Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Santa Claus Gets Depressed

Mr. and Mrs. Claus

kris kringle wears faded, red pants, a long-sleeve undershirt, slippers and suspenders   He looks tired.  

He
December the 26th.   Well, thank God, that's over.   I'm exhausted.   Each year it gets worse.    Up before midnight, waiting for the final tick of the clock.  Bedlam, everywhere,.   Toy elves, mad with fatigue, loading the last of the presents.   Reindeer elves doing last minute adjustments to the sleigh.  There's always a harness that breaks, a bell that won't jingle.   The reindeer themselves are nervous, they know what's coming, they have the runs.   The smell, the noise - unbelievable.  Martha is clucking around me like an old mother hen.  Are you wearing your woolen underwear?  Of course, I am.  Fat?  Who's fat?  I have 27 layers of clothes on.  You would be too if you went riding around at altitude on a winter's night in an open sleigh.  Gloves - check.   Hat - check.   Nose like a cherry – if you insist.  Schnapps - - check, check and double check.   Blast off and be done with it. 
Mrs. Kringle enters.  She wears a simple house dress and apron.   She is as excited as Kris is exhausted.

She
December 26th!  Ours is truly a partnership blessed and cherished by God, man and elves alike!   As he flew out the door last night, I felt such a sense of accomplishment.   He was well fed, well dressed, well rested.   It's been a struggle.  For the last few weeks, he's been fussing, fuming, losing his temper.   He always has had an artist's temperament but still, every year, the closer we get to Christmas the worse he gets.   If it weren't for me the elves would probably have been in a state of total rebellion.   The minute he was gone, I broke out the homemade cookies and spiced cider.   It's a treat that we look forward to every year.   A reward for a job well done.  Everyone loves it so!
He
As I go flying out the door, I can see Martha breaking out the cookies and spiced cider.   God-awful stuff.   The Elves will force it down and then make a mad break for the caves where the ale and brandy are stashed.   There won't be one of them left standing by the time I get back tomorrow.  But there's no time to worry about that now.  I pull back on the reins and up we go.  
She
After the Elves have gone to bed, I like to curl up by the fire with a cup of tea and imagine his journey through the cold clear Christmas night.   It makes me feel so close to him and the joy he brings.  
He
At a home near Cleveland, I'm almost killed by a man brandishing a shotgun.   At a condo outside of Dallas, someone has a BMW under the tree.   And a perfectly respectable house in New Jersey turns out to be a bordello and they're having a party.  I contemplate staying.
She
(coughing a warning)
Ahem-hem-hem!
HE
No, better move on.
(Sagging)
Australia, China, Japan, the Ukraine.   It's dawn by the time I get home.  I go in the house, strip off the red suit and take a long, hot shower.   Martha is in bed, dead to the world.  I crawl in next to her.   I try to sleep but can't.   I imagine all across the world, children waking up, running to the tree... and being disappointed.     This is the last year I do this.   I swear it is.  It's time to quit.
She
January 3rd!  He could hardly get out of bed again this morning.   Oh, but it's always like this.  The lovely let down after.   Thankfully I know how to get him going.   Lunchtime!
He
God help me, the only thing we do around here when we're not working is stuff our faces.   Carbohydrates.  Animal fats. 
she
Dinner!
he
I keep dropping hints - how about some whole grains, grilled fish and steamed vegetables for God's sake.  It doesn't sink in.  
she
Midnight snack!
he
I need a a vacation.  A new hobby.    Anything.   Maybe the Elves can help.
She
(not happy)
February 23rd.  They arrived today. 
he
(thrilled)
The Elves ordered them! 
She
Large ugly boxes with garish letters.  Not festive at all.  
He
A 45 inch, flat screen television!   Digital!    With sensurround!
She
He says he's going to hook it up to some dish thingie and we'll be able to watch...
HE
Direct TV!!
she
I hate it.
He
I love it!!  The flickering images, the nonstop action, the complete lack of introspection, the sheer volume of it.   Life, here at the North Pole, seems sadly mundane in comparison.
She
At least I now have an inkling as to why Kris's list is seemingly filled with endless black marks.  In these "programs" he's been watching - many of them seemingly created "for" children, - youngsters are "portrayed" as hip, wise-crackers, in every way smarter and more mature than their parents who are seen as ignorant, inattentive, buffoons.   These "programs" seem to imply that parents and children in modern society have reversed roles completely.  
He
I can't wait to see what else is on!
She
I am also concerned that the Elves seem to have an unhealthy fascination with something called CNBC.   I have no idea what this is but feel they don't bode well for this year's contract negotiations. 
He
Martha!?    There's a lotion on the Home Shopping Network that removes body hair painlessly and without scarring!  Only 29 dollars a case! 
She
Oh, I hate this modern technology.  No wonder people don't read books or write letters or bake bunt cakes any more.   How can it possibly get worse than this?
He
Martha!?   Look at what they Elves have brought home!
SHE
It’s a computer. 
he
Twelve gig harddrive!
she
Kris s going to hook up to something called -
He
The Internet!
She
And that once we do this -
He
The world!!  At our fingertips!   The box!  It says so! 
She
Oh, I do not want the world at my fingertips.   I like it comfortably at a distance the way it used to be. 
He
Martha-slash-Claus at KrisKringle-dot-org!    Yes!!
SHE
It simply can’t get worse than this.
He
Jumping Jeosaphat!  There’s a man in St. Louis, Missourri, Stanley K. Kringle, who says he's the real Santa Claus.  55 an hour plus expenses for public appearances.   Not bad.   I wonder if I can get in on it. 
She
There is only one thing to do.   I will sing and make fruitcakes!
he
Help!  She’s baking!
SHE
I am no longer talking to you.
he
Hah!  Fine!
Silence.  Then:
She
March 26th.  Nothing to report.
He.
Not a thing to report.
She
March 28th.  No change.
He
No food.
She
March 30th.  He's miserable and trying to make me so as well but I continue to sing and bake on a daily basis.
He
All day long she wails like a church cat trapped in a whorehouse.  Between that and the smell of burning brown sugar, I'm going out of my mind. 
She
April 2d.  How long can it go on like this?  I must continue to bake and sing.
She begins to sing Oh, Christmas Tree, Oh, Christmas Tree”.   He groans, then begins to sing – I saw Momma kissing Santa Claus.  She glares at him, outraged, and sings louder.   They continue to sing.   Until suddenly -
He
Enough!   Serve!   Fruitcake!
She
April 13th.   Success.  He was humming to himself again today.  I knew my fruitcakes and singing would eventually get through to him.  Oh, why can't everyone sing and eat fruitcake every day!
He
Martha?  More people are arrested, committed to mental institutions and more commit suicide at Christmas than any other time of year.   
She
May 1st.  We are no longer speaking.
(a moment)
I am making dumpling soup.
She whistles to herself, not a care in the world. 
She whistles.
She whistles.
He
All right!  You win!  Serve!   Dumpling!  Soup!
She
May 27th.  The letters arrive in bushels now and it makes me feel a new Christmas season is just around the corner.  I don't know how they get here, of course.  It's one of the mysteries.   Kris, I'm sorry to say, hasn't read a letter in years.   I think at some point, they started to make him unhappy.  Not so much the requests for toys but rather the ones that asked for things that were truly beyond him.  
He
Make the soldiers go away.   Let there be no bombings.   Cure my mother –
She
My sister.
He
My lover.
She
My son.   And they all end with the same promise –
He
Grant me this Christmas wish and I will never ask for anything, ever again.
She
Still, I take the best of the letters and pack them carefully away in a trunk.  I know that someday, he'll want to read them.  I just know it.   
He
June 1st.  Martha!?   Martha!!?  I'm going to Hollywood!   Don't wait up!
She
June 7th.  It is too much to bear!  Kris has been in touch with something called a talent agent.   Apparently when this "agent" discovered that Kris has no formal representation he went absolutely mad with excitement.   He started talking about licensing fees, subsidiary rights, guest appearances and royalties.   Kris suddenly has dollar signs dancing in his eyes and we....
(fighting tears)
 - are no longer speaking.
He
June 10th.  The Elves will take me down into Canada and I'll proceed from there.  he travel department has whipped me up some documents - a passport, a diver's license, a credit card – oh, and almost one hundred dollars in cash!   How I'll ever spend so much hard currency in so short a time is beyond me
She
June 23rd.  It's been a week and I haven't heard a word from him.  I'm worried sick.  
(a beat)
June 26th.   Still no word.  I tried his cell phone. I got two wrong numbers, a very rude overseas operator and a recording that told me the user was in a nonservice area.   I don't know what to do.  
(a beat)
June 29th.    I did the unthinkable.   I went to down into the shop to the computer and I went on line with the hopes of finding Kris.  It wasn't easy but by accessing newspaper stories and hacking into classified FBI websites I was finally able to track him down.  He was stranded in a holding cell in Toronto while the authorities investigated the false passport, the fraudulent driver's license, the stolen credit card and the one hundred dollars in counterfeit bills.   It's terrible how anyone with a beard is suspect these days.   Needless to say, Kris is going to give the Elves in the travel department a very good talking to when he gets home.  Home.   Oh, I wish he'd come home. 
He
July the 1st!   L.A.!   It's wonderful!  Martha?!   Amazing!   The Bel Air Hotel!   Swans in the fountains.  Macadamia nuts free at the bar.   At dinner last night, I had poached cheeks of grouper in a tangerine and ginger essence with a saffron infused pilaf and braised baby bokchoy on the side.   The agent paid.  He says I'm going to be big, Martha.  Big!
She
I must admit, it's lovely to hear enthusiasm in Kris's voice again.
He
Me.  A big thing!  Can you believe it?   Me.
She
You.
A moment.
HE
(very quiet)
July 3rd.  Martha... I'm home.
SHE
July 3rd.   Something has gone horribly wrong.    
He
The man you've been living with for all these years... is not me.  
She
What?
He
The agency's legal department.  They did some research.  It seems the name and persona of Santa Claus doesn't belong to me at all.  It's part of the public domain.   I am no more Santa Claus than you are.   Anyone can be Santa Claus.   Anyone!   It’s their right.   To be a quaint, old fashioned, unappreciated, overworked buffoon who’s only good for paid public appearances, product placement and advertisements... and who’s time is well past.
She
What can I do?
He
Leave me... alone.
She
September 20th.   It's been terribly quiet around here for the last two months.  Normally things are buzzing by this time.  Not this year.   Kris just sits, staring into space.   There will be Christmas this year but it will be a Christmas without the spirit of Santa Claus.    And if I were to be honest, I would have to say that spirit has been missing for a long, long time now.   It will take a miracle to bring it back.  More than anything though. . . I miss him.   My husband, my partner, my friend.  I miss him so.
HE
What, Martha, are you crying?
She
I'm sorry, it's nothing.   I'm so sorry.
He
No, don’t be.  Please.   Look.   Look at these.  Letters.   I found them in the trunk upstairs.   You saved them.
She
Yes.   I thought you might like them someday.
He
They're good.   Very good.   This one especially. 
SHE
Which one is that?
HE
The famous one. 
SHE
Actually it was the reply.  "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”
he
“He exits as surely as... as love and generosity and devotion exits.   Alas, how dreary would be the world if... if there were no....
(faltering)
...no.... Santa Claus.   There would be no faith, no poetry, no...
She
- no romance to make tolerable this existence.  We should have no enjoyment except in sense and sight.  The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.  No Santa Claus?   Thank God he lives.  And lives forever.  A thousand years from now, nay, ten time's ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the hearts of childhood.
A moment.
He
Martha?
She
Yes?
He
I've misplaced my boots.  Would you happen to know where they are? 
She
Of course I do.
He
And my gloves? 
She
Yes.
He
And my hat and coat?
She
Those too.
He
And my list, of course, I must have my list. 
She
I have it right here.
He
We have work to do, don't we.
She
Yes.  Yes, we do, my darling.  Yes, we do.
he
But first... one thing.
she
Yes?
he
Lunch!!!!!
He exits. 
She
December 24th!!!   The blessed day is finally upon us.   Oh, the last few months have just been the wonderful beehive of activity.   Kris has been an absolute dervish, everywhere at once, designing toys, reading letters, keeping everyone's spirits up.  It's a happy, healthy Santa Claus who ventures forth this year.   Kris is a changed man.
He 
(off)
Martha!?  Martha!?
She
In here, dear!   And yet the same.
Kris enters. He is not the chubby Santa of coke commercials but a regal father Christmas in long cape and brocaded vest and crown-like cap.
He
Well?  What do you think?   Polypropylene.   So much for woolen underwear.
She
You are so handsome.   I'm almost of a mind not let you go.
He
Ho-ho-ho!   December 24th!    It's been quite a year.  It almost did me in.   But!   The dude... abides!    And ever will!
She
Beautifully.
He
Well!   I’m off!   Martha? 
She
Yes?
He
I could never have done any of this – ever - without you.
She
I know.    I'll wait up.
They embrace.  He exits.   Then softly:
She
And I heard him exclaim 'er he drove out of sight.   Happy Christmas to all.  And to all a Good night.
lights to black

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Monday, August 13, 2012

Hope

As I’ve gotten older I’ve had a harder and harder time with the concept of hope.    Read too much.  Too many newspapers.   Tough world. 

I hope things will work out but I’m not surprised when they don’t.  I hope for the best but I prepare for the worst.

Because hope is not expectation.  Hope contains a small element of doubt. 

Just hoping.  

And hope and faith are not the same thing.  Faith suggests confidence and assurance.   It will all work out in the end!   

Even if it doesn’t.

Hope suggests that the best is not a given, that there is a need for outside intervention and if it’s not forthcoming, well....  one can only hope.  

And why not?

The opposite of hope is hopelessness. 

Imagine.

To be without hope.   To be in a place of no hope.  No hope for the present.  No hope for the future.   No way out.   No rescue.   No help.

No hope.

No.

Hope is a choice we make.   By choosing to hope, by giving others hope, we make hope real.  At least real enough.

This is real enough.

My son met his honorary godmother, Jodie, when he was four and she became our neighbor.   He would go over and they would sit outside on the terrace and they would chat.  Sometimes he would just sit as she worked in the yard.  And smoked.

My son has autism. 

Jodie got him.   Applauded him.  Never got impatient with him. 

Their relationship grew deeper over the years.   “I’m going to “Jode’s” my son would say and off he’d go.  Daily.  Twice on weekends.   She was patient and watchful and wise and for a little boy who had trouble making friends, she was the friend.

Several years ago Jodie moved to Berkeley to be closer to her daughter who had recently given birth to twins and needed the help.   Her departure was tearful and difficult.   For all of us.  But especially them. 

I will see you, my son kept repeating, as much a question as it was a statement.  And every single time Jodie answered, we will see each other.  And you will call me.  And I will call you.   Now give me another hug.

And even though we would always see Jodie once or twice a year, their relationship became one of cards and holiday gifts and letters and long weekly phone calls.   Twice on weekends.

This last spring Jodie called to tell us she had been diagnosed with terminal cancer.  Lung cancer.

I’m not sure how but my son understands death.   At least well enough.  You will be gone, he’d tell her on the phone.  I’ll be in the clouds watching you, she’d say.  You’ll be watching me, he’d say.

In July, my wife and son went to Berkley to visit Jodie.   He and Jodie did what they always did.   They sat on the couch..   They laughed.   They reminisced.    My son likes to start most conversations with, “Do you remember the time?”   And of course, Jodie did.

You are the best, she said.  Don’t you forget it.

I will never see you again, my son said.   A question as much as a statement.

No, but you will take some of my ashes and you will put them in the ground under our favorite tree, she said and we’ll be close to one another. 

Okay, he said.

My wife and son returned.  He and Jodie talked on the phone whenever  Jodie could.   Every other day.  Twice on Sundays.   Two indomitable spirits.  Still, she grew weaker.  It was harder and harder for her to breathe. 

The last time he called, Jodie couldn’t speak but asked her daughter to tell my son that she loved him.   Love you too, my son said.

Last night, Jodie passed away.

When we told him, my son was very quiet.   As if he was trying to puzzle it out.   And then after awhile, he went out in the yard to pick flowers.  For Jodie.  He brought them in.   Just the blossoms.  He put them in bowl.   We all said a prayer over them.   And then, he took them next store to what had been Jodie’s house.   His grandmother lives there now which is really nice.  He put the bowl on the table in front of the outdoor couch where he and Jodie used to sit.  And then he came quietly home.

Not sad.   Full of the hope he’d been given over the years.  By Jodie.
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Monday, July 9, 2012

Dressing Left

Dressing left and dressing right are terms that most men, at least those who wear suits, know.  It's a term used by tailors when fitting suit pants.  To "dress left" means that one keeps one’s male appendage shifted in the general direction of the left trouser leg.  Likewise for the right.

According to medical researchers, most men should dress left.  This is basic biology,  The left testicle is lower than the right.  It was made to swing to the left.  Swinging right is uncomfortable.  Perhaps this is why right dressers are often in bad moods.

I dress left.  Way left.  Far left, filling the pant leg.  I have always dressed left.  I will always dress left.   It’s just the way it is.  I do not and cannot go right.  It defies logic.  It does not compute.  When I am with people who dress right, I feel like a member of the Star Ship Enterprise listening to Klingons without the help of a universal translator.

I feel that left dressers are open minded.

I feel that those whose appendages sway right are often – pardon the pun – rigid and dogmatic.

I feel that left dressers are compassionate.  I feel right dressers are penurious.

I feel left dressers care about other people.  I feel right dressers care mostly about themselves and others exactly like them.  

I feel that left dressers are reasonable. They are in touch with their feelings.   I feel right dressers are entrenched and declamatory.  They yell a lot.  Even when the elected president of the United States, who undoubtedly dresses left, is giving a state of the union address, they yell.  This is possibly because those who dress right have a tendency to inadvertently sit on their packages.  Because men think with their d***ks, this turns off their brains.   

You’ve no doubt heard about the study that was done at the University of London.   It was instigated by the actor, Colin Farrell, definitely a very left dresser and it found that those who dress right have brains with smaller amygdales than those who dress left.  Amygdales control fear and primitive emotions.   It was also determined that right dressers have smaller anterior cingulates.  This is the part of the brain that’s responsible for courage, trust and optimism.

Translation:  Right dressers are anxious, fearful and pessimistic about the their appendages.  

Left dressers are creative with it.

Right dressers, when attending 50 thousand dollar political fund raisers at mansions in the Hamptons say things like:

“"I don't think the common person is getting it.  We've got the message.  But my college kid, the baby sitters, the nails ladies — everybody who's got the right to vote — they don't understand what's going on. I just think if you're lower income — one, you're not as educated, two, they don't understand how it works, they don't understand how the systems work, they don't understand the impact.”

This was said by a woman waiting outside the mansion in a spanking new Ranger Rover, pissed off at all the left dressers who were blocking the valet and carrying signs that said - “50 thousand dollars would send my kid to college!” 

(By the way, unless their breasts are identical, women can be right and left dressers too and this was obviously a woman who’s right boob hangs down to her knee.)

Moving on.

What I like about left dressers is they stay in shape, buy organic, play tennis and believe in evolution, an infinite universe and global warming.   What I don’t like about right dressers is that (except in California) they are overweight, watch football on TV, think eggplant parmesan is a vegetable, don’t believe in dinosaurs and think that the melting polar ice caps are just a phase we’re going through.

Maybe this is because right dressers believe God is taking care of them and in return, they are taking care of Him.  Left dressers believe God has better things to do and doesn’t need the help.

(It should be noted that there are a number of people in the world - terrorists and suicide bombers and bigots and religious fanatics and military regimes that enjoy killing their own citizens come to mind - who dress neither right or left but instead stick their appendages back between their legs and safely up their butt holes.  This turns off the flow of blood to the brains completely.)

Right dressers don’t like government. 

Oh, God, I’m back to government.

Okay, what with the current state of affairs, no one likes government. 

But left dressers at least like the concept of government.  They like the idea of a well run benevolent organization that provides social services, social security, medical care and funding for the arts.  They like it when children and young people are well educated and when people who are without work or a home are not allowed to go hungry.   They like their roads paved.   They like it when a truck comes by to pick up the garbage.  They realize said services cost something and they don’t resent footing the bill.   

To quote Oliver Wendell Holmes, who actually dressed neither right or left but instead scotch taped his appendage so that it aimed straight up at his navel –

 I like paying taxes.  With them I buy civilization. 

Like the lady in the Hamptons, right dressers don't.  They think they’re being forced to foot the bill for all the worthless deadbeats who don’t want to pay their fair share for a decent suit and so they’ve decided they don’t want to pay for anything.  This is partly because civilization and college tuitions be damned, they don’t like being told what to do.  They think being told what to do gets in the way of their right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness which means driving a Range Rover and making more money. 

(As a left dresser, I do wish I was allowed to decide exactly what my taxes are buying.    Bridges to nowhere, aid to Pakistan and Lockheed Martin – no.  The California University system – yes.  And I drive a BMW so really, you can tell me to shut up.))

In conclusion.

George Bush, who is a right dresser once said – or maybe it was Will Farrell, who dresses left, pretending to be George Bush who said it – or wait, no, maybe it was Justice Antonin Scalia - but whoever said it, it still holds true –

“...about four- five ‘underd years ago when God booted Adam and Eve out of The Garden of Eden for adulterary, an ol’ boy could dress any which-a-way direction he pleased, cause, a’ course, as everybody knows, Jesus wore robes...” 

Yes.

Jesus, who I think we all can agree was a pretty cool cat with his head on straight, wore robes. 

Presumably with nothing underneath.
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Thursday, June 28, 2012

Ah, Fiesta!

I recently was coerced by fate, availability and the lovely wife into taking the dogs “for an outing”.  Something important was happening at the homestead and the Doodles, who consider it their canine duty to bark like mad banshees when people come to the house, were not invited.    

Not knowing what else to do, I decided to take them – and Juneau, the energizer bunny, Vishla – to Fiesta Island.

Fiesta Island is a large track of undeveloped land in Mission Bay and it  is where every year the Old Mission Beach Athletic Club of San Diego sponsors it’s annual Over The Line tournament.   Over the Line is basically beach softball.  Three man (or women) teams compete against one another in an odd shaped triangle on the sand.  Don’t ask me the rules I don’t know them.  But I do know it’s a fun game.  And I do know this particular tournament is about winning, yes, but it’s also about how obscene the names of the teams can be.  Which is major.   And I know too, that the women’s team names make the men’s sound like endearments.   Actually when you get right down to it, the OMBAC Over the Line tournament is mostly about drunk guys of all ages calling for drunk women of all ages to take their tops off.  And the women -  at the least the ones with tattoos – do.  What fun!   Oh - and at the end of the tournament they crown the annual Miss Emerson.

Meaning Emmerson t**s.   

Americana at its best.

(The Desperate Man, of course, has never attended this event on Fiesta Island because though he likes beer and breasts as much as the next guy, he doesn’t deal well with parking.)

However.

Every other time of year it is an awesome place to let your dogs run free.   They poop, they pee, they butt-sniff the other dogs of which there are many.   They race, they roughhouse.   Fiesta Island is the only place, other than our living room, that the Doodles will play fetch and so I always bring a ball thrower with the hopes that I’ll heave it so far out into the water, the Dudes will be swept out to sea.  Or claimed by a water skier. Or arrested by the Coast Guard.

Never happens.

But give it time, they’re still young.

Juneau, they hyperkinetic Vishla, had never been to Fiesta Island before. 

He didn’t like it.   No. 

He loved it.   He went insane over it.   “How come you never told me about this before”,  he said, and ears flapping, he began racing around, bouncing off the landscape like he was a ball of flubber.

Turning, he raced away, doing Mach 123 down the beach and disappeared in the distance.   Moments later he came racing up behind me, leaving me to conclude that he had just circled the world.

When the Dudes went into the water, he just about turned himself inside out with excitement.   He jumped from all fours several feet up into the air, landed stiff kneed and immediately did it again – and again.   He then ran into the water up to his toenails, stepped on a piece of sea weed and did a world record, backward standing broad jump out.   And then barking, he ran in circles, as if blaming it on his tail.   

I felt like I was watching a Warner Brother’s cartoon.  Somehow Wiley Coyote and the Roadrunner had married and mated and the results were this gangly dog who could run a billion miles an hour but had no sense of direction.

The Dudes were embarrassed to no end.  Whenever Juneau would come bounding up to them, they’d growl and turn away as if to say, ‘Get the hell away from me, you idiot.  That Collie bitch is staring at us and you’re embarrassing me.”

One slight draw back of Fiesta Island  is that salt water plays havoc with a dog's digestion.  I brought nine plastic bags, three for each of them, more than enough.   They were all used within 30 minutes.  As a semi-responsible dog owner, I always try to clean up after my canines and I’m good at giving dark, disapproving looks at people who don’t.  I’m not good at taking them.  And so I proceeded to walk the beach, pretending these shit machines didn’t belong to me. 

Of course, when an attractive women passes, you can ask her if she has an extra poop bag.  Dogs and poop bags are a great conversation starter and I wish I’d known that as a young man when I had no conversations starters at all.   I wouldn’t have even needed a dog, just the poop bags.   And often the attractive woman will be walking a poodle.  This means Napoleon, the Don Juan of dog eunuchs, will immediately attempt to hump it.   This can make for uncomfortable silences and nervous smiles.  But if it doesn’t, than you know you’ve got yourself a winner.

(As a footnote, I should mention that pushing a baby in a stroller or, better yet, toting it in one of those belly carriers, is also a great way to meet women.  In fact, it's like a smile button.   I wish I’d known that when I was young man as I’m sure I could have borrowed a baby from somewhere). 

At the end of an hour and a half, the Dudes were exhausted from all their ball chasing and swimming and pooping and humping and were panting so hard, their tongues were hanging down to around their clavicles.  They were making it obvious they wanted to go home and get back into their usual routine of sleeping  18 hours a day.   Juneau, however, was having none of it.   Even though he’d already run around the world three times, gotten himself stuck in a drain pipe and survived half a dozen wrestling matches that resembled the X-Games, he wasn’t ready to go and was still careening around like the Tasmanian Devil (another great Warner Brother’s cartoon). 

Juneau, as you might know, is a service dog. He is being trained by the lovely wife for placement in the wounded warrior program at Camp Pendleton.  He lives to obey.

Everybody but me.

“Juneau, come!” I said.  “Juneau, come!”

He turned and ran away down the beach.    He came back.  He hovered on the periphery.

“Come, Juneau!” I said.  “Come, Juneau!”

He turned away and began playing with an obese Pomeranian.  The Pomeranian’s owner, as obese and wild haired as her dog, smiled and asked if I had an extra poop bag. 

“Juneau, if you don’t get your butt over here right now I will kick it in to next week!”   

This was, of course, an empty threat.   If I were ever to kick Juneau’s butt into next week, the lovely wife would kick my butt into next month.   But I was hoping Juneau wouldn’t know that.

He does.  He did.  He ignored me completely.

Five minutes of threats and entreaties later, the Dudes shook their heads in disgust and impatience and turned and padded off in the general direction of the car.   Juneau sat a moment, then raced right by me, yipping – “Guys, wait for me, wait for me!   Guyssssss!"  They ignored him and because they did, like a little kid wanting to hang out with his older brothers, he followed them all the way to the parking lot.

Somewhow I resisted strangling Juneau with his leash.

Fiesta Island.

A great day. 

And to make it even more so, on the way home the dogs had a spirited contest to see who could puke up the most salt water in the backseat of the car.
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Thursday, June 14, 2012

Drama!!!

I had one of those soul squeezing moments this morning.  In fact, am still in the midst of one.   A soul squeeze is when something BIG doesn’t quite compute.  There’s something wrong with the equation, with the moment.  Something on the spiritual plane is out of wack, out of sorts, the scale’s broken.

This is often the case when I’m reading the newspaper.

By newspaper, I mean the real thing.  Real as in ink and paper, something you spread out on the table as you sip strong coffee.   And living where I do, in Southern California, the paper of choice is the LA Times.  It isn’t a bad paper.   It covers the world, the region.  It has a very enthusiastic sports section.  The arts section – the “Calendar” – being totally Hollywood-centric, is questionable.   You wouldn’t compare it to the New York Times.  However the NY Times doesn’t have Doonesbury or Non Sequitar – in fact, it doesn’t have a comics page at all, never has.

So here’s what got me all agitated. 

On the front page today was a photo.   A man,  soaking wet in the falling rain, is weeping.  His eyes are shut tight and his hands are held in front of him as if he praying.  Behind him in an open wooden boat is his family.  Exhausted looking women.  Half naked children.   A fully naked toddler – an exquisite child - who is either sleeping or unconscious.  A sibling holds a ragged umbrella over him/her trying to provide some shelter.   He might as well try to hold back the wind.

They are Rohingya Muslims fleeing sectarian violence in Myanmar – meaning slaughter – and they are pleading with Bangladeshi border guards for asylum.  They will be refused.   They will be left to the rain.   Boat loads of them will be.

The Beatles’ George Harrison once sang songs asking for assistance for Bangla Desh.    Wondering how he’s feeling. 

Also on the front page is a story detailing how our presidential candidates are “running in place as they duke it out”.  Which means they’re going nowhere.   Maybe they should do it in an open boat.

On the third page is a story detailing how bombings in Iraq have left scores dead.   What else is new?    Oh, but add this – Said a spectator: “I saw pieces of torn clothes, blood, scarves, shoes.” And then, as an afterthought, “I think our politicians are responsible.” 

Maybe they’re running in place, duking it out as well.   Maybe they should do it in an open boat.

And speaking of Syria – Russia denies supplying Syria with attack helicopters.  Good to know.  Good to know that Russia’s military contracts with Syria – meaning weapons sales – is for self-defense.   Maybe they should be selling their weapons in an open boat.  Maybe we should too.

But other than the fact, that while one man was praying helplessly for the life of his family and another was giving testimony to the human tragedy of an explosion, and I was sitting on the couch on my fat ass drinking coffee, here’s what really got me this morning. 

The Emmys

The Emmys celebrate excellence in national primetime programming, awarding top honors at the annual creative arts and primetime awards ceremonies  It says so on their website.

The Envelope.   

The Envelope is a special section in The LA Times giving us information for our Emmy consideration.   It says so on the cover.   The Envelope is an advertisement – it says so on the cover.  

On said cover, two young men in dark suits, who bring a dominating and commanding presence to their performances, stare at us as if they’re fledgling politicians, standing in place before they duke it out.

For your Emmy consideration – Drama!!! 

Cliffhanging, nail-biting and action-packed Drama!!!

Really smart, hard-to-describe, wonderfully nuanced Drama!!!

Dangerous.  Powerful.  Unstoppable.  Intoxicating.  Drama!!!

No.  Sorry.

Dangerous.  Powerful.  Unstoppable.  Intoxicating.  Unbearable.  Embarrassing.  Idiotic.  Posturing.  Self-aggrandizing.  For profit.  Brain-embalming.  BULLSHIT!!!

When reality dukes it out with fantasy, fantasy loses big time 

Or does it?

This is finally what really gets me.   Eventually the photo on the front page of the newspaper will grow dim.   My soul will stop squeezing.   And fuck me, I might even watch the Emmys.

You’d think the death of even one human being would be enough to change the world.  But it doesn’t, does it.  And so I no longer pay attention to the world.  I live in a world of my own.

The U.S. Open – golf – is being played on the TV behind me.  
Drama!

As protest to the day’s events, I’m going to turn it off and spend the rest of the day thinking of open boats

Maybe.

(If you enjoy the essays at The Desperate Man please share, post and pass on to others.   I'd appreciate it.  SM)
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