The Perfect Song Blog

I noticed that in both Sam’s Club and Wal-Mart many of the associates are very heavy middle aged women who walk with a limp.  I suppose this is from carrying too much weight unevenly distributed.

I’ve had enough of retail stores for one week.

Branden arrived 11:30 Friday night.  He came in lugging a box of probably 100 graphic novels.  “I picked out ones I thought you’d like.  This weekend I’ll go over them with you and give you an overview of each one.”  We talked awhile and I sent him to bed.

I like to put my overnight guests to work if at all possible.  It gives them a sense of contributing and helps me get jobs done faster.  So Saturday after breakfast, I broke the news to him that we were going to seal the north deck. “It’ll be a big help and give us a chance to talk,” I said.

He was all for it and he did most of the talking.  Most of it was about being a middle school teacher in the paranoid 21st century full of helicopter parents and fearful teachers.  “One kid got mad at me and said in class that I acted like a pedophile,” Branden said.  “I sent him immediately to the principal’s office.  You have to deal with that stuff immediately or the gossip starts spreading and you could lose your job.  The principal called the parents.  The kid’s father was a cop.  The father said his son didn’t know what he was saying and that I should rescind my punishment of not letting the kid go on a special field trip.  The principal said he would back me no matter what my decision.  I decided to let the punishment stay.  The father insinuated that I’d better never do anything wrong in his town.”

He was full of stories about life in the middle school, making me count my blessings I’m in higher education.

Later he took off for a wedding.  I worked around the house, played with the dogs, made supper and cleaned up.  Leigh spent the day working on the last of the sidewalk.

When Branden returned, he was ready to watch movies, as many as we could fit in.  I didn’t want to be up until 3 so we went downstairs at 7:30.  He spread the dvd’s out and gave me his personal ratings of each one.  I chose The Old Dark House with Boris Karloff, The Island of Lost Souls with Bela Legosi and The Fly with Jeff Goldblum which I had asked him to bring.

The two old movies were fun and interesting.  Good stories with no special effects.  Lost Souls had monsters much scarier than today’s creatures that cost millions in make up and special effects.  I was pleasantly surprised at how good The Fly was. (It earned an amazing 91% approval on Rotten Tomatoes).  Hard to believe it was made in 1986.

Accomplished:  sealing the deck.

One day to go.

I really screwed up.  I forgot I had a meeting today.  I was asked to serve on the board of trustees of WSKG Public TV/Radio and agreed.  Today was an orientation meeting of new trustees.  I left at 9:30 and headed for Endicott, NY, an hour and 15 minute drive.  Returned at 3p.m.

Listened to podcasts on the way up and back — No Agenda, Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me and Science Friday.  And 10 minutes of Rush Limbaugh, just to see where he’s at these days.

The day, pretty much, was gone.  I transplanted a couple plants, played with the dogs and made supper (poor man’s lobster, brown rice and tossed salad with lettuce and tomatoes from the garden).

Played with the dogs and spent time looking for Bongo, Nathan’s cat, who decided, apparently, that he is going to camp out in the woods tonight.

Came up to the office and wrote the report for work, checked my two email accounts, answered emails, checked Facebook, Huffington Post, and Twitter.

Leigh has a short soundtrack for one of her videos that needs to be tweaked.

End of day.

I’m running out of time.

Looking back on the results of the first day of my Vacation Experiment, I need to make some radical alterations.

First, I slept til 9:30.  It felt really good.  I had an internal battle with myself whether to get up early or enjoy sleeping late.  The beauty of internal battles with yourself is that you always win.

Leigh had to go to the chiropracter at 10 so I harvested coriander off my five-foot high cilantro bush.  Nathan didn’t have to go to work until noon so when he got up we had coffee and conversation on the deck overlooking the flagstone patio and flower gardens.

Played with the dogs until they gave up in the heat.  By 10:30 it was 80 degrees.

Leigh returned.  I fixed breakfast of sausage and eggs.  By the time we finished and had coffee on the deck it was 11:30.

THe day was already half over.

We’re laying a new sidewalk of patterned concrete blocks in the meditation garden and two had to be trimmed.  I had put off the trimming until today.  While laying some last night I dropped one of the 30 pound blocks on my finger.  I little vitamin E took the swelling down and healed the cut but it took a few shots of medicine last night to make it feel like a normal finger again.

I approached the blocks with equal amounts of caution, measuring tape, hammer and chisel.  They cut very nicely and I left the project in relief that it worked.  By now it was 1:30 p.m. and 90 degrees.

Gathered up the garbage, loaded the dogs into the Jeep and headed for the transfer station where I pay $3 for a bag to put everything in and throw away, except the recyclable stuff.

Talked to Frank, a retired engineer, whose wife died four years ago.  He sits in a trailer in the transfer station and sells the official county trash bags. It is this and his garden that continually shade some meaning into his life.

He loved his wife deeply and when she died he lost his will to live.  His children brought him back around.  He loves to talk to his customers.  We talk about the art and luck of growing tomatoes, kids, weather, work and occasionally life and death.

The few minutes each week we talk means a lot to both of us.

By the time we returned home it was around 95 degrees so I decided not to mow the law.  Went back to the deck and read a New Yorker article about the Kindle, asking myself every paragraph if this was a waste of time since I will never buy borrow or even look at a Kindle. I have no interest.

Changed my sweat soaked t-shirt and hopped in the Nissan, drove to Corning for my chiropractic appointment, and listened to the latest episode of On The Media on my iPod Touch.

Back home, fixed supper of grilled steaks, mashed potatoes and spinach, lettuce and tomatoes from the garden.

Cleaned  up after supper, ran to the local grocery for some things, came home, watered plants and gardens, played with the dogs and came in to catch up on emails, Facebook, Twitter, Huffington Post.

I look back on my list.  I accomplished one part of the sidewalk.

That was it.  Nothing more.

Okay, let’s see if Tuesday is any more fruitful.

This is nothing new except for writing it down.  I’m on vacation this week.  So I’m going to write a list of all the things I want to accomplish.  At the end,   I’ll do a post on what I actually did do and what I did that I didn’t plan on.  Here it is:

-Seal the north deck

-Finish the walkway in the meditation garden

-dry mint, basil, peppers and catnip

-mow the lawn and weedwhack around the property (a couple acres; sometimes I feel like a groundskeeper)

-read PC World, Wired, New Yorker, one work-related book and one novel

-cook supper for us every night to give Linda a week off

-write two reports for work (not a legit vacation activity but necessary; this is America)

-Watch at least two episodes of Mad Men

-Clean my office

-haul out the chainsaw and knock down some trees in the woods

-replace some siding on the storage shed

-clean the cellar to make room for 8 tons of wood pellets

-clean the dog kennel and put in fresh straw which gives the three dogs (our boys) no end of joy

Clean and wash the Nissan and Jeep

Take Linda out to lunch or dinner

All of this is in between making breakfast, sitting on the deck and appreciating our gardens, the wonders of God and nature, playing with the dogs and making short runs to get groceries and other supplies.

Life has a wonderful and frustrating habit of getting the way of planned lists, but I’m going to see how it works out.

Standing in line at Tops, the tabloid headline blared:  “Bigfoot Diet, Loses 150 Pounds.”

I weigh 149 pounds. Losing that much would shrink me to a cell, but I was interested.  If Bigfoot can do it, why can’t the rest of America, 66% of whom are overweight?  Bigfoot should be an inspiration to us all.

Through the miracles of technology, I tracked down Bigfoot’s cell phone and lined up an interview.

“So Bigfoot — can I call you BF?”

“Sure.  People have called me worse.”

“What’s this new diet you’re on and, I guess, why?  I mean you’re a pretty free spirit.  People occasionally report a sighting on you, but for the most part, you’re just out there in nature, skulking.”

“Well, Dennis, the world has been closing in.  What with cell phone cameras, video and that infernal Twitter, I just don’t have that much privacy anymore.”

“But the diet, the weight loss.”

BF paused.  “When the world’s eyes are on you, you’ve got to look your best.  I finally gave in and hired a PR firm.  First thing they said was, ‘you got to get rid of the gut.  Being big and hairy is one thing.  Being big and hairy and fat doesn’t is so uncool.’  So I went on a regimen to lose 150 pounds.”

“Going from 800 pounds to 650 is pretty impressive.  The drawings of you look great. You’ve got a barrel chest, huge shoulders and biceps–”

“Thank you.  The drawings are pretty accurate by the way.”

“So are you going to lose the hair, too?”

“No!  The hair is part of my heritage.  Besides, I watched The 40-Year Old Virgin.  Did you see that scene where they put tape on Steve Carrell’s tummy and ripped his hair off?  No way am I going through that.  Besides, I’ve got an image to uphold.  I’ll lose the gut but the hair stays.  Actually I think hair is the next bald, you know?  I’ve been around awhile, and I can tell you, women like hair.  Especially big hairy women.  All this bald shit is for reptiles,”

“If I wore a t-shirt it would say ‘Mammals Love Hair.’”

“Speaking of t-shirts,” I said, “I see you’re wearing a breech cloth to cover your privates.”

There was a pause.  “Yeah.  That was the PR firm again.  Said if I was going to be on the cover of Weekly World News I had to hide Winky.  It’s in the grocery stores, you know, the newspaper, I mean.”

I pressed on.  “But in all the photos and videos caught of you, there are no clothes.”

“Yeah, well, and my back is always to the camera.”  There was a slight silence as he pondered this.  “I think the real thing is male insecurity, you know?  Now that I’m slimmed down to 650 pounds, Winky looks a lot more impressive than he did when he was stunted by my gut.  I’m not into size issues, but, look, I know the more women fantasize, the more men get shaky.  Men are so insecure. . . . . ”

“So what’s your next step now that you’re slim and have gone public?”

“Well,” he said quietly.  “I’d like to go on Dancing with the Stars.  I’ve got a pretty good routine called In Step with Big Foot.“  He chuckled to himself.  “There’s a good double entendre there.  Get it?”

There was another pause as if he were considering how much to divulge. “A couple football teams have approached me but, honestly, I don’t like the sport.  Too violent.  Oh, and my agent is working with Hollywood to develop feature length movie, “Big Steps to Glory.”

“Wow, you’ve really come out,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said enthusiastically.  I really have. . . . And I love public service.  I’m doing some consulting with the Boy Scouts right now, developing a program in outdoor recreation.  And of course there’s the upcoming book The Bigfoot All Natural Diet.  It’s a big change from the painfully shy guy I used to be.”

“That’s great, Big Foot,” I said.  “I’m sure it took a lot of courage to do the diet, put on some clothes and move out into society the way you have.”

“Yes,” he said quietly.  “My Mom is pretty proud.”

Dear President Obama, I think you are doing a very good job.

As you said on the campaign trail, as president you would make mistakes.  You’re not perfect, you said.  You’re human.

That’s all true, of course.

But many, many millions of children and youth in the United States and around the world idolize you.  You are bigger than life.  To millions you are a super hero.

You are a role model.

So don’t fib.

If you bowed to a king, own up to it.  Tell people it was a sign of respect.  You’ve talked a lot about respecting other countries and other people and most folks agree.

If it was out of place, then say “I made a mistake.”  You’ve done that before and won overwhelming respect for the admission.

Now, when your people say you weren’t bowing, it opens the door to critics to lash out at you.  It brings others to defend you and what suffers the most is the truth.

When I was a kid, Superman could do no wrong.

Today’s young people are more sophisticated.  They know super heroes are flawed, and their flaws are what keep them human.  But more important than their unique powers is that they own up to their mistakes.  If they can’t correct them, they at least admit to them.

If your bow was done out of sincerity and respect, say so. The bow isn’t important except to mean-minded, frightened people who are terrible role models.

What is important to the next generation is the action that followed the bow. Do what’s right in your heart.

Then tell the truth.

Don’t fib and don’t let others fib for you.

Thank you, Mr. President.

It’s November 1, 2008.

I’ve committed the ultimate blog sin.  I haven’t posted anything in over two months.

But then, I was almost killed.  I’ve been a long time healing, but I’m back on my feet — literally.

I wrote a series of posts about the accident and the aftermath.  I’m going to put them together chronologically and put them up as one post so you follow my thoughts and experiences in a real-time way.

I’ll post it in a few days.  Meanwhile, thanks for your patience.

I can’t tell you how happy I am to be back.

I discovered fairly quickly that the wheelchairs were not provided by Jet Blue.  This explained why the wheelchair attendant at JFK was wiling to leave the arrival gate and wheel my step-mother an eighth of a mile to the departure gate.  I tipped  her, she thanked me and disappeared into the crowd.  When we arrived at  the San Diego  airport a young African man with  a wheelchair was waiting.  He was quiet and very polite.  My wife and her mother made a stop at the women’s room.
“Where are you from? ” I asked.
“I came here from Kenya last year.”  After more questions I found out he followed his mother here, that he wanted to attend college to become a nurse and return to Kenya to  help his people.   “Do you work for Jet Blue?” I asked.
“No.  I work for a company that supplies wheelchairs and people like myself.  I don’t make much money, you know, my salary and tips.”  When my wife and her mom returned, we took the elevator  downstairs  and he patiently waited and helped my wife find our bags while I stayed with our computers and mother-in-law. I left him a large tipiand wished him my best. The taxi driver was also from Africa, here to make money, attend college and live a good life  without violence. 
I few  days later, on our way back from Encinada I noticed a text about American politics  on the console.  “Are you  a student?”
The young driver smiled.  “Post graduate.  I’m from Kenya..  I was in politics but with all the corruption I had to leave for my safety.  Now I am going return to do rape counseling and perhaps go back into politics where I can better help my people.”  We had a long talk about politics, and how American, Canadian and Chinese interests in Africa are changing his country for the better.
I struck up conversations all week with taxi drivers, grocery store packers and waiters. 
I realized that there is an entire underground of unseen people, many of whom are educated.  Some of them are more  worldly than I’ll ever be.
To them the American Dream not a weary cliche but something that is real, alive and dynamic.  They’re pursing it, living it, taking advantage of it in a positive, productive way.  Many of them are taking the Dream  and the  American  Experience back to  their countries.
I called our admissions director and told him if this country would ever get over its  hangups about immigrants there’s  a whole new population of students to  recruit.  Students who  are serious about life, who have goals and dreams.  People who have seen horrors in their country and are determined  to go back and make a difference.   
If higher ed truly cares about making a difference in an individual’s s life, in American society and in countries around the world, we have the opportunity.  Young people full of ambition and hope are all around us. 
All we have to do is recognize them and share what higher ed has to offer.

In my last post I reviewed Martha Horton’s first novel The Faun. I’m always interested in the creative process so I interviewed Martha to get more insights into her intriguing novel. This is part 1.

How long did it take you to write The Faun?

About six months, while on unemployment and not doing the 9 to 5 thing. It was fun, quick, easy.

Where did idea come from?

I first read Hawthorne’s The Marble Faun when returning to the US after several years in Italy.  I was fascinated with the premise and the characters - and frustrated by the loose ends, the 19th century syntax, the ending.  (Readers in Hawthorne’s day also were frustrated - the book became a “hit” primarily as an early guide book to Rome).

How long did you live in Italy?

I was there 1962 - 1965.  I edited  a tourist magazine in Rome, then edited a journal of international affairs at Johns Hopkins School of international Studies in Bologna, and finally worked as a correspondent for McGraw-Hill World News in Milan. I returned to the States because I was expecting my second bambino and my Italian husband had been drafted into the Italian Air Force, which at that time basically paid enough for one good dinner per week.

You were married to actor Steve Reeves’s double.

My husband was “discovered” on the beach (somewhat like Donatello in the park).

He doubled Steve Reeves in the “Hercules” series and also was one of about 30 stuntmen who attended a special school where they learned gladiatorial combat (net and trident, etc.) He was in a number of the “myth and muscle” movies like “Barabus,” “Ben Hur” and “Cleopatra” as well as some pirate films. But he couldn’t handle dialogue.

From the book, it sounds like you really loved the Italian culture.

Yes, I love the usual things visitors enjoy - the history, scenery, food, wine, art,  architecture, opera, the vitality of the Italians.  Living there is different, because you come up against some of the less appealing aspects - provincialism, cynicism, official RED TAPE that is appalling. Of course, I was there in the Sixties - almost half a century ago!

On a recent visit, I found Rome much more tourist-friendly than before, much cleaner, and somehow “homogenized,” as is much of Europe.  But as you walk the streets of the city there is still the same sense of coexisting with antiquity, and the atmosphere of “golden gloom” that is so compelling. I feel strangely at home in Rome.

What are some of the differences between the Italian and US cultures?

These are fewer and less striking than they once were.  Anywhere in the world, not so many years ago, when you asked a US citizen “Where are you from?” the answer was almost always ”America” or “The United States.”  Ask an Italian, and the answer would be “Roma” or “Siena” or “Sicilia.”  There was not a strong national identity - Italians identified more closely with their football (soccer) teams.  I think, particularly in the Southern half of the Italy, one stills finds a greater appreciation for simply living life well as opposed to “making it.”  Expectations may not include the big house and fancy car but they do include good food and good friends and close family and time to enjoy them. Also important is the “bella figura” -  good appearance.  You may live in a closet but when you go out, you take pains to be well groomed and well dressed. No butt cracks, no hair curlers.

The government there is much more socially progressive, i.e. universal health care and long vacations and “the 13th month” Christmas bonus, etc. It’s also incredibly corrupt at all levels (I’m not sure that’s so different from the US, but here we at least make a pretense of abiding by the law). And because Italy is not a world power, the Italians are not so obsessed with the military.

Note: More in Part 2 next week.  You can find Martha Horton’s novel, The Faun, at www.amazon.com

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Back home I put the tire on the tractor and take the weights off the back tires that I have to put on each winter for traction to use the plow. I then settle in to try to get the chains off. It’s usually a two-minute job but the guy who overhauled the tractor in the fall put the chains on as a favor and clamped them so tight I can’t remove them. I spend an hour, then finally give up and bend one of the links until I can slide it off, loosening t he rest of the chain and removing the master link.

I do this in between throwing the ball for Zeus, the German Shepherd. Every Shepherd should have his own flock of sheep or herd of cows so he can do what his genes tell him to and not reduce him to chasing a ball over and over. Although he seems to really enjoy it.

Then I start on the other tire. . .

I take a break and have a pipe and a coffee.

Leigh finds me and asks if we can put up the length of siding that blew off in a storm this winter. I haul out the ladder and climb to the top where the siding is missing just below the roof. A hornet swoops about, letting me know I’m precariously close to his nest.

After awhile he understands I’m not interested in it and goes away. I wonder if it’s part of local hornet lore that there’s this bearded guy who comes around every so often and sprays nests, killing all who are it in and anyone unfortunate to return and get their feet in the gunk.

I imagine they might talk about it. I mean, there are survivors in every genocide.

As I stand at the top of the ladder trying to get the siding to fit, the sky grows very dark and thunder cracks, echoing through the valley. The wind picks up. I don’t want to quit but it occurs to me that standing on a metal ladder with lightning just to the west and heading toward us is not very smart.

I ask Leigh to get me some white nails. She finds a few and I cheat. After I fit the siding in, I tack the nails into it so the wind won’t blow it down again.

I climb down the ladder just as the storm hits.

When it passes I go back out and spend a half hour putting the belts on the garden tractor mower.

Then it’s dogs in the Jeep and down to Miniers to find food for supper because we’ve both been outside working and I didn’t get groceries last week. I feel like a mountaineer going into town and bringing back grub.

I go for the quick stuff, things that we rarely ever eat – sausage and sauerkraut, barbecue flavored shredded beef. Pasta salad from the deli. Corn chips for the TGI Friday’s spinach cheese dip that I bought at Tops a month ago.

We have supper and another storm hits with a huge dark and greenish sky, meaning everything is right for a tornado formation somewhere. But that passes and we’re pelted with a good old-fashioned thunder storm.

We clean up. I fry the trout that my designer’s husband sent me because they know I love fresh fish. I cook it with Greek seasoning and will have it for lunch this week.

The dogs are beat from a day of frisking around, taking turns hanging with me and Leigh as we worked on separate projects.

I come up and write my thoughts here, and later we’ll watch a recorded TV program, probably Numbers or Without a Trace.

And that will be enough.