Memorial day update: It's in car-jail. Delivery date is now TBD.
Dateline: T minus 30 days
Memorial day update: It's in car-jail. Delivery date is now TBD.
TOBG (timely oldies but goodies)
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Mr Nobody - film review (☆☆☆☆☆)
Here's a test: Requiem for a Dream, Darren Aronofsky (2000); the question is not if you liked it, or even if you enjoyed Jared Leto's performance (he's also the main character in Mr Nobody) the question is: Have you watched it, in its entirety, beginning-to-end, without distraction. Yes? Go to the next question. No? I don't think you'll be able to sit thru 30 minutes of Mr. Nobody.
Same question about Amélie, Jean-Pierre Jeunet (2001). Yes? Next Question. No? You will be so lost and confused by Mr. Nobody. Your brain just doesn't work like mine. It's not a better/worse thing, we just process information differently.
Which of these five films have you seen? Vanilla Sky, Cameron Crowe (2001); Sliding Doors, Peter Howitt (1998); Inception, Christopher Nolan (2010); Cloud Atlas, Tykwer/A&L Wachowski (2012); Memento, Christopher Nolan (2000).
None? You won't make it through the opening credits of Mr. Nobody.
One or two? You may be able to watch the entire film (after all, you made it through Requiem as well as a frenetic, subtitled, French comedy) but you lack sufficient film foundation to actually get your brain completely around Mr. Nobody. The up-side: you have a short list of must-see films to catch up on (except Cloud Atlas, you can skip that one; I only included it because I needed a 'high bar').
Three or four? You'll understand Mr. Nobody, so maybe you'll like it. Lack of understanding is the main reason films like this (these) are disliked.
You've seen all of them? Then you'll love Mr. Nobody.
It really doesn't matter what you think about any of these films—like, hate, or indifferent doesn't matter. If you have seen all (or almost all) of these seven films, your brain works like mine.
one unhatched-chicken, two unha...
After my car arrives, what will be the first alteration?
The badges—forward of each side mirror—will be replaced.
Basic models are 'pure', cabriolet's 'passion', and limited editions each have their own.
Mine will arrive with passion badges (in about a month) and I will immediately replace them with wampeter, which Smart Madness has custom made for me.
Kurt Vonnegut coined the word in 1963 with the novel which begins: 'nothing in this book is true'. Something which connects or ties an otherwise unconnected group of people together is a wampeter.
Some salesman and loan officers; a few mechanics whom I've yet to meet; me; my family, friends and neighbors; you; the person who made the above badge, and then picked up her iphone (which has a green velvet case) to look it up and ordered Cat's Cradle using her Amazon app; other smart car owners (some of whom I'll exchange waves with in passing, others I'll exchange ideas with online, and a few others I may actually meet at the 2015 Portland smart car rally...which does not exist outside of this sentence as far as I know) — none of these people are in any way actually connected by this vehicle, this tool, this mode of transport for one or two people and an average-sized grey striped cat. Nobody actually thinks a mystical-phantasmagorically-cosmic connection has actually been created by artfully combining plastic, metal, rubber, glass, cloth, leather, and matte grey paint, into the object which is currently sitting in the rain, in France, in a huge lot surrounded by thousands of other micro-cars. I realize, nonetheless, that it is harmless to ponder this connection as if it actually existed. So I ponder. Busy, busy, busy.
I'm mentally ill and I'm OK, I create all night and I'm antisocial all day
Around the same time that Y2K was a thing, I learned about a new word: Aspergers. I pronounced it with derision—two words: Ass Burger's. Because, even though this was a label which seemed to apply to most of the personality traits which made-up the who I had always been, it didn't change anything. It was just another rose-by-any-other-name thing. Knowing there was a new medical label for the person that was me (who avoids doctors, of every ilk, like they're machete-wielding street-corner bullies) had little impact on me. I have always been comfortable with my introversion and bewildered by the behavior of what extroverts refer to as normal.
In the 1980s, I referred to myself as Über-introverted.
By the late 1990s I easily joked about myself as someone who was at the, "Unabomber-level of introversion; without the bombs and with a keener eye towards manifesto writing."
Today, I still pine for a shack in the woods, rarely find myself in a position to use the term Aspergers in conversation (which is more-than-probably because listendon'talk is my normal, and not because I avoid identifying which brand of homo-sapiens I was born into), and never refer to Aspergers by nickname or acronym (for the same reason it's penis, not willy or cock).
Aspergers has now been moved under the umbrella of Autism Spectrum Disorder. Some people have a problem with this change. Some other "new mental illnesses" (now identified as such by the DSM) include: arrogance,
narcissism, above-average creativity, cynicism, and antisocial
behavior.
I am now classified as a person with autism. Personality traits are now referred to as diseases by machete-wielding street-corner bullies.
These distinctions are causing some people to sit up and bark. Others are shitting in their bed-clothes. None of this has any more affect on me than when I learned—over a dozen years ago—that a new label existed for my introversion.
La de da.
Kay sera sera.
Sometimes you just have to say what the fuck.
catch up on more Asperger'stuff:
The Union Label
Yesterday a customer said, "You're in a union at Alamo car rental, so what's your opinion about them. Are unions beneficial?"
"From my perspective," I replied, "the union makes a huge difference. Years ago, when Enterprise Car Rental bought the Alamo and National car rental companies they had to take them as they were: union companies. But Enterprise itself wasn't then—and remains today—a non-union company. All hourly union employees who work for Alamo and National are full-time, 40 hours a week, eligible for overtime, paid holidays, sick days, vacation days, healthcare, full benefit package. Hourly Enterprise employees are paid the same wages but are part time...no benefits."
Anyone who has ever criticized a union's efficacy needs to wrap their head around this reality.
build date
I've been informed that Friday, 4 April 2014, is the day my smart is scheduled to be built.
That's National Cordon Bleu Day (if you didn't know, now you do) and I intend to celebrate that day by eating some crusty panco chicken, ham, and cheese.
create your happy
Epilogue/postscript: I really had no idea when I created/titled this digital rendering that it was the first International Day of Happiness. Anyone and everyone familiar with the real snapperhead that is me, knows I'd have ridiculed or—at the very least—made a joke out of such a foolish and crass Hallmark-label-façade.
In my own way, I guess I did poke fun at it. The "hidden message" is no where near some of my previous (which can be at-or-beyond the Where'sWaldo-level). In this one, there are dozens of recognizable images and a couple which aren't hidden in any manner at all. What so ever. Out in plain sight. As the nose on your face.
Looking for one with more challenge in the hidden stuff department? Click on that little © below and scroll past the comics until you get to one that makes you go hummm (or one that makes you say, "I don't get that") = hidden stuff abounds.
Meme naysayer challenge
You, me, and everyone we know have been inundated by memes and are also, more than probably, guilty of adding to the deluge. It is now considered rather gauche to forward them or to even call attention to a meme which especially tickles you by showing your screen to someone else. At least that's the impression I have from the cheap seats—which is the vantage point of those of us who are untumbling, non-twits, who don't have our face in the book. (Albeit there are only twelve of us under the age of 65.) Did I just hear a collective gasp? I also don't own an account to pay my pals. Yup, that was an audible intake of breath.
I am shunning common decency. Being mostly disconnected from the vast hypertextural flow over here in my tiny blogspot eddy I can write lengthy paragraphs which are seen by very few and those who visit this rather tranquil current are enured by the rants and foma I espouse.
With no further ado...
I am shunning common decency. Being mostly disconnected from the vast hypertextural flow over here in my tiny blogspot eddy I can write lengthy paragraphs which are seen by very few and those who visit this rather tranquil current are enured by the rants and foma I espouse.
With no further ado...
spring haz sprung
I know many of my fellow countrymen are still slogging thru the wintry mix and need to still use scoop-like implements to move blankets of snow from their path.
Please know that I empathized with you today, while I and my cat wandered the forest trails on our first cat hike of the year. It was in the low 60's (16° C), clear and sunny.
We met this little green fella and saw five deer.
I take the "better story..." part back
After watching this, I remembered my 2006 story (written in 2008) about a similar hawk which almost landed on Pam's head. I take back the part about actually wishing he'd landed. The story is good enough without what would have resulted in lacerations and a ninety-minute drive to get her scalp stitched.
Tula's Trousseau
I created this advertisement (for my fiancée), which will be published in the next issue of a local quarterly belly dance magazine called From the Hip.
I'm a Teamster
I've never been in a union. None of my assorted previous jobs were union and then I joined the Army.
If—35 years ago—someone had said (while working my way through college) that in 2014 it would be considered an accomplishment just to be hired full-time at a union job with benefits, I would have scoffed. Scoffed aloud...I tell you.
Soon. Very soon.
Expected build-date is in April. Delivery should be late May or early June.
Birthday letter to my Mom (on her 75th)
Yesterday, I was reminded your birthday was approaching when Pam asked “Isn’t your mother’s and dead-to-me-sister’s birthdays a day apart?” When answering her follow-up (‘who’s was which’) I said, “I once had a mental trick which helped...it was...let’s see...Mom was born before my sister, so my Mom’s (...) on the 28th.”
As I paused slightly at the (...) point, she tried to be funny and finish my sentence with: “is older than your sister”.
It was a giggle in an obvious way, but it caused my brain to hiccup and question my decades-old trick; since the number 29 is larger than 28, is Mom’s birthday the 29th?
I’m now back to kinda almost positive your’s is the 28th (because 28 comes before 29) but, regardless of the exact day, I hope you have a happy one on your birthday—whichever day.
The conversation which ended with Pam messing with my memory or calling attention to the noticeable loss of it (a menopause symptom), began with her wondering why I disliked presents and when/why it began. I tried to explain it and as I talked, old thoughts began to coalesce. I said:
I was a normal child when it came to gifts—eagerly anticipating presents in December wrapped in white tissue paper and in March after cake. While recalling some childhood favorites: Big Bruiser, Mister Man, a Crackfire rifle, a white spherical Panasonic radio on a chain, a red Huffy with a banana seat, a ten-speed racing bike (stored before Christmas in a neighbor’s garage), I also remembered a couple of not-so-greats: a frozen-to-death hamster; a do-it-yourself model wagon train with wooden horses to carve; and, embarrassingly, trying to steer my sister away from buying me a plastic pin ball game, while we were ‘kids corner’ shopping for each other.
As a teen, my girlfriend began to sour gift-giving and -receiving for me.
After wracking my brain on what she might really like...either spending weeks making something (like a jewelry box) or weeks of my paycheck on a bracelet or necklace...I would notice over the following months that she never wore it or preferred to keep using her old store-bought one.
Conversely, the gifts I got from her made me sad. The items themselves said ‘she really doesn’t know me, and either doesn’t listen or pay attention to what I say when talking about my preferences’.
As an example, she didn’t seem to think my favorite color was something to remember. (It’s been orange since I was 14... while working at the pro shop; one member teased another for wearing an eye-straining orange leisure suit with white stitching and I admired his vehement defense of ‘his favorite color’ and decided I agreed with him about the reasons orange was best—albeit not about his extreme wardrobe.) I still remember that my girlfriend’s was black. And not just because so many women claim that’s their favorite color, but because my gifts from her would almost invariably be dark, subdued, grey, silver, or black. Never orange. As if her first thoughts were how my item might look when accompanying her.
Long before my first marriage, I instituted a rule: we’ll provide each other with a short list of affordable specific items, at least a month before the holiday.
I continued this tradition with my second wife because I’d fallen into the routine. I thought it worked, and she never balked at any of my suggestions (which was a big reason I married her and - then - became a big reason to divorce).
In the mid 1980's I had opportunity to witness what I consider the saddest gift-giving and -receiving failure ever (between my Nana and her son, my Uncle):
While visiting, Christmas of ‘86, she received a boxed fruit basket from him (it may have actually been a boxed basket of sausage, cheese, and crackers. Maybe it was a boxed basket of candles, bath salts, and lotions). No matter. She beamed and was oh-so pleased. She talked about her son (whom I never witnessed visiting or talking on the phone to) so warmly. I learned she got gift baskets every year from him; once around her birthday and another around Christmas. Always with a brief note attached, ‘With hopes this finds you well,’ or ‘Thinking of you this holiday season,’ or maybe slightly more personal ‘A milestone - 60 - wow.’
Nana told me that he also called her a few times a year, to wish a happy or a merry. I asked if she ever got a present from him that wasn’t from a catalog, ordered over the phone. “No,” she said. “He’s very busy and the men in our family, as-a-rule, aren’t much in the way of gift-giving. They say it’s not the gift but the thought that’s important and I agree. The baskets say he still thinks about me and that’s what matters.”
But I disagreed–then and still–and the aphorism (which I do agree with) is the reason she was wrong...there was no thought behind the baskets which his wife or secretary automatically ordered when the calendar said it was time. And since he was intelligent enough to know that constant impersonal baskets from catalogs should have been (would be, by most people) perceived as less than sending no gift at all...and still he did only that...for decades...I can only assume his sensibilities were broken. That sentence should have ended with a question mark...like: broken?
I suspect he might’ve been following in his father’s footsteps...doing as he was taught. I recall occasionally riding with Papa when he’d “visit” his mother. Papa seemed to enjoy my company (but the men in our family are practiced at deception) and I also recall enjoying the cage elevator in Great-Nana’s building; liking the candy she seemed to always have; wondering about the odd curb-feelers on her car; and I don’t think I minded talking with her as much as he did (at least that’s the impression he gave...the visits seemed brief, even to a five year old). My thought is Junior had opportunity to witness Senior’s interaction with his Nana, solidifying that going through the motions is all that’s required.
But where was I with my rant about gifts? Oh yeah. Third wife. At first, I relaxed the rule because her daughter still received presents wrapped in white tissue paper and after cake. After our first holiday, I proclaimed that I wanted no more gifts. I told her I didn’t like them in general and that getting gifts made me uncomfortable (which wasn’t a lie). I agreed to keep buying gifts for step-daughter, but much preferred she and I shop, pick out things we each wanted (which we could afford) and to then let the other buy them. What I didn’t say was that it was because all the gifts I got that holiday were items I would never use (a fat tie when I only wore skinny ones; a sport watch with a massive dial when I only carried a pocket watch; a members only jacket ... Ugggh, remember those? I hated them even when they were en-vogue).
Fast forward a few decades...to now.
I very much like giving gifts when they’re honestly wanted and subsequently make the recipient happy. I’m not alone in disliking giving anything—to anyone—if it’s unwanted. Nobody likes their time or money to be wasted.
Ditto that last paragraph replacing the words ‘giving’ with ‘receiving’ and ‘to’ with ‘from’.
Which makes me think of your kerfuffle over the back porch light, which according to you wasn’t destined to become what you wanted if your daughter/my sister did the replacing. I don’t blame you for nipping that in the bud before it blossomed into something you’d either hate every time you looked at it or would’ve needed to replace (dreading the next visit when you’d be forced to either admit hating it or make-up a white lie about it getting damaged).
Bringing me to my very-own favorite “gift failure” with her:
Backstory: I began my collection of spheres in 1990 while on a camping vacation in Moab, Utah. I bought a red-veined jasper sphere in a green-marbled malachite dish. I quickly realized that If I didn’t set some rules for myself I could easily end up with too many spheres, from bowling ball size to pea size, so I chose a small bracket around the size of the first one (1.75" diameter) and only added spheres if they were between 1.5" and 2". These outside parameters are soft (I don’t carry calipers) so...I have a few which are slightly larger and slightly smaller—but only by a millimeter or two.
In the spring of 2000, when I was in Germany, she and her boyfriend came to visit before they went to Spain and Switzerland, and brought a sphere which she proclaimed a “late birthday present.” She elaborated that although she knew it was slightly larger than my collection, she’d met this amazing craftsman and learned all about how he made these wonderful rainbow colored marbles and blah blah blah immediately thought about my sphere collection and decided—even though it was quite expensive—that she had to get one for me. It was slightly larger than three inches. The fact that it was very costly was mentioned. A lot.
The backstory as to why she should have known better: She visited me in Georgia in the early 90's and saw my spheres when the entire collection could fit in one hand. And she visited in New York in ‘98 and saw it when it was 50 spheres displayed on my living room wall. I recall telling her then about all of my criteria: no flat surfaces; no built-in stands; one piece only; any and all materials are allowed (currently the range is: woods, glass, dozens of different minerals and types of rock, rubber, plastic, different metals, ivory, and various composites like Formica); and – most importantly – never smaller than 1.5 or larger than 2 inches. Also, I bought spheres with her in three different Indiana locations and she saw and handled those purchases.
None the less, she spent (I would guess) well over $250 for a sphere that very clearly was not something that would fit in my collection.
For years I kept her expensive marble (not a sphere) in a spiral brass window sculpture in the kitchen. To not ruffle any feathers, when she came to visit last October, I moved it from the kitchen into my collection. Of course—as expected—she sought and pointed it out to her husband with the re-re-re-mention of it’s expense.
I attended a holiday party last month. We were asked to bring a no-longer wanted item representing something we “wanted to put behind us”. When someone picked our item, we would then explain what it represented, pick something from the pile, and explain why that item “intrigued or represented something we wanted to bring into our life in the coming year”.
Yea – a crowd of old hippy’s, young hipsters, and wingnuts...most of our Portland-friends are pretty far out on the fringe. The artist fringe is something I could never quite embrace. I like meat and logic too much. And vegan-spiritualists are so incredibly chock-full of nonsense they seem to be speaking gibberish. English words but with sentences that lack any commonly understood meanings.
The Expensive Marble was selected by a woman who cooed about the colors of the rainbow imbuing her porch with it’s aura (or cleansing her essence or some-such gobbledegook). I picked a coffee table book on art deco (a design era Pam and I both admire).
When the time comes I’ll say I gave it away because it never fit in my collection and that I wanted to put deceit behind me, because I was tired of continuing the ruse. I don’t know if I need to tell her now (so she can get over it in a year or two) or if I can put off telling her until her next visit. Which, if Pam and I get married will probably mean the not-so distant future.
While on the subject of gifts, I think it only apt that I mention the best and worst gifts you’ve given me:
The best gift of all is my life. I suspect I’ve not thanked you in clear and definite terms for birthing and raising me. Sorry I didn’t say it sooner: Mom, thanks for being my mother.
Second best gift you gave was: my smile. You and Dad scrimped and saved but spent money on straightening my teeth...those thousands could easily have gone elsewhere. As every year passes, I’m more proud of my smile (with only the one filling, which I got when I was twelve) I’ve got quite an impressive mouth for an oldster. And it’s not just because of the braces; clearly, you instilled a higher oral hygiene standard; brushing, water picks, and less sugary drinks growing up may all have been a part of it, none the less, the combination stuck. Thank you.
Third best: my love of reading. Having talked with so many boorish adults and ignorant children in my life, I’ve identified a common denominator: none of them ever read for fun. Most stupids think reading is something you had to do in school. Thank you for reading to me as a child.
Making me a cat person. You may not remember doing it, but you did. I got Popcorn in 1979 the week after you visited my first Milwaukee studio apartment. You were leaving (walking down the outside steps to the car) and said, “I’m surprised you don’t have a cat yet.” I replied that I’d been thinking about it. A lie. Twenty year-olds don’t know how to say, “Thanks Mom, what a great suggestion!” Which it was. And, even though my neighbors had a ton of pets, I hadn’t considered getting myself a cat until you mentioned it in passing.
The wooden hinged box made at the prison (which I use).
Every package of half-way cookies, which (even with the recipe) nobody else on the entire planet is able to make correctly.
Rag rugs (3 adorn my floors and a 1 cushions the cat’s eating shelf).
The one present you sent which I recall disliking so very much was a sweater in 2000. It was a goofy Xmas sweater with a huge golfer on it. You said later that it was a “gag gift” but it didn’t feel like that when you sent it. I never wore it and felt real bad throwing an unused sweater away. I think that same emotion must have driven me to keep up the ruse with The Expensive Marble. I also think that same guilt-emotion is one of the contributing factors why I continue to say I don’t want gifts. Maybe I empathize too strongly with the gift-giver.
I mentioned this months ago about possessing several traits of Asperger’s. Here’s a list of the most common symptoms for adults. The first six are those I share to some degree:
- Average or above-average intelligence.
- A precise eye for intricacy and detail.
- Difficulties engaging in social routines, conversations, and small talk.
- A preference for routines and schedules; stress & anxiety if disrupted.
- Lack of eye contact.
- Sleep problems, including difficulty in falling asleep, frequent nocturnal awakenings, and early morning awakenings.
- Extremely specialized interests or unusual hobbies.
- Difficulties with high-level language skills such as verbal reasoning, problem solving, making inferences and predictions.
- Difficulties in empathizing with others.
- Problems with understanding another person’s point of view.
- Problems with controlling feelings such as anger, depression and anxiety.
- Unusually sensitive or insensitive to sound, light, and/or other stimuli.
Since I tend to “catch” the mood of those around me, I can get dragged without warning into a bad mood just because she’s angry at her boss, or her child, or the neighbor’s dog, or the traffic on her drive home.
Fast forward to now: I adore Pam’s moods. I have a nickname for her that causes her to cringe when I use it: ‘Pure-Pam’. She’s never in a snit without a real good reason. Like you.
I think Pam (and I) are both having perimenopause symptoms. We both get night sweats and have unusual aches and tenderness in our joints. But since I’ve been told men don’t get the symptoms women get, maybe my night sweats and body aches are just me over-empathizing—all psychosomatic.
Symptoms unique to me: the occasional rapid or irregular heart beat and a decrease in libido (the only one the literature claims I could have). So maybe the heart-thing is too much caffeine, the night sweats is too many covers, and the aches and pains is just from a lot of walking.
PurePam still claims she’s too young for menopause. So to explain her symptoms she says the tingling in her hands could be caused by sewing too much; sweating at night is too many covers; her lower libido and joint and body pain is because of some long work hours standing on a concrete floor which makes her over-tired; and her insomnia is either something she ate, too much sleep the day before, or because the book she’s reading is too interesting.
She doesn’t have moodiness or anxiety or any of the anger-stuff. I can deal with smellier farts and sweats and all the rest, but I really hope she stays PurePam who never gets her panties in a bunch or her dander up.
This has been my birthday present. A real letter. Not written with a pen, but I’ve always written better behind the keyboard.
After watching the movie ‘Her’ where the main character’s job is writing and mailing computer generated letters which are designed to appear as if the customer wrote them with a pen on heavy letter stock, I realized it’s been way too many years since I wrote you a real letter.
Although phone calls are nice, the spoken word is less solid. I’ll insure there isn’t another five-year span between letters.
With love and hopes that your next year is filled with happiness -
{signed with a pen}
PS: I feel I’d be remiss if I didn’t end without mentioning your desire to give me a camera. The fact that last year you were aware of my sensitivity to gifts (even if you didn’t understand why) and asked if a GoPro would be welcome, was in-and-of-itself...wonderful...just that you asked.
Gifts are best when the giver—in sync with the receiver—selects an item the recipient is already considering. I also appreciate that we were in sync.
But (yea, here comes the but) I feel uncomfortable when you spend hard-earned on what I consider an extravagance. Just as uncomfortable as when you asked if I’d like your car after you pass. My thought process went thusly: I can’t afford the added insurance and upkeep so, if gifted with a car, I’d sell it and put the money in savings, which–then–seems like I’d be “reserving” money from your estate...way too much like when dead-to-me-now had soon-to-die-dad “loan” his granddaughters money. Icky-ick.
I’d prefer you bake a bunch of half-way cookies and not buy me a GoPro. I still love Necco wafers and non-pareils. Or...I’d love a big bag of homemade GORP—my favorite is equal parts: Kellog’s cracklin’ oat bran (which I can’t find locally) - Regular m&m’s - Nuts (a mix of peanuts, walnuts and cashews) - Raisins - and a small amount of mini marshmallows. Thanks so much. XOXO
First Exquisite Corpse of 2014
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Although I'll rant and I'll rave about one thing and another...
I hurt my hands. All the time. A stubbed thumb. A ripped nail. A nicked fingertip here, a scratch in the crease of a joint there. Frequently, I'll discover a bleeding finger and can't remember how I did it. Haul some firewood and I get a splinter. Fix a lamp and a wire will find its way under my fingernail. Use a tool and scrape some knuckles. Grab something heavy and pull a cuticle away from its fingernail-bed. I average two injuries a month, more than twenty a year, hundreds every decade.
Somehow my brain's awareness of—or connection to—everything beyond my wrists isn't very good.
It took years of "little accidents" to recognize I had this personal quirk. Gloves help. Not using machinery helps more. Concentrating on focusing my attention and not letting my mind drift whenever I need to do something dangerous (e.g. wash dishes, hammer a nail) helps the most.
Although knowing my limitations hasn't eliminated every hangnail, every year I use measurably fewer Band-aids.
Along a similar "self-awareness vein," I came to realize that I would most-probably die of a heart attack sometime in my mid-60s (which means—today—I have about ten years of life left to live). In my mid-30's I made this estimate based on actuarial tables (average death-age and cause of demise of recent male ancestors; adding some years for healthy habits, subtracting for unhealthy ones) and subsequently chose to retire in my 40s. Today—over a decade later—I'm still semi-retired. [Addendum: I wrote this in 2014. This article, written in 2019, explains why I may not die in two years or less.]
Recently I told a close family member about my early-retirement rationale. Instead of recognizing my logic and being supportive, this relative refused to part with long-held preconditioned statistics preached by government and followed without question by the masses ("retirement age" is the mid-60s; everyone dies 15-20 "golden years" later). [This essay, also written in 2019, explains why covert/vindictive narcissists opt to always be negative.]
My mother's father and grandfather both worked until they died (at 61 and 57). My father died at 60. None retired. All continued to amass: possessions, vacation days, and pensions; woke every morning to an alarm clock; worked in order to live and lived in order to work until their hearts stopped beating; and left a bitter wife who'd stopped sharing a bedroom with them years earlier (for at least one of them).
I can think of nothing sadder.
On the other hand, I've spent most of the last ten years (and hope to have at least ten more) doing what I consider the ultimate bliss: ridding myself of stuff, vacationing and spending my pension wisely; waking only when my body doesn't want any more sleep; all the while giving and receiving as many orgasms as she-who-is-my-best-friend and I desire. [This poem, written at the very end of 2019, explains why I am still deeply in love with my wife.]
Without expanding the video, listen to my signature song while reading the oh-so appropriate lyrics.
- solo "trumpet" / keyboard intro -
Can you believe me when I say...there's nothing I like better - than just to sit here and ta-aalk with you?
Although I'll rant and I'll rave about one thing and another - the beauty of it is—hope you'll agree—
tho' I'm a po-oor boy
I can still be ha-aappy
s'long as I can fe-eel free
So many people, I know, gettin' old a-way too early (well aren't you feelin' kind of weary?)
just to impress you with the money they make. (you betta...ya betta...ya betta change yer theory.)
One drop of rain, they complain, and it's the same about the wage they're earnin.
Well that is not the way I'm gonna be.
Don't mind the rain. Don't mind snow. Don't mind nothin'...if I know: You will be...ri-ight here with me.
(We like to say, 'don't mind yer point of view.' But how can we all afford to live like you?)
(The simple life is simply not enough. We have appearances we must keep up.)
- clarinet solo -
(Po-oor Boy) If that's the way it's gotta be.
(Po-oor Boy) It's you for you, and me for me.
(Po-oor Boy)
I've tried all I can...understanding...all the fools, and all their money; when half of what they've got—you know—they never will use.
Enough to get by...suits me fine...I don't care if they think I'm funny.
I'm never gonna change my point of view.
Don't mind the rain. Don't mind snow. Don't mind nothin, if I know...you will be...right here with me. All the way. (na-na-na)
Don't mind the rain. Don' mind snow. Don' mind no-oothing, if I know. You will be. Right here with me.
- solo "trumpet" / keyboard outro -
Poor Boy lyrics by Rodger Hodgson and Rick Davies (Supertramp, 1975)
The Short Game - film review (☆☆☆☆☆)
It begins in the familiar way these things do: catchy montage; authoritative deep male voice over; introduction of the child golfers, who will be filmed over a period of months as they prepare for, and then compete in, the world junior golf championship.
The producers and director borrowed the template used in the golf show Big Break as well as Toddlers and Tiaras and many, many, other reality TV shows by spending a few minutes with each of the main competitors (three girls and five boys) on their home turf (two from Florida, one each from: Texas, California, France, South Africa, China, and the Philippines) introducing themselves and their families. At this point we, the viewers, begin to make decisions about who we are going to like, dislike, and root for—based solely on snippets of conversation and/or actions captured by the film crew and, of course, by our preconceived biases.
Very early in the film it becomes obvious that the cinematographer(s) and the music producer play a very important role in making this an extremely enjoyable film. The transitions and the music montages are carefully done with attention to detail. The editing is masterful.
I can't recall the last time I watched a film and recognized that the contributions of the "people behind the scenes" were not only important to the overall watching experience, but were THE REASON for liking the film. You know when your heartstrings are being strummed; we all do. In this film the documentary film makers, without a script, manipulate our emotions with music, editing, camera and microphone angles and omnipresence. I laughed. I cried. I cheered. I constantly muttered, "so mature for eight years old". I became aware of my preconceived biases (which is something the director wanted me to do) and I came away wishing it were possible to peek into the lives of these child-people in a few years to see how hormones alter them (kind of an Up series with golf as the common denominator).
To really like this film, it will help if you already know something about and maybe even enjoy the game of golf...but it is not a requirement (any more than you had to know something about child beauty pageants to like Little Miss Sunshine.) This film is available on download and DVD; I think you'll enjoy it as much as I did.
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