This is where I was at ten years ago — You (.1)?

Passion is energy. Feel the power that comes from focusing on what excites you. — Oprah Winfrey

And the winner is...

So go ahead. Fall down. The world looks different from the ground. — Oprah Winfrey

Open letter to Crazy (or do you spell it with an i?)

Dearest Crazy,

You say you've read one of my posts or this, that or even a mass market other thing or two, and now you actually believe the world is going to end on the 21st of December 2012?

No, you sweet-idiot, the world is not going to end on our watch.

And, to be perfectly honest, I don't know. But I do have reasonable and logical reasons to think so. If I distill these reasons into a List of Facts will it be easier for you?

1. The 21st of December is the Winter Solstice (day with the least amount of daylight) in the Northern Hemisphere.

2. In the Southern Hemisphere the 21st of December is the Summer Solstice (day with the most amount of daylight).

3. The Ancient Maya lived in Mesoamerica, which was in the Northern Hemisphere.

4. These Mayans kept track of time with a large quantity of different calendars.

5. One of their long calendars kept track of time for a little more than five thousand years.

6. Many people have "matched up" this long calendar with our current (Gregorian) calendar. There are almost as many different "match up" solutions as there are people who have tried to match them up.

7. There is a small consensus of people who think the "correct match" is the one that lines up the last day of the Maya long calendar (when it clicks over to all zeros) with the last day of the solar year.

8. Which is the first day of the solar year in 1/2 the world.

My point is that even if the calendars have been matched correctly (volumes of books have been written to refute or proclaim the calculations) it is only a calendar coming to an end.

On the 22d of December 2012, the new Mayan calendar begins and, for the entire modern world, the first of January 2013 will be just another new year.

But I waste my time, don't I crazi? You don't want logic; you want to witness the end. Your strangelovian-dream has always been to be Slim Pickens hasn't it?

Breathe. Let go. And remind yourself that this very moment is the only one you know you have for sure. — Oprah Winfrey

Disturbing Eavesdropping

Conversation between two female bookstore clerks:

That's disturbing. Just disturbing.

I knooow. Can you imagine?

You should call and complain.

What?

I think you should call them and say something.

I think I will.

(20 seconds of silence)

There's no answer. I bet they're away from the desk. I'll call them later. Teach them to say disturbing shit about us.

What's the most disturbing thing you've ever seen?

I don't know; I've seen some pretty sick shit. What about you?

Me? I. Well. There was this little baby rabbit. And it had this gross kinda open sore in it's side about this big and, and you could see . . . well, there were things moving around in it . . . inside the guts and stuff. And it was panting, you know, breathing real heavy and. . . Well, then my fiancé-at-the-time just goes up and stomps on it's head and. It was. Well. I still get upset thinking about it.

(At about this point a customer is waited on; they stop talking until the customer is gone. I think her distress was caused—more—by learning that some guy who she contemplated marrying was capable of euthanizing an injured bunny with his boot, than by the maggoty wound.)

What about you?

I think it would probably be this guy I saw on the train. He didn't have any arms or legs and he was duct-taped to a skateboard. (breathy giggles spread between them) And he had this little red swiss army knife sticking out the corner of his mouth, and it bobbled up and down when he talked—like a cigarette does—you know? . . . And whenever someone would get to close to him he'd say 'I wouldn't do it'. That was all I ever heard him say...(in a Burgess-Meridth-as-The-Penguin voice, she repeats—amid more giggles) I wouldn't do it.

Your stories! I always have difficulty believing your stories.

I wouldn't do it.

Where was this? Was he flat out... how. How'd he get around?

I assume he had some caretaker-handler or someone. He'd be in the isle of the train near the door. This was when I lived in New York, but he was always near or around Brooklyn I think. I saw him more than once. Couple times.

Duct-taped? I mean it must have . . .

Right to the board. It was a long board, or at least it was longer than a regular one. There was, like, a piece of foam under his head; but other than that: he was taped flat... I wouldn't do it.

Duct tape is like the force. It has a light side, a dark side, and it holds the universe together. — Oprah Winfrey

Clackers, Creepy Crawlers & Jarts

My parents were the Howard-n-Marion-Cunningham of the neighborhood. They based their parenting ground rules on how something affected their own comfort, or (if their comfort was not in play) their decisions fell into two categories: either they approved in a clueless and over-trusting manner or they were groundlessly and adamantly opposed. Determining which way they'd decide, or why, was never simple or obvious.

Although I played with my friend's Clackers, and whacked myself on the head a time or seven, I never witnessed them shatter or break (as they were alleged to). Mom wouldn't allow us to own them because she heard the noise from three yards away and didn't want that ruckus in her house.

The bubbling plastic and smoky molds which heated my day-glow worms and spiders . . . oh, I recall those smells and burns with fondness . . . (even now) a car sitting in an unshaded parking lot for hours can bring those memories wafting back. Mom restricted Creepy Crawlers to our basement; next to my wood-burning, and chemistry sets.

No one in our family or neighborhood got hurt by Jarts (even though we tossed them in each other's general direction). Playing with them was no different than playing with horseshoes, you watched where they were being arced and didn't play when smaller kids were running around.

Which reminds me of the worst Halloween injury I was involved with:

My little sister eagerly rode around me in a circle as I tried to arc a utility-pole anchor spike (tied to a string) through the back of her tricycle. The tricycle-lariat-king was off his game that day, I'll tell you. After over a half-dozen misses, I eventually hit her in the face with the pointy end, which punctured her left cheek and chipped her tooth.

It looked traumatic.

Of course I was sorry.

Only, at the time, I was actually feeling sorry for these things, in this order:

• that I'd, again, missed hooking the back-rung of the tricycle


• her screaming was, obviously, going to put a stop to the game


• now I probably won't be able to convince her to play driveway rodeo with me


• maybe ever again


• getting really screamed at (what were you thinking!?) and grounded, by my parents, felt scarier than the blood and histrionics


• saying "but she didn't mind playing the rodeo calf"
  


• realizing the answer to my parent's shouted question was that I wasn't, but was old enough to (and that I could only blame my stupidity)


• that in my imagination (as I waited in my room for them to return from the hospital) worse luck added an inch of arc to my throw, which punctured her left eye and stopped in her brain