In which I reach the end of my fucking working class tether

Something I've been wondering about/seething over for quite some time now: when politicians and the media talk about the "middle class," who exactly do they mean?

Because, frankly, I don't give a fuck about the middle class as I understand the term: households with a steady income that enables them to keep their heads above water, have at least one functioning car in the driveway, are able to shop for groceries with coupons and an eye on the sale flyer but without having to calculate a running total down to the pennies in their head, who can spend $30 or $40 or $80 on lunch or shoes or xmas decorations and not break a sweat, who pay someone $20 a week to mow their environmentally disastrous lawn.

Awww, no Steeler tickets this year -- so sad!

Basically, people who might have to give some thought to a major outlay of cash, but whose income still keeps up with their {cough cough} lifestyle. The definition of economic hardship for them, as I understand it based on the media and my experience of coworkers, supervisors, and neighbors, is visiting Olive Garden without a coupon.

Fuck them. They can afford to sweat a little. A lot. To death, really.

And fuck the politicians who keep invoking them as some kind of paragon of American values, and fuck the media for doing the same.

Can we please shift this national conversation to the working class? To the folks who may have health insurance but have to borrow the $10 copay for a doctor visit from a friend, and probably won't be able to pay it back. To the people who walk a mile in the mornings and evenings to keep their bus ride inside the zone and save .50 each way. To the women and men heralded in Barbara Ehrenreich's Nickel and Dimed?

Perhaps in decades past the line was drawn between "middle class" and "upper class." And then it was recalibrated to divide "midle class" from "upper middle class." I think there was a brief period when the term "lower middle class" was in vogue, but the members of that imagined group still had a second car and often a boat in the driveway, and shopped at Macy's rather than KMart for bath towels and toasters.

I don't begrudge those folks who are fortunate enough to have snagged a bigger paycheck any of their little luxuries or indulgences. Hey, if it reinforces your illusions of security or meaningfulness, go for it.

But is anyone other than Michael Moore and Ms. Ehrenreich talking about people who actually have to juggle the math to get all their utility bills paid? Who is addressing the needs of the family whose daycare expenses mean they can't insulate the attic, who have the family cat or dog put to sleep because they can't afford treatment for a treatable condition?

How can a news anchor or congressional representative making six figures possibly understand what $100 actually means to a household that's already buying generic dog food, not replacing a burnt out light bulb in the hallway, having to suddenly shell out cash for a broken tail light or a plumber?

The entire national debate could be shifted with the simple substitution of this one word.

It won't happen. We haven't yet been able to shift the lie of "pro-life" to the truthful "anti-choice."

When you hear these terms, middle-class, working-class, think about what they mean, about what the media wants you to think they mean. Think about who you know. And please, start demanding that your representatives and your local media accurately represent the people they are reporting about.

P.S. Has anyone noticed that the person in the group dining out who makes the least money is likely to be the biggest contributor to the tip? Think about it, please.

In which I'm surprised by my capacity to be surprised

When Catherine Hardwicke’s “The Nativity Story” was initially released my interest was mildly piqued. Keisha Castle-Hughes was the unforgettable lead in one of my very favorite movies, “The Whale Rider,” and the incomparable Shohreh Aghdashloo (I always have to check to make sure I have enough H’s in there) was cast as Elizabeth.

I never got around to seeing it. But it was on TNT tonight, and since I was pinned in place by a large and contented cat, I decided to watch. My gamble paid off in unexpected ways. Seems I'm not as hopelessly jaded as I thought -- a realization which I find quite embarassing.

The production design is gorgeous. There is a very gritty, textured feel to it, fitting the film’s focus on the human, the quotidian. This Mary, while she may soon be the mother of god, still has to sow seed in the fields and draw water from the well. She has actual conversations with her mother, and her father has a place in the community. (Give yourself a cookie if you immediately remembered that their names were Anne and Joachim. You paid attention in religion class!) We see the structure of their houses, the shape of their pottery, the details of their clothing and their tools. It really is marvelous to look at.

It is this focus on the human and the historical, rather than the mystical or mythological, that makes “The Nativity Story” worth watching. It hews to the conventional tale of the Annunciation and the Nativity in form (gauzy angel, gentle cows, a manger), but those are background details. The real narrative interest in Hardwicke’s take is in the way Mary’s acceptance of her role is shown to be a decision made by a clear-headed young woman who understands the social consequences, and who respects her parents but also expects them to listen to her. And this Joseph is a far cry from the mushy cipher we’ve long been given; here, he is compassionate, aware, pragmatic, and committed to the unconventional parenting arrangement foisted upon him. Oscar Isaac memorably embodies this noble yet very human husband and father, giving him a solidity and individuality we haven't seen before.

The script places all of the familiar events squarely in the context of the political atmosphere of the era, reminding us that these characters live in a time of difficulty and uncertainty. Even the magi are drawn as individual personalities responding to unusual events, and -- upholding one of Roger Ebert's criteria for believable drama -- not acting as though they've already seen the end of the movie.

Unfortunately the score does not serve the film well, especially in the final act when it anachronistically and jarringly deteriorates into a fitting background for a Hallmark TV special. But that is a minimal complaint when stacked up against the film's success in turning a time-worn tale into a fine character study and engrossing historical drama.

Also, the donkey gives an excellent performance, and is adorable as heck.

In which I finally take my own advice and leave an abusive relationship

When my parents took me home from the hospital a few days after I was born, it was into a household that was Catholic, union, and Democratic, not necessarily in that order.

On election days, when the curtain of the booth zoomed shut, my mom would, without hesitation, flip one lever -- the straight ticket lever -- then lift me up so I could push the red button. My dad did the same. Children of the Depression, of steel workers and coal miners, they knew who had made their lives better. Politics were never discussed in our house; there was simply a seamless harmony between the values of faith, fair play, and political positions that my parents held, and I absorbed at least the latter two with no qualms. When I reached voting age, having been taught the value of critical thinking, I gave my choice of party some consideration. About three seconds' worth. Just as I knew I belonged alongside my folks on the picket line, and with the Vincentian Sisters in prioritizing social justice, I knew I was a Democrat.

(I did vote Republican once, in 1982, for Senator John Heinz. His positions at that time would today make him a moderate-to-liberal Democrat.)

Barbara Jordan. Ted Kennedy. Pat Schroeder. Dick Gephardt. Ann Richards. Jerry Brown. Those were some of the people who, to me, embodied what that D following their names meant. I felt honored and humbled to be, however distantly, in their company.

I wept with relief and emotion when Bill Clinton made his first inaugural address. The sense of hope, of inclusion, was overwhelming. And devastatingly short-lived.

At first the chipping away was gradual, then increasingly brutal. NAFTA. DOMA. DADT. And of course the first "health care reform" debacle.

Somewhere in the party lurks the first invertebrate, jelly-like mass passing for human who first allowed the issue to be called "health care reform" and thus be willfully misunderstood, misrepresented, vilified, confused, and finally defeated, instead of properly designating it "health insurance reform." Oh, how I would love to get my hands around the neck of that asshole.

There's no need for me to recount here the list of failures, shortfalls, and outright crimes that have been committed -- or allowed to be committed through their negligence -- by "centrist," "moderate," and Blue Dog Dems.

My own Representative, Mike Doyle, ostensibly a Democrat, lives at the infamous C Street House and is involved with the Family cult -- the same Family who have orchestrated the pending legislation mandating the death penalty for homosexuals in Uganda.

I can no longer be a member of the Democratic party. They've smacked me around for the last time. I'm not sure where I'll go, but I have to leave.

Barbara Boxer, Al Franken, Sherrod Brown, Alan Grayson, Dennis Kucinich, John Conyers, Maxine Waters, Jay Rockefeller, Tammy Baldwin, Barbara Lee, Jared Polis, and more -- there are still many champions among the Democrats, and I'm grateful for them all. In my dream they would form a breakaway party, called something like the Progressive or American Labor or True Democratic party, that would be a magnet for all of us who are tired of playing nice and kissing ass and are ready to start making change happen. Won't happen, but I can dream.

This is a painful choice. I'm sure I will be tempted to temporarily change my registration back to D every 4 years for the presidential primaries, and if I do, I won't feel bad about working the system. I mean, even though I've left the Catholic church I'm still allowed to appreciate the Pieta or listen to Vivaldi.

So tonight I will sign the divorce papers and mail them in. Listen, Democratic party, if you ever manage to get some therapy, get your shit together, and start doing some good things for people who need them, we can get together for lunch and talk. Just don't ask me for money.

In which the Pope attempts to manipulate time itself

Any moment now, I'll wake up, right? Surely I'm dreaming this. Or feverish and hallucinating. Or I've fallen right through the looking glass with Alice.

Because, exhibiting either true Wonderland logic or the onset of dementia, Pope Joey the Rat has decreed that midnight will now occur at ten p.m.

The outright capriciousness of it beggars the imagination. Not to mention the arrogance. Criminy, couldn't the old man just have an extra postprandial espresso? Or take a bleedin' afternoon nap?

I know, I know -- that would get his nice dress all wrinkled.

Coming next season on V...

And what about all the poor animals? Now what time are they supposed to talk? And how will they know? No, nothing good can come of this, not at all.

In other news, it was announced that there will be no more distribution of ashes on what will hence be formerly known as Ash Wednesday, as the Vatican recently had a gas furnace installed.

In which a new law is formulated

After watching Jennifer Saunders's series The Life and Times of Vivienne Vyle, my friend proposed Dacko's Corollary to Poe's Law*: Without a winking smiley or other blatant display of humour, it is impossible to create a parody of television talk shows that most people won't mistake for the real thing.

*Without a winking smiley or other blatant display of humour, it is impossible to create a parody of fundamentalism that someone won't mistake for the real thing.

In which I see dumb people

Some idiot's idea of clothing

There are approximately fifty-three things wrong with this article, from concept to execution, including the one dude's apparently having learned his approach to modeling from the 1974 J.C. Penney catalog. I couldn't do a better job of pointing most of them out than Virginia Montanez in her brilliant take on it.

It is purely spit-worthily hilarious, in the first place, that this was even in the Post-Gazette at all. We yinzers may be only slightly more fashion-forward than Cincinnati or Indianapolis, but please. Please. Really, please.

Why am I so certain that Ayn Rand would've loved this outfit?

I do love laughing at the rich. And the rich had better be grateful when they hear us laughing at them. Because when we stop laughing at them, it will only be because our mouths are full of them.

In which he does it again

A few days ago I gave my boss a hand when she had flat. I carry an air compressor in my car (would it surprise anyone to learn that both of my parents were scout leaders?) and it was no skin off my nose to grab it and fill the tire for her. After all, I am trying to reverse a massive karma deficit here, so I cannot afford to pass up even the smallest opportunity to pick up a point or two.

I hadn't talked to Dad in a few days so yesterday I stopped in at the VFW for a beer and to see how his appointment with the retina specialist went. We got on the subject of his truck inspection being due, and I mentioned the earlier tire incident.

A scrawny arm reached back. Out came the wallet. The bony fingers poked around inside it for a moment (during which I listened very carefully -- but unsuccessfully -- for any mumbled incantation or spell that I'd somehow been missing for all these years), then emerged clutching a slick tri-fold full-color pamphlet put out by some tire company, titled Inspect, Inflate, Evaluate.

Not quite as impressive as the milk board incident, but pretty damn good nevertheless. I held back the urge to applaud.

"Here, give her this," he said, tossing it onto the bar. "But make a copy; I want that back."

Why, I have no idea, since he's been driving around with one of his front tires at about 14 psi for as long as I can remember. He's not big on practicing what he preaches. "Do as I say, not as I do," was possibly the most frequently uttered phrase I heard from him while growing up. But that's for another story.

In which I briefly explain an old beef

Joann has always been exceptionally generous in treating me to a show on just about my every visit to NYC. This has included great one-woman shows by Ellen DeGeneres and Bebe Neuwirth; Kate Burton and Michael Emerson in Hedda Gabler; and Julianna Margulies off-Broadway, sitting close enough to bask in the impossible luminosity of her skin. Pretty damn nice.

I truly have no right to complain.

But...

A few years ago, my visit coincided with Dame Helen Mirren and Sir Ian McKellen appearing in their acclaimed run of Strindberg's Dance of Death. As the date of my trip approached, for some reason Joann was seized with an impulse to inform me that she'd wanted to get us tickets for this production, and in fact had had the chance.

But she didn't. Because the only seats available were behind a pole.

This is rather like your friend having the chance to procure seats for the Sermon on the Mount but telling you she didn't think you'd be comfortable sitting on a rock out in the sun all afternoon.

She thought I wouldn't want the chance-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be in the same room, to breathe the same air, as Helen Mirren and Ian McKellen, because I would've had to sit behind a pole.

Not a column, not a wall, not a cruise ship. A piddly little pole.

Please. I've had worse seats in church.

Somehow it never occurred to Joann that I could, you know, lean. And not mind it a damn bit.

Or even that I could be quite content merely to hear the two deities doing their thing a mere matter of meters away, in real time.

I could snipe about jaded New Yorkers here. After all, this is a woman who has breathed the same cigarette smoke as Catherine Deneuve. Who let Isabella Rossellini walk past her on the sidewalk without accosting her to tell her that her friend in Pittsburgh would jump in front of a train for her. But I won't. I wasn't raised there; I can't claim to grasp that part of the culture.

So call me a bumpkin, a hick, a rube. But please consider this: if you're concerned that your companion won't appreciate those Stanley Cup tickets because they're in a corner behind the glass, or that they'll scoff at your offer to treat them to opening night at La Scala because they won't want to sit in the gods, get over it. Believe me, we'll be grateful. Thrilled, in fact. Even with a pole.

In which my dad makes an appearance

Since I've been having a pretty hard time with my father of late -- not the worst time I've ever had with him by a long shot, but a challenging stretch nonetheless -- it occurred to me that this would be a good time to focus on some good things about him and our relationship, since there are quite a few.

There's no particular chronology here, and I'll get around to providing background as needed. For a start, my dad's 80. His employment history is as follows: age 12, pin boy at the bowling alley; age 16, started in the steel mill; Korean War, volunteered for combat but spent the war at Fort Dix in the Signal Corps; postwar, left the mills for the phone company at half the pay; went from lineman to installer to switchman, met my mom in the process, and thirty years later still had a job while all the mills were shutting down. He has lived in exactly two houses: the one in Duquesne that he grew up in, and the one he moved into when he married at age 34. He can best be described as a David Cronenberg-esque genetic mashup between Fred Rogers and Don Knotts, about a 30%/70% ratio. Fortunately for me, I got my mother's eyes; otherwise I'd be doomed.

I've spent a lot of time on a barstool next to him at the VFW (Hilltopper Post 8430, with a phone number I've had memorized since I was ten). From the day I was old enough to sit at the bar, we were partners in crime, tormenting George the bartender, who made Coach from Cheers look like Bertrand Fucking Russell. My dad's favorite technique was flummoxing him with half dollars and $2 bills, while I preferred bringing the TV remote from home and surreptitiously changing the channels on the bar TV. He never caught on.

My most special memories of the VFW, though, aren't of the super-cheap drinks, the Jukebox of Misery, the Tijuana Mama pickled sausages, the mesmerizing displays of military insignia patches, or even of harassing George. The best memories are of my dad's supernatural wallet.

Stupendously fat wallets aren't uncommon. Witness George Costanza's, thick enough - thanks to his sugar packets and receipts for everything he's ever bought - to throw his spine out of whack. The world is full of old men carting around billfolds that haven't been cleaned out since the Eisenhower administration, full of expired membership cards and school photos of grandchildren.

But I promise you, my father's is in a class by itself.

To begin with, it is a testament to the absolute indestructibility of kangaroo leather. It is the only wallet I've ever known him to have, and shows no sign of giving out anytime soon. Contributing to this somewhat may be the fact that, as my father has no ass whatsoever, the wallet when in his back pocket sort of floats in space, suspended by the cloth but not wearing against any surface. This absence of abrasion has surely contributed to its lifespan.

A large part of the sheer mass of stuff he keeps in there is of an arguably practical nature. Since he belongs to about seventy-three different lodges, veterans' groups, and fraternal organizations, and since each issues both a membership card and a key card, that accounts for many ounces of wallet-weight. Then there are the usual stuff that any normal person carries: AAA, owner's card, health insurance cards, PBS and NPR station donor discount cards, appointment cards from a cadre of doctors, lottery tickets....okay, now we're approaching the periphery of the normal range. A few Sunday donation envelopes for the church he hasn't set foot in for over thirty years. A spare house key that fit the lock two doorknob changes ago. Hmm.

That would make for a slightly chubby wallet, but my dad's doesn't stop there or anywhere near there. VFW drink chips are crammed in there, lists of prescriptions, the phone numbers of everyone he knows on individual slips of paper. He has an emery board folded in half in there. This is a wallet one of the Collyer brothers would have had. Have you ever heard the old joke about the guy with a wallet made from an elephant's foreskin? Punchline: rub it and it turns into a suitcase. You're getting the picture.

Dad's wallet defies the laws of time and space as we know them. H.P. Lovecraft would have envied his wallet. I exaggerate not a whit when I tell you that it contains an extensive reference library, right there in his pants pocket.

In 1989, when Ford was in talks to purchase Jaguar, Dad and I were at the bar, tormenting George, and the network news was on. When Dan Rather or whoever the hell it was started talking about the proposed deal, and a few of the geezers started murmuring about it, my dad said, "Yeah, there was something in the paper this morning..." and reached for the wallet and extracted a newspaper article about that very deal. Hand to god. Wait, it gets better. In 2000, when Ford bought Land Rover -- exact same thing.

Better example, with psychic overtones: No television this time, just a couple of the old farts jawing about how in the motherfucking fuck does the state milk board set the milk prices anyway. (How or why this topic arose is something that hurts my brain too much to consider.) By this time I should have been used to this, but no, my jaw still hit the bar when my dad announced that he had "something about that right here," and from the Twilight Zone of his wallet produced a clipping about the milk board.

Remember on Let's Make A Deal, how Monty Hall used to go into the audience and issue challenges like "$50 to anybody with a fountain pen!" My dad would have been so on top of that. "$500 for anyone who's got an egg!" I am completely confident that my dad could have promptly stuck his spindly fingers into the creases of his wallet and pulled out an egg, be it raw, hard-boiled, poached, or ostrich.

I prefer to keep my own wallet as trim as possible, although all of my pockets are usually full up with stuff (see post above). But whenever I see Dad's multidimensional wallet I can't help but admire it, even as I shudder at the thought of shlepping it around.

In which I consider the poem in my pocket

I've always been one of those fellows who needs pockets. Lots of them, and roomy. Cargo pants were invented with me in mind. The carpenter jeans fad of the 70s turned out to be prescient, as the ruler pocket is now ideal for one's mobile phone.

I was that boy whose pockets were always bulging with interesting stones and a key to my grandpap's attic and a cool-looking bottlecap I found there, acorns and an old square iron nail from my cousin's farm and my lucky arrowhead and...all my treasures nestled securely as I toted them around. When something held meaning for me, or merely pleased me by the way it looked or felt, it would take on a talismanic aura, and I would always want it with me. It was comforting and helped me feel connected to the places or people or experiences I associated with these objects. Keeping my little items safe made me feel both protected and capable of protecting something dear.

Now the morning or evening ritual of filling or emptying my pockets involves many items of a far more practical nature rather than a whimsical one. There are still echoes of the little boy's wondering senses in the way I pause to enjoy the heft and texture of my pocket knife*, still the tinge of mystical fascination while I choose a favorite coin** to carry as a worry stone. The pen and mechanical pencil I slip into my shirt pocket are ones that the 8-year-old me would have selected if he'd had a larger allowance, and I enjoy the tactile pleasure of a wallet made of mellow baseball-glove leather***.

But the keys I now carry no longer open the treasure room-cum-museum of Grandpap Cooney's attic, the musty playland where, undisturbed, I could don an itchy Eisenhower jacket and look for titties in the National Geographic. The keys I used today are for keeping people out as much as letting them in, for making things go rather than allowing time to stop. And where before a penny in my pocket was to me a richly textured disc of copper bearing intriguing symbols that hinted at great leaders and vast empires and bold ideas, today what my wallet holds are tokens of obligation, responsibility, conformity. It is stuffed with tatty, ugly, germ- and drug-laden small bills for which I slowly trade my soul and with which I can barely sustain my body. The driver's license that functions as my identification confers not one bit of truth about my identity. And the AAA card tucked in there states that I belong to that organization, but I don't feel any sense of belonging, and touching the plastic card that confers this belonging upon me doesn't make me feel anything at all. It isn't an artifact of me.

I could touch that square nail in my pocket and feel that I belonged somewhere, came from somewhere. Touching it, I could smell the cows' warm exhalations, hear my Aunt Peg talking in Slovak to her pet chicken Veronica as they sat side by side on the sofa watching Walter Cronkite, feel the venom of the wasp that stung my ear beside the pond. Rolling that 200-year-old piece of iron that I'd scavenged from the delapidated carriage house between my fingers, I could hear the echo of the rifle from the woods the afternoon my cousin shot my favorite dog, Lonesome, for killing chickens, even though I tried to tell him that Lonesome had been with me all day and that it was his wealthy wife's horrid, pampered, bug-eyed Boston Terrier that had run down the hill past us with feathers and blood all over its face.

Science tells us that the olfactory sense is the one that calls up our most deeply-buried and evocative memories. Many has been the time, walking past the circulation desk in the library, that I've been seized by a sudden and inexplicable flashback to the heavenly warm aroma of Mrs Engel's fluffy golden egg buns filling the cafeteria of St Robert Bellarmine Elementary. And I can tell you with absolute certainty that the inside of my mother's purse smelled like pennies, gumbands, and Dentyne gum, with a subtle undertone of tobacco and the pre-moistened towelettes that Kentucky Fried Chicken used to provide. So I have no argument with that assertion.

My most powerful sensations, though, are visual and tactile. The world enters me through my eyes and my skin far ahead of the other organs. Sight and touch are how we experience solid objects, and solid objects are the things that both contain and retrieve my memories.

What would happen if I lost one of those things? Those things that bear my memories?

I have. I've lost so many things - in moving house, in chaotic breakups, in the depths of a lake when the canoe tipped, in the mail, in my girlfriend's dog****, in a box of stuff dropped off at Goodwill - things that I had prized and protected. I remember them all, like the beautifully crafted leather pouch that I'd bartered for in exchange for some licorice root***** at a music festival on the first long trip I ever took by myself. That's long gone. Or the small woodcut print of a woman's face that Ginny Acklin gave me after I tried to kiss her but she turned me down. I hope someone somewhere has found it and wondered about it and hung it on their wall. My dysfunctional horses Rosebud and Spirit, the former a perpetually pissed-off equine Jeep, the latter a singularly gorgeous leopard Appaloosa who was too terrified to venture more than 100 yards from the barn (he came around eventually, after lots of unconditional patience and a lot of my walking home through the woods without my shoes). I lost my horses and my brilliant three-legged dog and I tried to die.

And I lost my mother.

And I lost the little boy with the pockets full of treasure.

And I may lose a woman I was born to love.

Loss terrifies me to the marrow of my bones. The nucleus of every cell shrivels and hides at the merest hint of it. It is unbearable. Unbearable, and inescapable. I've fought against it since forever, to utter exhaustion, even though no one has ever won that battle or ever will.

One day Elizabeth Bishop saved me. She confronted me, poked me in the chest, asked me, What if it didn't have to be a battle? Can the meaning, the truth, of the lost thing itself be replaced by the meaning and truth of the memory of the thing?

It seemed worth a try. Now I carry this poem in my indestructible wallet, in my snug pocket, along with my other talismans and dully useful objects. I would hate to lose my knife, or my keys, or my cash. I'm certain I couldn't bear losing my beloved. But I know I'll never lose this perfect poem, because at long last I am beginning to understand it and perhaps, someday, I'll learn how to live it.

*Schatt & Morgan Series XVIII bare-end English jack
**presently the marvelously hefty 1985 $100 Mexican peso with Venustiano Carranza obverse
***J. Peterman. No, really.
****18th century family heirloom nativity set
*****Glycyrrhiza glabra
_______

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

- Elizabeth Bishop

In which I do not have one of those days

No, this day has been absolutely singular thus far, and it's barely past lunchtime.

So far I have:

- reconnected with two different people from my ancient past, and been thoroughly tossed around by the consequent whirlwind of emotion and memory.

- inadvertantly insulted the pharmacist, then only apologized myself into an even deeper and stupider hole, and now I'm afraid he's going to spike my next refill.

- had a meltdown in the soup aisle. They really should not be allowed to play Carmen McRae in the supermarket. I hate crying while I shop. It smears my list and gets the coupons all wet.

- proposed an elopement, only partly in jest, to the woman who bagged my groceries perfectly. What's that? Do I have control issues around my groceries and their arrangement in the bag? Whatever would make you think such a thing?

- was relieved when she rejected my offer, because I'm already the international poster boy for Poor Verbal Impulse Control and don't need any more regrets in that department, thanks very much.

- and besides, really, I did most of the work for her. I always arrange everything on the belt in the order it should be packed. Cold & frozen together, fragile stuff at the end, all that. So unless she's really into Stargate Universe or Japanese bondage or Turkmen cuisine, and doesn't have any extra toes, it was probably a doomed relationship from the start.

- flipped off and hollered at the woman-hating pro-forced-childbirth protesters at the corner of 30 & 148 on my way home.

- realized that the woman I was yelling at was my Confirmation* sponsor 30 years ago, Mrs B. What's really interesting about this is, she was the RN who cared for my mother at home as she was dying, and -- well, there's no point being delicate about this -- when it was time, she pushed her enough morphine to ease her out of her pain and out of this world.

- felt terrible, because that one good deed way more than balances out her miniscule contribution to the anti-choice asshattery, and I'll flatten anyone who says it doesn't. In this case, compassion trumps hypocrisy.

- and to be fair, she was holding the least offensive sign out of the group: "Adoption is the Loving Choice." Change that the to an a and you'll get no argument from me there.

- learned why it's not a good idea to hold a 2-liter bottle of coke between your knees while you attempt to slam the tailgate shut with your arms full.

- as a direct result of the item immediately above, eneded up with a raggedy splinter in my palm, and a rock salt rash on my elbow.

And that's just the first half of the day. Where it may go from there, I dare not consider.

*It's Stephen, in case you care. And I know I can't be the only person who wishes in retrospect that he'd hit the bishop back.

In which I set Emily Dickinson spinning in her grave

In light of the recent CMU study suggesting that hope is mentally unhealthy, I hereby offer a rebuttal to Emily Dickinson.
___________________________________

Hope is the thing that slithers
And creeps throughout the brain,
And whispers things we long to hear --
To fool us yet again,

And tempting are the words it speaks;
And weakness it can find,
The better to entice us with
And play tricks on the mind.

It keeps that closure out of reach
Which would cold heartbreak salve;
It taunts us with enduring want
For what we ne'er may have.

In which the calendar page turns over, thanks be

Less than two hours to go until I can finally kiss this shitstorm otherwise known as the Worst. October. EVAR. goodbye.

I’ve always dreamed of October, yearned for October, counted the months, then weeks, then days. October has been the month I wish would never end, possessing the mood, the weather, the colors and light, the soul, for lack of a better word, that I wish persisted for nine or ten months out of the year. How satisfied I would be to live on Planet October.

And if you had ever said to me that there would be an October that I’d find anything other than inspiring, healing, energizing, beautiful, evocative, head-clearing, comforting, enriching, and otherwise perfect, I’d have laughed in your face. Well, now I know better. Not only has this past month not been any of those things, it’s been complete rot from one end to the other, an unceasing thirty-one day karmic boot up the ass. My head is impenetrably fogged-in, my heart might as well be made of lead, senses duller than ditchwater, body wrecked, sleepless, no appetite, edgy as hell, and scared half to death - that’s how I’ve spent the month.

All through no one’s fault but mine.

Begone, October. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love you again. I hope so, but you might be fated to henceforth be the month of regret and bitter memory, to be only dreaded and gotten through with gritted teeth and hunched shoulders and tears.

___________________________

Wait a sec, Isabella Rossellini’s on Graham Norton, and as usual looks like she’s having the most fun of anyone in the room. Maybe October is attempting to redeem itself at the very last minute.

Still, I can’t bring myself to think of what November has in store. Truly.

In which -- oh, hell, I have no idea what this was

So this afternoon I'm sitting at the bar of the VFW I grew up in (I exaggerate only slightly, but that's a story for another time), having a beer with my dad and pretending to listen to whatever it was he was saying about "something something movie in color something made in black-and-white something something something Steve McQueen something Blob something wrong." His bottom dentures were a little loose, plus he mumbles, so that's all I got.

But also I was distracted by a bit of crosstalk between the bartender, Dana, and a couple of bozos in the corner. All I heard was the tail end of something Dana was saying, eight words that made my damn day:

"...was like Brigitte Nielsen crossed with Leslie Nielsen."

Context? Who the hell needs context for a mind-bendingly awesome juxtaposition like that? It doesn't matter if she was talking about a mother-in-law, a mentally challenged Great Dane, a righteous drag queen, or something she hallucinated while having painful dental work done. Provided the mental image it conjures doesn't make you flee blindly into traffic, you've gotta hand it to her, that is one impressive piece of description.

Head, Heart by Lydia Davis

Head, Heart

Heart weeps.
Head tries to help heart.
Head tells heart how it is, again:
You will lose the ones you love. They will all go. But even the earth will go, someday.
Heart feels better, then.
But the words of head do not remain long in the ears of heart.
Heart is so new to this.
I want them back, says heart.
Head is all heart has.
Help, head. Help heart.

- Lydia Davis

(from Varieties of Disturbance)

In which I am sure to irritate many people I love

But they can also bite me.

Memo to grammar cops: Back off!

The usually estimable Laura Miller is far too kind. This Jack Lynch can bite me. So can Laura Miller. I'm embarrassed on behalf of my Lynch relatives. If I was related to any Millers I'd be embarrassed for them too.

Yes, standards can evolve, but they are not to be capriciously discarded.

I admit that I may be overly sensitive after seeing "Amelia" this afternoon. The film has been criticized for its reliance on voice-over narrative, but the words are Earhart's, and function in the film not only to add emotional color but, much to Hilary Swank's and director Mira Nair's credit, to demonstrate what a deft and delightful prose stylist she was, and what a writer and thinker we lost along with the adventurer, feminist, and pioneer.

A friend of mine frequently said, in defense of unorthodox and trendy constructions, "Language is a tool." Of course, but our most relied-upon tools -- hammers, knives, shovels -- have changed very little over the years, and what changes there have been brought about much-welcomed improvements in design, durability, and efficiency. Change in the service of nothing but change, though, is sloppy and unreliable. The introduction of nouns like "blowback" is inevitable and often useful, but lapses like "rate of speed," "point in time," and "impacted" are merely lazy and indefensible. English is erratic enough without such challenges and offenses.

Old-fashioned? A crank? On this topic yes, I am, and proud of it. I prefer to think of myself as a traditionalist, not in the sense of excluding innovation, but in the sense that there are traditions that deserve to be preserved.

In which I discover some odd birthday buddies

Home sick, watching the 1980 remake of The Diary of Anne Frank with Melissa Gilbert.

Melissa Gilbert and I share a birthday. Here are some of our other May 8-ists:

Harry Truman
Bishop Fulton J. Sheen
Edmund Wilson
Friedrich Hayek
Roberto Rossellini
Saul Bass
Tom of Finland
David Attenborough
Don Rickles
Gary Snyder
Phyllida Law
Sonny Liston
Thomas Pynchon
Peter Benchley
Ricky Nelson
Toni Tennille
Gary Glitter
Keith Jarrett
Felicity Lott
Chris Frantz
Bill Cowher
Janet McTeer

In which I make a bit of a commitment

Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

- Stevie Smith

tattoo by Nicole @ Puncture Tattoo Studio, Brooklyn NY Oct 16 2009

click pics to embiggen

In which the logistics of egg-borne good luck come into question

Friday morning, Joann is making her marvelous fluffy, cloud-like scrambled eggs. Lo, she cracks an egg that turns out to have two yolks. "Great," I say, "that portends good luck for you!"

A few seconds later she makes a sound. "What?" I ask.

"Another one."

"Another double yolk?!"

"Yeah."

Hmm. My wheels begin to turn. Does this mean Jo gets double the good luck? Or since half of the eggs are meant for me, should I get half (that is, one double-yolk egg's worth) of the luck?

Or, perhaps (best case scenario) it works like rolling doubles in backgammon. That would mean quadruple the initial quantity of luck, which I believe in any reasonable ethical system would be considered excessive and therefore it would be only right and good to distribute the 4x luck evenly between everyone in the immediate vicinity; i.e., Jo and me getting 2x the luck each. Even though I didn't actually handle the eggs until it was time to eat them.

But I did make the coffee. That should count for something, right?

In which it rains a lot and I drive a lot

The steady rain made the drive more tiring than usual. If it wasn't for some great tunes I would've ground my molars down to stumps before even getting to Breezewood. But on the up side, I did find a prime parking spot once I got here. Wonderful to see Piccolina again and Rocco for the first time. Oh, yeah, and Joann. We picked up right where we left off, as always. And I will be agog all weekend and beyond at the tremendous job she's done with the new apartment. It's absolutely beautiful and makes me feel very comfortable and nostalgic.

A bit disappointed, though, that because of the rotten weather I wasn't able to get a picture of my very favorite roadside attraction. On the PA turnpike somewhere between the two tunnels and one of the single tunnels, there's a large red barn with obviously hand-painted lettering on the one end. It says

WORLD OF PIGEON

I've been intrigued by this for years. Was there meant to be an S but it just turned into a classic case of fail, like we've all had when we're sure we can fit all the letters in, no need to measure, measuring's for sissies! only to be proven very, very wrong?

Or -- and I like to think this is the real story -- perhaps the fellow with the barn does have only one pigeon, and that one special pigeon is his whole world. Wouldn't that be a fortunate pigeon? And mustn't it be one hell of a pigeon, to inspire such devotion that someone would climb up on a barn and declare it for all travelers to see? Yep, quite a pigeon.

In which Hitch speaks for himself

Hitchcock interviewed by Tom Snyder, 1973. Newly recovered video.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6

In which I describe my somewhat underhanded method for getting your stuff moved

There's no need to describe here the irritation, dismay, and frustration of waking up on moving day and slowly realizing that all the friends who'd said "Sure, I'll help! What time?" simply aren't going to show. We all know the feeling. It's certainly got to rank among the top five grievances aired at Festivus gatherings around the world each year.

Now, to be sure, these pledges to lend a hand, and a back, to the task are frequently made in ill-considered haste, perhaps only out of a neurotic fear of appearing lazy or selfish, perhaps out of peer pressure, or unwillingness to disappoint. Those people need to take it up with their therapists.

And often that eagerly blurted agreement to help out is made with the best of intentions, only to be countermanded by genuine unplanned circumstances that place further up in the vaguely-defined hierarchy of social obligation. Things like appendicitis or indictment or a sudden opportunity for crazy monkey sex.

But we all know that by far the most common reason for the lack of people power on moving day is simply the classic flake-out. Your friends wake up and peer through the blinds and find that it's drizzling, or it's windy. Maybe they're hung over. Maybe they're experiencing acute existential paralysis and will barely manage to negotiate a day of eating Count Chocula and watching Green Acres reruns in their pajamas. Or they just forgot, the way they do.

There is a work-around for this problem, and while it requires a small investment of time, the payoff is well worth it. The key is to understand that, given the reasons that your friends are your friends, the qualities that brought you together in the first place, it should be obvious that they're not the sort of people you should be depending on for something like moving furniture. Backing up an alibi, creating a distraction, posting bail, donating a kidney -- they can be counted on, rock-solid, for important things like that. So just let them do what they do best and don't trouble them with trivialities.

Instead, you want some new pals, purpose-built for the job at hand.

And so about six or so weeks before your scheduled move, you should start attending AA meetings.

Don't worry, there's no need to abandon the cause of and solution to all of life's problems. Briefly considering it is close enough to the spirit of the thing, in my view. Just find a meeting at a time and place convenient to you, and start showing up. You don't have to share, just politely pass. Pretend to be shy, withdrawn, perhaps a bit disturbed. Do word search puzzles with a twitchy eye, or needlepoint while muttering the periodic table under your breath. But keep it low key, and when the inevitable swarm of people approach afterwards to introduce themselves and welcome you, stow the disturbiness and gratefully accept their proffered phone numbers. Nod humbly and try to suppress that predatory grin when, one after another, they say, "If you need anything, call me."

Oh, you will, and you will.

After all, it says Service right there in their logo, right?

So give it a few weeks, tune out as much as you need to, be cordial. You may even meet someone you enjoy talking with -- just try to remember not to invite them out for a beer. Cultivate an air of mild dysthemia, maybe with a touch of OCD , but avoid appearing needy. In fact, you want precisely to project the appearance of a needy person who is determined not to seem needy. It's easier than you think.

Finally, as your moving day approaches, mention it, and ask, as if it pained you more than tongue-kissing a light socket, if anyone might possibly be able to help out just for a little while, and how you don't have all that much stuff, and you'll make coffee. Try not to smirk when it occurs to you that you won't have to supply the traditional case of beer. A pizza might be nice, though, if it's past lunchtime.

Then prepare to be amazed, because damn! these people show up. In droves! Cheerfully.

And often they even bring their own coffee! And sometimes, donuts!

Not only that, for some reason they're really quick to organize into tiny task forces (Fish tank gang! Weight bench bunch!), and form bucket brigades as if driven by a hive mind. It's quite a thing to behold. And before you're even through with your first donut, all your stuff is neatly stowed in the U-Haul and you're ready to go. Upon arrival at your new place, your caffeine-infused new pals will have all your boxes toted and stacked in the appropriate rooms in no time, and any challenges posed by awkwardly-shaped furniture and/or peculiar hallway angles or doorway configurations will be cleverly solved.

Now, you ask, once your belongings are safely transported, the truck's been returned, and all your coffee-swilling minions have been plied with vast amounts of pizza and/or donuts, what to do with them? Clearly you are to thank them profusely, perhaps while wiping away an imagined tear. Make sure all the pizza and donuts are taken away with them. Wave wildly as they depart, shouting more cliches of gratitude, until they're out of sight and earshot.

Take a deep breath. Let it out. Go pour yourself a shot of Bushmill's from the bottle you stashed in the box of National Geographics. Congratulations! You've been moved!

But, I hear you asking, what about your former new teetotalling, furniture-hauling buddies? Not to worry. You're not likely to see them out on your rounds of nightspots, dives, beer gardens, and lounges, and if you do, well, a knowing wink and a nod will suffice. Should you run into one of them in a neutral setting, like a supermarket or therapist's waiting room, and they ask why they haven't seen you at a meeting lately, either assume a benign gaze and explain that you're attending meetings closer to your new digs, or shrug and say you've hopped off the wagon, probably for good, but you sure enjoyed the coffee and donuts.

In which Peter Bogdanovich recounts Alfred Hitchcock's elevator story

My own favorite memory of Hitchcock comes from an incident at the St. Regis Hotel in New York in 1964. After some frozen daiquiris had left me a bit tipsy and Hitch quite red-faced and cheerful, we got on the elevator at the 25th floor and rode in silence to the 19th, where, when three people dressed for the evening entered, he suddenly turned to me and said, ''Well, it was quite shocking, I must say, there was blood everywhere!'' I was confused, thinking that because of the daiquiris I'd missed something, but he just went right on: ''There was a stream of blood coming from his ear and another from his mouth.'' Of course, everyone in the elevator had recognized him but no one looked over. Two more people from the 19th floor entered as he continued: ''Of course, there was a huge pool of blood on the floor and his clothes were splattered with it. Oh! It was a horrible mess. Well, you can imagine...'' It felt as if no one in the elevator, including me, was breathing. He now glanced at me, I nodded dumbly, and he resumed: ''Blood all around! Well, I looked at the poor fellow and I said, 'Good God, man, what's happened to you?'' And then, just as the elevator doors opened onto the lobby, Hitchcock said, ''And do you know what he told me?'' and paused. With reluctance, the passengers now all moved out of the elevator and looked anxiously at the director as we passed them in silence. After a few foggy moments, I asked, ''So what did he say?'' And Hitch smiled beatifically and answered, ''Oh, nothing -- that's just my elevator story.''

In which I fantasize about a work-related emergency, in an old-timey radio drama format

"Oh sweet mother of god! Edmond Hoyle's name is misspelled in the subject heading of this bib record! Whatever shall we do?"

"Quick, call the Authority Control Specialist!"

"But, but, it's 8 pm, and Olbermann's on. Have you no heart, sir?"

"There's no room for heart when the accessibility of a record in the OPAC is at stake, dammit. Call him in!"

[whispers] "It's after 5:00, and you know he -- " [makes a tippling sound]

"Hell, at a time like this, if I have to choose between a beswizzled, delusional, eczemic authority control specialist with rage issues, a broken heart, and nothing to lose, or some teetotaling copy cataloger wearing a holiday-themed sweater, it's no contest. Call him a cab and get him in here on the double!"

The part of the tech services department head was played by Ed Asner.
The other part was played by someone else. Let's just say, oh, the actress who played Mimi on the Drew Carey Show.
The part of me would be played by Lawrence Tierney, because I'm that awesome.

In which Diamanda Galas rends my soul in twain and makes me beg for more

Over the decades I've been privileged to be an up-close witness to all manner of transformational rituals: shamanism, vodou and candomble ceremonies, the Catholic Mass, powerful S/M exchanges, trances, more. Each at its core is a means to gather and distribute energy, to summon it from its source, manipulate it or be manipulated by it. To shape it in ways that can breach constraints of consciousness and transcend physical bounds.

The priest, the two-spirit, the witch, the submissive, offer themselves as the conduit for the raw power of the cosmos, thereby making it available for the members of their tribe to touch and partake of it, for healing, guidance, celebration, renewal, catharsis. Their body becomes the portal that allows us ingress to the secret places.

Diamanda Galas last night was such an instrument. Embracing her ancestral links to the ancient mystery cults, and her quite possibly literal descent from the Erinyes, she glided onstage, opened her mouth and with it her soul and wrought transformation.

It sometimes happens when watching a performance that I experience a type of tunnel vision. Everything but the artist and the small space immediately around them fades into an indistinct murk, my peripheral vision stops working. It's like watching through a cardboard tube. Then a shimmering corona or halo appears around them. Often I will also experience a vaquely weightless sensation, as though every neural impulse is so tightly trained on the artist that things like feeling myself in physical space become superfluous.

Experiencing Galas was something altogether different. The hyperfocus was heightened, like looking through the wrong end of a telescope, and the aura effect was almost kaleidoscopic. That much was at least familiar. But elsewise it was completely wracking. Despite the volume, my ears were doing very little of the work. Rather, it was my sternum and my tailbone, my every last humming, jangling nerve, taut muscles, aching skin, and burning tears. For two hours I had not one instance of intellectual reaction; it was pure emotion, relentless disorientation, exhausting, and something akin to how I'd imagine open-heart surgery without anaesthesia would be.

Well into this morning I felt buzzy and boneless and like I'd been Rolfed by a walrus. And I remembered the brilliant Evelyn Glennie's TED talk, "How to listen to music with your whole body," and suddenly I got exactly what she means. By absorbing the music on that tactile, climatic, pure sensation plane, we go from being passive recipients of a handed-down experience to fully participating in creating the transformation, our transformations. Last night I was another instrument -- undoubtedly a drum, given the way I was beaten -- played from half a small room away to complete the performance.

Diamanda Galas is a shaman, a shapeshifter and trickster. Not the type who works by firelight or under a cat's-eye moon, though. She leads you into the hallucinatory meta-darkness of the sweatlodge or the deep labyrinthine caverns, and leaves you to find your way out. All you have to do is learn to hear with your body, listen with your soul.

Ralph Stanley - O Death

Diamanda Galas - O Death

And now I'm off to daydream about what a Diamanda Galas - Evelyn Glennie collaboration would sound -- and feel -- like.