Tagged: creative writing
Just Finishing Up At Freddy’s
I eat here probably twice a month. And I can assure you that on the day I die, if I have any inclination that it is that day, I will regret that I didn’t eat here more often before I go.
The Infrequently Discussed, But True (If Mean-Sounding), Reason For Some Blacks’ Inability to Understand the Context of Kirk’s “[Black Women] Do Not Have the Brain Processing Power” Claim
Faithful readers know (and should be able to predict) what this post is going to assert. To them, I say, “Thank you for paying attention.”
To the rest of you, please pay close attention.
We’re all watching with amazement as Black preachers lead the way in calling Charlie Kirk a racist. The particular phrase these men use to defend their claim is in my title.
Now, every good little literate “whitey” knows how to call up the full conversation/debate from which the phrase came and determine for themselves the context within which Kirk uttered his assessment. That’s step 1.
Step 2 for those of us who were pretty sure Kirk was not a racist, but have been wrong before and so wanted to check for ourselves, is felt utter confusion (not me, mind you) at how even our “black friends” are siding with these ignorant preachers instead of the plain meaning of the English language.
Here’s what is going on. There is no need to be confused.
Bluntly: Some Blacks (maybe most) still believe in incantation. Incantation, recall, is context free.
To flesh this out a bit, let’s review what incantation is all about. In short, the phrase “abra cadabra” (that we all know from some Disney movie we all watched years ago) is a phrase that we, as children, used to magically turn objects into other objects. Or the like. For us, it was a game. We usually had a wand or our finger cocked in a special way as we said it. “Abra cadabra, and POOF!, you’re unfrozen.” Sometimes it was in finding oneself holding what appeared as a wand which caused our utterance of the phrase. Like we’re in a gift shop, see a stick with a star at one end and suddenly are inspired to grab it and tap our unwitting friend on the head and say, “Abra Cadabra, you pay for Starbucks after we’re done here.”
What were we doing? We were playfully using what people in antiquity seriously used, that is, we were incanting. Even as children we knew it wasn’t merely the phrase but the specific sounds, the way we said the phrase, that mattered. In fact, this feature of incantation often explained why the change didn’t happen. “You didn’t say it right!” we would explain. Again, as children, we knew that you couldn’t achieve the intended result by an all business-like or all medical-assessment-like utterance of the phrase. No. It had to be said a certain way. Plainly, it had to be uttered intoned with belief.
The point here is that we (the confused, literate whites) don’t believe incantation works now that we’re adults.
But many Blacks, of all ages, do.
And that is how even your “black friends” do not budge when they are shown the full context of Kirk’s remarks.
For many Blacks, there is a distinct evil associated with such a phrase (“black women do not have the brain processing power”). The context doesn’t matter any more than it does for abra cadabra.
By way of another example, Shakespeare’s “Double, Double Toil and Trouble” comes to mind as something similar in Western culture. Did the witches’ prophecy actually cause MacBeth’s troubles? No. Now, it’s true that there was a coincidence, but this is merely a cerebrally fun feature of great storytelling. On the whole, though, while we servants of the West would never think twice about saying, “Double, Double, Toil and Trouble”, our Black neighbors (keep in mind they also don’t know Shakespeare—and this is not coincidence) believe there are certain things you just don’t say. Again, this is not because of the meaning’s of the words, it is because of an exceedingly old school (Old Testament and older) belief in how human speech works vis-à-vis the invisible world.
Please don’t let the NSFW part of my claim cause you to miss the actual significance of my claim. You are now no longer confused why many Blacks don’t care about context. But this clarity does not reveal the solution to the larger problem that still remains: Many Blacks don’t care about context.
What can be done?
I have no idea.
Fantasy Speech
I remember wondering if it was smart to skip seeing TDKR in Denver after the shooting in Aurora. Everyone I knew said we had to go. We went. We survived.
This time, I find myself wondering if I should go to church, and if I should take my kids to our church, a Black church, tomorrow. Why? Because obviously the crazies are out and about.
We’re going. And I would love the opportunity to speak.
So here’s what I would say if the pastor, who I don’t yet know well, pulled me aside and said, “We could use a word. I was hoping it wouldn’t be imposing to ask if you would say something.”
****
Let the church say, “Amen.”
Let the whole church say, “Amen.”
Pastor asked me to say a word. I was actually hoping he would. Here’s the truth. I almost didn’t come today. Then I decided that I would come for sure, but I almost didn’t bring my kids. Almost. What tipped the scales? The blood.
The blood.
Did you see the blood?
Seriously, I am curious. I want to know if you saw it.
The blood, did you see it?
I am a pilot. We take yearly checkrides. Mine was scheduled for that night and I needed to focus. So it was late at night before I saw the blood.
The blood, did you see it?
Seeing the blood was shocking, right? In my line of work, I often seen blood-soaked cloth. Or dried blood on a person. But blood like that? I can’t say I have seen that. Is that happening inside my body right now? If so, I don’t feel it, which is weird.
The blood, did you see it?
Is that what it takes to keep a human going? He was sitting. Is there a difference between sitting calmly and, say, running? Would there have been more pumping power if he had been running or just finished a set?
The blood, did you see it?
So despite some instincts which told me not to, I showed up today because of the blood. Do you get it?
The blood, did you see it?
Did you see the blood?
I did. And that’s why I came.
Pastor.
Two Updates on the Boy Child
First, during my attempt to get more of the cookie for myself, when I told him that the cookie was very big, J- innocently said, “My mouth is big!”
Second, we have this game Poop Tracks which is actually a pretty fantastic board game for little kids (if you care to have them turn into Tom Brown Jr.-like trackers). You spin a spinner and do what it says. The options are, “Draw 1 (or 2), Trade, Swipe, or Skip.” Naturally, I take it upon myself to teach my progeny the proper way to trade and swipe. And, naturally, the proper way to swipe is through distraction. So my kids now look forward to the spinner landing on “swipe” so they can say, “Look at that, Dad!” before proceeding to take one if my cards. Well, just now, as J- and I (A- is now in kindergarten 😦 ) were having a donut, he says, “Look out the window, Day-ad!” Obviously he was priming me for the take, but for what? I played along and then he swiped my napkin. What a guy!
Re-Learning Biblical Hebrew While Keeping an Eye on Starship Flight 10
Seriously, could my life be more interesting?
Why learn Biblical Hebrew? Well, as the scholars put it 100 years ago, to avoid being a “helpless plaything” in the hands of biblical critics. The Bible is always under attack. If you don’t know how to work with the original languages, you are not on solid ground.
Why watch Starship Flight 10? Well, because it’s incomparably awesome and beautiful to watch and incomparably compelling and poignant to contemplate.
Attention School Teachers and Administrators: The Emails Have To Stop
For fun, this week I copied the text from all school emails over to a MSWord doc in order to learn a word count. (I have two kids in this school. H- is elsewhere and I did not add that school’s emails. I didn’t want to come across as extreme. Time will tell.)
The total—not including a PDF attachment late entry of today—was 1410 words.
For reference, Cat in the Hat is 1600ish and One Fish Two Fish… is 1300ish.
Depending on your speed of reading aloud, those books take somewhere over 10 minutes, but shy of 15 for sure. In your head, maybe 5 minutes.
What were the emails about?
- The need to comply with unnecessarily dynamic drop-off and pick-up procedures.
- Visit to nurse for complaint of splinter.
- Homework completion is required.
- A case of head lice was discovered.
29 words. 5.2 seconds. And I wasn’t trying. Trying would be:
- Don’t be a knucklehead in the car line.
- N/A
- N/A
- Check your kid for head lice.
14 words. 1.7 seconds.
Please keep in mind none of our parents ever communicated with the school while we were in school. Parents, in the 80s-90s (and I’m sure many ignore everything today), could literally never talk to anyone at school, not just for one week, but for the entire year. And the school didn’t care. And the parents didn’t care.
The emails have to stop.
I am happy to report that in recent reading about Vietnam, I came across the best concluding anecdote I could ever imagine.
From a 1971 NYT article regarding border crossing operations in Laos:
“The sign ‘Warning! No U.S. Personnel Beyond This Point’…On the back, facing Laos, is a faintly scrawled message to the North Vietnamese Army: ‘Warning! No N.V.A. Beyond This Point.’”
In short, there are limitations to what the written word can accomplish. One would like to think the educators would understand this best of all.
Pilots—Hope Embodied
I’m at work today and was chatting with the mechanic. It got me thinking.
Man, this job sure requires me to place a lot of trust in other people.
This led to me wondering What makes someone want to be an aircraft mechanic?
This led to I sure hope the answer is ‘not being as brave or good-looking’ as pilots.
But I backed off that and landed on Flying the aircraft requires more trust in other people than mechanics usually possess.
There are surely other measures of trust or, more broadly, hope. But what I mean to call attention to is the why behind the quality of the trait that pilots necessarily possess.
Once considered, I say one must conclude that it isn’t merely the mode of travel, but the fact of travel that betrays the pilot’s special embodiment of hope. From the functioning of the aircraft, to the people at the (planned or unplanned) destination not killing you upon arrival, the pilot embodies hope.
From another angle, consider that Mark Twain said, “Travel is fatal to prejuidce, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts.”
That’s got all the right words, but it’s backwards. From where I sit, “Prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness are fatal to travel.”
But, of course, by travel I mean more than the movement of the body from one location to another. I count as travel learning—even via books. I count attending different cultures’ events (ie, Chinamen moving to Chinatown is not travel, but one religious Chinaman’s visiting of a different religion’s Chinaman family—all who live in the same apartment building is) as travel. There are probably other meanings I would count.
Or not.
So I only mean three things count as travel. (1) travel, (2) learning, and (3) dually (i) meeting people who look identical to yourself but are, in fact, not you and (ii) meeting people who look nothing like you and finding out they are, in fact, your identical twin. And the connection which binds these three is not travel, but hope.
Do you see?
A Lesson that Requires Pocket Change
My friend, an older, heavyset gentlemen, keeps his story going with, “It’s about listening. You gotta teach the kids how to listen.”
Here he pauses and apologizes as he needs a break. He often needs to take a break, but doesn’t seem too concerned with the underlying medical condition.
The cloudiness disappears and he resumes.
“I teach my grandkids how to listen by placing a penny on the palm of my hand right here-” here he holds out his left hand, palm facing me, and points to the spot where I have always assumed street magicians palm the coin.
He continues, “Then I place a nickel next to it and a quarter next to the nickel. Then I tell the kids, ‘Johnny’s mom had three kids. Penny, Nick, and ??’”
The man turns to me, and I open my eyes larger than normal, while raising my eyebrows. I mean to merely indicate that I am not ready for an interactive moment, but I also admit that I don’t yet understand anything from this listening lesson.
“It requires the coins. Who has some coins?”
I follow him to the table where some other men are sitting and my friend asks the leader and most responsible of us, “Jim, do you have any coins? I need a penny, a nickel and a quarter.”
Surprisingly, and as predicted, Jim pulls a 1986-sized fistful of pocket change out of his shorts’ pocket and finds the required coinage.
My friend then places the coins in his palm, penny, nickel, quarter. Jim is paying attention, but the previous conversation he was apart of continues to unfold as well.
“Johnny’s mom had three kids. Penny, Nick, and ??”
Wishing to show my language prowess, I forget about the spelling of ‘quarter’ and begin to contemplate every name that starts with the ‘kwart’ sound.
“Kwart? Kurt?” I guess.
Shaking his head in shame, my friend repeats, “Johnny’s-”
“JOHNNY!” I exclaim, joyfully. “Johnny,” I then repeat, with a pronounced note and loud look of playful disgust.
Jim knowingly smiles.
My friend says to him, “You’ve heard this one before, huh?”
A slow nod from Jim answers.
“You see, Pete, someone has to teach them how to listen.”
****
Here’s the catch, faithful reader. Anyone who gets the right answer already knows how to listen. The all important and usually lacking skill in the human, imho, that my friend taught his grandkids (and I) is humility.
I Have No Friends with Whom to Lament Ozzy’s Passing
My pizza place boss, Joe, was the man who introduced me to Ozzy. I was 16. I knew of Metallica, but was scared of Ozzy still. Then I heard his music and had the epiphany that we all did—all of us Baptist kids who were taught (why?) that he was singing satanic songs. Satanic or not, all I knew was his songs and his voice were epic.
Joe had a funny story from his younger days of pissing in the landscaped bushes while in line for Ozzy’s autograph so as to not lose his place. And whether it was the same event or not, when he handed Ozzy the CD, Ozzy signed it and then passed it to the next band member, but not before Joe ripped it out of his hands and declared he only wanted Ozzy’s signature! (Naturally, Joe was drunk, and this accounts for both parts of the story.)
I remember going to Ozzfest at Sandstone Amphitheater in 1998. Over two weeks I saw Van Halen, Ozzy (Limp Bizkit, Megadeth, Tool, too), and Metallica. Talk about a phenomenal two weeks of live music. Life changing.
I remember this same Joe called in to the pizza place when he was in Chicago at a Black Sabbath concert. This would’ve been around the turn of the millennium too. He was, oddly, again in the bathroom. Why he ever thought to check in with us “kids from work” is beyond me.
I think, but can’t say for sure, that I saw another Ozzfest, but whatever the concert was billed as, Black Sabbath was the headliner. That was also a powerful experience. Toni Iommi standing in all black with that cross chain he always wears was just an incredible sight to see. Metallica is the definitive “band”, but Toni is the definitive lead guitarist. So cool.
I remember that all these concerts were years after the farewell tour “Live and Loud” two CD concert set I listened to all the time—my only solo Ozzy CDs. I also had Paranoid. But that was it. At some point I borrowed for an extended period of time Ozzmosis and fell in love with Perry Mason and I Just Want You.
Think of it. The superhuman man writes “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired” and suburbanite kids like me feel like he knew exactly what we were going through. Ha.
Some fun trivia. Limp Bizkit just opened for Metallica. And Zakk Wylde, of solo Ozzy days (whom I saw—I think) and is definitely on the double CD album, was there with Pantera too. And if you haven’t watched any of the (fairly abysmal) final performance from July 5th, Zakk has a truly heartwarming moment where he, playing for Ozzy, understands that Ozzy is not going to sound as good as the old days and so starts to sing with him, but like, in an all cool-like and as if it was planned etc way. But there was no plan. See 20 sec mark and how Zakk “covered down”, as the Army pukes say. I think he’ll be welcomed into rockstar heaven for that one move alone.
I want to end by reminding the reader that I have often thought and implied and directly spoken the desire that Metallica NOT take the stage when they are too old to do it justice. I still pray fervently that they honor my wish. But as we are almost 30 days after the pair of Metallica shows and I still feel like my voice isn’t fully recovered, the thought, purely speculative, that Ozzy essentially gave everything to that last (admittedly pitiful) stage show gives me great peace.
“Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
You did it, Ozzy. You embodied rock’n’roll, not just for a season, but with your entire life. Rest in peace.
No More LifeGuard Babes
I don’t know if you saw, but the other day a nerd-bomber with a drone just spontaneously and brilliantly saved a person from drowning by flying out a rescue device. (Took two tries actually.)
For those of you who can read facts but struggle to draw conclusions correctly, allow me to help. This simple, lifesaving effort just removed all hope of me ever receiving CPR from a Baywatch-style lifeguard, a la Sandlot scheming.
Until this event, I have to say that I didn’t believe any single person’s actions could be more disastrous to life on earth than the first man to work through the siesta.
The future is bleak. And apparently limitlessly so.