07-08-13: To Herculaneum

I apologize for the sporadic posting of these blogs chronicling my current adventures. I'd intended for them to go much more smoothly and seamlessly than they've gone. But we shall live.

Europe 2013 Journal

Day 5 07-08-13 – Herculaneum

7:46 a.m. Just back from breakfast. It's going to be another very warm—read “hot” I fear—day. Had a devil of a time getting to sleep last night. No reason, but it seemed like it took hours. Up at 6:00 or so. Nice shower—speaking of the facilities, not the pleasure derived therefrom.

The efficiency and friendliness of the staff continues to amaze me, though sometimes, especially for me who is extra-alert to being treated differently because of my age, getting close to overly attentive. (I mean, I'm quite capable of seating myself and spreading the napkin over my lap.) There are four—count 'em, four—food service areas for breakfast, each with a different “theme” (full buffet of mostly hot foods and a separate table of rolls/cereals, etc. inside; a bar where they will fry eggs to order and a table of yogurts and cold items on the deck.

Today is Herculaneum, which I'm really looking forward to. Again, I do hope it isn't wall to wall people. I've always found it interesting that, during the eruption of Vesuvius in 79 A.D. (August 14, as I recall), Pompeii was destroyed by ash whereas Herculaneum, being slightly closer to Vesuvius, was buried by lava.

Having run out of short-sleeve shirts, I'll try washing them this afternoon.

5:37 p.m. At sea, headed for Palermo, Sicily. Just went to the observation deck to take a few photos and see we are out of sight of land. No wi-fi. I can see working around that minor inconvenience will take some adjusting to.

Went, as promised, to wash out a few short-sleeve shirts, discovered I'd lost the laundry detergent. Will try to pick some up in Palermo.

I have never felt, reacted, or been treated “older” as I have been on this trip. People are constantly treating me as though I were a hundred and four, offering to help me get up (!!), to apparently steady me, etc. I dropped my camera on the bus, and the young lady in the seat across the aisle got up and said “Let me get that for you.” I got it myself something. Very kind of her, and them all, but, really! Tom is a natural talker, and very open with everyone. As usual I have almost nothing to say and just sit there like a doorstop.

One observation on Italian roadways: the government's “Keep Italy Beautiful” program (if they had one) has been a dismal failure. There is more trash strewn along any given mile of any Italian road than the average American garbage dump.

Oh, and I also saw a girl waiting to buy an entry ticket to Herculaneum who was wearing sandals and bright off-red toenail polish. However she had no toenail on the “little piggy” toe of either foot. Just thought I'd pass that on.

The trip to Herculaneum was fun. Much, much smaller than Pompeii (not only in population...6,000 as opposed to 20,000...but in area). Much—probably most—of it still lies buried beneath the modern city and cannot be excavated unless they tear down the buildings now there. Unlike Pompeii, which was buried under 30 feet of heavy ash which crushed the buildings, Herculaneum was destroyed by a mud flow, which by its nature swallowed the buildings rather than crushing them. Thus many are in far better condition than those in Pompeii.

When the eruption began, in 79 A.D. the people fled to the waterfront, hoping to be rescued by boat. The commander of the Roman fleet, in fact, was on an island 20 miles away and, seeing the eruption, immediately set out for Herculaneum. The people of the city took refuge in a large warehouse at the water's edge, where they suffocated in the toxic fumes from the mountain. 400 bodies were discovered inside the warehouse, and many of them are still there. The fleet never made it, either, most perishing in the same black cloud.

Fascinating.

I was surprised to learn, on checking my Navy letters, that I've never been to Palermo...only Augusta and Catania. The mind plays strange tricks.

Tom assumed the ship had 220 electrical system. It does not, and he forgot his converter, so I leant him mine, which I hope he returns at dinner.

8:50 We ate dinner on the open deck at the stern of the ship and watched the sun go down over the Mediterranean. Truly lovely and I thought of how many millions of people would love being in my shoes. I am, despite my constant bitching, blessed.

I've talked before of my ghost, Robert, who shows up every now and then. I like Robert, but he loves to play very subtle little tricks. Two days ago, I lost one of my hearing aids (they cost $4800 for the pair), and was not a happy camper. Beside my bed is a dresser, on top of which I keep a box of kleenex and, when I'm not using it, my computer. Returning from dinner, I went to the dresser and my computer. Moving the computer, there was my hearing aid. It had not been there before dinner. It had not been there for two days. But now it was there. Thank you, Robert.

Later.  

Europe Journal 2013: To Pompeii

7:44 a.m. Waiting to board the shuttle boat to shore, then to Pompeii. Excited to see it once more. Tomorrow is Herculaneum, to which I have never been but always wanted to go.

This is turning into a very expensive trip. Somehow, somewhere yesterday I lost one of my hearing aids (my hearing was shot, I suspect, by the roar of passing el trains in front of my apartment). At any rate, it will be a mere $2,400 to replace it ($4,800 for the pair).

Life aboard ship goes on apace...I'm discovering new parts I'd not seen before.

Again, the staff is amazing. I think I mentioned they won't even let you carry your food from the buffet to your table...always pulling out your chair for you, spreading your napkin on your lap when you first sit down, etc. And this is not the main dining room, where I gather dress shirts and jackets are de rigeur.

Tried to upload yesterday's photos to FB last night, at sea. I had transferred 40 of 73 when the internet went dead. They say that happens often. Good to know...now. And because I could not log out, I may have used all 12 hours of the minutes I bought.

Well, time to go. More later.

Two things: 1) Never come to Europe in July (or, I am told, August). 2) This will be my last “Tour” of Europe. Temps hovering around 90, everyone on vacation. Pompeii had twice as many people roaming its streets today as it did when Vesuvius erupted in 79 A.D. I've often said I dislike organized tours because of the herd mentality (“Move here, move there, everyone gather around,” etc.) Our guide did not walk...he strode. Rapidly. If I took my eyes off of him for five seconds, literally, he had disappeared into the crowd and I had no idea where the hell he had gone. We all have little radios and earphones so I could hear him say “We'll turn left here,” which didn't really help much since I had no idea which “left” he referred to. I got seriously separated from the group at least three times. Twice, by luck, I managed to see someone from our group off in the far distance and hurried to catch up. Once I joined another group from the ship until one of the ship's staff shepherding our group came and found me. I took the tour to see Pompeii, not to constantly having to wonder where everyone else had gone. We did see one beautiful villa, of which I got many photos—though while I was taking them was one of the times I got separated.

And did I mention the heat? It reminded me of arriving in Budapest in 90+ temps after not having slept for 30+ hours and trying to take a walk around the city while waiting for my cabin to be ready.

As I said in my last post, I so sincerely resent having to make concessions to age, and I am increasingly doing so.

Back to the ship around 1:20 in time for lunch. I had a bowl of chicken consume with bean sprouts and a tiny sliver of a very nice pecan crème pie. Tom and Mike each visited the serving table three times, consuming...I am serious when I say it...more food in one sitting than I eat in a week or more. I envy them, but cannot comprehend how they can do it—how anyone can do it.

I'm now going to go see if I have any internet minutes left or if my inability to log off ate up every one of them. If so, I'd hesitate to spend another 28 euros for another “twelve hours” of minutes. If I can get on line I'll send this off and maybe add an addendum later.

Tomorrow, as I mentioned, is Herculaneum and I pray for far fewer people and a slower guide.

Sunday, 6:13 p.m. Called Mike and Tom about dinner. We agreed to meet in our usual (the more casual of the two main) restaurant at 7:30, and I decided to go to one of the bars for a Bloody Mary, which I'd not had in years since alcohol burns the hell out of my mouth. The bartender (tendress?) is a beautiful Philippine woman, with two equally beautiful waitresses in formal Philippine-style dress. I had asked the bartender/dress my first day aboard if she could make a Bloody Mary without tabasco, and she said yes. So when I came up to the bar, she said, “Bloody Mary?” Talk about a good memory!

I took a seat and one of the waitresses brought my drink and a plate of tapas...small, 50-cent piece-size mini open face sandwiches; one with cheese and half a grape, one with smoked salmon, one with Italian salami, and one I did not recognize. She then brought me a bowl of potato chips. So I effectively had my dinner before I even went to meet Mike and Tom. I had asked also for a glass of water, to cut the burn of the alcohol. Of course they had no idea of why I was taking one small sip of Bloody Mary and washing it down with water. She brought me two straws, which was very kind and attentive of her, but which I found just a tad embarrassing. Did I look like I needed a straw to drink a Bloody Mary?

“I grow old, I grow old. I shall wear my trousers rolled.”

Sigh.

Europe Journal, Continued

Europe Journal 2013

07-06-13

08:44 a.m. Now using Rome time. Because my room is still frigid despite having assumedly turned the a/c off. I'd reported the situation to the front desk before dinner last night and was told they'd have someone come up and check it out. And did they? Silly person, you! So I went to bed wearing the hooded terrycloth robe the hotel provides its guests. Still uncomfortably cold. Woke up around 2, went to the closet for the other robe and used it as an additional blanket. That did it, and I slept until after 7.

I don't think I'll be returning to the Ciccerone (Hotel) any time soon. Staff not rude, but cursory. Obviously the majority of their business is group tours, so they don't really have to worry too much about possible repeat guests.

Checking out around 11 for the ship.

Have I mentioned recently just how much I hate reality, and just how much I resent losing to it at every turn? It has absolutely no control over my mind, but in anything physical, I can't compete. Still, I refuse to face the fact that an almost-80-year-old body simply cannot do the things or react in the way a 20-year-old body can. It is unfair and ungrateful of me to be resentful of it; it's been so good to me all these years and still does the best it can. I think I mainly feel sad for it, like watching a dear friend weaken and fade away and not being able to do anything to help. I noticed it yesterday in the walking involved in the tour. 20-year-old me wouldn't have batted an eye. (The heat of course doesn't help the situation.)

10:25 All checked out, (they came for my luggage at around 10 heading God knows where). Bus for ship leaves at 12. I took a walk down to the Parliament (?) building two blocks away and took a few photos. Tom and Mike left earlier to walk to the Spanish Steps, about half an hour away. I could/probably should have gone, but....

I'm keeping a close eye on remaining battery power when not plugged into the charger, and it seems to be draining a bit more quickly today than yesterday.

12:03 Waiting for bus to ship. Just talking with a nice couple from Melbourne...quite a few Australians around. So glad Tom and Mike are here...I'd hate the idea of being the only gay aboard ship, as I was (except for the ship's purser) as I was on the Viking cruise. I am of course having difficulty making myself understood...especially with Italians who do not speak fluent English. Frustrating, to say the least.

4:17 Aboard ship, settled in...more or less...took a wandering tour of the ship, had “lunch” with Tom and Mike. Favorably impressed. Took several photos which I will share sometime later. The crew is 3/4+ Philippine, some Indonesian, and a handful of Europeans—extremely, extremely friendly; “Sir” in every sentence. At the buffet lunch a huge assortment of food. You go through the line, get what you want, and a waiter carries it to your table. Another, seeing you're nearly finished, comes by with a dessert plate. Coffee/water refills? You never have to ask. The head chef stops by to welcome you.

Bought a block of 12 hours of internet service for 28 euros ($39.00?), and am going to have to work out a system. I did bring a memory stick, but I'll try to write everything just on the computer and then send it all on line, keeping what I actually do on line to a minimum. This will be a problem with email and FB, of course since the only way I can read and respond to it...unless I can remember who said what and type it on my computer later (yeah, like that'll work)...is on line.

Lifeboat drill at 5:00, but I think we leave port around now.

Oh, my cabin. Really nice, but I'm on a lower deck and the only window I have is a porthole sunk about 3' into the outer wall. Learned how to control the a/c first thing.

I suspect my postings will be rather sporadic until I can work out a system.

Let the games begin!

Later.

Europe Journal 2013, Part 1

8:00 a.m. Travel day. Awake at 5:00 (I hate that!...it means another 30 hours of no sleep), up at 5:30. Changed the cat litter so my friend Gary won't have to do it for awhile. Had what I laughingly call "breakfast," watched the news. Now into the shower and...Plan to leave here around 10. #76 bus to the Blue Line at Logan Square, then to O'Hare and the check-in fun that undoubtedly awaits there.

9:22 Many of my FB friends...Anthony Bidulka, Kage Alan, Alan Chin, etc. spend a good deal of time flitting casually around the globe. They catch international flights as regularly and casually as most of us catch city busses. They, however, are not two people. I am. And interestingly, though it is usually my Dorien side that most resembles a small boy, but when it comes to travel, I fear it is Roger who has the upper hand. 

Will be checking Chicago's BusTracker system soon to see which #76 bus arrives closest to 10:00. I'm ready. Meet you at the bus stop.

12:02 Thank God for Clear...a portable internet connector! Just arrived at Gate 21C for my 1:05 flight to Newark. Everything went as smoothly as it is possible for it to go given the various paranoias involved in air travel. Should grab a cup of coffee (I brought along a couple packets of my 350-calorie nutritional supplement. Weighed myself before I left the apartment. 147. I'll weigh again when I get home. Expect to lose about 10 pounds.

I don't know if my Clear will work in Newark but we shall see. Later, all.

2:15 Not sure I'll make the connection to Rome or not. Plane held on ground for a long time. Rome flight leaves at 5:15 (boards at 4:45). It is now 3:19 NY time and we just left Chicago. Ah, the thrill! Stay tuned.

2:26 Captain just announced we'll be landing at 5:15...just in time for me to wave bye-bye to the departing Rome flight! Well, this is the stuff of which adventures are made. (Sigh)

5:38 Well, I told you it would be an adventure, and... Left Chicago at 1:15. Well, the plane left the boarding dock at 1:15. We took off around 2:00. We were to land in Newark at 4:40 or thereabouts. My connecting flight to Rome was at 5:15. We landed in Newark at 5:30, just in time, as I predicted, to sniff the exhaust from the departed Rome flight. Went to United's Customer Service counter, to see when I could get another flight to Rome, and to ask where my luggage might be/end up.

Apparently I've led an exemplary life of late, for they put me on a plane headed for Amsterdam, which was boarding as we spoke. I was assured my luggage would make the flight as well. I'll then catch a KLM to Rome, arriving at 11:30 a.m. Rome time...only about 4 hours later than I would have. I will be very careful not to repeat the last KLM fiasco in Amsterdam where they sent me to the wrong gate and I didn't find out about it until 10 minutes before the flight left...from the other end of the airport (Amsterdam has a BIG airport. I made it just as they were closing the doors).

Anyway, we're on our way. Seated across the aisle from not one but two screaming babies with very powerful lungs.

Stay tuned.

9:03 p.m. (seems like 3 a.m.) 200 passengers trying to sleep. 1 screaming baby. 200 passengers wake up. I've never had this experience with babies on a plane before. I've been blessed. (Did I mention it seems very much like 3 a.m.?) Sigh.

11:26 Chicago time, 6:36 Amsterdam time. This whole leg of the journey reminds me strongly of the night I spent in the Milan railroad terminal after missing my Nice-Venice train connection. It is not a memory I cherish. Must try to conserve my computer battery power. I have no connectors, no chargers...all in my suitcase. If my luggage did not get put on this plane and is not in Rome I shall be in deep doo-doo. Well, you will know just by reading a paragraph or two more. For me, as I write this, it's all a mystery. Fun, I guess, if you have a strange idea of fun.

8:11 Amsterdam. Checked main KLM arrival/departure board. They said one thing, my ticket says another. Decided to go with the ticket. Ended up at the same gate I had to race from the far end of the airport to get to just as the plane to Budapest's doors were closing. I have no idea if this the actual gate, and frankly I would not trust KLM any further than I can throw them. Nobody else seems to be here... Not a good sign. Of course no one from KLM anywhere in sight. Going to check now.

10:17. Yep, I had it right. Now winging toward Rome, 40 minutes late—there's been an awful lot of “late” on this trip. Will find out when I arrive if I have a toothbrush and cables and chargers and a change of clothes or not. Got up at 5:30 Wednesday morning, and it's now 3:20 a.m. Thursday Chicago time. I haven't been up 24 hours yet, but it seems a lot longer, and I'm getting a tad tired. Will post something at some point later today one way or the other. If my luggage isn't there, I don't know when I'll be able to post because my computer's battery can't last forever. Well, positive thoughts...positive thoughts!

Having arrived in Rome at around noon, via Amsterdam (read on...it gets better) I went to the baggage area to pick up my luggage. I stood there for one hour. Finally, strongly suspecting it had never made it out of Newark (included in story), I went to the Customer Service desk, where I stood in line for another hour, finally getting to the desk and spending yet another 45 minutes before finally determining that yes, my luggage had made it out of Newark, but it was still in Amsterdam.

So here I am, with only the clothes on my back, literally--though the airline promises to deliver my luggage to the hotel "tonight or maybe in the morning." And so I also have a computer and camera with no way of recharging them

Stay tuned.

Invisible

On the Friday before Chicago's gigantic Gay Pride Parade, I walked past an intersection bedecked with rainbow flags fluttering from the lampposts. On each corner there two people from the Human Rights Campaign carrying clipboards and stopping people asking for their support for gay rights. They did not stop me, even though I have been gay several times longer than they have been alive.

Passing one pair who tried to engage those just in front me without not so much as a flicker of an eyelash to acknowledge my existence, I turned and walked up to one of them. “Did you not stop me because you knew I was gay, or did you not stop me because I am old and therefore my opinion does not matter?” She had no response, and I moved on.

The exact same thing had happened a few months earlier...a nice looking young man on the same corner with the same Human Rights clipboard stopping passersby...but no one over 40.

For most of my life being invisible was a form of protection from harassment. But times are different now, and to be invisible because I am old...to be invisible because I obviously have nothing to offer or contribute to society stings. But to be invisible to my own people hurts.

Of course I realize that some part of my being invisible is the result of the fact that I do nothing to make myself visible. Not sure what I could do...or that I particularly care...to make straights acknowledge my existence. But as to my fellow gays, there are a couple of reasons why I don't try harder. For one thing, there are many things other than age which divide us: popular culture interests and experiences primary among them. I honestly cannot relate to some of the social things they are attracted to, and they cannot possibly understand the social aspects of the time in which I was raised.

However, since we live in the same present, I am exposed to those things which have great appeal to those younger than I and, because they are not what I'm accustomed to, I mostly just don't have a clue as to what their interest is based on. I am quite sincere when I say that I cannot tell one hottest musical artist du jour from the others. Bands seem to rocket to fame one minute and then disappear...and again, I cannot tell one from the other and have no idea how anyone can. (I know, I might as well go around with an “Old Fogie” sign around my neck. But by the same token, they have had only peripheral knowledge of or interest in those things which were popular when I was their age.

A charge often and somewhat justifiably leveled against the “old” is that they seem to have far fewer interests than the young. Few seem to consider that to those in their twenties and early thirties, things tend to be...and in fact are...new and exciting. Partying, drinking, dancing, and bar hopping are fun and exciting, filled with new things. But it is simply a fact of being human that repetition tends to dull the sharpness of any experience; the more often we experience something, the less exciting it becomes. The “been there; done that” phenomenon is real.

What's that you say? I've drifted off the subject of the invisibility of the old? Well, that's not entirely true...there is a definite link. The young push the old to their peripheral vision, I suspect, in a deeply subliminal form of self protection. By doing so they are spared the necessity to contemplate the fact that they themselves, if they are lucky enough to live long enough, will one day become invisible to those much younger than themselves. While I very consciously avoid reality whenever possible, it is a trait which exists in all of us.

I suppose it is a matter of our not wanting to see what we do not wish to see, or to confront that which we do not want to confront. The old are a subliminal reminder to the young of what they will become, and that is simply unacceptable. The young don't have to worry about becoming invisible. They will remain young forever. Of course they will.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1), which is also available as an audiobook (http://www.audible.com/pd/ref=sr_1_1?asin=B00DJAJYCS&qid=1372629062&sr=1-1).

Long Time Passed

While corresponding with the narrator for my upcoming audiobook of A World Ago: A Navy Man's Letters Home, 1954-1956, I had the occasion to go back through the recently-released e-book version, and came across this “transition” letter. It was the first I'd written since being dropped from the Naval Aviation Cadet program, but before I'd been transferred from Pensacola to Norfolk to begin a totally new phase of my navy experience. I hope you might enjoy it, and even decide you might like to read (or, when it is released, listen to) the book.

Sunday, 8 August, 1955

Dear Folks

This is the first letter I’ve written in my long (10 days) career as a whitehat. This isn’t at all strange, since most whitehats are not given credit for the intelligence to write their own names, let alone a letter.

The Navy has, I figure, spent out something like $30,000 on me—and what do they have to show for their money? Well, I can sweep floors, and polish brass doorknobs, and paint walls, which you must admit are very necessary—they are, as the posters say, preparing us for a career—as busboys, janitors, and third-rate house painters. I don’t suppose it is necessary to add that I detest the Navy wholeheartedly

The final stages in the degeneration of a character are preceded by such things as writing letters in pencil. However, since I have misplaced my pen (again) and, since writing with a pen would be far too pretentious for one of my lowly station, I must be satisfied with pencil. Let’s pretend it is brown ink.

This is my last letter from Pensacola. Tonite, while walking “home” from the Gedunk, I looked at the lights shining from all the windows, and at their reflections on the white pillars and porches; and I remembered the first time I’d seen them, just eight days short of a year ago. I have been through a lot since then, but the Gulf and the night and the buildings are still the same.

And during the day I watch them—the cadets in stiffly clean khakis marching to and from classes with their book bags. And then I see the indoctrinees—bewildered looking kids in civilian clothes with their close-cropped hair, stumbling over their own feet, looking in awe at anyone with a solo bar. I can’t help but wonder where they’ll be, a year from now.

Tomorrow I shall be on my way to Norfolk, Virginia. Funny, but I still think of myself as a cadet—at least as something apart from the guys around me. Tomorrow will bring the awakening, when I leave for good.

In the slight irony department, we have an angry young lady named Connie. She is a hurricane. Ever since I’ve been here, I’ve hoped for a hurricane—to see or be in one—and it will strike sometime next week—when I am safely inland, where hurricanes never reach. Oh, well.

Last week we had a tropical storm named Brenda—she never became a hurricane, but was very interesting nevertheless. Mother, remember Santa Rosa Island, where you picked up your seashells, on the way to Fort Pickens? Well, much of that road was washed away as waves rolled over the island. I walked down to the seaplane ramps, and watched the huge waves smashing themselves against the sea wall, colliding with one another in great cymbal-crashes of spray.

Been to a movie every night now for two weeks—yes, I still love them—also there is nothing else to do with yourself.

This place is positively and literally swarming with amusing reddish-brown, many-legged little insects. I have yet to open my locker and fail to find at least half a dozen staring placidly at me, or strolling casually across my underclothes. Oh, well, I suppose they’re better than scorpions or rattlesnakes, but not much.

Enough rambling for now—the pencil and my mind are rapidly becoming duller. I’d best find some ink to sign the envelope—I will not sink so low as to address a letter in pencil.

Hope you had a nice vacation, dad. Regards to all from

Su hijo,

Roge

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1), which will shortly also be available as an audiobook.

Neutral

When I was a kid, during WWII, I could never figure out how any country could declare itself neutral; no one can be neutral in a fight if someone is determined to beat the crap out of you unless you're willing to have the crap beat out of you. Even Gandhi wasn't neutral in his ideals—he just didn't believe in fighting back. I know now that Sweden and Switzerland remained neutral only because it was in the combatants' best interests to let them remain neutral.

On a personal level, few of us are neutral on very many issues; the closer they come to our personal interests, the less neutral we become. Yet I remain neutral to many of the things to which others are not. I apply the “how much does it affect me, personally,” rule. My tendency is to be neutral to 99.9 percent of my fellow humans, to like almost everyone with whom I have contact unless and until I am given good reason not to, and to actively dislike very few. I can in fact honestly say I have actively hated two people I have known personally (and, on thinking of them after 30+ years, still do).

I think it's fairly safe to say I go through life largely in a state of neutral when it comes to most of what goes on around me. Since no one but me pays my rent or has the ability to disrupt my day-to-day life, I see little point in letting what other people do or say have too much influence over me. This is not to say I am not interested in others and their lives, but I by and large give them credit for being able to live their lives without interference or guidance from me. (Not that I do not give out excellent advice when asked, of course.) I do not see much point in engaging in discussions of the flaws and foibles of others.

The ability to see both sides of any given issue—or to realize that nothing is all black or all white—clearly lends itself to neutrality. So much that goes on in the world is totally beyond my control I find it better, though not always easy, to ignore them. There are, of course, things and people—mostly politicians, bigots, and those utterly devoid of scruples and morals—which spark intensely negative emotions within me. I do not like those feelings and am not proud of them, but must acknowledge them. And having so said, I find it interesting to realize that I do not apply those emotions to anyone I know personally—probably because the minute I begin to sense a negative reaction to someone, I simply do not associate with them.

If emotions can be described as colors, neutrality is unquestionably a soft grey. And while it may not nearly as intense as the flame red of anger or the ice-blue of outright rejection, it provides a level of comfort that intensity does not. The danger in always choosing grey over the more intense colors is that I suspect that limbo is grey.

My mind seems to have only two gears—out-of-control speed and neutral. Either my thoughts are racing so fast it's nearly impossible to catch and hold on to any one of them, or they just sit there in the Lotus position, refusing to respond to any stimulus. This is particularly true when I really need to think of something—like the subject for my next blog.

I believe that time is a major factor in neutrality—experiencing something for the first time tends to produce the strongest emotion, and the more often one encounters or experiences the same thing, the more commonplace—the more grey—it becomes. It sometimes bothers me that I have become neutral to so many thing I once found exciting, though it is, I believe, a general human condition. The older one gets, the fewer things one encounters for the first time. How many TV shows can you think of that you started out loving, only to have that initial enthusiasm gradually wane over time. Familiarity may not breed contempt, but it often does breed neutrality.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1), which will shortly also be available as an audiobook.

A World Not Mine

The other day, after reading innumerable posts on FB about husbands and daughters and grandchildren and church socials and engagements and weddings and visits with/to/from married friends and relatives and their families and...it struck me yet again that I have lived my entire life in the world of heterosexuals without ever understanding it or ever feeling I belonged—or was wanted—in it.

Oh, don't get me wrong: I understand people quite well, for all humans share the same emotions and motivations, and most are, at heart, very nice people. I have nothing at all against heterosexuals as individual human beings. But it's the societal divisions/clumps/clusters/rituals I simply cannot comprehend. I view it all much as I view organized sports which everyone but me seems to love. Not only have I never, ever, understood anything but the very rudiments of football or baseball or basketball or hockey or rugby or...; I have never had the slightest interest in learning. To go into absolute frenzies of excitement over the upcoming “BIG GAME!” which will be followed a week or so later by the next “BIG GAME” totally, completely, and utterly escapes me. To follow the lives of “celebrities” with an intensity and devotion seldom if ever shown in conducting one's own day to day life just make no sense at all to me. To be more concerned by the birth of some vacuous—but beautiful; always beautiful—movie star's child than one is by the obscene numbers of people killed by guns in the U.S. every year strikes me as incomprehensible and tells me something is seriously wrong with our species.

We are all given certain gifts at birth, among them intelligence, the ability to learn, and logic. Sadly, our capacity for these gifts is seldom fully realized. Though we are thinking creatures, we tend to follow a basic law of physics and, in all things requiring thinking, tend to take the path of least resistance.

Logic, one of the most precious of our gifts, is often the one most universally ignored. How and why people so readily and unquestionably accept what they are told—especially if the teller speaks with convincing-even-if-non-existent authority and the tale reflects negatively on someone else—is, to me, proof positive that I do not belong. I cannot comprehend the vastness and intensity of hatred and vitriol and unconscionable bigotry which surrounds me, and it frequently threatens to destroy my belief in the good and decent aspects of humanity.

I sometimes, in fact, feel that I am Alice and the world is a gigantic rabbit hole; politicians and pundits are Mad Hatters and Red Queens and the vast majority of everyone else are dormice.

Something in human nature seems to program us to expect everything to be simple. The world is many things: simple is not one of them. Yes and no, black and white, right and wrong, good and bad are diametric opposites, but the space between them is not a vacuum. There are infinite variations and shadings and intensities between each set of opposites. But it's easier to ignore those shadings, and so we do.

I want and expect the world to be what I want and expect it to be. That it is not is a source of constant frustration for me...and I'm sure for most other people. But it would be a far greater frustration for me than it already is were it not for the fact that I am a writer. I am infinitely grateful that this fact frees my mind, if not my body, from the world around me. Words are the wings which allow me to escape the earth and seek the clouds.

You may not be a writer, but for anyone with a little imagination, the world in which the body lives does not have to be the world in which the mind lives. The tragedy is that so few people, caught up as they are with the body's world of work and car payments and kids' tuitions, are aware that there is any other.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1), which will soon also be available as an audiobook.

Plannin'

I'll be leaving for Rome July 3, thanks to my dear, sadly-dead friend Norm's generosity, for a 15 day cruise from Rome to Istanbul. This will be my third visit to Rome, my first being 57 years ago courtesy of the United States Navy. But I'll also be revisiting, for the first time since my Navy days, Athens and Istanbul, of which I have fond memories. As those of you who have been following my blogs well know, I have a strange obsession with and relationship to the past. While I cannot fool myself into thinking the journey or I will be the same as it/I was, it promises to be a fascinating adventure.

This will also be my first time on an ocean (well, sea)-going vessel since I left the navy. The river cruise I took last year from Budapest to Amsterdam was beautiful, but I'm not sure river cruise boats, large as they are, are really considered to be ships.

The one less-than-idyllic aspect of the coming cruise, as it was with the river cruise, is that I will largely be unable to take advantage of the marvelous food and wines provided. With great regret, but little choice, I have accepted the fact that as a result of my ten-years-ago, now, dance with tongue cancer, I have absolutely no interest in solid food beyond a few bites. No bid for sympathy; just the way it is. For dinner each evening, I'll be lucky to finish an appetizer. And since wine, or any regular alcohol, burns the hell out of my mouth, though I can fairly well tolerate beer, I'll try to drink as much dark beer as I can.

The point of mentioning the food is that I will unquestionably, as I did on the river cruise, be losing 10 pounds or more during the trip. I have ordered two cases of Benecalorie liquid nutritional supplement—each with 24 1.5 oz cups of highly-concentrated nutrients providing 350 calories each—and will try to pack as many of them as I can into my suitcase so I'll be guaranteed at least 1/3 of my necessary caloric intake each day. I normally also drink two 8-oz, 350-calorie bottles of nutritional supplements per day, but I can't carry enough of them with me to cover the entire trip.

I'm looking forward to taking a ton of pictures and, while it should be no problem while ashore, I'm mildly concerned about taking pictures while at sea. I'm sure they sail mostly close to the shore to facilitate passengers taking pictures, but I have found that pictures taken at a distance lose a lot. And if I use the zoom lens feature, the slightest motion while clicking the shutter blurs the photo (moving ships are not ideal for stability).

My fondest memories of Athens—recorded in my A World Ago: A Navy Man's Letters Home, 1954-1956—are of being ashore with my shipboard buddy, Lloyd, upon whom I had a gigantic but totally unrequited crush. I think today it would be called a “bromance.” The pictures we had taken of the two of us in front of the Parthenon still make my chest ache whenever I look at them. And while the details were blurred by alcohol, I distinctly remember the night the two of us went ashore and got utterly, totally drunk and would never have made it back to the ship were it not for the kindness of a couple of Greek sailors we encountered at some point in the evening.

Istanbul provided another cherished memory, and one from which I have a tangible reminder as well. While I can't recall the exact details, I found myself at the Istanbul Hilton hotel with some shipmates, and ordered a small glass of sweet vermouth. I'm not sure why, but I considered it the time to be the height of elegance and sophistication—I was at the Istanbul Hilton, after all. The tiny glass had the hotel's logo etched onto it and, man of the world that I was, I stole it. I still have it. So I want, if possible, to return to the Istanbul Hilton, if it still exists at the same location, and risk the burning of my mouth to have a small glass of sweet vermouth. I will try to resist stealing the glass this time, but....

So yet again I find myself acutely aware of Thomas Wolfe's caution that “you can't go home again.” And yet again, despite knowing I can't, I can try.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1), which is now also available as an audiobook.

Quoth the Raven,.....

Have you ever had the experience of driving on a slippery road when the car suddenly begins an uncontrollable swerve? That moment of...what? Fear? Apprehension?...awareness of having no control over what's happening and not knowing what comes next? It's exactly how I view the process of my aging.

I realize I have no right to complain—to do so is, in fact, an act of supreme ingratitude for the gift of having been allowed to live as long as I have when so many billions of others have not. And this is not addressed to anyone who lives with physical problems, many of which are far worse than my own. Yet I cannot help but cling, sometimes desperately, to the past and to grieve for all those things I've done that I will/can never do again: run, eat a full meal, lift my head high enough to look at a passing plane, or turn it far enough to look over my shoulder; to see and talk with and touch so very many people who formed the foundations of my life; to experience romantic love. Things which were simply an integral part of my life...and to the majority of people younger than, say, sixty or sixty-five.

If you're rolling your eyes and giving a Weltschmerz sigh about now, muttering “here we go again,” you have some justification in doing so: I do feel sorry for myself at times. But my reason for bringing the subject up so often is, truly, not the self-pity factor, or to focus on what I don't have and can't do, but on what you do have and can do without a single conscious thought. And my point is that you should give it a conscious thought, and often.

We of course cannot stop to contemplate or analyze our every thought or action—if we did, there would be no time to live our lives. But we can pause every now and again to be aware, and most importantly, to give thanks for, everything and everyone we cherish right now, for either they will not always be with us or we will not always be with them. Never pass up an opportunity to let the important people in your life know what you feel about them.

There are an infinite number of ways to show how we feel without gushing. The smallest gestures can sometimes be the most meaningful. Such simple thing as meaning it when you ask “How are you,” and really listening to the response can not only strengthen your bond to them, but bring them pleasure. Simple kindness can be priceless to the recipient, yet it costs the giver nothing.

Growing older, for a great many people, involves—willingly or unwillingly, wittingly or unwittingly—an inevitable withdrawal from the world around them. The older one grows, the more isolated one tends to feel and in fact be. Chances are you have no real idea how important a kind word or gesture—any reassurance that they still have meaning to the world—can mean to those whose social support systems are inexorably dwindling. There may well come a time when you are in need of exactly such a word or gesture.

It is part of being human that our primary interests and concerns are centered around ourselves. Yet the danger is that far too often—as it is, I freely if sadly admit, true in my own case—our concentration on ourselves effectively dims our awareness of others. We are so concerned about our individual problems and concerns we become largely blind and deaf to those—often far more serious than our own—of others.

Edgar Allen Poe's raven eventually comes to the door of everyone who lives long enough. The problem is that when it does, we almost without exception are caught by surprise. “Why didn't I appreciate what I had when I had it? Why didn't I do what I should have done, or wanted to do?” Exactly. We should all strive to live our lives so that when the raven says “Nevermore,” at least we can take whatever small comfort in replying, “Yes, but once....”

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1), which is now also available as an audiobook.

The Spider's Belch

If you have followed these blogs for any length of time, you are aware that I have what even I consider to be an unnatural obsession with internet spam, which I have been fighting with considerable success of late. I had never understood it's attraction or significance until now: internet spam is in fact the equivalent of an intricately woven spider's web, at the center of which a deadly predator awaits.

But just as spider webs are designed to draw in the weakest and most unresisting, internet spam draws in those who never, ever, stop to think before acting, who assume whatever they are told is the absolute truth, and/or who are sufficiently greedy to ignore the screaming sirens of logic. I've never known whether to pity those who are drawn in, or disgusted by them. Perhaps spiderwebs are nature's way of “thinning the herd”--a form “survival of the fittest.”

In an effort to keep myself from being drawn in, I have forced myself never, ever to even look at my spam folder...just automatically hit “delete.” But, like Lot's wife....

The creators of spam are, all evidence to the contrary, not totally stupid. But they don't have to be smart. They are predators. They have about the same I.Q. as a black widow spider, but they spin their webs with the same determination and for the same purpose.

Let us take one single, all-too-typical spam message and lay it out upon the examining table to dissect it, piece by piece. First, here is the message in its entirety:

Order Request

Thanks for your continous response to our email and your diligent work in getting our order supplied, we have three other suppliers and at  we have to select only one. Register your company profile on our supplier Portal and fill  the datasheet after logging in.

Click to download data sheet

Thanks for your cooperation

  Hussein Safwan

Purchase Manager

The first thing we observe is the “Second Coming”-size boldface “Order Request,” implying that what follows is of vital importance. That it not only is not important but makes absolutely no sense is irrelevant. (Does “order request” mean they asking you to place an order, or are they referring to an order that has, supposedly, already been placed? No matter.)

Now, this may be difficult, but carefully set aside every concept of logic you have ever had and ignore the fact that not one single thing in the entire message makes even an iota of sense.
 

“Thanks for your continous [sic.] response to our email...” One might wonder, if one were the wondering kind, which the spammer counts on your not being, how one can “continuously” respond to a single email which was obviously never sent in the first place? They feel safe in assuming you, the recipient, are not smart enough to remember that you have never in fact heard from these people before. They said you did, so you must have.

“Company profile”??? What company? Do you have a company? They hope flattery will let you make one up. “Supplier Portal”?? “Log in”??

All leading you to the spider in the center of the web. “Click to download data sheet” in big, bold letters. Click and they have you. You are doomed.

The note is signed by “Hussein Safwan,” an exotic-sounding name that is sure to instill confidence. And we learn that Mr. Safwan is a “Purchase Manager.” Did it occur to you to wonder what he purchases, or for whom he works? Who cares? You...and you can be sure your money...are toast.

Now all you have to do is to sit back and listen for the spider's belch.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1).

Ishmael

I love the name “Ishmael.” I love the look of it and the sound of it and the feel of saying it. Our individual names help point us out among the millions of others around us. Many are, unfortunately, rather bland (“Joe,” “Jim,” “Sally,”) and those possessing them must work a little harder to distinguish themselves from all the Joes and Jims and Sallys around them.

Some of us have not only the names we were born with, but special names of affection by which our friends and loved ones refer to us. To my mother, especially when I was a child, I was “Punkin” or “Beaner.” My mother has been dead for over 40 years now, and yet even to think of those two names fills me with warmth and longing.

To my beloved Uncle Buck, I was “Guggenheimer.” To the rest of the world I was always either “Roge” or “Roger” (though to my non-related Uncle Bob I was “Rogie”) until I began writing books, from which point I have largely become “Dorien.”

Names have always fascinated me; their very sound create mental images: from the masculine crispness of the “K” sound, as in “Keith” and “Kurt” to the soothing softness of feminine “S” names—“Sarah” and “Susan” and “Shirley.” I have noticed in the writing of my books that I seem to have become strongly attracted to male names beginning with the letter J—“Jonathan,” “Joshua,” “Jared,” “Jake;” I'm going to find a place to introduce a character named “Jeremiah,” one of my current favorites.

It's possible to tell quite a bit about a person just from his/her name. Names tend to be faddish, and it's possible to fairly accurately tell a person's general age—or social status, or ethnicity—by the name they were given. “Millicent,” “Priscilla,” “Patience,” “Prudence,” “Chastity” have largely fallen out of popularity, perhaps because of the Victorian times the names evoke. Of course, like trends and fads in fashion, name popularity is somewhat cyclical. “Amanda,” “Emily,” and “Amelia” among them seem to come around regularly in cycles. Some names very popular today were largely unheard of until the latter half of the 20^th century—“Amber” and “Ashley,” for example.

Ethnicity and national origin are fairly easy to determine in some names; it's hard not to miss the ethnicity of “Letitia” or “Jamal” or “Luanna” or “Hymie” or “Mitzpah,” or the nationality of “Serge” or “Vladamir” or “Svetlana.” Unfortunately, in their attempt to set their child apart by giving them an exotic-sounding name, they condemn the poor kid to a lifetime of standing out when they may have wished to blend in. Naming a child “Le-ah” (pronounced “LeDashAh”) or “MoonBaby” all but hangs an invisible neon arrow over their head.

But ours is a culture in which, it seems, people go out of their way to be trendy or exotic, and like the tides, they come and go with surprising regularity. I suppose it's somewhat akin to the socioeconomic desire to “keep up with the Joneses.” For some reason I do not understand, boys' names, while also trendy, do not seem to be quite so trendy as girls. For 2013, the top names for boys are “Liam,” “Noah” (the biblical influence), “Ethan,” and “Mason;” for girls, “Emma,” “Olivia,” “Sophia,” and “Isabella.”

In 1900, the four most popular boys' names were the solid, no-frills or fru-frus “John,” “William,” “James,” and “George”; girls were “Mary,” “Helen,” “Anna,” and “Margaret.” All are still common today, but hearken to a less name-status past.

I personally tend to prefer full names over contractions: “John” over “Jack,” “Richard” over “Dick” (though strangely I could not imagine the protagonist of my Dick Hardesty mystery series being called “Richard.”)

The discussion of names could go on indefinitely, but time and space here are limited. Oh, and we haven't even touched upon the meaning of all these names. And therein lies the topic for another blog...or six.

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1).

Ya' Know What I'm Sayin'?

Nature, it is said, abhors a vacuum. So, apparently, does the human mind when it comes to talking.

It seems to be a quirk of human nature that there is too often a sort of race between the mind and the mouth, and people tend to talk faster than their mind can supply their mouth with things to say. The result is a break in the momentum the mouth has built up, leaving potentially awkward gaps which we tend to spackle over with a wide variety of oral fillers. “Umm,” “Uh,” and “Er” are classic old reliables so ubiquitous not one person in 50 is even aware of them.

What is there about human beings that makes them think that once they begin talking, there can be not one instant of silence; perhaps they fear someone else may jump in?

“You know” is one of the most common of gap fillers, and it also implies the speaker's attempt to make sure the listener is following what is being said. Some, I imagine, consciously or unconsciously use “you know” as an attempt to create a bond with the listener by assuming a connection which may not indeed exist. (“I was telling Sally, you know,...” Well, gee, I'm sorry, I didn't know, but it was nice of you to think highly enough of me to assume that I did.)

“Ya' know what I'm sayin',” is an extremely unfortunate and relatively recent bastardization of the far more simple “you know.” It is fascinating to note that it is used almost exclusively by African-Americans with little formal education. I have been exposed to conversations, usually on TV, in which not ten words go by without the insertion of a “Ya' know what I'm sayin'?” Single sentences can contain up to four of them. I personally find its effect similar to chewing tinfoil, and I am tempted to grab the speaker by the neck, lift him or her off the floor, and shout, “Yes! Yes, I do know what you're saying! Now just get the f**k on with it!”

Of course the fact is that few people, in fact, speak in complete sentences (listen carefully). Sentences overlap, wander from their original topic.We are so accustomed to gap fillers that we are almost unaware of them...which is probably just as well, for if we were aware of them, I'm sure they'd drive us to distraction and beyond. Have you ever had the opportunity to read the full, complete transcript of any extemporaneous speech, or listened to the recording of any individual talking for any length of time, and then played it back specifically listening for gap fillers? Probably not. Were we to be consciously aware of gap-fillers, it would be difficult if not impossible to make an iota of sense out of what is being said. And yet we seem terrified of simple brief pauses, devoid of sound. Are we subconsciously afraid that if we allow even the shortest space between words, our listener(s) will wander off somewhere? Or that if we pause we or the listener might forget what we were saying?

Some people eschew most of the usual gap fillers in favor of individualized, creative gap fillers of their own, but the result can be equally annoying. I have a dear relative who ends nearly every sentence with “and that.” (“So we decided not to go, and that.”) She is utterly unaware of this habit as, I would fervently hope, is her husband, who has been exposed to it for nearly sixty years.

There are what might be called “fad” fillers. “Like” is a good example, and it is often combined with other fillers. (“And he was, like, you know....”). “Goes” was another blessedly short-lived popular filler. (“So he goes,.... And then I go,....And then he goes.....”)

It's possible, and interesting, to tune one's ear to pick up gap fillers. Try it if you have a little time to spend testing out what's been said above. Ya' know what I'm sayin'?

Dorien's blogs are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday and Thursday. Please take a moment to visit his website (http://www.doriengrey.com) and, if you enjoy these blogs, you might want to check out Short Circuits: a Life in Blogs (http://bit.ly/m8CSO1).