sunlight reflecting off a pond
is too simple to be explained;
it has to be seen
but not explored
else the wind
scatter it all
思想慢
Wednesday, June 26, 2019
My Personal Chemistry
The author practicing personal chemistry on thin air
What exactly is personal chemistry, and how much of it do I personally possess? This thought has been weighing on my cerebrum all day, making it assume the dimensions of a Swedish pancake. The cause of all this compressing cogitation is a simple paragraph I happened upon in the Wall Street Journal, to wit:
WASHINGTON—President Trump and Chinese President Xi Jinping will seek to revive troubled U.S.-China trade talks this week, in a test of whether their professed personal chemistry can surmount seemingly intractable differences at the bargaining table.
I have always been fascinated by chemistry, both personal and organic, and so this lead paragraph immediately conjured up a vision wherein the two mighty leaders were at an acid-stained workbench, fiddling with alembics and litmus paper. Which one of these professed master chemists would come to dominate the other, and the world, and just how might they do it? Would Xi pull a fast one, using Diet Coke and Mentos to create a soda geyser that would overawe the local natives? And would Trump be able to top such hocus pocus with something even more impressive, like making a giant borax snowflake with the 20 Mule Team brand and a pipe cleaner? I shuddered to think what the outcome might be if Xi retaliates with dry ice in a flask full of lukewarm water -- the ensuing vigorous bubbling can make the most cynical, hard nosed ruler giggle like a child. Trump might give away the store -- lock, stock, and barrel.
But cooler heads prevailed (I keep several of 'em in my deep freeze for just such emergencies) to wipe away this disturbing fantasy. Surely when the Wall Street Journal refers to the 'personal chemistry' of these two world leaders they are merely using a shopworn cliche to denote their dynamic influence.
I, of all people, should know this -- since I have been trying to use my own personal chemistry on various personages for a month of Sundays. With how much success you will soon find out, if you care to struggle on through the nearly impenetrable jungle of prose that looms ahead . . .
I was smitten with Frieda back in second grade. She had golden curls and a Nordic upturn to her button nose that charmed the socks off me, so I turned on the personal chemistry when around her. But she seemed oblivious to my Errol Flynn manner, as I leaned, insouciant, against the jungle gym and asked her if she'd care to share a grape Pixy Stix with me underneath the monkey bars.
"Buzz off, pinhead!" she snarled in reply. Later on she put a handful of playground gravel in my pudding cup.
In high school I had the dreaded Mr. Patten for algebra. His dark glowering countenance boded ill for anyone as ignorant of coefficients and rational numbers as I. It was bruited about the lunchroom that he took the worst dullards down into the boiler room for 'remedial' math classes -- and that those who were led into those mephitic depths were never heard from again. It was either use my personal chemistry or become furnace fodder.
Eschewing the hackneyed apple on his desk, I began leaving Mickey Spillane paperbacks next to his attendance book. My dad read them voraciously during slack periods at Aarone's Bar and Grill, and when he finished one he'd bring it home and throw it on the coffee table -- where the lurid covers, featuring busty femme fatales in skimpy nightgowns, offended my mother to the point of tossing them into the trash, where I fished them out for Mr. Patten. I figured he wouldn't mind a few coffee grounds for a bookmark.
But as the school year progressed and I fell further and further behind when it came to variables and equations, it was apparent that the adventures of Mike Hammer held little charm for Mr. Patten, and would not save me from a mathematical auto-da-fe.
What DID save me in the end was not my personal chemistry, but my family connections. Turns out that Mr. Patten was fond of bending the elbow.
"You Tork's kid, then?" he asked me gruffly one day, using my dad's nickname.
"Yessir" I quavered. I was guessing the time had come to make out my last will and testament prior to being led in chains down to the oblivion of the boiler room, and that Mr. Patten would take the document to my father over at Aarone's.
Mr. Patten essayed a smile and replied: "Tell him I'll settle up at the end of the week, will ya?"
Sensing a kind providence had suddenly given me the upper hand, I replied nonchalantly that I might do it, if the press of homework didn't drive it completely out of my mind. I won't say I started to receive special treatment from that time forward; it was more like a benign neglect, and I'm happy to report that my final grade in Mr. Patten's algebra class was a solid D. Which was good enough for my parents, who were resigned to the fact that I had a congenital inability to do anything with numerals except stare at them and drool.
Then there's the Burmese lady who lives down the hall from me here in Valley Villas Senior Housing. I know the country is Myanmar now, not Burma, but she hasn't lived there for more than forty years, so I call her Burmese. So sue me.
Anyway. She works full time and makes really good chicken curry, so I considered using my personal chemistry to form a congenial bond with her. When a single man reaches his mid-sixties he yearns for the comfort of someone elses' steady income and zesty cooking. So the last time I made Swedish meatballs (only slightly burnt) I took a big bowl of them, with noodles, to her door.
She responded to my knock with a quizzical look and did not immediately reach for my neighborly offering. Even though I was smiling to beat the band, exuding personal chemistry by the ton.
"Pork in it?" she asked suspiciously.
"Yes, plenty of fresh pork sausage in the meatballs . . . " I began.
"I don't eat pork or beef" she said abruptly, then closed the door before I could say anything else. Well, live and learn, I thought to myself. Next time I'll bring her Betty Crocker fudge brownies.
"No sugar" was her terse response the next time I showed up at her door.
So I forgot about wooing her with food and decided instead to waylay her in the laundry room, which is right outside my apartment door. I would keep a roll of quarters handy, so when she started a load I could offer her change for the dryer -- and from there we'd have a pleasant tete-a-tete so I could begin worming my way into her heart.
I'm still waiting for her to use the laundry room. And I just spent the last of my quarters over at Fresh Market to buy a jalapeno/cheddar cheese bagel this morning.
Maybe it's not personal chemistry I have, but personal magnetism. I notice that lint pills adhere to me quite readily.
Eschewing the hackneyed apple on his desk, I began leaving Mickey Spillane paperbacks next to his attendance book. My dad read them voraciously during slack periods at Aarone's Bar and Grill, and when he finished one he'd bring it home and throw it on the coffee table -- where the lurid covers, featuring busty femme fatales in skimpy nightgowns, offended my mother to the point of tossing them into the trash, where I fished them out for Mr. Patten. I figured he wouldn't mind a few coffee grounds for a bookmark.
But as the school year progressed and I fell further and further behind when it came to variables and equations, it was apparent that the adventures of Mike Hammer held little charm for Mr. Patten, and would not save me from a mathematical auto-da-fe.
What DID save me in the end was not my personal chemistry, but my family connections. Turns out that Mr. Patten was fond of bending the elbow.
"You Tork's kid, then?" he asked me gruffly one day, using my dad's nickname.
"Yessir" I quavered. I was guessing the time had come to make out my last will and testament prior to being led in chains down to the oblivion of the boiler room, and that Mr. Patten would take the document to my father over at Aarone's.
Mr. Patten essayed a smile and replied: "Tell him I'll settle up at the end of the week, will ya?"
Sensing a kind providence had suddenly given me the upper hand, I replied nonchalantly that I might do it, if the press of homework didn't drive it completely out of my mind. I won't say I started to receive special treatment from that time forward; it was more like a benign neglect, and I'm happy to report that my final grade in Mr. Patten's algebra class was a solid D. Which was good enough for my parents, who were resigned to the fact that I had a congenital inability to do anything with numerals except stare at them and drool.
Then there's the Burmese lady who lives down the hall from me here in Valley Villas Senior Housing. I know the country is Myanmar now, not Burma, but she hasn't lived there for more than forty years, so I call her Burmese. So sue me.
Anyway. She works full time and makes really good chicken curry, so I considered using my personal chemistry to form a congenial bond with her. When a single man reaches his mid-sixties he yearns for the comfort of someone elses' steady income and zesty cooking. So the last time I made Swedish meatballs (only slightly burnt) I took a big bowl of them, with noodles, to her door.
She responded to my knock with a quizzical look and did not immediately reach for my neighborly offering. Even though I was smiling to beat the band, exuding personal chemistry by the ton.
"Pork in it?" she asked suspiciously.
"Yes, plenty of fresh pork sausage in the meatballs . . . " I began.
"I don't eat pork or beef" she said abruptly, then closed the door before I could say anything else. Well, live and learn, I thought to myself. Next time I'll bring her Betty Crocker fudge brownies.
"No sugar" was her terse response the next time I showed up at her door.
So I forgot about wooing her with food and decided instead to waylay her in the laundry room, which is right outside my apartment door. I would keep a roll of quarters handy, so when she started a load I could offer her change for the dryer -- and from there we'd have a pleasant tete-a-tete so I could begin worming my way into her heart.
I'm still waiting for her to use the laundry room. And I just spent the last of my quarters over at Fresh Market to buy a jalapeno/cheddar cheese bagel this morning.
Maybe it's not personal chemistry I have, but personal magnetism. I notice that lint pills adhere to me quite readily.
Tuesday, June 25, 2019
Exsultate!
. . . and ye shall rejoice in all that ye put your hand unto . . .
Leviticus 23:40
Rebuke the melancholy pall
that over face and form doth sprawl!
Awake, instead, my timid soul,
rejoicing in what Christ makes whole.
The work ahead, whate'er may be,
can all be done with gaiety.
Crafts and skill, by hand or mind,
should lead to joy that's unconfined!
The workman worthy of his hire
should be our motto to inspire.
Monday, June 24, 2019
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Grocery Stores are now Adults Only.
The author, reading a dirty limerick to a group of nuns.
Having been out all day fighting crime as my alter ego, Super Fluous, I came home today to read a disturbing paragraph in the Wall Street Journal. To wit:
WASHINGTON—The Supreme Court ruled 6-3 Monday that the government may not deny registration to trademarks it deems “immoral or scandalous,” finding that the Patent and Trademark Office violated the First Amendment when it applied such criteria to brand names.
This might have flummoxed me, but I have trained myself in the ancient oriental art of Shver Nax to withstand the most lethal blows to my body and intellect. So I retired to my tablinum to mull things over, emerging several hours later resolved to ignore this latest sign of moral atrophy and persevere in living my life by the tenets I grew up with while working in my parents' bodega on Yancy Street during the Irish Potato Famine -- namely Winken, Blinken, and Nod.
Suddenly assailed by a host of borborygmi that could be heard all the way to Temple Square in Salt Lake City, I ransacked the fridge for something to soothe my famished frame. But a shoal of arctic piranha had apparently beaten me to the punch; they had stripped me of every meat product and byproduct, leaving behind very little but a bag of shredded lettuce turned autumnal brown. Also an elderly jar of Cheez Whiz bubbling with either probiotics or deadly toxins -- not having a spectrometer handy, I decided to take no chances and threw both items away. Time for a jaunt to Fresh Market, catty-corner to my apartment building -- where the whole produce department loves to see my pinched and scowling face as I slowly pick over the roma tomatoes in between frequent and drizzling sneezes
As the pneumatic glass doors slid open for me I noticed a strange and unfamiliar cachet to the place. First of all, they'd changed the big sign out front that read "WELCOME TO FRESH MARKET" to "X-RATED BAZAAR -- OUR KINKY IS ALWAYS RIPE."
Okay . . . that's not weird . . .
Then one of the cashiers sidled up to me. I had often chewed the fat with her before; talking casually about the weather or her son's Cub Scout projects. Now her baggy green pants and dark blouse were miraculously changed to a black negligee with a plunging neckline. And she had on stiletto high heels.
"Hiya, big boy" she purred at me. "What kin I do fer ya?"
Her tone was so suggestive that my Adam's apple began bobbing like a navigation buoy in a stormy sea.
"I need a few quickies -- uh, I mean I want to snack on you -- that is, I'm here for the specials" I gabbled witlessly, discombobulated by the fiery rouge on her cheeks and the smoldering desire in her bedroom eyes. "I gotta get some groceries, is all!"
I fled from her, much like Joseph fled from Potiphar's importunate spouse, heading into the bakery. I staggered away from the glass display case after spotting some anatomically correct bismarcks and napoleons.
Tottering down the aisles, as in a nightmare, I saw that Gerbers was now Grabbers -- with salacious artwork showing leering infants groping their own mothers. Horlicks Malted Milk Powder is pronounced the same, but spelled differently. Chef Boyardee becomes Chef Boy-o-Boy, and the dirty old hash slinger is portrayed on the can in pursuit of a Gina Lollobrigida look-alike, his mustachios quivering with lust. I cannot bring myself to tell you what was on the Manwich can. Or on the CornNuts bag, either. Frito-Lay is now labeled in the past tense -- Frito-Laid. Borden has become Bordello. Reddi Wip is rebranded Reddi Willing and Able to Wip. Kraft has become Krafft-Ebing. And what they've done to Mrs. Butterworth . . .
I can't go on. Suffice it to say that the whole store is one lurid saturnalia of uncensored erotica. I managed to throw a few comestibles into a shopping cart and claw my way out of there, slutty store clerks clinging to my Hush Puppies while impudently asking if I am a Jiffy Pop or go Screaming Yellow Zonkers.
I wonder where the nearest Farmer's Market is?
"Makes about as much sense as dew on an iceberg"
Joy cometh in the morning
For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favour is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.
Psalms 30:5
It is morning and my weeping ends.
The anger is over and we are friends.
The world and I have parted ways.
God's favor now informs my days.
Come into the light; in umbrage no more
my soul is preparing to Thee up to soar!
Sunday, June 23, 2019
Kort historie om en selvmordsforsøk
Jeg er en ekspert på å løpe bort. Klokken 17 løp jeg bort fra min dysfunksjonelle familie i Minneapolis for å bli med i sirkuset. Jeg løp vekk fra sirkuset, hvor jeg hadde funnet fremvoksende suksess som en klovn, for å bli misjonær i Thailand. To år senere var jeg tilbake med Ringling Brothers, men løp bort igjen - denne gangen for å bli med i et hjem; min egen. Jeg giftet meg og prøvde å sette meg gjennom college. Men jeg løp bort fra det, og dro familien min med meg da jeg forfulgte større og større drømmer med mindre og mindre gjørmeutstillinger. Til slutt vokste min kone opp med mine Peer Gynt-lignende aktiviteter. Etter skilsmissen løp jeg bort igjen - denne gangen til alkohol. Til tross for stridene mot drikking i min kirke fant jeg en perversom solace i selvmedisinering med endeløse cocktailer. Men jeg klarte alltid å nøktere opp i tid for å delta på kirketjenester på søndag.
En kald mars søndag, da jeg bodde hos min enke mor tilbake i Minneapolis, dro jeg til Rask og vitnesbyrd Møte ut i Roseville. Dette er et møte hvor noen i menigheten er fri til å komme opp og vitne kort om deres tro og følelser om deres forhold til Frelseren, blant annet. Svært hungover, jeg satt sullenly i min pew og skrev ned en akkurat av hver høyttaler på flybladet av Skriftene mine. Det var åtte av dem, menn, kvinner og barn - og av en eller annen pervers grunn ønsket hver en av dem å si hvor takknemlig de var for deres koner, ektemenn og foreldre. Først ble jeg lei av deres ord; så ærgerlig; så rasende og så dypt deprimert. Da møtet var over, følte jeg meg så alene og elendig at jeg måtte gå og drikke. Flere kvartaler unna var et hotell som serverer en champagnebrunsj. Jeg hadde akkurat tre reker og tre flasker veldig billig champagne.
Jeg klarte å kjøre hjem til min mors hus, lede bilen forsiktig inn i garasjen, lukke garasjeporten og så la motoren gå, da den strålende drunken ideen kom til meg at jeg nå kunne avslutte denne store lidelsen. En berømt mann i min kirke sa en gang: "Ingen suksess kan kompensere for svikt i hjemmet." Denne setningen spiste bort på meg som en lamprey ål, suger ut min åndelige tarm. Jeg personifisert nå den typen feil; en alkoholholdig døddød pappa, langt bak i barnas støtte og ute av kontakt med barna mine. Tiden for å avslutte alt å blande av denne dødelige spolen; å shuffle av til Buffalo.
Så satt jeg der, med motoren løpende, vekk på vakt på slutten.
Men garasjen var gammel og tre og porøs. Det tok lang tid; Jeg måtte tisse. Og en ny episode av X-filene ville være på snart. Jeg lurched for hanskerommet, hvor jeg vanligvis holdt en X-Acto kniv. Jeg kunne kutte håndleddene mine for å få fart på det. Men dammit det var ikke der lenger.
Så jeg sto stoisk venter og til slutt fuktet meg selv. Jeg beklager ikke å drikke mer på champagnebrunchen, så jeg kunne passere ut i garasjen - karbonmonoksidet HAD kom til meg før eller senere.
Men da sa jeg "til helvete med det," slått av motoren, og gikk inn for å dusje og se på X-filene i soverommet mitt, hvor jeg endelig kastet og passerte.
Ikke akkurat en epiphany. Men det var plagsomt og pinlig nok til å sende meg til AA, hvor jeg fant en god sponsor og et uttrykk for vilje til å leve. Og endelig sluttet å løpe bort.
Siden da har jeg gjort mange slips - i å drikke, i å prøve å utvikle ærlige og nærende forhold til andre kvinner, i å starte flere nye karrierer, og i å koble sammen og gjøre fred med barna mine og deres mor. Jeg anser ikke meg selv en suksess så mye av noe - men jeg er en overlevende; og det er nok for meg akkurat nå. Jeg vil ikke lenger drepe meg selv, og jeg vil ikke lenger drikke hele tiden. Hver dag er en gave fra Gud - og som kornball som det kan høres, har det vært min lodste; bringer meg til en glad stemning der jeg kan lese artikler om utrolige damer som Charo og chuckle tolerantly på hva Mark Twain valgte å ringe "The Damned Human Race." Det er alt bra, ikke sant?
I seek not for power, but to pull it down.
Alma 60:36
Seeking power is what rules
all misguided mortal fools.
Those who fight to take command
are but tools in Satan's hand.
Love alone will win the day,
when we choose who to obey.
Give your heart to Christ the Lord
to break each dominating sword.
Saturday, June 22, 2019
Trump's Middle East Peace Plan Will Cost $50 Billion in Investment
TEL AVIV—The Trump administration’s Middle East peace plan would marshal $50 billion in investments over 10 years for the Palestinian territories and neighbors Jordan, Egypt and Lebanon, administration officials said Saturday.
WSJ
Peace at any price, it seems,
requires gold in constant streams.
To soothe that military glint
we better start a brand new mint.
The economic blueprint for
this extortion makes us poor.
If the Middle East needs cash
let 'em find another stash.
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