This was the first morning of my 63rd year. Just to avoid confusion, I turned 62. I had decided it would also be my first day back in the gym.
During the endless skein of holiday season parties, I contracted a cold of a magnitude to rival the Black Plague. Then, it morphed into bronchitis and lingered throughout the month. I could barely lift my head, let alone a barbell.
My lungs had cleared enough for me to vocalize, so I decided it was time to get back in the ring. I stared at the ceiling of my bedroom, thinking maybe I should defer this for a week. A voice told me, “Get your butt out of bed, brush your teeth and hustle to the gym. Quitters never win and winners never quit.”
It’s a familiar voice. I’ve heard it for six decades whenever I was tempted to coast in some way.
But the, a new voice piped up. “Get real. You’re 62, in reasonable shape and what do you need this crap for at this stage of life? Roll over, get some more sleep and then get up and eat a donut.”
Where did that come from? I shook my head and jumped out of bed before it could speak again. Who was this stranger preaching the gospel according to slackers?
I drove to the gym, planning moderation so I didn’t wind up with another month of declining condition. That is, I’d do two thirds of the time in each routine.
First stop was ten minutes on the stationary bike. It felt easy, which isn’t unusual for the first time back. Fresh legs. But, I expected to be sweating and panting by the halfway mark. Not so. Could something be amiss? I grabbed the contact plates for the heart monitor to check my pulse rate. Not only did I not get a reading, it didn’t even light up. Okay, so that’s the problem. I’m dead. Cacked out on the first stroke and I’m just dreaming this part. I finished the exercise, just in case there was some other explanation.
Next up, the track. First lap, I feel the lungs and heart starting to labor. Worse yet, the pain of bone-on-bone in the knees and ankles. This seems to cue my new voice. “Back it off, you’re doing permanent damage and suffering needlessly. And, for what?” Where’s my normal voice when I need it? I press on, anyway.
Lap four. The pain is intense and has been joined by my lungs dredging up the vestiges of the bronchial problem. I’m trying to breathe a substance that has the consistency of tar. “You see?” asks the new voice. “You’re killing yourself for no good reason.” Hard to argue with that.
At last, my original conscience comes alive. “Superior results only come from superior efforts.” That’s it? That’s the best you’ve got? I feel my pace slacken. “And remember, good conditioning maintains the blood and oxygen flow to your fun parts.” Okay, now you have my attention. I finish the workout at all ahead, full.
That takes its toll. The climb up the steps to the exercise floor is a test. I do the elliptical machine and the weight room without any further input from the voices.
I shower and am out to the car. As it approaches an ice cream emporium, the new voice kicks in. “Double chocolate chip. Go ahead. After all, it’s your birthday.” True, it is my birthday. I ease off on the accelerator.
“Hey! You used that excuse all weekend. Time to suck it up.” I press down on the gas.
But, I will have to work on fending off the new voice.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Pour me one
Over the weekend, a friend threw a birthday dinner for me. She had called earlier, asking what entrée and dessert I’d like. Also, what beverage. Single malt scotch? A nice merlot?
I happened to be reading a book at the time in which the protagonist has one of those thoughts; those thoughts you had and suspected they were unique to your mind. Then, you find out you’re not alone.
The protagonist reflects back to an incident when he was seven. His mother took him for a walk by the beach. He always associated ice cream with that and asks for a cone. She says it would ruin his dinner and denies the request. He puts up a big fuss and she walks on ahead. He later realizes that she just didn’t have enough money, but didn’t want to tell him.
He vows that when he grows up, he will have a great job. And, he’ll eat ice cream every day of his life.
With me, it was soda. That was a luxury we couldn’t afford to go with the ever-present leftovers. Now that I think of it, I can’t think of where the leftovers came from. That is, I don’t recall having original meals. Or, anything I cared to eat. I subsided on peanut butter and jelly. That would've washed down nicely with something carbonated, but there was never anything in the house.
The exception was that one Sunday a month, my father took us to the Franklin Diner for dinner. For most people, it was probably just a greasy spoon. To me, it was Spago. I would order the same thing every time, the turkey & dressing platter. And, the piece de resistance, a root beer. That’s what I looked forward to.
Years later, I would begin to attend junior high dances. The beginnings of the mating ritual. But, they held another attraction for me, a soda machine. No matter how tight things were, I’d figure out some way to earn a dime each week and have it in my pocket for that. How can I describe the sensual experience? The clinking of the coin descending the machine’s gullet, the plop of the paper cup dropping into place, and the twin streams of syrup and carbonated water. That made the night. Well, that and Linda Tucker.
So, fifty years later, I knew exactly what I wanted for my birthday dinner. Root beer, of course.
I happened to be reading a book at the time in which the protagonist has one of those thoughts; those thoughts you had and suspected they were unique to your mind. Then, you find out you’re not alone.
The protagonist reflects back to an incident when he was seven. His mother took him for a walk by the beach. He always associated ice cream with that and asks for a cone. She says it would ruin his dinner and denies the request. He puts up a big fuss and she walks on ahead. He later realizes that she just didn’t have enough money, but didn’t want to tell him.
He vows that when he grows up, he will have a great job. And, he’ll eat ice cream every day of his life.
With me, it was soda. That was a luxury we couldn’t afford to go with the ever-present leftovers. Now that I think of it, I can’t think of where the leftovers came from. That is, I don’t recall having original meals. Or, anything I cared to eat. I subsided on peanut butter and jelly. That would've washed down nicely with something carbonated, but there was never anything in the house.
The exception was that one Sunday a month, my father took us to the Franklin Diner for dinner. For most people, it was probably just a greasy spoon. To me, it was Spago. I would order the same thing every time, the turkey & dressing platter. And, the piece de resistance, a root beer. That’s what I looked forward to.
Years later, I would begin to attend junior high dances. The beginnings of the mating ritual. But, they held another attraction for me, a soda machine. No matter how tight things were, I’d figure out some way to earn a dime each week and have it in my pocket for that. How can I describe the sensual experience? The clinking of the coin descending the machine’s gullet, the plop of the paper cup dropping into place, and the twin streams of syrup and carbonated water. That made the night. Well, that and Linda Tucker.
So, fifty years later, I knew exactly what I wanted for my birthday dinner. Root beer, of course.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Stalked
Ryan Widmer is on the eve of his fourth murder trial and a couple nights ago a show aired on stalkers. The connection? He might’ve gotten off without his engaging a stalker, or someone who appears to have some of the traits. Jennifer Crew may prove to be his undoing.
Stalkers don’t have to be of a romantic nature (http://www.flayme.com/stalker/) and can exercise their vendettas against celebrities, companies, organizations, etc., as would seem to be the case with Jared Loughner. It’s unclear if there was a romantic relationship, if any at all, or something else. In the age of the web, relationships (or imagined ones) can be established on line. And, the demented can camp on their targets’ web pages instead of skulking in the bushes outside homes or places of work.
The reports are that the woman sought out Widmer after seeing him on television. So, you have a woman pursuing a convicted (save for a technicality) murderer she doesn’t know. This has red flags all over it. What made Widmer think it would be a good idea to get tangled up with the likes of her? It would later come out that she works at a strip club and her therapist says you can believe little that comes out of her mouth. Color us surprised.
How could he have predicted her spiteful behavior? Easy. The unbalanced are unbalanced by definition and have little choice but to act accordingly. The question isn’t how he could’ve foreseen she would do something crazy. It’s how could he not have seen it coming? He wouldn’t even have to make a slip like the alleged confession phone call (which appears not to be verifiable). These people fabricate their own realities.
On the other hand, the prosecutors have maybe one more bite at the apple. Would you hang it on a person with a history of aberrant behavior?
That may be the escape hatch that enables Widmer to escape the guilty conviction. But, engaging her cost him the additional trial ordeal and expense.
Stalkers don’t have to be of a romantic nature (http://www.flayme.com/stalker/) and can exercise their vendettas against celebrities, companies, organizations, etc., as would seem to be the case with Jared Loughner. It’s unclear if there was a romantic relationship, if any at all, or something else. In the age of the web, relationships (or imagined ones) can be established on line. And, the demented can camp on their targets’ web pages instead of skulking in the bushes outside homes or places of work.
The reports are that the woman sought out Widmer after seeing him on television. So, you have a woman pursuing a convicted (save for a technicality) murderer she doesn’t know. This has red flags all over it. What made Widmer think it would be a good idea to get tangled up with the likes of her? It would later come out that she works at a strip club and her therapist says you can believe little that comes out of her mouth. Color us surprised.
How could he have predicted her spiteful behavior? Easy. The unbalanced are unbalanced by definition and have little choice but to act accordingly. The question isn’t how he could’ve foreseen she would do something crazy. It’s how could he not have seen it coming? He wouldn’t even have to make a slip like the alleged confession phone call (which appears not to be verifiable). These people fabricate their own realities.
On the other hand, the prosecutors have maybe one more bite at the apple. Would you hang it on a person with a history of aberrant behavior?
That may be the escape hatch that enables Widmer to escape the guilty conviction. But, engaging her cost him the additional trial ordeal and expense.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The greatest writer you never heard of
Michael Marshall, or sometimes “Smith” is appended. I stumbled over him when “Bad Things” appeared on the New-in-Paperback shelf. I read the book and wondered where this guy had been and why I hadn’t come across him before.
I may be alone, there. DreamWorks snapped up the rights on one of his books and Warner Brothers holds the option on another. I ordered a half dozen of his titles and am avidly chewing my way through them.
Perhaps he suffers from straddling genres. If Raymond Chandler channeled Stephen King, or vice versa, it might’ve come out as a Marshall book. I’m not a huge fan of science fiction or horror, but the supernatural aspects of Marshall’s books are imaginative and well-integrated with the plot. The mystery angles are gripping, save for one example. Most of all, the writing is beautifully crafted.
For stimulating reading over the long winter nights, you could do worse. If you enjoy the far out stuff, start with “Only Forward.” For a taste of something you might’ve suspected was going on with those people who always seem to discern the turn in the road that most others miss, crack open “The Intruders.”
I may be alone, there. DreamWorks snapped up the rights on one of his books and Warner Brothers holds the option on another. I ordered a half dozen of his titles and am avidly chewing my way through them.
Perhaps he suffers from straddling genres. If Raymond Chandler channeled Stephen King, or vice versa, it might’ve come out as a Marshall book. I’m not a huge fan of science fiction or horror, but the supernatural aspects of Marshall’s books are imaginative and well-integrated with the plot. The mystery angles are gripping, save for one example. Most of all, the writing is beautifully crafted.
For stimulating reading over the long winter nights, you could do worse. If you enjoy the far out stuff, start with “Only Forward.” For a taste of something you might’ve suspected was going on with those people who always seem to discern the turn in the road that most others miss, crack open “The Intruders.”
Friday, January 21, 2011
Changes in latitudes
“We’d like to pick your brain,” read the subject line of the email. I can guess what it’s about since I receive similar inquiries a few times a year. The temperature is hovering around zero, so I cross my fingers. Mentally, anyway.
It’s usually about a paddling festival, although sometimes a club, which is the case of this one. Good to have a change of pace since I have two festivals in the hopper. I’m willing to do it free and via email, but many of them would like me to attend a board or committee meeting.
I don’t mind that either, because it’s an opportunity to paddle other places. Except, the timing and locations never seem to fulfill my desires.
The two festivals I’m assisting now are in Tennessee and Minnesota, hardly great escapes this time of year. I have hopes for this one and open the email.
Nope. The club is a few degrees of latitude north of here. Rats. Why is it the festivals and clubs in Hawaii, Florida or Greek Isles never request help?
It’s usually about a paddling festival, although sometimes a club, which is the case of this one. Good to have a change of pace since I have two festivals in the hopper. I’m willing to do it free and via email, but many of them would like me to attend a board or committee meeting.
I don’t mind that either, because it’s an opportunity to paddle other places. Except, the timing and locations never seem to fulfill my desires.
The two festivals I’m assisting now are in Tennessee and Minnesota, hardly great escapes this time of year. I have hopes for this one and open the email.
Nope. The club is a few degrees of latitude north of here. Rats. Why is it the festivals and clubs in Hawaii, Florida or Greek Isles never request help?
Monday, January 17, 2011
The next 48 Hours
I know what I’ll be doing for the next 48 hours. Maybe more. I’ll be learning a new smart phone.
About a year ago, I made some life changes and decided that mandated that I make the leap from a communication device (cell phone) that exceeded by capabilities by about 50% to one (smart phone) that outthought me by multiples of IQ. I could’ve simply learned the functions that were required for my new lifestyle, but took a more ambitious approach. I decided to learn a new function every day.
That lasted about a week. I grew weary of plowing through the steps of functions I saw few occasions to employ. And, I sensed that, without that usage, the newly learned skills would atrophy, rendering this a futile exercise.
For the past year, the smart phone has served me pretty well, even though I’ve used a fraction of its capabilities. And, I eschewed apps. I really don’t need how to cast spells or create monsters on tap. And, I suspect half these things infect you with some kind of malware or harvest your data.
At the end of my first year, I began to receive mailers, offering device upgrades in return for an extended contract. I wasn’t using all I had now, so I tossed them.
Unfortunately, I also inadvertently tossed the phone into a basin of dish water. Might want to reconsider the offers. I fished them out of the trash.
But, I was able to resurrect the phone with some quick action. I still harbored doubts about whether that was permanent or that it now carried a fatal flaw that would make itself known at the worst possible time.
This past weekend, I worked the booth of an organization at a show. An attractive young lady at a booth across the aisle began to make eye contact and smiled. I returned the favor and she came over and introduced herself, noting that she had seen me using my phone. Was I happy with it?
I looked across the aisle and saw that she was with a cell phone network. Her attraction to me was merely of a commercial nature? Doesn’t seem possible.
She launched into a dissertation of the merits of the various new phones. I nodded politely. Half I had no use for and the remainder I couldn’t even discern their purpose. But, she did hit on one point that was the Achilles Heel of my current device. I made a note to visit my provider, which I did this morning.
I had saved all my documentation, including the business card of my rep, and asked for him. Of course, he was no longer there. These people have the employment longevity of a mayfly. Not that it mattered. I was talking to his clone. Layered clothing, gelled hair, etc.; telling them apart is like trying to distinguish among clams.
I produced my latest mailer and pointed out a couple models that were being offered. He sneered. I might as well have been showing him plans for a catapult. He told me I didn’t want one of them because there were far better models available. That’s funny, because his company thought I’d be interested, as did I.
I insisted upon seeing them. He reluctantly complied but went on to demonstrate the ones he favored. His fingers flew as he agilely hopped from one function to the next, making it look as easy and intuitive as drawing breath. It must be in their DNA. And, one model did have something that especially appealed to me, so I relented. I had no delusions of replicating his facile operation but thought, with intensive study, I could make good use of this. I did have second thoughts because this device was from a manufacturer different from my current phone, but he assured me it was no problem to make a quick transition. Right, no problem.
We then moved into the phase where he attempted to sell me about 47 must-have accessories and the insurance and extended warranty coverage. I stalwartly fended him off. When he realized I was a lost cause, he retracted his talons and set me free.
I got home and sat down with the new phone. First step was to try to mimic his navigation. It came as little surprise that I elicited only strange screens and sounds, nowhere near what I was shooting for. So, I resigned myself to pulling out the manual and assiduously working my way through it.
That’s where I am now. And, anticipate being for some time.
About a year ago, I made some life changes and decided that mandated that I make the leap from a communication device (cell phone) that exceeded by capabilities by about 50% to one (smart phone) that outthought me by multiples of IQ. I could’ve simply learned the functions that were required for my new lifestyle, but took a more ambitious approach. I decided to learn a new function every day.
That lasted about a week. I grew weary of plowing through the steps of functions I saw few occasions to employ. And, I sensed that, without that usage, the newly learned skills would atrophy, rendering this a futile exercise.
For the past year, the smart phone has served me pretty well, even though I’ve used a fraction of its capabilities. And, I eschewed apps. I really don’t need how to cast spells or create monsters on tap. And, I suspect half these things infect you with some kind of malware or harvest your data.
At the end of my first year, I began to receive mailers, offering device upgrades in return for an extended contract. I wasn’t using all I had now, so I tossed them.
Unfortunately, I also inadvertently tossed the phone into a basin of dish water. Might want to reconsider the offers. I fished them out of the trash.
But, I was able to resurrect the phone with some quick action. I still harbored doubts about whether that was permanent or that it now carried a fatal flaw that would make itself known at the worst possible time.
This past weekend, I worked the booth of an organization at a show. An attractive young lady at a booth across the aisle began to make eye contact and smiled. I returned the favor and she came over and introduced herself, noting that she had seen me using my phone. Was I happy with it?
I looked across the aisle and saw that she was with a cell phone network. Her attraction to me was merely of a commercial nature? Doesn’t seem possible.
She launched into a dissertation of the merits of the various new phones. I nodded politely. Half I had no use for and the remainder I couldn’t even discern their purpose. But, she did hit on one point that was the Achilles Heel of my current device. I made a note to visit my provider, which I did this morning.
I had saved all my documentation, including the business card of my rep, and asked for him. Of course, he was no longer there. These people have the employment longevity of a mayfly. Not that it mattered. I was talking to his clone. Layered clothing, gelled hair, etc.; telling them apart is like trying to distinguish among clams.
I produced my latest mailer and pointed out a couple models that were being offered. He sneered. I might as well have been showing him plans for a catapult. He told me I didn’t want one of them because there were far better models available. That’s funny, because his company thought I’d be interested, as did I.
I insisted upon seeing them. He reluctantly complied but went on to demonstrate the ones he favored. His fingers flew as he agilely hopped from one function to the next, making it look as easy and intuitive as drawing breath. It must be in their DNA. And, one model did have something that especially appealed to me, so I relented. I had no delusions of replicating his facile operation but thought, with intensive study, I could make good use of this. I did have second thoughts because this device was from a manufacturer different from my current phone, but he assured me it was no problem to make a quick transition. Right, no problem.
We then moved into the phase where he attempted to sell me about 47 must-have accessories and the insurance and extended warranty coverage. I stalwartly fended him off. When he realized I was a lost cause, he retracted his talons and set me free.
I got home and sat down with the new phone. First step was to try to mimic his navigation. It came as little surprise that I elicited only strange screens and sounds, nowhere near what I was shooting for. So, I resigned myself to pulling out the manual and assiduously working my way through it.
That’s where I am now. And, anticipate being for some time.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Ritual
It was during the post-meeting refreshments. We had been productive and everyone was in a buoyant mood. Except the guy who approached me at the end of the snack table.
He had that look in his eye. The look of someone who just couldn’t wait to dump on something. “Did you notice our guest had a Masonic ring?”
We had allowed someone to make a presentation proposing s strategic alliance with his organization, which had nothing to do with Masonry. “No, I didn’t.”
“I did. I don’t think we should trust him.”
“Because?”
“Haven’t you read any of those books or seen what’s on the web exposing them?”
He probably meant the conspiracy theory garbage, but my information was more first-hand. “I don’t think I’ve seen what you’re referring to.”
“If you had, you’d know we shouldn’t have anything to do with this guy. You should look it up.”
And you should get professional help. I didn’t say that because I’ve learned that people who need it often think it’s the rest of the world that’s out of step and it does little good to point it out. “I’ll consider that.”
My first exposure came shortly after my thirteenth birthday when I joined DeMolay. DeMolay chapters are usually sponsored by Masonic lodges and use their temples for meetings and rituals.
To the outside world, the rituals might appear to be arcane but I would posit that they are no more so than burning incense or lighting a menorah. And, what the rituals inculcated us with, somewhat mirroring Masonry, was reverence for God, courtesy, comradeship, respect for parents, patriotism, fidelity and other precepts. Really subversive stuff.
A good part of the initiation ritual involves the dramatization of Jacques DeMolay being tried during the inquisitions of the Middle Ages. Serious stuff, which means it’s fraught with possibilities for corruption by adolescent males.
The first instance of this occurred when I played the part of a guard. The inquisitors became angered by DeMolay’s defiance and ordered him dragged from the barely candle-lit room to the rack for some softening up. Steve (the other guard) and I dragged the already battered DeMolay (Tim) to an ante room, which was completely dark to preserve the atmosphere. The script was that the guards would whack their spears against a table to simulate the sounds of the rack, which provided background audio for the ritual that continued inside the main room. On cue, we would drag him back in and he would continue to defy the inquisition. At least, that’s the script.
In the dark room, I heard my own spear hitting the table. But, Steve’s first blow produced a different sound, followed by something heavy falling on the floor. That something was Tim, who had been inadvertently knocked out by Steve in the dark.
We tried to revive him, but failed to do so by the time it was incumbent upon us to drag him back in.
Which we did, depositing his limp body in front of the inquisition table, according to script. The lead inquisitor then again demanded of DeMolay that he relent. At that point, DeMolay is supposed to reassert his defiance, but Tim remained still and silent. The inquisitor must’ve thought he missed the cue and repeated his demand with the same result.
The inquisitor looked at Steve and me quizzically, but we just stared straight ahead. So, he had little choice but to ad lib past DeMolay’s part.
I wish I could say that was our worst screwup, but that would come a couple years later during a command performance at the huge Pennsylvania Masonic temple in Philadelphia. I guarantee this is one of the most awesome buildings you’ve ever seen and you can take a virtual tour (not that secretive, are they?) of it at http://www.pagrandlodge.org/tour/mtemple.html. You may imagine the impact of its grandeur on a gangly group of teenagers.
Or, what that impact should’ve been. To be invited to perform was a great honor. I think we looked at it that way, right up until the time we arrived.
The agenda was that the Masons would conduct their regular meeting, which we weren’t privy to. Then, we would be on.
During their meeting, we were sequestered in the cavernous kitchen that served the entire facility. How could we possibly get into trouble in a kitchen? Two words: cooking sherry. I’d like to say the indulgence was just a need to take off the edge, given the magnitude of what we were about to do. But, it was probably more related to a stage of life when some teenage boys were in a constant quest for alcohol and wasted no opportunity.
Once again, there was a good deal of ad libbing, but not out of necessity. Think Mel Brooks does the Inquisition. We enjoyed the performance a lot more than we did the ride home with our advisors.
Later, in college, I would become involved in a similar organization. Part of the initiation is that you replicate a journey of Pythagorus. You are blindfolded and wearing nothing but gym shorts to simulate the experience. For example, to replicate a trek across the desert, you are lead down a trough of sand that has been heated in an oven.
At one point, everyone yells, “Beware the asp!” and you are bitten. Being somewhat responsible, we didn’t actually employ a venomous snake. Instead, we used an electric cattle prod. That was pretty effective, up until the time it sent one initiate into a seizure. Kind of put a damper on the whole thing.
In another segment, you are mummified to smuggle you out of the country. To simulate this, the initiate is laid on a board and wrapped tightly in a long, cloth towel procured from a machine in some commercial rest room. You are sprinkled with an “embalming fluid,” which I recall was oil of wintergreen or something akin to that.
What could go wrong there? Ask Bill. When we initiated him, the bottle of fluid slipped from Doug’s grasp and drenched his crotch. If you’ve ever gotten some ache relief balm on an area dense with follicles, you have some idea of the burning sensation a little of this can produce. In this case, Bill had the better part of a bottle deposited on his sensitive area and was tightly bound in cloth. You could barely hear the ritual above the screaming.
Amusing times, but it’s probably for the best that I’m past most rituals. Except for the big one at the end. I probably won’t bungle my role there.
He had that look in his eye. The look of someone who just couldn’t wait to dump on something. “Did you notice our guest had a Masonic ring?”
We had allowed someone to make a presentation proposing s strategic alliance with his organization, which had nothing to do with Masonry. “No, I didn’t.”
“I did. I don’t think we should trust him.”
“Because?”
“Haven’t you read any of those books or seen what’s on the web exposing them?”
He probably meant the conspiracy theory garbage, but my information was more first-hand. “I don’t think I’ve seen what you’re referring to.”
“If you had, you’d know we shouldn’t have anything to do with this guy. You should look it up.”
And you should get professional help. I didn’t say that because I’ve learned that people who need it often think it’s the rest of the world that’s out of step and it does little good to point it out. “I’ll consider that.”
My first exposure came shortly after my thirteenth birthday when I joined DeMolay. DeMolay chapters are usually sponsored by Masonic lodges and use their temples for meetings and rituals.
To the outside world, the rituals might appear to be arcane but I would posit that they are no more so than burning incense or lighting a menorah. And, what the rituals inculcated us with, somewhat mirroring Masonry, was reverence for God, courtesy, comradeship, respect for parents, patriotism, fidelity and other precepts. Really subversive stuff.
A good part of the initiation ritual involves the dramatization of Jacques DeMolay being tried during the inquisitions of the Middle Ages. Serious stuff, which means it’s fraught with possibilities for corruption by adolescent males.
The first instance of this occurred when I played the part of a guard. The inquisitors became angered by DeMolay’s defiance and ordered him dragged from the barely candle-lit room to the rack for some softening up. Steve (the other guard) and I dragged the already battered DeMolay (Tim) to an ante room, which was completely dark to preserve the atmosphere. The script was that the guards would whack their spears against a table to simulate the sounds of the rack, which provided background audio for the ritual that continued inside the main room. On cue, we would drag him back in and he would continue to defy the inquisition. At least, that’s the script.
In the dark room, I heard my own spear hitting the table. But, Steve’s first blow produced a different sound, followed by something heavy falling on the floor. That something was Tim, who had been inadvertently knocked out by Steve in the dark.
We tried to revive him, but failed to do so by the time it was incumbent upon us to drag him back in.
Which we did, depositing his limp body in front of the inquisition table, according to script. The lead inquisitor then again demanded of DeMolay that he relent. At that point, DeMolay is supposed to reassert his defiance, but Tim remained still and silent. The inquisitor must’ve thought he missed the cue and repeated his demand with the same result.
The inquisitor looked at Steve and me quizzically, but we just stared straight ahead. So, he had little choice but to ad lib past DeMolay’s part.
I wish I could say that was our worst screwup, but that would come a couple years later during a command performance at the huge Pennsylvania Masonic temple in Philadelphia. I guarantee this is one of the most awesome buildings you’ve ever seen and you can take a virtual tour (not that secretive, are they?) of it at http://www.pagrandlodge.org/tour/mtemple.html. You may imagine the impact of its grandeur on a gangly group of teenagers.
Or, what that impact should’ve been. To be invited to perform was a great honor. I think we looked at it that way, right up until the time we arrived.
The agenda was that the Masons would conduct their regular meeting, which we weren’t privy to. Then, we would be on.
During their meeting, we were sequestered in the cavernous kitchen that served the entire facility. How could we possibly get into trouble in a kitchen? Two words: cooking sherry. I’d like to say the indulgence was just a need to take off the edge, given the magnitude of what we were about to do. But, it was probably more related to a stage of life when some teenage boys were in a constant quest for alcohol and wasted no opportunity.
Once again, there was a good deal of ad libbing, but not out of necessity. Think Mel Brooks does the Inquisition. We enjoyed the performance a lot more than we did the ride home with our advisors.
Later, in college, I would become involved in a similar organization. Part of the initiation is that you replicate a journey of Pythagorus. You are blindfolded and wearing nothing but gym shorts to simulate the experience. For example, to replicate a trek across the desert, you are lead down a trough of sand that has been heated in an oven.
At one point, everyone yells, “Beware the asp!” and you are bitten. Being somewhat responsible, we didn’t actually employ a venomous snake. Instead, we used an electric cattle prod. That was pretty effective, up until the time it sent one initiate into a seizure. Kind of put a damper on the whole thing.
In another segment, you are mummified to smuggle you out of the country. To simulate this, the initiate is laid on a board and wrapped tightly in a long, cloth towel procured from a machine in some commercial rest room. You are sprinkled with an “embalming fluid,” which I recall was oil of wintergreen or something akin to that.
What could go wrong there? Ask Bill. When we initiated him, the bottle of fluid slipped from Doug’s grasp and drenched his crotch. If you’ve ever gotten some ache relief balm on an area dense with follicles, you have some idea of the burning sensation a little of this can produce. In this case, Bill had the better part of a bottle deposited on his sensitive area and was tightly bound in cloth. You could barely hear the ritual above the screaming.
Amusing times, but it’s probably for the best that I’m past most rituals. Except for the big one at the end. I probably won’t bungle my role there.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Blame Game
Who’s to blame for the Tucson shootings? Isn’t this the exercise we always engage in when these things occur? Has it helped?
The most visible target in this round seems to be inflammatory rhetoric found in media, on the internet, etc. Is that where responsibility lies? Over ten years ago, I presented a paper that linked the internet to the Kehoe Brothers shootout and their affiliated groups. My position was that the web doesn’t derange people, but it has facilitated the coalescing of the aberrant so they can validate, reinforce and incite each other. The web isn’t the root problem, but it does amplify it.
But, neither the interaction nor the disseminated rhetoric creates the problem. Freedom of speech and channels of communication are an asset and you take the bad with the good.
People knew he was insane. They should’ve done something about it. There are two points here.
Did people know this? The shooter’s web site was replete with malice, delusion and the other earmarks of a diseased mind. Anyone could recognize this as symptomatic except, perhaps, those who share his mental disease and view acrimony as normal. He had repeated conflicts in school and with other groups, rendering himself a virtual pariah. Again, you don’t need a doctorate in psychology to read the entrails here. So, I concede that part of it. But what should “they” have done?
The rights we’ve legislated protect him from people initiating action or even expressing the concern. It’s an obstacle course to do so, fraught with consequences for those who act. Most will think more than twice before making the effort or taking the risk.
And, if they did, what remedies are available? We’ve defunded many state mental hospitals and other resident facilities. The most prominent segment of the mentally diseased lie, cheat, steal, commit violence and abuse drugs. They do not create a sympathetic image for either the allocation of tax support of fundraising. And, even where mechanisms still exist, many have regressed to political footballs for incompetent bureaucrats and profit-driven “charities” to skim off treatment dollars for their own benefit. So, there are few solutions available for him, until he actually pulls the trigger.
This is where we fail to connect the dots and solve the problem. If the greater portion of assassinations, school shoot-ups, etc., is committed by mentally diseased individuals, then treat the illness. Design a system that identifies and treats at the earliest stages and make it easily accessible. Make it efficient, effective and worthy of funding.
Where will that money come from? We need to educate people about the problem and the solution, which tend to get swept under the rug. People won’t support what’s hidden.
And by the way, celebrities have no problem coming forward and preaching about and raising money to cure AIDS or whatever the cause d’ jour is. How about they step up to help treat those who shoot, beat, abuse and otherwise harm the innocent in far greater numbers?
The most visible target in this round seems to be inflammatory rhetoric found in media, on the internet, etc. Is that where responsibility lies? Over ten years ago, I presented a paper that linked the internet to the Kehoe Brothers shootout and their affiliated groups. My position was that the web doesn’t derange people, but it has facilitated the coalescing of the aberrant so they can validate, reinforce and incite each other. The web isn’t the root problem, but it does amplify it.
But, neither the interaction nor the disseminated rhetoric creates the problem. Freedom of speech and channels of communication are an asset and you take the bad with the good.
People knew he was insane. They should’ve done something about it. There are two points here.
Did people know this? The shooter’s web site was replete with malice, delusion and the other earmarks of a diseased mind. Anyone could recognize this as symptomatic except, perhaps, those who share his mental disease and view acrimony as normal. He had repeated conflicts in school and with other groups, rendering himself a virtual pariah. Again, you don’t need a doctorate in psychology to read the entrails here. So, I concede that part of it. But what should “they” have done?
The rights we’ve legislated protect him from people initiating action or even expressing the concern. It’s an obstacle course to do so, fraught with consequences for those who act. Most will think more than twice before making the effort or taking the risk.
And, if they did, what remedies are available? We’ve defunded many state mental hospitals and other resident facilities. The most prominent segment of the mentally diseased lie, cheat, steal, commit violence and abuse drugs. They do not create a sympathetic image for either the allocation of tax support of fundraising. And, even where mechanisms still exist, many have regressed to political footballs for incompetent bureaucrats and profit-driven “charities” to skim off treatment dollars for their own benefit. So, there are few solutions available for him, until he actually pulls the trigger.
This is where we fail to connect the dots and solve the problem. If the greater portion of assassinations, school shoot-ups, etc., is committed by mentally diseased individuals, then treat the illness. Design a system that identifies and treats at the earliest stages and make it easily accessible. Make it efficient, effective and worthy of funding.
Where will that money come from? We need to educate people about the problem and the solution, which tend to get swept under the rug. People won’t support what’s hidden.
And by the way, celebrities have no problem coming forward and preaching about and raising money to cure AIDS or whatever the cause d’ jour is. How about they step up to help treat those who shoot, beat, abuse and otherwise harm the innocent in far greater numbers?
Monday, January 10, 2011
Living the exciting life
I was approached by an old business associate about partnering in a business startup. We kicked around some concepts and the juices started to flow. I enjoyed the excitement.
But, in the end, I passed. I’m at the stage of life where you rake the chips off the table, not up the ante. One aspect about this phase that doesn’t make the favorite list.
That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it vicariously. I met two young men this weekend who provided the vehicle for this. They were on the cusps of life adventure. Ironically, I met them at a funeral.
The one sung during the church mass. Later, at the reception, I complimented him on his performance. As it turns out, the funeral delayed his venture to New York by a few days. He was going there to pursue a role in a musical. Any musical. He had no prospects and few contacts. He was making a leap of faith by moving and staying there as long as it would take or until his resources ran out. And, he was excited. I felt it, too.
I made my run on the buffet and settled down at a table with a young couple. After raising my blood sugar (it had been a marathon event, spanning four locations and six hours; I had even entertained partaking of the wine and wafers at the church), I initiated conversation. The young man told me where he worked. I had heard of it since they had been recognized for their fast rising success.
Given his age and soft spoken manner, I guessed him as maybe an entry level designer or engineer. Wrong. He was a partner and one of the founders.
He said that it started at a bar where deejays hung out when they didn’t have a gig. A few of them started batting around the concept of a high tech company.
Wait a minute, back up the bus. Was “deejay” some computer or robotic term or was it what I thought it was. He said they played CDs at parties, weddings, etc. That’s what I thought.
So, the table of them went out to drum up some business. Before long, they were employing 300 and were in a dozen countries. That’s exciting.
You only get one life to live. Starting out with the pedal to the floor isn’t a bad way to begin.
But, in the end, I passed. I’m at the stage of life where you rake the chips off the table, not up the ante. One aspect about this phase that doesn’t make the favorite list.
That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it vicariously. I met two young men this weekend who provided the vehicle for this. They were on the cusps of life adventure. Ironically, I met them at a funeral.
The one sung during the church mass. Later, at the reception, I complimented him on his performance. As it turns out, the funeral delayed his venture to New York by a few days. He was going there to pursue a role in a musical. Any musical. He had no prospects and few contacts. He was making a leap of faith by moving and staying there as long as it would take or until his resources ran out. And, he was excited. I felt it, too.
I made my run on the buffet and settled down at a table with a young couple. After raising my blood sugar (it had been a marathon event, spanning four locations and six hours; I had even entertained partaking of the wine and wafers at the church), I initiated conversation. The young man told me where he worked. I had heard of it since they had been recognized for their fast rising success.
Given his age and soft spoken manner, I guessed him as maybe an entry level designer or engineer. Wrong. He was a partner and one of the founders.
He said that it started at a bar where deejays hung out when they didn’t have a gig. A few of them started batting around the concept of a high tech company.
Wait a minute, back up the bus. Was “deejay” some computer or robotic term or was it what I thought it was. He said they played CDs at parties, weddings, etc. That’s what I thought.
So, the table of them went out to drum up some business. Before long, they were employing 300 and were in a dozen countries. That’s exciting.
You only get one life to live. Starting out with the pedal to the floor isn’t a bad way to begin.
Monday, January 03, 2011
Declaration of Bengal Incompetence
When, in the course of football events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the unconscionable stadium agreement which have connected them with one on top of another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of NFL and of nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind and John Madden requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all teams were created equal, that they are endowed by the Commissioner with certain unalienable rights, that among these are effective passing, tackling and the pursuit of players who can remember the snap count. That to secure these competencies, coaching is instituted among men, deriving just (or any) powers from the consent of a proficient ownership.
That whenever any form of ownership becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new management, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety, happiness, and maybe a couple games without bonehead moves. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that ownership long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while close games are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the embarrassing losses to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism and nepotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such losers, and to provide new guards (and tackles) for their future security. --Such has been the patient sufferance of these Cincinnatians; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former systems of government. The history of the present King of Bengaldom is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over this county and stadium. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world:
They have reduced a promising NFL power to the punchline of numerous jokes.
Through dark processes only known to themselves, or perhaps the commissioner who represented the county and then coincidentally became their highly paid employee, they pulled the entire region down into economic ruin with the most one-sided stadium deal in the history of sports.
They have reduced astute coaching minds to babbling sycophants.
They have imported and inflicted upon us some of the seediest characters ever pushed through diploma mills.
They have assaulted our sensibilities with a series of uniform designs that would make a pimp blush.
We, therefore, the representatives of the united citizens of Hamilton County, in general congress, assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name, and by the authority of the good people of this county, solemnly publish and declare, that these people are, and of right ought to be free and independent of subsidizing the gross incompetence of this private company; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the Bengal Crown (Clown?), and that all political and financial connection between them and the state of Great Buffoons, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as free and independent citizens, they have full power to support good teams, conclude suffering, illicit contract alliances, establish commerce with some other owner, and to do all other acts and things which independent people may of right do. And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor (and a warehouse full of Ochostinko jerseys).
Copyright 2011, Henry E. Dorfman
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all teams were created equal, that they are endowed by the Commissioner with certain unalienable rights, that among these are effective passing, tackling and the pursuit of players who can remember the snap count. That to secure these competencies, coaching is instituted among men, deriving just (or any) powers from the consent of a proficient ownership.
That whenever any form of ownership becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new management, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety, happiness, and maybe a couple games without bonehead moves. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that ownership long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while close games are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the embarrassing losses to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism and nepotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such losers, and to provide new guards (and tackles) for their future security. --Such has been the patient sufferance of these Cincinnatians; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former systems of government. The history of the present King of Bengaldom is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over this county and stadium. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world:
They have reduced a promising NFL power to the punchline of numerous jokes.
Through dark processes only known to themselves, or perhaps the commissioner who represented the county and then coincidentally became their highly paid employee, they pulled the entire region down into economic ruin with the most one-sided stadium deal in the history of sports.
They have reduced astute coaching minds to babbling sycophants.
They have imported and inflicted upon us some of the seediest characters ever pushed through diploma mills.
They have assaulted our sensibilities with a series of uniform designs that would make a pimp blush.
We, therefore, the representatives of the united citizens of Hamilton County, in general congress, assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name, and by the authority of the good people of this county, solemnly publish and declare, that these people are, and of right ought to be free and independent of subsidizing the gross incompetence of this private company; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the Bengal Crown (Clown?), and that all political and financial connection between them and the state of Great Buffoons, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as free and independent citizens, they have full power to support good teams, conclude suffering, illicit contract alliances, establish commerce with some other owner, and to do all other acts and things which independent people may of right do. And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor (and a warehouse full of Ochostinko jerseys).
Copyright 2011, Henry E. Dorfman
Reminiscing with Liz
I’m worn down by all the holiday festivities and spent today just responding to seasonal greetings from old friends. I usually have the best memory (for things that occurred 40 years ago, not 40 minutes ago) and evoke sighs of pleasant memories by reminding them of events that had slipped through the cracks of their minds. Once in a while, they return the favor.
In this case, it bordered on the bizarre. Liz was a year behind me in school, but we overlapped in an extracurricular activity. We became friends and even dated a couple of times. I believe I recounted one of these episodes in a previous blog, owing to the humor in what a debacle that was. It seemed like we wanted to get something going at various junctures, but it was like trying to make a campfire with wet wood. The underlying friendship has endured all these decades, however. We were destined to be pals.
Liz brought up class reunions in our recent exchange of messages, which reminded me of something I had wanted to ask her. “Was Marisa at your last reunion?”
There was a palpable pause before I got the IM message that she was typing. I tried to remember if Marisa was among the many who Liz had told me were all wrong for me. The odds were good since she approved of few. “Better you should be asking about Annette.” That brought things into focus and opened a door I had sealed long ago.
Both girls were in our extracurricular group. Annette was the porcelain doll of delicate beauty, a la Audrey Hepburn. Marisa was smokin’ hot in the Sophia Loren mode. At first, Annette and I exchanged little flirtations. She was very sweet and somewhat shy. Then, at one group meeting, Marissa signaled interest with the subtlety of a howitzer. Game over.
Far be it from Liz to mind her own business. The second Marisa cornered me, I could feel Liz’s eyes boring into the back of my skull. And, shortly thereafter, she had me pinned up against the wall in the stairwell, extolling the virtues of Annette and warning me of the evils of Marisa. She pretty much confirmed my own thoughts, and virtues weren’t high on the check off list of post pubescent males.
The thing with Marisa was like a bronco ride. I was thrown quickly, came out battered and was still glad I went for it.
Not much later, Annette’s family moved to another part of town and I would have only infrequent and brief encounters with her, usually limited to me saying “hi” and smiling and her snarling. I told Liz I didn’t understand that because we had never really gotten anything going. Liz just threw her hands up in the air, which was Liz-talk for “Men!”
But, that wasn’t the weird part. Years later, I was away at college. My mother called to say that the daughter of one of her good friends was getting married and, since I was also close to the family (not from my viewpoint), I should come in for the wedding. We fought back and forth for weeks and finally my mother played her trump card. Since she had been living in Atlantic City (a pre-gambling dump), she walked everywhere and hadn’t been using her car. I could have it if I came back in for the wedding.
Two factors came into play. I was working my way through college and could barely afford a car that would run with any consistency. I carried quarts of various fluids in the trunk of my then current ride for replenishment every other day.
Secondly, my mother had a penchant for hot cars. Most people assumed I had inherited that from my father, but not so. She had worked as a crossing guard and selling Tupperware to buy this bomb (used) and I coveted it long before I had my license. And, after that, since she’d never let me have the keys. I longed for that car and took the deal.
I flew standby and just barely made it home in time to get ready. She ripped me about that, along with the length of my hair (it was the 60s) and mod style of my suit. But, I told myself it would be worth it just to drive her car over to Philly for the wedding. Where was it, by the way?
Her boyfriend was taking us. We have to talk about the car, anyway.
We do? So talk. Later.
Maurice arrived in a navy blue Lincoln, charcoal suit with dove grey vest, patent leather shoes, pink silk shirt and a diamond stickpin in his tie. My mother introduced us. We shook hands politely and tacitly decided to despise each other.
It was a long ride to Philly. Maurice strained to ask questions, feigning interest in me, I mumbled monosyllable responses and my mother reached over the seat to swat at me.
We finally arrived at a colossal building that resembled a Moorish castle. The inside was divided into vast reception halls. I gave a silent prayer of thanks that they had decided to have the actual ceremony prior to those outside the immediate family arriving.
We went to our assigned table and my mother introduced me to several matronly women who apparently applied makeup with a trowel and marinated themselves in cologne. I’m sure they were all very nice people, but the last thing a teenage boy wants is to be bear-hugged by some elderly, commodious woman he doesn’t know and suffocated in her cleavage. About half of them had cranky husbands who immediately started in with snide remarks about my longish hair. This is fun.
Tables took turns availing themselves of the buffet line. We were among the last. But then, it dawned on me. This was like a Roman feast. With an open bar! I had been subsiding on Spaghetti-Os and stale beer for the past few years. It was nirvana. Or, at the very least, a feeding frenzy.
I returned to the table with a plate piled to an altitude intended to just clear the chandeliers and a tall scotch & soda. Everyone at the table stopped eating and stared. How can I describe the look on my mother’s face?
She confiscated the drink, gave it a second thought and then dragged me out into the hallway. “We’re not barbarians!” Well, I couldn’t speak for her, but… “I don’t care what you do, but stay away from my friends.” Deal! “And away from the bar.” Yeah, that’ll happen.
Fortunately, it was a large event and the room was crammed with hundreds. I had little problem slithering from bar to bar and staying out of her sight. But, what goes in must come out. The rest rooms were accessed through the broad hallway that was common to all the rooms.
I took care of business and had just reached the entrance to our room when I thought I heard a sibilant attention getter emanate from across the hall. I stole a quick look, but there was only a man in a tux and a bride at the doorway to the room opposite us, seemingly awaiting a cue to march in to “Here comes the bride” and commence their ceremony. If there had been an attempt to communicate, it couldn’t have been directed at me. “Pssst, Henry.” There it was again and there was no mistaking the intended recipient.
I looked. The man was staring at the bride, a mix of puzzlement and alarm on his face. She was looking at me. A flicker of recognition flashed in my scotch-soaked brain. I checked the signage outside their hall for confirmation. It was indeed Annette and, I assume, her father preparing to give her away.
“Come over here.” I was frozen. The man hissed something to her, gesticulately wildly toward the door. She ignored him. “Come here, now!”
I ambled over cautiously, taking care to stay out of range of the man who appeared well past furious and rapidly coming up on homicidal. “Remember me? Annette?”
What was the right play here? “Yes and congratulations.” “You look great.” Or maybe, “My name isn’t Henry.” I’m pretty sure it wasn’t “Uh…what doya want?” because that’s what I said and she burst into tears just before tearing down the hall to disappear into a rest room.
Her father whirled on me. “Who the #### are you?”
That’s an easy one. “Henry.”
He appeared torn between strangling me and chasing after his daughter. Fortunately, he chose the latter. I took the opportunity to dart for the safety of our banquet hall. It was a weird night and not just because I later insisted upon using the fire exit to meet my mother at the car in the parking lot.
And, I didn’t return to Cincinnati in her old car because it was undriveable. Years of sitting idle and uncared for in the ocean air had reduced it to a heap of rust and dry-rotted rubber.
Of course, I had never related any of this to Liz. I revised my inquiry, per her input. “So okay, was Annette or Marisa at your last reunion?”
“Neither, although we did spend some time talking about Marisa and decided she was the class slut. No one missed her not being there.”
I sincerely doubt that.
In this case, it bordered on the bizarre. Liz was a year behind me in school, but we overlapped in an extracurricular activity. We became friends and even dated a couple of times. I believe I recounted one of these episodes in a previous blog, owing to the humor in what a debacle that was. It seemed like we wanted to get something going at various junctures, but it was like trying to make a campfire with wet wood. The underlying friendship has endured all these decades, however. We were destined to be pals.
Liz brought up class reunions in our recent exchange of messages, which reminded me of something I had wanted to ask her. “Was Marisa at your last reunion?”
There was a palpable pause before I got the IM message that she was typing. I tried to remember if Marisa was among the many who Liz had told me were all wrong for me. The odds were good since she approved of few. “Better you should be asking about Annette.” That brought things into focus and opened a door I had sealed long ago.
Both girls were in our extracurricular group. Annette was the porcelain doll of delicate beauty, a la Audrey Hepburn. Marisa was smokin’ hot in the Sophia Loren mode. At first, Annette and I exchanged little flirtations. She was very sweet and somewhat shy. Then, at one group meeting, Marissa signaled interest with the subtlety of a howitzer. Game over.
Far be it from Liz to mind her own business. The second Marisa cornered me, I could feel Liz’s eyes boring into the back of my skull. And, shortly thereafter, she had me pinned up against the wall in the stairwell, extolling the virtues of Annette and warning me of the evils of Marisa. She pretty much confirmed my own thoughts, and virtues weren’t high on the check off list of post pubescent males.
The thing with Marisa was like a bronco ride. I was thrown quickly, came out battered and was still glad I went for it.
Not much later, Annette’s family moved to another part of town and I would have only infrequent and brief encounters with her, usually limited to me saying “hi” and smiling and her snarling. I told Liz I didn’t understand that because we had never really gotten anything going. Liz just threw her hands up in the air, which was Liz-talk for “Men!”
But, that wasn’t the weird part. Years later, I was away at college. My mother called to say that the daughter of one of her good friends was getting married and, since I was also close to the family (not from my viewpoint), I should come in for the wedding. We fought back and forth for weeks and finally my mother played her trump card. Since she had been living in Atlantic City (a pre-gambling dump), she walked everywhere and hadn’t been using her car. I could have it if I came back in for the wedding.
Two factors came into play. I was working my way through college and could barely afford a car that would run with any consistency. I carried quarts of various fluids in the trunk of my then current ride for replenishment every other day.
Secondly, my mother had a penchant for hot cars. Most people assumed I had inherited that from my father, but not so. She had worked as a crossing guard and selling Tupperware to buy this bomb (used) and I coveted it long before I had my license. And, after that, since she’d never let me have the keys. I longed for that car and took the deal.
I flew standby and just barely made it home in time to get ready. She ripped me about that, along with the length of my hair (it was the 60s) and mod style of my suit. But, I told myself it would be worth it just to drive her car over to Philly for the wedding. Where was it, by the way?
Her boyfriend was taking us. We have to talk about the car, anyway.
We do? So talk. Later.
Maurice arrived in a navy blue Lincoln, charcoal suit with dove grey vest, patent leather shoes, pink silk shirt and a diamond stickpin in his tie. My mother introduced us. We shook hands politely and tacitly decided to despise each other.
It was a long ride to Philly. Maurice strained to ask questions, feigning interest in me, I mumbled monosyllable responses and my mother reached over the seat to swat at me.
We finally arrived at a colossal building that resembled a Moorish castle. The inside was divided into vast reception halls. I gave a silent prayer of thanks that they had decided to have the actual ceremony prior to those outside the immediate family arriving.
We went to our assigned table and my mother introduced me to several matronly women who apparently applied makeup with a trowel and marinated themselves in cologne. I’m sure they were all very nice people, but the last thing a teenage boy wants is to be bear-hugged by some elderly, commodious woman he doesn’t know and suffocated in her cleavage. About half of them had cranky husbands who immediately started in with snide remarks about my longish hair. This is fun.
Tables took turns availing themselves of the buffet line. We were among the last. But then, it dawned on me. This was like a Roman feast. With an open bar! I had been subsiding on Spaghetti-Os and stale beer for the past few years. It was nirvana. Or, at the very least, a feeding frenzy.
I returned to the table with a plate piled to an altitude intended to just clear the chandeliers and a tall scotch & soda. Everyone at the table stopped eating and stared. How can I describe the look on my mother’s face?
She confiscated the drink, gave it a second thought and then dragged me out into the hallway. “We’re not barbarians!” Well, I couldn’t speak for her, but… “I don’t care what you do, but stay away from my friends.” Deal! “And away from the bar.” Yeah, that’ll happen.
Fortunately, it was a large event and the room was crammed with hundreds. I had little problem slithering from bar to bar and staying out of her sight. But, what goes in must come out. The rest rooms were accessed through the broad hallway that was common to all the rooms.
I took care of business and had just reached the entrance to our room when I thought I heard a sibilant attention getter emanate from across the hall. I stole a quick look, but there was only a man in a tux and a bride at the doorway to the room opposite us, seemingly awaiting a cue to march in to “Here comes the bride” and commence their ceremony. If there had been an attempt to communicate, it couldn’t have been directed at me. “Pssst, Henry.” There it was again and there was no mistaking the intended recipient.
I looked. The man was staring at the bride, a mix of puzzlement and alarm on his face. She was looking at me. A flicker of recognition flashed in my scotch-soaked brain. I checked the signage outside their hall for confirmation. It was indeed Annette and, I assume, her father preparing to give her away.
“Come over here.” I was frozen. The man hissed something to her, gesticulately wildly toward the door. She ignored him. “Come here, now!”
I ambled over cautiously, taking care to stay out of range of the man who appeared well past furious and rapidly coming up on homicidal. “Remember me? Annette?”
What was the right play here? “Yes and congratulations.” “You look great.” Or maybe, “My name isn’t Henry.” I’m pretty sure it wasn’t “Uh…what doya want?” because that’s what I said and she burst into tears just before tearing down the hall to disappear into a rest room.
Her father whirled on me. “Who the #### are you?”
That’s an easy one. “Henry.”
He appeared torn between strangling me and chasing after his daughter. Fortunately, he chose the latter. I took the opportunity to dart for the safety of our banquet hall. It was a weird night and not just because I later insisted upon using the fire exit to meet my mother at the car in the parking lot.
And, I didn’t return to Cincinnati in her old car because it was undriveable. Years of sitting idle and uncared for in the ocean air had reduced it to a heap of rust and dry-rotted rubber.
Of course, I had never related any of this to Liz. I revised my inquiry, per her input. “So okay, was Annette or Marisa at your last reunion?”
“Neither, although we did spend some time talking about Marisa and decided she was the class slut. No one missed her not being there.”
I sincerely doubt that.
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