WELCOME BACK TO MISCELLANAL, the intriguing weekly
compilation of things that bore me that is itself boring to help you understand what I'm talking
about.
JOLLY OLD SAINT NEGRO: Was out in suburbia last week armed with a Metro Pass and my Dad's
pellet gun, shooting out all the "G"s in the neon Black Angus signs. I do this because I
believe that in order to effect true social change, that helps people, you must force people to confront that which they fear. And it got me kind of laconically
pondering. Every Christmas I look forward to paying a nostalgic visit to Ye Olde Bavarian Kris
Kringlehaus to shoplift Yuletide keepsakes, and this year, as I coursed the aisles, wearily
appraising the items, I took note of the large selection of ceramic African-American Santa Claus
figurines. Each adorable, and of course merry; each with the fine, flared nostrils and high
zygomatic arches that I am accustomed to seeing in my African-American brethren. And naturally I
thought: good for you, corporate America. Society long ago came to accept that Jesus was
not the tragic son of a caucasian God ... and the same can be said for his witless
tool Claus. And I thought about the racial harmony I have helped to foster over the years and I
felt Christmasy I believe. But then I happened to glance over at the display case full of Frosty the
Snowman figurines. Oh dear. Yawn. Lily-white. Each and every Frosty. Donny Osmond was never
this white. We have come so far, my friends. And we have so far to go.
OW, CANADA: They say there's nothing more boring than a war story. Here's mine.
Now, the last thing we need in the United States Marine
Corps is a bunch of cowards and deserters, which is why I hopped a plane for Canada when the Gulf
War started. A couple of weeks later, having secured some nifty digs for myself in the airport
lounge, I figured it would be thoughtful indeed of me to leave stacks of my weekly newsletter in
select spots in the terminal building, so that Canadian air-travelers, too, could be kept apprised
of the many moods of me.
So I was standing there
waiting to pass through the metal detector. I was wearied from my labors and of course bored, and so
I thought that instead of trudging zombie-like through the metal detector I would ride the conveyor
belt through the X-ray machine instead. That is my constitutional right. And I was enjoying the ride
and I believe I had just started to doze off when ... oomph! I awoke to find myself firmly
lodged in the shitty, Canadian-made X-ray machine.
No one noticed at first because the machine was unattended, so I settled in and read my
newsletter to pass the time, chuckling softly. Soon a small group of curiosity-seeking airport
personnel began to gather round; I offered them each a complimentary issue of my publication, which
they took appreciatively, after which they looked up to carefully consider my X-ray image.
Ah, these would-be masters of air travel, I
thought. Let them have their control rituals. They'll discover nought but my iron will and
steely gaze. As well, they took note of what I had eaten recently, what I had laundered
recently, and they concluded incorrectly that since I had stomach staples I must be a tad
overweight. There also ensued a long, excited conversation about my inflamed, swollen hypothalamus
and a pituitary gland where one should not have been, but most of the time I couldn't make out what
they where saying over the sound of my cries for help.
Well, you can guess what happened next: America may be the Land of the
Free, my friends ... but Canada is the Land of the Free Surgery. Here I believe I may have
dozed off again.
When I awoke some days later I
found myself back stateside in bandages and swaddling clothes, minus the miscellaneous parts and
such ... but hell, I had known the risks going in, eh? And in a way, I came home a better man than
before. I believe I was a couple of pounds slimmer; my experience living in a foreign culture has made me more wise. Oh, sure,
my weekly columns still explore the things that bore me. But now they are written using interesting
language. But you know that.
Oh, and in case you
were wondering? Heh-heh. Turns out we mosied on over there to Kuwait City and kicked a little
Arab ass.
PISTOL WIMP: In a city known for its high standards, there are few local writers who
satisfy, but there is one other one who stands out like a beacon. For over 20 years, Thursday
afternoon Metro commuters have depended on hard-working Times columnist Erik Lacitis to make even
the most hellish commute a smooth, comfortable bore. In particular, we all look forward to his
well-meaning Gun-Control piece, which he reprints quarterly, with altered spellings thrown in to
keep things fresh. These columns are so well-written -- deceptively simple, with a refreshing
respect for the time-honored principles of sound grammar -- that frankly you just can't get through
them. Responsible gun-owners across the county have read these pieces and come away hoping that one
day they'd be afforded the opportunity to save Erik's life with one of these much-maligned pistols,
that they might decline, as a way of honoring his life's philosophy and untimely death.
In fact, Lacitis has always written columns so good
that even common criminals can enjoy them without having to seek the assistance of a dictionary, and
for years they've taken a particular interest in his highly-principled handgun phobia. And once a
month or so they've casually entered his home (without guns, considerately) to help themselves to
whatever items of value they might find there. And so Seattle has been the beneficiary of a steady
stream of brand-new Sears Home Entertainment Centers onto the black market and subsequently into
pawn shops, where of course they remain to this day.
Paying a visit to Erik's durable, dusty old stolen Entertainment Centers is like taking
a little trip back through time, reminding us of the way things change -- stereophonic sound, Dolby,
CD -- and the way things grimly refuse to -- every radio pre-set button is set to KLSY Soft Rock
850.
Well, about six months ago the stream
suddenly ran dry. Erik stopped running the gun-control item; his fans began to wonder what had
become of his spirited monthly accounts of the robberies, which he blamed on corporate greed; and
they missed his concise tutorials on the civilized, 90's-style methods he had used - harsh words,
disapproving glare, an umbrella - in failing to prevent them.
Turns out it's simple: the guy moved. Got himself a new pad. Nice, well-lit studio
in Belltown. And those of you who found yourself thinking, "Say ... was that a Sears Home
Entertainment Center?" will be interested to know: 8202 Blanchard St., #404.
THEY RUN IN MY FAMILY:
A notion occurred to me the other day. It goes like this: sometimes the best ideas ... come from others. Here is the anecdote about that.
Every Friday I play checkers with my grandfather. Gramp is in a coma, and I move the pieces for him. I'm patient, and it's important to me. We have our routine. Big bowl of soft crackers beside the board; I always let him play red; I even let him "reconsider" his moves and have take-backs. Basically we play exactly the same way that, in the many years before his health concern, we might have played.
Why checkers? It's a thinking man's game. The many pieces; the squares of two hues. It's been known for centuries that checkers is a great teacher of life lessons; and I believe it is true that you are never too old to grow as a person. That's something Gramp himself used to say.
Gramp was always generous with his wise words. When I was a boy, the two of us would take long walks through the fields of his Wisconsin farm, and he would speak to me about respecting the land ... respecting family. About, above all else, practicing civility in one's each and every undertaking. And as I look back at it I think about what a pity it was that I was not in need of his wisdom. He might have taught me so much.
Well, Gramp grew up in a era when they did not put much stock in proper diet and exercise, and so at the age of 98 he had a stroke and went into his coma. At first, during my Friday visits to the home, I would just read to him. And if you think that reading to a man in a coma is a one-sided exercise, well, no. I enjoyed it too. I would sit there at the foot of his bed, rocking gently, reading him my essays on popular culture, my music and food reviews, my wild year-end Best Of lists. It was rewarding for us; the look on his face was pure serenity. As a lark, I would even let him "critique" my work. And, because I am all about fairness -- he's in a coma, remember -- I would of course accord him ample take-backs on his "critiques."
So I was there not long ago reading him my latest in a long series of brutally honest EMP reviews. I was pretending Gramp was architect Frank Gehry, and I was taking his silence to be tacit, if reluctant, agreement, when who should come barging in but Gramp's nurse to roll him.
Oh my. Bedsores. And I sat there, rocking gently, as a dignified gentleman from the Badger State was rough-handled like a sack of common sand ... you should've seen his expression. I watched the nurse grunt and groan for a full minute as she situated him in a manner that suited her.
And I rolled my eyes in unbridled rage.
I get emotional when it comes to bedsores. Bedsores run in my family. In fact, I myself suffer the curse of Teen Bedsore Syndrome.
First, let's clear up one myth: they don't just come from beds. You can get them from a couch, the floor, the counter stool at Denny's. Because my skin is ruddy and well-toned, I am highly susceptible to them, and there are times when I sport enough bandages, swabs, gauze and towelettes to clog an adult diaper. I am philosophical about my condition; it seems a small price to pay for being a person at peace with himself and the places he finds himself. Society cannot stand a person like me.
I know that it seems like the most practical thing would be to have the neighborhood kids roll me as needed. They like me and would be perfectly willing. But ... it's disheartening. I just envision a situation where I would like to be rolled, and the kids are outside and I yell and I yell, and I just know that, by the time I've hauled myself off the couch and gone to the window to yell at them, well, I would just find myself wondering: what's the point? Fucking weaklings couldn't roll me if I was made out of pot. So I would say screw it. And end up getting these awful bedsores.
But it's more important than that. There's the issue of being responsible in society. You see, I am not merely a kindred spirit to the neighborhood teens, I am something of a role model (after all, I am forty-three years old). And, as you know, bedsores look exactly like herpes sores. So when they see me -- say, in the pool, or working on my tan -- with fresh "herpes" sores all over my buttocks and thighs, well, what kind of safe-sex message does that send?
That's why I felt such strong feelings as I watched the medical worker and her belabored rolling motions. It went beyond just anger. I grew up in the 60's -- like a lot of you -- and the 70's and 80's, and I have some very clear ideas about anger, brother: anger without action pisses me off, and when that happens I will have soft crackers and a glass of cream and rest until the sensation passes, because being pissed off is completely inappropriate at such times. One can do better. I believe when action is called for, angst is the way. The mind stays clearer.
And as I attempted to remain focused on my angst, with Gramp in mid-roll, his face pressed into a pillow, I wondered what he might have said to me about the indignities and needless sufferings I was enduring ... I could almost imagine hearing his muffled voice. Advising me sternly that complaining avails a man nothing, that one should strive to effect changes in one's life that help society, and so on, things I already knew.
Then ... he gave me his idea.
Hmm. I was impressed. I thanked him, in my mind, and gently touched the end of his bed before departing.
That's how the Teen Bedsore Quilt was born.
Quilting as a practice goes back centuries. As quilts gave way to home heating systems, new uses had to be found for them, and their bright colors and simplicity of design made them well-suited for politics. They provide an easy, inexpensive means of communicating to the common man that, hey, these people went to the trouble of making a quilt for their cause. Let's think about their cause.
I commissioned the Quilt from the good folks at Cascade Canopy and Groundcover. They've been making enormous down-stuffed quilts and comforters for political or industrial uses for years now, and I trust them. I decided to keep the design simple for the time being, just four individual squares. One for me, of course. One for Karen Ann Quinlan. She died several years ago of bedsores and can't sue me. Plus, to give the Quilt credibility (and cachet), the names of a couple of celebrities.
And a week later it was completed and when I went in to give it a look-over I just tingled and I looked them each in the eye and thanked them and gave each of them an air-hug.
I developed the air-hug as a commonsense substitute for the air-kiss, which I consider crass, ostentatious. I've been doing the air-hug for years and have become so proficient at it that I no longer have to use my arms.
A month later I was to be found walking amongst the festive patterns and colors of the Disease Quilt Roundup out at Marymoor Park. Cancer quilts, diabetes quilts, all the usual, frankly trying just a bit too hard to appeal to popular tastes. I moved quickly to the center of the fairgrounds, where gawkers and lookers-on had begun to mass; I removed my handsome Bedsore Quilt from its sheath and gently unfurled it upon the sward.
Yes, I thought. How well will the Machinery of Fear operate when its cogs are fouled by my enormous hand-made Disease Quilt? It will not work well at all. I knelt down and drew my hand across its hillocks and tapered fringe, its squares of many hues. Pillowy, cotton-smooth and cool to the touch ... I lay down on it for a time.
And it gave me a wicked bedsore.
So now I play checkers with Gramp. It's important to me, and I'm patient. I do it because checkers is a great teacher of life lessons. And each time we play it is as if I am telling Gramp ...
Gramp? You've lived a long time. You've learned many things, and shared them. Remember when you once told me that sometimes the best ideas ... come from others? I now realize that when you said "others," you were talking about me. And that you were listening.
Well, here's my idea: no, actually the best ideas do not come from others. I know that now. Thank you.
Oh, and by the way: checkmate. Again.
FILLER OF THE WEEK: I don't just relate items of miscellany, like other miscellany
columnists. I also describe how these items of miscellany affect me emotionally: I teach.
On occasion, when I encounter space limitations, as with this item, and in order that I might have sufficient room in which to describe for you how I feel
about a specific item of miscellany, I am forced to omit that
item of miscellany.
Alright then. I
feel bored.
