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I learned a lesson once, about the treasured value of hard won ignorance. It was an important lesson.
It started with this old Robin Williams movie, What Dreams May Come. Spoiler alert: Robin Williams is the main character. He dies ten minutes into the movie. The entire rest of the movie is about Robin Williams' character's journey through the afterlife.
I thought the movie was interesting, and said so to a coworker at the time, who said, "Oh, no, I'm not going to see that movie."
"Why not?"
"Because I mustn't."
"Why... not?"
Well, we talked about why this Robin Williams movie was forbidden fruit, and it boiled down to this: "Y'see, Robin Williams dies in this movie, and he doesn't go to Heaven or Hell or anything. But I LIKE Robin Williams, and I might like the MOVIE. But ... HE DOESN'T GO TO HEAVEN OR HELL, therefore, this movie contradicts my deeply held religious BELIEFS, and if I LIKE this movie, it might challenge or damage my FAITH!"
My first thought was "Dude, if your faith can be challenged or damaged by a friggin' Robin Williams movie, I can't say your faith was all that strong in the FIRST place."
But I was too polite to say that, so I didn't. As the discussion went on, though, I found that this person apparently avoided a LOT of things, apparently due to the fear that he'd suddenly take drugs, get laid, and run out and worship Satan or something. I would later learn that there are a great MANY people whose faith apparently REQUIRES this... STRENUOUS avoidance of anything that might make'm THINK, much less challenge one's faith.
Folks like this apparently avoid ANYTHING that doesn't reinforce their beliefs and worldview, in much the same way that a guy in financial difficulty avoids looking at his checkbook. It struck me as a hell of a way to live. It also struck me as an excellent way to avoid learning anything about how anyone ELSE lives; after all, MY way is the RIGHT way, right? And therefore, anyone ELSE's way is the WRONG way, and to understand and sympathize with them might damage my FAITH, right? Might tempt me to inject a marijuana, listen to Chubby Checker records, have sex, and worship SATAN, right? Best to stick to what I KNOW!
And if you take this reasoning a little further? Those BEST QUALIFIED to LEAD you in the righteous path... are THOSE WHO KNOW THE LEAST about ANYTHING outside of one's own belief system. The most ignorant are therefore the most righteous... and therefore, the best qualified!
And I'll tell you: I found this reasoning to be among the screwiest things I've ever considered. But it did help me understand a great many people who insist on respect for their rights...
...while insisting on the power to trample those of others.
Sunday, September 5, 2021
Tuesday, August 3, 2021
Reading Exercise
I'd been out of the womb perhaps fifteen minutes, still focusing my eyes, wondering what school, I was going to, and wishing for a cup of coffee... when Mom decided to go into education.
Not right AWAY, of course; there was a baby to take care of. She prepared for this by buying books on teaching... and teaching me to read.
I don't remember any of this, of course. She would tell the stories later in my life. I don't recall anything but the stories. But I also cannot remember a time when I could not read. In my memories, going waaaay back to four, five, six years old? I already knew how to read. I remember being surprised when I found out that other kids COULDN'T read. Mighod, what's WRONG with you people?
And this led to the Christmas weekend with Aunt Lee, a tale that my mother loved to tell.
We were visiting my grandparents, and my elderly great aunt Lee was there, and of course, everyone had to dote on the baby for a while and then go off and make grownup talk while drinking strange smelly beverages that I did not like. That was okay. I'd brought along a Dr. Seuss, and I was good, so I climbed up on the sofa, opened up the book, and began the familiar tale of Sam I Am, who preached the gospel of strangely colored breakfast foods. I am told I was not quite three, at the time. The grownups were, if I remember the story correctly, playing bridge.
And Aunt Lee glanced at the couch, and was captivated. "Oh, that is precious," she said. "Look at him. He's pretending to read a book. Someone get a camera."
"He's not pretending," said Mom. "That's one of his favorite books."
"Oh, pshaw," said Lee. "He's not old enough to read."
"Honey, read the book to your Aunt Lee," Mom said, to me.
"Well, on the first page," I said, "Sam I Am doesn't say anything, but he holds up a sign. It says 'I am Sam.' And then he turns it around and it says 'Sam I Am.' "
"Well, that doesn't prove anything," said Lee. "You've probably read him that book a thousand times. He knows it by heart. He's not reading, he's reciting."
"So pick any book out of his stack," said Mom. "You think he's memorized them ALL? He'll read aloud to you out of any of them."
"Are you willing to put your money where your mouth is?" said Lee, laying down her cards.
"I know my son can read," said Mom, laying down her own.
"Ten bucks says I can prove he can't read."
"You're on."
"And I pick the reading material."
"Fine."
Lee got up and walked over to a shelf where my grandfather kept several decades worth of old Reader's Digest magazines. Mom balked a bit, "Now, Lee, he's NOT a rocket scientist..."
"You don't think he can read words in a row?"
"Dammit, I know he can read--"
"Then let him read. Ten bucks says he can't."
The two women haggled a bit before settling on a page of text without too many polysyllables on it, and the two of them approached me on the couch. "Honey," said Mom, "Would you read this section aloud for your aunt?"
I took the little magazine and looked at it. Mom pointed at the top of the page.
"L... laaa... laaff-ter.. is the best m... med... medicine," I said. I knew what medicine was, but I'd never seen the word before. Laughter, though, THAT one I knew; that was the one with the GH in the middle that didn't make any sense, but you read it like it was an F, because that was the rules.
Mom, in later years, would describe Lee's face with great relish; to hear her tell it, the old woman's eyes got very large, her smile vanished into the ozone, and her actual face got about three inches longer than it should have been. Obliviously, I kept reading.
"One day," I said, "A p... pa... pat... pat-ee-ent..."
"Pay-shunt," corrected my mother.
"Quiet," commanded Aunt Lee.
"One day, a patient came into my off... office," I read. "I had seen him a month ear... ear... earlier, and he had sur-jur-ree at the time and had come for a fol... follow-up visit..."
Mom would later describe (with no little glee) Lee's face as stunned, open-mouthed, and faintly horrified; this was a thing that should not BE.
"What's 'surgery,' Mommy?" I asked.
"Would you like him to keep going?" said my mother sweetly. "I'm sure he doesn't know all the words, but I know damn well he can read them at you."
Mom would later describe Lee's eyes as "a bit bugged out, and they looked like burnt holes in a blanket." Without another word, Lee went to her purse and pulled out a tenner and slapped it on the table. "I am convinced," she said. "Did YOU teach him to do that?"
"Do you want me to keep going?" I asked.
Lee looked at me with faint suspicion. Mom smiled. "No, sweetie, you did fine."
"I did the best I could," I said. "There were no pictures."
"I know, sweetie, you did just fine," said Mom. "Now put your shoes on. Your aunt is taking us out for ice cream."
My mother told that story for many years after it happened, both to me, to others, and to the students she would one day have when she became a teacher. And she always told it with the same glee as I'd heard in her voice the first time. Not sure if it was pride in her son's reading ability, or winning a ten dollar bet back when ten bucks MEANT something, but she'd considered it a victory, either way.
As I grew older, I got rather chummy with my Aunt Lee, and I still remember the time SHE told me that story... with the same particulars, but from her own point of view.
"And I stood there, looking at a tiny baby, holding a book and reading at me out of it," she said, "and for one cold, scary moment, I was sure I was lookin' at a crimbil."
"A what?" I said.
"A crimbil, dear."
"What's a crimbil?"
My aged Aunt Lee smiled at me. "You're a smart boy, dear," she said. "Go look it up."
I don't remember any of this, of course. She would tell the stories later in my life. I don't recall anything but the stories. But I also cannot remember a time when I could not read. In my memories, going waaaay back to four, five, six years old? I already knew how to read. I remember being surprised when I found out that other kids COULDN'T read. Mighod, what's WRONG with you people?
And this led to the Christmas weekend with Aunt Lee, a tale that my mother loved to tell.
We were visiting my grandparents, and my elderly great aunt Lee was there, and of course, everyone had to dote on the baby for a while and then go off and make grownup talk while drinking strange smelly beverages that I did not like. That was okay. I'd brought along a Dr. Seuss, and I was good, so I climbed up on the sofa, opened up the book, and began the familiar tale of Sam I Am, who preached the gospel of strangely colored breakfast foods. I am told I was not quite three, at the time. The grownups were, if I remember the story correctly, playing bridge.
And Aunt Lee glanced at the couch, and was captivated. "Oh, that is precious," she said. "Look at him. He's pretending to read a book. Someone get a camera."
"He's not pretending," said Mom. "That's one of his favorite books."
"Oh, pshaw," said Lee. "He's not old enough to read."
"Honey, read the book to your Aunt Lee," Mom said, to me.
"Well, on the first page," I said, "Sam I Am doesn't say anything, but he holds up a sign. It says 'I am Sam.' And then he turns it around and it says 'Sam I Am.' "
"Well, that doesn't prove anything," said Lee. "You've probably read him that book a thousand times. He knows it by heart. He's not reading, he's reciting."
"So pick any book out of his stack," said Mom. "You think he's memorized them ALL? He'll read aloud to you out of any of them."
"Are you willing to put your money where your mouth is?" said Lee, laying down her cards.
"I know my son can read," said Mom, laying down her own.
"Ten bucks says I can prove he can't read."
"You're on."
"And I pick the reading material."
"Fine."
Lee got up and walked over to a shelf where my grandfather kept several decades worth of old Reader's Digest magazines. Mom balked a bit, "Now, Lee, he's NOT a rocket scientist..."
"You don't think he can read words in a row?"
"Dammit, I know he can read--"
"Then let him read. Ten bucks says he can't."
The two women haggled a bit before settling on a page of text without too many polysyllables on it, and the two of them approached me on the couch. "Honey," said Mom, "Would you read this section aloud for your aunt?"
I took the little magazine and looked at it. Mom pointed at the top of the page.
"L... laaa... laaff-ter.. is the best m... med... medicine," I said. I knew what medicine was, but I'd never seen the word before. Laughter, though, THAT one I knew; that was the one with the GH in the middle that didn't make any sense, but you read it like it was an F, because that was the rules.
Mom, in later years, would describe Lee's face with great relish; to hear her tell it, the old woman's eyes got very large, her smile vanished into the ozone, and her actual face got about three inches longer than it should have been. Obliviously, I kept reading.
"One day," I said, "A p... pa... pat... pat-ee-ent..."
"Pay-shunt," corrected my mother.
"Quiet," commanded Aunt Lee.
"One day, a patient came into my off... office," I read. "I had seen him a month ear... ear... earlier, and he had sur-jur-ree at the time and had come for a fol... follow-up visit..."
Mom would later describe (with no little glee) Lee's face as stunned, open-mouthed, and faintly horrified; this was a thing that should not BE.
"What's 'surgery,' Mommy?" I asked.
"Would you like him to keep going?" said my mother sweetly. "I'm sure he doesn't know all the words, but I know damn well he can read them at you."
Mom would later describe Lee's eyes as "a bit bugged out, and they looked like burnt holes in a blanket." Without another word, Lee went to her purse and pulled out a tenner and slapped it on the table. "I am convinced," she said. "Did YOU teach him to do that?"
"Do you want me to keep going?" I asked.
Lee looked at me with faint suspicion. Mom smiled. "No, sweetie, you did fine."
"I did the best I could," I said. "There were no pictures."
"I know, sweetie, you did just fine," said Mom. "Now put your shoes on. Your aunt is taking us out for ice cream."
My mother told that story for many years after it happened, both to me, to others, and to the students she would one day have when she became a teacher. And she always told it with the same glee as I'd heard in her voice the first time. Not sure if it was pride in her son's reading ability, or winning a ten dollar bet back when ten bucks MEANT something, but she'd considered it a victory, either way.
As I grew older, I got rather chummy with my Aunt Lee, and I still remember the time SHE told me that story... with the same particulars, but from her own point of view.
"And I stood there, looking at a tiny baby, holding a book and reading at me out of it," she said, "and for one cold, scary moment, I was sure I was lookin' at a crimbil."
"A what?" I said.
"A crimbil, dear."
"What's a crimbil?"
My aged Aunt Lee smiled at me. "You're a smart boy, dear," she said. "Go look it up."
Saturday, July 31, 2021
Nosferatu, the Urinator in Darkness
"It's when you get up to pee," said Berni.
"All right," I said, sipping my coffee. It was Saturday morning, and I wasn't completely awake yet; Berni had been up for a while, though, and she had something important to tell me. About peeing, apparently.
"You see... when you get up, NORMALLY, you open your eyes. You sigh. You brace yourself. You hoist yourself up out of bed."
Berni was being generous. I am not young, and I am fat. Getting out of bed is a damn near geologic process for me these days, accompanied by some resentment and a sound board much like a bossa nova drummer trying to eat Rice Krispies while he works.
"But in the middle of the night, when you get up to pee," she continued, "you're not really awake."
Berni was, again, being generous. My doctor put me on diuretics a few years back, and now I have to pee in the middle of the night, and I am well aware that I've developed the knack of getting up, staggering to the bathroom, venting the ballast tanks, and returning to bed, without actually completely waking up. "And?"
"And you sort of FLOAT up."
THIS threw me. "...what?"
"You don't brace yourself. You don't even use your ARMS, as far as I can tell. You just... RISE. The closest description I can give you is like that scene in "Nosferatu," where the vampire doesn't just sit up in his coffin, he RISES up, like he's got hinges attached to his heels."
"...I do that?"
"Almost," she said. "It's a little creepy. You just... RISE UP, and your feet float sideways out of the bed, and you don't look like you're trying at all. It just HAPPENS. And then you go from Nosferatu to Frankenstein."
"...what?"
"You stand up on your feet. You rotate right. You begin to walk to the bathroom. But even though you're asleep, your reptile brain, way down in your brain stem, is aware that there MIGHT be cats in the way. So you don't just WALK."
I said nothing. She continued.
"So you take very short steps, with your feet getting less than an inch from the floor, and you STOMP. Not loudly, but I can hear you. You don't quite shuffle, but you take very short steps and you stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp all the way to the bathroom. Like you're trying to let the cats know you're coming, but you're also letting them know that you're asleep and you WILL step on them or nudge them aside if they're in the way. And you look like if there was a brick wall in your way, you'd just push right through it."
I stared at her. "I do this? Every night?"
"Every night. It's your bladder. It's like you're being led by your bladder, and your bladder is by-ghod GOING to get to that bathroom, and ... it's not as good a pilot of the meat suit as your brain is. But the getting out of bed part? It's got THAT part DOWN, cold."
I sat there with my coffee in my hand. She kept going.
"It happens a couple of times a night," she continued. "But it WILL happen in the MORNING."
"In the morning," I said, trying to process.
"In the morning," she said. "Because on weekdays when you work, you get up before I do. But all summer? You sleep in. And when I get up, all of a sudden, YOU don't wake up, but Nosferatu realizes that if he doesn't beat me to the bathroom, then he's going to have to WAIT to pee. So as soon as I sit up, Nosferatu RISES FROM HIS GRAVE, and his upper torso floats up and his feet float sideways, and you stand up and do the Frankenstein Shuffle to the bathroom, before I can finish getting up. It's sort of impressive to watch, really. I've gotten used to just stopping for a moment, because Nosferatu generally finishes pretty quickly, and then Frankenstein turns around and stomp-stomp-stomps back to bed."
As I recall, I blinked, and I sipped my coffee. "That's what I do in the night, now?" I asked. "I mean, is there more?"
Berni thought about it. "That's pretty much spot on. One thing I probably didn't mention, that makes it even funnier, is that you don't even seem to disturb the covers. You don't fling them off and commence to risin'. It's like you somehow gently fold them back, as though it's a nightly turn down service, and I halfway expect to see a mint materialize on the pillow, calmly awaiting your return."
I didn't quite choke on the coffee; I had a mental picture of that scene from Return Of The Jedi, where Yoda Becomes One With The Force, and the covers gently collapse on the bed, where he vanished.
It is a disturbing thing, at my time of life, to find that one is apparently far more ethereally graceful in one's sleep then one is while awake.
"And also," she continued, "the reason I have learned to sit on the edge of the bed and wait for this ritual to occur, is because there has been a time or two where I lie in bed for a bit upon waking, doing calculations in my head as to when you last peed and think "okay...he peed 15 minutes ago so I'm probably good", because by God if it's been 20 minutes since your last rising, it's off to the races. And I can't assume that just because you're snoring I'm in the clear. Tried that a couple times. Even made it partway to the can before Nosferatu senses a disturbance in the force and somehow manages to CUT ME OFF without even noticing I'm RIGHT THERE."
"So," I said. "I am not only ethereally graceful, but I MOVE quicker in my sleep than I do when I'm awake?"
And now it was HER turn to sip her coffee and look at me.
Wul, damb. Nice to know I haven't COMPLETELY lost my swiftness and grace in my old age...
"All right," I said, sipping my coffee. It was Saturday morning, and I wasn't completely awake yet; Berni had been up for a while, though, and she had something important to tell me. About peeing, apparently.
"You see... when you get up, NORMALLY, you open your eyes. You sigh. You brace yourself. You hoist yourself up out of bed."
Berni was being generous. I am not young, and I am fat. Getting out of bed is a damn near geologic process for me these days, accompanied by some resentment and a sound board much like a bossa nova drummer trying to eat Rice Krispies while he works.
"But in the middle of the night, when you get up to pee," she continued, "you're not really awake."
Berni was, again, being generous. My doctor put me on diuretics a few years back, and now I have to pee in the middle of the night, and I am well aware that I've developed the knack of getting up, staggering to the bathroom, venting the ballast tanks, and returning to bed, without actually completely waking up. "And?"
"And you sort of FLOAT up."
THIS threw me. "...what?"
"You don't brace yourself. You don't even use your ARMS, as far as I can tell. You just... RISE. The closest description I can give you is like that scene in "Nosferatu," where the vampire doesn't just sit up in his coffin, he RISES up, like he's got hinges attached to his heels."
"...I do that?"
"Almost," she said. "It's a little creepy. You just... RISE UP, and your feet float sideways out of the bed, and you don't look like you're trying at all. It just HAPPENS. And then you go from Nosferatu to Frankenstein."
"...what?"
"You stand up on your feet. You rotate right. You begin to walk to the bathroom. But even though you're asleep, your reptile brain, way down in your brain stem, is aware that there MIGHT be cats in the way. So you don't just WALK."
I said nothing. She continued.
"So you take very short steps, with your feet getting less than an inch from the floor, and you STOMP. Not loudly, but I can hear you. You don't quite shuffle, but you take very short steps and you stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp all the way to the bathroom. Like you're trying to let the cats know you're coming, but you're also letting them know that you're asleep and you WILL step on them or nudge them aside if they're in the way. And you look like if there was a brick wall in your way, you'd just push right through it."
I stared at her. "I do this? Every night?"
"Every night. It's your bladder. It's like you're being led by your bladder, and your bladder is by-ghod GOING to get to that bathroom, and ... it's not as good a pilot of the meat suit as your brain is. But the getting out of bed part? It's got THAT part DOWN, cold."
I sat there with my coffee in my hand. She kept going.
"It happens a couple of times a night," she continued. "But it WILL happen in the MORNING."
"In the morning," I said, trying to process.
"In the morning," she said. "Because on weekdays when you work, you get up before I do. But all summer? You sleep in. And when I get up, all of a sudden, YOU don't wake up, but Nosferatu realizes that if he doesn't beat me to the bathroom, then he's going to have to WAIT to pee. So as soon as I sit up, Nosferatu RISES FROM HIS GRAVE, and his upper torso floats up and his feet float sideways, and you stand up and do the Frankenstein Shuffle to the bathroom, before I can finish getting up. It's sort of impressive to watch, really. I've gotten used to just stopping for a moment, because Nosferatu generally finishes pretty quickly, and then Frankenstein turns around and stomp-stomp-stomps back to bed."
As I recall, I blinked, and I sipped my coffee. "That's what I do in the night, now?" I asked. "I mean, is there more?"
Berni thought about it. "That's pretty much spot on. One thing I probably didn't mention, that makes it even funnier, is that you don't even seem to disturb the covers. You don't fling them off and commence to risin'. It's like you somehow gently fold them back, as though it's a nightly turn down service, and I halfway expect to see a mint materialize on the pillow, calmly awaiting your return."
I didn't quite choke on the coffee; I had a mental picture of that scene from Return Of The Jedi, where Yoda Becomes One With The Force, and the covers gently collapse on the bed, where he vanished.
It is a disturbing thing, at my time of life, to find that one is apparently far more ethereally graceful in one's sleep then one is while awake.
"And also," she continued, "the reason I have learned to sit on the edge of the bed and wait for this ritual to occur, is because there has been a time or two where I lie in bed for a bit upon waking, doing calculations in my head as to when you last peed and think "okay...he peed 15 minutes ago so I'm probably good", because by God if it's been 20 minutes since your last rising, it's off to the races. And I can't assume that just because you're snoring I'm in the clear. Tried that a couple times. Even made it partway to the can before Nosferatu senses a disturbance in the force and somehow manages to CUT ME OFF without even noticing I'm RIGHT THERE."
"So," I said. "I am not only ethereally graceful, but I MOVE quicker in my sleep than I do when I'm awake?"
And now it was HER turn to sip her coffee and look at me.
Wul, damb. Nice to know I haven't COMPLETELY lost my swiftness and grace in my old age...
Thursday, July 29, 2021
On Wil Wheaton's Birthday
I saw STTNG's pilot episode when it first came out, but my job duties kept me from paying a lot of attention to it the first season. I noted they had a French captain with a British accent, an android, a telepathic psychiatrist, a blind engineer, and a precocious kid who gets in trouble. And, of course, the first episode HAS to have a godlike alien who screws around with our stalwart crew.
"Wow," I thought. "Only thing missing is a dog. Going to be interesting to see where this goes."
And then, I didn't see a single episode (other than "The Naked Now") for a year.
And then I went to a science fiction convention. I love me a good con. And at one point, I bought an overpriced soda and hot dog and went to go eat it in the Detox Room, where there were places to sit. The Con was being held in a college student union building. The Detox Room was a classroom. At the front of the classroom was a blackboard, where a number of people had written graffitti. "FLASH GORDON WAS HERE!" "Klaatu Barada Nikto!" "FLASH GORDON EATS WORMS! --Buck Rogers" "TODAY IS A GOOD DAY TO DIE!" and so on.
And at least half the board was alive with poison hatred for Wesley Crusher.
It took me a second to realize that this had been the precocious kid on Star Trek, played by Wil Wheaton. And some people... a great MANY people... had some very ugly things to say about Crusher, Wheaton, and anyone who liked them.
Me? Didn't have any opinion one way or the other; I barely knew the show was on the air, although I'd been wanting to catch up on it. But daaaang, what the HELL, people?
I mean, for all I knew, Wil Wheaton was Hitler incarnate; all I knew about him was that he'd been in that movie, "Stand By Me," and that he was in Star Trek, and he was a kid. But I also knew he was a kid actor, and at an age where if your adult career doesn't catch on, it's not GOING to, and then in a few years you wind up in the news because you got hopped up on drugs and got arrested while trying to rob a fire hydrant at gunpoint.
I knew that if it had been ME, and I'd been offered the role of Precocious Kid on The New Star Trek Show, I'd have been in there, SO fast! You'd have had to pry me off Gene Roddenberry's ANKLE, I'd be on it so hard!
I knew that this Wheaton kid didn't get to decide what character he played, and that he didn't get to write the dialogue, and that as a kid, he probably had even LESS pull than the grownups did about lines and how to play a scene and so forth.
I'd heard about Rob Reiner, and for YEARS after "All In The Family" went off the air, he'd had to put up with complete strangers on the street yelling, "HEY, MEATHEAD!" at him. What must it be like to be, what, sixteen, and you can't go out on the street without some idjit screaming YOU RUINED STAR TREK at you?
I didn't hate Wesley or Wheaton. I sorta felt BAD for them.
Around that time, the local station began running reruns, and I was able to catch up on the first season, and I did have to agree, Wesley Crusher wasn't the best thing about the show. On the other hand, the whole SHOW needed work, and I was pleased to see that with the Season Two opener, it began to get better, until it finally hit it out of the park with the closer and Season Three opener. I came to like the show, and Wheaton's performances, and everyone ELSE's, very much.
Still felt bad for Wil Wheaton, though. All the more so when I ran across his book, where he wrote that he went through some serious shit for a while for the precise reasons I detailed above. How many of US would be able to carry on while poison trolls screamed at us? On the other hand, like the show, his life did get better, and his career seems to be doing just fine.
So here's to you, Wil Wheaton, and a fine and happy birthday to you, and I am sure we are both glad that you're a successful actor and blogger, and not a homeless drughead who terrorizes fire hydrants today.
"Wow," I thought. "Only thing missing is a dog. Going to be interesting to see where this goes."
And then, I didn't see a single episode (other than "The Naked Now") for a year.
And then I went to a science fiction convention. I love me a good con. And at one point, I bought an overpriced soda and hot dog and went to go eat it in the Detox Room, where there were places to sit. The Con was being held in a college student union building. The Detox Room was a classroom. At the front of the classroom was a blackboard, where a number of people had written graffitti. "FLASH GORDON WAS HERE!" "Klaatu Barada Nikto!" "FLASH GORDON EATS WORMS! --Buck Rogers" "TODAY IS A GOOD DAY TO DIE!" and so on.
And at least half the board was alive with poison hatred for Wesley Crusher.
It took me a second to realize that this had been the precocious kid on Star Trek, played by Wil Wheaton. And some people... a great MANY people... had some very ugly things to say about Crusher, Wheaton, and anyone who liked them.
Me? Didn't have any opinion one way or the other; I barely knew the show was on the air, although I'd been wanting to catch up on it. But daaaang, what the HELL, people?
I mean, for all I knew, Wil Wheaton was Hitler incarnate; all I knew about him was that he'd been in that movie, "Stand By Me," and that he was in Star Trek, and he was a kid. But I also knew he was a kid actor, and at an age where if your adult career doesn't catch on, it's not GOING to, and then in a few years you wind up in the news because you got hopped up on drugs and got arrested while trying to rob a fire hydrant at gunpoint.
I knew that if it had been ME, and I'd been offered the role of Precocious Kid on The New Star Trek Show, I'd have been in there, SO fast! You'd have had to pry me off Gene Roddenberry's ANKLE, I'd be on it so hard!
I knew that this Wheaton kid didn't get to decide what character he played, and that he didn't get to write the dialogue, and that as a kid, he probably had even LESS pull than the grownups did about lines and how to play a scene and so forth.
I'd heard about Rob Reiner, and for YEARS after "All In The Family" went off the air, he'd had to put up with complete strangers on the street yelling, "HEY, MEATHEAD!" at him. What must it be like to be, what, sixteen, and you can't go out on the street without some idjit screaming YOU RUINED STAR TREK at you?
I didn't hate Wesley or Wheaton. I sorta felt BAD for them.
Around that time, the local station began running reruns, and I was able to catch up on the first season, and I did have to agree, Wesley Crusher wasn't the best thing about the show. On the other hand, the whole SHOW needed work, and I was pleased to see that with the Season Two opener, it began to get better, until it finally hit it out of the park with the closer and Season Three opener. I came to like the show, and Wheaton's performances, and everyone ELSE's, very much.
Still felt bad for Wil Wheaton, though. All the more so when I ran across his book, where he wrote that he went through some serious shit for a while for the precise reasons I detailed above. How many of US would be able to carry on while poison trolls screamed at us? On the other hand, like the show, his life did get better, and his career seems to be doing just fine.
So here's to you, Wil Wheaton, and a fine and happy birthday to you, and I am sure we are both glad that you're a successful actor and blogger, and not a homeless drughead who terrorizes fire hydrants today.
Tuesday, July 27, 2021
Jan. 6, 2021
I had an experience with an online friend who was screaming about stolen elections after Trump lost.
I attempted to engage with this person -- you might recall that after November, the Trump team went into a frenzy of court filings, all of which they lost, and demanding vote count audits, all of which failed to prove anything other than "Trump Lost," -- but the dialogue between my friend and I sorta broke down.
It amounted to "Trump won, we believe it, and that settles it, and YOU HAVE TO RESPECT OUR BELIEFS."
I found this disturbing. "If I said that same thing when YOUR candidate won an election, you wouldn't respect MY beliefs," I replied. "You'd want proof of my claims. You'd want evidence that would stand up in court. Trump's lost SIXTY court cases so far, including one in front of the Supreme Court that HE appointed. Why should I accept your beliefs as fact?"
Her response was something along the lines of "Well, you'll SEE what happens on January Sixth."
I remember the sixth rather vividly; I spent the afternoon teaching middle school children with a frozen grin pasted on my face while watching my phone out of the corner of my eye the whole time and wondering if this is the chapter in the book where the country "slides into dictatorship."
And probably the worst part of the whole thing was that a person I considered a friend KNEW THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN. "Yup, we're taking control of the government, now, and YOU PEOPLE'S votes aren't going to count any more. We don't NEED proof, because we BELIEVE REAL HARD!"
Sigh.
This friend is rabidly anti-abortion. Far as she's concerned, abortion is murder, we believe it, that settles it, and we will NOT stop until anyone who does or abets this process is in JAIL! No room for opposing view points, of course. Talk all you want, but it WILL be OUR way. OUR beliefs are the RIGHT beliefs, and YOURS don't MATTER!
It WILL be OUR way.
January Sixth taught me an important lesson: some people are prepared to do this exact same thing with American politics. Talk all you want, but your votes will no longer be allowed to matter...
I attempted to engage with this person -- you might recall that after November, the Trump team went into a frenzy of court filings, all of which they lost, and demanding vote count audits, all of which failed to prove anything other than "Trump Lost," -- but the dialogue between my friend and I sorta broke down.
It amounted to "Trump won, we believe it, and that settles it, and YOU HAVE TO RESPECT OUR BELIEFS."
I found this disturbing. "If I said that same thing when YOUR candidate won an election, you wouldn't respect MY beliefs," I replied. "You'd want proof of my claims. You'd want evidence that would stand up in court. Trump's lost SIXTY court cases so far, including one in front of the Supreme Court that HE appointed. Why should I accept your beliefs as fact?"
Her response was something along the lines of "Well, you'll SEE what happens on January Sixth."
I remember the sixth rather vividly; I spent the afternoon teaching middle school children with a frozen grin pasted on my face while watching my phone out of the corner of my eye the whole time and wondering if this is the chapter in the book where the country "slides into dictatorship."
And probably the worst part of the whole thing was that a person I considered a friend KNEW THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN. "Yup, we're taking control of the government, now, and YOU PEOPLE'S votes aren't going to count any more. We don't NEED proof, because we BELIEVE REAL HARD!"
Sigh.
This friend is rabidly anti-abortion. Far as she's concerned, abortion is murder, we believe it, that settles it, and we will NOT stop until anyone who does or abets this process is in JAIL! No room for opposing view points, of course. Talk all you want, but it WILL be OUR way. OUR beliefs are the RIGHT beliefs, and YOURS don't MATTER!
It WILL be OUR way.
January Sixth taught me an important lesson: some people are prepared to do this exact same thing with American politics. Talk all you want, but your votes will no longer be allowed to matter...
Thursday, July 8, 2021
Freedom of Speech, Tilting at Windmills
Sigh.
ONE more time, folks: the First Amendment's guarantee of Freedom of Speech simply means "The government can't come after you for criticizing it."
That's it. You may freely criticize the government and they may not legally take action against you for doing so.
You may NOT advocate the committing of crimes, scream FIRE in a crowded theater, or, actually, even punch Nazis; while it IS a valid form of self expression, it's also assault and battery, and therefore illegal.
It also applies only to the GOVERNMENT; private citizens and corporations can take whatever action they deem appropriate, subject to the law. This is why I cannot come over to your house and spraypaint YNGVI IS A LOUSE across the front of it, despite my freedom to SAY it.
...which brings us to Facebook, Twitter, and Google. They have rules and terms of service, and reserve the right to terminate your account and/or access, temporarily or permanently, for violating those rules. Now, I don't LIKE this; they've done it to ME a time or two. However, the Constitution does not protect my right to post on Facebook. That's the way it is. I don't like it, I can go and start my OWN social network, with blackjack and hookers!
And overnight, my new social network will be overrun with Nazis, KKK types, flame wars, and, for some reason, tentacle porn. History has taught us this. This seems to be why Facebook HAS terms of service. You have freedom of speech, but it is not absolute, and no one is required to provide you a platform, or resources, or even stand there and listen to you. That's the way it is.
Talk all you want, but bring your own soapbox.
That being said? I think I should point out some things.
1. Don Quixote was NUTS; that was the entire theme of the BOOK. He was batshit crazy and thought he was a Knight Errant, centuries too late for that.
2. At one point he sees some windmills, and thinks they are evil giants. His friend Sancho begs him not to attack, but Don Quixote has NO time for that, and he attacks, charging into battle with his lance!
3. The windmills, being windmills, stand there unnoticing, and the episode does not end well for Don Quixote.
4. This has given rise to the English idiom, "Tilting at windmills," meaning "a foolish, pointless endeavor, brought on by delusion or a mistake."
5. The editorial cartoonist seems not to have known any of this, judging from the cartoon. Some folks pointed it out. True to form, he angrily doubled down and threatened to go all "James Woods" on them.
What did Puck say? "Lord, what fools these mortals be." I'm allowed to quote that; I read the play.
ONE more time, folks: the First Amendment's guarantee of Freedom of Speech simply means "The government can't come after you for criticizing it."
That's it. You may freely criticize the government and they may not legally take action against you for doing so.
You may NOT advocate the committing of crimes, scream FIRE in a crowded theater, or, actually, even punch Nazis; while it IS a valid form of self expression, it's also assault and battery, and therefore illegal.
It also applies only to the GOVERNMENT; private citizens and corporations can take whatever action they deem appropriate, subject to the law. This is why I cannot come over to your house and spraypaint YNGVI IS A LOUSE across the front of it, despite my freedom to SAY it.
...which brings us to Facebook, Twitter, and Google. They have rules and terms of service, and reserve the right to terminate your account and/or access, temporarily or permanently, for violating those rules. Now, I don't LIKE this; they've done it to ME a time or two. However, the Constitution does not protect my right to post on Facebook. That's the way it is. I don't like it, I can go and start my OWN social network, with blackjack and hookers!
And overnight, my new social network will be overrun with Nazis, KKK types, flame wars, and, for some reason, tentacle porn. History has taught us this. This seems to be why Facebook HAS terms of service. You have freedom of speech, but it is not absolute, and no one is required to provide you a platform, or resources, or even stand there and listen to you. That's the way it is.
Talk all you want, but bring your own soapbox.
That being said? I think I should point out some things.
1. Don Quixote was NUTS; that was the entire theme of the BOOK. He was batshit crazy and thought he was a Knight Errant, centuries too late for that.
2. At one point he sees some windmills, and thinks they are evil giants. His friend Sancho begs him not to attack, but Don Quixote has NO time for that, and he attacks, charging into battle with his lance!
3. The windmills, being windmills, stand there unnoticing, and the episode does not end well for Don Quixote.
4. This has given rise to the English idiom, "Tilting at windmills," meaning "a foolish, pointless endeavor, brought on by delusion or a mistake."
5. The editorial cartoonist seems not to have known any of this, judging from the cartoon. Some folks pointed it out. True to form, he angrily doubled down and threatened to go all "James Woods" on them.
What did Puck say? "Lord, what fools these mortals be." I'm allowed to quote that; I read the play.
Monday, July 5, 2021
Taking Over The World
When I was a little kid, I used to think a lot about taking over the world.
I mean, not like I personally was going to do it; even as a small child, I knew the world has a LOT of moving parts, and that trying to operate it all personally would involve a lot of hard work and more responsibiity than I wanted to deal with. So, no, I didn't want to do it MYSELF, no.
But as a child, I consumed a lot of the basic media intended for children -- comics, cartoons, TV, and movies and such -- and I quickly observed that a LOT of the villains seemed to have world domination as their primary focus and motivation. Gonna TAKE OVER THE WORLD, muahahahahaha!
These villains were actually pretty similar to one another. Invariably, rather than go to law school, go into politics, or bribe a politician, these villains would either build some kind of a gadget, or steal a gadget from the government or a good-guy inventor, with the intention of using it to TAKE OVER THE WORLD, muahahahaha!
I outgrew this form of entertainment pretty quickly. It didn't make sense to me. For one thing, there were too MANY of these guys all with the same game plan, and it seemed unrealistic. It was all "evil for evil's sake." None of them seemed to have any real idea what TAKING OVER THE WORLD would entail, or any real plan for what to DO with it afterwards. Surely, a grownup smart enough to build a laser cannon that ran on D batteries was smart enough to think all this OUT, right?
As I grew older, though, I realized that I'd been wrong. There are plenty of people out there for whom evil for evil's sake seems to be a perfectly good and satisfying motivation. Hell, I wasn't even out of grade school before I learned that some people need nothing more out of life than hurting someone else.
And if the last five years have taught me anything, it is that there are, in fact, guys in a position to take power who have no clue whatsoever about what to do with it when they have it...
http://www.skulduggerypleasant.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/Lost-Art-of-World-Domination-1.pdf
I mean, not like I personally was going to do it; even as a small child, I knew the world has a LOT of moving parts, and that trying to operate it all personally would involve a lot of hard work and more responsibiity than I wanted to deal with. So, no, I didn't want to do it MYSELF, no.
But as a child, I consumed a lot of the basic media intended for children -- comics, cartoons, TV, and movies and such -- and I quickly observed that a LOT of the villains seemed to have world domination as their primary focus and motivation. Gonna TAKE OVER THE WORLD, muahahahahaha!
These villains were actually pretty similar to one another. Invariably, rather than go to law school, go into politics, or bribe a politician, these villains would either build some kind of a gadget, or steal a gadget from the government or a good-guy inventor, with the intention of using it to TAKE OVER THE WORLD, muahahahaha!
I outgrew this form of entertainment pretty quickly. It didn't make sense to me. For one thing, there were too MANY of these guys all with the same game plan, and it seemed unrealistic. It was all "evil for evil's sake." None of them seemed to have any real idea what TAKING OVER THE WORLD would entail, or any real plan for what to DO with it afterwards. Surely, a grownup smart enough to build a laser cannon that ran on D batteries was smart enough to think all this OUT, right?
As I grew older, though, I realized that I'd been wrong. There are plenty of people out there for whom evil for evil's sake seems to be a perfectly good and satisfying motivation. Hell, I wasn't even out of grade school before I learned that some people need nothing more out of life than hurting someone else.
And if the last five years have taught me anything, it is that there are, in fact, guys in a position to take power who have no clue whatsoever about what to do with it when they have it...
http://www.skulduggerypleasant.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/Lost-Art-of-World-Domination-1.pdf
Friday, July 2, 2021
Green Death, Hidden Moron
I died fairly quickly, that spring of '83. I was, to my shame, only the second to fall.
*******************************************************
It was the sort of thing that wouldn't be tolerated these days. NOWADAYS, you see some yahoo running around on the quad with a gun, someone calls 911 and before you know it, you have the cops, the NSA, and Homeland Security on the scene.
Back then, it was just another day as a dorm rat.
The game was called "KILLER." And it didn't involve real guns, of course. Back then, we didn't even have paintball guns. It was played with water pistols, toy dart guns, and suchlike. And more. The rules were well suited to bored college students, fresh out of high school and drunk on their newfound freedom: hunt down your buddy and kill him.
We, the third floor of Butler Hall, west wing, Men's Section, met in the TV room to sign the Compact and draw names. The Compact indicated that we, the undersigned, had read the rules and acknowledged them. Copies were provided for all contestants.
1. To play, five bucks is put in the kitty by each player. The last survivor claims the total.
2. Players will draw a name from the hat. The name is your victim. If you successfully kill your victim, he must give you HIS slip of paper, and that becomes your NEW victim. And so on. There Can Be Only One Survivor.
3. The following places are off limits: the third floor day room, your personal dorm room, and classrooms. Anywhere else, you're fair game.
4. Assassination methods must be methods that would work in the real world, but are UTTERLY HARMLESS in reality. A hit with a dart gun or water pistol to the torso is assumed to be lethal. For safety's sake, do avoid head shots with dart pistols. Other assassination methods are allowable as long as they are more or less reasonable (and harmless in reality). Water balloons, for example, may be considered "grenades," but observe Rule #5. Particularly esoteric murder weapons must be labeled in some way, for the comprehension of the victim, where necessary.
5. A gentleman assassin does not inflict collateral damage. If a bystander is splattered, hit, or otherwise "harmed or killed," the assassination shall be considered invalid, and the intended victim gets a pass.
There were twelve of us, that day. And we solemnly put the money in the kitty, drew our slips of paper, and signed the articles. And the game began.
Rocket Boy, surprisingly, was the first to fall. Wild Man nailed him with a water pistol as he left his room that Monday to go to class. Everyone expected Rocket to last a while; he was a very clever fellow, and we had discussed much about weapons, ballistics, and range the previous day.
Most toy weapons of that time were pretty limited. Water pistols had an effective range of no more than maybe ten or fifteen feet; dart pistols even less, with their little springs and suction-cup darts. You had to get CLOSE to your victim. Bobo had a rubber dagger he kept on his person at all times; he swore that whoever got HIM was going down WITH him.
Super Soakers? Pffft. Not invented yet. We didn't even have those battery powered squirt guns that would become so popular in the mid to late eighties, and Nerf guns weren't even a dream. We were primitive, savage murder creatures. And our time had come.
**********************************************
I was the next to go, I'm ashamed to say. I was headed to a class that afternoon, when I felt the kiss of cold water on the back of my neck. I spun around to see the Creature grinning at me, holding a clear orange plastic .45. BUGGER! I was a gentleman, though, and gave him the name of my intended victim. I hadn't even got around to killing anyone yet...
The Creature, however, did not enjoy his victory long. As he returned to the dorm that afternoon, and approached the side door, a pillow landed on his head. Confused, he picked up the pillow. Taped to it was a sheet of notebook paper, upon which was printed: BABY GRAND PIANO. CRASH. YOU DEAD.
He looked up. Grinning at him from a fourth floor window was Wild Man.
A meeting was called; the Creature bitterly complained that there was no way in hell that, realistically, one man could drag a grand piano over and throw it out a three foot by three foot window. He was overruled. The assassination had been legal, and NO one was willing to put anything past Wild Man.
Wild Man was called Wild Man for a reason. He had earned the name by being the first one in the water, no matter what. Zorro had hung it on him when Wild Man had flung himself off a cliff into the river at Five Mile Dam... without bothering to find out how deep the water was, first. (It was, in fact, more than deep enough, but most of us would have checked before making a thirty foot drop). The same week, he'd done the same thing at Pepper's At The Falls, diving headfirst off the waterfall into the river below. Rocket Boy was sure he wouldn't live to graduate.
If any of us could stuff a baby grand piano out a three foot window, it would certainly be Wild Man.
************************************************
Tuesday was a cruel day.
Zorro took out the Dewy Eyed Wonder with his trusty Star Trek Tracer Gun, a toy that shot plastic discs and looked nothing like anything ever seen on the TV show (although it did have a picture of Mr. Spock on it); Zorro loved it because it was quiet and surprisingly accurate within thirty feet or so, assuming you were using it indoors; breezes tended to send the little frisbee discs wide. Zorro would later learn to use this to his advantage, claiming he could shoot around corners if the wind was right, but I digress.
Mr. Zulu fell victim to his own weapon; he tried to supercharge a water pistol using a CO2 cartridge haphazardly affixed to the water port, and the cheap plastic toy had simply exploded. A meeting was called, and Mr. Zulu was declared to not be dead, since the rules did not allow for death by misadventure. He celebrated by going and shooting Izod in the face as he came out of the dining hall.
Izod had made his mark, however, as earlier in the day, he had killed the Prepster with a concealed dart pistol; the Prepster had been eyeing a jogging pretty in a tube top, and had foolishly allowed his assassin to get way too close.
Bobo was on his way to class when his backpack had begun making a metallic clattering sound; he stopped and opened the pack to find an old fashioned windup alarm clock in it... going off like mad. Taped across the face was a scrap of duct tape, bearing the magic markered words: BOMB THAT COULD NOT POSSIBLY BE TRACED TO WILD MAN,
At the same meeting that exonerated Mr. Zulu, Bobo lost his appeal; he argued that the bomb COULD have gone off in CLASS, but it had not; the group agreed that that was kind of the point of using a clock as a timer, wasn't it? It had gone off in the hall, ten minutes BEFORE class, and Bobo was therefore, theoretically, a wet red mist. He argued that a bomb in the hallway could have claimed other victims; Wild Man cheerfully pointed out that no one else had BEEN in the hall ten minutes before class... and provided a polaroid picture to prove it. In the picture, Bobo was opening his backpack... alone in the hall.
Wild Man had gone from being a lovable loony to being someone to watch.
********************************************************
No one died on Wednesday. This is because everyone had taken the concept of "paranoia" to a high art form.
At one point, I saw the Troll enter the main hallway on the third floor where our rooms were by doing a tuck and roll out of the stairwell, ended by leaping to his feet with a water pistol in either hand.
Wild Man had taken to carrying a net bag hung on his belt. In it were three brightly colored water balloons, each neatly magic markered with the word GRENADE. He said he could throw further than any water pistol or dart gun ever made, and his enemies had best beware.
Mr. Zulu called a meeting; someone had put a rubber scorpion in his sock drawer bearing a little paper sign reading STING! YOUR DEAD. The committee reminded the assassin (Tom Slick) that one's own dorm room was considered off limits for assassinations, and therefore Mr. Zulu was, again, declared to be alive and still in the game. They then declared the method quite clever and otherwise legal, although a separate decree condemning Tom's spelling and grammar was also accepted by the committee.
Mr. Zulu celebrated his second close shave by attempting to kill Zorro, who outran him on the quad and therefore survived. "Durnit," Mr. Zulu was later heard to say, "it woulda worked if I coulda got the CO2 cartridge thing working. Guns got no RANGE!"
*********************************************************
Thursday was filled with tension. Wild Man simply barricaded himself in his room and refused to come out for classes.
Zorro survived close brushes with the disappointed Mr. Zulu and Tom Slick, and commented at length later about how he couldn't sleep or focus on anything for fear someone was going to come climbing in a window with a rubber dagger in his teeth or something.
The Troll was sitting at the Student Union, trying to study while glancing up every few minutes to make sure none of his dorm mates was anywhere near him. No one was ANYWHERE near him, except for four guys he didn't recognize at the next table.
...one of whom suddenly said, "I leap to my feet and seize the Troll!"
The second said, "I grab his gun arm! He can't reach his weapons!"
The third said, "I grab his legs! We drag him out of the chair!"
The fourth said, "And I grab his torso! Over to the window! CRASH! Down he goes, ten floors to the pavement!"
...a meeting was called. Troll complained bitterly about how he'd never had a chance, and that no one had informed him that hirelings could be used for assassination. Wild Man, grinning like an orgasmic shark, simply said that there were no rules against hiring henchmen, and that the murder had been carried out safely and harmlessly to bystanders.
The committee reluctantly ruled in Wild Man's favor. Wild Man took his henchmen -- all Theatre majors -- out for beers in payment. Mr. Zulu later bitterly regretted not thinking to sneak down to Valentino's Pizza and shooting Wild Man in the face.
*************************************************
And Friday.
Mr. Zulu and Tom Slick met and made a pact, I later heard. They'd reached the breaking point. They agreed that they would not murder each other until at least an hour after Wild Man had been dealt with; he was NOT going to claim the kitty, durnit!
And they went to seek him out.
On the whiteboard next to his door, the message: TED I AM IN THE GIRLS DAY ROOM FOR DAYS OF OUR LIVES
Could it be? They conferred with one another. It was well known that Wild Man loved his soaps. Was he really dumb enough to watch TV over on the girls' side? That was NOT a protected area! Maybe he'd misunderstood and thought ALL the day rooms were safe zones...
It bore checking out.
They sneaked over to the third floor girls' side TV room. They glanced in the doorway.
Wild Man sat alone, in the front couch, watching TV. The only thing that could be heard were the soft dialogue of a commercial, and the two or three fans running to cool the place. No one else was in the room.
Golden opportunity. Mr. Zulu and Tom Slick entered the room, silently, guns in hand... and began to move towards the couch...
And Wild Man abruptly spun in his seat and hurled a water balloon.
And Mr. Zulu and Tom Slick dropped fast. They'd been expecting this. The balloon would sail over their heads and harmlessly into the hallway.
...if Wild Man had thrown it at them. He hadn't. He'd thrown it at the rotary fan next to the doorway. Which had had its safety cage removed, and been turned towards the doorway.
BLAT! The balloon hit the blades, and its contents sprayed the entire area around the doorway.
Exit Mr. Zulu and Tom Slick, dripping and fuming.
Later discussion revealed the facts: Wild Man had turned the brightness down and wasn't watching the show; he was watching the reflections off the big glass screen. It'd been a trap all along. Zulu and Slick didn't even call a meeting to appeal.
******************************************************* ...which brings us to Saturday.
Wild Man was well ahead in the races. It was down to he and Zorro at this point. But Zorro was smart. Zorro was clever. And Zorro wouldn't go down without a fight. Wild Man had a half dozen plans in his mind to deal with Zorro.
...but Wild Man had a problem. His roommate. His roommate wasn't playing the game, and Wild Man had avoided the bathroom all week, thinking it to be just too good a place for an ambush. Wild Man hadn't bathed since last Sunday, and his roommate was threatening violent action. It was time to bathe, and then some.
Wild Man planned it carefully. He took soap, towel, and shampoo to the main bathroom ... at 4:30 that Saturday morning. Who'd be up and mobile at 4:30 on a Saturday morning?
But Wild Man took no chances. He had his net bag of balloon grenades, and a squirt gun for good measure. Plus, it was a bathroom. If his assassin happened to get some spray off the shower, who was to say Wild Man hadn't shot him? This could work out to his advantage...
And Wild Man undressed with one hand... a grenade in the other. Just in case.
And Wild Man stepped into the bathing area, and into one of the shower stalls, still holding a grenade in his left hand, and his pistol clamped in his teeth. Backwards.
He reached behind him and turned on the water. URRRRRGH! COLD! ALL over his shivering back! Still, though, he faced OUTWARDS, not INTO the shower stall. If he fell, his wounds would be in FRONT!
But as the water warmed... he began to relax. It was 4:40 in the morning, for potato's sake. Who'd try anything at this hour? And even if anyone did, he was ready for them!
The water was hot, now, spraying across his back. Keeping his eyes open, he let it wash across the back of his head, wetting his hair. Ahhhhhhhhh. After a moment's thought, he put the pistol down, but kept the water balloon firmly in his left hand. He reached up to wash his face... and stopped.
His hand was bright green. Green rivulets ran up his arm, and green water dripped off his elbow. What the &%$#@???
He spun around. The water gushing from the shower head was rich emerald green. And so was most of Wild Man, at this point.
He snatched up his gun and ran out into the main bathroom area, where the stalls, sinks and mirrors were. And written in lipstick across the mirrors were the words: SULFURIC ACID SHOWER. The words hadn't been there when he'd come in.
...and this is where I came in; I was comfortably asleep in my room when I heard the scream. I staggered out into the hallway, along with a few other worthies not so hung over that they couldn't respond, to see Wild Man erupt from the bathroom, stark naked, stained a bright and runny green from crown to foot, dripping more green in his wake, clutching a water pistol in one hand and a water balloon in the other, and screaming and cursing with such vehemence, volume, and richness to turn the AIR green in his wake.
I would later find out that Zorro had assumed that Wild Man would use the shower stall furthest from the door; it provided the best view of anyone coming in. Zorro had then waited until quite late at night, when he was pretty sure no one was going to be washing up... brought a hefty container of powdered tempera paint, wetted it into a putty, and had unscrewed the big industrial shower head in that stall and had coated the inside of the shower head with the green putty. It wasn't blocking the water flow, but when the water turned warm, it dissolved the putty, turning it into green paint... and....
I remember those big clunky old shower heads. There was room in there for a pound or more of powdered tempera paint.
He never did tell us how he knew Wild Man would be using the shower bright and early that Saturday morning; it remains a mystery for the ages...
*******************************************************
It was the sort of thing that wouldn't be tolerated these days. NOWADAYS, you see some yahoo running around on the quad with a gun, someone calls 911 and before you know it, you have the cops, the NSA, and Homeland Security on the scene.
Back then, it was just another day as a dorm rat.
The game was called "KILLER." And it didn't involve real guns, of course. Back then, we didn't even have paintball guns. It was played with water pistols, toy dart guns, and suchlike. And more. The rules were well suited to bored college students, fresh out of high school and drunk on their newfound freedom: hunt down your buddy and kill him.
We, the third floor of Butler Hall, west wing, Men's Section, met in the TV room to sign the Compact and draw names. The Compact indicated that we, the undersigned, had read the rules and acknowledged them. Copies were provided for all contestants.
1. To play, five bucks is put in the kitty by each player. The last survivor claims the total.
2. Players will draw a name from the hat. The name is your victim. If you successfully kill your victim, he must give you HIS slip of paper, and that becomes your NEW victim. And so on. There Can Be Only One Survivor.
3. The following places are off limits: the third floor day room, your personal dorm room, and classrooms. Anywhere else, you're fair game.
4. Assassination methods must be methods that would work in the real world, but are UTTERLY HARMLESS in reality. A hit with a dart gun or water pistol to the torso is assumed to be lethal. For safety's sake, do avoid head shots with dart pistols. Other assassination methods are allowable as long as they are more or less reasonable (and harmless in reality). Water balloons, for example, may be considered "grenades," but observe Rule #5. Particularly esoteric murder weapons must be labeled in some way, for the comprehension of the victim, where necessary.
5. A gentleman assassin does not inflict collateral damage. If a bystander is splattered, hit, or otherwise "harmed or killed," the assassination shall be considered invalid, and the intended victim gets a pass.
There were twelve of us, that day. And we solemnly put the money in the kitty, drew our slips of paper, and signed the articles. And the game began.
Rocket Boy, surprisingly, was the first to fall. Wild Man nailed him with a water pistol as he left his room that Monday to go to class. Everyone expected Rocket to last a while; he was a very clever fellow, and we had discussed much about weapons, ballistics, and range the previous day.
Most toy weapons of that time were pretty limited. Water pistols had an effective range of no more than maybe ten or fifteen feet; dart pistols even less, with their little springs and suction-cup darts. You had to get CLOSE to your victim. Bobo had a rubber dagger he kept on his person at all times; he swore that whoever got HIM was going down WITH him.
Super Soakers? Pffft. Not invented yet. We didn't even have those battery powered squirt guns that would become so popular in the mid to late eighties, and Nerf guns weren't even a dream. We were primitive, savage murder creatures. And our time had come.
**********************************************
I was the next to go, I'm ashamed to say. I was headed to a class that afternoon, when I felt the kiss of cold water on the back of my neck. I spun around to see the Creature grinning at me, holding a clear orange plastic .45. BUGGER! I was a gentleman, though, and gave him the name of my intended victim. I hadn't even got around to killing anyone yet...
He looked up. Grinning at him from a fourth floor window was Wild Man.
A meeting was called; the Creature bitterly complained that there was no way in hell that, realistically, one man could drag a grand piano over and throw it out a three foot by three foot window. He was overruled. The assassination had been legal, and NO one was willing to put anything past Wild Man.
Wild Man was called Wild Man for a reason. He had earned the name by being the first one in the water, no matter what. Zorro had hung it on him when Wild Man had flung himself off a cliff into the river at Five Mile Dam... without bothering to find out how deep the water was, first. (It was, in fact, more than deep enough, but most of us would have checked before making a thirty foot drop). The same week, he'd done the same thing at Pepper's At The Falls, diving headfirst off the waterfall into the river below. Rocket Boy was sure he wouldn't live to graduate.
If any of us could stuff a baby grand piano out a three foot window, it would certainly be Wild Man.
************************************************
Tuesday was a cruel day.
Zorro took out the Dewy Eyed Wonder with his trusty Star Trek Tracer Gun, a toy that shot plastic discs and looked nothing like anything ever seen on the TV show (although it did have a picture of Mr. Spock on it); Zorro loved it because it was quiet and surprisingly accurate within thirty feet or so, assuming you were using it indoors; breezes tended to send the little frisbee discs wide. Zorro would later learn to use this to his advantage, claiming he could shoot around corners if the wind was right, but I digress.
Mr. Zulu fell victim to his own weapon; he tried to supercharge a water pistol using a CO2 cartridge haphazardly affixed to the water port, and the cheap plastic toy had simply exploded. A meeting was called, and Mr. Zulu was declared to not be dead, since the rules did not allow for death by misadventure. He celebrated by going and shooting Izod in the face as he came out of the dining hall.
Izod had made his mark, however, as earlier in the day, he had killed the Prepster with a concealed dart pistol; the Prepster had been eyeing a jogging pretty in a tube top, and had foolishly allowed his assassin to get way too close.
Bobo was on his way to class when his backpack had begun making a metallic clattering sound; he stopped and opened the pack to find an old fashioned windup alarm clock in it... going off like mad. Taped across the face was a scrap of duct tape, bearing the magic markered words: BOMB THAT COULD NOT POSSIBLY BE TRACED TO WILD MAN,
At the same meeting that exonerated Mr. Zulu, Bobo lost his appeal; he argued that the bomb COULD have gone off in CLASS, but it had not; the group agreed that that was kind of the point of using a clock as a timer, wasn't it? It had gone off in the hall, ten minutes BEFORE class, and Bobo was therefore, theoretically, a wet red mist. He argued that a bomb in the hallway could have claimed other victims; Wild Man cheerfully pointed out that no one else had BEEN in the hall ten minutes before class... and provided a polaroid picture to prove it. In the picture, Bobo was opening his backpack... alone in the hall.
Wild Man had gone from being a lovable loony to being someone to watch.
********************************************************
No one died on Wednesday. This is because everyone had taken the concept of "paranoia" to a high art form.
At one point, I saw the Troll enter the main hallway on the third floor where our rooms were by doing a tuck and roll out of the stairwell, ended by leaping to his feet with a water pistol in either hand.
Wild Man had taken to carrying a net bag hung on his belt. In it were three brightly colored water balloons, each neatly magic markered with the word GRENADE. He said he could throw further than any water pistol or dart gun ever made, and his enemies had best beware.
Mr. Zulu called a meeting; someone had put a rubber scorpion in his sock drawer bearing a little paper sign reading STING! YOUR DEAD. The committee reminded the assassin (Tom Slick) that one's own dorm room was considered off limits for assassinations, and therefore Mr. Zulu was, again, declared to be alive and still in the game. They then declared the method quite clever and otherwise legal, although a separate decree condemning Tom's spelling and grammar was also accepted by the committee.
Mr. Zulu celebrated his second close shave by attempting to kill Zorro, who outran him on the quad and therefore survived. "Durnit," Mr. Zulu was later heard to say, "it woulda worked if I coulda got the CO2 cartridge thing working. Guns got no RANGE!"
*********************************************************
Thursday was filled with tension. Wild Man simply barricaded himself in his room and refused to come out for classes.
Zorro survived close brushes with the disappointed Mr. Zulu and Tom Slick, and commented at length later about how he couldn't sleep or focus on anything for fear someone was going to come climbing in a window with a rubber dagger in his teeth or something.
The Troll was sitting at the Student Union, trying to study while glancing up every few minutes to make sure none of his dorm mates was anywhere near him. No one was ANYWHERE near him, except for four guys he didn't recognize at the next table.
...one of whom suddenly said, "I leap to my feet and seize the Troll!"
The second said, "I grab his gun arm! He can't reach his weapons!"
The third said, "I grab his legs! We drag him out of the chair!"
The fourth said, "And I grab his torso! Over to the window! CRASH! Down he goes, ten floors to the pavement!"
...a meeting was called. Troll complained bitterly about how he'd never had a chance, and that no one had informed him that hirelings could be used for assassination. Wild Man, grinning like an orgasmic shark, simply said that there were no rules against hiring henchmen, and that the murder had been carried out safely and harmlessly to bystanders.
The committee reluctantly ruled in Wild Man's favor. Wild Man took his henchmen -- all Theatre majors -- out for beers in payment. Mr. Zulu later bitterly regretted not thinking to sneak down to Valentino's Pizza and shooting Wild Man in the face.
*************************************************
And Friday.
Mr. Zulu and Tom Slick met and made a pact, I later heard. They'd reached the breaking point. They agreed that they would not murder each other until at least an hour after Wild Man had been dealt with; he was NOT going to claim the kitty, durnit!
And they went to seek him out.
On the whiteboard next to his door, the message: TED I AM IN THE GIRLS DAY ROOM FOR DAYS OF OUR LIVES
Could it be? They conferred with one another. It was well known that Wild Man loved his soaps. Was he really dumb enough to watch TV over on the girls' side? That was NOT a protected area! Maybe he'd misunderstood and thought ALL the day rooms were safe zones...
It bore checking out.
They sneaked over to the third floor girls' side TV room. They glanced in the doorway.
Wild Man sat alone, in the front couch, watching TV. The only thing that could be heard were the soft dialogue of a commercial, and the two or three fans running to cool the place. No one else was in the room.
Golden opportunity. Mr. Zulu and Tom Slick entered the room, silently, guns in hand... and began to move towards the couch...
And Wild Man abruptly spun in his seat and hurled a water balloon.
And Mr. Zulu and Tom Slick dropped fast. They'd been expecting this. The balloon would sail over their heads and harmlessly into the hallway.
...if Wild Man had thrown it at them. He hadn't. He'd thrown it at the rotary fan next to the doorway. Which had had its safety cage removed, and been turned towards the doorway.
BLAT! The balloon hit the blades, and its contents sprayed the entire area around the doorway.
Exit Mr. Zulu and Tom Slick, dripping and fuming.
Later discussion revealed the facts: Wild Man had turned the brightness down and wasn't watching the show; he was watching the reflections off the big glass screen. It'd been a trap all along. Zulu and Slick didn't even call a meeting to appeal.
******************************************************* ...which brings us to Saturday.
Wild Man was well ahead in the races. It was down to he and Zorro at this point. But Zorro was smart. Zorro was clever. And Zorro wouldn't go down without a fight. Wild Man had a half dozen plans in his mind to deal with Zorro.
...but Wild Man had a problem. His roommate. His roommate wasn't playing the game, and Wild Man had avoided the bathroom all week, thinking it to be just too good a place for an ambush. Wild Man hadn't bathed since last Sunday, and his roommate was threatening violent action. It was time to bathe, and then some.
Wild Man planned it carefully. He took soap, towel, and shampoo to the main bathroom ... at 4:30 that Saturday morning. Who'd be up and mobile at 4:30 on a Saturday morning?
But Wild Man took no chances. He had his net bag of balloon grenades, and a squirt gun for good measure. Plus, it was a bathroom. If his assassin happened to get some spray off the shower, who was to say Wild Man hadn't shot him? This could work out to his advantage...
And Wild Man undressed with one hand... a grenade in the other. Just in case.
And Wild Man stepped into the bathing area, and into one of the shower stalls, still holding a grenade in his left hand, and his pistol clamped in his teeth. Backwards.
He reached behind him and turned on the water. URRRRRGH! COLD! ALL over his shivering back! Still, though, he faced OUTWARDS, not INTO the shower stall. If he fell, his wounds would be in FRONT!
But as the water warmed... he began to relax. It was 4:40 in the morning, for potato's sake. Who'd try anything at this hour? And even if anyone did, he was ready for them!
The water was hot, now, spraying across his back. Keeping his eyes open, he let it wash across the back of his head, wetting his hair. Ahhhhhhhhh. After a moment's thought, he put the pistol down, but kept the water balloon firmly in his left hand. He reached up to wash his face... and stopped.
His hand was bright green. Green rivulets ran up his arm, and green water dripped off his elbow. What the &%$#@???
He spun around. The water gushing from the shower head was rich emerald green. And so was most of Wild Man, at this point.
He snatched up his gun and ran out into the main bathroom area, where the stalls, sinks and mirrors were. And written in lipstick across the mirrors were the words: SULFURIC ACID SHOWER. The words hadn't been there when he'd come in.
...and this is where I came in; I was comfortably asleep in my room when I heard the scream. I staggered out into the hallway, along with a few other worthies not so hung over that they couldn't respond, to see Wild Man erupt from the bathroom, stark naked, stained a bright and runny green from crown to foot, dripping more green in his wake, clutching a water pistol in one hand and a water balloon in the other, and screaming and cursing with such vehemence, volume, and richness to turn the AIR green in his wake.
I would later find out that Zorro had assumed that Wild Man would use the shower stall furthest from the door; it provided the best view of anyone coming in. Zorro had then waited until quite late at night, when he was pretty sure no one was going to be washing up... brought a hefty container of powdered tempera paint, wetted it into a putty, and had unscrewed the big industrial shower head in that stall and had coated the inside of the shower head with the green putty. It wasn't blocking the water flow, but when the water turned warm, it dissolved the putty, turning it into green paint... and....
I remember those big clunky old shower heads. There was room in there for a pound or more of powdered tempera paint.
He never did tell us how he knew Wild Man would be using the shower bright and early that Saturday morning; it remains a mystery for the ages...
Tuesday, June 29, 2021
The Rude Boys
I was thinking about an experience I had, once upon a time.
I was sitting in a bar in Osaka with a Norwegian sailor and a Japanese translator, and there was this gang of tough looking guys staring at us.
I tried not to provoke them. There were six of them to three of us, and they were all dressed in black leather and fifties style greased hair and were all doing their best to look tough and dangerous. I had no idea if they were posers or if they were genuinely tough guys or what; Japanese culture is very polite and civilized, but ANY society has its rough elements, right? And at the time, I spoke perhaps a dozen words of Japanese and dreaded getting separated from Shig the translator.
Meanwhile, Bjorn was drinking something clear and potent, and growing more disenchanted with our audience. He had begun to stare BACK at them with a disgruntled expression on his face. Did I mention he was six foot three, blonde, and built like a Maytag?
So Shig and I sat there and drank beer and avoided eye contact, and Bjorn and the Fonzie Gang sat and stared daggers at each other, and the tension mounted. Shig suggested it might be a good idea to pay the tab and leave.
And about then, one of the Fonzie Guys got up and strode to our table with purpose. He stood there and stared at me. ME. Oh, shit.
And then he glanced back over his shoulder at his mates, and I realized that he wasn't as confident as he was trying to seem.
And then he turned to me, BOWED slightly, and said, "Fuck you in the ass," in thickly accented English.
Well, I sat there, wondering what to say to that. Bjorn put his glass down, and Shig promptly began jabbering at him in mangled Scandinavian, trying to get him to calm down.
And my wheels spun. He'd BOWED, like a Japanese person does when introducing himself, but he'd also insulted me. What the hell? And did I mention I'd been drinking?
So I said, "Suck my dick until my head caves in."
Fonzie's eyes bugged. He looked at me critically. Bjorn burst out laughing. And Fonzie whipped out a little notebook and furiously began writing.
I realized that at the table behind him, his friends were all frantically writing in their own notebooks, or on cocktail napkins.
"Say that again?" said Fonzie, in English.
"Suuuuck... myyyy... diiiiick," I said, gesturing at my crotch, "until... my... heaaaaad," gesturing at my head, "caaaaves in," and I finished by making a collapsing motion with my hands.
Fonzie glanced back at his friends. They were all frantically taking notes, and seemed rather excited. He turned back to me, put the notebook away, bowed again, glanced at Bjorn, who was by now rather confused, and then he turned back to me.
"Suck my dick till my head caves in," he repeated with some satisfaction, and the hint of a smile. "Your mama suck donkey dicks!" And this time he stared at me, waiting for my reaction. Was he excited?
Everyone looked at me. I replied, "YOUR mama so fat, she ...has her own prefecture," because "has her own zip code" wouldn't work on a Japanese audience.
Fonzie burst out laughing, and his posse frantically began writing again.
And damned if it didn't wind up getting rather CONGENIAL after that.
We wound up pushing the tables together, and Fonzie explained himself.
Y'see, in America, when a fad sweeps the land, it just HAPPENS. One day, you hear that Hula Hoops or Air Jordans are the thing, and so you go out and buy the necessaries to be "with it." In Japan, in the early eighties, at least, they're WAY more organized about it, complete with dress codes and written protocols.
Our new friends were testing an offshoot of "greaser culture," and their name translated roughly as "rude boys." Thing is, they spoke decent English, more or less, but were painfully short on insults and profanities, as these are generally not included in the tapes and phrasebooks, and how did one assemble proper English insults without the tools?
And then they'd been in this bar, and had seen the big hairy faced Gaijin sitting over there with the giant yellow haired Gaijin sailor and their translator, and one of them had worked up his courage, and hoped he'd learn something before the fistfight started.
They were amazed and charmed at the idea of "insult duels," and upon realizing that we weren't going to start a fight in downtown Osaka, promptly began buying us drinks and pumping us for insults and profanities to pad their English lexicon... in a bizarrely cheerful and polite way, once the ice had been broken.
We sat there for what seemed like hours, drinking and laughing and ranking each other and our mothers to the dogs and back while they frantically took notes. We finally all went out for ramen noodles together, and finally made our goodbyes and weavingly waved down a taxi to get back to the hotel.
That was thirtysomeodd years back, but still counts as one of the weirder evenings I have spent. I do hope they heeded my advice, and didn't try their new phrases on American service personnel, who can be touchy. I'd hate to think I got any of them hurt; they were rather pleasant fellows, when one got to know them...
...and I am glad beyond glad that back then, no one had a phone in their pocket with video capability.
I was sitting in a bar in Osaka with a Norwegian sailor and a Japanese translator, and there was this gang of tough looking guys staring at us.
I tried not to provoke them. There were six of them to three of us, and they were all dressed in black leather and fifties style greased hair and were all doing their best to look tough and dangerous. I had no idea if they were posers or if they were genuinely tough guys or what; Japanese culture is very polite and civilized, but ANY society has its rough elements, right? And at the time, I spoke perhaps a dozen words of Japanese and dreaded getting separated from Shig the translator.
Meanwhile, Bjorn was drinking something clear and potent, and growing more disenchanted with our audience. He had begun to stare BACK at them with a disgruntled expression on his face. Did I mention he was six foot three, blonde, and built like a Maytag?
So Shig and I sat there and drank beer and avoided eye contact, and Bjorn and the Fonzie Gang sat and stared daggers at each other, and the tension mounted. Shig suggested it might be a good idea to pay the tab and leave.
And about then, one of the Fonzie Guys got up and strode to our table with purpose. He stood there and stared at me. ME. Oh, shit.
And then he glanced back over his shoulder at his mates, and I realized that he wasn't as confident as he was trying to seem.
And then he turned to me, BOWED slightly, and said, "Fuck you in the ass," in thickly accented English.
Well, I sat there, wondering what to say to that. Bjorn put his glass down, and Shig promptly began jabbering at him in mangled Scandinavian, trying to get him to calm down.
And my wheels spun. He'd BOWED, like a Japanese person does when introducing himself, but he'd also insulted me. What the hell? And did I mention I'd been drinking?
So I said, "Suck my dick until my head caves in."
Fonzie's eyes bugged. He looked at me critically. Bjorn burst out laughing. And Fonzie whipped out a little notebook and furiously began writing.
I realized that at the table behind him, his friends were all frantically writing in their own notebooks, or on cocktail napkins.
"Say that again?" said Fonzie, in English.
"Suuuuck... myyyy... diiiiick," I said, gesturing at my crotch, "until... my... heaaaaad," gesturing at my head, "caaaaves in," and I finished by making a collapsing motion with my hands.
Fonzie glanced back at his friends. They were all frantically taking notes, and seemed rather excited. He turned back to me, put the notebook away, bowed again, glanced at Bjorn, who was by now rather confused, and then he turned back to me.
"Suck my dick till my head caves in," he repeated with some satisfaction, and the hint of a smile. "Your mama suck donkey dicks!" And this time he stared at me, waiting for my reaction. Was he excited?
Everyone looked at me. I replied, "YOUR mama so fat, she ...has her own prefecture," because "has her own zip code" wouldn't work on a Japanese audience.
Fonzie burst out laughing, and his posse frantically began writing again.
And damned if it didn't wind up getting rather CONGENIAL after that.
We wound up pushing the tables together, and Fonzie explained himself.
Y'see, in America, when a fad sweeps the land, it just HAPPENS. One day, you hear that Hula Hoops or Air Jordans are the thing, and so you go out and buy the necessaries to be "with it." In Japan, in the early eighties, at least, they're WAY more organized about it, complete with dress codes and written protocols.
Our new friends were testing an offshoot of "greaser culture," and their name translated roughly as "rude boys." Thing is, they spoke decent English, more or less, but were painfully short on insults and profanities, as these are generally not included in the tapes and phrasebooks, and how did one assemble proper English insults without the tools?
And then they'd been in this bar, and had seen the big hairy faced Gaijin sitting over there with the giant yellow haired Gaijin sailor and their translator, and one of them had worked up his courage, and hoped he'd learn something before the fistfight started.
They were amazed and charmed at the idea of "insult duels," and upon realizing that we weren't going to start a fight in downtown Osaka, promptly began buying us drinks and pumping us for insults and profanities to pad their English lexicon... in a bizarrely cheerful and polite way, once the ice had been broken.
We sat there for what seemed like hours, drinking and laughing and ranking each other and our mothers to the dogs and back while they frantically took notes. We finally all went out for ramen noodles together, and finally made our goodbyes and weavingly waved down a taxi to get back to the hotel.
That was thirtysomeodd years back, but still counts as one of the weirder evenings I have spent. I do hope they heeded my advice, and didn't try their new phrases on American service personnel, who can be touchy. I'd hate to think I got any of them hurt; they were rather pleasant fellows, when one got to know them...
...and I am glad beyond glad that back then, no one had a phone in their pocket with video capability.
Tuesday, June 22, 2021
GET A LIFE!
Thinkin' about a kid I had once.
Kid was a bit of a turd. That's why he was one of mine. I'm a turd whisperer. If he's Behavior, he was mine, and this kid had been pulled from class because he had decided that class was not going to happen today. Surely, it was more fun to loudly interrupt the teacher, disrupt the lesson, and get laughs from the peanut gallery!
Textbook says you have a situation like this? Separate the performer from the audience. So Kid and I were in a conference room in the office, and they had me in there trying to get him calmed down long enough to deal with a counselor.
Kid was NOT happy. He'd been happy, until security had yanked him away from his audience, and now he was stuck in a room with boring old Doc Bedlam, and trying to make Doc lose control or get angry is simply more than most kids can handle, and he knew it. Doc is a tower of serenity, an ocean of vast calm, and if you're getting under his skin, he'd rather die than let you know it.
But in the kid's anger, he was certainly going to try. The funny part? He chose a technique that I had never seen before.
"You know what YOUR problem is?" he snarled. "Your life is going NOWHERE, mister!"
I raised an eyebrow, deliberately. His eyes gleamed. A REACTION!
"What makes you say that?" I asked.
"You're here, every day, doing the SAME OLD THING," he said, getting good and revved up. "Your life is going NOWHERE. You're WASTING it, wasting your time, wasting your potential!"
I did not get angry, of course. But I wondered what had led him to go with this particular approach. Most eleven year olds aren't this sophisticated; they'll just cuss you out, call you ugly names, yo mama so fat, etc., etc. Where was this coming from?
"You don't say," I said noncommittally.
"YEAH!" he cried, starting to get excited. "You do the same thing every day for your stupid little paycheck, you do the same thing every NIGHT, and you do it OVER AND OVER again, every week, wasting your time and your potential! You're WASTING YOUR LIFE, mister! YOUR problem is, YOU need to GET A LIFE, you need to SORT IT OUT, YOU need to TAKE RESPONSIBILITY, YOU need to GET IT ON TRACK, YOU need to..."
I won't go into the particulars. But my big takeaway was: this was not a rant that a child would aim at another child, or at a grownup. When you hear rants like this, you don't need to be a shrink to work out how and why: it's a power play. It's an attempt by the child to seize control of the moment, and of you. If he can upset you in a demonstrable way, he wins. The payoff is watching you lose your cool.
I wasn't upset, but I wondered like hell where he was getting his material. In particular, he seemed sure I was working pointlessly all day, and then coming home to change clothes and go out somewhere, all to endless wasted avail, and that I needed to GET A LIFE, mister!
This was not a rant a child would conjure and aim at another child... or an adult.
Eleven year olds target things THEY'RE sensitive about. Your clothes. Your stupid face. You throw like a girl. You run in a stupid and clumsy manner. I play baseball better than you. You're stupid, you're insecure, you're lame, you're WEIRD, NOBODY wants YOU around, you (profanity) LOSER!
This wasn't like that.
He was imitating something he'd seen an ADULT do to another ADULT. He was targeting ADULT talking points. He was PARROTING. Something that had apparently upset the target adult, something that had made that person lose their cool in a satisfying way.
Something that gave the ranter power. And the Kid had seen it. And been inspired.
In my case, he failed; the raised eyebrow was the best he got out of me, and he did no better with the school shrink. But he did get into my head a little bit... because I have wondered ever since who, in the kid's life, showed him how to do that, how to achieve a power rush by tearing down someone else like that.
Entertainment and success through another's pain.
Kid was a bit of a turd. That's why he was one of mine. I'm a turd whisperer. If he's Behavior, he was mine, and this kid had been pulled from class because he had decided that class was not going to happen today. Surely, it was more fun to loudly interrupt the teacher, disrupt the lesson, and get laughs from the peanut gallery!
Textbook says you have a situation like this? Separate the performer from the audience. So Kid and I were in a conference room in the office, and they had me in there trying to get him calmed down long enough to deal with a counselor.
Kid was NOT happy. He'd been happy, until security had yanked him away from his audience, and now he was stuck in a room with boring old Doc Bedlam, and trying to make Doc lose control or get angry is simply more than most kids can handle, and he knew it. Doc is a tower of serenity, an ocean of vast calm, and if you're getting under his skin, he'd rather die than let you know it.
But in the kid's anger, he was certainly going to try. The funny part? He chose a technique that I had never seen before.
"You know what YOUR problem is?" he snarled. "Your life is going NOWHERE, mister!"
I raised an eyebrow, deliberately. His eyes gleamed. A REACTION!
"What makes you say that?" I asked.
"You're here, every day, doing the SAME OLD THING," he said, getting good and revved up. "Your life is going NOWHERE. You're WASTING it, wasting your time, wasting your potential!"
I did not get angry, of course. But I wondered what had led him to go with this particular approach. Most eleven year olds aren't this sophisticated; they'll just cuss you out, call you ugly names, yo mama so fat, etc., etc. Where was this coming from?
"You don't say," I said noncommittally.
"YEAH!" he cried, starting to get excited. "You do the same thing every day for your stupid little paycheck, you do the same thing every NIGHT, and you do it OVER AND OVER again, every week, wasting your time and your potential! You're WASTING YOUR LIFE, mister! YOUR problem is, YOU need to GET A LIFE, you need to SORT IT OUT, YOU need to TAKE RESPONSIBILITY, YOU need to GET IT ON TRACK, YOU need to..."
I won't go into the particulars. But my big takeaway was: this was not a rant that a child would aim at another child, or at a grownup. When you hear rants like this, you don't need to be a shrink to work out how and why: it's a power play. It's an attempt by the child to seize control of the moment, and of you. If he can upset you in a demonstrable way, he wins. The payoff is watching you lose your cool.
I wasn't upset, but I wondered like hell where he was getting his material. In particular, he seemed sure I was working pointlessly all day, and then coming home to change clothes and go out somewhere, all to endless wasted avail, and that I needed to GET A LIFE, mister!
This was not a rant a child would conjure and aim at another child... or an adult.
Eleven year olds target things THEY'RE sensitive about. Your clothes. Your stupid face. You throw like a girl. You run in a stupid and clumsy manner. I play baseball better than you. You're stupid, you're insecure, you're lame, you're WEIRD, NOBODY wants YOU around, you (profanity) LOSER!
This wasn't like that.
He was imitating something he'd seen an ADULT do to another ADULT. He was targeting ADULT talking points. He was PARROTING. Something that had apparently upset the target adult, something that had made that person lose their cool in a satisfying way.
Something that gave the ranter power. And the Kid had seen it. And been inspired.
In my case, he failed; the raised eyebrow was the best he got out of me, and he did no better with the school shrink. But he did get into my head a little bit... because I have wondered ever since who, in the kid's life, showed him how to do that, how to achieve a power rush by tearing down someone else like that.
Entertainment and success through another's pain.
Tuesday, June 15, 2021
The Instruction Manual
Got a story, here. It's not a funny one, or a particularly pleasant one, but I thought it was important enough to write down, so take that as you will.
It's a story about two women, who I will call Cancer Lady and Church Lady.
Now, Cancer Lady, as you might assume, was in the process of dealing with cancer, a particularly ugly one, with chemo and radiation and bigtime invasive surgery, and all that this entails. Anyone who's been there can tell you what that's like, and it ain't fun, and it ain't pretty, and, in fact, to put up with it, you have to have a pretty strong desire to stay alive, or so I am told, because you're weak and sick and pathetic and your quality of life don't count for much, when you're fightin' the cancer.
Anyhoo, one day not long after the surgery, Church Lady came a-calling to visit Cancer Lady, and see how she was, and catch her up on events, and to offer comfort in this terrible time of tribulation. And Cancer Lady's husband let her in, and a chair was found for Church Lady, as Cancer Lady was sufficiently sick that she didn't want to get out of bed, except for the occasional bathroom run.
Now, in point of fact, Cancer Lady was NOT in the mood for company... but Church Lady had come a ways to see her, and, well, grace under fire and all that, and she sat up in bed and did her best to accomodate Church Lady's relentless desire to be of comfort in this time of sickness.
This went on for a couple of hours.
This might not SEEM like much, but Cancer Lady was REALLY not feeling well, and it was taking quite a bit out of her to be "on" for company, and two hours was really more energy than Cancer Lady had to spend. And finally, Cancer Lady said the magic words that were supposed to end the audience, concluding with, "I have to go to the bathroom, and I might be a while."
Church Lady smiled, failed utterly to get the hint, and said, "That's all right, I'll wait."
Cancer Lady frowned. "No, I don't think you understand," said Cancer Lady. "I started chemo yesterday, and I have to go to the bathroom, and to be honest, I'm not sure which end, if not both, is going to be going. I am likely to be a while."
Church Lady smiled with beatific patience. "That's all right, I'll wait for you."
Cancer Lady closed her eyes in frustration, and felt the last traces of patience wink out of existence. "I do not have the energy for this," said Cancer Lady. "I am sick. I am tired. I am exhausted. And I need you to leave. Now."
Church Lady blinked, a little surprised. "But I just got here."
Cancer Lady struggled out of bed. "And now I need you to leave," she said, struggling to get to the bathroom. "Thank you for visiting. I'm sorry I'm not a better host, but I'm very sick."
Church Lady was offended. She told Cancer Husband this, at length, while he escorted her from the house, and stood on the stoop lecturing Cancer Husband about his wife's bad manners for a while before leaving. After all, it says in the Bible that one should visit the sick and offer comfort!
I didn't hear about this until not quite two years later, when Cancer Lady finally lost her fight. It was good that I had heard about it before the funeral, as Church Lady was there, and had quite a bit to say about Cancer Lady's bad manners and ingratitude, that last time they had been together, but Church Lady was quite sure that God would forgive poor Cancer Lady her ingratitude. After all, it says in the Bible to visit the sick!
***
Now, I'm not here to bash on God. Far from it.
But the Bible is not an instruction manual. I've heard it described that way. It isn't.
I have known far too many people who seemed to think that if they could find a justification in the Bible, then... they MUST BE RIGHT! And therefore justified in doing whatever the hell they wanted to do in the first place.
The Bible is not an instruction manual, nor is it a justification for much of anything, and quoting it -- or following its instructions -- doesn't mean you are always right. Or justified. Or even rationalized.
Because if it did... that would make you God, now, wouldn't it?
It's a story about two women, who I will call Cancer Lady and Church Lady.
Now, Cancer Lady, as you might assume, was in the process of dealing with cancer, a particularly ugly one, with chemo and radiation and bigtime invasive surgery, and all that this entails. Anyone who's been there can tell you what that's like, and it ain't fun, and it ain't pretty, and, in fact, to put up with it, you have to have a pretty strong desire to stay alive, or so I am told, because you're weak and sick and pathetic and your quality of life don't count for much, when you're fightin' the cancer.
Anyhoo, one day not long after the surgery, Church Lady came a-calling to visit Cancer Lady, and see how she was, and catch her up on events, and to offer comfort in this terrible time of tribulation. And Cancer Lady's husband let her in, and a chair was found for Church Lady, as Cancer Lady was sufficiently sick that she didn't want to get out of bed, except for the occasional bathroom run.
Now, in point of fact, Cancer Lady was NOT in the mood for company... but Church Lady had come a ways to see her, and, well, grace under fire and all that, and she sat up in bed and did her best to accomodate Church Lady's relentless desire to be of comfort in this time of sickness.
This went on for a couple of hours.
This might not SEEM like much, but Cancer Lady was REALLY not feeling well, and it was taking quite a bit out of her to be "on" for company, and two hours was really more energy than Cancer Lady had to spend. And finally, Cancer Lady said the magic words that were supposed to end the audience, concluding with, "I have to go to the bathroom, and I might be a while."
Church Lady smiled, failed utterly to get the hint, and said, "That's all right, I'll wait."
Cancer Lady frowned. "No, I don't think you understand," said Cancer Lady. "I started chemo yesterday, and I have to go to the bathroom, and to be honest, I'm not sure which end, if not both, is going to be going. I am likely to be a while."
Church Lady smiled with beatific patience. "That's all right, I'll wait for you."
Cancer Lady closed her eyes in frustration, and felt the last traces of patience wink out of existence. "I do not have the energy for this," said Cancer Lady. "I am sick. I am tired. I am exhausted. And I need you to leave. Now."
Church Lady blinked, a little surprised. "But I just got here."
Cancer Lady struggled out of bed. "And now I need you to leave," she said, struggling to get to the bathroom. "Thank you for visiting. I'm sorry I'm not a better host, but I'm very sick."
Church Lady was offended. She told Cancer Husband this, at length, while he escorted her from the house, and stood on the stoop lecturing Cancer Husband about his wife's bad manners for a while before leaving. After all, it says in the Bible that one should visit the sick and offer comfort!
I didn't hear about this until not quite two years later, when Cancer Lady finally lost her fight. It was good that I had heard about it before the funeral, as Church Lady was there, and had quite a bit to say about Cancer Lady's bad manners and ingratitude, that last time they had been together, but Church Lady was quite sure that God would forgive poor Cancer Lady her ingratitude. After all, it says in the Bible to visit the sick!
***
Now, I'm not here to bash on God. Far from it.
But the Bible is not an instruction manual. I've heard it described that way. It isn't.
I have known far too many people who seemed to think that if they could find a justification in the Bible, then... they MUST BE RIGHT! And therefore justified in doing whatever the hell they wanted to do in the first place.
The Bible is not an instruction manual, nor is it a justification for much of anything, and quoting it -- or following its instructions -- doesn't mean you are always right. Or justified. Or even rationalized.
Because if it did... that would make you God, now, wouldn't it?
Thursday, June 3, 2021
'At Time In The Back Yard
Waaaal, there was that one time 'at dragon got into the back yard because the neighbor won't stop leaving meat scraps in the damn garbage, and then he climbed the fence and saw the cat, miracle he didn't wreck the fence, and he decides he's goin' after the cat, and I hear the caterwauling and I run outside and the cat's run under the deck, and the damn dragon's got his head and neck under the damn deck and I run up and I kick him in the butt to make him leave the damn cat alone, and then he wallops me with his tail, he was just a little one, thank ghod, can't breathe fire or nothin', but he still took me off my feet with that tail, and then he commences to goin' after the cat again, and I knew damn good and well that he's going to tear the damn deck apart before Animal Control can get here, so I had to take a shovel to the damn dragon, beat the hell out of him, and he COULD have got away, but no, he's all invested in the damn cat, and by now he's knocked the corner of the deck off the pier and it's all cattywompus, an' now he's got his HEAD caught under there, deck done FELL on him, but I can still hear the CAT howlin', cat's between two joists, and the damn dragon's still snappin' at her... and I had to beat the poor dumb thing to death with a shovel.
The dragon, that is, not the cat.
Cat was fine, but 'er tail was all poofed up like a bottlebrush for the rest of the day. Took the rest of the afternoon to get the deck back on the pier, though.
Damn dragon.
Still got his skull in the rumpus room.
By the way? Don't try to make jerky out of a dragon. It don't work.
Best thing about this story?
The way the seventh graders' eyes flicker back and forth from the picture on the phone... to me... to the picture on the phone... to me... uncertainly.
I may be going to hell, but no one will ever say I didn't teach critical thinking.
The way the seventh graders' eyes flicker back and forth from the picture on the phone... to me... to the picture on the phone... to me... uncertainly.
I may be going to hell, but no one will ever say I didn't teach critical thinking.
Wednesday, June 2, 2021
Beneath Her Mighty Wings
And there all my troubles began.
“Who IS that?” repeated Pinky. “Is she REAL?” asked Sandra. Everyone leaned over to look at the wonderment. “Ah,” I said, thinking fast. “No. She’s not real. She’s completely imaginary. Now, let’s--” “She is TOO real,” said Pinky. “Why does she have wings?” asked John. “Do you KNOW this lady?” asked Reno. “If she’s imaginary, why do you have a picture of her?” asked Scooter. Sigh. “She’s a lady I knew when I lived in Texas,” I said. “And she has wings because she WANTED to have wings. That’s how she rolls.” Pinky looked up at me, and in her eyes was an expression I couldn’t QUITE pin down. And I’m lying. I knew damn good and well what she was thinking. And she said, “Seriously. Is this REAL?” And what she MEANT was “DOC, TELL ME THIS IS REAL! TELL ME YOU CAN GET WINGS BY WANTING TO HAVE WINGS!” ...and durned if I didn’t get caught flatfooted by a little girl with big blue eyes, dammit. “Well,” I said, “Let’s make this a Critical Thinking Exercise. Let’s look at the picture, and consider it, and discuss it, and make some decisions.” Because I’m too chickenshit to shatter a little girl’s desire to believe, and I feel about three inches tall... dammit, I shouldn’t even BE here today... We wound up doing a writing prompt. “Is the winged lady real or not, and why do you think so?” and when Miss Smallberries came over to take over, she was pleasantly surprised to see that we’d finished the whole Pirates thing, and were industriously working on a writing prompt! “How do you get them to do this with no griping?” she asked me as I headed for the door. “Haven’t the slightest,” I said. “Guess they’re just motivated today.” And I forgot all about it. Until lunch. When I was ushering the sixth graders out of the cafeteria and off to Specials, and the third graders were on their way in ... and Pinky ambushed me. “Dr. Bedlam,” she asked me, with a slightly worried look on her face, “Can she fly?” Dammit. I glanced around. No one else was looking. The cafeteria was its usual pandemonium. And I was tired, and I wanted MY lunch, and I really didn’t feel like stepping on anyone’s dreams. “No,” I replied. Pinky’s face fell. Agonizingly. And at that point, I made a snap decision. “Her wings are too small, and the muscles aren’t strong enough to lift her body mass,” I continued. “However, her trim figure and hollow bones mean she can ride air currents like crazy, especially when it’s windy. And you ought to see her jump!” Pinky’s mouth fell open, and her eyes got HUGE. “Gotta go,” I winked, and made my escape to the teacher’s lounge... INTERMISSION************************************************************* Now at this point, I’m gonna interrupt myself. The lady in the picture is Farrah Bonnot, who is a real person. I met her years ago at a convention. We still see each other periodically when I venture back into Texas from time to time. She lives there with her husband and family. Last I heard, she was workin' on a doctorate. She’s a Maker, and crafts many splendid and clever things, and is a delightful person. Beyond that? Go look her up on my Friends list and ask her yourself. In the photos, she’s cosplaying as Sophie the Succubus, the Reaper Miniatures company mascot; Sophie can be seen in the banner at the top of the picture.
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