Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Another Movie Review
Last Saturday my sister Jessica was going out shopping with her friend Elissa. They made an offhand remark before they left that when they returned we would all watch “High School Musical 3”, which Jess had just rented from the library. I laughed it off at the time, because I knew that Jess’s fiancĂ© David would also be over at that later time, and the two girls would surely not ever make us men watch something like that with them – right? Apparently after a quarter-century of life I do not yet know the female mind very well. Yes, folks, they would indeed do something that bad – nay – cruel, heartless, and downright spiteful.
Let me just, as an aside (but not as an author’s note), make a remark about the number in “High School Musical 3”. No, three is not my favorite number, and nor is it, at least in this case, the number of perfection as some people claim. It is, however, a very appalling number because of what it implies – namely, that there were two other “High School Musicals” before this one. The idea alone makes me want to withdraw from society for the next fifty years. How they could ever force one of these monstrosities on the viewing public is repulsive to my sensitive soul, and the fact that three such miscarriages of cinematography have been released without any criminal prosecution borders on the unthinkable.
I repeat that I laughed off the offhand remark that there would be a “movie night” featuring “High School Musical 3”. Such foolishness would be akin to Dorothy laughing it off when the Wicked Witch of the West warned her, “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!” The only problem here is that I did not have three friends (with or without a heart or a brain or courage) to help me get out of the castle once the Flying Monkeys had carried me off. And I certainly could not have thrown a bucket of water on our television set. For one thing, that wouldn’t have made it melt, and for another, even if it had damaged the electronics to such a degree as to make the movie stop, my parents would have still been quite upset with me since the set cost a lot of money.
My laughter turned to tears later in the evening when the shoppers returned and remained true to their intention to have a “movie night”. Both David and I knew, without even watching it first, that this was going to be an awful example of what they call a “chick flick” (the notion itself will cause most normal guys to voluntarily ask to be water-boarded rather than to be subjected to such torture). But none of our valiant efforts caused our tormentors to budge from their evil intent.*
So we four watched “High School Musical 3”. It is very simple to suggest that I could have fallen asleep during the movie, but that would have been as simple as falling asleep during a root canal. So since I was painfully awake throughout, let me now describe for you the cinematic transgressions of this terrible film.
The plot was very simple, albeit bereft of anything remotely interesting. A group of close-knit high-school students are in their senior year, about to enter a whole new world, and struggling with everything from their hormones to their college intentions (Yale or Stanford or Juliard? Hmmmm…that’s a tough one, all right…I mean, doesn’t everybody get to go there? I want something elite!). They make a musical together and sort of resolve all their problems by film’s end.
Seriously – that is not enough to keep the interest of any male for more than five seconds, if that. I would rather watch a documentary about how paint dries. No, seriously.
If it had been only that, I would have called it the most boring movie ever made and left it at that. But that was not all that there was. You see, it was a musical. Which means they sang. Picture this if you can – a guy is in a treehouse with his girlfriend, and as they share a mushy moment, music starts playing from some unseen source and, with a completely straight face, both of them start singing corny songs to each other and dancing to them.** And such was the case throughout the movie. Perhaps the most disturbing song was sung by two guys who were pretending to be little boys again – again, with a completely straight face, as if all of us are prone to bursting forth into a very corny song some days as a matter of course. Couple that with the fact that, although this movie was made in this decade, the music barely seemed to have left the early 1990s, and you get only a slight idea of what I went through.
Not to mention that one male character in the movie was fruitier than the fruitcake I ate last Christmas – which is very hard for a real man to watch without throwing up. And the fact that he hung around with a girl halfway through the movie did not pull the wool over my eyes. Besides that, the movie wasn’t really even very funny – unless you count the parts that made the girls giggle, which never means that it’s funny, only that it’s “cute” for one of several million possible reasons. And if I am going to watch a movie chock-full of corny songs and dancing, and utterly devoid of an interesting plot, then at least I must have some humor. But I suppose that was too much to ask for.***
Thankfully, none of the music from “High School Musical 3” has remained stuck in my head, and my sister has so far not wanted me to play “I like the part where…” with her. Thus this movie has just about completely exited from my consciousness. But I have learned a valuable lesson. Girls value “chick flicks”, not for their intrinsic value (they have none), but as a weapon. They love to make guys watch them because they make us squirm and roll our eyes and come dangerously close to vomiting on the floor or living room furniture. And in their twisted minds they believe that this is worth the price of admission. Let me fire a warning shot – if I am ever married, the only reason I will ever watch a “chick flick” is to be nice. But it will only be once per decade, and it will be the movie of my choosing, not hers. If it is more frequent than that or chosen by another, I will be in the “man-cave” watching paint dry. That is all.
*Author’s Note: Do not let anyone tell you that we were not forced to watch this movie, or that we could have done something else like go play with Play-Doh. It simply isn’t true, and I won’t stand for it. Suffice it to say that there was no way out.
**Author’s Note: To any girl who tells me that a real man will sing and dance for his girlfriend, I will politely reply that such is not so. There are much better and more refined ways to express affection than that.
***Author’s Note: I suppose that part of my problem was that I could not identify with the characters. After all, I began homeschooling after the second grade, and when I was in my senior year of high school, I was the only person in my class.
A Movie Review
Yes, Virginia, though there may not be a Santa Claus (again, I’m not jumping to conclusions, but rather making allowance for a possibility), there most certainly is at least one remaining copy of The Hugga-Bunch, the worst movie ever made. Said copy was borne to our unsuspecting and previously happy house in an innocent-looking wrapped Christmas package by none other than David McLennan*, my sister’s fiancĂ© and the long-sought other person who actually watched the film (this itself was a shocking revelation lost in the mental turmoil caused by the first). My sister Jessica was the first person ever to see the film, and that was in the early 1990s, well after it first came out on VHS cassette. She made up for all the millions of good Americans who never saw the movie by renting it literally every single time her small shadow darkened the entry of our local movie rental store.** I was occasionally in the room when she watched it, and my peripheral senses were faintly aware of being bombarded by something unthinkably dreadful.
I emphatically repeat that Jessica Wilkinson was the first person ever to see The Hugga-Bunch, and it is truly fitting that she is now engaged to be paired with the only other person (and the only male) ever to see it. I am firmly convinced that when the movie first aired as a made-for-television feature in 1985, no one watched it, and even if they began to do it, they quickly realized that the Huxtable family had to be doing something outrageously funny tonight, or at least that a M*A*S*H rerun was bound to be more entertaining. I don’t find it absurd at all to believe that on that evening many a family turned off the television and played Candy Land and liked it. The people that nominated The Hugga-Bunch for an Emmy award couldn’t have watched it, because if they had, they would never have done the deed, but rather would have renounced their chosen occupation and gone into another line of work, like stock market analysis. Allege to me that the makers of The Hugga-Bunch watched their own work, and I will lay before you many convincing proofs not only that they did not watch it, but that they also knew what they were unleashing on the public – and that various good-hearted but yet-unnamed collaborators in the conspiracy took their leave of the whole infamous “bunch” as a result.
My conscience protests at the idea of describing the plot of The Hugga-Bunch. Its two viewers know it well -- inquire at their door. Suffice it to say that any movie with dolls coming through mirrors for the sole purpose of hugging people, and little girls (whose lack of disbelief at such a scene is appalling) who go back through mirrors into the dolls’ own world to get more hugs and a magic youth-inducing food, qualifies (with room to spare) to go on a short list of bad movies consisting of itself and no other picture. And so The Hugga-Bunch indeed has done. And thus an American tragedy, thought to be long and happily dead, was revived on Christmas Day to haunt the dreams of a new generation.
*Author’s Note: According to Mr. McLennan’s own testimony (and I have no reason to question it), in order to transfer the VHS to DVD format (for it is logical there was no existing DVD of the movie), he had to send it off to South Africa. This fact alone will serve, for all but the most closed and biased minds, only to strengthen my argument. This is only conjecture, but I would guess that South Africa is largely blissfully ignorant of the atrocious quality of this film; after all, if they knew what had been sent to them, they would have thrown it into one of their diamond mines and let that be the end of it.
**Author’s Note: I will freely confess that when I myself was very young, I was a repeat renter of the 1936 film version of The Last of the Mohicans. However, since that title represents a noted classic in world literature, and since I had a long and deep interest in the world of American Indians, the reader will quickly conclude that my case was far different from the one described here.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Untitled
That does not mean that I am necessarily gifted in my defiance. Since this article is shorn of the customary title which blurts out to the world that I have nothing whatever to write about, you may be expecting the normal fare. I cannot promise that, and I would even caution that it isn’t coming. However, if this article turns out to be even worse than you expected, then we both can claim to at least have broken even on the deal – and I may have come out a little bit ahead of you.
Since you have been asking so many questions of late, you may also ask why this bout with writer’s block has been so severe and prolonged. I can only guess that I was initially coming out of it but relapsed only recently when the swine flu hit. Such is not to say that the swine flu attacks the faculties of writers along with their immune systems. Rather, I can explain it very simply by saying that it is due mainly to the mask I have been wearing for half a week now in the midst of my self-quarantine. This mask, you see, has not allowed my brain to breath as well as it normally does, and thus my ideas get no ventilation.** And ideas, like any good campfire, need air.***
To show you just how insidious writer’s block can be, I will show it to you in action. You see, I would like to get one good last paragraph written (just one, mind you – if I had asked for two last paragraphs, they could not both have been the last, unless you count all four paragraphs of this piece as the last paragraphs, which makes about as much sense as anything else I have written today), but I cannot. I have no subject matter to fashion into either a sentence or a full-fledged paragraph. Thus you and I are both stuck with a skeleton of a paragraph – a pattern, if you would – with no content. In some lines of work such skeletons are called templates. My agent says that technically I am not allowed to publish only templates – they must be filled with content. But it is the job of agents to get their drawers in a knot over technicalities – and I, for one, am in no mood to help untwist them.****
*Author’s Note: You may be wondering whether my “Fiction Fridays” series, which is released more than once monthly, does not fit into this category. It does not. My agent tells me that fiction is an entirely different category governed by entirely different sets and subsets of rules. My agent also tells me that since I did not release an installment of “Fiction Fridays” last Friday (when I should have), I have foregone the right to release another one this calendar month. But it being nearly May, I chose to ignore my agent on that and other matters.
**Author’s Note: This should in no way be taken to imply that the author breathes primarily through his mouth. His nose is his usual respiratory implement, as it is for most people, except when it is blocked by nose-hair and other matter. However, since the author has just today both picked and plucked his nose, his implement is not impeded.
***Author’s Note: The reader may be questioning the validity of the analogy between ideas and a good campfire. The reader is quite justified in doing this. But, again, I can explain. For when a writer has writer’s block, his analogies cannot be expected to make any sense whatsoever – as is also the case, unfortunately, with his articles.
****Author’s Note: It is a very poignant case in point that I have gone against my agent’s advice even in this. You see, my agent tells me that it simply won’t do to have exactly as many “author’s notes” as there are paragraphs in the main body, even if one of those paragraphs is a template with no content. But you see, I enjoy watching my agent squirm.
Writer's Block II; or, Ramblings in Search of a Subject
Speaking of energy drinks, I see many people in my age group drinking them, especially at college. I never drink the stuff, and my personal opinion is that energy drinks are some of the worst liquids you can put in your body. But I am the same one who gets a weird feeling from drinking a cup of caffeinated coffee and who once had a bad reaction to green tea extract – so maybe I just can’t handle stimulants of any kind. In any case, I still can’t see why one would need to constantly guzzle something in a long ugly can just to keep himself sharp all day. Last time I checked, the formula for a good day’s worth of energy is a sound night’s sleep the night before and three square meals throughout the day. But again, that’s just me.
I do use Vicks Vapo-Rub on occasion, or at least an off-brand version of it. If I’m all stuffed up or coughing, I spread a little on my chest and upper lip before I go to bed, in hopes that the strange-smelling eucalyptus vapors will soothe whatever it is that’s ailing me. I have to say it has varying results. My mom read something that said it would work wonders if you rubbed it on the bottoms of your feet and then put your socks on before bed, but that has done absolutely nothing for me any of the times I’ve tried it. But maybe the fact that I can’t feel my feet has something to do with it.
Some readers may be wondering about my Alpha-Bits cereal reference. Isn’t that a kids’ cereal? Well, yes, I suppose it is. My mom got it for us because she liked the fact that it has less sugar than Honey Nut Cheerios. The cereal pieces are letters and they are semi-sweet. I have so far resisted the urge to spell something or construct a sentence with my food, mainly because there is an overabundance of certain letters (especially vowels) and an extreme shortage of others (I have yet to see a Q or a V in any of the bowls I have eaten). Then there is the fact that many of the letters are wildly misshapen or broken. One might hope that eating letters for breakfast might cure my writer’s block, because those letters would go up into my brain and come out through my fingers as I type. So far that has not been the way it works.
It really stinks to have writer’s block. I suspect it is as unpleasant to read an article written under the influence of writer’s block as it is to write one in such a condition. But creativity can’t be rushed, or rubbed, or ingested, or eaten. It can’t be forced, or injected, or paid for, or bribed. It can’t even be faked, or fabricated, or substituted, or forged. It’s either there or it isn’t, and when it comes, it is a happy time for a writer. I have been able to dash off an article within an hour and a half when some inspiration or another takes a firm hold of my mind. But right now no inspiration exercises even a dying fish’s grasp on my mental faculties, and I believe said faculties may lose all grasp of anything if I don’t regain my writerly equilibrium.
But that is why I am writing this in the first place. The hope that by writing I may regain the lost holy grail of inspiration spurs me onward despite the starkly real risk that I will alienate generations of readers with one bad article. A writer must write, and when said writer has not turned out an original article since the previous week, his public demands that he does so. So here I sit, writing in the narrowest sense of the term.
What might I get in return? My only hope is that any comments left here will be disguised with at-signs, exclamation points, and number and percent signs; I couldn’t bear to know my public’s thoughts in their true form. My fingers have gotten a workout, though a nasty case of arthritis may infest my knuckles and joints before long for all that. But, alas, ‘tis all I can manage at the moment; how long my malaise will last is as unclear as the origin of the Stonehenge. Until then, I regret to inform my readers, who never did anything to deserve this, that they will have to put up with my sound and fury, signifying nothing, until it passes. For now, I am a literary wanderer in unending search of that which eludes me – a subject.
Writer's Block; or, The Games Children Play
Speaking of blocks, I used to have two good-sized containers full of Lego building blocks. Now, children are a great deal more creative than many adults give them credit for, and many times they will play with toys in a manner not intended by the original makers of them. For instance, I used to divide my G. I. Joes up into teams and play baseball, football, and basketball with them. But to return to building blocks, my sister and I would often play with them. We had three little men that came with the blocks, and we would build houses for them (I seem to remember that two of them would sometimes share one, which has only become more disturbing with the passage of time) as well as land and airborne vehicles for their use. One of the men – for reasons I am not quite certain of – had hair that was detachable in one piece. Well, whoever had that little man at the time would occasionally take his hair off as if it were a wig and leave it outside his house to “air out” (something I assume his knobby head was doing as well). I am almost certain that the Lego people did not expect such a use of their creations.
We would also play with little toy cars – not just the Matchbox type, but all the little cars we had collected over the years. We made my room into a little town and put all the cars in the customary spots. The box the cars were stored in lay in the middle and served as the police station, hospital, and tow truck headquarters. Then there were the residences of all the other people. My bed, which was a little higher than everything else, served as the helipad for a couple helicopters that usually didn’t do much of anything. There was also a cardboard bridge my Dad had made that we put in the middle of town. This was the original “bridge to nowhere”, for it didn’t cross any water or anything else for that matter – it was just something fun to drive over.
There were also stories and running gags that we would engage in every time we played cars. One of the funniest was the policeman. His car was gigantic (so was he, we imagined), much bigger than everyone else’s, and he could arrest anyone by simply passing by their car with a “click” (our sound for handcuffs clicking into place). The unoccupied car was then left for the tow truck (whose driver hated his job and often groaned with each new assignment) to haul away. The most common offender was “the batman guy”. He drove a batmobile and loved to drive at breakneck speeds on the back dirt roads of the town (we called it “dirt driving”), which was quite illegal indeed; he never got away with it. Then there was one driver of a truck who would, every time we played, pull up outside the barbershop for a haircut. Now, the barber was very incompetent, and after a long enough interval we would have the truck pull out again, with the man inside calling out, “Thanks anyway!”
There were other amusing denizens of the car town. There were two identical ice cream trucks, which were inseparable and went out on their routes side-by-side and so close that their sides touched. If one of them were to drive on just a little farther than the other, the laggard would race ahead, screaming “I want my Bubba!” Then both would sigh a deep sigh of reunited contentment. We had an old station wagon that served as the town’s taxi. Not only was the car in such disrepair as to be painfully slow, but it also never had enough gas to get where it was going, and invariably it would break down within feet of the gas station (which, I believe, was also the ice cream store). There were two ambulances (they looked more like 1980s “A-Team” vans) which, whenever they went out on a call, would play a song (not unlike a real ice cream truck) of our own invention, called “9-1-1 Emergency”.
I am one of the few fortunate brothers who have been successful in getting their little sisters to play with G. I. Joes (in a military role) with them. Even so, these sessions would not last very long, and we were hardly ever able to get a battle in before she wanted to stop. We would split the guys up between us and have opposing “camps”. An inviolable tradition was to have each side give the other side one of their own men as a prisoner of war before hostilities could be planned or begun. We also had another game we played with all of my larger action figures (which included everyone from Pee-Wee Herman to Superman to He-Man to the Riddler). We called it “King’s Men”. Captain Hook was the king and his throne was a gold-colored trophy. The main point of the game was to have all the men in the king’s court engage in all manner of intrigue, conspiracy, gunfights, duels, assassination attempts, swordfights, and fisticuffs. It was really very much a boy’s game, but I think my sister sometimes enjoyed it almost as much as I did.
Well, it seems my approach worked after all, didn’t it? I began to write and was able to produce something halfway coherent. Writer’s block has been vanquished for now, but I have to think of what I will write next – which may not be so easy.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
LOL :-)
Hardly an email, text message, chat line, or online post goes very long, if at all, without some form of internet slang, which usually comes in the form of an abbreviation and may or may not be expressed in all uppercase letters. Probably the most popular such abbreviation is “LOL”, which stands for “laughing out loud”. It is usually said at the end of a statement the writer believes is funny, or as a response to the statement of another which the writer believes is funny. It may take the form of a humble “lol”, but a full-blown “LOL” means that the subject matter is very ticklish to the funny bone. However, when the writer lets loose with a “ROTFLOL”, then you know the hilarity has reached new levels inexpressible by “LOL” in any form of capitalization or non-capitalization. For you see, “ROTFLOL” means “rolling on the floor, laughing out loud”. I must be careful to point out that, in all likelihood, this should not be taken literally, since if the writer were really rolling on the floor, they would not be able to type, unless their keyboard was also rolling on the floor with them (and perhaps laughing out loud).
These are not the only forms of internet slang. The abbreviation “BTW” means “by the way”, and “FYI” means “for your information”. Should you desire to qualify a statement as being “in my humble opinion”, you would simply put “IMHO”; similarly, “FWIW” means “for what it’s worth”. However, these abbreviations are basically space-savers, and do not generally rise to the level of richness of “LOL” and his kin.
But there is also a very different class of tools which we have at our disposal, and I confess that I avail myself of this one far more often than the one we have just discussed. Emoticons are very expressive little people who allow us the use of their faces in order to convey in text our own facial expressions or moods; but I must note that it seems that these little people are invariably either lying down or plagued with a chronic crick in their neck – because they are almost always best viewed sideways.
The emoticon version of “LOL” is a simple smiley face made of a colon, dash, and parenthesis -- :-). However, unlike “LOL”, it does not have to express humor – it may be that the writer only intends to bestow a smile or a happy thought on the reader. However, when it becomes :-D, then you know that a hearty laugh is most likely intended. A smiley may also wink, like this -- ;-). It can have a decidedly neutral stance on the issue -- :-l --, or it may be sad or mad, expressed by :-( or, more tearfully, by :,-(. A smiley is also capable of sticking his tongue out at you -- :-p – or grinning evilly -- >:-). Surprise can be denoted by :-o. Thus what used to be reserved for punctuation can now be used to express what is on our faces or in our minds at any given moment.
There are some legitimate criticisms of internet slang and emoticons. For instance, they are probably not the best way to communicate in a business setting. Also, constant use of abbreviation is not at all a good habit to fall into, especially for younger people who should be learning good formal writing habits. Another point well-taken is that these modes of expression are sometimes overused. However, I am not here to criticize internet slang and emoticons, because they have an important use in today’s increasingly online world.
The value of these expressions arises from the simple fact that unspoken, written language is subject to misinterpretation. If I were to write to you, “You really stink”, and leave it at that, you might not count me among your friends for very much longer. But if I said “You really stink…LOL” or “You really stink…:-)”, you would be far more likely to pick up on the shade of intended meaning, depending on the nature of our relationship or the context of the statement (I thus qualify my statement because saying something possibly offensive to someone you do not know well and ending it with a smiley face is not very much more likely to moderate their taking offense at it). People can often have very rich conversations via the written word, but writing will never convey tone of voice or mood with complete accuracy – and thus emoticons and internet slang are invaluable inventions that help us do just that.
While I am not here to criticize these modes of expression, I do want to take a moment to clamor for the exercise of more variety and creativity in their use. After all, when the same expressions are used over and over again by many people, they tend to become the only ones ever used, and thus variety – the spice of life – has no opportunity to make ours zestier. What if you are not really laughing out loud, but only quietly? Would LSTM (“laughing silently to myself”) be a good abbreviation for that? Maybe “NVF” (“not very funny”) would tell a friend that they just laid an egg with their joke.
There are also wilder and more exotic things we could do with smiley faces. Maybe our smile has facial hair, like this -- :-)> -- or this -- :-{). Or perhaps we would like to express that we have a mole on our upper lip (or maybe something coming out of our nose), like this -- :-.). Maybe our little emotional assistant would like a hat – 4:-). There are many other possibilities, and all I’m suggesting is that perhaps we could experiment a little more often, tell each other what we mean, and start a trend that will expand our collective expressive vocabulary. After all, isn’t that how “LOL” and :-) got started in the first place?
IHYHERT (“I hope you have enjoyed reading this”). LOL. :-)
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Songs I Don't Understand
I first heard our first example not very long ago. I was in Old Navy, waiting for my sister to be done with her purchases. Naturally, since the female members of my family have adopted my old saying of “looking is not buying” (remind me to write about this sometime) even when they don’t buy, I had plenty of time to observe the rich specimens of human nature that were around me. While so doing, I could not help but listen to the music that was loudly playing throughout the medium-sized store. I wasn’t particularly enjoying what I heard, preferring a Chopin nocturne to contemporary alternative any day. But the words of one song caught my ear and my interest.
The song mournfully asked, “Are we human – or are we dancers?” I don’t know about you, dear reader, but this question has never been among the most pressing that have crowded my mind. In fact, I’ve never asked it, and even if I did, I would never have regarded it as an “either-or” proposition. I see no ugly conflict inherent in such a state of affairs in which it is possible to be both human and a dancer. My level of angst apparently still has not risen to that of the poor singer, who expressed that he was “on his knees looking for the answers”. Now, let me be the first to avow that God is surely interested in every little thing we do and worry about, but let me also say that I don’t think He spends as much time on stupid questions. I hope the singer resolves his issue, but acting on a strong hunch, I would also plead with him to put it down, whatever it is he’s smoking, and back away – slowly, slowly, that’s it – and try to do something productive like enroll in a basket-weaving class at his local community college.
Let’s now move on, because we have more songs to consider. The next case of lyrical abstruseness is one from the years before my birth, and it has gotten a lot of good-natured ridicule from my family. Its chorus declares, “I think I’m turning Japanese, I think I’m turning Japanese, I really think so!” Just about the only thing this song does for me is show why its creators never made it all that big. I myself have not yet been turned Italian (I really don’t think so) by force of the sheer volume of pasta I have eaten in almost a quarter-century, so you will pardon me if I go out on a limb to proclaim that a sudden change of ethnicity is hardly realistic.
Doubtless some will think I am meddling with sacred texts when it comes to our next selection. However, I feel it is my duty to call them as I see them, and this I will do even if the Beatles are the offending party. The song I have in mind today (for the Fab Four were repeat offenders) is “Yellow Submarine”.* I really need go no further than the chorus – “We all live in our yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine” – but I will delve a little deeper anyway, because the full effect is not gained unless we study some of the verses. The opening verse talks about “a man who sailed to sea” who himself talks about “his life in the land of submarines”. Very well so far – I get it, and I’m satisfied. John and Paul lose me in the very next lines – “so we sailed up to the sun” – whoa, now, hold on a minute and let me off the funny bus (or submarine, if you like). You just talked about a normal sailor, and now you’re going to the sun? Forgive me if I’m skeptical, but it gets a little warmish in those regions.
But it gets worse. When they sailed up to the sun they “found the sea of green” where they “lived beneath the waves in our yellow submarine”. I don’t know about all that. Wouldn’t any water, green or otherwise, completely evaporate on the sun’s flaming shores? And they weren’t alone – “and our friends are all on board, many more of them live next door”. So not only are they on your submarine, but they’re also in some unspecified structure nearby? In this world of magic, they also “live a life of ease” and have “all we need”. I suppose this includes plenty of oxygen tanks, because the air’s a bit thin out there (even when it’s not feeding a giant ball of fire). Their description of “sky of blue and sea of green” strikes me as a little ignorant of the appearance of outer space – and I think even people like them, in the early Space Age of the 1960s, should have known better than that. Maybe I’m supposed to sit back, “let it be”, and believe this tall tale for the sake of “art”, but I just can’t force myself to keep this song off my list. I simply can’t “imagine”, and it’s not easy if I try.
Two more songs briefly round out my collection of songs I don’t understand. The first leaves the realm of those I don’t intellectually grasp and enters that of those I literally can’t understand with my ears. It happens to be Elton John’s “Benny and the Jets”; those words are really the only ones in the song I can understand. Even then, I don’t know of any Benny who has played for the New York Jets, and I certainly don’t see what in particular my favorite comedian, Jack Benny, has to do with jets of any kind. Since Sir Elton is a tad creepy to me, I’ll move on to the last number and be done with this entry.
When I was knee-high to a small child (I am now knee-high to most adults), I used to sing in my crib Randy Travis’ song “Diggin’ Up Bones”. I will for now ignore the fact that I have since sought forgiveness for that ignorant time in my life when I liked country music. I will only say that I truly believed Randy meant “Diggin’ A Phone”, and I sang it that way. It seems I inherited from my mother the same malady that caused her to believe (up until only relatively recently) that when they sang “They Tell Me of an Uncloudy Day” in church, they were saying “They Tell Me I’m an Uncloudy Day”.
*Author’s Note: I decided to throw this in as an aside, because it doesn’t really fit anywhere else. I personally think yellow is an awful color to paint a submarine. Even if one does make an allowance for the ghastly color schemes of the 1960s, there is still no good excuse for it. It serves no military purpose whatever, unless you intend to do a little reconnaissance in a bowl of macaroni and cheese. But as I do not possess any credentials at all in design or decorating, I will leave and make way for someone who does.
Monday, April 20, 2009
A Reply to Vicarious Pleasure-Seekers
First of all, I understand the sheer pleasure that could easily be derived from watching me put miniature jet engines on my wheelchair and rocket off into the wild blue yonder (thus the title of my piece). I might even pay good money to see it. I am not even disputing the possibility that some in my condition have even tried it. I can only explain to you why I have not yet done it and have no intention of ever doing it.
I am a very conservative person by nature, and not just politically. I like to know the risks and rewards involved in something before in turn involving myself in it. Those who know me best know that I don’t do anything on the spur of the moment (except perhaps eat a plate of pasta, go to a bookstore, or accept money); they will also tell you that I don’t quickly do many things that depart from my tried and true habits. Let us examine the suggested mode of action and see if we can find its risks and rewards.
The rewards of becoming a human firework are pretty straightforward for those who witness the event – a rush of adrenaline, followed by a clap of hands, a loud whoop, and an exclamation (not unlike Baby Sinclair on “Dinosaurs”) of “Again!” The risk side of the ledger seems to be heavily weighted against the human firework (me in this particular proposition).
On a couple campouts in the beautiful hill country of Texas, I have experienced something akin to this rocket business. On these occasions, while descending a very steep hill, my ever-increasing speed has become quite unmanageable; all attempts to control my wheels have been met with burning rebukes to the skin on my palms. At this point, the only alternatives are to bail out of the chair itself, or to follow it wherever it may lead, most likely into the ditch at the bottom of the hill (at least it doesn’t take very long). This is without any artificial speed-boosters. Imagine the extent of my helplessness when strapped to a rocket-equipped wheelchair.
Nor is that all. I have witnessed how Rosharonites shoot their real fireworks, and believe me, it’s not a study in accuracy. Sure, you may point me down the road, but what if I suddenly veer off sharply toward that mobile home on the left? There are other obstructions in my neighborhood, and if I was to hit any one of them at such speeds, I would be a victim of injuries usually cured only with extensive casts and long bed-rest. Even if I emerged with only bruises from wherever I came to a stop, my wheelchair may not be so fortunate. Now, wheelchairs are surprisingly expensive things these days, and one happens to be my most important means of transportation when out and about. I doubt anyone has approached you and offered to put rocket boosters on your shoes to see if you could walk faster.
Call me stubborn; call me rigid. Call me a boring party-pooper. I can only say that if anyone ever asks me the question referred to above, this is the rationale behind my probable answer of “No, thanks, but I think I’d rather not.”
*Author’s Note: Three brief words of explanation are called for here. First, I am in no way implying that everyone who has ever asked me this question has had a Southern accent. I am one of those writers who believe that dialect spices up dialogue (forgive me if you don’t share that belief), and not having any particular accent myself, I enjoy mimicking and poking fun at many dialects, including Southern, Northeast, Midwest, Western, and sometimes foreign. My favorite dialect for humorous exploitation is the Texas accent, which I attempt to reproduce in this piece. Second, I am quite aware of the glaring gender discrepancy between “bad boy” and “her”. I am not quite sure that my fellow inhabitants of Rosharon wouldn’t be quite comfortable with such a discrepancy. While on a walk (though not walking) through my neighborhood one day, I greeted a little girl, who promptly replied “You’re welcome”. Given a discrepancy of that magnitude, a small inconsistency of grammar is not inconceivable in the least. Third, the word rendered “gyo” here is really the word “go”. It is not pronounced “jigh-oh”, but is instead taken all at one syllable with a hard g, as written. It is my weak attempt to reproduce in writing the manner in which some Texans pronounce the word “go”. I could convey it better through speech, but that isn’t possible here. If all this dialect nonsense is not appealing to you in the least, you may, if you like, email me for a copy of the “corrected” version of this piece. Carry on.
Friday, April 17, 2009
The Most Interesting Man in the World -- Chapter Two
Byron Merrill Warren, the most interesting man in the world, was a boy before he was a man. To point this out seems needless, but in truth the subtleties of this fact run deeper than one may think. You see, some people acquainted with the amazingly interesting life of this man assume – with almost no basis for their assumption – that Byron Warren was doing incredibly interesting things from the time of his birth, twenty-four hours a day all seven days of the week. They assume, without doing any real thinking of their own, that he changed his own diapers, never cried, never complained, and never disobeyed his parents, and that he was conversing with his father at exactly eight months of age. To state such things would be a monstrous act of literary dishonesty, and I simply won’t do it – and I won’t lend any credence to the apocryphal stories that are gaining traction in some quarters concerning this man’s earliest days.
To say that Byron Warren was the most interesting man in the world is not to imply that he was the most interesting infant in the world. In fact, he was a rather normal baby, and no more interesting at first glance than any other. He learned to walk and talk at roughly the same time that most babies do, give or take three months. During this period, the most interesting part of Byron’s life was going on above his shoulders, in his capacious mind. Only his parents knew that he was getting the hang of infants’ educational games far more quickly than his peers. His mother was for a very long time the only one to note how closely young Byron observed everything in his path. However, he never did anything unusually interesting in those days – at least nothing worth your while to read about.
But I return to my original statement that Byron Merrill Warren was a boy before he was a man, and I state emphatically that he was the most interesting boy in the world once he emerged from his infanthood. And the first story I shall tell you from this period is a Christmas story.
Indeed it was that most wonderful time of the year. The stockings were hung (with care, as they should be) in the Warren household, one for each family member. The tree was trimmed and glowing. Mrs. Warren was similarly aglow as she went about her household work singing Christmas carols. Even Mr. Warren had a readier smile upon his face than he was wont to have. Young Master Warren, a spry lad of five, was busy soaking up the sights and sounds of Christmas.
The particular evening I now have in mind was just two days before Christmas Eve. Byron was sitting on his father’s lap as the latter finished reading a colorful Christmas picture book about Santa Claus. He looked inquisitively back up into his father’s face as the tall thin man bestowed a kindly smile upon his son and said as he closed the book,
“You know, son – Santa Claus is going to visit you very soon!”
Byron’s look became even more inquisitive than at first. “He is?”
“You can count on it!” said Mr. Warren most seriously. “In fact, Santa Claus comes to the house of every good boy and girl in the world! And by my count, you’ve been a very good boy indeed all year long! Isn’t that right, Leona?”
Mrs. Warren herself had just been ushered into the room upon a stanza of “Deck the Halls”, and as she good-naturedly dusted a vase (more good-naturedly, indeed, than she dusted it all the other eleven months!) on the mantle, she smiled cheerily at her husband and offspring without stopping her singing, which was as good in the minds of both those persons as if she had written a five-page dissertation on the subject.
“Yes, son, you have been a very good boy!” repeated Mr. Warren with twice the vigor as before. “And Santa Claus knows it, because he’s going to give you lots of very nice things for Christmas!”
“Like what?” inquired the boy.
“Well, you’ll have to wait until Christmas Day to find out! I certainly can’t tell you!”
“Is Santa coming here on Christmas?”
“Well,” began Mr. Warren thoughtfully, “He’s coming right before Christmas – on Christmas Eve! He’ll deliver all the nice presents here by midnight, while we’re all in bed.”
“How will he get here? Will he knock on the door?”
“No, no! You won’t hear him at all! All the good boys and girls are supposed to be in bed asleep when Santa comes – he doesn’t like it if they’re awake. He wants it to be a surprise!”
“Then how will we know he came, and how will he give us all the nice things?” By now the boy’s brow was furrowed with deep bewilderment.
“Santa travels all around the world on Christmas Eve night in his sleigh, which is pulled through the air by many flying reindeer! Just like in the book, remember?”
“Rudolph? And Prancer and Vixen?”
“Yes, those are the ones! And when Santa gets to our house, he will land right on top of the roof and come down the chimney! Just like in the book!”
Byron was now staring intently at the fireplace, furrowed brow and all.
“What if he gets stuck? Won’t he get dirty? And what if it’s cold and we have a fire in the fireplace?”
“Well, we’ll make sure there’s no fire!” replied Mr. Warren. “We don’t want Santa to hurt himself, do we? And I’ll tell you another thing – Santa gets very hungry on his journey, so I’ll bet if you ask your mother, she will help you put out a plate of cookies and a glass of root beer on Christmas Eve night before you go to bed!”
“For Santa to have?”
“You bet!”
“What kind of cookies does Santa like?” asked Byron, his eyes lighting up with newfound interest.
It was the father’s turn to furrow his brow. “Oatmeal raisin or macadamia nut – your mother will know just what to put out!”
“But won’t Santa wake all of us up when he comes?” asked the boy.
“No, no – Santa is very quiet. None of us will know he’s here, but when we get up on Christmas morning, there will be lots of nice presents under the tree!” Mr. Warren smiled as his son’s eyes danced with excitement. He patted him on the head and let him down off his lap.
“But remember – you have to be asleep on Christmas Eve night, or Santa might never come! You have to be a good boy all the way until Christmas Day! And now it’s almost your bedtime – you get upstairs to bed and I’ll tuck you in, okay?”
I am almost sure that little Byron got very little sleep that night, or the next night for that matter. In fact, his brow remained furrowed much of the next couple of days as he was no doubt pondering in his young mind what these stories might mean.
Finally evening came on Christmas Eve. With the help of his mother, Byron put out a plate of cookies (four of them – two macadamia nut and two oatmeal raisin) and a glass of root beer on the table near the fireplace, and went to bed as usual. But he didn’t go to sleep as usual.
Now, as observant as young Byron Warren was, he had not yet learned to tell time; all he knew how to do was to count each chime of the clock on his fingers and get a rough estimate of the hour – and this he loved to do. He wasn’t quite sure when midnight was, but he knew it had to be sometime that night, and he was no more tired than you and I were when we were his age on December 24. So he waited.
And not only did Byron wait – he thought. It seemed perfectly realistic in his mind that if a grown man was to hurl himself down the chimney and enter their house; and if he was to do this after landing a team of reindeer and a sleigh on top of the roof; and if this man was in the habit of frequently shouting “Ho, ho, ho!” with great mirth; if all this were true, then it seemed perfectly realistic to Byron that he would be able to hear him, despite what his father said about the great quietness of this famous personage called Santa. Why, not even an Indian would be able to muffle all of that racket!
And so he waited. The space between each sounding of the clock seemed to grow each time, but such a trial is no match for the patience of a boy who has determined to find something out for himself. He counted off two whole hands’ worth of fingers (which is impressive since his bedtime was eight), and figured that when the next hour came he would just have to start on the first hand all over again, since he didn’t have three hands and his feet were hidden under the covers. He wasn’t sure when midnight would come, but his ears were as perked as a watchdog’s. Not even the rustling of a mouse (the one who was not supposed to be stirring on this night of all nights) would have escaped his observation.
I will spare you any further description of Byron’s vigil, except to say that it was very long. But he had scarcely counted off a brand-new hour when his ear caught something that was definitely not the creaking of the house, or the wind, or a mouse, or anything incidental like that. It was a heavy footstep upon the stairs not far outside Byron’s room – a footstep, I tell you, that was determined to make itself unheard but had failed.
Being by now convinced that he was not going to catch Santa from the safety of his bed, Byron arose. He stepped gingerly toward his door and peeked out. He saw nothing, but he sensed a distinct stirring in the house that he had not sensed before. He then left the safety, not only of his bed, but of his room and approached the head of the stairs. He didn’t care one iota whether or not Santa saw him. In fact, Byron was determined not only to see Santa in the flesh, but to talk to him if he could. There was no harm in that, was there? After all, if he could have a conversation with Santa, the jolly old man would see that he was a good boy, despite his being up after-hours.
Byron crept slowly, carefully, soundlessly down the first few stair-steps. He could peek down through the railing of the staircase down into the living-room, and he saw nothing – but just then he heard the shuffle of socked feet and the sound of fingers fumbling for something in the dark. After that came a thump that was made all the louder by the quiet night air – then a very muffled groan followed a few seconds after by a “click”. That click produced a light – it was the lamp in the living room turned on. Byron decided not to keep descending the stairs just yet, but to keep looking a little longer until he could see who it was. However, the current extent of his strategic advance did not afford him a complete view of the living room, so he slowly, cautiously, painstakingly reconsidered his decision to stop and began to move down the stairs once more, stopping each second or so to look and listen.
There was a “crunch” and then a “clink”. Byron couldn’t tell time, but he could put two and two together. Someone was eating the small meal put out for Santa – Santa himself must have arrived! Byron nearly skipped down the three remaining stair-steps.
However, Byron did not skip down those steps as quietly as he believed he did. He got to the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner to see who the intruder was; the intruder in turn turned around to see the source of this surprise attack. The looks on the faces of both hunter and hunted could not have been more twisted and frozen with shock.
“Dad?” asked Byron with simple wonder. As for Mr. Horatio Warren, he could not speak. His face was contorted with such pain and absolute horror that one would have thought his son had pulled a shotgun on him.
“Dad, is Santa here?” asked Byron excitedly as he looked around. “Is he here?”
Mr. Warren still could not speak, although it sounded as if a slight gurgle escaped from his throat. His face remained contorted, but a very strange look came into his eyes as he stared at his small son.
“Son! What are you doing out of bed?” he demanded. Then his eyes actually looked angry. “Why aren’t you asleep?”
“I-I wanted to see Santa Claus,” said the boy meekly. “Is he here yet?”
“Go back to your room, son, and go to sleep!” shouted Mr. Warren. “Now!”
“But I only wanted to see if Santa was here – will you tell me when he gets here?”
“I told you!” sputtered his father. “Santa doesn’t like it when little boys are awake on Christmas Eve! You’ve been a bad boy, son – now Santa may not even come!”
Byron just stood there, frowning with confusion. “Dad, why are you eating those cookies? They’re for Santa!”
Mr. Warren looked down at the oatmeal raisin cookie in his left hand, then back at Byron. “Go to bed, son!”
“But you’re stealing Santa’s cookies!” insisted Byron, stamping his foot. If he had anything at his young age, he had a strong sense of justice – and this was simply not just.
“I’m not going to tell you again!”
“Mom always tells me it’s wrong to steal! Those are Santa’s cookies. If he’s not here yet, why are you eating his cookies?” Byron’s voice was growing louder now.
“If you don’t go to bed – why, you won’t get any cookies for a week!”
Byron didn’t bat an eye. “I’m going to tell Mom!” he shouted, and turned to go back up the stairs.
“No! Don’t – she’s asleep! Don’t wake up your mother!”
Byron stopped and turned. “But you’re stealing Santa’s cookies!”
“I am not stealing – will you go to bed like I told you?”
“I’m telling Mom!” Now Byron raced up the stairs at full tilt – only to run straight into his mother at the top. Mrs. Leona Warren was awake and not very happy at all.
“What – is – all – this – noise!” she demanded in a loud, indignant voice.
“Dad is stealing Santa’s cookies, and I tried to stop him, but he just yelled at me!” explained Byron in an even louder and more indignant voice.
Mrs. Warren closed her eyes and sighed. “I thought you were supposed to be asleep, Byron,” she said.
“I couldn’t – I wanted to see Santa when he comes. But Dad is stealing his cookies, and he won’t be able to eat anything when he gets here. And what if Santa’s hungry?”
“I’m sure the neighbors gave him plenty of cookies,” offered Mr. Warren weakly.
“That’s a fine how-do-you-do, Horatio!” Now the wife was addressing the husband. “Just go and spoil it all, why don’t you?”
“Leona!”
“I’ve always said you can’t do anything quietly! You don’t have a quiet bone in your body! And now you’ve spoiled it all for the child!”
“I have not! He was supposed to be in bed!”
“I couldn’t even sleep with all your noise, Horatio! First you were snoring, and then when the alarm rang, you would have thought you were a buffalo on the stampede!”
“Leona!”
“You explain it all to the boy, Horatio – because I’m going to bed!”
Byron watched his mother walk away and then came back down the stairs to his father, who still stood there in a daze, holding his cookie.
“Does that mean Santa isn’t coming tonight, Dad?”
“Well, no, he’s still coming, but…”
“But what?”
“But he asked me to put the presents under the tree this year. He was in a hurry, so he left the bag of presents on the front porch.”
The sentence was no sooner said than Byron raced to the front door, unlocked it, opened it, and peered out into the night.
“I don’t see a bag, Dad!”
“Well, maybe he left it in the yard…” There was a long pause as the boy went out of the house. When he came back in, he had his hands on his hips.
“You were just telling stories, weren’t you?” he asked sternly.
“What stories?”
“About Santa Claus! He doesn’t really come at Christmas, does he? He hasn’t come here yet, and you’re eating his cookies! There really isn’t a Santa, is there?”
“Now, son,” Mr. Warren began – only his son would not let him continue.
“You lied about Santa Claus, and now you’re stealing his cookies! Shame on you!” Byron shook his small finger at his father the same way his mother shook hers at both of them on occasion. “Now there won’t be any of the nice things you said I would get!”
“Now, son, that was true – you will get some nice things in the morning. If you’ll just go to bed now…”
“But what about Santa Claus? If he doesn’t come, how can he bring the presents?”
“Believe me, son, they’ll get here!”
“How?”
Mr. Warren sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to tell you sometime anyway. Son – there really isn’t a Santa Claus. That was just a nice Christmas story that parents like me tell their children like you. He isn’t real, but the presents are real. Parents buy them for their children because they love them. And love is real.”
“Then why did you tell me if it wasn’t true?” Now Byron’s arms were folded.
“Well, because I thought it’d be fun. And Christmas is fun – from the tree to the lights to the presents to the music. But Santa Claus isn’t real – he’s just imaginary, like the bedtime story we read last night. Now – how about a cookie?”
Byron was only slightly appeased by the macadamia-nut cookie, but he had obtained his goal, however unpleasant the outcome. He had satisfied himself that there really was no Santa Claus to see. And ever afterward, when his young friends would talk about what Santa would bring them this year, Byron Warren just smiled and shook his head, knowing that they would never believe his little story even if he told them. They would just have to find out for themselves, like he did.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The Most Interesting Man in the World -- Chapter One
“The most interesting man in the world”, as legend has dubbed him, was interesting right from the very beginning – and this is the story of his beginnings. The place of his birth is not under any kind of dispute, for it was Plainview General Hospital in the eastern part of the state of Pennsylvania. I refer only to the state because the tiny town where he was born collectively decided – a few decades after his birth and on account of the town’s dangerously dwindling condition – to unite with two slightly larger nearby towns to form the small town of Tri-City. Thus it would be entirely incorrect of me to say that he was born in Tri-City, PA, because the fact of the matter is that he was not. The original name of the town was purged entirely from the records immediately after the fateful union on the advice of a notary public.
I say that the place of his birth is undisputed only to strengthen my next point – namely, that the date of his birth is almost impossible to pinpoint. For you see, our hero was born at the exact millisecond during which May 17 passed into May 18, 19--.* The nurse insisted on putting down “11:59 p.m. on May 17”, but as the doctor was looking at the clock (he had a habit of doing that right as he delivered babies), he remarked that it was quite interesting that the baby was born at midnight on the dot. This produced a sharp and heated shouting match between the nurse and the doctor, and I’m afraid the matter was never settled to anyone’s satisfaction. To this day there is no time of birth included on the birth certificate of the most interesting man in the world. However, it is lucky for us that they used typewriters back in those days, and they were thus able to type a 7 and an 8 in the exact same spot when they made up the date of birth. Thus, the most interesting man in the world, interestingly enough, is the only man I know of that was born on two days at once. It is a genuine shame that only reflects badly on the petty divisions of mankind that the loyal followers of this august personage have split up into two rival groups – the “Seventeeners” and the “Eighteeners”, depending on which side of the dispute they fall. The author has chosen to remain above that fray, but the reader may take any side he wishes to.
Of course, the most interesting man in the world has to have had a name, or else I would be stuck with the tedious task of typing out “the most interesting man in the world” whenever I refer to him. The nurse had hardly finished her shouting match with the doctor when, clipboard in hand and with a red flushed face that would have made her cute when angry only if she had been pretty, she turned to the parents and asked what the baby’s name was. This caused a second shouting match to break out, which the nurse and doctor watched with amazement and for which I shall now describe the reasons.
The baby’s father, Horatio Bates Warren, said most emphatically that the baby’s name should be Spartacus Byron Warren. It is a known fact that Mr. Warren was an avid connoisseur of ancient Greek and Roman history (a pursuit which was surpassed only by his undying devotion to Kirk Douglas as an actor – but strictly in that capacity and in no other) along with the poems of George Gordon, Lord Byron, the only poet he ever read. Thus the naming of the child was for him a simple matter – but no simpler than it was for his mother.
Mrs. Leona Nora Warren, nee Crabapple, stated just as emphatically despite her apparent weakness from childbirth (oh, but she was a strong woman!) that the baby’s name should be Ford Taurus Warren – but not for the reason you may be thinking. It is known from Mrs. Warren’s copious diaries that she had quite the crush on Henry Ford as a young girl; it is also known that Mrs. Warren was deep into astrology, and she knew that Taurus was the sign of the Zodiac under which little What’s-his-name was born. Mr. Warren knew it too, and he spent his part of the shouting match in trying to convince his wife of two things – that Mr. Ford was old enough to be her great-grandfather, and that both the Zodiac and Taurus were a bunch of bull.
Mrs. Warren’s end of the argument was no less strikingly cogent, for she contended that her husband’s choice of a name would scar the boy for life, that no one wanted to go through life with a stupid name like Spartacus, and that Byron would easily be confused for Brian, especially since she would likely refer to him only by his middle name. The doctor told me some years ago that he heard Mrs. Warren say something about Burt Lancaster being better at something, but in the heat of the moment he never deciphered what he was better at or than whom he was better.
The doctor justly deserves the fame assigned to him, for he was the one who settled this dispute. As is the case with truly great men, he never had glory for a goal – instead, he cleared his throat and, in an off-hand way, spoke up just as the spouses had run out of things to shout for the time being. He said something to the effect of, “Here, let’s make a compromise – name him Byron Merrill Warren! You both seem to think Byron is acceptable, and, well, I think Dr. Merrill should get some credit in this whole thing!” It wasn’t that Dr. Merrill always referred to himself in the third person (he has me to do that for him); rather, he was drawing attention to the fact that his suggested middle name was his own surname.
The husband and wife stared at Dr. Merrill for a moment, after which Mr. Warren put a larger distance between his hands and his wife’s throat and Mrs. Warren muttered something that sounded like “Oh, let’s just get it over with – I’m ready to go home” (I told you she was a strong woman!). Mr. Warren never uttered a word, but with a motion of his hand he signaled to the nurse to write. The nurse assumed that the doctor’s suggestion had been adopted, and thus the most interesting man in the world had a name – Byron Merrill Warren. It was only on the way home that Mrs. Warren realized that the boy’s initials would forever be BMW. Both the parents, being very much fond of appearances, were quite pleased with the discovery and were never known to shout at one another again.
Let me say one more word before I close this brief but important first chapter. As startlingly keen as Byron Warren’s powers of observation were, and as alarmingly retentive as his memory was proved to have been, he could only tell me one thing he remembered from the night of his birth – namely, that it must have been night, because the windows in the hospital were dark. But, humble man that he was, he was rather too quick to admit that the curtains may have been pulled, making the matter rather harder to discern that it would have otherwise been.
*Author’s Note: Some authors use the rather silly literary technique of writing 19-- when the do not want anybody to know what the actual year was. This is silly because in fiction such things really don’t matter. I use it here because I am writing in the 21st century and would like to let bygones be bygones.
The Most Interesting Man in the World -- Prologue
PROLOGUE – Containing an Older Gentleman, a Thin Young Man, a Studious-Looking Fellow, and some Others, besides an Account of what happened at their late Conference.
It was a rather upscale party on the second floor of an upscale apartment building in an upscale area of town. It was very late, and by the looks of it, the bulk of the party was over. The tables once full of food were mostly empty except for a few crumbs of cake in a pan or some leftover meat juice partially flooding a large plate. Red and white colored confetti, empty soda bottles, deflating balloons, and bits of pretzel and potato chip lay scattered around the room, and a few metal chairs still sat where their occupants had left them when they departed.
But not everyone had left the place, for off to one side of the room there was a strange and rare sight to behold – a group of mostly young people, silent and unmoving, staring with rapt attention at an older gentleman in their midst. As I said, it was a rare and strange sight to behold.
“And that,” said the older gentleman as he prepared to swallow a bit more of his drink, “Was exactly the way it happened!” After he took his sip, he stated emphatically, “Every word of it!”
A thin young man, who happened to be holding the slender hand of the blonde on his right, swallowed for what seemed like the first time in hours (his mouth had been open the whole time) and looked around at his young peers.
“Why, I do believe that this is the most interesting man in the world!” he croaked with unpretending awe. More than one of his companions nodded or grunted in agreement. The older gentleman simply waved his hand in dismissal as he put down his drink.
“Bah! That’s nonsense,” he said. “But I will say that there are many other stories I could tell you besides that!”
“I can hardly believe you could even have any more fascinating experiences than those ones!” squeaked a girl behind the man. “I wish I could hear them all, though!”
“Well, you shan’t tonight,” stated the old man matter-of-factly. “It’s well past my proper bedtime! And, I should say, yours too!”
“True enough, sir, but – but,” stammered a studious-looking fellow dressed in what would have been a nice suit (if it had been ironed and if his tie had been put on correctly). The old man turned to look at the young man, who gulped as he struggled to make eye contact with him.
“Well, I was just thinking, sir, that your stories are far too wonderful to just tell to people like us. They should be written down for the whole world to read them!” The entire group of young people nodded and grunted anew in agreement with this astute statement. And astute it was, as you shall soon learn.
The gentleman took the last sip of his drink and held it in his mouth for a second as he paused, then swallowed. “I don’t like to draw attention to myself,” he said simply. “And I’m no writer, at my age.”
“But – but – you don’t have to be,” stammered the fellow in the rumpled suit. “I – well, sir – I could manage to jot down whatever you have to say about your life stories. Here – I’ll give you my card, and you can look me up whenever it’s convenient.”
The gentleman reached to take the offered card from the fellow. He looked down at it and then back up at the group, all without changing his expression.
“I suppose I will consider it,” he said, which elicited an excited murmur from the group. “But,” – here the man raised a cautionary hand – “I make no promises. You shall hear from me only if I decide to do it, but don’t wait for me. Go about your life – you have enough of it left to interest you without having to worry about mine, which is as good as gone now. And so is my energy. Friends,” he said as his very movement cleared a path for him from amidst the small group, “I am going home to bed – I wish you all a very pleasant evening – or shall I say morning.”
The older gentleman walked out the door of the place without a further word. The young people were left just as speechless in his wake, until the studious-looking fellow adjusted his glasses and spoke.
“I believe you’re right, Howard,” he said, addressing the thin young man; “That man has to be the most interesting man in the world!”
Whether such is the case is for you, not for me, to decide. What happens to be very much the case is that the world is very much indebted to that studious-looking fellow in the rumpled suit – who, incidentally, happens to not be so young anymore, but still as studious-looking. For indeed he did write down the old gentleman’s stories, working for a period of about three years, which happened to be the remaining period of the gentleman’s lifespan from the night of that party. Without our friend, the old man’s stories would have died with him. What follows is the studious-looking fellow’s compilation of the old man’s stories, taken just as he wrote them down.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
A Tax Day Tea Party of One
I suppose that as long as I have no other ideas, I can discuss Tax Day for a moment after all. But that would force me to include a brief but important and unprecedented disclaimer. The three or four of you who read my blog know that I have never once discussed politics therein. I am not skilled at debating, and I do not like to offend anyone (except perhaps mustachioed and bearded women). Were I to discuss politics, I would offend Republican and Democrat alike, and thus I would be left readerless. Not seeing the point in this, I have deliberately made it so that no reader would be able to guess my political affiliation through a reading of my writing. That may be about to change. Now for the disclaimer – I am about to discuss politics.
I will be as brief as I can on the subject. In fact, I will bypass my normal audience and exercise the boldness to look into the television camera of the mind in order to address just one person from my Ovaltine Office (the Oval Office having already been taken, this name seemed fitting, especially since I enjoy chocolate milk on occasion). Pardon me, networks – your originally-scheduled programs will be back on momentarily. And now for the address.
Mr. President, if you are reading this (which is highly unlikely, but the government has not yet taken away my right to dream), I have something to humbly say to you. It is Tax Day. Millions of Americans are now wading through pages of legalese that they don’t understand in order to pay their taxes at the last possible moment to fund a government that spends money it doesn’t have to begin with. I ask you, Mr. President, to lighten the loads of these helpless millions. Mr. President – tear down this wall between Americans and their hard-earned money; open this gate to prosperity. Cut our taxes at least in half and simplify the tax code. Ask not what the taxpayers can do for you – ask what you can do for the taxpayers. Read my lips – no new taxes!
If I might be so bold, Mr. President, I also have a specific request on behalf of a close friend of mine. If I might be so bold, Mr. President, might I prevail upon you to schedule a White House conference with my friend Mr. Aaron Schutte, who is the most capable man I know in persuading people of the necessity and benefits of abolishing the IRS and enacting the Fair Tax?*
Thus ends my political rant. You may now return to American Idol, 24, Lost, or whatever show the networks were showing before said rant interrupted the evening’s amusement.
And thus ends my attempt to fend off writer’s block and honor the day in one fell swoop. Before I close, however, I will again turn to that television camera of the mind and address my readers, who I notice are in a rather excited state of mind after my speech. To paraphrase my good friend Lyndon Baines Johnson – I shall not seek, and I will not accept, the nomination of my readers for President of the United States.
*Author’s Note: There is some dispute in the land of Facebook as to whether Mr. Aaron Schutte and Fairtax.org are one and the same. This is really a subject for an entirely separate article, and for now I will not wade into that realm.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Did He Die?
I repeat that this story is true, and that none of the names have been altered as in past writings. My Grandpa Boley, who is to be 89 this July, greatly enjoys humor himself, and he often expresses it by way of telling jokes. In September of 2003, my mother and sister and I journeyed to the Washington, D.C. area, where my grandparents live in the suburb of Annandale. We were gathered in their small old house in a small old neighborhood, and we were all sitting at the table after a small dinner. My Uncle John, who lives in Maryland, had joined us for the repast. As is his custom, my grandfather spontaneously broke out in a joke, which I will relate to you just as he told it that evening.
“So there were these two old pals, Jack and Sam. They were baseball players in their youth, and had played on the same minor-league team for years. Their friendship lasted over the decades until finally Sam died. Jack was heartbroken over the loss of his friend.
“One strange night, Jack awoke and felt that someone was in his room. He sat up and sleepily looked around him. To his surprise, Jack saw none other than the ghost of his old friend Sam standing very near his bed.
“’Sam!’ he cried. ‘Is it really you?’
“’It is, I, Jack’ returned the ghost (it was Sam, all right – the same old voice). ‘It’s Sam, your old pal.’
“’Tell me, Sam,’ inquired Jack, ‘What’s it like in the afterlife? Is there baseball in heaven?’
“’I’ll tell you what, Jack,’ said Sam slowly and thoughtfully; ‘I’ve got good news and bad news for you.’
“’Oh, dear’, said Jack; ‘I don’t like bad news – give me the good news first.’
“’All right’, said Sam. ‘Here’s the good news. There is baseball in heaven.’
“’Truly?’ gasped Jack. ‘Just like here?’
“’Just like here, but better,’ replied Sam. ‘You wouldn’t believe the fields they have – so crisp and well-kept every game. And there’s never a rain-out. What’s more, they sell out every game up there. The crowds are tremendous.’
“’Wow!’ whispered Jack in awe. ‘You certainly are in a better place now, Sam. I don’t think I’ll be so sad anymore.’ But then Jack’s face fell. ‘You said there was bad news, too?’
Sam nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, Jack, I have bad news. You’re pitching tomorrow.’”
Well, of course, all of us chuckled as we sat around that table, just as you no doubt chuckled a second ago – all of us, that is, except my Uncle John. He may have smiled just to be polite, but he was also strangely silent as he sat in his chair. After the last chuckle had died away, we all turned to my Uncle John, who piped up:
No, really, this is exactly what he said, and I’m not making this up:
“So did he die?”*
*Author’s Note: It is my sincere hope that none of my readers are as humorously-challenged as my Uncle John. But just in case there are one or two, I will explain. We all know that Sam died. To paraphrase Charles Dickens – “Sam was dead – there is no doubt whatever about that.” The question to be settled is whether or not Jack died. Yes, Jack died. How could he not have, if he was pitching tomorrow in the baseball league in heaven? If you still don’t get it, please email me or chat with me when I’m online, and we can straighten it out without anyone else having to know you don’t get the joke. Furthermore, let me say that I am very aware of the theological problems inherent in this joke. My grandfather is not a theologian.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Looking Is Not Buying
If any of you have taken a gander at the “Info” portion of my Facebook profile, and have ever thought it worthwhile to scan as far as the category “Favorite Quotations” (this is somewhat in doubt, which is why I draw attention to it), you will have seen, among my other favorite quotations, a quotation by me. I will for now ignore any accusations of egotism – for you see, some twenty years after the fact, the quotation is still quoted in my family circles. That quotation is – “Looking is not buying”.
I would have paused to let you think about that for a moment, but since there is not in writing, as there is in music, anything equivalent to an effective pause, I will allow you to create your own for effect. When you are ready, you may continue reading.
When I first uttered that phrase, I was with my Mom and Dad in our local Wal-Mart; my sister was very likely not yet born. Now, I will ask you – what is likely to be the most attractive section of such a store for a young gentleman of three or four? Is it the clothes aisle? I highly doubt it, if the young gentleman has realized any manliness at all; even a small girl of that age will probably not think clothes to be as fabulous as she soon will. Is it the gardening section? No. What about the pet section? Well, I will allow for that possibility, because at our local Wal-Mart there used to be tanks of small fish in the pet section. Could it possibly be the automotive section? Highly unlikely.
Let’s stop fooling ourselves. The only section of Wal-Mart that any three- or four-year-old boy would, even for a moment, consider worth looking in is the toy section. Our local chapter happened to have three or four aisles devoted to the subject, not including the girls’ toy aisles (which I never looked in). They had everything a kid like me would find interesting – G.I. Joes, Ghostbusters, army dudes, cowboys and Indians, toy pistols you could shoot caps in (those were always fun), toy knives, and all manner of fake weaponry and plastic humanity. Just one pass down the aisle could make one excited and long to get something.
There was one challenge, however. Gentlemen of three or four are usually not gainfully employed, and even if they have been given a savings bond or certificate of deposit, they are not usually authorized to draw against such an investment vehicle. Thus, an independent personal spending spree is out of the question. What to do? Well, it was simple – for our parents, when we are that age, are the equivalent of Congress. Ask, and you might receive – yes, I said “might”. That poses an additional challenge, one which I was able to overcome with my brilliant new phrase.
You see, if I could get my parents in the toy aisle with me, and get them to go down each aisle at least once or twice, I could fix my gaze on an especially enticing item and express my interest in it – in varying degrees of loudness and emphasis, of course. More than half the battle would already be won, and the only question remaining would be whether they would consent or not – and it is perfectly obvious they would, if they saw with their own eyes how perfectly desirable and, quite honestly, necessary this item would be to add to my already-full toy chest. This is much better than the alternative, which would be that my parents head straight for the check-out counter without even looking at the toy section.
I will admit that “looking is not buying” was a little sly and disingenuous of me to say. It is true, though, because you can certainly look without buying. But we all know that my motive was to not only look, but to buy. However, my hope was that my parents did not realize this, and I could put one over on them. I do believe that the plan worked more than once in those early childhood days.
I realize that I am now running a grave risk, in more than one area. First, though I am not aware of it, small children may read this blog and discover the secret of getting all of their wishes granted at any store they enter, much to the chagrin of their parents. More horrific are the future risks this quotation poses to its originator. You see, if I am fortunate enough to someday be married, my wife may very likely use my phrase against me, and with more cunning than any three- or four-year-old could muster. She may, realizing that my paycheck has but lately come in, drag me down the shoe aisle, reminding me sweetly, “Looking is not buying”. She would expect, no doubt, that I would realize how necessary that 26th pair of shoes is to her and cave in like my parents did two decades ago. Worse yet, my own children, if the Lord gives any to me, would no doubt wield their own father’s weapon against him. I know all these things. As somebody else (of unclear age) also once said, “Turnabout is fair play”.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
He is Risen!
All these things and more make Easter a very nice time of the year, but all these things and more dramatically miss the point. Easter (or Resurrection Sunday) is the single most triumphant, important, and history-changing day of remembrance that there is on the calendar. It is more than an invigorating Sunday picnic – it is as serious as our eternal destiny.
We mark Resurrection Sunday as that first day of the week on which our Lord Jesus rose from the dead. Without that day, all other celebrations of any kind would be meaningless. Christmas would be as much of an exercise in head-knowledge as celebrating George Washington’s birthday in February. Good Friday would not be good at all, because it would simply be a day of remembering the tragic, needless – and useless – death of another religious leader.
With no resurrection, all celebrations would be hollow, as would our lives and our faith. The apostle Paul said it best in 1 Corinthians 15. In verse 17, he says “And if Christ is not raised, your faith is vain – you are still in your sins.” Paul follows that up in verse 19 with, “If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we (Christians) are of all men most miserable.” Why does he say that?
Jesus made the most astounding claims that any man has or could ever make. He claimed to be the Light of the World. He claimed to be the Way, the Truth, and the Life – the only way of access to God the Father. He even claimed God was His Father and that He was equal with Him. Jesus’ intention, if His words are to be taken at all seriously, was to die for the sins of mankind and to rise again on the third day after that.
But if Jesus did not rise from the dead, He was a liar, and not even one of His words should carry any weight. If the Man who claimed to be God, very Light and Life in human form, died and stayed dead, then there is no reality to what He said. We may choose to follow His teachings or not, but our decision would make no eternal difference. The joyful, earnest proclamations of Christian preachers and missionaries – even the mighty letters of Paul himself – would fall to the earth with a sickening thud because they are not true. Because if Jesus did not rise from the dead, then the sacrificial death He claimed to die was just an ordinary death like all the others, and certainly not a real sacrifice for sin that appeased His Father.
However, Paul’s words ring across the centuries and give hope and meaning to Easter and all of the other days – “But now IS Christ risen from the dead” (1 Cor. 15:20). Only because of that can he say in verse 55, “O death, where is your sting? O grave, where is your victory?” Jesus indeed rose from the dead and proved for all time that He alone has defeated sin, hell, and the grave. Every word He spoke was truth and life itself.
Several years ago I went through a dark period in my life in which I questioned my beliefs. I wondered if Christianity was indeed true and if its claims were more than wishful thinking. I was afraid of death and wanted to know what, if anything, was on the other side of it. This led to deep unrest in my soul and depression in my heart for a time; but God gave me the victory. What calmed my fears and bolstered my faith?
It was not proof that the Bible is an authentic document. It was no piece of archaeology from Old Testament times. It was not even an argument that satisfied me that Christianity makes more sense than other philosophies. The fact of the resurrection alone was and is enough for me to stake my eternal security on, for it alone is enough to prove that Christ’s claims are true in their entirety.
In John 14:19, Jesus said, “Because I live, you too shall live.” In John 11:25-26, Jesus said, “I am the resurrection and the life; he that believes in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whoever lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe this?”
Because Christ did not stay dead, neither will anyone who puts his or her trust in Him. For the believer in Jesus, there is life on both sides of death, and the grave is no longer a thing to be feared. Ever since this truth was brought to bear in my soul in a personal way, Easter has been a deeper and richer celebration for me than it ever was before. The Resurrection of Christ is the key to it all.
But if you have not yet put your trust in Christ for salvation, Jesus Himself asks you that question, “Do YOU believe this?” The resurrection that vindicated Christ’s sacrifice for your sin has no meaning or power for you if you will not receive it as your own. What better day than Easter to come to the Cross and leave your burden of sin there, only to rise and gaze at the Empty Tomb to realize that your salvation and eternal life have been secured for you forever?
For those of us who know this salvation in a personal way, Easter is just one of the days, besides the other 364, on which we may triumphantly cry, “He is risen! He is risen indeed!”