Some Final Zingers

For a few years starting when I was in about the fourth grade and ending when I was in the seventh grade, I had to watch out for a bully who lived down the street. This wariness occurred over 50 years ago. His name was Bob Talbot and he was the older brother of one of my pals, Gene Talbot. One time Bob put chewing gum in my hair and then to extract it, gave me an extremely ugly scalp-job. On another occasion he held me out the second floor window of his family’s house by my ankles. I did not do anything wrong, I was just smaller than Bob. It was the very definition of “bullying”. I was saved from all the duress when the Talbots moved away.

My older sister, G.G., knew Bob too. They were classmates. She and Bob got along, more or less, but she knew that Bob was a bully. When the Talbots moved away, my sister lost contact with Bob for the better part of forty-five years. Then thanks to things like the internet, Bob reemerged. She talked to him a number of times over the last few years and actually met with him now and then. I, on the other hand, had no such desire. I still saw him as a bully, although due to the passing of time, he and his past bullying have long since become a source of humor.

Anyway, Bob died a few days ago. He had no known illness, he apparently just keeled over. My sister called me yesterday and gave me the news. She was kind of saddened, I think. To me Bob’s death was just more evidence of both the passing of time, and my own mortality. I felt no remorse. In fact, I joked with my sister over the phone about Bob’s demise. I told my sister that I ought to go to the funeral so I can hang Bob’s body out of his casket by its ankles. It was not said maliciously. It was said jokingly and in humor. I said a few other silly things concerning Bob’s passing, all in jest. They were just a few final zingers. To be honest, I think Bob has them coming.         

Christmas and Me

I am an atheist and therefore I do not believe very much of the biblical Christmas story. If there were a Jesus -and that is possible- he likely was not born in a manger in Bethlehem. It makes for a good story, but it’s just as likely that he was born in a tiny rented room, or even a fairly large rented room. A manger sounds good because we like our various saviors, heroes, etc., to come from modest means. It is also highly unlikely that there were wise men, shepherds, and so forth. Probably the most unlikely element of the story is that Jesus was born to a virgin. Virgins are considered pure and unsullied. In most religions, virgins are highly prized. It was true back when the Bible was being written, and it’s true today, albeit to perhaps a lesser degree. Point is; there is a reason why Christian religions state that Mary was a virgin, and it’s not because she actually was a virgin. But to the bigger issue; there is no evidence that Jesus was the “son of God”. Truth is; there is scant little evidence that Jesus existed at all.

But despite the possible lack of religious validity, I like Christmas. We have home movies from Christmas 1957 featuring my three sisters and me when we were tiny kids. There was a hobby horse, a fire truck, a jack-in-the-box, the board game Candyland, not to mention various uninteresting gifts such as new socks and hair brushes.

One of those long ago Christmases, Santa Claus came to our door. He came right in and perched himself on our sofa. We kids were terribly excited. We all got to sit on his lap and tell him what we wanted for Christmas. Twenty years later I learned that the Santa was in reality my Uncle Wilber.

I think that once a person has really great Christmas memories, Christmas will more than likely be special forever. My mother and father are now gone but my three sisters and I get together and exchange gifts. About every other year we pull out the old home movies, now on video tape. These days some of the youthful excitement is missing, but we still have fun. 

So even if a person does not believe in god, Jesus, and so forth, that does not mean the person cannot enjoy Christmas. I could probably argue that I enjoy it more as an atheist than I did as a theist. As an atheist I do not feel guilty for not going to church on Christmas. Come to think of it, when I was a Methodist I did not feel particularly guilty either.        

Our Never-Ending Pursuit of Women

I’m going to tell any would-be blog reader a simple fact, albeit a largely unrecognized fact; men do almost everything with women in mind. There you have it. Many times it is one woman in the mind of a man, but it is almost always a female of the human species, be it one or many.

I first heard this simple statement of truth as it was spoken by a friend of mine when we were 17 years old, about 45 years ago. We had been drinking malt liquor at the time and the alcohol worked to expose our philosophical sides. When my friend made this pronouncement, I quickly agreed with him. I had come to the same conclusion over the preceding year or two.

The first order of business in the mind of a heterosexual man is to satisfy his survival needs. So the initial priorities are food and shelter. Then comes women. Almost every man alive is capable of procuring one woman or another. The idea is to secure the best woman possible. As far as men are concerned, this involves two general categories that pertain to all women; physical appearance and mental state.

Almost every man prefers a gorgeous woman to a homely one. The man who insists he would choose a Rosanne Arnold over a Natalie Portman is a man who is either blind, crazy, or lying. Generally such men are lying. They are trying to give the appearance of being deep, and complex. Ironically, they are very possibly doing this to impress a pretty woman.        

As far as men are concerned, the second category; a woman’s mental state, would be more a matter of personal choice. There are more than a few men who would prefer a rather unintelligent woman. There are other men who would want the intellectual stimulation of a knowledgeable, creative woman. One thing is certain; the vast majority of men would opt for a woman who is non-hostile. Cooperation in women is also valued by most men.

So, a man’s lot in life is to impress women. When a man has put in a respectable effort and believes he has found the best woman possible for him, he then tries to secure her permanently by proposing marriage. However, even if both parties submit to wedlock, this by no mean ends the man’s desire to impress other women, for the yearning is innate. It will be part of his psyche on into middle age and beyond, albeit at a less intense level. 

I remember many decades ago, seeing my then-recently expired Uncle Monty resting comfortably in his coffin. As stated in his directives; he was dressed in a fine, new suit. I knew which gender he had been thinking of at the time of his post-life clothing selection, and it wasn’t the male gender. Even when there was no longer a breath in his body, Uncle Monty was trying to appeal to women. We men just can’t seem to shut it off.    

An Opinion On Social Diversity

I'm thinking that someday someone might read this blog and when they do, I ought to have some actual opinions in it. So here's one of those opinions...

Social diversity is all the rage. It's been that way for a while now. Companies are pushing for ethnic and cultural diversity, universities are too. The yearning for diversity is everywhere... well not quite everywhere. I'll tell you one place where right this second it is not lovingly embraced; that's right here in the room where I am sitting alone, writing this blog entry.

I have seen diversity. In a lot of places it is a good thing. I go to a Thai restaurant a couple of times a month. Believe it or not, the food is cooked by a guy from Thailand. It's great food. But he does not interact with his customers particularly well. Why? Because he does not completely understand the culture. It limits and weakens his customer interaction. In effect, he is a soldier of diversity, and he is losing-out, ever so slightly, to the socially assimilated Thai restaurateur down the street. As an American entrenched in the American mainstream culture, I want the Thai restaurateur to be personable specifically to me. I want him to understand my humor, and be able to deliver humor of his own, humor that I can grasp and appreciate. I want him to at least understand my interests even if he does not share them.

The Thai restaurant owner feels the same way. He would really like to have me understand his cultural nuances. The trouble is; both he and I are in America, so my need to understand his culture is not acute. Though he understands that, it still saddens him.

This whole diversity thing really stems from the many African-Americans who feel uncomfortable among white folks in this post-Civil Right Revolution America. Consequently, the larger culture has allowed blacks, who unlike the Thai man, have been Americans for generations, to essentially self-segregate. Consequently, many blacks do not interact within the mainstream culture as fluidly as do whites. This hurts their chances of finding job opportunities, let alone such things as workplace advancements. On the other side of the coin, many white people are not thrilled with the idea of multicultural integrated school, hence, the rise of home schooling.

How about this; we as a society promote assimilation. We advocate that the Thai man, and the African-American woman, assimilate into the larger culture, and in so doing, they bring along elements of their own cultures. The end result; an American culture that has elements from around the world, blended into new, unique creations, and people who can freely interact with each other without cultural hardship. It could be done with a little work. After all, we as a nation are undertaking a mammoth campaign to end smoking. Why not have something similar aimed at becoming a nation with one, unique culture that includes all of us?

All right, there's an opinion for you.  

A Visit From The Past

From late 1974 until sometime around April or May of 1978, I was in a relationship with the same girl. When the relationship began, she was barely 20, and I was 23. This was the first full, loving, adult relationship either of us had been in. I’m referring to the kind of relationship where you eventually find that you are relaxed and comfortable around each other, and the sexual fires that once raged have become the less intense but long-lasting, glowing embers.

She was slender and pretty. She could be silly, kindhearted, and there was not a hint of cynicism in her anywhere. She was smart but probably not a genius. And she was a little bit ditzy too. One day she decided to write her memoirs, that is, until she realized that she was 22 years old and had no memoirs to write. I thought she was wonderful. Her name was Ellen. It’s still Ellen.

About two weeks ago I received a message through my Facebook account. It was her, Ellen. Her last name had changed, but I knew it was her. For about a minute I just sat there and stared at this notification of a message from my long-ago girlfriend. Finally I read it. I could simply tell you what it said, but I think I’d rather describe to you its effect on me.

Ellen stated that she is now a 59 year-old grandmother of 2, the oldest grandchild being 10 years old. For me, this was genuinely traumatic. The last time I laid my eyes on her she was this slightly daffy girl not yet 24 years old, now she is a 59 year-old grandmother. Anyone can do the math and figure that the 24 year-old girl I last knew over 35 years ago would be a 59 year-old woman today, but through all of those years I remembered her as a young, sparkly-eyed woman. For me, the revelation was truly traumatic. It has been a few weeks and I am still not over it, hence this blog entry.

On Ellen’s Facebook page is a single photo of what I would assume is her and her husband, but the photo is very tiny and the subjects were sitting a distance from the camera, so I can discern no detail. Another words; I do not know what the 59 year-old Ellen looks like.

We have exchanged a few other messages since the first one. It might come down eventually where we might meet for coffee or something. To be forthright, I’m not sure how I feel about such an encounter. I would like to know that Ellen has lived an enjoyable life, on the other hand, if none of the lighthearted Ellen of long-ago exists, I don’t want to know it. I want her to remain a bit daffy and thoroughly good-natured, if only in my memory.

Here’s an odd thought I had just yesterday, born from another memory. In late January 1978, Ohio was hit by one of the biggest weather events in the history of the state. It is called simply The Ohio Blizzard. I remember it well. There were howling winds, and a blinding snow storm mixed with lightning and thunder. Later that day I drove across the icy streets and through the snowdrifts to Ellen’s tiny apartment a few miles away from mine. As usual, Ellen did not have much to eat in her cupboards and refrigerator, so we drove off in search of an opened restaurant. A mile or so down the road we found one.

I remember that the parking lot was all but empty and we were just about the only people in the restaurant. But we had a good time sitting there having dinner hours after a massive blizzard. It seems almost unimaginable that before the end of that year Ellen would be married, and she would be married to someone other than me. Someone promised her things I could not, things that she wanted, and she slipped away from me. Our lives went in different directions. It might be best for me psychologically that they stay that way.          

An Ordinary Guy's Daydream (By guest blogger Sherman Langston)

Over the last twenty-five years or so I have occasionally encountered the attractive woman in my travels. This woman, whoever she may be, is of course lovely, friendly, and vivacious, as these are the very ingredients that make her attractive. Sometimes this beguiling creature is so attractive, so alluring, that I have at times become smitten by her charms. Unfortunately I am ordinary, and she is not, and so she has been out of reach. But though I am ordinary, I have always been capable of a daydream.

Sherman Langston

Often these flights of fancy begin by my saying to the woman something like, “I am playing at an outdoor concert tonight. Why don’t you come by? It’s free.”

Of course she would be surprised by my revelation and quickly reply, “You play a musical instrument?”

I would nod and modestly, humorously say, “Yes. I’ll be the guy playing the violin.” In these daydreams I am generally playing either the violin or the guitar. Sometimes I will play the guitar and then later in the concert play the violin, or vice versa. Of course in reality I can play neither. This is, after all, a daydream. Still flabbergasted by my disclosure, the alluring woman slowly nods and manages to murmur, “Maybe I’ll drop by.”

Later that night I am playing the violin beautifully. In my hands the instrument’s strings sing out in a heavenly refrain. Then, between songs, I gaze out into the small but attentive audience and I see her sitting by herself. Of course she is not only there, but also there alone, after all, what kind of daydream would it be if the lady were a no-show, or there with a man? I step up to the microphone and calmly announce, “This next piece is for a friend of mine who took time out of her evening to accept an invitation.” I then commence playing a song so tender, so entrancing, that the lady cannot hold in her tears. To her, I am ordinary no longer.

Some daydreaming guys will envision themselves rescuing the damsel from evil-doers. Instead of playing the violin, they will have infinite bravery and know karate. And there are other guys who will imagine themselves as brilliant doctors, miraculously saving the beautiful woman from some deadly disease. But for me, musical talent is my imagined weapon against real-life commonality.   

Oddly, the daydream has never gotten beyond that concert. There has never been a second chapter that has her with me afterwards. I’m not sure why I stop the daydream there. It could be that the first chapter of the daydream is all I really want and nothing else is necessary. It could be simply a matter of being beyond ordinary to a captivating lady, if only in a daydream. Yes, I think that's probably it. 

Lessons From Sea Hunt

There is a regular program on a nostalgia channel. It is Sea Hunt. Sea Hunt was around from about 1958 to the early 60s sometime. It featured Lloyd Bridges as Mike Nelson, the show’s main character. He was a scuba diver for hire. Every week he had some great undersea adventure. I tuned into an episode earlier today. Wow, did I learn some stuff, stuff such as; I can still think like a kid, even at 62.

The episode’s plot featured Lloyd’s own son, Jeff Bridges, as the mischievous skin-diving kid, Kelley, who along with a scuba-equipped pal, Joey, swiped some loose dynamite out of a box that was sitting unattended along a rocky shore. Attached to the TNT was an ordinary mechanical timer. High explosives and a timer; how much luck can two boys have?

Anyway, like any two lads, Kelley dared Joey to turn the dial on the timer. Naturally Joey took the dare and turned on the timer. Who wouldn’t? I mean; it was a dare, right? The timer immediately began ticking. Then the two boys put on their air tanks and dove down into the ocean depths with dynamite in hand, its timer running. Joey decided to explore an underwater cave while holding the dynamite. Why not? It was a really neat cave. Unfortunately Joey promptly got his leg stuck under a fallen rock there inside the cave.

Aside from the problem with the rock, the boys had not done anything that I would not have done at that age, assuming I had skin-diving equipment. I mean, there isn’t a boy alive who doesn’t want to get his hands on some dynamite. Generally the best a kid can do is score some fireworks, and even then the lad might well get yelled at by an over-protective parent or some needlessly concerned adult. When it comes to that type of destructive fare, I think the only thing I would have wanted more than a half dozen sticks of dynamite would have been a bazooka and the accompanying ammo, that is; if I were a kid. I was going to say that I would have wanted a fully equipped army tank but at age 11 I would not have been tall enough to reach the pedals. And as for the skin-diving; the undersea world would be like a boy-heaven.

Anyhow, it took the heroics of the adult Mike Nelson to defuse the dynamite and then rescue the pinned kid from his underwater predicament. Afterwards, up on the boat, for some reason Mike felt compelled to give the two kids a lecture on the dangers of explosives, as well as the hazards of scuba-diving without adult supervision. I can just imagine myself in the place of Joey during those torturous moments, I’d be looking at Mike as he yapped away, and be thinking to myself; How long are you going to keep talking, you old fuddy-duddy? I’ve got a Pee Wee football game in an hour and the field is a half hour away by bicycle.

Anyway, just to shut Mike up, the guys politely answered, “Yes sir” at the end of the boring lecture when asked if they understood their mistake… yeah, as if there were a mistake. Kelley and Joey probably had their fingers crossed anyway. Everyone knows that’s how a kid can say something untruthful without it counting as a lie.

Obviously the show was not particularly realistic. I mean, how many kids are going to be lucky enough to find a box of forgotten dynamite?