Are We Really This Stupid?

Actual product label warnings:

“Not for human consumption” – from a bottle of rat poison
(Damn. There goes my plans for spouse-icide.)

“May cause drowsiness. Do not drive or operate heavy machinery.” – from children’s cough medicine label
(Junior! Park the bulldozer. Time for your 8:00 dose.)

“Ignite away from face.” – from a disposable lighter
(Guess I’ll have to start putting cigarettes in my ass first.)

“May contain nuts.” – from a jar of peanut butter
(Is this a gay lottery? “Shit, Lance, this one didn’t have any nuts!”)

“For indoor or outdoor use only.” - from a package of Christmas lights.
(I’ll remember that next time I celebrate the holidays in hyperspace.)

“No activation required. Call toll-free number to activate.” – from cellphone instructions
(Everything I say is a lie. I am lying. So that means I’m telling the truth. But it cannot be the truth because everything I say is a lie….Help!) (Yes, S., I ripped off Harry Mudd.)

“Remove aluminum wrapper before insertion.” - from suppository instructions
(Honey, bring the aquarium net! I’m crappin’ a gold mine!)

“Not intended for highway use.” – from a wheelbarrow
(Buford, better take that Cessna engine offa the go-cart.)

“Do not reuse bottle to store beverages.” – from bottle of drain cleaner
(Contact me for investment opportunity. Cornering the market on laxatives.)

“This product can burn eyes.” – from a curling iron
(Is there some kind of weird Jedi initiation going on in the girls’ locker room?)

“Not responsible for broken teeth.” – from a caramel apple
(Crap. All those Halloween get-rich-quick schemes down the drain.)

“For use on animals only.” – from an electric cattle prod
(Can I consider my couch in the driveway dog barking at 2:00 a.m. four broken cars neighbor an animal?)

“Warning: May contain small parts.” - from a Frisbee
(Undoubtedly aimed at Steve Tyler and Julia Roberts.)

“Not for infants.” – from a bottle of vodka
(Slap a nipple on it. I’ll drink it.)

“If swallowed, seek medical attention immediately.” – from a pack of alkaline batteries
(No, honey. Leave the vibrator. You’re so full of energy tonight!)

“Safe for children or pets.” – from instructions for toilet bowl cleaner
(Daddy, will it bring Goldy back?)

Life's Random Bounces

When I was a wee lad, back in the mid 1960’s, toys were cool. TV was full of promises on Saturday morning. “It’s Slinky! It’s Slinky! For fun it’s a wonderful toy!” Mousetrap. Booby Trap. Silly Putty. Tinker Toys. Erector sets. Captain Action with Batman accessories. View Master. Lincoln Logs. Matchbox cars (with real rubber wheels!). Close ‘n Play record players (“When you hear this sound, “prriing,” turn the page”). Even breakfast cereals held forth tantalizing treasures, as long as Mom didn’t mind you emptying the whole box of “They’re GREAT!” into one of her prized mixing bowls.

But one day, I saw something I just had to have. The Superball. Something about the “Super” conjured up images of comic book heroes, Martian explorations, and mad scientist chemistry experiments in a lab with stuff that went “zap” and “chzzzzzzgg.”

In those days (insert sound of grampa here) we weren’t handed toys whenever we wanted one. So when you got a surprise, it was a big deal. You would parade your new toy in front of all the neighborhood kids, accepting their accolades. It was like a mini-Christmas that might happen once, rarely twice, in a year. I don’t remember how I got it. Probably my Dad bought it for me on the way home from work one day just to shut me up.

But get it I did. I opened the vacuum plastic and there it was. Black with a seam around it where the two halves had met in the mold. Even the seam was cool. The other boys and I imagined a factory with sparks and fires and robots, where a brawny man in welder’s goggles poured the secret stuff into a glowing mold to make my Superball.

The very first day I rushed outside with the Superball. Polliwogs and marbles and rocks were forgotten. Everyone, even the girls (ick), wanted to play with it. We rolled it in the gutter, threw it on the sidewalk and watched it describe amazing arcs that seemed to orbit our houses. We quickly learned that if you flicked your wrist, and smashed it into the concrete, you couldn’t predict where it would go. It bounced and bounced and bounced and bounced zig-zag along the street hitting parked cars shaking leaves from the trees scaring dogs making us giggle.

It was the coolest toy ever.

Then, in one horrifying moment, it slipped through my fingers. Into the street. And a car ran over it. It was blown to jagged mysterious boingy pieces

Life is like that. Sometimes it rolls slowly in the gutter. Sometimes it bounces perfectly and you can catch it. Sometimes it aggravates you in your attempts to retrieve it, as it describes its own random path. Sometimes it’s all you can do to chase after it and giggle.

And sometimes, just sometimes, something smashes into it and shatters it into parts you can’t put back together.

I didn’t cry that day. I learned a lesson I still try to remember, although I often fail:

“Damn. That was really cool while it lasted.”

Indirective

This is a work of fiction. Copyright © 2005 Rumba Creative. All Rights Reserved.
No portion of this work may be copied, retransmitted, reposted, duplicated,
or otherwise used without the express written approval of the author.

Indirective

There was but one directive. Although she could not know it, it was the overriding necessity of her mother, and her mother’s mother, and so on into the depths of time unacknowledged and unknown. One thing, and one thing only, was the point of her existence. To consume was important, to understand your shoal mates was important, to understand each rock and each phase of the sun and moon was imperative. All this she knew instinctively. Yet there was but one directive: multiply.

She wriggled through the tough eggshell that had encased her, allowing the water to carry her beneath the protection of the smooth stones in the nursery cove. She absorbed the sack from her abdomen, easing her stomach, but not her tongue. Within days, she was chasing the minute shrimp that shared her stony lake bottom. It was good to stalk them, to watch them, unaware of her presence, until her strike and the pleasant wriggling feeling in her gullet. When small crustaceans were unavailable, she feasted on the remains of her unborn brothers and sisters.

Soon her fins were strong enough to venture into the heights of the water column that splashed the suns rays into kaleidoscope patterns. With her relatives she learned to ride these shifting shadows, to hide herself and confuse her enemies. Feel the motion of your brethren! Anticipate the movement of the currents! Know your place and grow strong! Only then would she be worthy of passing on her skills to the next generation.

For months she swam, and gulped, and lived among the thousands of her kind, swirling among the shafts of light, hiding among the rocks at night, avoiding the larger of her kind, and devouring the smaller. Her strength, and those of her kind, was the mass and confusion of the shoal. It was the time of testing. It weeded out the weak, and made the strong stronger. Only the remaining few would survive to multiply, perpetuating the shoals that darkened the wide, warm lake that was their ancestral home.

On the third full moon after the warmest of the waters, the shoal began to fragment. The males who, until now, had mostly escaped her attention, left the safety of numbers and headed to shallow waters. She and her sisters migrated to the deeper, colder areas of the lake, searching out the minnows grown lazy on the free-floating algae and invertebrates blooming in the warm sun of the lake’s surface. For perhaps a half moon they gorged themselves on this field of plenty. Their appetites were insatiable, and they themselves grew fat on the tasty morsels and the unfertilized life growing within them.

On a morning bright with the receding sun, her hunger waned. For a while she and her sisters lolled in the rippling shafts. Within hours, the directive was upon them: Multiply!

With the fever of the annual cycle, they sought out the warmer shallows of the shore, reuniting with the males. She searched the submerged rocks, deadwood, and castoffs of the surface world for the perfect place. The males were dark with aggression and lust, darting at her, teasing her, locking jaws with their rivals. None would do.

In a cove shallow and warm, she saw him. The charcoal stripes on his sides and the flush in his gills were in defiance of predators. His fins rotated with confidence and vitality. His shuddering dance and caress against her scales were irresistible. The depression in the sand, surrounded by carefully placed pebbles, was perfect. The surges within her were undeniable.

In unison, they darted to toward the surface, beginning the intertwining of the mating ritual. Before the dash back to the safety of the sandy bottom, the sky fell in on her. She was hauled into a dry suffocating place where the sun burned her eyes to blindness, and her tail flailed helplessly against an insubstantial atmosphere. Caught in a nasty abrasive mesh for which she had no comparable experience, she gasped and died.

The directive to multiply would die with her.

* * * * *

“And they say unto him, ‘We have here but five loaves, and two fishes.’ He said, ‘Bring them hither to me.’ And he commanded the multitude to sit down on the grass, and took the five loaves, and the two fishes, and looking up to heaven, he blessed, and brake, and gave the loaves to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude. And they did all eat, and were filled: and they took up of the fragments that remained twelve baskets full. And they that had eaten were about five thousand men, beside women and children.”

One Red Shoe

This is a work of fiction. Copyright © 2005 Rumba Creative. All Rights Reserved.

No portion of this work may be copied, retransmitted, reposted, duplicated,

or otherwise used without the express written approval of the author.

One Red Shoe

Goddamn it, where was it? He was in no mood, this of all mornings, to launch a treasure hunt for the aspirin bottle. He hadn’t been thinking clearly all week as it was, and now he had a desperate need he had to work to fulfill. No doubt his buddies had done this on purpose. Jerks.

He glanced at the clock. 7:30 am. So at least he had plenty of time before the big moment. Enough time to ease the tequila vice that was squeezing his skull. A thorough review of the medicine cabinet turned up nothing. Ditto the kitchen drawers. The apartment’s living room was a maze of empty bottles, ashtrays, and confetti. He remembered some of it, but it made his head hurt. Giving up his search, he returned to his bed, in the hopes a brief stare at the ceiling would stop the throbbing that moving only made worse.

He could hear his roommate snoring loudly in the bedroom next to his, the radio still on, playing The Doobie Brothers or something. What a great best man, he thought. Invite the boys, put some porn on the DVD player, and get me drunk. The landlord had come to investigate the noise, that much he remembered, and had ended up staying for the party. At least it was just booze and the guys. He didn’t remember any strippers.

The throbbing was a little better, and he was developing a crick in his back from staring at the ceiling. Changing positions, he threw an arm over the side of the bed, and concentrated on the floor. Something caught his attention, but it took a moment to focus.

His heart went through his feet, through the floor, and into the apartment below. Greeting his gaze like the smile of an executioner was one red shoe. Not a sandal or a sneaker, but a bright crimson, come-hither, high-heeled pump. Oh, shit.

The banging on his roommate’s door brought a grumbled epithet, but after repeated cursing and door rattling, his best man stumbled into the hallway. Shaking the shoe under his friend’s nose, with some additional cursing and hair-pulling, elicited nothing but a knowing smile and a slap to the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Bud. Looks like you had a good time. ‘Sides, it just your pals. Nobody will say anything.”

The rest of the morning was as blurry as the previous night. His male friends showed up again, grinning mischievously, digging elbows in his ribs. Somehow they got him into the shower, scrubbed him clean, shaved him, and got him dressed. Vaguely he remembered pancakes at the breakfast counter down the street. Hazily, he recalled being stuffed into a limo and driven to the church. In the coat room close to the altar, he was stuffed into his tuxedo. He clearly remembered two things. First, his mother crying as she hugged her single son for the last time. How could he live up to her expectations after his sin discovered only this morning? Second, he vehemently refused any sip from any flask proffered by his groomsmen.

Music filled the air, and his best man dragged him by the arm and shoved him out to the altar. He stood, shaking and excited, consoling himself that whatever happened didn’t really count, he hadn’t been married yet. The bridesmaids marched down the aisle, demure and sweet and floral. The wedding party took their positions, and the organ music swelled to the big entrance. The congregation stood, and the light of the world appeared from the entrance of the vestibule. He was crying with happiness and relief.

For there, in a blazing white gown, was his beloved, wearing something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.

And one red shoe.

The Beam Goes Out

Today one of my boyhood heroes died. Many people won’t know him, but to me he represents an important part of who I have become.

James Doohan, aka “Scotty,” was the most unsung of the Four Heroes of Star Trek. In my tweens and early teens, this show was the basis for fantasy, role-playing, and countless deep discussions of philosophy, the arts, and the future. At least as much as the mental wanderings of young men can be deep.

Some specific others will disagree, but being the oldest of four boys was tough. Male role models, both within the family and everywhere else, were tough to come by. I fear it is still true. But from Captain Kirk I learned a sense of wonder and to stand up for your convictions. From Mr. Spock I learned to disassociate myself from a given situation and see things rationally. (Still haven’t grasped that one very well.) From Dr. McCoy I learned to revel in life’s sensual pleasures, hold your passion like a burning torch, and that a smartass can be a lot of fun.

But my friends and I always knew that no matter how cool all this seemed, our primary heroes would have been squealing little grease stains on some forgotten world without Scotty. He was the glue that held everything together. He was the foundation of the house they all lived in. He was the one who lied outright about fixing stuff, saying it couldn’t be done. But get it done he did, and always in half the time he quoted, invariably because he inflated his estimates. I loved him. I loved him because he made me laugh. Because he refused to accept the impossible. Because he was always one step ahead of his superiors. Because he could grin with a screw-you attitude and get away with it. Without Scotty the grunt, the regular guy, the man who knew and still made mistakes, the Utopian future I so yearned for wasn’t possible.

So call me a geek, a nerd, a pansy, whatever. I don’t care. This was an important part of my growing up. It’s a large part of what I am today.

In one of Mr. Doohan’s last public appearances, he was lauded by none other than Neil Armstrong at a Hollywood Star Trek convention. Armstrong said he hoped one day to captain a starship, and if he did, he wanted Scotty on the crew.

Ironically, good ol’ Scotty died today, July 20, 2005, the 36th anniversary of Armstrong’s first step on the moon.

I hope you were beamed to the good place you wanted, Jimmy. Thanks. For everything.

You Think You've Got Summer?

I live in one of the driest and hottest areas in North America. It’s not bragging, or one-upmanship, it’s simply the truth. But some people just have to top you no matter what. I was on the phone with a midwest colleague a few weeks ago, and she asked “How’s the weather out there?” I replied it was hot already, 105 or more. I braced myself for the inevitable response: “Well, at least it’s a dry heat. You should try our humidity.” My teeth clenched. The other one I always hear is “Yeah, well you should try winter in Buffalo.” Point taken, but we were discussing summer, bonehead.

Everyone lives with something unpleasant climate-wise; blizzards, earthquakes, floods, tornadoes, what have you. I spent most of my life with earthquakes that would make anyone east or south of Sacramento wet their pants. I’ve lived in 90 degree heat with 8 billion percent humidity and mosquitoes the size of clipper ships. I’ve visited any number of places in less than ideal conditions. So don’t talk to me about heat.

All of the following is absolutely true. I’m not making any of it up. There are a handful of towns and cities of appreciable size I would agree can match our heat. But damn few. The rest of you can take your precious humidity and stick it.

My fish pond has actually lowered by three inches in one day. With no leaks. In the shade.

It’s not unusual to start my car, get out, and wait a few minutes for the air conditioning to kick in so I can touch the steering wheel without virtually burning my hands. Even then I might drive with two fingers for a while. During the depression, many construction companies issued gloves to their truck drivers in the summer.

Take it from me and a lot of transplanted east-coasters: 95 degrees with humidity is kindergarten compared to 123, no matter how dry.

I’ve made sun tea in ten minutes.

You can get sunburned in less than twenty minutes. And that’s if your skin is already acclimated to it.

Even the hardiest cactus in my backyard needs water twice a month in August.

It has been 105 at midnight.

Buzzards don’t live here.

One of the definitions of a desert is any region which receives less than ten inches of rainfall annually. We average four or less.

The ten year warranty on my above ground pool lining didn’t last three years.

When the sprinklers go on early in the morning, every bird within three states takes a bath on my front lawn.

The ground temperature in the rocks in my backyard can exceed 130-140. Even lizards and snakes go underground.

When the desert winds kick in at 40 mph or more in 120+ heat, newly planted flowers will die in less than 2 hours.

And, yes, we do get humidity. You think 90 is bad? Try a cooling trend from 122 to 118 during the August monsoon season with 80% humidity.

There are T-shirts in every souvenir shop with drawings of cow skulls and vulture skeletons. The caption is “At least it’s a DRY heat.”

Rubber Band Wrists

It started with the Tour de France. Lance Armstrong won it after fighting testicular cancer and the first ones showed up: the yellow rubber wristband. At first I thought it was pretty cool, as it brought attention to a major men’s health issue. We hear about breast and ovarian cancer, plus a host of other women’s health issues, and rightly so, but we rarely hear about men’s health issues. That’s because we’re disposable. At least that’s the way this white middle-class male feels.

But then these stupid yellow things were everywhere. People who had never heard of Lance Armstrong were wearing them. Ask them what they were for, and they would always say “Lance Armstrong.” Not testicular cancer awareness. It became a fad instead of something good.

Not satisfied with diminishing the issue enough, Crayola-bright bands started showing up all over the place. Some people were wearing three or four. I asked a guy about his. “The yellow is for Lance Armstrong. The blue is for the Chicago Cubs. The orange is for sumpin’ else.” Baseball and testicular cancer: The Great American Pastime.

To be fair, I’ve worn these three or four times myself. They had words and numbers on them. But since I was recovering from surgery, I can’t be certain what they represented.

I am wearing one right now. It’s transparent. It means you’re a retard.

A True Artist

Excerpt from Associated Press:

"LONDON Jun 20, 2005 — .....Paintings by Congo the chimpanzee sold at auction for more than $25,000. The three abstract, tempera paintings were auctioned at Bonhams in London alongside works by impressionist master Renoir and pop art provocateur Andy Warhol. But while Warhol's and Renoir's work didn't sell, bidders lavished attention on Congo's paintings. An American bidder.....purchased the lot of paintings for $26,352..... The sale price surpassed predictions that priced the paintings between $1,000-$1,500.

"We had no idea what these things were worth," said Howard Rutkowski, director of modern and contemporary art at Bonhams. "We just put them in for our own amusement." (Administrator: italics are mine) Congo, born in 1954, produced about 400 drawings and paintings between ages 2 and 4. He died in 1964 of tuberculosis. His artwork provoked reactions ranging from scorn to skepticism among critics of the time, but Pablo Picasso is reported to have hung a Congo painting on his studio wall after receiving it as a gift."

****************

Ignoring the obvious joke that this piece is better than most by Picasso and anything by Warhol, I find it extremely intriguing. Look at the balance and structure of the painting. It is almost symmetrical side to side, and the perspective is what one might expect when looking at a landscape. The point of view is somewhat above ground, the figure(s) receding to the distance, the foreground reminiscent of shadows, the "sky" reaching down to meet the horizon. All what you might expect from a bipedal creature. The painting could represent many things; a vase of flowers, a pond, a garden, a flock of birds, an emotion. While blue predominates, it is subdued by the bold strokes of black, and enlivened with splashes of white. What is most dramatic, however, is the strategic use of reddish "punctuation marks" to disrupt what is otherwise fairly organized and serene.

And it was painted by a chimpanzee.

Was he just playing? Or was he attempting to convey something? I strongly believe the latter. If so, what? What was he thinking? What was he feeling? Did he grasp the abstract? Was there a creative process, or did his mind work unlike ours, immediately interpreting his environment through his fingers? Or is this an internal representation of himself?

Like all great art, this opens up a world unknown to anyone but the artist and begs many, many questions.

The Small Deaths That Kill Us

I don’t like talking about this. Very few know about it, and fewer still understand it. I suffer from depression. And I mean really suffer. But not as much as my wife. I can be the prick of the universe without medication. With it, my chemical instability is under control, my life is normal, and I’m actually a pretty nice guy.

Recently, due to a pissing contest between my doctor and the insurance company, I was rationing my meds. I started by taking them every other day, then every third day, then went without for about a week. In the bewildering grey funk that inevitably follows, I thought about when I first saw the beginnings of my disease. I think I’ve found the exact instant.

My parents introduced me to reading, the best gift I ever got, and supported my voracious appetite for books. I read Peter Pan, The Runaway Robot, Charlotte’s Web. My basically sweet nature made me susceptible to anything adventurous, mysterious, and exciting. I was a naïve and hopeless romantic. (Not in the love sense, but in the swashbuckling, heroic, neato environment way. I still am.)

In the fifth grade, my teacher introduced us to Shakespeare. It was love at first read. We put on plays for the school and our parents, and I found I had an aptitude for the dramatic. I always got the lead, I trend that continued until I gave up the boards in my later youth.

My leading lady was S. She was a year older, just blossoming into womanhood. She was tall. She was gawky. She was smart. She played the piano. My eleven year-old heart was smitten. She played Kate to my Petruchio in our elementary presentation of “The Taming of the Shrew.”

At the end of the year, as young boys are wont, I had to tell her of my feelings. I wrote a note, with painstaking attention to words. It went something like: “Dear S, I really like you. I had fun acting with you. I wish we could be boyfriend and girlfriend. Do you feel the same way? Love, Petruchio”

About thirty minutes before the bell on the last day of school, I met her on the playground. I sheepishly handed her the note, saying “This is for you,” and ran away. Recess was over, and I went back to my 5th grade room with my classmates, most of whom I had known almost all my life.

Ten minutes before the final bell, a 6th grader came in and said “Mrs. Chambers wants to talk to you. (In this instance, I use Mrs. Chambers real name, because if you meet her in Hell, I hope you’ll give her an extra eye gouge.) My teacher dismissed me, and I walked over to the scary hallowed Room of the Sixth Graders.

I immediately went numb. The kids were all looking at me and snickering. Standing like the left hand of righteousness was Mrs. Chambers, MY NOTE IN HER HAND. She looked at me with…what? Disdain? Glee? Arrogance? With three words, she forever shattered my world:

“She says no.” The class erupted in vicious laughter.

I learned years later that S, the object of my affection, carried that moment with her as well. Someone had grabbed the note as she was reading it, and gave it to the teacher. She was mortified.

I can’t begin to explain how I felt as my face burned, trying to hold back the tears, as I ran back to my classroom, the kids asking what happened, the teacher asking if I was okay. Humiliation doesn’t come close. Nor does terror. All I know is that, like Darth Vader, I had started my first step to hating the world, distrusting everything and everyone. I lit the first coal that burns against the world, with the intensity of a thousand suns, that I still carry deep in my breast. I learned and important lesson that day: There is nothing the world loves more than the sweet taste of a romantic’s dreams.

I sit here alone in a bar now while I write this. As I regain my sanity, thanks to my doctor, I think I understand myself a little better.

But some scars never heal.