Tidings of Comfort and Joy...

Christmas starts before Halloween and gains a kind of destructive force and speed like some monstrous snowball hurtling down a mountain.There is no denying it. It is on TV. It is on the radio. It is outside your window. It is at your job. It is in your dreams. It is under your bed. It is at the tollbooth on the turnpike. It is in the men's room at the Dakota. It is ubiquitous. The music never stops. You're OK at first but even those with relatively good mental health are eventually reminded of or re-live every minor and major disappointment of some previous Christmas or every loss associated with a special person no longer with us. If one Christmas carol doesn't get you another one eventually does. There is no escape. Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated. There is no escape from Christmas. You will never have enough money to deal with it. You will never be broke enough to be removed from it. You will never be able to hide from it. Christmas is all around you.You will not make new Christmas memories with the exception of particularly nasty December events, like a terrorist attack or a newly discovered attempted genocide somewhere in some country whose name you cannot pronounce. Peace on Earth- fat chance- good will towards men- no comment...and you haven't even considered the New Year yet...

Uncertainty...

This morning I read about the Marines in Fallujah and the things they were finding as they worked their way through the captured buildings and headquarters of the Iraqi insurgency. They found makeshift prisons, video studios with the walls splattered with blood, mutilated corpses and on and on. The explanation was that the Islamic extremists who are running the insurgency apparently ok’d the torture and murder of anyone, Iraqi or otherwise, who assisted the enemy or behaved outside of an approved set of rules- like they wore a dress or didn’t volunteer for suicide missions.
I am not the student of history that I would have like to become. I always thought I would be a good historian- working my way through primary sources and constructing grand theories about the exploits of mankind. Given that for the past 30 years my studies have been limited to newspapers, opinions of friends and teachers, and all forms of western media I suppose I have a distorted view of history. One thing I do know is that throughout recorded history more bad and nasty stuff happened because some group of people thought that they knew better than anyone else. They thought they knew how to live better or how to behave better or that God was with them and not the others and they engaged in all types of mindless butchery because they were so sure that what they believed was right.
I don’t trust certainty of belief anymore- it seems to be an excuse to behave in a primitive and uncivilized manner. It is good to be unsure. It is good to be uncertain…the world would be a much safer place if everybody weren’t so damned right all the time…

Election Signs...

Tyringham road is a lovely, long country road that is the fastest way for me to get from Becket to Monterey for racing canoe practice. The road has a lot of large farms, hayfields, the occasional art gallery and at dusk it's often a place where you'll see some of the most magnificent sunsets in the county. But none of this is the subject of this post. This post is about election signs, specifically the signs I saw today on Tyringham road. You see, as I drove by a barnyard this morning I saw two signs, one for a local sheriff's race the other for the local district attorney's contest. Nothing special about these signs except their placement. They were both stuck in the top of a large manure pile. I couldn't help but wonder if they were stuck there because the manure was a soft and easy place to stick a sign or whether the placement of the signs was some type of editorial comment on the candidates. Maybe I'll pull over and ask the next time I drive by...

Speak Less Write More...

In a recent Reuters article the post-presidential career of Bill Clinton is briefly documented and his recent earnings are tallied nicely. Apparently millions can be had for an ex-president willing to go out on the lecture circuit and there's millions more for their biography. Interesting. When I initially saw the title of the article (Bill Clinton Speaks Less,Writes More) I naively thought the article would describe how the former president was using the structural cognitive activities required and enhanced by writing and taking more time to organize his thoughts- actually taking more care in his personal expression and writing more instead of just blurting stuff out. No such luck...
When I was in graduate school my committee chair and I would spend hours discussing the cognitive differences between speaking, writing and engaging in electronic discourse . I eventually wrote my dissertation on the subject. Attempting to understand the uniqueness of the electronic type of discourse required a thorough immersion in the psycholinguistic literature, the social linguistic literature and a large dose of academic personal opinion. Once after a particularly strong dose of a professors personal opinion my chair dismissed his peer with the remark, "Oh, he writes more than he reads". This remark set a standard for me in my academic communications. I never wanted to be caught just talking about stuff - only writing would do and then, only meticulously researched writing at that...
I guess that's why I was disappointed to read the article regarding Clinton's activities- here I am thinking like some idiot that a politician was actually attempting to improve their communicative style and all that was really being addressed was their latest accomplishments in amassing cash.

Marilyn

"Marilyn" is an older essay that I actually got to read on our local NPR affiliate. Not as short as your typical blog entry but something I thought some of you might enjoy...DRW

Marilyn lived on the inside of my father's closet door throughout my childhood years. She wasn't real of course but a stunning color photograph of a nude Marilyn Monroe reclining on a lush bright red fabric backdrop. As if this wasn't enough, the 2 x 3 photograph was framed in a marvelously ornate gilded plaster frame, the kind you see in stuffy art museums. The photo and the frame competed for your attention. I don't remember a time in my Father's house when Marilyn wasn't around. The sheer size and weight of the picture created a loud crash whenever the closet door was opened. The sound of her banging against the door was distinctive and unmistakable. My brothers and I took pains to prevent it during the rare times we dared sneak a secret look at Marilyn's glorious pink and blonde nudity. Her semi-secret place in the closet seemed totally natural to me. It was analogous to the place of my missing blonde mother who had left when I was three. Her whereabouts were known but she had little contact with us and she was generally spoken of with somewhat hushed and, you know, sinful tones. To my child's mind, Marilyn was a symbol of all the mysterious and allusive qualities of women that you desire and love-their exquisite physical difference from men and their allure and apartness. She was proof that love and acceptance from them was trapped in a gilded frame, forever unattainable.

When I was a young teenager, my father remarried and moved. Marilyn came out of the closet and moved to his cellar workshop. I of course had much more than Marilyn to think about. I had a new mother who was actually there, a new collection of stepsiblings, a new neighborhood, and a new school. That time in 1966 marked the beginning of a procession of events that turned me into an adult - relationships, college, drinking problems, my own children, divorce, remarriage, new beginnings and finally, almost 20 years later, a relatively stable existence. Marilyn remained in the workshop gathering dust and the occasional snicker

In the summer of 2000, within a few days of his 75th birthday, my father was diagnosed with melanoma. Given 6 to 9 months to live, he barely survived 2. His passing placed me in an emotional place indescribable to the inexperienced, and to the experienced, no description is necessary. During the inevitable sorting of his things, I was told "take Marilyn as soon as you have a place for her". Marilyn had come to my father from his father so it made sense for her to come to me. The only problem was my strong feeling that I didn't want her. At first, I thought that maybe my reluctance was a form of denial about my Father's death but realized it was something else. I had lost the sense of Marilyn's mystery and had become a real grown-up - she now embarrassed me. She was extremely politically incorrect and in my way of thinking very, very, sad. I knew how she had been shamelessly exploited and victimized in her life and death and how she had 13 abortions before she was thirty. She had become a picture of all that was wrong with our culture and to me, a symbol of all the sad fantasies and misperceptions a little boy, now a grown man, had entertained about his lost mother. She just didn't fit in- not in my closet, not in my life. I took her anyway. That's what my Dad would have wanted.

It didn't take too long for me to figure out what to do with her. I called my friend Daniel who happens to own the Dreamaway Lodge. The lodge is a mythic Berkshire roadhouse tucked away in a remote section of our remote town that happens to be just minutes from my home. The Dreamaway would be perfect for Marilyn and Daniel, when he saw her, agreed. For years the Dreamaway has provided sustenance, more than a few stiff drinks, and a few nights worth of home for the occasional famous folk singer, beat poets, in-laws, outlaws, artists, dancers, and just plain working people. Long before it was fashionable, the Dreamaway welcomed rich and poor, old and young, black and white, gay and straight, the afflicted and the comforted, - you name it. The Lodge has always been a very hip destination. And like Marilyn hanging in my father's closet, the Lodge, tucked well out of the way of the casual observer, is filled with inviting secrets.

I understand that there is great controversy at the Dreamaway as to where Marilyn should be placed. There are advocates for a place of honor in the main dining room or the bar. Others would have her in a guestroom or one of the many funky hallways, nooks or crannies that fill the buildings. Any place should be fine as long as she can see the light of day and the neon glow of the evening.

I know my father would be pleased that she is finally getting the appreciation she deserves. And I, well, I am just as happy to let her and all my associated fantasies reside comfortably down the road. Far enough away for consolation yet close enough to measure just how far we all have come.

The Great Communicator

There is a lot I just don't understand about Ronald Reagan. Like how did the son of a Democratic ward organizer wind up leading the troops of the new Right? And how did a divorced B-movie actor eventually become President and literally end the cold war by outspending the Russians ( who would've ever thought that the problem with Socialism was that there was no money in it...)?? We all know that the American political scene is filled with strange twists and turns but the story of "The Great Communicator" has got to take the cake... Ronald Ray-Gun, the man who despite mounds of credible scientific evidence indicating that it could never work, successfully sold the idea of a Star Wars type missile shield to the American public to the point where people today still believe it to be a viable option. This is the same man who sold the country on "trickle-down economics", the notion that if you give breaks to the rich their excess money will somehow drip down into the hands of the middle class who will be so overwhelmed or something that they will let their excess monies further trickle into the hands of the poor. The man became a national hero!! How this happened is truly beyond me...
Regardless of my generally negative view of his performance as President there are a couple of things I do admire about him. First, unlike our current president, Ronald Reagan actually held a job in his life prior to becoming a politician. This indicates he had some relationship, however distant, with reality. And remember when he "accidentally" slipped at the microphones after calling the USSR the evil empire and humorously said "the bombing will begin in five minutes" ? What a joker...
The biggest mystery to me is the presence of his fan club. The major newspapers are reporting that they expect "tens of thousands" (a big number) of persons to view his coffin while it lies in state and that many more will observe other funeral activities. Who are these people?? Has the Reagan fan club been meeting in secret all these years?? What were they planning on doing in the event that President Reagan hadn't died?? These unanswerable questions are but another small piece of the strange and twisted American puzzle. Ronald Reagan, the great communicator, another American original...

Local Speed Limits...

After my bike ride this AM I called my friend Maddy, a local police officer. I was calling to negotiate my surrender. She just needed to tell me the time and place. I didn't want any trouble and would come in peacefully. I confessed that I had achieved the speed of 47 mph on Becket - Tyne Road, a posted 35 mph zone. I am aware that if you are 10 mph over the limit it is considered an offence worth a ticket. She thanked me for calling but pointed out that the 35 mph speed limit was for automobiles and trucks only - there was no designated Bike speed limit so I had, in fact, violated no law. This was a relief. With the internal glow of good citizenship, and a sense that the world in fact had some rational order, I proceeded with my day.

Now About Those Security Cameras...

Well my plan for defacing gas pumps has run into a little setback. It dawned on me that a (legion of) security camera(s) will be filming me,my car, my license plate and probably linking the whole ugly picture to my credit card, address etc. as I attempt to surreptitiously paste my stickers on the gas pumps. There must be some way to block those suckers before they see you do the blocking...I'll have to talk to my video security guy in the office. There's got to be a way...

Two Bucks a Gallon...

As I was filling my vehicle with gas this morning for the first time at over two dollars a gallon ($2.03), I had the kids rummaging through the glove compartment in search of a permanent marker. It was my intent to deface the gas pump but then I got a better idea which I plan to execute tomorrow. From my stock of Avery labels at the office I will print out several dozen labels that say, in probably a 72 point font, "Thank you President Bush" and stick one on every gas pump I get near- right over the price per gallon sign. Now, I know that the president doesn't control gas prices (although I'm not sure about Cheney...) but after all, the president has engendered such good will towards America from the Arab world that it has got to affect our OPEC friends as they decide what gets produced and what doesn't...

Finally got around to it...

Finally got around to setting this blog up. Very interested to see if I can attract any attention here and get into discussion re: politics, mountain biking, discussions of which Yardbirds configuration was truly the best. Oh well we'll see, just what the web needs, another public rant/rave channel