A part of the world, at work

Today I had to reach to the back of the closet, due to a laundry initiative problem, and this always means the good clothes and for some reason I always feel phony in them. I was going to do Returns at the paper, which is mostly clerical, but it looked more like I was going to the Dead Poet's Society. Dress slacks, Republican granddad cardigan sweater, blue silk shirt, brown loafers with, I'm not joking, those socks one might call argyle if one were sure of the definition of argyle.

I stood before the full length mirror on the back of the door in my new room, and I looked like a brand new pencil, just out of the box. Except for the colors, I guess. (I'm thin, did you know?) Or anyway I looked like a prep kid who just might have a fresh pencil.

So what do I do, I put on a farmer's seed bill cap. Because if you're going to draw attention to yourself, it better be with some irony, Bud.


There's another reason I'm thinking "pencil". It's my recent hair cut. Last week I finally went to the barber after planning for six months to go (and saving myself $40 ,at least two hair cuts!) This place was classic, I think it's owned by the Missouri Cattleman's Association, and the three barbers were in their 70's at least, with a full audience of men and boys lined up in the chairs along the wall facing them. Some waiting, some just hanging out as their wives shopped at the shops adjacent. I had my bill cap on then too, but fit in since I was just off the assembly line and hadn't bathed in two days anyway. My jeans could have stood by themselves, as they say, and my shoes were obviously working-man.

The conversations were calm and steady as she goes. There was one old woman who worried aloud about the little animals in the woods surviving this ice storm.

That made John sad too. He hadn't thought of that before!

Anyway, the wait wasn't long and I got the man who looked most like Charlie Weaver (which had me a little wary of which ever of his colleagues cut his hair and mustache). A good thing to get the barber with the bad hair cut, don't' you know! I was quite at home and as I say, just off "the line". The talk continued, not requiring any input from me. I pointed at one of the other barbers and said I'd like my hair like his.

"Ok, then!" Out came the electric shears with the suction action. They were quiet though. I closed my eyes.

I went to sleep! Or, at least into a pleasant daze, eyes closed, not hearing, not thinking of much. The old barber, I remember, had stepped away for a moment. Now he shook me by the thumb and I came too and he turned the chair around and asked "how's that?"

Just what I wanted, I said. It really was. A bit long on top, but over my ears. I made to go.

"Oh, I haven't touched the top yet though", he said.

I looked again. No, that's how I like it, I said. Not a summer crew cut, just a neat and yet unbarbered look. He said, really, ok then just let me finish the back of your neck here.

I tipped him five dollars and left happy and the next morning woke up and realized I am Eraser-Head. So that's why I'm thinking pencils, see. Now, to pick up where I was going with all of this. Since you understand.

Wait. Where was I going with all of this? Do you know? It's skipped my mind.

Oh, yes. Today at work was delightful. Starting with my initial long walk across the factory floor to the office. First, lovely Deanne sidled up to tell me over the mid-volume, clangorous stitchers and bailers that I'd been re-scheduled for an easy day tomorrow, and walked along with me giving all the reasons (which didn't interest me in the least, though I kept asking questions just to keep her tagging along, gaw she is lovely).

Something about that seemed to draw more nods and smiles than on my usual arrival. Even a wave. Maybe it wasn't Deanne, maybe it was the irony. Or maybe it wasn't the irony, maybe I looked like I'd arrived to tender my resignation finally. That always cheers people up, no matter who you are. Take this job and shove it, I think these people say.

Then on the way back with my files, my friend, nemesis, and fellow political junkie, Palmer, left his machine to stop me and ask about Hillary's chances and exclaimed that to his surprise, he couldn't stand to see her on Good Morning America.

"Will it be Obama you think John?"

"Obama is backed by Soros. Shows he's already mis-represented himself as a moderate. Not a chance."

"Soros gave him money, true, but that doesn't mean he's knighted him. What about Richardson?"

"I worry about him because he's cute but he can't shake that Clinton stuff. Hell, he was even a bit player in that sex scandal, what was it. And didn't he have something to do with Los Alamos losing our crown jewels?"

I don't think so but I still said it, as a dirty trick.

Alls fair, this is war!

"What about the 'pubbies? Chuck Hagel?"

"We'd rather vote for Hillary. He's a RINO, we ever find him behind our lines we'll string him up by his toes, swear to god."

"Well , who then? Quick!"

"Duncan Hunter for the hint of a brand name, Mitt Romney because he's our Al Gore who will say anything to play to the base and there are traditional family Republicans who aren't too bright."

He let me go just as I noticed Landy laughing at me. I yelled what! and she kept laughing as I walked by, giving her the challenge look. My spirits soaring again. Might have been ridicule but it wasn't derisive, you know?

To give her a really good laugh, someday I'm going to be like these other guys and make a frank verbal sexual advance. Except half way through I'll probably mumble and she'll have just got the idea and demand I repeat it and god knows, maybe it'll be like a Charlie Brown/ Lucy Van Pelt fight scene. Ha,ha.

heh.

So anyways and also, this was the day to turn in my week's worth of minutely detailed time sheets to my boxx, and I was honest of course, maybe too honest. The truth is all I've got going for me anyway, plus the hope that I get back to the bottom of his danged "to-do" list.

There was a sweaty moment when he announced that all this could be done in an hour, then. Again, he expressed his worry about my being bored, and his desire to get me back onto the assembly line. And again, I didn't laugh and say "you're joking, right?"

Sweet merciful Jesus. After a little discussion, where I got it in that this had been a somewhat unusual week I'd recorded, he said, "Oh, hell, we could do this another week. We could do this for a month to get the bigger picture."

Ok, then! I stood up from the swivel chair. It was still a half hour before I was scheduled to go home, but all my customers had come and gone.

"You think that's all right, then?"

I said, "It's good business sense. Thanks, Bill!"

"Thanks, John." He almost grinned, I thought. I think I even did a double-take to make sure. Um, no, maybe not.

Got to the door and a loud "OH!" escaped my lips. "All right if I go home then?"

"Sure, we just got people standing around anyway."

Great day at work, yes sir! I mean, Bill. Sorry, sir. Bill!

An ancient soul hears "Thunder On The Mountain"

(note: lyrics and mp3 file are at bottom of this post)

In "Modern Times" (2006), Dylan's first CD in the five years since the September 11 attacks, Dylan wraps up "Thunder On The Mountain" with the line

For the love of God, you ought to take pity on yourself

Sean Curnyn, my own "Matthew Henry" of Dylan lyrics,
wonders when self-pity is not a vice but a virtue.

"...maybe the kind of self-pity being talked about here is not the kind you wallow in self-destructively, but rather that kind that is allied to understanding and compassion. To pity oneself can be merely to comprehend one's own mortal predicament. It's one that deserves pity. Another Dylan reference reflects off of it — one of his references in Chronicles to something his "grandma" told him. She had "instructed me to be kind because everyone you'll ever meet is fighting a hard battle." Everyone is fighting a hard battle. No exception made there for people who happen to have a lot of money, or good looks, or great power. According to grandma, they're all fighting a hard battle — everyone you'll ever meet. Including, of necessity, yourself."


He continues, after quoting from James

"For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away."


that, ..."Absent this comprehension of one’s human predicament — absent this self-pity — one indeed might have little reason for the “love of God,” i.e. for one’s own love of God. If you look in the mirror and see only someone strong, self-sufficient and fearless, then maybe that is someone who isn’t inclined to prostrate himself to an Almighty — to humble himself before God.

If, on the other hand, one looks in the mirror and sees a pitiable bag of bones that will amount to exactly nothing at the end of it all, then one might begin to contemplate the lengths to which God has gone to reveal Himself and to show His love for such passing vapors of the earth as oneself, and one might begin feeling the kindling of a reciprocal love for that same loving God. "
_____
Now the song has my attention too and I've broken my rule again and looked up the lyrics. To my amazement, this tune, which is rollicking and to your first hearing, apparently Jerry-Lee-Lewis-comical, is actually a heartbreak and a revival.

That Dylan would be writing about 9-11 seemed unlikely. A serious artist doesn't write about current events, except perhaps to immortalize someone of his own day and age (as in "Joey", "Hurricane", and "Catfish"...or even William Zantzinger and Hattie Carroll.)

But good lord, it was the day of our age, wasn't it.

As I read the lyrics, now the song is like a series of nervous twitches, running, turning around to look, scrambling again, in shock with the most amazing challenge to Faith, and then a new resolve, all on that fateful day.

Just to establish the day, read

"Thunder on the mountain heavy as can be
Mean old twister bearing down on me
All the ladies in Washington scrambling to get out of town
Looks like something bad gonna happen, better roll your airplane down "


The music and lyrics are at first apparently wry and sardonic. They mock. Gabriel blows his horn! But to the writer it's a trombone: an instrument from the circus.

Then, this famous lyric about Alicia Keyes which everyone seemed to think was just a cute hello to a young, rising singing star he admired:

"I was thinkin' 'bout Alicia Keys, couldn't keep from crying
When she was born in Hell's Kitchen, I was living down the line
I'm wondering where in the world Alicia Keys could be
I been looking for her even clear through Tennessee"

Now everyone remembers those first hours and days, even in fly-over country we all knew there was a terrible chance we would discover that we knew one of the missing. One of the dead...

But the song's topic isn't all that moves me to write here (nor is Sean's essay, which wraps itself up nicely and is to my mind quite moving and correct).

No, I'm noticing some other, really wonderful, seemingly careless lyrical quirks to Dylan's song-writing, now that I'm reading Thunder On The Mountain.

For instance, how he is at one moment addressing you and me, and at another he's addressing himself to his "King", and then later even to the Jihadists.

As if singing a psalm, and as if he were of the mind-set of the the earliest Old Testament days, we hear

"You brought me here, now you're trying to run me away
The writing on the wall, come read it, come see what it say"

And

"Thunder on the mountain, rollin' like a drum
Gonna sleep over there, that's where the music coming from
I don't need any guide, I already know the way
Remember this, I'm your servant both night and day"


It strikes me that this "thunder on the mountain" alarms the writer as if some other god, not of our image, has made itself known and presented itself as some alternative to worship and submit to. And he writes sarcasticly,

"Everybody going and I want to go too
Don't wanna take a chance with somebody new "

He remembers then to do right:

"Gonna forget about myself for a while, gonna go out and see what others need"

He falters and then gets his foothold again, in his faith.

"Some sweet day I'll stand beside my king
I wouldn't betray your love or any other thing"

He remembers he has already given his life, that he has already "confessed"

"I did all I could, I did it right there and then
I've already confessed - no need to confess again"

And then he is determinedly furious at what happens and makes this declaration that makes me smile, not just for the outrageous rhyme!

"Gonna raise me an army, some tough sons of b*tches
I'll recruit my army from the orphanages"

Next he is humble remembering he's no saint to lead an army. But he curses the Jihadists.

"I'll tell you one thing, I don't give a damn about your dreams."

He wonders at how the world has changed.

"I want some real good woman to do just what I say
Everybody got to wonder what's the matter with this cruel world today"


I may have enrolled in litrachure school but I didn't actually go, so don't' be surprised at my naivete, how poems are written. I see that I presume too easily that once the writer/ singer starts to tell, he may not be addressing the same person through out the poem.

Also, he may not be rooted in modern sensibilities at all, he may be from Abraham's time, an Ancient so ancient he could be impressed by a false god's "mean old twister bearing down on me". (And that towering cloud of dust was a twister all right, the worst imaginable, composed of extinguished life and turning corners with awesome rapid speed, right towards you, impossible to outrun).

Anyway, here is the song, (a live version from Sean's site) and the lyrics:

Thunder On The Mountain by Bob Dylan

Thunder on the mountain, and there's fires on the moon
A ruckus in the alley and the sun will be here soon
Today's the day, gonna grab my trombone and blow
Well, there's hot stuff here and it's everywhere I go

I was thinkin' 'bout Alicia Keys, couldn't keep from crying
When she was born in Hell's Kitchen, I was living down the line
I'm wondering where in the world Alicia Keys could be
I been looking for her even clear through Tennessee

Feel like my soul is beginning to expand
Look into my heart and you will sort of understand
You brought me here, now you're trying to run me away
The writing on the wall, come read it, come see what it say

Thunder on the mountain, rollin' like a drum
Gonna sleep over there, that's where the music coming from
I don't need any guide, I already know the way
Remember this, I'm your servant both night and day

The pistols are poppin' and the power is down
I'd like to try somethin' but I'm so far from town
The sun keeps shinin' and the North Wind keeps picking up speed
Gonna forget about myself for a while, gonna go out and see what others need

I've been sittin' down studyin' the art of love
I think it will fit me like a glove
I want some real good woman to do just what I say
Everybody got to wonder what's the matter with this cruel world today

Thunder on the mountain rolling to the ground
Gonna get up in the morning walk the hard road down
Some sweet day I'll stand beside my king
I wouldn't betray your love or any other thing

Gonna raise me an army, some tough sons of b*tches
I'll recruit my army from the orphanages
I been to St. Herman's church, said my religious vows
I've sucked the milk out of a thousand cows

I got the porkchops, she got the pie
She ain't no angel and neither am I
Shame on your greed, shame on your wicked schemes
I'll say this, I don't give a damn about your dreams

Thunder on the mountain heavy as can be
Mean old twister bearing down on me
All the ladies in Washington scrambling to get out of town
Looks like something bad gonna happen, better roll your airplane down

Everybody going and I want to go too
Don't wanna take a chance with somebody new

I did all I could, I did it right there and then
I've already confessed - no need to confess again

Gonna make a lot of money, gonna go up north
I'll plant and I'll harvest what the earth brings forth
The hammer's on the table, the pitchfork's on the shelf
For the love of God, you ought to take pity on yourself

Music and words by Bob Dylan
Copyright 2006 Special Rider Music

Gulling The Wary

The boxx's office has sky blue walls, and a large slightly tinted window, out to the concourse. The door is always open, as they like to sing about, and sometimes something unexpectedly moves me to step in there. On impulse, as if to see what particular brand of trouble there is today. Maybe I want some.

It seems I enjoy our visits, but that just can't be right. Then, the house is going to win, but not everytime! Maybe this is some gambling bug I picked up on "The Boat" several years ago.
____
You go in and he's direcly behind his extra large monitor, which is mounted high. It's a surprise he knows who it is, tapping on the door.

"Hello, John. What is it?"

I say, "Hey Bill. Oh, pretty good, how are you?" Because I don't like that question.

His head comes around, he peeks and squints. Ignores my misunderstanding. Says slowly, exaggerated slowly, "I'm fine, John. How are you?"

"Not so good! "
I'm not going to sit down then, I'll stand and turn this swivel chair back and forth.

"Well, you know how much I like it here, Bill. Ha, ha! Prelude, canned speech as usual but I'm not here for any favor. Oh, except could you let me off Sunday?"

"HEH?"

"I work six days a week and don't mind it at all! I mean, shoot, most of them are barely even half days. But I notice I'm on the schedule for this Sunday and ..."

"You want to give up Returns?"

"Heck no! But if I work Sunday that will mean I have 13 days without a without a without a day off , and maybe you'll have me work next Sunday too which will mean 20 days in a row and I like having days where I don't have to work."

"Weren't you sick awhile ago?"

"What? No. That was, oh...It's been three weeks hasn't it?"

"And you're always popping in here with last minute doctor appointments, too."

"What? That was for the dentist and I didn't pop in until I had got my own replacement. Both times."

"Three times."

"Two times this year."

"It's Januar....eeee, all right John, let me see here." Three mouse clicks on the computer. "So you want a day off..."

"No, I don't want a day off. I want my day off back."

Almost said, and what's the big idea anyway. 13 days in a row. And they keep me one hour short of being full-time so I have no benefits (but that's fine because otherwise I'd be on the assembly line again. And of course I don't want to give up Returns! What a wise guy, this Boxx.)

"This is a mistake," he says. "What do you want, Sunday off. I could give you Wednesday, Friday or Saturday instead."

"Doesn't matter to me. By the way, I appreciate the extra hours."

"Um, John. You're turning down the extra hours."

"Yes I know, but I want to say thanks. Thanks for the opportunity. I decline."

"It was a mistake."

"Well thanks for fixing it then. I'll take Sunday, if it's just the same to you."

"All right, now sit down, I wanted to talk to you, John."

Ah, fine. I like the swivel chair and these meetings are really sporting, like I said. Once I came out with a fifty cent raise! And an order to write a memo about how I spend each minute of my day back there in the old presse room unsupervised.

It's fun!

"Monday mornings are you still finding a big mess back there? Are they still letting the carriers in back there on weekends?"

"Yeah, and I caught one yesterday morning --- I worked yesterday morning, never have before on a Monday---It was Ghandi's brother, the sheik. Wahoozi, I think his name is. Or something like that. 'Wah'. "

Ghandi is our main customer, delivering newspapers to scores if not hundreds of racks and stores. His near monopoly goes back twenty years, I'm told. He is Middle Eastern, which is fine, but his name is Ghandi and I call him Ghandi the Jihadi, but not to his face.

What a great name for the college girls to love him. (And he is still a handsome man, 50-ish with a new born.)

"Ghandi", my eye!

(All right. I sound like a bigot. I'm sorry. It's war, though! Consider me in the context of my times. I don't address myself to posterity either, dammit, I mean you and you and you. My three readers. I mean, Today!)

"We have to get these people in to return their papers and do the paper work in a shorter time frame. I need you available. You work for Bindery, not circulation. And dammit they make a mess back there and the dock manager comes and tells me about it like it's our responsibility!"

I tell him "You'll be reversing the new policy from last October. Face the same arguments. They need to unload their trucks on weekends."

"I know. But why should that be our problem?" He picks up the only pen we have in the plant and taps it twice, like a black-jack, swinging it. I can't believe this place, there are no pens. Everyone brings their own.

"Are you new too? I thought the auditor insisted the Returns Processor be from outside Circulation, and it'd been this way for years."

He harrumphed and sat up a bit. "I had Tracy tell Kevin to tell Ghandi to tell his people, 'no'. But it hasn't happened, has it. Anyway I want you to write out for me a time line. What you're doing everyday for a week."

"I did that on December 20th."

"I know but what I mean is, take a time sheet and itemize every minute. In the description area tell me who is arriving and when. How long it takes. "

The boxx is always after my bogus job, he wants to erase it from the roles, strip me of my title. That's the game and for some reason , maybe you can explain to me, I enjoy playing.

"Oh, I see. Sure I can do that. But you do have my recommendations. We can cut the time in half if we have the non-Ghandi carriers phone in their return numbers."

"Yeah. Can't figure out why someone would want to hand deliver them when they can phone in..." he says.

I guess my game is not so much to disarm him with the truth, but impress him with my honesty, and then cross my fingers and count on him putting this issue back to the bottom of his to-do list.

"And Bill, I've said it before. This is a phony baloney job."

He nods, leans back with his hands behind his head and listens.

"It doesn't make sense my counting the returns. Everyone is confused. The fewer newspapers Ghandi returns, the more credit he gets for sales. People here think sales are recorded and checks cut by Return Numbers. They think unsold papers get credit, but it's the opposite. Sales are recorded at the stores and from the racks. Even Patrick is confused about this, he's always saying 'Keep an eye on Ghandi'. I could understand counting the papers if they were credited to people but they're not. The fewer papers you bring in, the better!"

"I don't know, I've heard both ways."

"Don the single copy rep knows the woman who cuts the checks for these people. By the way..." It hits me that I can mimick my friend Don and display some apparent business intelligence. "...Having zero returns is not good. Having a zero means missed sales, usually. I can tell in an entire neighborhood, by all these zeros, there are people wanting papers, but they're sold out early. And I've talked to people, and there is a computer program to adjust circulation but it's not evident at all. Don tells 'em over there. People complain to Don, you need to bring us more papers and Don says, I've tried to talk 'em into it, here's a phone number to call, you tell 'em."

The Boxx goes : "Huh. Well I think they could do better, yeah. If I were in charge over there. But I'm not. We're not. "

I think this is going well, despite everything. Henry Miller got turned down for a lowly Western Union messenger boy job and was so furious he marched into some executives office and dazzled the guy into firing the person who wouldn't hire him. And then Miller was the hiring manager. (Well, it's a good story anyway.)

I go on, "That program adjusts for when the school kids leave town for the summer, is all. I see all these 'zero' return numbers and then I have 2,000 Sunday returns. It's mis-distribution is what it is, Bill." (He insists on being called by his first name. It's come down from on high. We're even supposed to call Mr. Kane by his first name. I hate these people sometimes.)

"How'd that interview go across the street, by the way, " he asks, referring to a programming job in the news room.

"They didn't give me one. I'm locked out. No Journalism degree. "

Elbows on his desk now. "Oh , that's ...but you have a programming degree."

"Yeah I'll get over it. I like working in a factory. I've never worked in a factory before."

"Uh, huh."

Uh,oh. Ha,ha! I can see I've crossed the line.
I get up.
If I'm bluffing I must have a bad hand,so I better get out.

"I'll do the time sheet. Like, from 1:05 to 1:10 I went and put a gaylord together and put it on a skid and rolled it back."

"Another thing, John. I know it must be really boring back there. You just standing around waiting."

I couldn't believe we were playing this so straight. Concerned that I'm bored and wants me back on the assembly line, he says. Hm.

And like he doesn't know I spend most of my time reading the Times, snacking, and hanging outside with the old presse men laughing it up with the dog breeding, newspaper peddling hillbillies I love. And smoking ciggies every half hour.

"So you got me off on Sunday?" Day of rest.

"Yeah. Deanne will take care of it. I'll see ya , John."

Spot Light

Mrs. Applebones and Anonydoc discussing their first hoodlum boyfriends.

letter into the ether

i was praying/ meditating/listening, whatever, and the question came to me what do I think the world's disposition should be to me? My quick answer to that was that I should be in jail or at least in some public shame. Then I asked what would I want the world's disposition to be, to me?

And the answer was simple: I want my world more heavily populated with cheerful extroverts, coming in and going out of my house, mostly in the form of young pretty women. Who aren't all feather brained, but only some of them feather brained. I want to be drawn out and made intelligent by more interaction with healthy outgoing people, in short.

Then I thought, this is what the internet is allowing all of us: we're better able to find one another, and (as to material things) to match needs with surplus. For instance here in town there is a web site called "free cycle" where you can find all sorts of great things, even laptop computers, that are headed for the trash but can be had if you just call the person's phone number and ask. (Maybe it will cost a little for a lap top but most things are free).

But then I thought how in the golden days we had to work harder , and we had to adjust , and the guiding philosophy was to be in this world but not of it. This way, you were stuck with your family and your neighbors and you would hopefully see what was wonderful about them, to the point where the concept of "loyalty" was not only natural but fierce! And of course we had to work to have the simplest pleasures. BUT we know that food and drink and warmth and shelter were so much better appreciated after we'd worked to earn them.

So are we becoming unraveled, having it too easy in this modern age? I know that I , for one, am very sloth-like, and easily aggravated, and ungrateful at times. I don't even use the internet to seek out new friends , as i once did, many years ago. I have good friends, and the internet lets me keep in touch with them, very close touch with our words anyway. It's funny how I don't ever use the internet to set up personal meetings. I don't use it to invite people to come sit on my front porch, it is the front porch, which is kind of sad. Work is where you get to know people. And for me, the club.

We all know that a little disaster is sometimes in order for us to appreciate what we have. Also that asceticism is good for the appetite, and makes us enjoy our pleasures ten times more. Maybe the answer is to swing back and forth between the monastery and the orgy, or , say, ...work and vacation!...Or, how about just living from Sunday to Monday? That's a pretty good range, mostly on the self-denial side.

How happy I was to have made it to work yesterday, and how happy to get home.

The electricity is still in jeopardy, (more and more so until monday). I know, on some level, I would enjoy losing it, because I would find a way out of my routine here. I'd end up opening and reading a book for one thing! And no doubt this house would eventually have a spontaneous meeting either in the kitchen or living room, maybe with house guests, just for laughs and storytelling.

Whenever you start to think about life, it always come down to balances, doesn't it, and perspective and "it's all relative". And thinking all this doesn't settle my emotions. Philosophy is useless.

I do have to shake my fist, (but not at god) that I dont' have more of the sort of people I enjoy in my life. I could be more outgoing myself, I could make myself more attractive to people by being more generous with my time. I still deny that I've ever thought the world unfair to me, or that i''ve suffered any unusual injustice. I'm supposedly full of "resentments" according to AA. Actually, I just have a tetchiness that comes from being fearful of people. The people I wish were like in some of my favorite dreams, just coming in and out of the house, totally at home, friendly, teasing, mostly female (ok ok ok but it's not about sex really, just, eh, gender. )

I wish every man in this house had a cheerful girlfriend and we all knew one another well enough to have ongoing laughter, story-telling, etc. But as it happens, what girlfriends there are here in this house are mostly dour, shy, or just plain unappealing in their personalities. I remember at Daybreak, it was usually so. ONly occasionally would that house be populated with three or four sprites at a time. Same at the bookstores! Same everywhere, whether I was in the North or South.

It's all got a lot to do with me not being myself, me not going into my own default, unappealing, unwelcoming persona. God helps those who help themselves...If I was an atheist I'd scoff, of course! "Go ahead , believe that! I bet it works, helping yourself!"

anyway, it all still comes down to changing what you can , and that is mostly about yourself, and to me it has to be through prayer. Something like suggested in AA: please remove my shortcomings, release me from this selfishness, etc. so I can do your will, not mine.

and do you know , I think his will is for us to grow, and you can't grow without being very deliberate, forcing yourself to be contrary to your own world-molded nature/personality.

then of course you can drink or take drugs too. That is like setting off an explosion, and when things are very very bad, the change is welcome and all sorts of new people are allowed in your life. Only, they're not the sort you want either. Look where I am. Even though i'm in the recovery movement, most of these people are just as sick as ever. As sick as whatever was wrong, that made them drink to begin with...

Pitiful Tedium At The Daily Planet

Today on the masthead they had the day wrong, but the date right, and nobody noticed until about 500 copies were out the door.

"Monday, January 10, 2007" it read.

I got all excited. Like I wanted a copy as a collecters item, like someone in the future would find that amusing.

"Monday the 10th? In 2007? Wow, what a find, no wonder you framed it."

Told one of the old press men, and he had me repeat myself. I was still excited. I imagined that all our executives were joining a special work crew to go out into the city to grab the papers all back up before the citizenry realized their mistake.

The old fellow looked at me and seemed to be waiting for the Rest Of The Story. Then he muttered something unintelligible about the time, probably that it was molasses, and returned to his retirement by what we call the Poor Richard.

You think something exciting is going to happen when you work for the newspaper but nothing ever does. Of course I don't read the damn thing, it's just abbreviated A.P. articles and local hoo-hah.

Never any "stop the presses!" ....well, until today I guess, but I missed that, damn the luck.

I went back to my big cardboard box where the returns go. I didn't have anything to do, had finished the Times and wasn't ready to enjoy another smoke. So I just leaned there, as if I were the guardian of the recyclable paper, and gazed into the warehouse of towering paper cylanders. I imagined I looked like a disappointed pup, and harumphed and went out for a cigarette anyway.

Time Traveling Sunday Shopping

This is simply pleasant for what it is: 1957 boosterism about a "new way of merchandising", featuring Hillsdale Shopping Center in San Mateo, California. I love the narrator's voice, which is of course vaguely familiar.

You half expect marionettes, but I assure you they do not make an appearance.

"Shopping Can Be Fun"



You can find it at YouTube here, if this third party connection is buffering.

Seven days all new in a row for me.

My life is changing a little this January, which is usually like Month #13, past home plate, meaningingless.

I pray to be good; I try but rarely succeed in living each day deliberately.

Walked into work Monday, half-expecting to be fired and half hoping to be fired. But to be faithful to my prayer of that morning, instead I walked directly to the Boxx's office and said the words I needed to, to clear up a misunderstanding and secure my position.

(Now I say "misunderstanding". The truth is I'd taken advantage of some plausable deniability one day.)

You know you're in a rut when you're happy to get off work early to go have a root canal, I told the assembled at the Dead End Club.

I didn't mention that my game was to endure the (neccesary but no emergency) root canal to get a pocketful of Vicodin.

I am being remarkably responsible about my teeth recently.

About that. ...

Mama said it was "oh, nothing much, it might take a few visits", but when I'd talk to others their faces would cloud over ---or wince--- in sympathy. That kept startling me, and then they'd laugh (or cackle, actually). Someone at work told me I looked kinda green.

How could I know for sure I'd get my narcotic consolation prize? I resolved to be pessimistic. That he wouldn't give me the script, and this was after all a good thing since I'd be able to eat crow again.

Did I say crow?

Fifteen minutes into the procedure the doctor found "live tissue" (guess how he knew, yeah, guess! Elfin Frackin whack a dackin' A!) He expressed amazement.

In fact he said , quote, "I think I can say I'm astonished!".

My doctor is a man who, like me, waits for the chance to use favorite words. This was his chance, he announced. I'm gonna say it. "Astonished". I really am.

My tooth was still alive, so I half-wittedly decided this must change everything, and I wasn't having a root canal after all.

For an hour and a half, I thought we were doing some sort of elaborate, heroic engineering, like building tiny scaffolds around the tooth, buttressing it, preparing it for seven new storys and an atrium.

I relaxed, then. It wasn't a root canal, I thought, so I relaxed and gazed into the veiled nurse's eyes, which seemed to be gazing back into mine, though I knew they weren't. For awhile I was occupying myself trying to see into her soul, while she looked into my ancient egyptian mouth and probably thought "gosh someday we're all going to die, gee..."

Finally I closed my eyes, thinking that was more polite. Then when he was finishing I opened them in time to see smoke rising from my jacked open maw of death. I said, "O,E,AAAA!" and he said don't worry that's a sign of success.

The roots were filled. I don't know why they say "canalled". The roots were cannalled. I was grateful. He then got a piece of paper from the copy machine and with an ink pen drew a picture of what he'd done and what is yet to come. I admired him, and wondered if dentists aren't sculptures or painters in their spare time. Maybe they build ships in bottles. (I hope not, that would be a terrible hobby. Like a long car drive, too much time to think.)

I said is this going to hurt when the novacain wears off? He said no, but do you want some---

"Yes", I said before he said the word.

Got home, took some advice to pray and I'm surprised to report I didn't abuse them after all. Actually, I took less than prescribed, which is lucky since my tooth hurt for days.

I go in again Tuesday. And I will be the addict, I will be hoping for more. Once the prayer is said, though, it's a done deal. I believe this so strongly, there have been times I deliberatly did not pray. So, I pray I will pray and maybe you will pray that I pray that I pray.

I'd say something about wrestling an angel here but am not quite clear on the literary meaning. Should look it up...

Happy New Year ('of miracles and wonders')!

Our new housemate is a Web 2.0 man, and he's already opened a couple of doors for me. (Note, I have cable internet.)

Both turn this computer monitor into a television without any noticeable buffering or stuttering.
Movieflix.com has full length feature films and many are free. Last night I couldn't believe it. Two clicks and we were watching a favorite old classic, Life With Father, full screen, fine audio and picture. Also there are some classic TV shows including Jack Benny and George and Gracie.

Beelinetv.com presents a list of free online TV stations from around the world. I haven't tested it much but it looks promising, especially for one classic movie channel I've never heard of. You'll see the list and the descriptions.


Now, I have no comment about this. It is from the 1960's and supposably these clips are from the making of a local television advertisement

Dime Store Odyssey

From Suite To Cell To A Room Of My Own

I've resisted moving out of the double room in this sober house for a year. Even though it meant having a room-mate, I prefered it for reasons that are already becoming obscure to me, after only a few days.

Toward the end, I fought eviction. One of my housemates finally just came out and said I freaked out new arrivals (it's become an lol memory but at the time...)

I eat, sleep, I type. My conversation is severely limited with most people. Also, you finally find me sputtering and cursing certain guests on C-span's Morning Journal.

Anyway, in a year, we've had five relapses and they were all newbies who shared the suite with me. Try something new!

So I'm starting off the new year in a new room. It's very small and I hated it for about two days.

But it's the first room of my own in 18 months! Of course, having a new place has turned out to be fun. I feel like a kid who's mean older brother got sent to reform school.

It's mine!

And of course what's most comforting is still having your old prized possesions.