I often rail about people commenting on things without knowing the facts.
I don't know the facts of the Zimmerman trial. I wasn't there. I followed it from afar, but even then, not as closely as many people I know.
Therefore, I would like to give the jury the benefit of the doubt. They heard all the testimony.
On the other hand, this IS Florida.
But I'm trying to avoid that as a mitigating circumstance.
But in trying to understand the events, here's where I just don't get it:
1: Zimmerman sees a young black man walking around his neighborhood. He's black, ergo, he's suspicious. I think we can all safely say that if the kid was white, nothing would have happened. But let's forget about that for a moment...GZ calls the cops. The cops say, "we'll take care of it. Don't follow him." GZ does so anyway. I realize that probably has no legal bearing on the events, but in "things I don't get", this is the first, chronologically. Actually, I DO get it. He's a vigilante and wants to be a hero.
2: TM runs away, calling his girlfriend that he's being chased, scared to death. So, naturally, he hides in a shadow waiting to ambush GZ??? Really? Does that make sense? This is "TIDG" #2.
3: GZ tries to hunt down the suspicious character. He's armed, but it's not at the ready. TIDG #3.
4: TM ambushes GZ, pummeling him within an inch of his life. While GZ is being beaten to a pulp (according to testimony), he finds his gun and shoots TM. How is this possible? Where on his person was the gun kept so that he could be beaten to a pulp while at the same time having the wherewithal to find his gun? TIDG #4.
So, because FL has this "stand your ground" law, GZ can legally kill another human being because he's allegedly being threatened to the death.
I'm trying not to obsess over it. And in truth, I'm not. But, like the president, I also have a son who "could be Trayvon Martin." Somehow, my son has avoided all the profiling, suspicion, and all else that comes with being a young black male. I don't know how he's avoided it but that's what he told me just a few days ago. And it's consistent with all our previous conversations. He happens to be very likeable and social, so that helps. But when you're walking in a store, you're being watched. You are black. Therefore, you're a potential thief or thug.
We've talked about race ever since he could string a few words together. His mom, of course, knows it first hand and to her major credit, has been terrific in this regard. I know it's bragging, but it happens to be true...My son is amazingly confident and relaxed in his own skin.
I can't imagine saying anything new about race in America. Most conservatives think racism doesn't exist. I've had conversations with some of my conservative friends in which I
ask them to try to imagine being guilty until proven innocent. 24/7.
Every day. They still don't get it.
On the other end, many liberals see racism in things I don't see. They're very quick to accuse some people of racism and general idiocy.
I don't get the word "racist" as a noun. Adjective, yes. Noun, no. I have yet to meet anyone in America who's entirely free of racism, myself included. It's always been a matter of degree. I do know that demonizing those who have racism doesn't help things. I also know that ignoring it is just as bad, maybe worse. I suppose the best Rx is to have people of different viewpoints sit down and talk about it in a spirit of understanding and compassion. But I think we've become too polarized to do that.
Both the conservative and liberal viewpoints seem lazy to me. Both sides seem to not want to take the
time to imagine what life is like on the other side of the fence. This
takes work. I'm no Gandhi, and God knows I've been guilty of the same
lack of patience and compassion. But I do feel with every fiber in my
body that the only way to get this country working is to slow down and
to develop compassion and empathy. Being guilty of racism doesn't make you a monster. It does mean that any time racism (or other "isms") get in the way, we're missing an opportunity to know someone and to appreciate them.
To do otherwise seems disrespectful. Therefore, I think it behooves all of us to look in the mirror without judgment, without the liberal police telling us how dumb we are. But to look honestly at ourselves and see that it's in our best interests to eradicate racism, etc. from our hearts. Little by little, day by day.
If GZ had seen a kid without color, I think he'd have acted differently. As for TM, we'll never know.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Mucho macho estupido
Macho comes in all forms. So does stupidity. One can be macho, for example, by lifting something heavy that your sweetie just cannot lift. I love to do that and get googly eyes in return, as I subtly flex my muscles. If I don't bend my knees before doing this, I'll probably throw my back out. Fortunately, I've internalized the right way to do this.
If only I could internalize the shut off valve that says, "Um, dude, you can't paint a bathroom."
I've always had this thing about home repair. The thing...is that I suck at most of it. Or so I thought. My girlfriend has had a peculiar, distorted sense about this, saying that I'm better than I think I am.
She mentioned in April that a bedroom and bathroom needed painting, and would I like to do them and make a little extra money? I responded by saying, "Did anyone ever tell you how pretty you look in that light?" (which was actually true). 2nd time, I think I complimented her on her wardrobe. Can't remember the 3rd time, it might have been her eyes. (And yes, the compliments are true. Although I was still sucking up, hoping to change the subject.)
This did work...for a little while. Eventually, she said, "Thank you for the compliments, darling, but why won't you answer the question?"
Brain: "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger."
Mouth: "Oh, you mean the painting? That? Sure...no problem."
Now, in truth, I have painted before. And did a decent job of it. In fact, I remember in 1994 painting my new apartment, which I was moving to after my divorce. My son was 6 and he wanted to help. So we worked together and it was a wonderful (ahem) "bonding" experience. He wasn't bad for 6. And I wasn't bad for 38. But it wasn't as challenging as what my girlfriend needed.
First, the bathroom itself.
Gentlemen...have you ever looked closely at a woman's bathroom? Do you have any idea how many small things are in there that are in harm's way? Scrubbers, loofas, makeup, candles, flower things, toiletries, and God knows what all else that women cherish and that men are completely clueless about? Yeah, yeah, all I need to do is cover it with a drop cloth. Not only that, the paint is latex, which washes right off. I know that.
But my mind doesn't work that way. I set an insanely, wildly unrealistic, high bar that I can paint around everything. Don't need to move stuff. Hell, I don't even want to tape the trim and border areas because I somehow think I can paint around all that too. At least I ignored that and DID tape the trim areas that she didn't want me to paint.
I'm completely wrong, of course, about plowing my way through a paint job. There's no way I can do any of this. But I did move all the knick-knacks, tchotchkes, and other specimens of alien civilization that inhabit a woman's boudoir. I wish I had a camera to snap it all, because I had absolutely no idea how to put it back.
My girlfriend, in fact, is appreciative that I'm doing this and that I'm saving her money. (On our first date, she referred, 3 times no less, to how she loves "getting 12 cents out of every dime"). The Yankee mindset.
Still, I'm stressed. I must do this job perfectly. It's a testosterone test. One false move and I'm back to being the all thumbs slacker my first 2 wives made me out to be.
I also have an annoying habit of asking questions that I know the answer to if I just work it out in my mind. It pisses off my girlfriend at times. It's pissed off a lot of people, actually. I don't know why I do it. I'm thinking that maybe she'll think I'm being conscientious when all I'm doing is procrastinating and being a pain in the ass.
But I've got resources. To begin with, I've got great music in the background. If anyone is into old school R&B with very limited commercial interruption, check this:
http://aolradio.slacker.com/?aolid=782
Bobby Bland, Ray, Wilson, Aretha, Stevie, Motown, Memphis, Philly, soul/psychedelia. All here. I'm feeling better already.
My job gets off to a bad start as I spill a copious amount of paint. Fortunately, it all spills on to the drop cloth. I figure, I'll use the spilled paint for my brush. It works. I get a rhythm. I get a Zen thing happening, moving in a rhythm. I'm seeing a completed room, with 2 coats. Cleaning up. Fans on to air the room out. And my girlfriend walking in and just beaming at her newly painted bathroom. My Mets are on TV late PM...game in San Francisco. I'm hoping I can be done in time to catch it.
Then I realized that the white paint that's covering the green paint ain't going on so good.
1 coat...almost nothing.
2 coats. Major bleeding.
3 coats. Minor bleeding.
4 coats. Finally, the old green is now white.
To have to need 4 coats is not a good thing. It means that something is wrong. In this case, I forgot to add water to the paint, which my girlfriend explicitly told me to do. I did stir it, except it needed to be shaken. Since my name is not 007, I forgot that it needed to be shaken, not stirred.
During the 4th coat, I got sloppy. Tired, losing focus, I switched from R&B to hard rock. None of it was working. I rushed things.
Job is finished. Little bits of white latex on the green trim. No problem, I think. I'll just take a damp cloth and wash it away. The new white paint DID wash away. Unfortunately, so did the old green paint, exposing the wood, which I could swear was laughing at me.
And little glops of white paint here and there. First thought: "Hell, it doesn't bother me. Why would it bother my girlfriend?" 2nd thought, 2 seconds later; "Dream on. Of COURSE it'll bother her. It's her bathroom. I just f^&ked up my first big home repair assignment. She'll say, 'I can't be in a relationship with a man who can't paint a bathroom'".
I swear (and this is true), she noticed every single mistake the second she looked at the bathroom. But she was, as always, exceedingly gracious.
We did work it out. I got paid fairly, but I've got damage control work to do, on my dime. Which I'm fine with.
I did somewhat redeem myself with "Mucho macho estupido" redux.
We're having a heat wave. It's 95 degrees, humid as a sauna, and no rain in sight. What better time to mow a lawn? My girlfriend never said, "Honey, can you mow the lawn?" No. What she did say was "Honey, please don't overdo it. It's brutally hot. I know you'll take breaks and stay hydrated, right?" By the way, the mower has 2 bad wheels in the back, which means pushing it requires not only the elbow grease of 2 strong arms but "chest grease" as well. Literally pushing the mower with my chest. (Wheels are on order as I write this)
I should digress briefly and mention that the last time I mowed the lawn, there was very little gas in the tank but, miraculously, it lasted throughout the entire job. Having grown up Jewish and being aware of miracles, I named the experience "Lawnukkah".
I wasn't as lucky this time. I anticipated perhaps a 2 hour job. It lasted 4.5 hours, including breaks. This time, the little critters that inhabit the area, rabbits, bugs, squirrels, etc. all looked at me like I was insane. I heard one rabbit say to the other, "Doesn't he realize how hot it is? Hell, it's too hot for sex, even for me."
I ignored the rabbits. And my body. I could just hear the little melanomas being launched throughout my body. (Yes, I did apply lotion. At least I thought of that).
But, unlike my painting issues, I CAN mow a lawn. As can any monkey, or other animal. When I first start mowing, the lines, if taking from an aerial view, look like a Picasso painting. But I do eventually get the lines straight.
So I finished...and I must say the lawn looked pretty good. This time, my girlfriend came home with a special Pad Thai lunch for me.
I thought it was fair compensation. Because, to paraphrase a lyric from a song I wrote, all I need is free food. And a cold shower. Followed by a hot shower. And back rub stuff.
And a lobotomy...
If only I could internalize the shut off valve that says, "Um, dude, you can't paint a bathroom."
I've always had this thing about home repair. The thing...is that I suck at most of it. Or so I thought. My girlfriend has had a peculiar, distorted sense about this, saying that I'm better than I think I am.
She mentioned in April that a bedroom and bathroom needed painting, and would I like to do them and make a little extra money? I responded by saying, "Did anyone ever tell you how pretty you look in that light?" (which was actually true). 2nd time, I think I complimented her on her wardrobe. Can't remember the 3rd time, it might have been her eyes. (And yes, the compliments are true. Although I was still sucking up, hoping to change the subject.)
This did work...for a little while. Eventually, she said, "Thank you for the compliments, darling, but why won't you answer the question?"
Brain: "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger."
Mouth: "Oh, you mean the painting? That? Sure...no problem."
Now, in truth, I have painted before. And did a decent job of it. In fact, I remember in 1994 painting my new apartment, which I was moving to after my divorce. My son was 6 and he wanted to help. So we worked together and it was a wonderful (ahem) "bonding" experience. He wasn't bad for 6. And I wasn't bad for 38. But it wasn't as challenging as what my girlfriend needed.
First, the bathroom itself.
Gentlemen...have you ever looked closely at a woman's bathroom? Do you have any idea how many small things are in there that are in harm's way? Scrubbers, loofas, makeup, candles, flower things, toiletries, and God knows what all else that women cherish and that men are completely clueless about? Yeah, yeah, all I need to do is cover it with a drop cloth. Not only that, the paint is latex, which washes right off. I know that.
But my mind doesn't work that way. I set an insanely, wildly unrealistic, high bar that I can paint around everything. Don't need to move stuff. Hell, I don't even want to tape the trim and border areas because I somehow think I can paint around all that too. At least I ignored that and DID tape the trim areas that she didn't want me to paint.
I'm completely wrong, of course, about plowing my way through a paint job. There's no way I can do any of this. But I did move all the knick-knacks, tchotchkes, and other specimens of alien civilization that inhabit a woman's boudoir. I wish I had a camera to snap it all, because I had absolutely no idea how to put it back.
My girlfriend, in fact, is appreciative that I'm doing this and that I'm saving her money. (On our first date, she referred, 3 times no less, to how she loves "getting 12 cents out of every dime"). The Yankee mindset.
Still, I'm stressed. I must do this job perfectly. It's a testosterone test. One false move and I'm back to being the all thumbs slacker my first 2 wives made me out to be.
I also have an annoying habit of asking questions that I know the answer to if I just work it out in my mind. It pisses off my girlfriend at times. It's pissed off a lot of people, actually. I don't know why I do it. I'm thinking that maybe she'll think I'm being conscientious when all I'm doing is procrastinating and being a pain in the ass.
But I've got resources. To begin with, I've got great music in the background. If anyone is into old school R&B with very limited commercial interruption, check this:
http://aolradio.slacker.com/?aolid=782
Bobby Bland, Ray, Wilson, Aretha, Stevie, Motown, Memphis, Philly, soul/psychedelia. All here. I'm feeling better already.
My job gets off to a bad start as I spill a copious amount of paint. Fortunately, it all spills on to the drop cloth. I figure, I'll use the spilled paint for my brush. It works. I get a rhythm. I get a Zen thing happening, moving in a rhythm. I'm seeing a completed room, with 2 coats. Cleaning up. Fans on to air the room out. And my girlfriend walking in and just beaming at her newly painted bathroom. My Mets are on TV late PM...game in San Francisco. I'm hoping I can be done in time to catch it.
Then I realized that the white paint that's covering the green paint ain't going on so good.
1 coat...almost nothing.
2 coats. Major bleeding.
3 coats. Minor bleeding.
4 coats. Finally, the old green is now white.
To have to need 4 coats is not a good thing. It means that something is wrong. In this case, I forgot to add water to the paint, which my girlfriend explicitly told me to do. I did stir it, except it needed to be shaken. Since my name is not 007, I forgot that it needed to be shaken, not stirred.
During the 4th coat, I got sloppy. Tired, losing focus, I switched from R&B to hard rock. None of it was working. I rushed things.
Job is finished. Little bits of white latex on the green trim. No problem, I think. I'll just take a damp cloth and wash it away. The new white paint DID wash away. Unfortunately, so did the old green paint, exposing the wood, which I could swear was laughing at me.
And little glops of white paint here and there. First thought: "Hell, it doesn't bother me. Why would it bother my girlfriend?" 2nd thought, 2 seconds later; "Dream on. Of COURSE it'll bother her. It's her bathroom. I just f^&ked up my first big home repair assignment. She'll say, 'I can't be in a relationship with a man who can't paint a bathroom'".
I swear (and this is true), she noticed every single mistake the second she looked at the bathroom. But she was, as always, exceedingly gracious.
We did work it out. I got paid fairly, but I've got damage control work to do, on my dime. Which I'm fine with.
I did somewhat redeem myself with "Mucho macho estupido" redux.
We're having a heat wave. It's 95 degrees, humid as a sauna, and no rain in sight. What better time to mow a lawn? My girlfriend never said, "Honey, can you mow the lawn?" No. What she did say was "Honey, please don't overdo it. It's brutally hot. I know you'll take breaks and stay hydrated, right?" By the way, the mower has 2 bad wheels in the back, which means pushing it requires not only the elbow grease of 2 strong arms but "chest grease" as well. Literally pushing the mower with my chest. (Wheels are on order as I write this)
I should digress briefly and mention that the last time I mowed the lawn, there was very little gas in the tank but, miraculously, it lasted throughout the entire job. Having grown up Jewish and being aware of miracles, I named the experience "Lawnukkah".
I wasn't as lucky this time. I anticipated perhaps a 2 hour job. It lasted 4.5 hours, including breaks. This time, the little critters that inhabit the area, rabbits, bugs, squirrels, etc. all looked at me like I was insane. I heard one rabbit say to the other, "Doesn't he realize how hot it is? Hell, it's too hot for sex, even for me."
I ignored the rabbits. And my body. I could just hear the little melanomas being launched throughout my body. (Yes, I did apply lotion. At least I thought of that).
But, unlike my painting issues, I CAN mow a lawn. As can any monkey, or other animal. When I first start mowing, the lines, if taking from an aerial view, look like a Picasso painting. But I do eventually get the lines straight.
So I finished...and I must say the lawn looked pretty good. This time, my girlfriend came home with a special Pad Thai lunch for me.
I thought it was fair compensation. Because, to paraphrase a lyric from a song I wrote, all I need is free food. And a cold shower. Followed by a hot shower. And back rub stuff.
And a lobotomy...
Monday, July 8, 2013
July 4, etc.
First off, it's RR's (Random Rant's) 1st anniversary. I said I'd post something every Sunday. Well...maybe not always on Sunday. But I have put up something every week. Thanks to all for reading. I truly do appreciate it.
Now, re our nation's anniversary. I'm mostly positive about it, although I have mixed feelings. To begin with, I'm not into fireworks. For some reason, people have trouble understanding this. I don't like Free Bird, I've never been a big Star Wars guy and I can't walk into WalMart without getting irritable or depressed. Maybe I'm not American.
But can someone tell me what's so great about fireworks? It's people setting off dangerous stuff that's very loud. You know exactly what will happen. It scares dogs too. Yeah, I get that it's supposed to be a celebration of our independence.
Maybe that's what I dislike the most. Ask any fireworks freak about what happened in 1776 and they'll probably say, "1776? Was that when the 76ers won the NBA championship?" Some family on our block sets off firecrackers (not fireworks...no colors) at random times during the week. It's not celebratory. It's just obnoxious.
How many people really "get" what our country is all about? I don't claim to either. But I do try to focus on what I love about America. And there are many things. I love our music, our exuberance, our soul, our humor, our compassion. I love that we're the most generous nation on earth. I love that so many people choose to defend our country too, although we don't treat them the way we should.
Like a person, I love that we're not perfect and that there are many more people who, in a quiet way, try to make our country better. They're doctors, cops, firefighters, teachers, and most of all, parents. And this group far outweighs those who try to hurt us or even Americans who complain incessantly about America.
Here's another thing I love, and this was abundantly clear to me when my girlfriend and I went up to Tanglewood in the Berkshire Mountains. I saw diversity. Lots of it. A Dominican Republic family enjoying themselves while we were having a picnic by the Housatonic River. The guy with some heavy Eastern European accent delivering soft drinks to the convenience store we stopped at. The 2 Pakistani owners of the motel we stayed at. The groups of people from all over the world who attended the concert (Jackson Browne, by the way) as well as those who stopped at lovely Bash-Bish Falls at the tri-state (CT, MA, NY) border as we were heading home.
I find myself subjected to articles every day about foreigners who are anti-American, in some cases going to violent extremes. Yet, the foreigners I meet seem nothing like that. They take some getting used to, for me. There are customs, dress, accents, and personalities that don't always make sense to me. But I believe this is identical to how people reacted when my family arrived from Austria and the Ukraine 100 or so years ago. As would be true for other families, other generations, other times and places across America. I don't have to do a Vulcan mind-meld with people newly arrived. I don't even have to be best friends with them. But I'd do well to understand their struggle a bit. That they're in a new country, trying to provide for their families, and probably feeling intimidated. And if they're Islamic, having to deal with self-proclaimed patriotic Americans who feel their Christianity is under siege.
I can't think of any other country that can tell this kind of story. People settled Australia, for example, and even subjugated the native people like we did. As is true for Canada too, and much of Latin America. But none of these other countries have had immigration on the level that we do. And no one has had a record of success like we do.
This is serious stuff, I realize. And that's not what July 4th is about. It IS a day to celebrate. We can be more serious on our more pensive American holidays, like Memorial Day and Veterans Day. Even Labor Day.
So hand me a hot dog and a beer (Gluten free. No, on 2nd thought, don't give me a gluten-free beer until you can invent one that doesn't taste like cardboard). Crank up the Sousa and the Skynyrd (But not Free Bird. I'll take "They Call Me The Breeze", which features the best rock piano solo in history. RIP Billy Powell). Take me out to the ballgame and drape the bleachers in red, white, and blue. And celebrate who we are.
Now, re our nation's anniversary. I'm mostly positive about it, although I have mixed feelings. To begin with, I'm not into fireworks. For some reason, people have trouble understanding this. I don't like Free Bird, I've never been a big Star Wars guy and I can't walk into WalMart without getting irritable or depressed. Maybe I'm not American.
But can someone tell me what's so great about fireworks? It's people setting off dangerous stuff that's very loud. You know exactly what will happen. It scares dogs too. Yeah, I get that it's supposed to be a celebration of our independence.
Maybe that's what I dislike the most. Ask any fireworks freak about what happened in 1776 and they'll probably say, "1776? Was that when the 76ers won the NBA championship?" Some family on our block sets off firecrackers (not fireworks...no colors) at random times during the week. It's not celebratory. It's just obnoxious.
How many people really "get" what our country is all about? I don't claim to either. But I do try to focus on what I love about America. And there are many things. I love our music, our exuberance, our soul, our humor, our compassion. I love that we're the most generous nation on earth. I love that so many people choose to defend our country too, although we don't treat them the way we should.
Like a person, I love that we're not perfect and that there are many more people who, in a quiet way, try to make our country better. They're doctors, cops, firefighters, teachers, and most of all, parents. And this group far outweighs those who try to hurt us or even Americans who complain incessantly about America.
Here's another thing I love, and this was abundantly clear to me when my girlfriend and I went up to Tanglewood in the Berkshire Mountains. I saw diversity. Lots of it. A Dominican Republic family enjoying themselves while we were having a picnic by the Housatonic River. The guy with some heavy Eastern European accent delivering soft drinks to the convenience store we stopped at. The 2 Pakistani owners of the motel we stayed at. The groups of people from all over the world who attended the concert (Jackson Browne, by the way) as well as those who stopped at lovely Bash-Bish Falls at the tri-state (CT, MA, NY) border as we were heading home.
I find myself subjected to articles every day about foreigners who are anti-American, in some cases going to violent extremes. Yet, the foreigners I meet seem nothing like that. They take some getting used to, for me. There are customs, dress, accents, and personalities that don't always make sense to me. But I believe this is identical to how people reacted when my family arrived from Austria and the Ukraine 100 or so years ago. As would be true for other families, other generations, other times and places across America. I don't have to do a Vulcan mind-meld with people newly arrived. I don't even have to be best friends with them. But I'd do well to understand their struggle a bit. That they're in a new country, trying to provide for their families, and probably feeling intimidated. And if they're Islamic, having to deal with self-proclaimed patriotic Americans who feel their Christianity is under siege.
I can't think of any other country that can tell this kind of story. People settled Australia, for example, and even subjugated the native people like we did. As is true for Canada too, and much of Latin America. But none of these other countries have had immigration on the level that we do. And no one has had a record of success like we do.
This is serious stuff, I realize. And that's not what July 4th is about. It IS a day to celebrate. We can be more serious on our more pensive American holidays, like Memorial Day and Veterans Day. Even Labor Day.
So hand me a hot dog and a beer (Gluten free. No, on 2nd thought, don't give me a gluten-free beer until you can invent one that doesn't taste like cardboard). Crank up the Sousa and the Skynyrd (But not Free Bird. I'll take "They Call Me The Breeze", which features the best rock piano solo in history. RIP Billy Powell). Take me out to the ballgame and drape the bleachers in red, white, and blue. And celebrate who we are.
Monday, July 1, 2013
The Book Barn, and gonzo blogging
So, we went to the Book Barn.
If you're not lucky enough to live near the little village of Niantic, CT, you're missing something very special. The Book Barn is a series of three bookstores, but nothing like a standard Barnes & Noble. No, the main site is a string of little cabins, all containing thousands of books, broken out by category. There are also two smaller locations in a separate part of Niantic.
When you first arrive in the rather small parking lot on the main campus, you walk past the greeter, almost like you're entering an amusement park. Once past, you're greeted by flower gardens, and cats. Lots of cats. If you're allergic, you might want to factor this in. The owners love their cats. They even know where each cat (and there are about a dozen) resides. Thus, you'll see "Jake's chair", and a label written in 1st person, from Jake, asking the customers to not pet me and to basically leave me alone, because that's what I want.
But it's not the cats that you're there to see. You want to browse each cabin. We were there when it was beginning to rain. It eventually started pouring. Walking around, under an umbrella, hopping from cabin to cabin like a bee going from flower to flower, inhaling the scent of all roses, day lilies, hydrangeas, annuals, and the like. Then stepping into a cabin, shaking the umbrella dry, and inhaling the books.
It was an intoxicatingly fun day. It was here where I came across The Great Shark Hunt, a collection of essays and other outpourings from the king of gonzo journalism, Hunter S. Thompson. A man who shared a monogram with our 33rd president. And heartland roots. And absolutely nothing else that I can think of.
I love Thompson. It doesn't make much sense to me. The guy was over the top and, to steal the perfect adjective that my girlfriend used, a nihilist. He probably wasn't a warm, compassionate kind of guy. He loved guns, drugs, alcohol, and most symbols of excess. He was an incredibly troubled soul, eventually committing suicide at the age of 67.
But I love how he writes. He's the ultimate cynic. But he's an equal opportunity cynic. As far as I can tell, he had no agenda. He wasn't on the right or the left. He wrote in the present tense, a bit random, and full of primal language and ugly thoughts that we all think at times but rarely verbalize. Or write. Thompson did that and more.
Here's a brief passage about the year 1973. It was the height of the Watergate scandal, and Nixon was still in office. In looking back on the consensus opinion that 1973 was an amazing year, "This is probably true. I remember thinking that way, myself, back on those hot summer mornings when John Dean's face lit my tube day after day...incredible. Here was this crafty little ferret going down the pipe right in front of our eyes, and taking the President of the United States along with him."
Thompson was friends with various actors and rock stars. In particular, Warren Zevon, who is to rock what Thompson is to writing. Zevon is more muted, and was as much a composer as a lyricist. Thompson didn't have to write a tight lyric. He could just write unhinged, searing, and brilliant prose.
I never shared Thompson's penchant for excess. I'd be curious to know if he could write that well if he toned down his behavior. I suspect he couldn't. If Thompson got his mojo from "being" gonzo, so that he could write gonzo, that's not me either.
I wonder if there's a way to write that well and live a reasonably healthy lifestyle. Great art is often made by people who live in excess in some way. I'm past any desire for excess. These days, I'm more concerned with trying to understand centeredness, peace, and silence. With a million miles to go.
Maybe the trick is to hang around inspiring book stores. If I keep hanging around the Book Barn, who knows what I'll find.
If you're not lucky enough to live near the little village of Niantic, CT, you're missing something very special. The Book Barn is a series of three bookstores, but nothing like a standard Barnes & Noble. No, the main site is a string of little cabins, all containing thousands of books, broken out by category. There are also two smaller locations in a separate part of Niantic.
When you first arrive in the rather small parking lot on the main campus, you walk past the greeter, almost like you're entering an amusement park. Once past, you're greeted by flower gardens, and cats. Lots of cats. If you're allergic, you might want to factor this in. The owners love their cats. They even know where each cat (and there are about a dozen) resides. Thus, you'll see "Jake's chair", and a label written in 1st person, from Jake, asking the customers to not pet me and to basically leave me alone, because that's what I want.
But it's not the cats that you're there to see. You want to browse each cabin. We were there when it was beginning to rain. It eventually started pouring. Walking around, under an umbrella, hopping from cabin to cabin like a bee going from flower to flower, inhaling the scent of all roses, day lilies, hydrangeas, annuals, and the like. Then stepping into a cabin, shaking the umbrella dry, and inhaling the books.
It was an intoxicatingly fun day. It was here where I came across The Great Shark Hunt, a collection of essays and other outpourings from the king of gonzo journalism, Hunter S. Thompson. A man who shared a monogram with our 33rd president. And heartland roots. And absolutely nothing else that I can think of.
I love Thompson. It doesn't make much sense to me. The guy was over the top and, to steal the perfect adjective that my girlfriend used, a nihilist. He probably wasn't a warm, compassionate kind of guy. He loved guns, drugs, alcohol, and most symbols of excess. He was an incredibly troubled soul, eventually committing suicide at the age of 67.
But I love how he writes. He's the ultimate cynic. But he's an equal opportunity cynic. As far as I can tell, he had no agenda. He wasn't on the right or the left. He wrote in the present tense, a bit random, and full of primal language and ugly thoughts that we all think at times but rarely verbalize. Or write. Thompson did that and more.
Here's a brief passage about the year 1973. It was the height of the Watergate scandal, and Nixon was still in office. In looking back on the consensus opinion that 1973 was an amazing year, "This is probably true. I remember thinking that way, myself, back on those hot summer mornings when John Dean's face lit my tube day after day...incredible. Here was this crafty little ferret going down the pipe right in front of our eyes, and taking the President of the United States along with him."
Thompson was friends with various actors and rock stars. In particular, Warren Zevon, who is to rock what Thompson is to writing. Zevon is more muted, and was as much a composer as a lyricist. Thompson didn't have to write a tight lyric. He could just write unhinged, searing, and brilliant prose.
I never shared Thompson's penchant for excess. I'd be curious to know if he could write that well if he toned down his behavior. I suspect he couldn't. If Thompson got his mojo from "being" gonzo, so that he could write gonzo, that's not me either.
I wonder if there's a way to write that well and live a reasonably healthy lifestyle. Great art is often made by people who live in excess in some way. I'm past any desire for excess. These days, I'm more concerned with trying to understand centeredness, peace, and silence. With a million miles to go.
Maybe the trick is to hang around inspiring book stores. If I keep hanging around the Book Barn, who knows what I'll find.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)