, and landed in the can for a good part of his life.
 But a funny thing happened during his incarceration. He read books, he wrote letters, and he became a symbol of resistance to oppression all over the world. The system of Apartheid, which means this was all yours, but it's all mine now because I want it, was gradually exposed to the world for the fraud that it was. Artists refused to perform in the fabulous resorts in South Africa, and drummed up negative publicity to the point where Afrikaners finally gave up, let Mandela out of jail, and held democratic elections. Nelson Mandela was elected president of South Africa. But he didn't order the slaughter of his oppressors. He ordered full disclosure of what was done, and he ordered reconciliation. The true test of a man of peace is when he achieves power. He passed with flying colors.
 Not surprisingly, the far right in America insists on calling him a communist and a terrorist, even though he renounced both beliefs while still in jail. The far right fears nothing more than a man of peace who speaks truth to the masses. No idea is more frightening to them than that people might see they can change the system through the power of truth. That's why Caesar knew he had to kill Jesus. You just can't have people walking around knowing that others only have power over you if you give it to them.
 Any schoolyard bully can tell you that.