Posts
I suspect that most people, if they think of writers and writing at all, have a vague mental image of Henry David Thoreau sitting with a quill pen at a quaint antique writing desk in an idyllic cabin, pausing every few seconds to look out over the calm waters of Walden Pond, in which are mirrored glorious red-and-gold images of autumn trees. If they take the image a bit farther, they might picture him walking down a dirt country lane in a gentle shower of falling leaves to a village post office to mail a manuscript off to his eagerly awaiting publisher, who then rushes it to print and sends it out to the world which falls all over itself in the rush to buy it.
Well, a 9th-floor apartment in Chicago overlooking the el tracks ain't exactly Walden Pond, and I'm not quite in the same league as Henry David Thoreau. I'm one of thousands of far-less-than-famous writers who must spend an inordinate part of every day scrambling to find readers for their books while trying to find enough time to write them.
Who has not, at some point, casually said, "Oh, I'm going to write a book one of these days." I always encourage them to do it. Chances are they'll find that talking about writing a book and actually sitting down and writing it are slightly different matters, and not nearly as easy as they might have thought.
Still, there are far, far more books written than there are books published, and those that are published face incredible competition. For every Stephen King or J.K. Rowling or Dan Brown or John Gresham, there are hundreds of Dorien Greys struggling to get noticed and be read.
If you've been following my blogs, you know I have a rather strong ego (justified or not is another matter), and it truly pains me to pick up a book by some writer who received a $50,000 advance and find that it is not one whit better written or better plotted or have more interesting characters than my own. Why him? Why not me?
We live, as you may have noticed, in a bottom-line world. The publishing business is no exception. As in every business, there are those who dominate the industry. The huge flagship houses have the reputation and the clout to expend huge amounts of time, effort, and money to promote their product/authors. They dominate the bookstores. They are the humpback whales of the publishing sea. The smaller, lesser-known houses, which range in size from sharks to minnows, cannot possibly compete. But they try.
And the writer does the best he can with whatever promotional tools are available to him. (I know...it should be "he/she" and "him/her", but I'm sick to death of this "politically correct" bullshit. Sue me.) I personally use blogs in the hope that by reading them, you might get to know and perhaps like me, which just might convince you to check out my books (the first chapter of every book is on my website, www.doriengrey.com, for your convenience), which in turn might lead you to read one or more.
Whenever people say "I'm not doing it for the money," chances are that's exactly what they're doing it for. I'd love to do it for the money. But no matter how many books I write, I'll never be rich. I think I read somewhere that less than 2 percent of all writers actually make a living at it.
I write because, as I've said so often, I cannot not write. I write to preserve as much of the essence of me as I can before I am no longer here. I write to take you away, for a little while, from the problems of everyday life, by telling you stories I hope you'll enjoy and introducing you to characters I hope you will consider as real people and as friends. I write for validation; if you like what I write, it means I have some worth in your eyes if not, often, in my 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.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Paranoid? Me?
My friends consistently pooh-pooh my claim that the world is out to get me. ("Oh, Roger, these things happen to everyone!")
They do, do they? Well, let me tell you about today....
I decided for the first time in six years to take a bus to my annual checkup at Mayo. I looked on it as an adventure (which will give you an idea of the state of my life). All went smoothly, except that what is normally an hour and a half, straight-shot drive between Chicago and Madison took four hours...the bus deciding for reasons of it's own to go by way of Milwaukee. I was to change busses in Tomah, WI, for the trip to Rochester via Jefferson Bus Lines, a feeder line server for Greyhound. The connection was for 2:45. We arrived in Tomah at 3:15. I should have taken it as an omen. Luckily, they held the bus.
So, arrived in Rochester safe and sound if late. Thursday had bloodwork, an x-ray, and conferences with my otolaryngologist and oncologist, and got a clean bill of health. Fine so far.
My return bus was scheduled to leave at 10:25 Friday morning. I arrived at the Sinclair gas station which serves as Rochester's Jefferson Lines bus station at 10:15. It was raining. Heavily. At 10:55 I asked the clerk what time the bus was due in. "3:00" he said, though he's seen me standing there obviously waiting for something for 40 minutes. I pointed to my ticket and the clearly printed "Rochester-Tomah Depart 10:25 a.m."
"Oh," said casually, "they cancelled that bus two months ago."
So there I am, in a Sinclair gas station in Rochester Minnesota in the pouring rain. What now? I got the number for Jefferson Bus Lines, called them and talked to someone who had no idea what I was talking about, obviously didn't care, had no idea what to tell me, and told me there was no supervisor available for a good tail-chewing. He gave me a number for customer service which I called and, of course got a recording saying they would get back to me.
So I trekked back 6 blocks through the deluge to Mayo, trying to figure out what to do. Looked in the yellow pages and found a shuttle service between Rochester and the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport, 90 miles north (ticket: $27.00). A shuttle was leaving at 12:15, arriving at the airport at 1:30. Called my long-suffering friend Gary, who volunteered to look up flights from Minneapolis to Chicago. He called back within minutes to give me a choice of flights leaving around 3:00. Asked if I'd like him to make reservations for me. I said no, the shuttle was about to leave. I'd do it when I got there. Thank God!
Got a call from Jefferson bus lines, wondering just what my problem might possibly be. They assured me there was a bus to Tomah at 3:00. I thanked them profusely, but pointed out I would then be stranded in Tomah, Wisconsin rather than Rochester, Minnesota. They told me to send them the receipt for the shuttle to Minneapolis. I am also going to send them the bill for the airline ticket. It will do me no good, but I'm going to do it. (If they do give me any sort of refund, I'm sure it will be only for the cost between Rochester and Tomah. We shall see.)
So 12:15 comes, a shuttle bus pulls up, man gets off and says "Rochester Airport." I get on the bus. (Yes, I know. What he said was "Rochester Airport"....what I heard was "Rochester-Airport, as in 'Minneapolis-Chicago.") Got on the bus, was 10 minutes into the ride when the shuttle service called to tell me I was on the wrong bus. What fun! So I continued on to the Rochester airport and rode the shuttle back to Rochester, of course neatly missing my shuttle to Minneapolis. Plus I had the privilege of paying $23.00 ($11.50 each way) for the round trip to the Rochester airport.
Made it back to Rochester, was all but led by the hand by a very solicitous shuttle bus clerk to the next Minneapolis shuttle, which left at 2:30. No chance in hell of my making any of the "around 3:00" flights. Still raining buckets. Arrived at Minneapolis/St. Paul International airport around 3:45. Gary had told me there was a Southwest flight at 4:35, which I figured I could just make with luck (for I am ever the optimist).
Minneapolis/St. Paul International has two main terminals, about a mile apart. Naturally, I got off the bus at the wrong terminal. I learned there was a subway system joining the two terminals. Didn't find it until 3:56. Arrived at the right terminal at 4:05. Finally reached the ticket counter after standing in line another 15 minutes. With no chance in hell of getting a 4:45 flight, I was willing to take anything that would get me back to Chicago before New Years Eve.
But the gods, apparently deciding they'd had enough fun at my expense, weather-delayed the 4:35 flight until 5:55. Thank you, gods. One way ticket to Chicago, $165.00 (to add to the $72 Chicago-Rochester round trip, plus $23.00 fun round trip to Rochester Airport, plus $27.00 shuttle trip to Minneapolis airport).
So here I sit, writing this at Southwest Airlines Gate H7 awaiting the arrival of Flight 1323 to Chicago after one of the most frustrating and costly days in memory. If you are reading this, I made it.
And tomorrow is a brand new day.
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.
They do, do they? Well, let me tell you about today....
I decided for the first time in six years to take a bus to my annual checkup at Mayo. I looked on it as an adventure (which will give you an idea of the state of my life). All went smoothly, except that what is normally an hour and a half, straight-shot drive between Chicago and Madison took four hours...the bus deciding for reasons of it's own to go by way of Milwaukee. I was to change busses in Tomah, WI, for the trip to Rochester via Jefferson Bus Lines, a feeder line server for Greyhound. The connection was for 2:45. We arrived in Tomah at 3:15. I should have taken it as an omen. Luckily, they held the bus.
So, arrived in Rochester safe and sound if late. Thursday had bloodwork, an x-ray, and conferences with my otolaryngologist and oncologist, and got a clean bill of health. Fine so far.
My return bus was scheduled to leave at 10:25 Friday morning. I arrived at the Sinclair gas station which serves as Rochester's Jefferson Lines bus station at 10:15. It was raining. Heavily. At 10:55 I asked the clerk what time the bus was due in. "3:00" he said, though he's seen me standing there obviously waiting for something for 40 minutes. I pointed to my ticket and the clearly printed "Rochester-Tomah Depart 10:25 a.m."
"Oh," said casually, "they cancelled that bus two months ago."
So there I am, in a Sinclair gas station in Rochester Minnesota in the pouring rain. What now? I got the number for Jefferson Bus Lines, called them and talked to someone who had no idea what I was talking about, obviously didn't care, had no idea what to tell me, and told me there was no supervisor available for a good tail-chewing. He gave me a number for customer service which I called and, of course got a recording saying they would get back to me.
So I trekked back 6 blocks through the deluge to Mayo, trying to figure out what to do. Looked in the yellow pages and found a shuttle service between Rochester and the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport, 90 miles north (ticket: $27.00). A shuttle was leaving at 12:15, arriving at the airport at 1:30. Called my long-suffering friend Gary, who volunteered to look up flights from Minneapolis to Chicago. He called back within minutes to give me a choice of flights leaving around 3:00. Asked if I'd like him to make reservations for me. I said no, the shuttle was about to leave. I'd do it when I got there. Thank God!
Got a call from Jefferson bus lines, wondering just what my problem might possibly be. They assured me there was a bus to Tomah at 3:00. I thanked them profusely, but pointed out I would then be stranded in Tomah, Wisconsin rather than Rochester, Minnesota. They told me to send them the receipt for the shuttle to Minneapolis. I am also going to send them the bill for the airline ticket. It will do me no good, but I'm going to do it. (If they do give me any sort of refund, I'm sure it will be only for the cost between Rochester and Tomah. We shall see.)
So 12:15 comes, a shuttle bus pulls up, man gets off and says "Rochester Airport." I get on the bus. (Yes, I know. What he said was "Rochester Airport"....what I heard was "Rochester-Airport, as in 'Minneapolis-Chicago.") Got on the bus, was 10 minutes into the ride when the shuttle service called to tell me I was on the wrong bus. What fun! So I continued on to the Rochester airport and rode the shuttle back to Rochester, of course neatly missing my shuttle to Minneapolis. Plus I had the privilege of paying $23.00 ($11.50 each way) for the round trip to the Rochester airport.
Made it back to Rochester, was all but led by the hand by a very solicitous shuttle bus clerk to the next Minneapolis shuttle, which left at 2:30. No chance in hell of my making any of the "around 3:00" flights. Still raining buckets. Arrived at Minneapolis/St. Paul International airport around 3:45. Gary had told me there was a Southwest flight at 4:35, which I figured I could just make with luck (for I am ever the optimist).
Minneapolis/St. Paul International has two main terminals, about a mile apart. Naturally, I got off the bus at the wrong terminal. I learned there was a subway system joining the two terminals. Didn't find it until 3:56. Arrived at the right terminal at 4:05. Finally reached the ticket counter after standing in line another 15 minutes. With no chance in hell of getting a 4:45 flight, I was willing to take anything that would get me back to Chicago before New Years Eve.
But the gods, apparently deciding they'd had enough fun at my expense, weather-delayed the 4:35 flight until 5:55. Thank you, gods. One way ticket to Chicago, $165.00 (to add to the $72 Chicago-Rochester round trip, plus $23.00 fun round trip to Rochester Airport, plus $27.00 shuttle trip to Minneapolis airport).
So here I sit, writing this at Southwest Airlines Gate H7 awaiting the arrival of Flight 1323 to Chicago after one of the most frustrating and costly days in memory. If you are reading this, I made it.
And tomorrow is a brand new day.
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.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
How?
I often wonder, my mind being what it is, how we ever manage to function, either as individuals or as a society. There is, granted, considerable evidence to support the premise that we don’t, and that the world is a huge house of cards forever in the process of crumbling.
How can we adjust to waking up one day to find those things which are so integral to our lives--the people we love so very much and who form the very foundations of our being, the places to which we have such strong attachments--gone forever? Memories are precious and I cannot imagine life without them, but comforting and satisfying as they may be, they can also be cruel. They present themselves to us as a huge, impenetrable glass wall between the now and then. The objects of memory may be so very real you can see them, hear them, feel their presence--you can literally ache for them--but you cannot reach out and touch them.
How is it that we expect so much, yet are willing to give so little?
How can we expect to be treated fairly and with courtesy when we put our own interests above everyone else's?
How can we so easily ignore that which we don't want to see/acknowledge?
How is it that we can so clearly see the faults of others, yet not recognize our own?
How can we so easily give excellent advice, yet never take it ourselves?
How can so many people suffer from such severe moral dyslexia, blithely going through life spouting phrases from the bible while condemning anyone who does not think exactly what they do? How can they be so thoroughly convinced that that the Golden Rule says “Do unto others as you would have done unto them.”
How can people possibly justify deliberate rudeness to those who have done nothing to deserve it?
How can we blindly tolerate rudeness and bad service from those we pay to provide those services without voicing our displeasure to someone in a position do something about it?
How can people simply throw their garbage out the car window, or drop it within six feet of a garbage can?
How can so many so readily accept the most blatantly egregious falsehoods without question, and why is it that the more lacking in logic the falsehood is, the more readily it is accepted?
How is it so much easier to hate than to love?
How can we be so smug in the assumption of our moral superiority that we cannot even entertain the thought that there might be even a shred of truth in opinions other than our own?
How can we cling to hope when every shred of existing evidence clearly says there is none?
And for all the negatives in all the questions posed above, it is only that last one that matters, for it is what makes us truly human.
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.
How can we adjust to waking up one day to find those things which are so integral to our lives--the people we love so very much and who form the very foundations of our being, the places to which we have such strong attachments--gone forever? Memories are precious and I cannot imagine life without them, but comforting and satisfying as they may be, they can also be cruel. They present themselves to us as a huge, impenetrable glass wall between the now and then. The objects of memory may be so very real you can see them, hear them, feel their presence--you can literally ache for them--but you cannot reach out and touch them.
How is it that we expect so much, yet are willing to give so little?
How can we expect to be treated fairly and with courtesy when we put our own interests above everyone else's?
How can we so easily ignore that which we don't want to see/acknowledge?
How is it that we can so clearly see the faults of others, yet not recognize our own?
How can we so easily give excellent advice, yet never take it ourselves?
How can so many people suffer from such severe moral dyslexia, blithely going through life spouting phrases from the bible while condemning anyone who does not think exactly what they do? How can they be so thoroughly convinced that that the Golden Rule says “Do unto others as you would have done unto them.”
How can people possibly justify deliberate rudeness to those who have done nothing to deserve it?
How can we blindly tolerate rudeness and bad service from those we pay to provide those services without voicing our displeasure to someone in a position do something about it?
How can people simply throw their garbage out the car window, or drop it within six feet of a garbage can?
How can so many so readily accept the most blatantly egregious falsehoods without question, and why is it that the more lacking in logic the falsehood is, the more readily it is accepted?
How is it so much easier to hate than to love?
How can we be so smug in the assumption of our moral superiority that we cannot even entertain the thought that there might be even a shred of truth in opinions other than our own?
How can we cling to hope when every shred of existing evidence clearly says there is none?
And for all the negatives in all the questions posed above, it is only that last one that matters, for it is what makes us truly human.
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.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Forever Spam
Reading the opening words of spam messages is like seeing someone falling from a skyscraper. I don't want to look, but I can't help not only looking but giving a knee-jerk response. Here is the fifth-or-sixth-or-tenth quick review of some choice slices of spam from my In box.
"Work 60 Minutes@Home for $250+Day." (What? You expect me to work a whole hour for a measly $250? Hell, I can flip burgers at McDonalds for that!)
"McCane or Obama? Who'se longer?" (The man's name is McCain, you insufferable imbecile!!! I am herewith revoking your license to breed!)
"Welcome to our Fun secret Society!" (How can it be a secret if you're spamming about it?)
"Workers needed to make $250 per day from home." (Needed? Yeah, like if this were legit you couldn't just put an ad in your local paper?)
"Add inches in your erection--AND ONLY PAY SHIPPING" (The caps are theirs, and as soon as I finish laughing, I'll think of something to say.)
"I'm Batman. I demand Reply." (Me Tarzan. You no get one.)
"Grow YourPenis 3-inches longer & thicker, girl will love you..." (Well, first I suggest you take a biology course. What you're born with is what you got. And secondly, I don't want girl to love me. Boy a different story.)
"I saw you :)" (And I didn't see you. Let's keep it that way, shall we? :) )
"Your files are corrupted!" (Well, I don't know about my files, but my spam folder certainly is.)
"Is this so important?" (Finally! A spammer with a grasp of reality!)
"Forget about fear to be "limp" in front of woman - get the support of your dream." (I no fear. I too busy learn how to speak English.)
"John sends greetings." (I'd much prefer John send money.)
"Makes sense?" (If it did, it wouldn't be in my spam folder.)
2 identical messages, 2 senders: "Feel more excited with women!" (Sorry, whoever you are, but it would take a hell of a lot more than whatever it is you're peddling to do that.)
"Where will we meet? --Bone her all morning, bone her...." (How about just inside the gates of Hell, you silver-tongued rascal, you? I may be late, so please go in without me.)
"Stimulate your body to amaze girls!" (Girls. Girls girls girls. What the hell is wrong with you people? Get a life!)
helen LAST_NAME "visit my profile i just saw yours cutie--im bored i am on my webcam..." (Well, miss LAST_NAME--Swedish, isn't it?--I am truly flattered that you took the time to search the internet to check out my "profile," and I'm terribly sorry a sweet young thing like you is bored, but if I had a choice between visiting your webcam and having my fingernails ripped off, I'd opt for the latter.)
"I'm ill. Let's delay." (No, no....let's cancel altogether.)
And ah, if I could only cancel spam!
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.
"Work 60 Minutes@Home for $250+Day." (What? You expect me to work a whole hour for a measly $250? Hell, I can flip burgers at McDonalds for that!)
"McCane or Obama? Who'se longer?" (The man's name is McCain, you insufferable imbecile!!! I am herewith revoking your license to breed!)
"Welcome to our Fun secret Society!" (How can it be a secret if you're spamming about it?)
"Workers needed to make $250 per day from home." (Needed? Yeah, like if this were legit you couldn't just put an ad in your local paper?)
"Add inches in your erection--AND ONLY PAY SHIPPING" (The caps are theirs, and as soon as I finish laughing, I'll think of something to say.)
"I'm Batman. I demand Reply." (Me Tarzan. You no get one.)
"Grow YourPenis 3-inches longer & thicker, girl will love you..." (Well, first I suggest you take a biology course. What you're born with is what you got. And secondly, I don't want girl to love me. Boy a different story.)
"I saw you :)" (And I didn't see you. Let's keep it that way, shall we? :) )
"Your files are corrupted!" (Well, I don't know about my files, but my spam folder certainly is.)
"Is this so important?" (Finally! A spammer with a grasp of reality!)
"Forget about fear to be "limp" in front of woman - get the support of your dream." (I no fear. I too busy learn how to speak English.)
"John sends greetings." (I'd much prefer John send money.)
"Makes sense?" (If it did, it wouldn't be in my spam folder.)
2 identical messages, 2 senders: "Feel more excited with women!" (Sorry, whoever you are, but it would take a hell of a lot more than whatever it is you're peddling to do that.)
"Where will we meet? --Bone her all morning, bone her...." (How about just inside the gates of Hell, you silver-tongued rascal, you? I may be late, so please go in without me.)
"Stimulate your body to amaze girls!" (Girls. Girls girls girls. What the hell is wrong with you people? Get a life!)
helen LAST_NAME "visit my profile i just saw yours cutie--im bored i am on my webcam..." (Well, miss LAST_NAME--Swedish, isn't it?--I am truly flattered that you took the time to search the internet to check out my "profile," and I'm terribly sorry a sweet young thing like you is bored, but if I had a choice between visiting your webcam and having my fingernails ripped off, I'd opt for the latter.)
"I'm ill. Let's delay." (No, no....let's cancel altogether.)
And ah, if I could only cancel spam!
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.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Reluctant Cynic
For someone who so strongly decries cynicism, I fear I give in to it far more often than I care to admit. Of course, I prefer to think of myself as being more jaded than cynical, but realize it's a "toe-may-toe/toe-mah-toe" distinction Be that as it may, no matter how hard I try, I can’t escape the fact that I am so often utterly disillusioned with the state of the world and with the underbelly of humanity that I truly despair.
You’ve undoubtedly noticed that one of the strongest recurring themes in these blogs is my utter inability to understand the world, or, far too often, other nominal members of the species to which I belong. How can anyone with an iota of awareness possibly understand, let alone justify, what lies behind and beneath the incomprehensible stupidity, cruelty, bigotry, and ignorance that constantly assail us all and that we ourselves too often display?
How can any intelligent person cling to hope for the future of mankind when nearly every TV commercial seems very deliberately designed to mislead us; when every computer’s “In” box is awash daily in "offers" so egregiously insulting to the most basic concept of intelligence? How can anyone capable of communicating thought not only produce such utter garbage but expect anyone capable of reading to respond to it? What motivates them to do so is simple: 99.5 percent of all the steaming elephant dung plopped into our computers' Spam folder--into which I regularly dumpster-dive for blog material--has one reason for being there: greed. Those who respond to it are eagerly seeking something for nothing (a Ph.D. in brain surgery by mail? Earn $10,000 a day at home typing envelopes? It is to weep!).
Our national media is increasingly being taken over by predatory sociopaths without conscience, compassion, remorse, or regret (Fox News, anyone?). Their link to humanity is largely genetic, and they apparently derive a sense of superiority in pouring gasoline on any potentially volatile issue.
Of course, the saddest, most discouraging and "abandon-all-hope-ye-who-enter-here" aspect of the internet is that it is, indeed, a net which trolls a rich feeding ground for predators. If there weren't huge numbers of people unwilling to use, or incapable of using, common logic, the predators would starve. And while that prospect is unlikely in the extreme, there is some small comfort to be taken from the fact that from what I can gather---the exact same message being received from several sources, for example--that major spammers franchise out their crud to lesser spammers. It appears to be some sort of a pyramid scheme and a perfect example of feeding on one's own foot. Secondary spammers are conned by the primaries into thinking they're going to get rich. All of which proves that those who send out spam are just as prone to being suckered as the people to whom the messages are sent. However, in their case, I have no sympathy for them whatever.
That after several thousand years of struggle and sacrifice to establish a civilization we, as a race, have produced a society which seems to thrive on taking advantage of others finds us back at the first sentence of this blog.
Quick! Someone bring me a basket of kittens!
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.
You’ve undoubtedly noticed that one of the strongest recurring themes in these blogs is my utter inability to understand the world, or, far too often, other nominal members of the species to which I belong. How can anyone with an iota of awareness possibly understand, let alone justify, what lies behind and beneath the incomprehensible stupidity, cruelty, bigotry, and ignorance that constantly assail us all and that we ourselves too often display?
How can any intelligent person cling to hope for the future of mankind when nearly every TV commercial seems very deliberately designed to mislead us; when every computer’s “In” box is awash daily in "offers" so egregiously insulting to the most basic concept of intelligence? How can anyone capable of communicating thought not only produce such utter garbage but expect anyone capable of reading to respond to it? What motivates them to do so is simple: 99.5 percent of all the steaming elephant dung plopped into our computers' Spam folder--into which I regularly dumpster-dive for blog material--has one reason for being there: greed. Those who respond to it are eagerly seeking something for nothing (a Ph.D. in brain surgery by mail? Earn $10,000 a day at home typing envelopes? It is to weep!).
Our national media is increasingly being taken over by predatory sociopaths without conscience, compassion, remorse, or regret (Fox News, anyone?). Their link to humanity is largely genetic, and they apparently derive a sense of superiority in pouring gasoline on any potentially volatile issue.
Of course, the saddest, most discouraging and "abandon-all-hope-ye-who-enter-here" aspect of the internet is that it is, indeed, a net which trolls a rich feeding ground for predators. If there weren't huge numbers of people unwilling to use, or incapable of using, common logic, the predators would starve. And while that prospect is unlikely in the extreme, there is some small comfort to be taken from the fact that from what I can gather---the exact same message being received from several sources, for example--that major spammers franchise out their crud to lesser spammers. It appears to be some sort of a pyramid scheme and a perfect example of feeding on one's own foot. Secondary spammers are conned by the primaries into thinking they're going to get rich. All of which proves that those who send out spam are just as prone to being suckered as the people to whom the messages are sent. However, in their case, I have no sympathy for them whatever.
That after several thousand years of struggle and sacrifice to establish a civilization we, as a race, have produced a society which seems to thrive on taking advantage of others finds us back at the first sentence of this blog.
Quick! Someone bring me a basket of kittens!
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.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Shorting Out
How we manage to get through life without shorting out never ceases to amaze me. How we wend our way through life’s minefields without being blown to smithereens is also a source of wonder. There are just so many, many… things …bombarding our minds and senses every second of every day; so many distractions calling to us, singing their siren songs. How do we do it?
I’ve noticed this particularly keenly the past few days. I’ll set off to do something (uh, like write a blog entry, for example) and suddenly find my mind calling me off to something else. I’ll know something simply must be done, but I won’t do it. Faced with so many things to do, I do nothing at all. It’s taken me 20 minutes to write this paragraph. Thoughts as thick as gnats on a muggy summer’s day swarm about my head, but no specific thought stays within my view long enough for me to concentrate on.
This is hardly a new experience for me. Concentrating on any one thing long enough to complete it has always been a problem. I can honestly empathize with those with Attention Deficit Disorder. The problem is, of course, that in trying to get everything done, you get nothing done. I try to build up a stockpile of future blogs so that I needn't panic when, at 10:00 on a Tuesday night I realize I haven't done a blog for posting Wednesday morning. The result is that I have a stockpile of about 20 "blogs in progress", most of them only one or two paragraphs long. And when, on those rare occasions when I actually get a few blogs ahead, I grow lazy/lazier. "Oh I don't really have to do a blog for tomorrow. I've got a couple on hand." Well, it doesn't take a genius to figure out where that leads.
Unlike you, I'm sure, I do not handle stress well--especially stress I wasn't expecting. My mind instantly shorts out. I'll be doing something I've done 10,000 times before without problem, and I'll do it the 10,001st time and it won't work, and my mind implodes. And of course, the instant something flusters me, the domino effect kicks in. Once I start stressing over having forgotten how to do something, I can't remember anything at all...my own phone number, my social security number, my address, my name...all blank. Instant total amnesia.
Luckily, if the problem rests within or stems from my misuse of the computer, my good friend Gary lives just one floor away in my same building, so rather than sitting down in front of the computer and trying to calm down and figure it out for myself, it is much easier for me to simply pick up the phone (or, if I haven't somehow totally screwed up the entire computer, e-mail) Gary with a plaintive cry for help. He comes up, sits down at the computer, does exactly the same thing I did, exactly the way I did it, and the problem is resolved. And once again I feel like a total idiot.
And having reread the above, I am truly embarrassed to realize how shallow I am to always concentrate on my own little problems and totally overlook the fact that shorting out is a very real and very serious problem for those less self-centered than I. I stand in sincere awe of those in professions which deal day in and day out with the worst and most tragic elements of life and humanity. Nurses, doctors, firemen, policemen, hospice workers, social workers, caregivers...how they can possibly avoid being utterly destroyed by their constant, unrelenting exposure to pain and fathomless sorrow? It is they who represent the finest of humanity, and give hope to us all.
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.
I’ve noticed this particularly keenly the past few days. I’ll set off to do something (uh, like write a blog entry, for example) and suddenly find my mind calling me off to something else. I’ll know something simply must be done, but I won’t do it. Faced with so many things to do, I do nothing at all. It’s taken me 20 minutes to write this paragraph. Thoughts as thick as gnats on a muggy summer’s day swarm about my head, but no specific thought stays within my view long enough for me to concentrate on.
This is hardly a new experience for me. Concentrating on any one thing long enough to complete it has always been a problem. I can honestly empathize with those with Attention Deficit Disorder. The problem is, of course, that in trying to get everything done, you get nothing done. I try to build up a stockpile of future blogs so that I needn't panic when, at 10:00 on a Tuesday night I realize I haven't done a blog for posting Wednesday morning. The result is that I have a stockpile of about 20 "blogs in progress", most of them only one or two paragraphs long. And when, on those rare occasions when I actually get a few blogs ahead, I grow lazy/lazier. "Oh I don't really have to do a blog for tomorrow. I've got a couple on hand." Well, it doesn't take a genius to figure out where that leads.
Unlike you, I'm sure, I do not handle stress well--especially stress I wasn't expecting. My mind instantly shorts out. I'll be doing something I've done 10,000 times before without problem, and I'll do it the 10,001st time and it won't work, and my mind implodes. And of course, the instant something flusters me, the domino effect kicks in. Once I start stressing over having forgotten how to do something, I can't remember anything at all...my own phone number, my social security number, my address, my name...all blank. Instant total amnesia.
Luckily, if the problem rests within or stems from my misuse of the computer, my good friend Gary lives just one floor away in my same building, so rather than sitting down in front of the computer and trying to calm down and figure it out for myself, it is much easier for me to simply pick up the phone (or, if I haven't somehow totally screwed up the entire computer, e-mail) Gary with a plaintive cry for help. He comes up, sits down at the computer, does exactly the same thing I did, exactly the way I did it, and the problem is resolved. And once again I feel like a total idiot.
And having reread the above, I am truly embarrassed to realize how shallow I am to always concentrate on my own little problems and totally overlook the fact that shorting out is a very real and very serious problem for those less self-centered than I. I stand in sincere awe of those in professions which deal day in and day out with the worst and most tragic elements of life and humanity. Nurses, doctors, firemen, policemen, hospice workers, social workers, caregivers...how they can possibly avoid being utterly destroyed by their constant, unrelenting exposure to pain and fathomless sorrow? It is they who represent the finest of humanity, and give hope to us all.
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.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
A Case of Idoanwanna
For some reason (I seem to begin a disproportionate number of blog with these words), I have been battling a severe case of "Idoanwanna" over the past several days. I sit down to write a blog and find Idoanwanna. I know I must work on my present book-in-progress, but Idoanwanna. So I waste my time playing endless games of solitaire. I have now played 1,270 games of "Scorpion" and won 40. Why do I waste my time so? Every second I spend playing solitaire takes one second away from doing something more constructive, one less brick in the fortress I am trying to build against being forgotten after I'm no longer here. (You will notice my refusal to use the word "dead.")
I currently have no fewer than 12 begun-but-never-finished blogs in my blog file. I'll come up with an idea, get two or three sentences (or paragraphs) into it and run out of ideas and just walk away, intending to finish it "later." The nice thing about "later" is that it can be put off indefinitely, which is the way things are turning out.
Idoanwanna is the path of least resistance.
I suspect my current bout of Idoanwanna stems from an uncharacteristic sense of malaise, of being aware of how much there is to do that I should be doing, and how little I am actually accomplishing. This is probably compounded by my pondering a move from my present apartment to another building a mile or so away, primarily to escape the sound of elevated trains less than 500 feet from--albeit six stories below--my window every three minutes, 24 hours a day. While I've grown so used to the noise, as I long ago did with the chiming of my grandfather clock, that I am usually not conscious of it, I know I have to be aware of it on a subconscious level, and it can't help but negatively affect my sleep. Yet, moving is a major hassle, so I have to try to keep Idoanwanna at bay. Not easy.
Another factor in this current case is the contemplation of possibly getting rid of my car. Since I live in Chicago and can easily get anywhere in the city (thanks to the aforementioned el, for one), I actually drive it only about once a month, and then it is a conscious effort to do so. I know if I were to give up my car I could easily rent one when I needed one, and that I'd be saving a great deal of money on insurance and maintenance. But it is far more complex an emotional issue than might first appear. In American society, cars are equated with independence, and to give up that independence is too often (rightly or wrongly) seen as a concession to age, which is already depriving me of far too many things that have always been an integral part of my life. I will NOT go gentle into that good night. Too many things are being taken from me without my consent, and I will not willingly give up those fewer and fewer things over which I have some control. However irrationally, I see the giving up of my car as having one more thing taken away from me, even though the decision would be voluntary. It is truly traumatic to contemplate. Ergo another conflict with Idoanwanna.
The Idoanwanna syndrome is of course not exclusive to me. We all suffer from it to one degree or another, and as indicated above, it is the primary factor in procrastination for those who have the luxury of indulging it. For those who don't, Idoanwanna is too often the equivalent of a bug meeting a windshield at 60 mph.
In my case, I have a number of very effective tools in enabling my Idoanwannas. The "Oh, look over there!" ploy is a very good one, and I use it a lot, and to good effect. There's nothing like a good distraction to avoid doing what should be done. As a matter of fact, this entire blog has been an example of avoiding a blog subject of any substance whatever.
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.
I currently have no fewer than 12 begun-but-never-finished blogs in my blog file. I'll come up with an idea, get two or three sentences (or paragraphs) into it and run out of ideas and just walk away, intending to finish it "later." The nice thing about "later" is that it can be put off indefinitely, which is the way things are turning out.
Idoanwanna is the path of least resistance.
I suspect my current bout of Idoanwanna stems from an uncharacteristic sense of malaise, of being aware of how much there is to do that I should be doing, and how little I am actually accomplishing. This is probably compounded by my pondering a move from my present apartment to another building a mile or so away, primarily to escape the sound of elevated trains less than 500 feet from--albeit six stories below--my window every three minutes, 24 hours a day. While I've grown so used to the noise, as I long ago did with the chiming of my grandfather clock, that I am usually not conscious of it, I know I have to be aware of it on a subconscious level, and it can't help but negatively affect my sleep. Yet, moving is a major hassle, so I have to try to keep Idoanwanna at bay. Not easy.
Another factor in this current case is the contemplation of possibly getting rid of my car. Since I live in Chicago and can easily get anywhere in the city (thanks to the aforementioned el, for one), I actually drive it only about once a month, and then it is a conscious effort to do so. I know if I were to give up my car I could easily rent one when I needed one, and that I'd be saving a great deal of money on insurance and maintenance. But it is far more complex an emotional issue than might first appear. In American society, cars are equated with independence, and to give up that independence is too often (rightly or wrongly) seen as a concession to age, which is already depriving me of far too many things that have always been an integral part of my life. I will NOT go gentle into that good night. Too many things are being taken from me without my consent, and I will not willingly give up those fewer and fewer things over which I have some control. However irrationally, I see the giving up of my car as having one more thing taken away from me, even though the decision would be voluntary. It is truly traumatic to contemplate. Ergo another conflict with Idoanwanna.
The Idoanwanna syndrome is of course not exclusive to me. We all suffer from it to one degree or another, and as indicated above, it is the primary factor in procrastination for those who have the luxury of indulging it. For those who don't, Idoanwanna is too often the equivalent of a bug meeting a windshield at 60 mph.
In my case, I have a number of very effective tools in enabling my Idoanwannas. The "Oh, look over there!" ploy is a very good one, and I use it a lot, and to good effect. There's nothing like a good distraction to avoid doing what should be done. As a matter of fact, this entire blog has been an example of avoiding a blog subject of any substance whatever.
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.
Monday, September 07, 2009
Teeter-Totter
Life is a lot like a teeter totter--balance is always strived for and seldom if ever achieved. We are all constantly going through the ups and downs of happiness and misery, between success and failure, and too often slamming our rear-ends on the ground. Getting both ends of the board level is one of those forever-elusive goals of which life is, in fact, made. And once balance is achieved, either in life or on the teeter totter, it never lasts long.
All my life I have sought--largely unsuccessfully, of course--to find a balance between my totally unrealistic egotism and my excessive self-loathing. It's a theme touched on constantly in these blogs. (I am not content to merely beat a dead horse; I insist on pureeing it.) My egotism makes me demand far more of myself than I or any human being could ever possibly deliver, but that doesn't stop me from demanding it. And my inability to meet those demands--or even come within walking distance of them--fuels the self-loathing which truly frightens me at times. (And I suppose that having so said, I should add a disclaimer that I have never for one second, even in my darkest moments, ever considered depriving myself of life; the very concept is anathema to me. I am far too grateful for the gift of life, however rough it may be at any given time, to willingly give it up.)
I think, yet again, that I am so utterly fascinated with life that my frustration often stems from weighing everything there is to see and learn and do against what I have seen, or learned, or done or will be likely do. I see life as a vast candy store, and myself a little kid shoveling candy into my mouth with both fists until I look like a chipmunk with both cheeks bulging. And then I get angry because I want it ALL and my mouth simply cannot hold any more.
I've often noted that every toddler thinks of himself as being the center of the universe. Life soon dissuades most of that notion, but I fear it has never totally succeeded with me. Even today, battered and shop-worn and often thinking of myself as being in the "Free! Help Yourself" bin at a rummage sale, I am consumed with the wonder of life. I am quintessentially aware that since the instant time began, through all the time involved in the birth and life and death of stars and galaxies, and onward through the rest of eternity, I am the only "me" there ever has been or ever will be. (Of course, so are you: but it's still a mind-boggling thought.) How could I not think I am special?
And since I am so very special in that aspect, why shouldn't I be equally special when it comes to everything/anything else? But I am not, and I cannot--well, let's make that absolutely refuse to--accept that fact. (We won't go anywhere near the subject of my tenuous relationship with reality here.)
Balance is often achieved through accommodation, through a system somewhat similar to the way submarines and lighter than air craft use ballast; getting rid of some excess weight here, or moving/adding it there. I fear I'm not all that good at accommodations. I want what I want without having to give up any of what I already have. Hardly practical or logical, but fully realizing that fact does not materially change things.
But on thinking it over (as writing these blogs often makes me do), I realized I actually have found something of a tenuous balance on life's teeter totter despite myself. Every teeter totter has two seats, one at each end, and in effectively dividing myself into Dorien and Roger, my life has two parts. The real-world Roger, who must deal as best he can with the infinite frustrations and anger of daily life, and Dorien, who is largely able to ignore the wars Roger fights every day, and simply gets on with writing of worlds in which evil and cruelty exist only, as the scripts of plays often call it, as "voices off." Dorien's life is far less stressful, and while Roger must still constantly struggle for balance, it gives him comfort to know that he can use Dorien as emotional ballast to keep the teeter totter a little more level.
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.
All my life I have sought--largely unsuccessfully, of course--to find a balance between my totally unrealistic egotism and my excessive self-loathing. It's a theme touched on constantly in these blogs. (I am not content to merely beat a dead horse; I insist on pureeing it.) My egotism makes me demand far more of myself than I or any human being could ever possibly deliver, but that doesn't stop me from demanding it. And my inability to meet those demands--or even come within walking distance of them--fuels the self-loathing which truly frightens me at times. (And I suppose that having so said, I should add a disclaimer that I have never for one second, even in my darkest moments, ever considered depriving myself of life; the very concept is anathema to me. I am far too grateful for the gift of life, however rough it may be at any given time, to willingly give it up.)
I think, yet again, that I am so utterly fascinated with life that my frustration often stems from weighing everything there is to see and learn and do against what I have seen, or learned, or done or will be likely do. I see life as a vast candy store, and myself a little kid shoveling candy into my mouth with both fists until I look like a chipmunk with both cheeks bulging. And then I get angry because I want it ALL and my mouth simply cannot hold any more.
I've often noted that every toddler thinks of himself as being the center of the universe. Life soon dissuades most of that notion, but I fear it has never totally succeeded with me. Even today, battered and shop-worn and often thinking of myself as being in the "Free! Help Yourself" bin at a rummage sale, I am consumed with the wonder of life. I am quintessentially aware that since the instant time began, through all the time involved in the birth and life and death of stars and galaxies, and onward through the rest of eternity, I am the only "me" there ever has been or ever will be. (Of course, so are you: but it's still a mind-boggling thought.) How could I not think I am special?
And since I am so very special in that aspect, why shouldn't I be equally special when it comes to everything/anything else? But I am not, and I cannot--well, let's make that absolutely refuse to--accept that fact. (We won't go anywhere near the subject of my tenuous relationship with reality here.)
Balance is often achieved through accommodation, through a system somewhat similar to the way submarines and lighter than air craft use ballast; getting rid of some excess weight here, or moving/adding it there. I fear I'm not all that good at accommodations. I want what I want without having to give up any of what I already have. Hardly practical or logical, but fully realizing that fact does not materially change things.
But on thinking it over (as writing these blogs often makes me do), I realized I actually have found something of a tenuous balance on life's teeter totter despite myself. Every teeter totter has two seats, one at each end, and in effectively dividing myself into Dorien and Roger, my life has two parts. The real-world Roger, who must deal as best he can with the infinite frustrations and anger of daily life, and Dorien, who is largely able to ignore the wars Roger fights every day, and simply gets on with writing of worlds in which evil and cruelty exist only, as the scripts of plays often call it, as "voices off." Dorien's life is far less stressful, and while Roger must still constantly struggle for balance, it gives him comfort to know that he can use Dorien as emotional ballast to keep the teeter totter a little more level.
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.
Friday, September 04, 2009
The Missing Letter
On going through my A World Ago blog (http://www.doriengrey.blogspot.com) I realized that there is one letter missing, and since it dealt with one of the more memorable incidents of my checkered military career, I really can’t let the story pass. (It is possible I did not send it to my parents, due to the subject matter, which dealt with my indescribably reluctant trip to a Naples brothel.)
If you have followed the blog, just mentally insert this reconstructed letter in with my accounts of Naples, pre-Christmas, 1955. (And if you haven’t read A World Ago yet, I’d hope you might decide to do so.)
So, come with me back in time once more, back to my days aboard the great grey hulk of the grand old aircraft carrier U.S.S. Ticonderoga, anchored in the Bay of Naples.
I was somehow “elected”…how or by whom is lost in the mists of memory…to accompany three of my shipmates from the Commissary Department to go ashore and find a location for our Division Christmas party. (I know there is a letter in the blog dealing with the party itself.)
Upon getting off the liberty boat and beyond the guarded perimeter of Fleet Landing, we were immediately surrounded by the hundreds of always-present “guides” eager to assist American sailors find various forms of wholesome entertainment. We somehow settled on one to whom we explained our mission: to find a restaurant to host our party. He packed us all in a cab and headed off up into the hills to a place he had in mind—one from which he obviously received a hefty fee for bringing in business and, after half an hour or so, we’d made arrangements for the party.
On the way back into the city, the guide asked if we would like to make the acquaintance of some “beautiful women” he knew of.
I’d anticipated—and dreaded—something like this ever since we got off the ship, since I was with three red-blooded heterosexual sailors. “Sure!” my buddies agreed enthusiastically. I just sat there, wishing I could somehow open the door and throw myself into oncoming traffic. But I was trapped.
Our guide gave directions to the taxi driver, who took us God-knows-where, and pulled up in front of the door to a house which was indistinguishable from the solid row of identical buildings which stretched off endlessly in both directions. The guide urged us out of the taxi, which then took off, leaving us…and particularly me…on a strange street in a strange part of a strange city.
I was numb with dread. There was no way in hell I was going to join in the coming festivities, but to let my shipmates know I would rather shoot myself than engage in heterosexual sex could result in something I could not even bring myself to contemplate: being exposed as a “queer”, thrown off the ship in disgrace, given a dishonorable discharge and shaming my parents and relatives…being gay in the Navy was (and is) definitely not a good thing.
But back to the story. The guide knocked on the door, which was opened by a typical, drably-dressed Italian woman anywhere from 40 to 60 years old, who looked us over without reaction and stepped back allowing us to enter. We found ourselves in a medium-sized room I assumed to be a combination living room and parlor. I don’t recall seeing any indication that there were other rooms, but I’m sure there were. In the center of the room was a large, heavy wooden table on which the woman had been ironing clothes.
There was a plain sofa against one wall, and on the opposite wall a rocking chair in which sat an old man, rocking back and forth, smoking a pipe, and paying us not the slightest bit of attention. A young boy about nine years old played with some sort of toy on the floor. After looking up briefly, he, too, ignored us.
The guide urged us to sit on the sofa as the woman returned to her ironing. She had not spoken, and did not speak, a single word. When we were seated, the guide told us he would go round up the girls and bring them back, and without another word, he left.
And there I sat, surrounded by three ravingly heterosexual United States sailors, one nine year old boy, one 40-60-year-old woman, and an old man in a rocking chair smoking a pipe.
Deathly silence. The boy played, the woman ironed, and the old man rocked and smoked. Some time later…I have no idea how much later, since my stomach was in my throat and I was fervntly praying for death…our guide returned. He was followed in by six women of mixed ages and sizes, including, inexplicably, a dwarf.
They walked in the door, smiling at my shipmates (I, unlike J. Alfred Prufrock, neither knew nor cared if they smiled for me), and walked completely around the table, twice: merchandise on display. Our hostess ironed, the boy played, scooting out of the way to allow the girls to pass him, and the old man smoked and rocked, totally oblivious.
One by one my shipmates made their choice and got up and left. “How about you, Roge? Pick one.” “I will,” I said, lying through my teeth. “You go ahead.” We agreed to meet back in front of the house in an hour.
After my three friends had left and I declined to make a selection from the remaining girls, they also left.
And there I sat. Alone. In Naples, Italy. In what was not a whorehouse but a staging area. Alone and utterly invisible to the woman ironing and the old man smoking and rocking. The young boy, however, showed some interest and soon came over to me, as though I were some endangered species in a zoo. We soon engaged ourselves in a game of “what’s this?” exchanging English and Italian names for things like “nose” and “finger” and “shoes”.
And the time passed. And passed. And passed. And finally, when I could stand it no longer, I got up and left and somehow made my way back to the ship.
The next day I ran into one of my companions on this little adventure. “Have a good time, Roge?” he asked, grinning.
“Great,” I said. I lied.
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.
If you have followed the blog, just mentally insert this reconstructed letter in with my accounts of Naples, pre-Christmas, 1955. (And if you haven’t read A World Ago yet, I’d hope you might decide to do so.)
So, come with me back in time once more, back to my days aboard the great grey hulk of the grand old aircraft carrier U.S.S. Ticonderoga, anchored in the Bay of Naples.
I was somehow “elected”…how or by whom is lost in the mists of memory…to accompany three of my shipmates from the Commissary Department to go ashore and find a location for our Division Christmas party. (I know there is a letter in the blog dealing with the party itself.)
Upon getting off the liberty boat and beyond the guarded perimeter of Fleet Landing, we were immediately surrounded by the hundreds of always-present “guides” eager to assist American sailors find various forms of wholesome entertainment. We somehow settled on one to whom we explained our mission: to find a restaurant to host our party. He packed us all in a cab and headed off up into the hills to a place he had in mind—one from which he obviously received a hefty fee for bringing in business and, after half an hour or so, we’d made arrangements for the party.
On the way back into the city, the guide asked if we would like to make the acquaintance of some “beautiful women” he knew of.
I’d anticipated—and dreaded—something like this ever since we got off the ship, since I was with three red-blooded heterosexual sailors. “Sure!” my buddies agreed enthusiastically. I just sat there, wishing I could somehow open the door and throw myself into oncoming traffic. But I was trapped.
Our guide gave directions to the taxi driver, who took us God-knows-where, and pulled up in front of the door to a house which was indistinguishable from the solid row of identical buildings which stretched off endlessly in both directions. The guide urged us out of the taxi, which then took off, leaving us…and particularly me…on a strange street in a strange part of a strange city.
I was numb with dread. There was no way in hell I was going to join in the coming festivities, but to let my shipmates know I would rather shoot myself than engage in heterosexual sex could result in something I could not even bring myself to contemplate: being exposed as a “queer”, thrown off the ship in disgrace, given a dishonorable discharge and shaming my parents and relatives…being gay in the Navy was (and is) definitely not a good thing.
But back to the story. The guide knocked on the door, which was opened by a typical, drably-dressed Italian woman anywhere from 40 to 60 years old, who looked us over without reaction and stepped back allowing us to enter. We found ourselves in a medium-sized room I assumed to be a combination living room and parlor. I don’t recall seeing any indication that there were other rooms, but I’m sure there were. In the center of the room was a large, heavy wooden table on which the woman had been ironing clothes.
There was a plain sofa against one wall, and on the opposite wall a rocking chair in which sat an old man, rocking back and forth, smoking a pipe, and paying us not the slightest bit of attention. A young boy about nine years old played with some sort of toy on the floor. After looking up briefly, he, too, ignored us.
The guide urged us to sit on the sofa as the woman returned to her ironing. She had not spoken, and did not speak, a single word. When we were seated, the guide told us he would go round up the girls and bring them back, and without another word, he left.
And there I sat, surrounded by three ravingly heterosexual United States sailors, one nine year old boy, one 40-60-year-old woman, and an old man in a rocking chair smoking a pipe.
Deathly silence. The boy played, the woman ironed, and the old man rocked and smoked. Some time later…I have no idea how much later, since my stomach was in my throat and I was fervntly praying for death…our guide returned. He was followed in by six women of mixed ages and sizes, including, inexplicably, a dwarf.
They walked in the door, smiling at my shipmates (I, unlike J. Alfred Prufrock, neither knew nor cared if they smiled for me), and walked completely around the table, twice: merchandise on display. Our hostess ironed, the boy played, scooting out of the way to allow the girls to pass him, and the old man smoked and rocked, totally oblivious.
One by one my shipmates made their choice and got up and left. “How about you, Roge? Pick one.” “I will,” I said, lying through my teeth. “You go ahead.” We agreed to meet back in front of the house in an hour.
After my three friends had left and I declined to make a selection from the remaining girls, they also left.
And there I sat. Alone. In Naples, Italy. In what was not a whorehouse but a staging area. Alone and utterly invisible to the woman ironing and the old man smoking and rocking. The young boy, however, showed some interest and soon came over to me, as though I were some endangered species in a zoo. We soon engaged ourselves in a game of “what’s this?” exchanging English and Italian names for things like “nose” and “finger” and “shoes”.
And the time passed. And passed. And passed. And finally, when I could stand it no longer, I got up and left and somehow made my way back to the ship.
The next day I ran into one of my companions on this little adventure. “Have a good time, Roge?” he asked, grinning.
“Great,” I said. I lied.
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.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
The Book of Spam, Chapter X
Trying to stop spam is like trying to empty Lake Michigan with a teaspoon. And no matter how hard I try not to look at it, I can't resist, and the Pavlov's Dog syndrome kicks in once again. So here is yet another installment of the Spam Chronicles. Every word within the quotation marks is exactly how I received it. Within the parentheses, yet again, my knee-jerk responses.
"It's okay to shop for a bathing suit." (Oh, thank you for giving me permission!)
"Show her who the REAL man is!" (Um, okay. See that blond over there by the wall?)
"Hate me, but read." (I do. I won't.)
"Prove her you are an outstanding guy." (How dare you assume I'm heterosexual??)
"Account Blocked. Confirm identity." (You mean like my SS#, my credit card and bank account numbers? Riiiiiiiight! Comin' right up! Take a deeeep breath and hold it.)
"I NEED YOUR URGENT REPLY!" (AND I NEED YOU TO LEAVE ME THE F*** ALONE!)
"She will grin from ear to ear when she sees the new length!" (Ah, hemlines are going down this year?)
"Service's temporary unavailable." (And what the hell is that supposed to mean? Can't you slime-oozers even learn how to speak/spell properly?)
"You don't know shit!" (Maybe not, but I recognize it when I see it...which is why I don't open spam messages.)
"Story about Bush's armpits." (Oh, dear Lord!)
"Hey! Wanna bet?" (Hey! Wanna guess the answer?)
"Even children know that blue pilules are effective for male function improving." (Well, of course they do, silly. They're required to write an essay on "What does Daddy do when he can't get it up?")
Margery: "Hello--oiled sonsy python scum! burgee gaudy salvor...." (You nailed it with "scum," Margery.)
"Find your preety classmate." (You mean my reely preety classmate?)
"Open the door for me -- Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo." ("Take a hike," said the Barfy-Warfy-Poo.)
"Excelent your WIN! - You will understand all the advantages this potion gives to a man after just one try." (What in the HELL are you talking about? What language do you speak? Surely not English.)
"Something for purchase." (Wait a minute! You mean, you're trying to sell something? Good Lord, Stop the Presses! Astounding!)
"Address's wrong." (If you mean my address, then how come I got it? And if you mean your address, try to imagine how little I care.)
"For taking a few moments to complete three surveys I made almost $100." (You did? Wow! And I'm sure you're telling me this just out of the goodness of your heart, with absolutely not intention of trying to scam me out of something! You're a saint! I still won't open your email, but you're a saint.)
Sigh. Next chapter, same verse.
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.
"It's okay to shop for a bathing suit." (Oh, thank you for giving me permission!)
"Show her who the REAL man is!" (Um, okay. See that blond over there by the wall?)
"Hate me, but read." (I do. I won't.)
"Prove her you are an outstanding guy." (How dare you assume I'm heterosexual??)
"Account Blocked. Confirm identity." (You mean like my SS#, my credit card and bank account numbers? Riiiiiiiight! Comin' right up! Take a deeeep breath and hold it.)
"I NEED YOUR URGENT REPLY!" (AND I NEED YOU TO LEAVE ME THE F*** ALONE!)
"She will grin from ear to ear when she sees the new length!" (Ah, hemlines are going down this year?)
"Service's temporary unavailable." (And what the hell is that supposed to mean? Can't you slime-oozers even learn how to speak/spell properly?)
"You don't know shit!" (Maybe not, but I recognize it when I see it...which is why I don't open spam messages.)
"Story about Bush's armpits." (Oh, dear Lord!)
"Hey! Wanna bet?" (Hey! Wanna guess the answer?)
"Even children know that blue pilules are effective for male function improving." (Well, of course they do, silly. They're required to write an essay on "What does Daddy do when he can't get it up?")
Margery: "Hello--oiled sonsy python scum! burgee gaudy salvor...." (You nailed it with "scum," Margery.)
"Find your preety classmate." (You mean my reely preety classmate?)
"Open the door for me -- Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo." ("Take a hike," said the Barfy-Warfy-Poo.)
"Excelent your WIN! - You will understand all the advantages this potion gives to a man after just one try." (What in the HELL are you talking about? What language do you speak? Surely not English.)
"Something for purchase." (Wait a minute! You mean, you're trying to sell something? Good Lord, Stop the Presses! Astounding!)
"Address's wrong." (If you mean my address, then how come I got it? And if you mean your address, try to imagine how little I care.)
"For taking a few moments to complete three surveys I made almost $100." (You did? Wow! And I'm sure you're telling me this just out of the goodness of your heart, with absolutely not intention of trying to scam me out of something! You're a saint! I still won't open your email, but you're a saint.)
Sigh. Next chapter, same verse.
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.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Cheating
Our society is so increasingly complex and difficult for any single individual to fully comprehend, let alone keep up with, that we are often totally unaware of the erosion of those things which raise humans above the other animals.
Simple honesty is a classic example. We have become totally inured to being lied to by everyone from politicians to preachers to used car (--excuse me; they don't have used cars anymore; they have "pre-owned vehicles", a very big difference, indeed--) salesmen that we simply accept it. In fact, it has reached the point where one can be fairly certain that no matter what he/she is being told, it is at least in part a lie.
Cheating has become a spectator sport, and anyone honest enough to live by the rules is considered a fool. We pay lip-service to honesty--someone finding $50,000 and returning it to its owner is considered newsworthy, and that fact in itself speaks directly to my point. For every person who, given too much change by a clerk, gives it back, there are far more who say nothing and simply take it.
I've commented before on a national-chain TV advertisement which glorifies cheating. You've seen it...the frizzy-haired blond who, upon looking at her receipt, goes racing out to the parking lot yelling to her husband to "Start the car! Start the car!" because she is sure she has been undercharged. Isn't that just the cutest thing? And doesn't that send a wonderful message? Turn around and ask the clerk for an explanation? Don't be silly! How the chain could have authorized such a reprehensible ad is incomprehensible to me.
Haven't paid your credit card bill in months? Knowingly digging yourself deeper and deeper in debt every day?Totally financially irresponsible? Hey, don't worry about it! Why bother trying to cut back on spending? File for bankruptcy! (I realize, of course, that there are people who legitimately file for bankruptcy as a last resort, and I am not speaking of them.) Easy as pi. Screw the companies to whom the money is legitimately owed. They can afford it. And anyone who thinks companies do not engage in various forms of cheating their customers lives in a fantasy world.
Every night TV carries countless ads featuring people (usually couples) smiling smugly and announcing how "We owed $73,000 in unpaid back taxes, and thanks to Screwemall & Sons, we paid only $3.17!" Way to go! Now get out there and start spending more money you don't have.
Making the case against cheating is not easy, since none of us is an angel, and cheating seems to be a part of human nature. We all do it at one time or another. The problem lies in the degree of and frequency with which we cheat. For perhaps, being charitable, most people, cheating is an occasional thing involving only relatively trivial matters. But there seem to be an exponentially-growing number of people for whom cheating is a way of life and taking advantage of others an assumptive right.
The ubiquitous "but everyone else does it" excuse can be countered with by simple fact that "you are not everyone else." That "everyone else does" something does not make that something right. It is the very complexity of life, the easily blurred lines between right and wrong, that adds to the problem. For example, a good case could be made for cheating in cases where total honesty would somehow be a sincere deprivation...a needy mother not returning $5 overage in change at the grocery store, for example. But even then, though it might be eminently understandable, it would still, at bottom, be wrong.
In the end, cheating, like so much else in life, is a matter of degree, of awareness, and of intent, and the greater each of these elements, the more reprehensible it becomes. Each of us is responsible, ultimately, for ourselves and, in the matter of how much cheating we accept, not only in others but in ourselves, it is just one more indication of our true worth as human beings.
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 honesty is a classic example. We have become totally inured to being lied to by everyone from politicians to preachers to used car (--excuse me; they don't have used cars anymore; they have "pre-owned vehicles", a very big difference, indeed--) salesmen that we simply accept it. In fact, it has reached the point where one can be fairly certain that no matter what he/she is being told, it is at least in part a lie.
Cheating has become a spectator sport, and anyone honest enough to live by the rules is considered a fool. We pay lip-service to honesty--someone finding $50,000 and returning it to its owner is considered newsworthy, and that fact in itself speaks directly to my point. For every person who, given too much change by a clerk, gives it back, there are far more who say nothing and simply take it.
I've commented before on a national-chain TV advertisement which glorifies cheating. You've seen it...the frizzy-haired blond who, upon looking at her receipt, goes racing out to the parking lot yelling to her husband to "Start the car! Start the car!" because she is sure she has been undercharged. Isn't that just the cutest thing? And doesn't that send a wonderful message? Turn around and ask the clerk for an explanation? Don't be silly! How the chain could have authorized such a reprehensible ad is incomprehensible to me.
Haven't paid your credit card bill in months? Knowingly digging yourself deeper and deeper in debt every day?Totally financially irresponsible? Hey, don't worry about it! Why bother trying to cut back on spending? File for bankruptcy! (I realize, of course, that there are people who legitimately file for bankruptcy as a last resort, and I am not speaking of them.) Easy as pi. Screw the companies to whom the money is legitimately owed. They can afford it. And anyone who thinks companies do not engage in various forms of cheating their customers lives in a fantasy world.
Every night TV carries countless ads featuring people (usually couples) smiling smugly and announcing how "We owed $73,000 in unpaid back taxes, and thanks to Screwemall & Sons, we paid only $3.17!" Way to go! Now get out there and start spending more money you don't have.
Making the case against cheating is not easy, since none of us is an angel, and cheating seems to be a part of human nature. We all do it at one time or another. The problem lies in the degree of and frequency with which we cheat. For perhaps, being charitable, most people, cheating is an occasional thing involving only relatively trivial matters. But there seem to be an exponentially-growing number of people for whom cheating is a way of life and taking advantage of others an assumptive right.
The ubiquitous "but everyone else does it" excuse can be countered with by simple fact that "you are not everyone else." That "everyone else does" something does not make that something right. It is the very complexity of life, the easily blurred lines between right and wrong, that adds to the problem. For example, a good case could be made for cheating in cases where total honesty would somehow be a sincere deprivation...a needy mother not returning $5 overage in change at the grocery store, for example. But even then, though it might be eminently understandable, it would still, at bottom, be wrong.
In the end, cheating, like so much else in life, is a matter of degree, of awareness, and of intent, and the greater each of these elements, the more reprehensible it becomes. Each of us is responsible, ultimately, for ourselves and, in the matter of how much cheating we accept, not only in others but in ourselves, it is just one more indication of our true worth as human beings.
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.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Hype
Have you noticed how ours is increasingly a culture of superlatives? Nothing is simply "good" anymore--it's "marvelous"/"amazing"/"stupendous"/"incredible." And even in punctuation, the old standby sentence-ending "period" is going the way of the dinosaur, being replaced by the exclamation point, often in multiples. TV pitchmen no longer speak, they shout, apparently in the hopes that you won't realize that they are saying absolutely nothing. And speaking as rapidly as possible in a frenzied "Run! Save yourself!" tone is designed to create immediate reaction, not thought.
Movie trailers, especially for action films, take the opposite tack: narrators are chosen for their ability to convey ultimate masculinity and authority and each word is uttered as though it were coming from a burning bush.
They somehow feel that screaming at a machine-gun pace will sweep you up in the excitement and make you overlook the fact that they are in fact saying very little of substance. Billy Mays, the recently deceased TV pitchman, drove me absolutely to distraction. I found him unbearably annoying. Yet he became a multi-millionaire, which says something of the influence my opinions have upon the general public.
The trouble with superlatives...well, one of the many troubles with them...is that like a medicine devised to counter the strains of a virus, the virus mutates in response to the medicine to the point where what was once good enough to do the job is no longer effective. So a stronger medication is used, which in turn loses its effectiveness, necessitating a still stronger....well, you get the picture. Words to describe the condition of being adequate or pleasant or good lose their potency, to be replaced with stronger adjectives. The intensity of the delivery of the message is also ramped up.
For many years, any minor change made in a product was touted as "New & Improved" no matter if it was merely a change in the typeface used on the box the product came in. "New & Improved" covered a multitude of purposes, often masking the fact that the "New & Improved" product was now in fact smaller and more expensive than the old one. It always amused me, even as a kid, that as soon as the New & Improved version came out, the advertisers implied that the older version was worthless, even though they'd spent years touting how wonderful it was.
A hamburger is no longer a hamburger. It is a Super-Deluxe Scrum-Diddyiscious Monstro Burger Supreme, "piled high" (sandwiches are now always "piled high" with the freshest possible delectable ingredients hand chosen by gourmet chefs). Lordy, even cat food is described in terms one would expect to find on the menu of a five-star restaurant.
When is the last time you saw an ad for a good movie? No, movies are always the most spectacular extravaganzas ever put on film. You know this because, even though the film or TV show hasn't even aired yet, you are assured that "everyone" is talking about it. Well, excuse me, but I'm part of "everyone", and I'm not talking about it, and I don't know of anyone who is.
Promotion is fine, but there's got to be a line drawn somewhere. Can't we go back to calling a spade a spade rather than a Spectaculo X-980 Super-Colossal Jumbo Earthmover?
Sigh.
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.
Movie trailers, especially for action films, take the opposite tack: narrators are chosen for their ability to convey ultimate masculinity and authority and each word is uttered as though it were coming from a burning bush.
They somehow feel that screaming at a machine-gun pace will sweep you up in the excitement and make you overlook the fact that they are in fact saying very little of substance. Billy Mays, the recently deceased TV pitchman, drove me absolutely to distraction. I found him unbearably annoying. Yet he became a multi-millionaire, which says something of the influence my opinions have upon the general public.
The trouble with superlatives...well, one of the many troubles with them...is that like a medicine devised to counter the strains of a virus, the virus mutates in response to the medicine to the point where what was once good enough to do the job is no longer effective. So a stronger medication is used, which in turn loses its effectiveness, necessitating a still stronger....well, you get the picture. Words to describe the condition of being adequate or pleasant or good lose their potency, to be replaced with stronger adjectives. The intensity of the delivery of the message is also ramped up.
For many years, any minor change made in a product was touted as "New & Improved" no matter if it was merely a change in the typeface used on the box the product came in. "New & Improved" covered a multitude of purposes, often masking the fact that the "New & Improved" product was now in fact smaller and more expensive than the old one. It always amused me, even as a kid, that as soon as the New & Improved version came out, the advertisers implied that the older version was worthless, even though they'd spent years touting how wonderful it was.
A hamburger is no longer a hamburger. It is a Super-Deluxe Scrum-Diddyiscious Monstro Burger Supreme, "piled high" (sandwiches are now always "piled high" with the freshest possible delectable ingredients hand chosen by gourmet chefs). Lordy, even cat food is described in terms one would expect to find on the menu of a five-star restaurant.
When is the last time you saw an ad for a good movie? No, movies are always the most spectacular extravaganzas ever put on film. You know this because, even though the film or TV show hasn't even aired yet, you are assured that "everyone" is talking about it. Well, excuse me, but I'm part of "everyone", and I'm not talking about it, and I don't know of anyone who is.
Promotion is fine, but there's got to be a line drawn somewhere. Can't we go back to calling a spade a spade rather than a Spectaculo X-980 Super-Colossal Jumbo Earthmover?
Sigh.
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.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
"Me" and "Them"
I became a writer partly because of my inability to convey, when speaking, the thoughts I want to convey in the way I want to convey them. Words are no longer out of my mouth than I wish I'd reworded what I just said, or added something, or not said something at all. Writing allows a time buffer. I can write something down, look at it carefully to see if I said it the way I wanted to say it, and make whatever changes are necessary.
This, of course, is in an ideal world. Even in writing, I tend to be in such a rush to get things out that I don't take the time I should to make sure I'm making any sense.
Far too frequently, in my desire to make a point or to find the right way to say what I want to say, I end up stumbling all over myself, walking into walls or opening doors to a brick wall. I had that problem after I had written most of this blog and then went back to see if it made any sense. It didn't. At least not much.
The intent of the blog was/is to demonstrate the fact that the complexities of our language too often hinder clarity, and that there are some basic concepts which can hardly be explained in words at all.
I began by pondering the difficulties between the elemental concepts of "I/me", "you," "them/they."
All my life I have been painfully aware that there is me, and then there's everybody else in the world. I am in fact outnumbered seven-billion-or-so-and-counting to one. (Go, Breeders!)
The problem comes in fully recognizing the fact that every other human on the planet is, to him- or herself, an "I", facing seven-billion-or-so-and-counting to one odds. Giving that idea serious thought can easily boggle the mind if dwelt on at any length.
The fact is there is only one person in the entire world truly qualified to use the words "me," "myself," and "I," and that is the individual using them.
I'm not quite sure where the assumption that life is supposed to be easy came from, though I suspect it derived from the fact that we view life through a perspective of "me" and "everyone else." "I" constantly find myself caught up in one Wagnerian tempest after another, while watching "everyone else" sail effortlessly through calm seas. So, from my perspective, life is easy for everyone but me.
From the perspective of "I", "everyone else" appears to somehow be members of a gigantic club to which "I" do not belong. "I" looks around at the seven billion "you,"s, "them"s and "they"s and, not surprisingly, feel totally surrounded, overwhelmed, and hopelessly intimidated. There is the inescapable assumption that all those "you"s are privy to an infinite number of things of which "I/me" have been deprived.
This opinion is in fact justified by the fact that "I" am an individual in effect dining alone whereas "they" are a collective, a pot-luck wherein each one brings something slightly different to the table.
Everyone else seems to go through life with astonishing ease. "They" don't make the stupid mistakes "I" make. "They" almost never get frustrated over little things, or snap at someone who doesn't deserve to be snapped at, or say or do stupid and embarrassing things they would give anything in the world to unsay or undo. In short, "they" have mastered the rules of the game of life which are written in some alien language "I" can never hope to read, let alone translate. "They" always seem to be able to cope with almost any given situation with absolute ease and are possessed of a poise which has always escaped "I/me." "They" have an absolutely wonderful time at any gathering. "They" completely understand everything that is going on. "They" sing and dance and share "you" jokes and stories which too often confuse or dumbfound "I/me."
Fortunately, there are two wonderful words which provide a form of solace, bridge the gap between
"I/me" and "you/them/they" and provide reassurance that "I/me" might not be quite as isolated as it seems. The words are "us" and "we," and the world would be a far better place if more people used them for the general good.
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.
This, of course, is in an ideal world. Even in writing, I tend to be in such a rush to get things out that I don't take the time I should to make sure I'm making any sense.
Far too frequently, in my desire to make a point or to find the right way to say what I want to say, I end up stumbling all over myself, walking into walls or opening doors to a brick wall. I had that problem after I had written most of this blog and then went back to see if it made any sense. It didn't. At least not much.
The intent of the blog was/is to demonstrate the fact that the complexities of our language too often hinder clarity, and that there are some basic concepts which can hardly be explained in words at all.
I began by pondering the difficulties between the elemental concepts of "I/me", "you," "them/they."
All my life I have been painfully aware that there is me, and then there's everybody else in the world. I am in fact outnumbered seven-billion-or-so-and-counting to one. (Go, Breeders!)
The problem comes in fully recognizing the fact that every other human on the planet is, to him- or herself, an "I", facing seven-billion-or-so-and-counting to one odds. Giving that idea serious thought can easily boggle the mind if dwelt on at any length.
The fact is there is only one person in the entire world truly qualified to use the words "me," "myself," and "I," and that is the individual using them.
I'm not quite sure where the assumption that life is supposed to be easy came from, though I suspect it derived from the fact that we view life through a perspective of "me" and "everyone else." "I" constantly find myself caught up in one Wagnerian tempest after another, while watching "everyone else" sail effortlessly through calm seas. So, from my perspective, life is easy for everyone but me.
From the perspective of "I", "everyone else" appears to somehow be members of a gigantic club to which "I" do not belong. "I" looks around at the seven billion "you,"s, "them"s and "they"s and, not surprisingly, feel totally surrounded, overwhelmed, and hopelessly intimidated. There is the inescapable assumption that all those "you"s are privy to an infinite number of things of which "I/me" have been deprived.
This opinion is in fact justified by the fact that "I" am an individual in effect dining alone whereas "they" are a collective, a pot-luck wherein each one brings something slightly different to the table.
Everyone else seems to go through life with astonishing ease. "They" don't make the stupid mistakes "I" make. "They" almost never get frustrated over little things, or snap at someone who doesn't deserve to be snapped at, or say or do stupid and embarrassing things they would give anything in the world to unsay or undo. In short, "they" have mastered the rules of the game of life which are written in some alien language "I" can never hope to read, let alone translate. "They" always seem to be able to cope with almost any given situation with absolute ease and are possessed of a poise which has always escaped "I/me." "They" have an absolutely wonderful time at any gathering. "They" completely understand everything that is going on. "They" sing and dance and share "you" jokes and stories which too often confuse or dumbfound "I/me."
Fortunately, there are two wonderful words which provide a form of solace, bridge the gap between
"I/me" and "you/them/they" and provide reassurance that "I/me" might not be quite as isolated as it seems. The words are "us" and "we," and the world would be a far better place if more people used them for the general good.
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.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Validation
One of the most basic and overlooked of all human needs is the need for validation--the reassurance of others that we not only exist but have value as human beings. We never outgrow our need for consideration, for courtesy, for friendship, for praise, all of which show us that we do belong to our race.
A tv program I once saw, in which an experiment was conducted on young monkeys, sickens and saddens me to this day. In the experiment, very young monkeys were taken from their mothers and confined in a cage with a wire contraption resembling an adult monkey. To watch the babies try to cuddle, to get some attention from the artificial monkey was devastating. And when later, a cloth monkey was put into the baby's cage, I actually cried to see its reaction. Yet still, no matter how hard the baby tried, it got no response. Needless to say, those babies were emotionally crippled for life. The same, it is sad to say, is true of humans. Babies not held, not cradled, not physically touched or talked to lead lonely, dysfunctional lives.
But to one degree or another, even those of us who have not been deprived of normal human interaction still require validation from others. Some of us (myself included, I readily admit) need more than others. The lower the individual's opinion of his/her self-worth, the more important validation from others becomes.
Children are notoriously needy of praise and reassurance. They're trying to find their way in a strange world, constantly bombarded by things they do not understand. Validation from friends and family makes the transition infinitely easier.
The same is true of many adults, as well. As a writer, nothing delights me more than to hear from a reader who likes what I have written. I become little-boy delighted to think that I have pleased someone, and that I may not be quite as bad as I far too often think of myself as being. I tend to react very much like Sally Field did when she said, during her Oscar acceptance speech: "You like me! You really like me!"
Effusive praise and fawning are self-serving, patently false, and off-putting. But like so many things in life, small, spontaneous gestures are often priceless. Think back to the last time you received an unexpected form of validation, and how it made you feel. A smile, a casual compliment, even a simple (but sincere) question costs the instigator nothing, but can mean the world to the recipient. Thoughtful words and gestures are the coals which, in the words of the old saying, "warm the cockles of the heart."
Why we so frequently overlook the value of validation to others--even when we're aware of how it makes us feel--is a puzzle. Part of the reason is that we tend to take our friendships or admiration for someone for granted. "Oh, he/she knows how I feel." Well, no, he/she may not know, and even they do, it's nice to hear. Any acknowledgement that you value another person can do wonders and on occasion can be lifesaving.
I began this blog on a heavy note and will end it with another, not to depress you, but to provoke thought. I've told the story before of the young man who committed suicide by jumping from the Golden Gate bridge. He left a note in his apartment describing his feelings of loneliness and lack of worth. He was undecided about going through with the suicide even as he wrote the note, saying "I am now going to walk to the bridge. If even one person smiles at me or acknowledges my existence, I'll come back home."
He did not come home.
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 tv program I once saw, in which an experiment was conducted on young monkeys, sickens and saddens me to this day. In the experiment, very young monkeys were taken from their mothers and confined in a cage with a wire contraption resembling an adult monkey. To watch the babies try to cuddle, to get some attention from the artificial monkey was devastating. And when later, a cloth monkey was put into the baby's cage, I actually cried to see its reaction. Yet still, no matter how hard the baby tried, it got no response. Needless to say, those babies were emotionally crippled for life. The same, it is sad to say, is true of humans. Babies not held, not cradled, not physically touched or talked to lead lonely, dysfunctional lives.
But to one degree or another, even those of us who have not been deprived of normal human interaction still require validation from others. Some of us (myself included, I readily admit) need more than others. The lower the individual's opinion of his/her self-worth, the more important validation from others becomes.
Children are notoriously needy of praise and reassurance. They're trying to find their way in a strange world, constantly bombarded by things they do not understand. Validation from friends and family makes the transition infinitely easier.
The same is true of many adults, as well. As a writer, nothing delights me more than to hear from a reader who likes what I have written. I become little-boy delighted to think that I have pleased someone, and that I may not be quite as bad as I far too often think of myself as being. I tend to react very much like Sally Field did when she said, during her Oscar acceptance speech: "You like me! You really like me!"
Effusive praise and fawning are self-serving, patently false, and off-putting. But like so many things in life, small, spontaneous gestures are often priceless. Think back to the last time you received an unexpected form of validation, and how it made you feel. A smile, a casual compliment, even a simple (but sincere) question costs the instigator nothing, but can mean the world to the recipient. Thoughtful words and gestures are the coals which, in the words of the old saying, "warm the cockles of the heart."
Why we so frequently overlook the value of validation to others--even when we're aware of how it makes us feel--is a puzzle. Part of the reason is that we tend to take our friendships or admiration for someone for granted. "Oh, he/she knows how I feel." Well, no, he/she may not know, and even they do, it's nice to hear. Any acknowledgement that you value another person can do wonders and on occasion can be lifesaving.
I began this blog on a heavy note and will end it with another, not to depress you, but to provoke thought. I've told the story before of the young man who committed suicide by jumping from the Golden Gate bridge. He left a note in his apartment describing his feelings of loneliness and lack of worth. He was undecided about going through with the suicide even as he wrote the note, saying "I am now going to walk to the bridge. If even one person smiles at me or acknowledges my existence, I'll come back home."
He did not come home.
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.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Confessions
I never liked me very much. I still don’t, at times, to the point that I occasionally become so furious with myself over my perceived shortcomings—like my inability to comprehend the workings of cyberspace—that I quite literally beside myself with rage. Like many people, I suspect, I’m a study in contradictions. On the one hand, I’m often embarrassingly needy: a sponge for any drop of reassurance or praise (probably one of the underlying reasons I write). Yet on those occasions when someone is kind enough to offer praise, I truly don’t know how to react, and I feel guilty for so readily accepting it while too seldom giving it. For someone with insecurities deeper than most coal mines, I am astonishingly egocentric…although I”ve only recently come to realize that egocentrism is quite different from egotism.
I started out, not surprisingly, as a pretty insecure kid, which was probably nobody’s fault but my own. I can’t blame my parents…they all but worshiped me, though the messages they—especially my dad—were trying to send me were not necessarily the messages I was receiving. Children simply do not realize that their parents are individual human beings with insecurities and problems of their own. So when my dad, who had spent some time in an orphanage when his own parents divorced, once, out of his own frustrations when I had been particularly incorrigible, threaten to send me to an orphanage to see how I liked it, I was sure he meant it. Of course he didn’t, but what do kids know?
I was skinny, and almost painfully shy…though when playing with the neighborhood kids, I always had to be the boss. I don’t know how much a factor my awareness of being very different from other boys had to do with it. I was far too young to know what “gay” meant, but I knew from the moment I had what I consider to be my first sexual experimentation with another boy when I was five, that whatever that feeling represented, it would be with me for the rest of my life. And that belief was cemented, a year or two later during a game of “you show me yours and I’ll show you mine” with a girl classmate, I was totally revolted to realize just how different boys and girls were. I vastly preferred boys, thank you.
Things weren’t materially improved by the fact that I was also what is known as a “motor moron.” I had absolutely no eye-hand coordination when it came to catching a ball or swinging a bat. My poor, dear dad so wanted me to share his love of sports, and since I did not, I always thought…wrongly…that I was a great disappointment to him. Though I love to watch people …okay, mostly men…dance,I was much too self-conscious to ever do it myself. It was, in fact, kindly suggested by the instructor, after two or three lessons in an Arthur Murray Dance Studio class to which I had turned in desperation, that I was wasting my parents’ money. Years later, in dance bars in Los Angeles, friends would do their best to pry me away from the bar and get out on the floor. “Nobody’s going to notice you!” they’d say. And I would always reply: “I’ll notice me,” and refuse to go, though I ached to watch others move so beautifully, smoothly, and effortlessly.
And therein lies probably the most basic problem of my life: I expect myself to be perfect in everything and refuse to accept the fact that I am not. The fact that everyone else falls short of perfection matters not in the least. They’re allowed to have faults. I am not.
Physically, I always thought of myself as plain at best and downright unattractive at worst; it is only now, as I look back on old photos, that I realize that I in fact was not a runner-up in a Mr. Quasimodo contest, and wish I could go back in time to tell myself so. But it is far too late to do anything about it now.
And if you should by any chance see even the tiniest reflection of yourself in any of the above, I am pleased, for it underscores the purpose of this entire blog: the idea that as strong as the evidence may be to the contrary, none of us is truly alone.
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.
I started out, not surprisingly, as a pretty insecure kid, which was probably nobody’s fault but my own. I can’t blame my parents…they all but worshiped me, though the messages they—especially my dad—were trying to send me were not necessarily the messages I was receiving. Children simply do not realize that their parents are individual human beings with insecurities and problems of their own. So when my dad, who had spent some time in an orphanage when his own parents divorced, once, out of his own frustrations when I had been particularly incorrigible, threaten to send me to an orphanage to see how I liked it, I was sure he meant it. Of course he didn’t, but what do kids know?
I was skinny, and almost painfully shy…though when playing with the neighborhood kids, I always had to be the boss. I don’t know how much a factor my awareness of being very different from other boys had to do with it. I was far too young to know what “gay” meant, but I knew from the moment I had what I consider to be my first sexual experimentation with another boy when I was five, that whatever that feeling represented, it would be with me for the rest of my life. And that belief was cemented, a year or two later during a game of “you show me yours and I’ll show you mine” with a girl classmate, I was totally revolted to realize just how different boys and girls were. I vastly preferred boys, thank you.
Things weren’t materially improved by the fact that I was also what is known as a “motor moron.” I had absolutely no eye-hand coordination when it came to catching a ball or swinging a bat. My poor, dear dad so wanted me to share his love of sports, and since I did not, I always thought…wrongly…that I was a great disappointment to him. Though I love to watch people …okay, mostly men…dance,I was much too self-conscious to ever do it myself. It was, in fact, kindly suggested by the instructor, after two or three lessons in an Arthur Murray Dance Studio class to which I had turned in desperation, that I was wasting my parents’ money. Years later, in dance bars in Los Angeles, friends would do their best to pry me away from the bar and get out on the floor. “Nobody’s going to notice you!” they’d say. And I would always reply: “I’ll notice me,” and refuse to go, though I ached to watch others move so beautifully, smoothly, and effortlessly.
And therein lies probably the most basic problem of my life: I expect myself to be perfect in everything and refuse to accept the fact that I am not. The fact that everyone else falls short of perfection matters not in the least. They’re allowed to have faults. I am not.
Physically, I always thought of myself as plain at best and downright unattractive at worst; it is only now, as I look back on old photos, that I realize that I in fact was not a runner-up in a Mr. Quasimodo contest, and wish I could go back in time to tell myself so. But it is far too late to do anything about it now.
And if you should by any chance see even the tiniest reflection of yourself in any of the above, I am pleased, for it underscores the purpose of this entire blog: the idea that as strong as the evidence may be to the contrary, none of us is truly alone.
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.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Time Travel and Jim Crow
The recent resurgence of talk about race in America reminded me that in contemplating how far we have yet to go to achieve total racial harmony, we too often tend not to fully appreciate just how far we've come.
Here’s an excerpt from my "A World Ago" blog (http/www.doriengrey.blogspot.com)--a letter I wrote to my parents as a 20-year-old white Naval Aviation Cadet from the North returning to Pensacola, Florida after a three-day leave to New Orleans. Keep in mind that even the words used would never be considered today, and I was a bit shocked to find one note of unintentional patronization when referring to a child on a bus.
September 11, 1954
I’ve met a very interesting character down south. His name is Jim Crow. He is a barefooted little girl, an old man in coveralls, a well-dressed man in a business suit. I had a nodding acquaintance with him the first day I arrived in Pensacola and rode a city bus. A sign says “WHITE seat from front to rear of coach—colored seat from rear to front of coach—Florida Law.” He is so quiet at times, you are scarcely aware he exists. At other times, he is a vicious, despicable animal.
As I said, at times you aren’t even aware he is around, until suddenly it dawns on you that he is conspicuous in his absence. It came to me in a drugstore, when two well-dressed Negro women came to the fountain. Though there were plenty of empty seats, they stood at the end of the counter and asked for two milkshakes, which the counterman made and gave to them in covered paper cartons. They disappeared then—I don’t know where they went, but they were gone.
It was then I began noticing—the bus, trains, and plane depots with their “Colored Waiting Room”, the restaurants, the theaters (“Colored Entrance” via an outside fire escape to the balcony), the “For Colored Only” taverns (in the slum parts of town, of course). It is most apparent, however, on the transportation systems.
Coming back to downtown New Orleans from the amusement park, Pontchatrain Beach, I was almost the only person on the bus as it started back from the end of its run. I sat, as I usually do, about even with the back door. The silver hand-rails along the back of each seat, I noticed, had two holes drilled in the top. I gave it no notice until six Negro teen-aged boys got on the bus. They came to the rear and picked up a wooden sign from the back seat and placed it on the hand rail of the seat across from me. It said “For Colored Only.”
On the bus from Mobile to Pensacola, I sat alone in a seat for two while five Negroes stood in the aisles. A mother and three small children got on the bus; the kids were cute as only colored children can be. One was a little girl about three, in bare feet, carrying a huge handbag. She came grinning down the aisle with her two brothers, who were carrying large bags of groceries. After a few minutes, the little girl, who hadn’t yet learned that Negroes must stand if whites sit, started to crawl up onto the seat next to me. The mother scolded her and started to pull her off the seat, but I said if she wanted to sit there, she was perfectly welcome to. The mother was evidently surprised, and said “thank you,” and the little girl sat clutching the handbag and grinned at me as the bus roared on….
Back in Pensacola, a Negro Marine was the only colored person on the bus back to the base. He sat in one of the side seats like we have at home. Five or six white kids, about ten to fifteen, got on and stood clustered up around the back door. There were a lot of empty seats—the side seat opposite the Marine, and the entire back seat. The bus driver stopped the bus and said “Would you colored folks mind sitting in the back so these people can sit down.”
I pity the Negro sailors, marines and Navcads stationed here. They can live with us, eat with us, and sleep with us, but they cannot ride a public bus with us.
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.
Here’s an excerpt from my "A World Ago" blog (http/www.doriengrey.blogspot.com)--a letter I wrote to my parents as a 20-year-old white Naval Aviation Cadet from the North returning to Pensacola, Florida after a three-day leave to New Orleans. Keep in mind that even the words used would never be considered today, and I was a bit shocked to find one note of unintentional patronization when referring to a child on a bus.
September 11, 1954
I’ve met a very interesting character down south. His name is Jim Crow. He is a barefooted little girl, an old man in coveralls, a well-dressed man in a business suit. I had a nodding acquaintance with him the first day I arrived in Pensacola and rode a city bus. A sign says “WHITE seat from front to rear of coach—colored seat from rear to front of coach—Florida Law.” He is so quiet at times, you are scarcely aware he exists. At other times, he is a vicious, despicable animal.
As I said, at times you aren’t even aware he is around, until suddenly it dawns on you that he is conspicuous in his absence. It came to me in a drugstore, when two well-dressed Negro women came to the fountain. Though there were plenty of empty seats, they stood at the end of the counter and asked for two milkshakes, which the counterman made and gave to them in covered paper cartons. They disappeared then—I don’t know where they went, but they were gone.
It was then I began noticing—the bus, trains, and plane depots with their “Colored Waiting Room”, the restaurants, the theaters (“Colored Entrance” via an outside fire escape to the balcony), the “For Colored Only” taverns (in the slum parts of town, of course). It is most apparent, however, on the transportation systems.
Coming back to downtown New Orleans from the amusement park, Pontchatrain Beach, I was almost the only person on the bus as it started back from the end of its run. I sat, as I usually do, about even with the back door. The silver hand-rails along the back of each seat, I noticed, had two holes drilled in the top. I gave it no notice until six Negro teen-aged boys got on the bus. They came to the rear and picked up a wooden sign from the back seat and placed it on the hand rail of the seat across from me. It said “For Colored Only.”
On the bus from Mobile to Pensacola, I sat alone in a seat for two while five Negroes stood in the aisles. A mother and three small children got on the bus; the kids were cute as only colored children can be. One was a little girl about three, in bare feet, carrying a huge handbag. She came grinning down the aisle with her two brothers, who were carrying large bags of groceries. After a few minutes, the little girl, who hadn’t yet learned that Negroes must stand if whites sit, started to crawl up onto the seat next to me. The mother scolded her and started to pull her off the seat, but I said if she wanted to sit there, she was perfectly welcome to. The mother was evidently surprised, and said “thank you,” and the little girl sat clutching the handbag and grinned at me as the bus roared on….
Back in Pensacola, a Negro Marine was the only colored person on the bus back to the base. He sat in one of the side seats like we have at home. Five or six white kids, about ten to fifteen, got on and stood clustered up around the back door. There were a lot of empty seats—the side seat opposite the Marine, and the entire back seat. The bus driver stopped the bus and said “Would you colored folks mind sitting in the back so these people can sit down.”
I pity the Negro sailors, marines and Navcads stationed here. They can live with us, eat with us, and sleep with us, but they cannot ride a public bus with us.
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.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Spam Marches On!
Let's face it: some people are addicted to drugs, some to alcohol. I'm addicted to the opening words of messages in my Spam bin. I simply cannot resist my knee-jerk responses. Here is yet another sampling of the 24,000 or so most recently received slices of spam and my Pavlov's Dogs responses.
"Are you sure you ready?" (To hit "Delete?" Yes, I sure.)
"What's your district?" (I'm not sure. What's your I.Q.?)
"Remember our conversation?" (Why sure I do. You were trying to sell me some piece of crap and I told you to get lost.)
"Whasup, pal? -- increase your tool performance....." (Nothin' much, buddy. And are you referring to my allen wrench or my circular saw?)
"Can't find your tape: sorry!" (Didn't send it. Sorry.)
"you are beautiful because we care" (And I'd be ugly-as-sin if you didn't?)
"Accidentally sent you money." (Accidentally spent it.)
"~NAME~Did You Get The Info I Sent Yesterday? - Hi ~NAME~, It's ~OWNERFIRSTNAME~here. Did you get...." (It's obvious you just bought your Spammer's Franchise, but let me give you a clue: where it says "name," you're supposed to put in someone's name--preferably the person to whom you're sending the spam. And where it says "ownerfirstname" you're supposed to put in your name or a pretend name! Stupidity only goes so far...even for you.)
"Where did you leave car?" (Left car in parking lot. Why you care?)
"Let's go fishing!" (Let's not. You go on without me. Take the cast-iron canoe.)
"You're killing me!" (No, but I won't say the idea hasn't occurred to me.)
"Duuuuude, I'm high!" (Duuuuude, I don't give a crap.)
"Instant e-lottery! Win a girl!" (Excuse me? Could I have a puppy instead?)
"Who am I?" (I don't know, and I truly, truly don't care.)
From Ruthie: "Hello--rancid spark petal dace! biffin planet....." (You pretty much summed it up with "rancid", Ruthie.)
"Give your husband that pilules and you'll be shocked with a passion he will show!" (Yessirree, that pilules does it every time. And you talk English real good!)
From Linda: "Vulcanizer for your hot-stick! Protrude deeper...." (Well, Linda, that was a beautiful mental picture you painted. And now that I have my projectile vomiting under control how, may I ask, does one "protrude deeper"?....On second thought, never mind.)
"And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat - He has gone to fish, for his Aunt Jobiska's..." (Charming! Utterly charming! And Bullshit. Utter Bullshit.)
Sigh.
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.
"Are you sure you ready?" (To hit "Delete?" Yes, I sure.)
"What's your district?" (I'm not sure. What's your I.Q.?)
"Remember our conversation?" (Why sure I do. You were trying to sell me some piece of crap and I told you to get lost.)
"Whasup, pal? -- increase your tool performance....." (Nothin' much, buddy. And are you referring to my allen wrench or my circular saw?)
"Can't find your tape: sorry!" (Didn't send it. Sorry.)
"you are beautiful because we care" (And I'd be ugly-as-sin if you didn't?)
"Accidentally sent you money." (Accidentally spent it.)
"~NAME~Did You Get The Info I Sent Yesterday? - Hi ~NAME~, It's ~OWNERFIRSTNAME~here. Did you get...." (It's obvious you just bought your Spammer's Franchise, but let me give you a clue: where it says "name," you're supposed to put in someone's name--preferably the person to whom you're sending the spam. And where it says "ownerfirstname" you're supposed to put in your name or a pretend name! Stupidity only goes so far...even for you.)
"Where did you leave car?" (Left car in parking lot. Why you care?)
"Let's go fishing!" (Let's not. You go on without me. Take the cast-iron canoe.)
"You're killing me!" (No, but I won't say the idea hasn't occurred to me.)
"Duuuuude, I'm high!" (Duuuuude, I don't give a crap.)
"Instant e-lottery! Win a girl!" (Excuse me? Could I have a puppy instead?)
"Who am I?" (I don't know, and I truly, truly don't care.)
From Ruthie: "Hello--rancid spark petal dace! biffin planet....." (You pretty much summed it up with "rancid", Ruthie.)
"Give your husband that pilules and you'll be shocked with a passion he will show!" (Yessirree, that pilules does it every time. And you talk English real good!)
From Linda: "Vulcanizer for your hot-stick! Protrude deeper...." (Well, Linda, that was a beautiful mental picture you painted. And now that I have my projectile vomiting under control how, may I ask, does one "protrude deeper"?....On second thought, never mind.)
"And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat - He has gone to fish, for his Aunt Jobiska's..." (Charming! Utterly charming! And Bullshit. Utter Bullshit.)
Sigh.
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.
Monday, August 03, 2009
Bureaucracies
Oh, dear Lord, how I love bureaucracies!
Yesterday, I mailed a book to a friend. I carefully put on more postage than I knew it needed, and dropped it in my corner mailbox. I found it in my own mailbox today, covered with important looking stickers totally obscuring the address of the person I sent it to. A large blue label ("Important Customer Information") informed me that since the book weighed a gnat's eyelash more than 13 ounces, it was obviously a bomb which I must hand-deliver to my nearest (6 blocks away) friendly post office for a careful inspection. That getting to the post office and standing in an endless line for more than half an hour in order to see the one working clerk might be something of an inconvenience of course matters not one whit to the U.S. Postal Service or its mighty minions. (Paraphrasing Lily Tomlin's character Ernestine yet again: "We don't care. We don't have to. We're the Post Office!")
If you will allow a very slight digression, although those who know me know I never digress, I have long held the belief that one reason why postal rates continue to go up, other than the fact that no one can stop them, is that they need the extra money to buy "This Window Closed" signs.
Well, let's make that two digressions: there is a huge, ornate old post office a mile or so away. You enter through giant double metal doors to find yourself in a crudely partitioned-off room the size of a bedroom closet. You cannot buy stamps there. You cannot mail a package or a letter there. You can cram yourself into the claustrophobic space for the requisite half hour wait for the single clerk who takes every disappearance behind a swinging door to pick up something as an excuse for another coffee break and a couple of rounds of whist. You can hear people laughing and singing behind the door, but you of course never see them.
Okay. Where was I? Oh, yes, bureaucracies. It's not just the U.S. Postal Service (whoever added the word "Service" had a marvelous sense of irony); it is any city, county, state, or federal agency charged with dealing with the public. They must carefully screen every applicant for employment and select only those with a demonstrable streak of megalomania. For the minute a person becomes an employee of such an agency and is placed in a position of actually talking to us common folk, they cease being Joe or Josephine Schmeltzman and become the physical incarnation of the bureaucracy by which they are employed.
To be fair, one does occasionally encounter a pleasant, helpful employee, just as one occasionally encounters a cashew in a jar of peanuts, but the general rule of thumb seems to be the larger the organization, the more imperious the employees.
Though I have not seen the Employees' Handbook by which rules they are required to adhere, I am quite sure a few of the more basic points include: 1) Never hurry. Never! Who cares if anyone in line is in a hurry? If you show weakness, they will attack! 2) Anyone caught smiling or wearing an expression of anything other than regal disdain during working hours will face six months unpaid suspension. 3) Demonstrating even the slightest bit of interest in the customer's problems is subject to immediate dismissal. 4) Any opportunity to step away from your counter is encouraged, and weekly prizes will be awarded to those who manage to stay away longest.
Sales clerks employed by any retail institution automatically assume the mantle of the institution itself, and since the institution has no interest whatever in the people shopping there (as long as they spend money), sales clerks are encouraged to adopt the same attitude ("I'm on the phone!"). Attending to a customer's needs is far less important than socialization with other clerks.
Bureaucracies are serious business, and don't you ever forget it. Civility, courtesy, smiling, "thank you" and any indication that the customer is an actual human being whose life has any value or meaning is routinely discouraged.
As Walt Kelly, creator of Pogo, so aptly put it, "I have met the enemy, and he is us."
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.
Yesterday, I mailed a book to a friend. I carefully put on more postage than I knew it needed, and dropped it in my corner mailbox. I found it in my own mailbox today, covered with important looking stickers totally obscuring the address of the person I sent it to. A large blue label ("Important Customer Information") informed me that since the book weighed a gnat's eyelash more than 13 ounces, it was obviously a bomb which I must hand-deliver to my nearest (6 blocks away) friendly post office for a careful inspection. That getting to the post office and standing in an endless line for more than half an hour in order to see the one working clerk might be something of an inconvenience of course matters not one whit to the U.S. Postal Service or its mighty minions. (Paraphrasing Lily Tomlin's character Ernestine yet again: "We don't care. We don't have to. We're the Post Office!")
If you will allow a very slight digression, although those who know me know I never digress, I have long held the belief that one reason why postal rates continue to go up, other than the fact that no one can stop them, is that they need the extra money to buy "This Window Closed" signs.
Well, let's make that two digressions: there is a huge, ornate old post office a mile or so away. You enter through giant double metal doors to find yourself in a crudely partitioned-off room the size of a bedroom closet. You cannot buy stamps there. You cannot mail a package or a letter there. You can cram yourself into the claustrophobic space for the requisite half hour wait for the single clerk who takes every disappearance behind a swinging door to pick up something as an excuse for another coffee break and a couple of rounds of whist. You can hear people laughing and singing behind the door, but you of course never see them.
Okay. Where was I? Oh, yes, bureaucracies. It's not just the U.S. Postal Service (whoever added the word "Service" had a marvelous sense of irony); it is any city, county, state, or federal agency charged with dealing with the public. They must carefully screen every applicant for employment and select only those with a demonstrable streak of megalomania. For the minute a person becomes an employee of such an agency and is placed in a position of actually talking to us common folk, they cease being Joe or Josephine Schmeltzman and become the physical incarnation of the bureaucracy by which they are employed.
To be fair, one does occasionally encounter a pleasant, helpful employee, just as one occasionally encounters a cashew in a jar of peanuts, but the general rule of thumb seems to be the larger the organization, the more imperious the employees.
Though I have not seen the Employees' Handbook by which rules they are required to adhere, I am quite sure a few of the more basic points include: 1) Never hurry. Never! Who cares if anyone in line is in a hurry? If you show weakness, they will attack! 2) Anyone caught smiling or wearing an expression of anything other than regal disdain during working hours will face six months unpaid suspension. 3) Demonstrating even the slightest bit of interest in the customer's problems is subject to immediate dismissal. 4) Any opportunity to step away from your counter is encouraged, and weekly prizes will be awarded to those who manage to stay away longest.
Sales clerks employed by any retail institution automatically assume the mantle of the institution itself, and since the institution has no interest whatever in the people shopping there (as long as they spend money), sales clerks are encouraged to adopt the same attitude ("I'm on the phone!"). Attending to a customer's needs is far less important than socialization with other clerks.
Bureaucracies are serious business, and don't you ever forget it. Civility, courtesy, smiling, "thank you" and any indication that the customer is an actual human being whose life has any value or meaning is routinely discouraged.
As Walt Kelly, creator of Pogo, so aptly put it, "I have met the enemy, and he is us."
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.
Friday, July 31, 2009
For Want of a Modem
This morning my computer's modem burned out, and I panicked. No internet access?! Cut off from the entire world! Isolated! Alone! No Twitter! No Facebook! No MySpace! No way of reaching out to the 243 sites and groups and untold numbers of people-I-have-never-met-and-never-will-meet but who have become integral parts of my daily existence. The end of the world! The end of civilization as we know it! How would I survive? Could life possibly be worth living without the internet?
Uh, well, after slapping myself sharply across the face, grabbing my own shoulders and shaking myself violently while yelling "Get a Grip!" the thought entered my mind that 30 years ago, I had never heard of a personal computer, let alone the internet. And I still have absolutely no idea of what real, practical purpose iPods and iPhones and Blackberries and texting and 3G and all those other things without which an increasing percentage of the world's population cannot apparently survive. I manage very well, thank you.
I do have a cell phone, because it is practical. I cannot send text messages, or take photos, or surf the web, or listen to music, or play games or read books with it, and I really don't want to. Oh, I know, I know....I might as well wear a sign around my neck saying what I already know: "Me Neanderthal. Me stupid."
And yet now I have become astonishingly dependent on my computer, not only for its primary (to me) purpose of making it far easier to write books, but as a way to try to convince large numbers of people to buy them once they are written, and to keep in almost instantaneous personal touch with friends around the world. Who takes the time to write letters anymore? (And no, we will not go into my opinion of the U.S. Postal Service.)
Before I got my first computer, I was perfectly happy with my IBM Selectric II, and before that with the portable little typewriter in its own little case my folks got me before I went off to college. They each had their own minor inconveniences and considerable advantages, and life went along very nicely with them. It all boils down to the fact that we don't miss what we don't even know exists. The mind boggles to consider all the toys and gadgets and utterly invaluable-to-existence devices are off there in the light fog of the future waiting to lure us further into technology's maw.
Why should kids learn to count? As long as they have access to a calculator, they don't need to. Of course, it did present certain problems, as in making change at the cash register at MacDonald's, but then computerized cash registers eliminated even that terribly difficult task. The horrifying fact is that technology, the purpose of which is to make our lives easier, is increasingly contributing to our stupefaction. The more technology does for us, the more we rely on it and the less we have to actually know ourselves. All we have to know is which buttons to push, rather like the chimps at the zoo who learn which lever to pull to get them a banana. What went into creating the machine which delivers the bananas, or how it really operates, or what the chimp might possibly do if the banana supply runs out is not something they need to bother their pretty little heads with.
There will always be people curious enough to want to know how things work, and why. But the vast majority of the population is more than happy to take the path of least resistance. Who cares where Ohio is? All I have to do is ask my GPS device to get me there. Sudan? Is that a country? Where is it? Who cares? I can look on Google for anything I might ever need to know about it.
A clip from the Jay Leno show had Jay asking a young man: "Who wrote Handel's Messiah?" The young man replied: "I don't read books." But you can bet your bottom dollar he can text 240 truncated words a minute on his Blackberry.
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.
Uh, well, after slapping myself sharply across the face, grabbing my own shoulders and shaking myself violently while yelling "Get a Grip!" the thought entered my mind that 30 years ago, I had never heard of a personal computer, let alone the internet. And I still have absolutely no idea of what real, practical purpose iPods and iPhones and Blackberries and texting and 3G and all those other things without which an increasing percentage of the world's population cannot apparently survive. I manage very well, thank you.
I do have a cell phone, because it is practical. I cannot send text messages, or take photos, or surf the web, or listen to music, or play games or read books with it, and I really don't want to. Oh, I know, I know....I might as well wear a sign around my neck saying what I already know: "Me Neanderthal. Me stupid."
And yet now I have become astonishingly dependent on my computer, not only for its primary (to me) purpose of making it far easier to write books, but as a way to try to convince large numbers of people to buy them once they are written, and to keep in almost instantaneous personal touch with friends around the world. Who takes the time to write letters anymore? (And no, we will not go into my opinion of the U.S. Postal Service.)
Before I got my first computer, I was perfectly happy with my IBM Selectric II, and before that with the portable little typewriter in its own little case my folks got me before I went off to college. They each had their own minor inconveniences and considerable advantages, and life went along very nicely with them. It all boils down to the fact that we don't miss what we don't even know exists. The mind boggles to consider all the toys and gadgets and utterly invaluable-to-existence devices are off there in the light fog of the future waiting to lure us further into technology's maw.
Why should kids learn to count? As long as they have access to a calculator, they don't need to. Of course, it did present certain problems, as in making change at the cash register at MacDonald's, but then computerized cash registers eliminated even that terribly difficult task. The horrifying fact is that technology, the purpose of which is to make our lives easier, is increasingly contributing to our stupefaction. The more technology does for us, the more we rely on it and the less we have to actually know ourselves. All we have to know is which buttons to push, rather like the chimps at the zoo who learn which lever to pull to get them a banana. What went into creating the machine which delivers the bananas, or how it really operates, or what the chimp might possibly do if the banana supply runs out is not something they need to bother their pretty little heads with.
There will always be people curious enough to want to know how things work, and why. But the vast majority of the population is more than happy to take the path of least resistance. Who cares where Ohio is? All I have to do is ask my GPS device to get me there. Sudan? Is that a country? Where is it? Who cares? I can look on Google for anything I might ever need to know about it.
A clip from the Jay Leno show had Jay asking a young man: "Who wrote Handel's Messiah?" The young man replied: "I don't read books." But you can bet your bottom dollar he can text 240 truncated words a minute on his Blackberry.
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.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Herd
I am frequently dismayed by seeing/hearing so many stories of passengers on a bus just sitting there while another passenger is attacked, or of someone being robbed or beaten on a crowded street while no one lifts a finger to help.
And yet, in a natural disaster, acts of incredible bravery and self sacrifice are common. How can we reconcile these two disparate reactions? Why, for all the many noble traits we possess as human beings, will we go out of our way to attempt to rescue someone from a burning building, or a natural disaster, yet refuse to come to the aid of someone threatened by other members of our own species? I would be fascinated to know why we react differently to dangers imposed by nature and those imposed by others of our own kind.
I think much of it has its roots in Man's earliest times on earth, when survival was everything, and on the fact that Man is indeed biologically as much an animal as is a Wildebeast or antelope. And just as the herd instinct is a protective reflex for them, so is it for us. Actually, when you think about it, it's very simple and very logical. The herd provides safety. Acting and reacting exactly the same as those around you make you less likely to be spotted by predators. The less distinguishable you are from those around you, and the closer you can get to the center of the herd, the safer you are. Conversely, the more you stand out, the more likely you are to be spotted by predators, and the greater potential danger you are in.
That primal part of our brain sees the person instigating an attack on another in a subway as a predator, which triggers the herd instinct: do not call attention to yourself. But in natural disasters, although the dangers to ourselves may be equally great, the fact that there is no identifiable predator to trigger the herd instinct allows our more noble motivations to prevail.
The herd instinct is not limited to obvious or direct threats, however. I did a blog not long ago comparing people who, for whatever reason, refuse to object to the objectionable to sheep, who are herd animals. They simply follow other sheep because it is both safer and easier than not doing it.
While it may be unkind of me to say, I have come to the conclusion that most people (thee and me excluded, of course) are sheep. Even with no threat of predators, they timidly stick together, follow wherever they are led, never ask questions, and have a very narrow range of interests or goals—and even their goals seem to come in neat, pre-packaged cubes. They live in pens with walls they have been told are there and therefore utterly believe in, though they cannot see them. They recognize doors, but if the doors are closed, assume they are closed for a reason and have little or no curiosity about what lies beyond, or any interest in making the effort to find out.
All human children are born children, not sheep. Yet is it coincidental that children are called “little lambs”? Children soon learn that to survive, to have friends, to be accepted by their peers, they must behave like everyone else behaves, believe what everyone else believes. And gradually they turn from human children into sheep, as their parents and relatives did before them. To be different is very unsheeplike, and punishable in any number of subtle and not-so-subtle ways, none of which is pleasant.
And of course, there are always predators. Human wolves lurk in the fields and forests of the internet as spam messages, as letters from Nigerian Barristers, as wonderfully unreal offers for wonderful things, and because sheep simply accept what they are told, it never occurs to them that the wolf even exists, or that they are the wolf’s next meal. Human wolves rob and lie and cheat with impunity because almost none of the sheep realizes what’s happening until it is too late, and those few who do realize something isn’t quite right are too…what word do I want?…oh, yes: sheepish…to do anything about it.
And what is the answer to the problem? How do we move away from the herd without being immediately attacked by predators? The first step lies in not only realizing but acting on the fact that while Man is an animal, he is not a sheep.
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.
And yet, in a natural disaster, acts of incredible bravery and self sacrifice are common. How can we reconcile these two disparate reactions? Why, for all the many noble traits we possess as human beings, will we go out of our way to attempt to rescue someone from a burning building, or a natural disaster, yet refuse to come to the aid of someone threatened by other members of our own species? I would be fascinated to know why we react differently to dangers imposed by nature and those imposed by others of our own kind.
I think much of it has its roots in Man's earliest times on earth, when survival was everything, and on the fact that Man is indeed biologically as much an animal as is a Wildebeast or antelope. And just as the herd instinct is a protective reflex for them, so is it for us. Actually, when you think about it, it's very simple and very logical. The herd provides safety. Acting and reacting exactly the same as those around you make you less likely to be spotted by predators. The less distinguishable you are from those around you, and the closer you can get to the center of the herd, the safer you are. Conversely, the more you stand out, the more likely you are to be spotted by predators, and the greater potential danger you are in.
That primal part of our brain sees the person instigating an attack on another in a subway as a predator, which triggers the herd instinct: do not call attention to yourself. But in natural disasters, although the dangers to ourselves may be equally great, the fact that there is no identifiable predator to trigger the herd instinct allows our more noble motivations to prevail.
The herd instinct is not limited to obvious or direct threats, however. I did a blog not long ago comparing people who, for whatever reason, refuse to object to the objectionable to sheep, who are herd animals. They simply follow other sheep because it is both safer and easier than not doing it.
While it may be unkind of me to say, I have come to the conclusion that most people (thee and me excluded, of course) are sheep. Even with no threat of predators, they timidly stick together, follow wherever they are led, never ask questions, and have a very narrow range of interests or goals—and even their goals seem to come in neat, pre-packaged cubes. They live in pens with walls they have been told are there and therefore utterly believe in, though they cannot see them. They recognize doors, but if the doors are closed, assume they are closed for a reason and have little or no curiosity about what lies beyond, or any interest in making the effort to find out.
All human children are born children, not sheep. Yet is it coincidental that children are called “little lambs”? Children soon learn that to survive, to have friends, to be accepted by their peers, they must behave like everyone else behaves, believe what everyone else believes. And gradually they turn from human children into sheep, as their parents and relatives did before them. To be different is very unsheeplike, and punishable in any number of subtle and not-so-subtle ways, none of which is pleasant.
And of course, there are always predators. Human wolves lurk in the fields and forests of the internet as spam messages, as letters from Nigerian Barristers, as wonderfully unreal offers for wonderful things, and because sheep simply accept what they are told, it never occurs to them that the wolf even exists, or that they are the wolf’s next meal. Human wolves rob and lie and cheat with impunity because almost none of the sheep realizes what’s happening until it is too late, and those few who do realize something isn’t quite right are too…what word do I want?…oh, yes: sheepish…to do anything about it.
And what is the answer to the problem? How do we move away from the herd without being immediately attacked by predators? The first step lies in not only realizing but acting on the fact that while Man is an animal, he is not a sheep.
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.
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