Today is Someday: Book 3 - Franny and Zooey

          This.  Goddamn it.  THIS was what I was hoping for.

          There seems to be a growing and yet infinite amount of "Best Book" lists (one maybe might want to use the term innumerable).  An aggregate collection of those best-of-the-bests now contains hundreds of books—thousands when they are spread-grouped by genre/decade/language.  J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey is on almost all of them and near the top of many.

          When I walk into my favorite bookstore on the planet I head straight for the Gold Room where I begin browsing the Fantasy/Science Fiction shelves and then the Action/Suspense/Thriller sections before I cross the isle to take a gander at the Mysteries; if I'ven't (is a double contraction too many?) found enough to sate my brain for the coming weeks, I try the coffee shop and scan the graphic novels before walking down a few steps to the Blue Room in order to peruse the Small Press/Literature areas.  Still not carrying enough?  Green Room for New Release/Non-Fiction and then Sale Books.

          The first reason I've avoided reading F&Z for so long is because it was in the Red Room (World Religion) or the Blue Room (Classic Literature).  Also, I have a clear economic aversion against small books because I want my entertainment money to stretch and F&Z is only a four-hour book at best.

          I've avoided reading F&Z for so long because when I was but twenty-one years old Mark Chapman became, overnight and forevermore, Mark David Chapman (one maybe might want to use the term with a bullet...but should immediately suppress that urge).  Chapman caused me to read my first J.D. Salinger: Catcher in the Rye.  At the time and in hindsight, I recognize my own scorn at my least common denominator pandering and (for more than the obvious reason) I wish I could, instead, say that I learned the metaphor of Holden Caulfield's dream after a smoky-eyed Yugoslavian college girlfriend recommended it.  The truth is rarely so.  But.  I didn't identify with Caulfield, or his surroundings, or life, or outlook.  Even a little bit.  And I was a full-time art college student at the time.

          Franny and Zooey is non-abstract, photo-realistic, character based, and the most tightly descriptive successful balancing...nay juggling act I have ever read.  With the complete human condition rendered perfectly in the center, unchallengeable objective knowledge solidly detailed on one end of the fulcrum, and spiritual belief critically explained on the other.  It gets my highest recommendation.  I'm really happy today was someday.

Today is Someday:  Book 2 - A Clockwork Orange

Today is Someday:  Book 1 - Watership Down

 

Today is Someday - Book 2 A Clockwork Orange

          I'm pleased with the 50th anniversary edition of Anthony Burgess's A Clockwork Orange (2012, Nolton & Co) not only because it includes the original last chapter which has been omitted from earlier US editions, but—more importantly—because it contains the 17-page nonfiction article, The Clockwork Condition, written after the Kubrick film catapulted Burgess onto the international stage in 1973.

          Burgess's nadsat 'teen-language' caused me to quit reading this book when I, myself, first attempted it as a teenager and, later, after I saw the film, I chose not to re-attempt reading it.

          I'm glad I (finally) chose to read it.  Reading nadsat seemed to speed my reading rather than slow it.  It entered my brain in this manner:
          My nouns and I were verbing at the adjective bar when an adjective noun, who'd previously been sitting with a group of rather odd adjective nouns across the bar from us, stood, and began to sing in the most adverbially adjective way imaginable.  Her voice sounded like it came from the adjective noun.  My friend Dim made a adjectively-noun noise with his noun, which displeased me in an extreme way.
          Rather quickly I began to intuit (without a glossary) that what I was reading was:
          My friends and I were getting stoned at the local bar when a beautiful woman, who'd previously been sitting with a group of rather odd older men across the bar from us, stood, and began to sing in the most amagingly wonderful way imaginable.  Her voice sounded like it came from the topmost heavens.  My friend Dim made a rude-raspberry noise with his lips, which displeased me in an extreme way.
          While the book's story adheres to the film's plotline reasonably close, there are a few important points where the film failed and those failures affect the intent of the author and deserve comment:

          1 - Burgess's teenage gangs are all between the ages of thirteen and fifteen.  Burgess's main character is in High School and the two girls he picks up at the music store are 11-year old tweens.  Kubrick's gangs are all young adults and so are the women he has sex with.

          2 - Burgess's main character spends several years in prison, but is still only about 17-years old when he's released from prison.  Kubrick's character seems to be incarcerated a very short time and when he is released we wonder why a 24-year old is bitching at his parents for renting out his room.

There is nothing to see or hear except what is not here to see


          Sometimes it's more important to note the absences, what's missing, than to focus on what is visibly present.

          In 2002, within a few short months of each other, I stopped investigating and stopped husbanding after twenty years and ten years of service, respectfully.  That was the year I let my hair down for the first time in my life (literally as well as figuratively).

          Before I retired, my latter years as a military investigator was spent supervising (an essential element of which was inspecting case files).  One way to review closed criminal cases is to look for what the first-echelon investigators and supervisors overlooked.  

          Example criminal case:  accident or suicide - after ingesting a relatively large quantity of intoxicants (legal and illegal) the victim apparently disrobed, placed his folded clothes on the hallway floor outside his hotel room, opened the window and stepped out (or fell, or was pushed).  The scene (in Amsterdam, Holland, The Netherlands) was described, sketched and photographed in detail.  Witnesses were interviewed thoroughly.  Autopsy, check.  Toxicology, check.

          The only important thing I discovered missing:  the height fallen.  Nowhere in the file was there a distance from the second floor windowsill to the sidewalk.  Added confusion:  the European second floor is the third floor in the US (the ground floor in Amsterdam is 0).  The investigators and their immediate supervisors failed to determine how far the victim/subject fell.  [Based on examination of crime scene photographs, I estimated it was over thirty feet—because "ground floor" was, maybe, half a flight of steps above "street level" and ceiling-heights appeared almost three meters high—but, guessing is not investigating.  I directed the investigators to go back and measure/document the exact distance.]

          "Why drive three hours to measure that distance, Chief, seems like a extreme waste of time and money for a closed accidental fatality case."

          I looked sternly at the investigator while I "air typed" with my fingers, "Dear Senator Helpmeout, my son's death is listed under 'accidental means' and the file, which I obtained under a FOIA request, says he 'stepped or jumped' out of a 'second-story window'.  My son was a good boy and I do not think that he would have voluntarily taken all the drugs listed in the toxicology report, but even if he did, how is it possible for him to have died falling from a second story window?  I could jump out of my bedroom window - on the second story of our house - and the worse thing that would happen is I might sprain my ankle."

          Non-sequitur: 

          Most people let their hair down when they first move out of their parent's house.  I didn't.  With never a pause, I morphed from overly responsible teenager putting himself through college to young soldier taking care of an unplanned family to adult with two cats in the yard and we'll get-together then, son, you know we'll have a good time then.  So...when I found myself retired and single in Prescott, Arizona at the age of 42...I dove head-first into a auto-didactic double major of meditative self-awareness and immersion in nature.  During which, I experimented with—among other things; some foolish, others less-so—automatic writing.

          With my eyes closed, in a light meditative state, I spoke questions aloud and my hand scribbled answers on a large sheet of paper.  After a large much of nothing memorable the following happened:

Me:  How old will I be when I die?

My right hand (eyes still closed):  Fifty three.

Me:  What day of the year will I die?

My right hand (eyes still closed):  31 December.

          Even at the time I never paid much heed to it.  Over the past decade, I mentioned it, jokingly, a few times when a conversation topic turned to "weird experiences."

          Around 2007, when the 21 December 2012 Myan-apocalypse began to hit fringe people's radar, I - again - recalled my own faux-ominous date o' death based on nothing but my own foolishness.  One which was, then, supposed to be 31 Dec 2012. 

          That was a week ago, and all of our heads, including my own, are still snapping.

          I'm fine.

          How you doin?

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
          I am attempting to point out that we all rarely pay attention to the obvious, staring-us-in-the-face, always present thing-on-our-mind, which is (may be) not thought about very often.

          We would-maybe-kinda like to know when we are going to die.

          We always consider it will happen sometime in the future.  And not just the future.  Distant future.  Ten years from now.  At least.  We assume that it will happen when we are old.  And we never think we are old.  Not old enough to die of old age.

          We all always assume: 'tomorrow will be another day'.

          We rarely consider that tomorrow could be the last day.  And we don't focus on the idea that when our last day arrives, just like yesterday arrived—that it will almost always be unknown that it is the last day.  Period.  The end of the world, from our perspective, is the end.  Full stop.

          Even as we are falling thirty-five feet to our seconds-away demise, hope I don't sprain my ankle from this second floor window is our minds last.

Open Letter to Senator Wyden

Dear Senator Wyden,

          My suggestion is for a new national law which would immediately employ over a million people in 48 states.  Because this suggested new law wouldn't effect our state or the state of New Jersey, I think this bill should be co-sponored by someone like Senator Menendez (D, NJ).

          Using the Emergency Highway Energy Conservation Act of 1974 as a template, and incorporating sunset provisions (for no shorter than five years) I suggest a bill which would duplicate ORS480.315 making self-service gas stations illegal nation-wide.

          Additional suggested requirements which should be included in the bill (which would affect Oregon and NJ):

          -  Require a dispensing license (which will have a fee which is similar to an alcohol certification or a food preparation license).  This training can be made available online, but could only be issued in person (by a licensed gasoline retailer) to US citizens who are at least 18 years old.  (The purpose of the law is to employ out-of-work adults, not high school students and illegal immigrants.)

          -  Require each State Fire Marshal to employ additional Inspectors, funded by the additional fees and fines.

          There are many safety and equality justifications cited as to why full-service may be better than self, but I suggest this new national law only be proposed in order to quickly employ a large quantity of Americans.  I estimate this law would employ between 1.2 and 1.8 million people.

          Obviously, all—or almost all—of these employees would be minimum-wage, less-than-full-time, non-benefit, employees.  And, also obviously, the fuel distribution companies would raise the cost of gas and pass the added cost to the end-consumer (I estimate that the cost of gas would increase between 10 and 15 cents a gallon).  None the less, the added jobs would definitely spur spending and grow our economy at a time when it is most needed.

          My quick calculations indicate there would be about 240,000 gas stations affected.

          I've been wondering, for some years now, about the incessant "job creation speechifying."  I think if this new law were proposed by an Oregon Senator, he would be seen as proposing a fix which (because it would have no direct benefit in his state and was only an attempt to improve the national economy) would quickly employ millions of Americans.

          I hope my suggestion is of some use.

          Veach Glines

Dangerous Artists?

          Although this banner is riddled with wrong on many levels, it is that very fact which explains why people are drawn to it.

          This is not an actual poster from the McCarthy-era (a claim made by the type of individuals who also choose to think that contrails are chemtrails and be-damned with hot exhaust/cold atmosphere physics).

          Artists don't mix.  They certainly are a part of all of human society no matter how one decides to pigeonhole or categorize, but—mostly—creative types don't mix very well.   We try, dammit, but we don't often succeed.

          Creative people want to be perceived as out-beyond-the-edge and as non-conformists.  And those who are driven to create would absolutely love to wear the label: most dangerous.  However, every artist I've ever known is no more threatening than a drifting cloud of condensed water vapor.