A Mouse's Sneeze

Imagine a shopping center parking lot lined from one end to the other with closely-spaced set mousetraps...you know, the old-fashioned little wooden rectangle with the tension-triggered steel spring just waiting to snap shut at the slightest touch. My mind is like that parking lot full of mousetraps, and each mousetrap represents a random thought. And somewhere in that vast maze is a tiny mouse with a bad cold. Every time he sneezes, a thought is released with a loud "snap".

I'm sure there are subtle factors which tickle the mouse's whiskers...in this case the too-recent death of my friend Norm. But whatever the cause, the mouse just sneezed and triggered the memory of my...what word?..."partner," Ray, dead nearly 20 years now, of alcoholism-related AIDS. For some reason, I never allowed myself to properly grieve for him, but I did write a poem to him. I rather like it, and see some similarities to my relationship with Norm when we first met so very many years ago. I hope you don't mind my sharing it with you here. It's called...

Playmates

My heart is a toybox,
too eagerly shared.
It holds a random collection
of toy-soldier-brave hopes
and once fire-engine-bright dreams
with the paint chipped off,
and the fragile shells of unfulfilled wishes
which, when held to the ear,
echo the sea-sounds of my soul.

I’ve offered my toys to many:
“They’re ugly!” I’ve been told—
though to me, because they are mine,
they are precious.
I could never understand
why others did not find them so.
And frightened and alone,
I’d go on to the next.

And then you stumbled into my life,
little-boy kind,
with your own little box of toys
even more battered than my own.
Shy, we spread our toys on the ground,
and each saw in the other’s joys
wondrous bits and pieces and sparkly things
that we could use to build a wall
against the world.

But because we are sometimes frightened,
and because we do not always see
the same things in the same way,
we each may be tempted
to pick up our toys and move on—
even knowing that what we have together
will probably never happen again
in all the rest of our lives.

So let us sit together,
and play.
Not just for a while,
but until it is time
for us to go.

Perhaps if I offered the mouse a tiny box of tissues?

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Aftermath

My friend Norm died at 12:35 a.m. Thursday, February 18. Despite explicit instructions to notify me immediately, I did not learn of it until I showed up to visit him at 2:30 in the afternoon. When I went to sign in on the visitor's register and the receptionist could not find his name, I pretty much knew what had happened. When she went to check with a supervisor, who came out to tell me he had "passed away" (good LORD, how I detest that term!!!) I demanded to know why I had not been notified. She called the nursing supervisor, who was of course all apologies, saying "We called his brother" (in Wisconsin). That's all well and good, lady, but you did not call me despite my having seen them write a note and my phone number as his Power of Attorney on the face of his chart.

I later called his brother, who apologized for not having called me himself, but said he was sure they had called me. He had indeed been called at 2 a.m. and asked "what do you want us to do with the body?" He told them that I had Norm's P.O.A. and had made all the arrangements in advance, and told them to call me. He gave them my phone number once again. They did not call. Their explanation was that the Power of Attorney had ended at the moment of his death and I therefore had no legal right to do anything at all...which apparently included being notified of his death.

At any rate, it was all eventually resolved, and I walked the one block to Norm's condo to begin the after-death detail work.

Norm has lived in his condo for 40 years, and though he is/was now dead, there are 40 years of his life within those walls: photos of friends and family, high school yearbooks, certificates of acknowledgment for service to his church, bowling trophies, drawers of paid bills and receipts and records. Paintings, artwork, little stuffed animals, countless "things' collected over the years, closets full of clothes, a broken plant stand he'd never gotten around to repairing, a collection of antique irons--the kind you heated on the stove--, at least three coffee makers, a wok....and on and on and on. And all of them meant something to him. But to whom else, really?

His diploma from a school of horticulture and flower design, carefully framed, pages of detailed notes on his investment accounts, lists of his medications and which ones were to be taken at which time...but here I go again, off on another recitation of things which were all part of Norm.

But though all of them were Norm, most of them are now utterly meaningless to anyone else, whose lives are also and already filled with things.

So I select those things which I assume his brother would want--family photos, his parents' framed wedding announcement, an ornate, gilded wooden cross--and set them aside. When I returned home Thursday, I carried with me the small Faun's head I had given him for Christmas so very many years ago. His roommate, Eric, a wonderful and caring young man who had moved in to help Norm when he was no longer able to care for himself properly, told me Norm had said it was one of his favorite things, and that made me both happy and infinitely sad.

So Friday I went to the lawyer to begin the legal processes necessary to implement my having been appointed as the executor of the will. Then will continue the sorting out of things, the calling of an antiques appraiser to try to dispose of some works of art, furniture, etc. Then, when those are gone, the calling of an estate buyer to come in for what remains. Then the listing of the condo for sale, the decision of whether to replace all the carpets, scratched doors, torn wallpaper destroyed by Norm's beloved Jack Russell terrier-from-hell, Jezebel, who lived up to her name, or to sell it as is. And given today's housing market, even with a magnificent 35th-floor unobstructed view of Lake Michigan and the Loop, it may take a while.

But it will be over, eventually. And when I leave the condo for the last time, it will be empty, and whoever lives there next will have no idea of who Norm was. They won't know, or care. But I will.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Servants and Masters

There is a war going on. There always is, somewhere, of course. But this is not a war between nations or ideologies, but a war between human beings and the technology we have created, and we humans are surely losing.

It's not that we haven't been warned, time and time again, and shrugged or laughed the naysayers away.
We have, incomprehensibly, simply ignored the fundamental axiom that "fire makes a good servant, but a cruel master." Technology is our modern-day fire. And melodramatic as it may sound, the technology we created to serve us is inexorably becoming our master. We have already reached the point where we, as a society, cannot survive--figuratively but increasingly literally--without our iPods and our BlackBerries and our laptops and the 450,000 "apps" available on our ever-at-the-ear cell phones. As we become more and more dependent on the things we have created--ironically, to make us independent--the focus subtly shifts from our using them to them using us.

And if that were not bad enough, technology makes it possible for bureaucracies to become ever more complex and difficult to deal with. Just in case this thought had never occurred to you, look around you any time you go out into the street, or into a coffee shop or restaurant and count the number of people glued to their electronic gadgetry, or pick up a phone to call a credit card company to ask a question or report a problem with your internet or cable service. And for the most part, we go along without question, like lambs off to slaughter. We may not like it, but we say nothing. We do nothing. We accept.

Melodramatic? Of course. But consider that 30 years ago, no one had a computer, and the world went on quite well. Now computers have become laptops which have become telephones and BlueBerries and BlackBerries and iPods and iPhones and every day more and more come along to make our lives even more complex.

And the more reliant we become on technology, the more control we lose over our own lives and destinies, and increasingly we take out our building rage not on the telephone which, after instructing us to Press 1 for English in our own country, assures us every thirty seconds that our call is VERY important to whichever faceless corporation we are calling for help or information, while we are kept on hold for 45 minutes, but on each other. The urge to lash out leads inevitably to the Columbines and Virginia Techs and Fort Hoods. And each time we shake our heads and wonder how it could ever have happened.

One of my favorite characters in all mythology is Cassandra. The god Apollo fell in love with her and gave her the gift of prophecy. And after they had a falling out, because a gift given by the gods cannot be taken back, Apollo modified it so that while Cassandra was unerringly correct in her predictions, no one would believe her.

There are Cassandras among us today...there always have been. People who accurately foresee the future...if not in explicit detail at least in inescapable trends. And they are universally ignored until what they predicted has come to pass, and it is too late.

There is a scene in the 1971 film, THX1138...Steven Spielberg's first...wherein a future society totally controlled by technology offers its citizens handy "Jesus Booths" where anyone can go for comfort. Enter the booth, and an image of Jesus appears. "What is your problem, my child?" The image asks, his face showing true concern and nods slowly, every ten seconds. Every fifteen seconds it says "I see," and every forty five seconds it says "Could you be more...specific?"

I've often cited E.M. Forster's "The Machine Stops" and movies like "Logan's Run" as examples of perhaps only slightly exaggerated future scenarios. And what about global warming? And the dangers of overpopulation?

Ah, but what does it matter, really? There's not a thing I can do about it, after all. I'd just go watch the mindless hunks and vapid bimbos on "Jersey Shore," but my cable is out and my call to the cable company is still on "hold."

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Fairdale

It's human nature, when hearing someone considerably older than one's self tell tales of how different distant yesterdays were from today, to roll our eyes and sigh heavily. It never occurs to us that the older have the advantage of having experienced both "then" and "now" whereas the young have only the "now" and the relatively recent past. It's difficult to comprehend just what a different world it was when the teller of stories--a parent or grandparent, usually--was younger than the listener.

The problem with "now" is that we are too close to it to see it clearly. But the fact is that each of us grows up in a world different from that of our parents and grandparents--just as our world today will be equally different from the world of our children.

And thus the subject of this blog.

I was thinking yesterday--as always, with me, for absolutely no reason--of my own distant yesterdays and a town called Fairdale.

In the mid-to-late 1930s my grandfather and his wife owned and lived in a combination bar and gas station in Fairdale, Illinois, one of those tiny unincorporated hamlets quaintly but often accurately referred to as a "wide spot in the road." It was located on far-from-busy Hwy 72, which connected with the far busier Hwy 51. It was probably less than 25 miles from my hometown of Rockford, but seemed like hundreds of miles from anywhere.

I first checked Google to see if Fairdale still exists (surprisingly, it does), and then sought a map for it's exact location. I see it has a total of three very short, one-or-two-block-long streets, though the only one I can remember is the one that had once served as the town's "main street." It ran north and south between Hwy 72 and the railroad tracks--perhaps two blocks. Clustered along the end nearest the railroad tracks were perhaps three or four even-then-long-abandoned 2-story once-commercial buildings, but as I recall, Grandpa's bar/gas station was the only business in the town.

The bar, too, was old even then, a typical small farm-town bar which smelled of cigarette and cigar smoke and spilled beer and whiskey. Once, when I was "helping" Grandpa sweep up in the morning before the bar opened, I found a $5 bill someone had dropped. A $5 bill in the mid-to-late 1930s was a very great amount of money, indeed, and when no one returned to claim it, Grandpa let me keep it.

Neither the bar nor the gas station made much money. This was a very rural area, and the effects of the Great Depression still bore heavily on all aspects of the lives of average people.

Just west of Grandpa's place, on the highway, was a one-room school, which I remember primarily because its playground had one of those metal self-propelled "merry-go-rounds" you can still occasionally find today, which kids would start by pushing it in one direction, running faster and faster until they could jump on and go round and round until the centrifugal force died and it slowed to a halt. Then you jumped off and started the process over again.

Across the street was a large farm with what appeared to me, as a 5 year old kid, to be a huge barn. I can still close my eyes and smell the hay. The family that owned it had a couple of kids around my age, and we would sneak into the barn, climb up into the hayloft, and then ascend a ladder to a small platform almost to the barn's rafters. It seemed like a very great height, but was probably eight feet at most. We would then jump down into the hay, shrieking with laughter and the sense of excitement such courage warranted.

It was, indeed, a different time and a different world, with different values and attitudes, and the more harsh realities of life at the time gradually grow less distinct as the fog of time closes in. Sharper edges dim and soften, and nostalgia paints memories in softer colors, making the past often more appealing than the "now."

But man is a creature which craves comfort, and if memories of a tiny town long ago can provide me with some comfort, I'll savor it like a fine, vintage wine.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

A Letter to Norm

I hope I might have the courage to read you this letter before it is too late, though it is far easier to write a blog for the whole world to see than it is to speak directly to the one person for whom it is intended. But to do so is to admit to myself and to tell you that I know that you are dying...which we both of course know. But avoidance is one of the silly games we humans play.

I wanted to let you know how much you have meant to me these past 52 years, and how integral a part of my life you are.

I remember the August night in 1958, two months out of college, when I first saw you at the Haig, a bar near Chicago's Lawson YMCA. We didn't speak in the bar, and you left before I did, but when I walked out, you were standing there waiting for me. We moved in together less than a month later.

I remember how we built our couch from plywood--we painted it a high-gloss black, and used a foam pad, for which we had a cover made. I remember visiting thrift shops to buy tables and a dresser...the dresser I still use today. And I remember the 3-foot harlequin lamp we both loved when we saw it in a shop window, but could not afford it, and how, serendipitously, we found exactly the same lamp in a thrift store, it's base shattered, and how we bought it and remolded the base. I had it, too, until I moved from Wisconsin to return to Chicago. I remember the small faun's head I bought you one Christmas, which you still have.

I remember the party we had to which I invited everyone with whom I worked at Duraclean International, and how I broke my toe while we were all dancing the hora, and how we ran out of liquor and Phil Ward drank the juice from a jar of olives.

I remember how my parents adored you, and the time shortly after we got together when we all went to Maxwell Street and, as you and Dad were walking ahead of Mom and me, I realized "Hey, I think I love this guy." I remember our trips to the cottage on Lake Koshkonong with our friends, and how we helped Dad build an apartment for us above the garage. I remember water-skiing, and ski trips, and the time, coming back to Chicago from the lake in my then-new red Ford Sprint convertible, you spent most of the trip rummaging through a huge bag of potato chips looking for the perfect chip.

I remember evenings of cards and games with friends. And the one thing I remember most is that we never, in our 6 years together, had a really serious argument.

Of course I also remember that it was not all idyllic. Your job took you on frequent business trips, often several weeks at a time, during which we both, being young, were promiscuous, which inevitably contributed to our parting of the ways. I remember your never wanting us to take vacations together on the basis that we were together all the time, and that I could never understand that.

And after we broke up...it was me who broke it off because my promiscuity got out of hand...I spent, literally, the next ten years kicking myself around the block for having hurt you, because I know it did, deeply. We had little contact over the next 25 years or so, seeing one another occasionally, exchanging Christmas cards, but it was awkward for both of us.

Yet you remained close to my parents, and were there for my dad's funeral, but were away somewhere when Mom died and I couldn't reach you.

And then when I decided, after nearly 40 years, to return to Chicago, I naturally moved in with you until I could get my own place, and our friendship, minus the romance, resumed.

You have been one of the largest stones in the foundation of my life, and I love you in a way impossible to put into words. You are my family and it is important for you to know that. But I fear I will not be able to bring myself to say so directly to you, because to do so would be to release you, and I simply cannot do that. You're part of who I am, and will always be.

I will try to let you know. I promise.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Life in a Sardine Can

When you’re a kid, you accept everything as being natural, simply because you’ve not lived long enough to realize there are other ways to live. At the time I broke my leg, when I was five, having three people (and I think we had a dog) live in a glorified sardine can--a 14-foot long trailer--was perfectly natural. It was just, well, what was. My mom cooked on a small kerosene stove with a cannister of fuel which had a hand pump not unlike a bicycle tire pump. She'd have to pump it vigorously several times before she could light the stove. To this day I can close my eyes and smell the strong odor of kerosene and hear the soft "pffftt" as the stove lit.

When I was released from the hospital I was in a full body cast from just below my shoulders down to my right knee and all the way down my left leg and foot. There was a bar between my legs at the knee to keep my thighs immobile. I quite literally could barely move. And this was in the heat of summer. Mom used keep knives in the icebox, which she would use, when they were cold, to slide down between my cast and my chest and back to try to cool me off.

For the next 62 years, I never slept on my back again.

It of course did not even occur to me at the time what my parents had to have gone through for the several weeks that they were in fact trapped in a that sardine can with an immobile five year old boy. I never thanked them for everything they sacrificed for me. It would never have occurred to me that I should. That's what parents are for.

I remember that I held a grudge against them for several years after they one time found it necessary to “rob” my piggy bank because they simply did not have enough money for something they needed—probably for me—and did not have enough themselves.. Looking back on it now, I am indescribably ashamed of myself for my selfishness. But I was a child, and I take refuge in the fact that I couldn’t have been expected to know any better.

Oh, yes…and the evening of the day I had gone back to the hospital to have my cast removed…it was Halloween Eve, 1938, the night of Orson Welles’ War of the Worlds broadcast…I had to be rushed back to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy.

I’d never thought of the reason, until now, why, after coming home yet again, my Grandpa Margason drove down in what was then the equivalent of a station wagon to get me and take me back with him to Rockford, where I was deposited at Aunt Thyra’s and Uncle Buck’s for the period of my recovery. I think I know the reason, now: my poor parents simply couldn’t handle any more at the moment.

Surely there has to be a special place in heaven, if there is a heaven, for parents. If there is, my folks are there. And even if there is not the vast expanse of a heaven, they will always live in the sardine can which is my heart.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net

Hi-Diddle-Dee-Dee

The roots of who we become as adults are first put down when we are children. Always a great believer in happily-ever-after, fairy tales, and worlds that should be but aren't, I was fascinated by Walt Disney's "Pinocchio," and I suspect I subconsciously patterned much of my life after the song, "Hi-diddle-dee-dee":

Hi-diddle-dee-dee
An actor's life for me
A high silk hat and a silver cane
A watch of gold with a diamond chain

Hi-diddle-dee-day
An actor's life is gay
It's great to be a celebrity
An actor's life for me

Though I was much too shy to be an actor, I substituted "writer" for "actor." And while I have yet to buy a high silk hat or a silver chain, or find the "celebrity," I did get the "gay" part down right.

To say that I am a writer is a statement of fact as simple as saying I have brown eyes. I am a writer because I cannot conceive of being or ever having been anything else.

I can't presume to tell you why other writers write, but I can tell you why I do: to tell stories that assure both the reader and myself that those things which unite us as human beings are far more important than those which separate us, and that none of us is, as all of us sometime suspect, truly alone.

Of course it helps that my mind is one gigantic version of Lawrence Welk's bubble machine, constantly sending out thousands of thoughts and ideas which appear and disappear in an instant. I'm constantly reaching for them and every now and then one will alight on my palm long enough for me to see the elements of a story reflected on its surface.

I've often said that I do not write my books, I read them as the words appear on the computer screen. I am incapable of plotting in advance, because new thoughts and ideas keep sending me off in new directions. I am constantly editing and changing, going back several pages or chapters to lay the groundwork for the appearance of a character or plot element that came along as I wrote. I primarily write mysteries, and while I start off with the basics of the plot and know generally where I'm going, the route I take to get there is not laid out in advance. I often don't know who the killer really is until well into the story, or I'll begin intending for one person to be the killer and end up with someone completely different...occasionally a character I hadn't even created when I began.

Writing is, to me, a far more effective way of communicating that are spoken words. Once out of the mouth, a spoken word cannot be changed. But in writing affords me the luxury, if I don't like the way I've said something, to go back and change it, and to go over and over it until I'm satisfied that it says what I want it to say.

My characters and plot elements are often based (generally very loosely) on my personal experiences, on places I've lived or been, and on people I've known or encountered. I enjoy naming my characters (either first or last name, but never both) after my friends and acquaintances. I find I seem to have a penchant for names beginning with the letter "J"...Jonathan, Joshua, Jered, Jake, John. Why this should be I haven't a clue, which is fine with me. There are many things in writing which have no explanation, and that is part of its wonder.

But I do think that whatever success I have had in writing comes not only from my ability to tell stories people seem to enjoy reading and can relate to, but from the fact that I am always acutely aware of the reader as I write. I look on every book as a conversation...albeit one sided...with the reader. And I am delighted when that conversation is reciprocated in a note from a reader.

There is no greater catharsis than putting thoughts in writing. Writing for publication is not nearly as simple as it may seem, but it is only one aspect of writing. I encourage everyone to write first and foremost for themselves; to put thoughts on paper (or computer screen). You may well find, as I often do, in the written word used to express those thoughts, surprising insights into who you really are and what you really think.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Thanotophobia

Humans are a strange lot. (...That's okay. I'll wait while you go get a pencil to write that down. Just be sure you credit me when you use it.) Ever since our species stopped dragging its knuckles on the ground as it made its way to becoming bipedal, we've been inventing and playing innumerable little games and telling ourselves all sorts of stories to try to distract us from the fact that we, by and large, don't have a clue as to where we came from, how we fit into the scheme of things, why we're really here, or where we're going.

The avoidance-at-all-costs of the subject of death and dying goes back almost as far as the knuckle-dragging. I'd not be surprised if it were discovered that fear of the unknown is built into our genes, and there is nothing more unknown, and therefore terrifying, than death. We invented religion and the concept of heaven and hell not only to curb our wilder and more violent traits with the promise of either reward or punishment, but to assuage our fear of the ultimate unknown.

Death really isn't all that complicated. It is simply "the permanent ending of vital processes in a cell or tissue." It is a natural and inevitable process for every living thing. Yet because we have religion and the promise that there is...well, something...after our cells and tissues not only cease functioning but disappear, we believe that our the ability to think and reason somehow puts us above every other living thing. Yet the fact that we are not superior to a housefly or a rutabaga...just very different...is impossible to fully comprehend. It's nice to feel superior.

Some would argue that without the assurance of...something...after death, we would have no reason not to do whatever we wanted to while we're alive: rape, pillage, burn, steal. I would counter that there is enough of that going on even with visions of heaven and hell, like sugar-plum fairies, dancing in our heads. The fact is that we are a social species. We have set up a system of written and unwritten laws and rules by which the vast majority of us abide and are relatively comfortable with.

Because death and religion have become so intertwined over the millennia, it's hard to talk about one without the assumption that one is also talking about the other. This particular blog isn't intended as a diatribe against religion. But I firmly believe that while spirituality is also a part of every human being, the sins and excesses of organized religion have accounted for more wars, cruelty, and pain than any other social institution.

It's really odd that I, who wear my heart on my sleeve, who love happily-ever-after stories and beauty and romance, do not believe in the concept of heaven and hell. I'd like to believe in heaven. I really, truly, with all my heart would. But there simply is no logic to it. I go back to the question I asked my evangelical Sunday School teacher when he was extolling the wonders of heaven. "If my best friend does something terrible and is sent to hell, and I go to heaven, won't I be sad and miss him? But you said no one is sad in heaven." Organized religion and I parted ways shortly thereafter, with mutual relief.

I have never feared death...which is not at all to say I do not fear dying. To me, it is infinitely logical that death is exactly the same as the time before we were born. No one ever speculates on that, or is the least fearful of it. Nor should they be. Death is merely a return to that same "state of nonexistence" from which we were born. Absolutely no awareness, absolutely no fear or concern. Just the nothing of the deepest sleep. How can that be bad.

Being alive, for however long, is all there is and all that matters. And if we are concerned that the cessation of life is the cessation of our meaningfulness, or our worth, then we should do all we can while we are alive to make a difference to the world and all those who will be emerging from nonexistence after we have returned to it.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Practical Purposes

Where I come by my fascination with statistics and general trivia, I have no idea (as I have no idea of the why or how of so many things I do), other than that they have no practical purpose. This, for example, is my 513th blog...which I know only because Blogger provides the information. Each blog, the "Word Count" option on my computer tells me, averages somewhere around 800 words. This comes out to 410,400 words, give or take, which is a lot of words no matter how you look at it. I am not equating quantity with quality, of course. As anyone who has read my blogs with a fair degree of regularity can attest, I have a tendency to careen wildly from pillar to post within the course of any given blog.

The fact of my being so easily distracted is evidenced in the space between this sentence and the preceding one. I wanted to use the word "caroom", to describe bouncing wildly from place to place, but when I typed it I got a squiggly red line beneath it to indicate it was misspelled. So I then spent five minutes trying to find out how to spell it and have deduced there apparently is no such word. Of course there is such a word! I've used it all my life. My paranoia nods knowingly, saying "See? It's all part of the plot to drive you bonkers!"...which sent me running back to the dictionary to find the origin of the word "bonkers" ("origin unknown"). It's endless.

I also currently have another 30 begun-blogs which I've never gotten around to finishing. Some of them I might, others I probably won't.

When I have an idea for a blog, I don't do much planning out...another of the little curses which have plagued my life...and just start typing, only to find myself, a couple of paragraphs in, running out of steam, starting to wander off in other directions, or realizing that it wasn't such a good idea after all. Most people would just throw them out. But as I work so hard to try to prove, I'm not most people.

I'm fascinated by statistics from annual rainfall in the Gobi desert over the past 50 years to the number of stories in the world's tallest building.

So what if so much of what I'm fascinated by is little more than trivia and of little practical use? I love trivia. As I've mentioned before, in one or more of my blogs, I've never lost a game of Trivial Pursuits (thank God they don't have an "All Sports" edition, or I'd be doomed). I can quote you the opening lines of radio shows from the 1940s and 50s ("...dive with a roar into the 2 1/2 mile tunnel that burrows beneath the glitter and swank of Park Avenue, and then: Grand Central Station, crossroads of a million private lives; gigantic stage on which are played a thousand dramas daily" or the opening to "Our Gal Sunday": "...The story that asks the question, can a girl from a small town in the midwest find happiness with England's richest, most handsome lord, Lord Henry Brinthrop?"

Or I can remember songs like WW1's "Hello, Central, give me Heaven, 'Cause My Daddy's There," or the post Civil War Confederate song, "Furl the Banner." I can tell you the last song played by the Titanic's band as the ship went down....not "Nearer, My God, to Thee" but the protestant hymn, "Autumn." I can remember long-ago movie stars like Anna Mae Wong and Toby Wing and Lash LaRue.

I can tell you how many people died in Chicago's Iroquois Theater fire on December 30, 1903 (602), and who was appearing on stage at the time (Eddie Foy).

But can I follow the simplest of directions for anything...anything involved with technology or moving parts? Would I ever willingly buy any product that says, on the box, "Some Assembly Required"? Don't be silly.

The problem with the concept of "practical purposes," of course, lies in the word "practical." I don't recall that word's ever having been applied to me. But who cares. Did you know that the average snowfall for Antarctica is only about 2 inches a year? Now, that's fascinating!

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Sanctuary

On those occasions when Blog Day rolls around--as it has three times a week for the past couple of years, now--and I find my mind stuck in neutral with no idea of what to talk about, I take sanctuary in stepping back in time 50-plus years to see what I was writing about to my parents while I was in the Navy. I like to stay as close to the present day and month as I can, but that' not always possible. So I chose two not-too-long letters written in a February long lost in the fog of time, but still bright and clear in my heart and mind. I hope you won't mind my sharing them here.

February 4 - 7, 1956
The ship has been writhing all afternoon—at supper the tables slid across the mess decks and water sloshed out of cups. The soup was up to the brim on one side of the bowl and touching the bottom on the other. At the moment, she’s creaking like a Spanish galleon.

Currently engrossed in a quasi-legal discussion—we’ve gone from courts martials to Canadian-American relations. Andrews says “Canada and America will be the same thing some day.” It probably never occurred to him that Canada might not want to become a part of the great U.S. If I remember correctly , we tried that once. As any map can tell you, we didn’t quite succeed.

The conversation, from which I have been generally excluded, has broken up while Andy goes in quest of some hot bread and Coutre has gone to fetch some butter.---The bread won’t be hot for half an hour, so Nick has substituted some good old Navy hardtack.

Quarter till ten and here I sit, reading Christopher Marlowe.

10 February, 1956
Just finished reading, in one of those twenty-five cent Man’s magazines, an article on the assassination of President McKinley. From this article and one I’d read previously, McKinley was evidently shot by two different men with the same name (Czolgosz). My subconscious, or alter-ego, or whatever you wish to call it remarked bitterly—it’s always bitter—that I’d better go out and shoot a President, because that’s the only way I’ll ever become famous. Oh, well….

The storm continued all through the night and up until late this afternoon—I loved it; twice the ship lurched as though it had been thrown into the air and let drop down again. All hands were warned to stay clear of the Foc’sle and all weather decks, but I, curious as usual, decided to go back to the fantail.

The sea thrashed about like a madman in a straight jacket—steam and spray were mixed with the heavy snow and the clouds of smoke from our breaths—yes, there are others as curious as me.

Water washed an eighth of an inch deep across the hangar deck, and the cold was enough to force me back below before too long. After warming up, I went back with the wastebaskets. One I dumped into the chute hanging over the fantail fell directly into the water—the other had a fifty-foot drop, and colored bits of paper flew off into the snow like bright birds. Waves were breaking even with and above the level of the fantail, which somehow escaped getting swamped. In the distance, the dark grey of our destroyer bobbed between the lighter greys of sea and sky. If I’d had a coat, I’d have stood there a lot longer, but that was too much for me.

Cut off as we are from the world, our only contact is through the ship’s Daily Press—printed on two sheets of 8 1/2x13 heavy paper. I haven’t even seen one of those in two days. From what I’ve gathered, Italy is in bad shape because of the snows—rumors of hunger riots and other major catastrophes float throughout the ship. If this is true, we will no doubt put into port as soon as possible and set up soup kitchens for the Communists, who will take it and curse us for not giving them enough.

I don’t see how we can spare anybody anything—we are on slightly low rations ourselves. The food used on this ship is tremendous—we give away over 500 lbs of coffee a week to different divisions here on board—that doesn’t count the amount we use for meals.

Tomorrow, if the sea has calmed down sufficiently, we take on another 116 tons of supplies—including 25 tons or so to be delivered to the USS Courier—a radio ship off Rhodes broadcasting propaganda to Russia and the Communist countries.

In Naples we are to pick up five hundred cases of baby food for somebody or other. Ah, such is life on our great ships of war.

I wish I had some cocoa—maybe mom will be nice enough to send me a box of Nestles’ individual bags.

A trip to the calculator shows I have just 184 days to go—tomorrow will make it exactly one half year! And with that cheery news, I leave you….

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Losing Roger

It occurred to me this morning in the shower that ever since I created Dorien, he has been increasingly taking over our shared life to the point where I am occasionally but frankly concerned that Roger will be totally lost and forgotten. Because the bulk of my life is spent in writing in one form or another, it's the Dorien side which takes up the majority of my time and attention, and the Roger side seems increasingly relegated to breathing, eating, sleeping, and performing those utterly mundane details that make up reality. I am not a little concerned that Roger's individuality is being lost to Dorien's.

I suppose it's only natural. Dorien, after all can do and be anything or go anywhere he chooses. It's easy for him to ignore reality because he never has to deal with it.

I know, I know, Roger is Dorien as much as Dorien is Roger. Roger came first and has been around a lot longer. But far more people know Dorien's name than Roger's. In the early stages of our dual relationship, I preferred to keep the Roger part of me suppressed, partly as a matter of self-protection. I wrote my first few books while living in the Great North Woods, the land of beer-drinking, deer-hunting Packer fans locked in a time somewhere around 1950. To be known (as I eventually was despite my efforts to keep a very low profile) as a writer of books with fags and perverts in them inevitably provided those who were trapped in an area of few jobs and little hope for improvement a badly needed sense of absolute superiority over them uppity queers. Luckily it never went beyond the occasional terribly clever phone call from local teens. ("Hi, Roger. It's your old buddy Jack...Jack Meoff!" Snickers and dial tone.)

At any rate, with Dorien's emergence, Roger began slipping into the background, and I must admit my own complicity. The more freedoms Dorien enjoyed, the more I identified with him, sometimes at Roger's expense.

It's confusing for people not to know whether to refer to me as Roger or Dorien. To those I knew before Dorien came along, of course, I remain Roger. But for those who know me through my books, blogs, and other writing, very few...if they even know my duality...call me Roger, and I see little point in adding to the confusion.

I honestly don't know of anyone else in this same position, though I have no doubt there are many.

And, speaking honestly, as I really always try to do, the fact is that Roger is not the person I would have him be. As you may have noted in these blogs, I frequently grow furious with myself for my seemingly endless shortcomings--which makes it easier for me to look to Dorien for those things that Roger lacks. Dorien is far more patient, far more thoughtful, far more able to express himself than Roger. Dorien can eat anything he wants and go anywhere he wants and do anything he wants and sleep with anyone he wants. Roger cannot.

I honestly doubt I will ever reach the point where my self delusions will become a real issue for either me or the outside world. I don't think I'll start hearing Dorien's voice in my head, telling me to do things Roger would never consider. So while I fully admit to being delusional, it is a benign delusion from which I can and do take a great deal of comfort and strange pleasure.

As the Roger part of me grows older and less able to do all those physical things I once could do, I find new reasons to turn more and more to Dorien. I'm rather like a passenger on the Titanic running up the slanting decks to keep ahead of the advancing water.

But I know all of this is just my Roger side giving into my tendency toward melodrama. Neither Roger nor Dorien is in any real danger of disappearing. The division between us is...like Dorien himself...far more imagined than real. But I do feel there is some justification for my concern that I am in effect neglecting my Roger side. I really must concentrate on fully appreciating that everything I love about Dorien began with and stems from Roger, and despite my notorious penchant for self-deprecation, I have to remind myself of the one rule I have successfully observed throughout my life: never, ever take myself too seriously. It's a good rule to live by.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

A Spam Epiphany

Oh, dear Lord! I've finally figured it out! My Spam folder is in fact the cyberspace equivalent of a group home for the obscenely greedy and the hopelessly insane. How else can one possibly explain the huge piles of infuriating blather deposited in my Spam folder every day? The pure idiocy of the opening words of these messages, quoted below--as always, exactly as received--prove it beyond any doubt. It is a source of endless frustration to me to acknowledge that I am utterly incapable of simply ignoring them without some sort of response.

"Forgot about his mistress? - Good day, I accidentally found a letter from you, I remember how we communicated with..." (Oh, right. You're that homeless guy with the pet rat who's been rummaging through my garbage. I really must get a paper shredder.)

(unknown sender): "You can trust us your health, we know how to improve it." (Well of course I can trust you my health. I always have total trust in anyone who isn't even willing to identify themselves. See that donut over there? Why don't you go take a flying.....well, never mind.)

"You could make 24,000 dollar in 24 hours" (Of course I could. I could do in five minutes were it not for those pesky surveillance cameras and those irritating laws about bank robbery.)

"boiled and cut fine. The force-meat must be used sparing! He egg and oil you have already mixed, in place of...." (Right. And you can bet I'm going to be eager to lift the toilet seat to see the rest of your message.)

"You gf hot pics - for carnal victories" ("Carnal victories?" What in the HELL are you talking about? Never mind...I really, really don't want to know.)

Galipeau "t, the Popes were th - Ndations on which his scheme rested. For law substitute Christianity, for social union spiritual....." (Aren't you running for Congress?)

"What's your coming time? Get stiff tonight...." (I can't give you a coming time without knowing where I'm going. And if I have to get drunk, I'll probably be late anyway.)

"FROM THE DESK OF MR.FRANCIS ALIU Director Auditing and Accounting Department Bank of Africa...." (Uh-huh.)

"You're Hired! Make $250+ a Day" (And all I have to do to "get started" is to sign a contract full of the world's smallest type committing me to buy $1,000 of your worthless product per month and that I will have to pay all costs involved in selling the crap? Wow! Sign me up!)

"Your gf caught on camera!" (Gee, if I had a gf, maybe I might give a crap....Oh, wait. No, I wouldn't.)

"You Have Been Chose to Receive 2 jetBlue Airways Tickets Survey!" (I'm so happy to have been chose! Do they fly to English speaking countries? And exactly what is a"2 jetBlueAirways Tickets Survey"?)

"Change your soft destiny-If you're excited by this girl and your male schlong is still downwards, you need this...." (Oh, dear Lord, there is so much wrong with this picture I don't know where to begin. 1. What is a "soft destiny", exactly? 2. By what stupefying gall do you dare to assume I would be excited by a "girl"? 3. My "male schlong?" Is there a "female schlong"?)

Enough for now! I grow faint (and nauseous). I was raised to believe that all men are created equal and that no human being is superior to any other. But messages like the above give me serious pause. I again wish I could say that I will never again compile such a list. But we both know I'd be wrong.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Aphorisms

I love aphorisms. I probably could have done quite well had I gone into the fortune cookie business. Since I somewhat reluctantly began using Twitter (the cuteness of that name still revolts me) I find myself using them frequently. And since, as you know, I hate losing a single word I've written, I've started collecting some I've posted there. Some may arguably not be aphorisms, but then not all small insects found on pepper plants are aphids. (I have no idea where that came from.) Here are a few:

Every new day is a blank page in the story of our lives. Write clearly, write large...and use crayons.

Life is a burning building, and I am frantically trying to save as much of myself as I can through my words.

Why are those who preach so fervently about the glories of heaven not in more of a hurry to get there?

Readers are to writers what rainfall is to a drought.

The mark of a true friend is one with whom, after not being in contact for several years, you can pick up a conversation in mid sentence.

Communication rests not so much on conveying information as on being able to understand what is being conveyed.

Always remember: Silence is not golden; silence equals consent. If we do not speak out against an offense, we deserve what we get.

Having a good friend is a matter of luck; being a good friend requires effort.

There is a great difference between growing older and growing old.

Good writing is like making good gravy...you've got to be sure to get all the lumps out.

Life is a game of Russian roulette, and the older one gets, the more bullets are put in the chamber.

When an ad says "No Reasonable Offer Refused," guess who determines what is reasonable?

It is generally easier to point someone in the right direction than to try to drag them.

Have you ever noticed that good advice is easier given than taken?

Humans seem incapable of appreciating what they have until it is gone forever.

Anyone who follows others without question is a sheep, and has no right to complain when they're fleeced.

The primary purpose of any bureaucracy is to propagate itself and its power.

The problem with "passing time" is that you don't pass it...it passes you.

Why is it that proselytizers, in their zeal to convert you to their way of thinking, have no interest whatever in what you currently think?

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Gratitude

Gratitude is something far more commonly felt than expressed. Part of the reason, I suspect, is that the words "Thank you"--the two words most used to express gratitude--are an automatic social and cultural response to even the smallest favor, from a "gesundheit" to being handed a receipt at a check-out stand, and often seem inadequate.

"Thank you" is just the thinnest surface layer of gratitude. Under "Thank you" lie an infinite number of layers, depending on the degree of gratitude felt, and the deepest layers of gratitude can never be adequately expressed.

Gratitude is a tree which grows from the seeds of kindness, and kindness is freely given without thought of repayment. But I consider gratitude to be a form of acquired debt which must be repaid. Far too many people, if the concept of gratitude being a debt even occurs to them, repay it with I.O.U.s or promissory notes.

I realize that I do far more bitching and moaning and complaining than is warranted by circumstance. I talk endlessly about what is wrong with the world (and there is much to talk about), yet very seldom express my equally boundless gratitude for the positive things in my life and in the world.

First and foremost, my gratitude for having been given, and still having, the gift of life cannot possibly be put into words. That gratitude is followed closely by my gratitude for my relative good mental and physical health. Despite my share of physical problems, I realize that compared to what others go through, mine, as Humphrey Bogart says in "Casablanca", don't amount to a hill of beans. Which doesn't stop me from complaining anyway. I am what I am.

I am also infinitely grateful to having been born into the family I was. There are no words or combination of words capable of conveying my gratitude to my parents. How could there possibly be, when I owe them so much? Every member of my family, from my grandparents through my aunts, uncles, and cousins, have never been anything but completely loving and supportive, and I realize that there are, tragically, many people who cannot say the same. And though my parents and most of my immediate family are now gone, my gratitude to them for having them to enrich my life remains undiminished.

Beyond the circle of immediate family is another circle, of friends. I am grateful to have been blessed with an extended family of wonderful friends who shore up my fragile ego and are unfailingly there when I need them. That they also put up with my...shall we say, "minor eccentricities"...and constant complaining is proof positive of the incalculable value of friendship.

One problem with expressing gratitude is, in fact, in finding how to do it properly and proportionately. Too-frequent and too-effusive expressions of gratitude soon lose their effectiveness and become the equivalent of a "thank you" given someone who holds a door open.

I've come to the conclusion that perhaps the best way to express gratitude is not through words but actions. Small gestures: a phone call, a sincere compliment, an invitation to coffee or a movie or dinner can speak more clearly than words. Something so small as being willing and making yourself available to listen to problems which may not directly concern you.

Gratitude is too often overlooked as a real and valid emotion, yet it, our individual awareness of it, and how we each respond to it, help to shape and define us as human beings.

And in case you were wondering, I'm grateful to you for reading my blogs.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Pets

"Pet" is one of the few English words which is not only both a noun and a verb, but its own definition, like "fly"...a fly is what it is called, and fly is what it does. A pet is what it is called and also its primary purpose: to be petted.

Pets--primarily dogs and cats--have been mankind's companions for a couple of millennia now. Countless books have been written on our inter-species relationship, its role in our society and in our individual lives. Pets are not human, but our emotional bonds to them can often rival that of all but the very closest of our human relationships.

While comparing cats and dogs is like comparing tangerines and tangelos, they both fulfill basic human needs. Dogs provide around the clock unconditional love. Any time we need, or the dog senses we need, affection, it is right there to provide it. And while cats can also be great sources of comfort and affection it is far more frequently given on the cat's terms, not the human's. Call a dog, and it is immediately at your side. Call a cat and 9 times out of 10 it will just stare at you, if it deigns to look in your direction at all. It's just their nature. Dogs are and have since their first bonding with humans thousands of years ago been "pack" animals. They consider man to be just another member of the pack.
Cats are, by their genetic nature, far more "loners" than dogs. Being part of a group is not nearly as important to them as it is to dogs.

In my life, I have had innumerable pets...probably more cats than dogs, yet it seems on reflection that I am basically more a "dog person" than a "cat person." The first family pet I can really remember was a doberman pincer named Kaiser. Dobermans have the reputation of being a one-person dog, and my dad was that person. Kaiser tolerated my mother and me, but it was to my dad that he was totally devoted. Kaiser once got up on the dining room table when no one was around and ate an entire cake my mother had baked for some special occasion. If mother was not Kaiser's favorite person, he was not her favorite dog.

The first dog I remember distinctly as being my own was Lucky, a black mutt who my dad found one day and brought home. Lucky was my dog, and I loved him almost on the same par as I loved my parents. I'm not sure how long we had him, but when we moved into a new home, my dad said we couldn't have a dog there, and gave Lucky to my grandfather, who lived on a farm. It broke my heart, but Dad was adamant, and that was the last I ever saw of Lucky. Grandpa reported that he had run away. And within two weeks of moving into the new house, Dad bought me a boxer pup, Stormy. I never forgave him for taking Lucky from me, and I have never, after all these years, stopped grieving for him.

I of course eventually grew to love Stormy, who we had from the time I lost Lucky to after my two years in the Navy and completion of college. I forget just how Stormy died, and I don't want to remember. When I moved to Chicago, I got another boxer, Thor, who had very serious mental problems as a result of inbreeding. He became impossible to keep in our apartment, so I gave him to my aunt, who had a large yard. Thor tried jumping over her chain link fence while wearing his leash and hanged himself. I felt terrible, but it was not the depth of sorrow I felt over Lucky

When I moved to L.A., I had Cindy, a German shepard, and Boy, a wonderfully loving large mutt, both of whom died of old age at my home. Overlapping Cindy and Boy was Sammy, another mutt who strongly resembled Toto from the Wizard of Oz. Sammy was a total delight and lived to be 15 or so. She moved with me from L.A. to northern Wisconsin, and died of old age while I was on a trip to L.A.
Bozo, a huge golden retriever, was surely one of the most loving dogs I have ever had. He loved to sit at my feet, with his head on my lap while I was watching TV, waiting for me to feed him popcorn, a kernel at a time. One day I let him out and he did not come back. I found him dead by the side of the road. For months after, I could not eat popcorn without crying.

My last dog was Duchess, a beautiful pure-white Samoyed I found on the street and who no one claimed even after I put an ad in the paper. Duchess was my only "outside" dog in that she loved winter; the colder the better. I built her a large doghouse attached to my garden shed, and filled it with bales of straw. And then one harsh winter I noticed her drinking a lot more than normal. I thought it was because the water in her bowl had frozen, so I brought her fresh water more often. She couldn't seem to get enough, and I noticed she was getting thin. I will never forgive myself for not taking her to the vet immediately. When I did, I was told she had severe diabetes. I hadn't even known dogs could get diabetes. The vet said they would keep her overnight to see what could be done. When I called the next day, I was told she had died during the night. Is it any wonder I think so little of myself?

I now live in an apartment and having a dog is out of the question, so now I just have my cat, Spirit.
And I see that I have rambled on and on and have not yet even mentioned the cats in my life, some of which were, like my dogs, memorable.

Well, another time, if you're interested.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Worst Enemies

"Beat me! Beat me!" cried the masochist. "No," replied the sadist.

The concept of sadism, or of physical masochism, is utterly beyond my comprehension. To take pleasure from inflicting or seeking out physical pain is inconceivable to me. However, when it comes to mental masochism--to the constant and merciless berating of one's self--I have been a lifelong practitioner, and I simply cannot break myself of it.

The origins of my mental masochism I'm convinced lie in my compulsion to be so very much more than I am or could ever possibly be. I began pointing out my flaws at an early age, as a rather warped means of beating other people to the punch. Rather than wait for someone else to say, as they inevitably would: "Jeezus, Margason, you suck!" I step right in and say it before they get the chance. I won't give them the satisfaction of thinking I am not already aware of my shortcomings.

And over time this self-deprecation became a way of life. Unfortunately, running myself down as a form of preemptive strike has, not surprisingly, been counterproductive. I've often told the story (and why wouldn't I? It's self-deprecatory) of seeing a letter one of my best friends in college had written another. In it, in mentioning me, he said, "You know, Roger keeps on telling everyone how worthless he is until eventually you begin to believe him." That should have been a wake-up call. It wasn't. More than 50 years later, I'm still doing it. How I have managed to get this far in life without an ulcer is a miracle.

I'm not sure whether it could be called ironic, or perverse, or perversely ironic, but I see my self-loathing, as indicated above, as a form of reverse narcissism. I demand far, far more of myself than I expect of anyone else because...well, because I'm me! I am fascinated by--and take what, despite all my vehement protests to the contrary, has to be a...well, masochistic...delight in--my own flaws and failings. I am not fishing for denials whenever I say that I am incompetent; I truly and completely believe it, and past experience offers solid proof. Given 10,000 opportunities to do something right or to do it wrong--especially if the task involves anything with moving parts, electricity, or the internet, the odds are that I will do it wrong 9,955 times out of the 10,000. And that is a conservative figure. It is also irrefutable fact. I don't like it, but that's the way it is.

We live in an increasingly technological world. Yet when, after countless failed attempts to do something technological, someone (usually a long-suffering friend) takes me by the hand and baby-steps me to the point where I finally do it right, the chances are 9,999 to 1 that the next time I need to do exactly the same thing, I will have forgotten how to do it or, doing it exactly the way I did it before, it will not work. In fact, it is quite common for me to do even a simple task I have done without problem innumerable times before--press key A and then key B to get result C, for example. Suddenly, with absolutely no change in the way I have always done it, I will press key A and then key B and get result Z, H, R, or K...sometimes in combination. Despite the kindness of people who assure me I exaggerate my inability to comprehend the simplest of instructions, the fact is that they know not whereof they speak simply because they are not me.

While it is sometimes difficult for most people to separate hyperbole from fact, I like to believe that I have raised incompetence to a new level...a statement perfectly demonstrating what I mean by reverse narcissism. "Nonsense," my friends will tell me. "Everyone makes mistakes." Yes, but the entire point of this blog is that they are allowed--even expected--to make mistakes. I am not. What I readily accept in them, I refuse to allow in myself. They are mere mortals, whereas I, while not sufficiently narcissistic to deny being mortal, am somehow....more. And if one's value can be measured by the number of one's flaws, I am "more," indeed.

So go ahead, take a look at your own flaws and failings, but don't even try to compare them to mine: you haven't the chance of a snowball in hell of winning.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

On Thinking

I do an awful lot of thinking. ... No, let me rephrase that: my mind is always racing full-speed, like a car engine in neutral with the gas pedal pushed to the floor. Or, to put it another way, what I do is as directly related to thinking as a table full of baking ingredients is to a pie. Two sentences into this blog and already I'm galloping wildly off in all directions. Actually grabbing any single thought and holding onto it long enough to do anything of value with it is nearly impossible for me. It's like trying to hold on to a greased pig. (As the use of three totally unrelated analogies/similies in the space of one short paragraph amply verifies. Typical.)

This blog was begun with the idea that it would deal with the various aspects of thinking. I was going to delve into the subject at some depth...or what passes for depth with me. Here is how it originally began:

"We think from the day we are born. Even before there is what might be considered rational thought, babies begin thinking and learning how to use their bodies, familiarizing themselves first with the fascination of fingers and toes and the sound and faces of their parents, and exploring the senses--taste being the first. Then rationality and logical thought slowly enter the equation, and from that point mind and body begin a long (with luck) parallel journey."

And at that point, I found myself veering off course with the following:

"The mind is the driver, the body the car." And we're off on another analogy. "But eventually the there comes the point where the body reaches the peak of its abilities and, like a car, begins a slow but inevitable decline. It's not pleasant, being out there on the freeway of life" (and one metaphor) "and despite all the thinking in the world the body/car finds itself being increasingly overtaken and passed by sleek, newer models with shinier paint and more highly polished chrome, being forced into the slow lane when the driver/mind wants to stay in the fast lane."

I have no doubt that I will be hearing from someone on the proper definitions of and uses of metaphors and similies and analogies ("Oh My!"). How and why I go wandering off into analogies involving cars and drivers, I have no idea, other than that digressions are obviously one sign of an overactive mind.

So I tried to pull myself back to the theme on which I'd started: "On Thinking".

"I've always wondered why, since thinking is one of the greatest of all the unique gifts bestowed upon Mankind, so many people don't seem to bother with using it, and are content to let other people do their thinking for them."

Well, I only got one sentence there before another digression/analogy barged in, presenting me with the mental image of a nest of baby birds, mouths agape, waiting for their parents to regurgitate nourishment. Too many people never get beyond the baby-bird stage. They willingly swallow anything they're fed/accept anything they're told. Pat Robertson says the Haiti earthquake was God's retribution for the Haitian people's having made a pact with the devil a couple hundred years ago? Really? Gee, that sounds terrible. But I'm not going to spend any time thinking about it for myself, or wondering why God waited a couple hundred years before expressing His displeasure (hey, He's pretty busy). If Pat says it, that's proof enough for me. I'll just go along with whatever Pat...or you...or anybody says.

Then a very brief return to the main track for:

"I can't help but wonder how much of the anger and hostility sweeping the nation today is based on thought and how much on sheer, unreasoning emotion engendered by total lack of thinking."

And at that point I realized that at the rate I was going, this particular blog was going to be only a few pages shorter than The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and decided to call it a day. Maybe I'll try to talk about thinking again sometime. But, you know, it's kind of like....

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Flotilla

You may have noticed that I’m rather fond of similes and metaphors for life and the human condition. They are constantly bubbling to the surface of my mind, unbidden.

Some time ago, I posted a blog comparing life to a leaky little boat, with each of us bailing frantically to stay afloat. Today, perhaps more inspired by my Navy videos than the leaky boats blog, another bubble broke the surface. I suddenly found myself envisioning stock footage from a WWII era newsreel, looking down through the clouds on a huge flotilla of naval ships. Carriers, destroyers, heavy cruisers, light cruisers, battleships, support vessels of every description, tankers, troop ships…hundreds of them, spread over miles and miles of the ocean’s surface, each individual vessel moving in the same direction and at the same speed, toward the same destination with the same goal. It was also one of those optical illusions where one moment you see it as a unit (the flotilla), and the next you see the individual ships which constitute it.

And that, I thought, is a pretty good analogy for how humanity works. We are as diverse as the ships of the fleet, yet are all sailing through the sometimes stormy sea of life, each one a totally unique individual, operating both individually and as part of a vastly larger whole.

In a wartime flotilla every ship subject to attack and sinking by the equivalent of unseen submarines or air strikes. And when one ship is stricken, the others steam on, not oblivious, but unable to do anything. In the each-of-us-a-ship analogy, however, we sail together toward a horizon which none of us--no matter how big or small--will ever reach. As those who have sailed beside or at various distances from us for years slip beneath the waves, we sail on because we have no other choice than but to do so. And as we ourselves are torpedoed and sink, as inevitably must happen, the rest of the fleet continues on, our place in the flotilla taken up by another ship.

I’d like to think of myself as a carrier, of course…a proud, awe-inspiring, majestic flagship of one of the many battle groups of the fleet. But I am probably, in reality, a little grey destroyer paroling the perimeter of the fleet, cutting resolutely through the turbulent seas, plunging headlong into gigantic waves only to rise up in a huge spray of water washing over my bow.

There are, both in naval fleets and in life, priorities--probably more clear in ships than in people. In the navies of the world, it is the carriers which must be protected at all costs. The rest of the fleet is expendable. In human terms, world leaders…rightly or wrongly…are the carriers: the people they lead are the rest of the fleet. But regardless of our designation, place, rank, or role in the fleet, the important thing is to recognize that we each do have one, and each of us has a purpose it is our responsibility to fulfill with dignity and honor.

Damn the torpedos! Full speed ahead!

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

The Center of the Universe

Every child is wrapped in a cocoon of absolute, unquestioning certainty that he or she is the center of the universe. Most of us, through increasing awareness of reality, grow out of that notion. Some of us do not, and I am one of the latter group.

The fact is that each of usis,in fact, the center of our own universe which, while existing within the infinitely larger framework of time, eternity, and the cosmos, is sadly finite. Our individual universe ends when we end. We are aware, of course, that there are an infinite number of things going on out there in the world around us, most of which have absolutely no direct influence on us, and that there are an infinite number of things which do influence us over which we have absolutely no control. But we....each of us....is the only thing we can be absolutely sure of. Our own reality is the only reality which matters.

The center-of-the-universe assumption is common among megalomaniacs, and I've always found it fascinating that there are far, far more male megalomaniacs than female. I must have a talk with my friend Dr. Freud about that....I'm sure he'd have some interesting observations.

That relatively few people give their actual position in the overall scheme of things much thought is natural. It's one of those things which, even if pondered at great depth, cannot be resolved or changed. I think one criterion for holding to the conviction of being the center of the universe stems from one's reluctance or, as in my case, absolute refusal, to let go of the sense of wonder and awe given all children and taken away far too soon and often too cruelly by reality. I take a perverse pride in never having outgrown my childhood and, in fact, cling to it fiercely. Perhaps it is my way of trying to play King Canute and hold the rising tide of time at bay.

We witness and react (to one degree or another) to others largely depending on their closeness, both emotionally and geographically, to ourselves. And of those two factors, emotional and geographical, the emotional closeness is the dominant one. The death of a close friend affects us far more directly and deeply than the deaths of 200,000 people in a disaster on the other side of the world--in large part, I suspect, to the fact that they are closer to US and therefore closer to the center of the universe.

Yet given everything just stated above it is paradoxical that I should strive so constantly and so diligently to prove to you that [i]I am the center of the universe--which relegates you to...what? (Well, you can take smug comfort in the knowledge that it is you who is the center of the universe, and I am merely a deluded wannabe.)

Being the center of the universe holds the danger of becoming not unlike a black hole: sucking everything into the gaping maw of me, until not even light can escape it. There are, throughout history, people like that. Yet it has been theorized that the big bang which created our known universe took place when an inconceivably huge black hole compressed into itself to the point where it exploded outward.

I stand in awe of so many things, not the least of which is that while there are, and have been throughout history, individuals who have set themselves out to be humanity's black holes, there are also those rare individuals whose lives have been similar to the big bang: everything goes out from them rather than being taken into themselves. And I, who still see myself as an optimist, look upon this comparison with hope.

For all my posturing, I sincerely doubt I could ever be sufficiently self centered to become a black hole, but if I did become one, there would always be the hope of someday going in a nano-second's nano second from being an infinitely small, black speck to the stuff of which stars are made. In the world of my fantasies, worse things could happen.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Simple Rules

It somehow always comes as something of a surprise every time I'm faced with the fact that life ain't easy, and the passage through it is frequently chaotic. To bring some semblance of order, rules were invented, both societal and personal. Since life is a cumulative learning experience, the rules each person sets up for himself/herself tend to be far more varied and flexible than societal rules. I have come up with a few simple rules to help my passage as smooth as possible.

Many of my own rules are in response to the fact that I've always been excruciatingly aware that life is far too short under the best of circumstances to meekly accept those wrongs and unnecessary injustices over which I have any small degree of control.

In no particular order of importance, here are a few of them:

1) Never vote for any politician who spends all his campaign money hurling mud at his opponent. I want to hear what he's for, not what he's against, and if he hasn't any positive, constructive things to say about what he plans to do with the office, he doesn't deserve to hold it.

2) Refuse to buy any product whose ads include the words "for well-qualified buyers" (which is a subtle way of saying "not you") or "emerging science suggests" (I don't want "maybe in the future," I want "now").

3) Never tolerate rudeness or neglect from anyone I am paying to perform a service for me. I do not hesitate one second in asking to speak to the person's supervisor and relating my unhappiness. (Often, in restaurants and retail establishments, the manager is not aware of the employees' actions unless told.)

4) Do not subject myself to any situation/play/movie/book in which I know I will find myself uncomfortable or upset simply because someone says I should. I witness and experience enough sorrow, trauma, and injustice in the day-to-day world without willingly exposing myself to more--and I certainly should not have to pay for the privilege.

5) In any disagreement, decide if winning is worth the effort put into it, and at the point where it is not, simply walk away.

6) Do not hesitate in defending those who cannot defend themselves.

7) Refuse to spend time in the presence of bigots and proselytizers.

8) Know the difference between ignorance and stupidity, and act accordingly.

9) Though it is often not easy, try to see both sides of every issue.

10) Never, ever, under any circumstances, be suckered into opening any message in my spam folder unless I recognize the sender's name and know that it got there by mistake.

11) Do my very best...though I often fail...to live by the golden rule.

12) Avoid like the plague anything I am assured that "everyone is talking about". If I'm not talking about it, it doesn't matter.

13) Even in those times when I am depressed or enraged by my own stupidity, never, ever take myself too seriously.

14) Listen to what others say, respect their right to say it, but only do what my mind and heart tell me to do.

As indicated in some of the rules above, I don't always succeed, but that doesn't mean I don't try.

Now, sit down and make a list of your own rules. You may find it very interesting.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Titan Arum

There is a rare plant, a native of Sumatra, called the Titan Arum. It can grow in excess of five feet high, is shaped very much like a phallus, and emits an odor like rotting flesh, which has given it the common and charmingly appropriate name of "corpse plant." It is both fascinating and repulsive, and I have decided to launch a campaign to rename it the "spam plant" for its strong similarity to the endless stream of effluvia clogging the in-box of nearly every computer on earth. Like the spores of a plant is carried by the wind, internet spam is carried on the winds of cyberspace to every corner of the world.

And yet, as utterly repulsed as I am by this internet effluvia, I cannot resist reading the opening words of each message as it appears on my monitor, and reacting like one of Pavlov's dogs. The following examples are reprinted exactly as received, and followed by my "Dear Lord, I can't help myself" responses.

"Put your donut in her oven" (Excuse me? If you are making an oh-so-subtle and clever titter-hee-hee-smirk reference to intercourse, may I point out that donuts are round; the penis--like the Titan Arum--is tubular. And donuts are cooked in hot oil, not baked. But what in hell did I expect from a spam message?)

"How please knocking-out hottie" (How learn speaking English?)

"Little humble Celanding - Beggard and outragedMany hearts deplord...." (Well, that certainly convinces me you're a totally above-board representative of an august and respected company. Send me a dozen of whatever in the hell it is.)

vivatcell: "Like a drilling machine in pants - Wanna act best with your wife...."
justin: "Fill rod with power - Wanna act best with your wife...." (Justin, meet Vivatcell. The answer to your identical question is a resounding "NO!," and I consider you both to be seedlings of the Titan Arum.)

"Give more banging to your beloved." (What a charming, charming sentiment. I thought for a moment I was reading a Hallmark card.)

"Lose 49lbs Obeying 1 Rule" (Yeah: don't eat.)

"Your Email Won £1,000,000 Pounds!" (Of course it did! And as King of Romania, I shall distribute it among all my worthy subjects.)

"Do you have a flare for designing?" (No, I usually use flares to attract passing ships at night when I'm lost at sea. But I do have a flair for spotting ignorance.)

neilread 07 "Wrong - Hello. My name is Victoria. It's about you or no?" (You're absolutely right: you're wrong. 1. Your name is not Victoria, it's Neil. 2. Your 'question' makes no sense--not that I expected it to--and 3. You're definitely wrong if you think I have any interest in whatever you're pitching.)

"Cheap women's clothes!" (My first reaction was that they were hoping to attract the Chippy/Bimbo crowd, but then realized they were undoubtedly using "Cheap" to describe the quality.)

"Russian wives. Are you ok?" (I'm fine, thanks. What the hell are you talking about?--Not that I have any intention of opening your toxic waste email to find out.)

WESTERN UNION TRANSFE (no subject) - "My associate has helped me to send your first payment of $7500 to you as instructed by Mr......" (Western Union's sending money by email now? Please tell your associate it has not arrived. Perhaps Mr......stole it. I wouldn't put it past him.)

Breathe deep.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Worth

I spend a great deal of time--probably too much--trying to understand my compulsion to constantly dissect myself in these blogs--to tell you more than you can possibly want to know. I seem driven to examine in minute (and possibly, to others, embarrassing) detail things that are no one else's business, and of very little if any interest to anyone but myself. I justify it with the rationale that I cannot be the only one so utterly fascinated with all the things which make up an individual human being, and while I am only one individual among billions, perhaps those things I find within myself can also be found in others...specifically, since you are the one reading this, in you.

This utter self-absorption comes, of course, at a considerable price. It too often gets in the way of simply living life. Looking too much inward prevents one from looking outward, and it is only by looking outward that the vast landscape of the real world can be seen. Constantly trying to resolve the mystery of oneself is inevitably isolating.

We humans seem to need to find some comfort in the assurance that we are not as alone as we sometimes think we are. I am, and have all my life been, on an eternal and generally elusive quest for validation; for a sense that I really do matter, to myself if not to others. And if others...if you...can see parts of yourself in me, then perhaps these egocentric ramblings may not be a total waste of time.

I stand in awe of those who simply accept themselves as they are without question. I do wish I were one of them.

Our mastery of science and technology has changed and continues to change our very concept of "worth" and our collective progress as a society has been at the expense of our sense of worth as individuals. Today "worth" is far more often equated with finances than with the qualities which make us human. We have increasingly lost our sense control over our own individual destiny. We have created a society to serve us, and it has turned from servant to master.

Technology and "the bottom line" steadily push aside human values, and our individual sense of worth is devalued even further. It is the corporation, the bureaucracy, the tax return, the media which set the standards of worth. It is the blond, buxom bimbo with one hand on thrust-forward hip staring at us from the glossy pages of fan magazines and slinking across our TV screen who has real value--and by clear implication, tells us what our own individual value is. The average-looking mom with four kids holding down two jobs while trying to make ends meet? Who the hell cares about her? She's nothing. The people who volunteer at soup kitchens or take elderly neighbors shopping, or never forget to send a birthday or anniversary card, or who always smile and are polite? What a bunch of losers! How much money do they have?

Ironically, we are in large part complicit in our own perceived lack of self-worth. We let an increasingly dysfunctional society over which we have less and less control dictate to us about what is important, and what we must be and do (or not be and do) in order to have worth. And since each of us, as an individual, is outnumbered seven billion to one, the natural assumption is that society must be right and we are wrong--and if we are wrong, we therefore have little worth to society or to ourselves.

The important thing we must learn--and it is not an easy lesson--is that rather than trying to do a "Where's Waldo" search of the vast panorama society has painted for us, we must look into our own mirror to recognize ourselves for who we truly are. Each of us is, it is true, part of society, but no one individual is society any more than an individual cherry is a pie. Our worth comes from within, it is not something which can be imposed upon us from the outside.

And in the meantime, I will continue to put out these inner workings of one man's mind in my eternal quest to convince you that you are not alone, and that at least one person other than yourself realizes that your worth cannot be weighed on anyone else's scale but your own.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Compared to What?

I've always loved, and often quoted, the anonymous (to me, anyway) bit of wisdom: "When people tell me 'Life is hard', I'm always tempted to ask, 'Compared to what?'" Life, and our reaction to it, is inevitably one endless string of comparisons. We are constantly weighing ourselves on some sort of ethereal balance with the things and people around us.

Depending on one's emotional makeup, this can either be a healthy and constructive way of judging and adjusting to our position in life, or a constant reminder of our own failings and shortcomings, real or imagined. It will come as no great surprise to anyone who has followed these blogs for any length of time to learn I tend strongly toward the latter view.

I spend a great deal of time being angry with myself, and for my narcissistic insistence that I am alone in the world when it comes to feelings of falling short in nearly every comparison challenge. I seem to insist upon finding the bruised banana in every bunch. And I also have a tendency to be somewhat selective in those individuals and situations I compare myself to--invariably, it is to people/things I envy or want. I don't usually compare myself with those who might objectively be considered to be my peers. (Perhaps this may be due in part to the fact that I have always felt myself so apart from others that the very concept of having peers is a little foreign to me.)

That I am not the only person to have difficulty with comparisons, or who always feels at the short end of the stick is hardly surprising. The fact of the matter is that few people have or take the time to consider things outside themselves and their own realm of existence. They still constantly compare themselves to others in a million different ways...jobs, wages, possessions ("Keeping up with the Joneses" is a classic way to describe it)...without really considering what they're doing.

Eastern cultures are not nearly so concerned with the need for constant comparison; their philosophical bases are very different from ours. They tend to see the world as a level playing table. Western cultures are more likely to see the world as a ladder. It's in our nature to look up the ladder to the next rung. Whatever we have, there's somebody who has more: more money, more talent, more possessions, more power. And we're never happy until we have it, too. (And then when we get it, the cycle repeats itself endlessly.) Comparisons, by their very nature, lead to dissatisfaction.

Our society is pretty firmly rooted in greed, and as a result, the deck is stacked against the person doing the comparing. We seldom compare ourselves, or even give any consideration to--though we should--people who are a few rungs beneath us on the ladder. For far too many people, it's not what we have, it's what we want.

When it comes to comparisons and the resultant problems of low self esteem, the negative power of television has no equal. Everyone on television--both women and men--is young and beautiful, and rich, and knows exactly what to wear and how to act in any given situation. Stare at any primetime soap opera for an hour and then take a look in the mirror. Recent studies have shown--stop the presses!--that low self esteem and many of the serious problems affecting young women , from anorexia to bolemia and on down, can be traced to the false ideals of "attractiveness" they're constantly exposed to on TV. Wow! Talk about an "I didn't see that one coming" revelation!

And men are not immune. Why do you think spammers make fortunes on products guaranteed to "make her scream with pleasure" (pardon me while I projectile-vomit)? That men love porn is hardly a revelation, yet even though the men in porn movies are not the intended focus of attention, they always seem to be far above average in the "endowment" department. How can poor Sam Schlub, after watching a porn flic, expect to compete?

Comparisons are an integral and important part of life...they act as a sort of compass guiding us through existence. But it is time we began putting things in perspective. We can start with the simple realization that each of us is only one human being trying to measure ourselves against nearly seven billion others. And with those odds, there's absolutely no contest: you're gonna lose. A little more self-acceptance would vastly relieve all the unnecessary grief we put ourselves through every day, and greatly simplify our lives. Then we can switch our attention to things that really matter, like whether Tiger Woods will reconcile with his wife, or whether Paris Hilton will survive her brave battle with her most recent hangnail.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net

Resolutions Redux

I never make New Year’s resolutions. Never have. I’ve never understood why people even bother: ninety-nine percent of resolutions made on New Year’s Eve have been broken by 2 p.m New Year’s Day…and that’s only if the person making them has slept in. I consider them yet another exercise in futility, and there are already more than enough of those. But humans are very fond of trying to deceive themselves, and are for the most part very good at it.

So while I’ve not made any resolutions for this year, there were a couple I momentarily toyed with.

1) If resolutions were as easy to implement as they are to make, I would resolve to reverse the aging process and keep going backwards until I reach the age of, say, twenty-one…an age chosen only since it is the age of majority and I’d legally be an adult and able to make my own decisions.

2) I would resolve to be more organized. I am quite capable of returning to my apartment, using my key to open the door, walking directly to my computer, sitting down, getting back up to leave the apartment again, and discover that I have lost my key. It’s a gift.

3) I really wish it were possible to become a better person simply by resolving to be one. To be less time-obsessed, more considerate of others, more giving, not quite such a pain in the patoot to my friends requires not only resolving to do it, but to actually work toward that end,, and this is where the resolution process falls apart. I would love to be far more well-read than I currently am. But mostly, I would pledge to be kinder to myself…to be far less quick to fly into rages over my failure to have everything come out the way I want it to on the first, or fifth, try. I would resolve to learn patience.

4) And I definitely would resolve to stop spending so much time bewailing what I have lost and what my physical limitations are, and concentrate on being grateful for what is still left to me, and the fact that those things I have lost were ever part of my life at all.

5) I would resolve to be less dismissive of people whose opinions differ from my own—but only on the condition that they make the same resolution, so I’m pretty safe on not having to make that one.

6) I would resolve to do more than pay lip service to my altruism, and become much more active in the real world and what happens in it. I would resolve to write my elected representatives (of course I would first have to take the time to be sure I knew who they were) frequently, and volunteer for any number of truly worthy causes devoted to stopping global warming and the destruction of the rain forests and end world hunger.

But one resolution I would not make, at any time or under any circumstances, would be to be more accommodating to reality. I have fought it all my life, and will continue to fight it now and forever. I have no illusions as to in any battle between reality and dreamers, which will win in the end. But thoughts are not bound by physical reality, and even after I am gone, as long as my words are stored somewhere, I’ll continue, if only figuratively, to thumb my nose at it.

Actually, many of the things mentioned above are really very good ideas, and I know I would indeed be a better person for them. So I’ll think about it for a while and, though it’s too late for 2010, maybe next year.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.