Lambo
A good friend and her husband in Alabama were watching the infamous “loaded goat” episode of “The Andy Griffith Show” when what should turn up on their lawn but a lamb, one they immediately dubbed Rambo or (get ready for the groans) Lambo.
Now, I’m not one to raise a religious fuss where there is none, but consider this. First, they were watching a goat on TV—think forerunner, or sort of John (in this case Jimmy) the Baptist to Lambo’s messiah. Then, the lamb appears out of nowhere, a miraculous delivery (virgin birth?). And it’s a lamb—not a duck, opossum or grizzly bear. Is there a more heady Judeo-Christian icon? I think not.
If I were the good Sister Katherine, I’d ditch plans to cart the little fellow off to a farm and build a shrine instead.
03 January 2008 | Comments [2]
Stooge
The blank page is staring me down, and I lack a Moe Howard prestidigitation clever enough to poke out its eyes. Even if I did, I’ll bet the wily page would pull the Larry vertical hand stunt along its nose and I’d bruise the web between my fingers. Then I’d be wordless, wounded, and faced with the philosophical argument of whether Curly Joe was a real Stooge or not.
Both Moe and Shemp might have passed for Hitler, given the right haircut, lighting and Charlie Chaplin mustache. (Now I’m grasping at straws and my desperation is showing through like parts of Jean Harlow straining against her satin lingerie—I’d better quit while I’m ahead.)
Obviously the strain of reality is wearing me down. Let’s call this an entry and be done with it. (Nyuk-nyuk-nyuk.)
02 January 2008 | Comments [0]
Double-Naught Spy
Today I feel like Jethro Bodine, peering into a two-way mirror installed backward, trying to determine what 2008 has in store for us. It’s an enigma, and maybe that’s a good thing.
The new sheep is number 55. He makes me laugh every time I see him.
The new guitar is a Washburn. It is shiny everywhere and sounds demonically angelic, now speaking sweetly, now growling out a tune. Nice.
The orange cat left part of a dead rat in the front yard. If these are omens, 2008 will be an interesting ride.
Happy New Year, everyone. (And Happy Possum Day to those in the know.)
01 January 2008 | Comments [0]
Love and Money
A delightful article from the 11 June 1994 edition of the New York Times says as Nobel laureate Octavio Paz neared 80, his thoughts turned to love. Perhaps because, as Paz said, “And you cannot talk about love without talking about its complement, death.” Knowing that, I feel less ridiculous for thinking of love at 52—though the distance between 52 and 80 seems great (according to my father, it’s the blink of an eye).
At 18, love and sex were synonymous. At 27, love broadened to include friendship. At 43, companionship outweighed sex as its principle interest. At 52, it is ethereal, a total mystery. Never has it appeared more elusive or fleeting.
And never has it been more the tool of commerce. I am nauseated by eHarmony.com. (Google it, if interested. I’ll not sully these lines with a link.) And equating diamonds with love is still wicked, even if the majority of the world’s stones are conflict free. Cosmetics have nothing to do with love, and your dog won’t love you any more for feeding him Science Diet instead of Iams.
As Octavio Paz says, “Our democratic capitalist society has converted Eros into an employee of Mammon. Profit, gain and the extraordinary materialism of our society are weakening the human condition. So my book about love is a defense of the individual.”
I’ll have to ferret out The Double Flame: Love and Eroticism and devote some time to it. Call it a New Year’s resolution.
In the meantime, “No More Clichés” and “January First” briefly satisfy my hunger for Paz’s remarkable poetry.
31 December 2007 | Comments [1]
Tremens
The man could be 30 or 60. In spite of the sunny 58-degree temperature and his ratty, olive drab coat, he shivers on the edge of a park bench. Frayed at the hem, his jeans need a good laundering, and his boots are scuffed and caked with mud. His matted hair could be any color; now it is dark yellow ocher, the same shade as the dirt in the gutter. Anxiety and boredom are mixed in his pale eyes and line his gaunt face. When he speaks, his voice is dour and flat:
“Would you have a dollar for a cup of coffee?”
“Sure,” I answer. I dig three or four ones from my pocket and press them into the palm of his trembling hand. His eyes light up and he licks his cracked lips.
“Thanks, man,” he says.
We walk on toward the car. When we are out of earshot, my companion, a devout Christian, says, “You’re so naive. You should have never given him money. He’ll just drink it up.” The expression on her face communicates her contempt for my apparent ignorance. I shrug it off.
“I hope he does,” I respond.
Five percent of acute ethanol withdrawal cases progress to delirium tremens. Unlike the withdrawal syndrome associated with opiate addiction (generally), delirium tremens (and alcohol withdrawal in general) can be fatal. Mortality can be up to 35% if untreated; if treated early, death rates range from 5-15%. —Wikipedia
30 December 2007 | Comments [1]
Solveig Dommartin
Two films I have for years numbered among my favorites are Wim Wenders’ “Wings of Desire” and the critically panned cult favorite “Until the End of the World” (I have yet to see the five-hour version). Both starred Solveig Dommartin, a striking, vibrant woman who seemed otherworldly, a sprite or an elf. Because of her, I believed someone might tempt an angel from heaven.
I just learned she died of a heart attack in January of this year at the “obscenely young age” of 45. Maxim Jakubowski remembers her as “a hell of a girl” in the Guardian Unlimited film blog.
29 December 2007 | Comments [0]
Catfish History
Eight-foot catfish live in this lake, I am told. They’ve been down there for decades, cleaning up dead things and devouring the refuse of humankind. They’re too smart for the bank fisherman’s lure and too patient for trolling boaters. Truly egalitarian, their bellies serve as the graveyards of their dead peers.
When the lake dries up—and it looks like it will—the great catfish will burrow down into the mud, and when the mud dries—as it will—the catfish will fossilize. Then, in thousands and thousands of years, when whatever sentient life succeeding humans digs them up, they will exclaim, “My God! These catfish are enormous! Why, ours are only three feet long at the most!” And the Weekly World News of whatever sentient life succeeds humans will sport a headline reading, “Giant Man-Eating Catfish Found in Georgia Desert!” Beings will visit museums to marvel at the skeletal remains of the great catfish, and legends will be told about them. Horror films will find naked young female beings swimming at night in lakes inhabited by gargantuan catfish as ominous music raises gooseflesh in those who have come to the theatre for a good scare. Scientists will speculate about the size of humans who fished for the creatures, and they will wonder why they are only finding the remains of diminutive species in their archeological digs. “What Became of the Giant Humans?” their studies for Science magazine will say.
All history is inaccurate. Even this moment is distorted by my recording of it. And all communication is faulty, because it is filtered through human experience and human understanding.
The closest we come to genuine communication is touch, which is why I want to catch one of those wily catfish and run my hand along the smooth length of its body.
It is also the reason I will never be content with the sound of a sigh over the telephone; I need to have it exhaled near enough my ear that I can feel it.
[For further reading: “How Did Elvis Get Turned Into a Racist?” by Peter Guralnick for the New York Times.]
29 December 2007 | Comments [0]
Turning the Corner
2007: More disappointments than I care to number. If I had known, going in, I would be like Evel Knievel coming out, counting all my broken bones, I probably would have disappeared between the mattress and box springs on my bed and slept from December 31, 2006 until January 1, 2008.
But it’s over in four days. So while everyone else is looking back on the highlights of the past year, I’ll be straining toward the future. Better or worse, it won’t be this.
Most disappointing of all? This is the year my age finally caught up with me. For half a century I managed to elude it, mentally if not physically; I always felt younger than I was. In fact, I never felt much past 30, and most days I was in my late teens or early twenties. Now I am 52. And some days I feel older.
The whole world has changed. Kids behind the counters of fast food restaurants are wearing diapers (when were child labor laws repealed?): “Would you like a goo-goo of goo-goo-ga-gah with your goo-goo-goo-goo, sir? Do you have a senior citizen’s card?” Enraged, I want to leap over the counter, reach down their throats and snatch out their lungs.
I am hounded by television advertisements touting the latest “anti-aging ingredients” in cosmetics, drugs to stem incontinence, hair replacement schemes (the can of spray paint is the creepiest of all), and astringents designed to stretch the skin tight as the head of a snare drum. Where does it all end?
In death. That’s why American society fears aging. It’s a reminder that life is a terminal illness. Advertising preys on the fear as a polar bear preys on a baby seal.
If you want to know why your grandmother wears spandex, blame Madison Avenue.
Was there ever a world where people were allowed to age gracefully?
Come on, 2008.
27 December 2007 | Comments [2]
Windigo Nation
Today the AskOxford Word of the Day in email is windigo, defined as “(in the folklore of the northern Algonquian Indians) a cannibalistic giant; a person who has been transformed into a monster by the consumption of human flesh.” The word comes from the Ojibwa wintiko. In this Marvel illustration the Windigo resembles an albino werewolf hippie, sort of like Johnny Winter, if he were a cannibal shooting steroids. Ojibwa legend describes the Windigo as “a large creature, as tall as a tree, with a lipless mouth and jagged teeth. Its breath was a strange hiss, its footprints full of blood, and it ate any man, woman or child who ventured into its territory.” Not the sort of thing I’d want to meet in the deep dark woods. And all the result of eating human flesh.
The choice of words seemed especially ironic today (and this is merely an observation, not an editorial comment), since millions of Christians around the world will be consuming Body of Christ as a part of their Sunday ritual.
Imagine a nation of Windigos.
I’m shuddering even as I type.
23 December 2007 | Comments [0]
Murder
The gate of my heart is guarded by seven molting crows. They shade it in varying degrees of darkness, rasping at straw-headed pretenders and threatening to peck out their eyes when they venture too near. During slack time they strut around saying, “We are glitter-eyed crows. Nothing outsmarts us and nothing gets past us.”
One woman is not intimidated. She sighs and the crows tilt their heads. “Silly crows,” she says, and finds the statement amusing. Her laughter transforms them, and they open the gate in dove-like submission.
molt ORIGIN Middle English moute, from an Old English verb based on Latin mutare ‘to change.’
22 December 2007 | Comments [0]
