Here's A Little Something I Wrote About the Words We Use to Describe People

How to describe a fellow human being? If one wants to do justice to the job it is a monumental task. To sum up our understanding of a person in a few words is impossible and we can only hope to capture the individual's bare essence providing a glimpse of who she or he is.

But there are certain types of short descriptions of people which I never find helpful. They are cliches. Here are some examples:

She's good people (no, she is singular, we all are)
He's a people person (as opposed to an aardvark person)
He's a real level-headed guy
She's a class act
He's a straight shooter
She's real down to earth
She shoots from the hip
He's a no-nonsense type of guy
He's really cool
She's really neat

And my least favorite of all -- he's a nice guy. A "nice guy" is reserved for anyone this side of Charles Manson. Not a vicious serial killer? You're a nice guy! But my least favorite is: he's a great guy. No he's not. He is not "great." You are clearly overselling. This makes me suspicious and doubt that he's even a "nice guy."

But how to describe someone you don't like? There are far less options but you can try one of these:

He's an asshole (or he's a real asshole).
He's a jerk (or he's a real jerk).

Here's a question. Do jerks and assholes know that they are jerks and assholes? Do they identify themselves that way? "Hi, I'm Bob. I'm a jerk." Maybe most of them are just temporary jerks and assholes. Like when they turn without signaling or bump into you without saying excuse me. It could well be that their friends and family do not call them jerks. In fact friends may say that same person you called a "real jerk" is a "real nice guy." This is confusing. You are a jerk to one person and a nice guy to another. Of course to others you are a stranger. Maybe even a perfect stranger. Okay so jerks probably don't identify as jerks. Do nice guys identify as nice guys? Do they say, "him I'm Cody, I'm a nice guy." Doubt it. What kind of nice guy says he's a nice guy? Someone who says he's a nice guy has no humility and is thus a jerk.

If it's a woman she's, of course a bitch or a real bitch. Both of these are offensive on a par with nigger and faggot. If you use one of these you're labeled a racist or homophobe, respectively, for the rest of your days. Yet if you refer to a woman as a bitch you get a pass. I call bullshit. This is an example of how sexism and misogyny are deeply entrenched and more pervasive than any of the other bad isms. Gents -- and ladies too -- if you are reluctant to use the n or f words than maybe you should think twice about the b word too. If you are quite happy to use the n and f words than I guess there's no stopping your use of the b word but I wish to hell you'd stop reading my blog. I hate the thought of your kind reading my words.

But I've touched on something else. The n word. I believe I've mentioned before my distaste for this word and all it represents. But I also think its damn silly that we can't say it in the context of discussing it. Nigger is so powerful a word that we have to refer to it as "the n word." People will say aloud the most vile curse words and describe the nastiest things and acts before they'd every imagine saying  it. Weird. But a lot of words and terms are being taken off the table. Can't say them. The more banal descriptions can stay though. Those trite and meaningless descriptions are suitable for any occasion. I just thought of another one. "Good ole Charlie, he's the best." The best what? The best person? Come on. Point of fact, he's just a nice guy. Check that, a real nice guy. Wait, he's not Charlie Manson is he?

A Workday in the Life

Dreaming dreaming dreaming more dreaming. Episodic surreal bizarre revelatory dreaming. Until alarm. Sit upright. To bathroom. Urinate. Shower. First shampoo then soap then shave then dry. Then make lunch. The make and eat breakfast. Then dress. Then get ride from wife to BART. Seven minutes till train get out book. On train. Read. Tired so close eyes for a bit. No dreams no sleep just fantasy.

San Francisco. Emerge onto Market Street. Wait less than a minute. Trolley. Read again. Off board. Walk. Long line at Starbucks. Need big coffee. Play words with friends in line. Get coffee. Go to work. Caffeine kicking the tired in its ass.

Make copies. Chat with co workers. Good morning how are you fine thanks foggy out its hump day. Make Seinfeld reference. Laugh. Go to teach. "Good morning everybody!" I say cheerfully. Response is tepid so I say it again with even more gusto. Get suitable response. Teach English. Go over grammar. Discuss vocabulary. Pass out papers. Give a reading to half the class other half comes in they tell them what I said. Then switch. Fun. Have a few giggles. Put them in groups. Correct grammar. Ask questions.

Break. Eat yogurt and a banana. Short walk. Call the wife. Text a friend. Plan a class. More copying. Have time to write a little. Eat lunch.

Go teach pronunciation. "Good afternoon everybody!" We say vowels. They talk in groups. We do tongue twisters. We do d/th sound. We do rhyming. We have fun. Class ends. Break.

Talk with co workers. Eat cherries. Go teach last class. Another "good afternoon everybody!" More grammar, more vocabulary. Watch video. Learn from it. Watch another. More learning as students discuss. Then computer lab. They research. I walk around. "English only!" I intone.

Class time over. "Have a great evening everybody!"

Go to bus. Wait. Get on. Ride. Read. Get off. Walk to BART. Distracted walk a block out of my way miss my train by seconds. Extra ten minutes to commute. Cuss softly. If commuting had a face would punch it in mouth. (But it was my own dumb fault.)

Off train. Downtown. Walk home.  Walk is nice through bucolic neighborhoods passing children dogs old people young people. Cute women getting in car. Smile at me. That's nice.

Arrive at home. Kiss wife. On internet. Watch last night's Letterman that I DVR'd. Spaghetti for dinner. Daily Show Colbert Report also DVR'd. Writing. Reading. Type this then to bed. Hoping for lots of deep sleeping -- soon. Then more dreams I suppose. But about what?

We'll see.

But I Like People a Post Wherein I Discuss a Variety of Topics Including But Not Limited to Complaining Smoking and Big Oil

Someone at work just said, “I like these ones.” This was an adult. Presumably with a university degree. Who teaches English. Saying “these ones.” Because just saying “these” is so vague. We aren’t sure what you’re referring to if you say “these over here.” But if you say “these ones over here” well that clears up any confusion.

But I like people.

A person at work went on and on about wastefulness in the copy room. I believe she had a good point but it’s always hard to listen to her because she complains constantly. When you complain constantly people begin to tune you out. Like people who talk non stop. We don’t hear you after awhile. You’ve become this very irritating sort of white noise. Many people complain incessantly about their spouse and their children. Seriously. The great loves of your life. The person you’ve committed to spend your life with and the fruit of your loins. And you’ve hours worth of complaints about them. And you want to share that with other people? So it stands to reason that complaining about people you work with or the people you deal with at your work will be a snap. It is. I taught in an urban middle school for 20 years. There was no end of complaints we could register about individual students, classes or students as a whole.  And by god we did. But there are people who work in cushy jobs, make a good living at it and live in nice places with nice people and they bitch to high heaven. I suppose to some people saying and hearing nice things is boring.

But I like people.

Complaining is easy. Right now I’m complaining about people complaining. See how easy it is? I’m not sure why most people complain a lot but they sure do. You don’t have to look very far or try very hard to find stuff to bitch about. I’m sometimes suspicious of things that are both easy to do and non productive. It can't be healthy. Like watching TV. Sure some if what's on is good and sometimes it's nice to relax and turn your brain off in front of the idiot box but watching endless hours of it is wasteful. Just like endless hours of complaining!

Someone at work tried to quit smoking cigarettes but found it difficult so has continued with the foul habit. Quitting is hard to do so why bother? I know from personal experience (as opposed to impersonal experience, I guess this is like personal opinions which differ from impersonal ones). It took me years to quit smoking. It was easier to go off booze and drugs and meat and gum. Quitting smoking can be torturous because smoking itself is an addiction. So there’s that. But I would still recommend that all smokers quit. Get started on it right away because it may take awhile. And don’t be thrown by the fact that it is difficult. It’s worth it. Of course the best thing to do is never start smoking.

But I like people.

It fascinates me that people still take up smoking despite the fact that smokers have been so marginalized in our society. When I was puffing tobacco you could do it in an office. Now you can’t even smoke in a goddamned bar. That’s progress! I remember when people could smoke on buses and in ballparks and in movie theaters. Now you see smokers huddled together outside of buildings. Pariahs. I don’t feel sorry for them. They’re being ostracized for practicing a habit that not only has no benefits but is quite harmful to their health. It is also a practice that many other people find repellent, owing to the stinky smoke and the fact that it carries health risks for others.

I’m sure big tobacco companies are still rolling in dough.

Just as fast food chains are. They too feed (no pun intended) on the weaknesses of people. Healthy organic fruits and vegetables are expensive in the US. Fast food is comparatively cheap. Fast food establishments are easy to find in an urban or suburban area and are never too far in rural areas. Finding a good produce store is not so easy. Check out low income areas. Plenty of fast food joints and liquor stores. But good food? You may have to drive a bit.

But I like people. Don't care for corporations though which aren't people no matter what anyone says.

Speaking of driving…Oil companies seem to be doing well. I believe they could take a serious hit to their profits and still be making money hand over fist (I don’t know where that comes from either but if I look it up I’ll probably remember it for ten minutes, if that). I feel safe in asserting that our economy would not suffer a wit if we began using alternative means of energy at a much much greater rate. Electric cars would be a good start. But lobbyists….

Getting meaningful change done in this country seems a quixotic notion. But you have to plug ahead. You have to assume you can get something done. To give up is to surrender and let the “bad guys” win. Can’t have that.

I met a guy once who started his professional life as a crusading lawyer who was going to make a difference in the world. Bring about positive change. He soon grew frustrated with the intractability of things of how entrenched the powers that be are how hopeless it can be. So he quit and become a garbage collected.

That’s the spirit.

Being — as they used to be called — a garbage collector is an admirable profession and one has to appreciate their efforts doing an often if not always unpleasant job. But if you’ve trained to be and are able to be a lawyer who has ambitions for society as a whole and you give that up because it’s difficult, you’re an idiot. Plain and simple.

But I like people.

Take steps. Move forward. Things change. It is slow. Often too slow. But it does your soul good to realize that you are at least making an effort. Nourish your soul. In fact making an effort earns you the right to complain. But don't go overboard about it. Since I started writing this our chief complainer in residence was at it again. It drove one person out of the lunchroom and caused me here in the adjacent room to put on my iPod. Thank you iPod for helping me screen out unpleasant sounds. I couldn't ride public transportation without you.

Hey I'm going to change the subject. Here's a good ice breaker: take a block of frozen water and hit with a hammer.

I know I'm a scream aren't I?

And...But I like people.

The Uncouth the Untested the Uninsured the Unreliable and the Unbelievable is a Long Preamble Before Writing a Little About The Big Lebowski

The uncouth the untested the uninsured the unreliable and the unbelievable. They all converge on the city and more’s the pity. But on go the wheels of commerce and business as usual and the straight talk about the real deal and the latest poop. Try a scoop.

I motor from one activity to the next busy as a bee and a fall that is free and descending to the depths of life that pox-ridden place that we call home and live and work in. Jerkin. I try to maneuver through the daily grind I don’t really mind.

On the bus next to a sad pot bellied middle aged man wheezing instead of breathing. Such is his lot. Too many bacon cheeseburgers and larges orders of fries and not enough time moving of his own volition — his admission. Sad faced little Asian girl with pudgy cheeks standing looking at wheezy and me and out the window of the bus and at no one nothing everyone and everything and everybody and all in all short and tall. I tried to read Thomas Wolfe but wheezy was cramping my style with his big fat legs spread and intruding into my seat space and hello claustrophobia and don’t you know I feel bad about hurting your feelings 30 years ago Sue? I used but not abused you and it was wrong of me but I knew no better. The sex the food the money and my creative bendings of truth which is what I’m calling lying. Sighing. Sorry girl. Why think of her these many years later? A chicken roost somewhere? Do I care. Why did I do the things that I did back when I was doing them and they were did and done.

And here we have gotten to the crux of the matter. Forget wheezy on the bus and all the other annoying people you commute with or all the annoying people in the gym or in stores or on sidewalks or in cars or any damn place else. They are not the point brother. You are. You and your inability to re-live the past and fix all those mistakes and do things differently and do it right. Can’t undo the did. It just is. As it was. You are here today and that’s really okay. Things ain’t so bad. Marriage kids and career and health and all. Even a friend or two and fun things to do. So you weren’t perfect. Hell so you weren’t remotely close to anywhere near to within the same ballpark or league or continent as perfect. So you fucked up royally on a lot of things and did take full advantage of all kinds of opportunities and made a mess of others and stepped on a lot of toes mostly your own and you drank and used and yourself abused. It’s what you are today and how you’ve grown and learned and become and prospered and persevered. You learned from your mistakes so you must be a genius because you made so many to learn from. Son.

Be cool about being yourself and just wallow in a little nostalgia. Now go to bed with a clear head. Fred. (That’s not my name.)

Let me explain something to you. Um, I am not "Mr. Lebowski". You're Mr. Lebowski. I'm the Dude. So that's what you call me. You know, that or, uh, His Dudeness, or uh, Duder, or El Duderino if you're not into the whole brevity thing. - The Dude.

Nor is my name The Dude. That is Jeff Bridges' character in the Coen Brothers 1998 film The Big Lebowski. I hadn't seen it since it was in theaters a little bit over 16 years ago. And truth to tell I'd forgotten most everything about it which means of course that I hadn't embraced its status as a cult classic. All this Dude Abides stuff meant nothing to me. Who knows why. So last night I watched it again at last as part of my recent Coen Brother binge.

I loved it.

What it really amounts to is a case of great story telling which is something the Coens have routinely done cinematically for 30 years now.

The Big Lebowski is a Raymond Chandleresque film noir for the pot smoking slacker free love generation. There are no restraints on language or sex and the main character is not a buttoned down cynical wise cracking private dick drinking whiskey and smoking cigarettes. No he's an ultra casually dressed (think Saturday morning with a hangover watching cartoons) cynical wise cracking unemployed White Russian drinker smoking joints. And his buddy (John Goodman) is ranging gun wielding paranoid who's more trouble than help to The Dude.

Brandt: You never went to college...
The Dude: Oh, no I did, but I spent most of my time occupying various administration buildings... smoking a lot of thai stick... breaking into the ROTC... and bowling. To tell you the truth Brandt, I don't remember most of it.

It's no surprise this film has maintained such wide appeal for so long. The story is rollocking good fun with cracked characters of all variety. The dialogue is everything from witty to hilarious and far smarter than its given credit for. And most of all there is The Dude himself. If you can't relate to the character (and many can't) you certainly know or know of someone just like him, or at least pretty damn close. There is a strong familiarity about a person who doesn't work is always broke but always has booze and drug money and is always managing to sleep with pretty women and always has horrendous luck but manages to fall ass backward into good luck. These guys always have a lot of friends because they're fun to hang out with. They know a little bit about a lot of things and have odd talents and interests like The Dude who bowls in a league with Walter and their other friend Donny (Steve Buscemi). Donny is another modern archetype, the guy who never seems to know whats going on and thus endlessly annoying. Walter has no time for Donny's constant confusion and is forever shutting him up and insulting the poor lad.

What I've come to love about the Coens is the boundless joy of their film making. The brothers clearly revel in telling stories and being as creative as possible in the process. There is an enthusiasm evident to making a movie like The Big Lebowski. It bespeaks film makers who love spinning a good yarn and through everything into it. The dream sequences are like wonderful bonuses for viewers. They are post modern Busby Berkeley extravaganzas that may or may not add anything to the storyline but sure make it more fun.

The Dude: It's like what Lenin said... you look for the person who will benefit, and, uh, uh...
Donny: I am the walrus.
The Dude: You know what I'm trying to say...
Donny: I am the walrus.
Walter Sobchak: That fucking bitch...
The Dude: Oh yeah!
Donny: I am the walrus.
Walter Sobchak: Shut the fuck up, Donny! V.I. Lenin. Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov!
Donny: What the fuck is he talking about, Dude?

There is also a confidence to the Coens that is evident in Lebowski. Far from ignoring risks they veritably head butt them. Whether its Brandt (Phillip Seymour Hoffman) the sycophantic assistant to the other Lebowksi -- the one who, unlike The Dude, is by appearances wealthy and mainstream -- who is always unfailingly polite proper and punctilious or the whacky German musician/assassins or the nihilist porn king or the super flamboyant pedophilic bowler Jesus (John Turturro) the Coens are not shy.

The thing is it all works. It's great fun that may occasionally teeter toward the silly and the slapstick but always rights itself. Sometimes there's a good reason a film appeals to a wide audience for a lengthy spell as The Big Lebowski has. And while encomiums are being passed out to the Coens they are also richly deserved by Bridges and the rest of the cast who rose to the script and the direction.

All this said and I never mentioned Tara Reid's turn as the nymphomaniac trophy wife or her older step daughter the experimental artist played by Julianne Moore nor the whole crazy kidnapping the rug that really set off the room until it was intentionally peed on or the sacrificed toe or the landlord's interpretive dance or Sam Elliot as The Stranger an Old West character who provides a bit of narration or....Say, did I mention that Ben Gazzara shows up in this movie?

The Dude: Yeah, well. The Dude abides.
The Stranger: The Dude abides. I don't know about you but I take comfort in that. It's good knowin' he's out there. The Dude. Takin' 'er easy for all us sinners. Shoosh. I sure hope he makes the finals.

Responds Well to Praise -- A Song of the School in Verse From a Former Happy Idiot

I'm going to be a happy idiot
And struggle for the legal tender
Where the ads take aim and lay their claim
To the heart and the soul of the spender
And believe in whatever may lie
In those things that money can buy
Thought true love could have been a contender
Are you there?
Say a prayer for the Pretender
Who started out so young and strong
Only to surrender
From The Pretender by Jackson Browne

I feel like I’m making a difference. -  A lot of people.

I was teaching history at a public middle school. Five members of my teaching team including yours truly were having our weekly meeting. We were being told by an administrator about a new student who would be joining us in a few days. Two teachers who were still new to the education biz were busily scribbling notes. Notes that they’d never look at again. (They’d learn.) Everything the administrator said about this new lad made him sound like he’d recently been kicked out of hades for bad behavior. We got warning after warning. Then we were told — and I’d heard this one a million times before and after — he responds well to praise. I then happened to observe the teacher to my left scribbling those very words in her notebook. Responds well to praise.

Great. Who doesn’t? And more to the point, is this little tyrant going to give us anything to praise him for?

He didn’t. My recollection is a bit vague but I believe his stay with us could be numbered in days owing to a violation of one sort or another. Perhaps he exceeded his maximum allowed body count. If only he’d done something praiseworthy and one of us had been quick enough to offer a pat on the back or kudos or an attaboy or a trophy or medal of honor or certificate of appreciation or just a psalm. But alas.

Praise had become a big thing by the time I left public schools and began the restoration of my sanity. As in the case of the aforementioned little Lucifer, it was believed to have unique redemptive qualities and the ability to transform demons into angels. One piece of wisdom a principal imparted to us — and this one universally believed by people who never set foot in an actual classroom — was the idea that for every admonition we doled out to a student there must be five utterances of praise given to this same child.

Let's see how this might work. So little Tommy interrupts teacher to talk to another student, teacher re-directs Tommy and now is in debt to the lad to the tune of five hallelujahs. Let’s try it: way to get out a pencil, Tommy (1), thanks for pointing out the page we’re on to Cindy (2), good job lending a piece of paper (3). At this point there’s just two to go for the slate to be clean. But then…Tommy, you cannot say that word in class! Now you’re into the little bugger for five more plus the two previously owed. Seven. And most of the class time is gone. It could carryover into the next day. And what if he gets out of his seat early? You could be up to 12. Plus its so easy to lose count especially when you’ve got a tote board going with Rachael who was chewing gum and then decapitated Roger.

The whole deal sounds utterly ridiculous. But I have a confession. I lied. You aren’t really expected to offer five hosannahs for every stop-beating-Sam-with-a-tire-iron. The actual number is ten. As in 10. As in five multiplied by two. As in half a score.

That’s some fucked up shit, man.

I subbed for a couple of years while I was getting my TESL Certificate (teacher of english as a second language) and I actually observed some teachers gamely trying to praise their charges to the hilt. It was sadly funny to hear people being praised for being in their seats or sitting quietly doing their work or not talking. Good god it must have been exhausting for the teacher.

Mind you I’m quite the one for recognizing the achievements of students. Its something I learned from coaching youth soccer. Young athletes and students all too often have their errors pointed out and themselves focus on those missteps without enough recognition of improvement or for extra efforts. I’m big on motivating young people and building their self esteem and giving credit where it is due and offering encouragement. Teaching students from all over the world  as I do (most of whom from 17-25 years old) I am forever cheerleading and singling out students especially because they tend to be too hard on themselves. But here’s the deal: I do it when its earned. There’s nothing phony baloney about it. Sure I may go a bit overboard sometimes but I always start from a real place. It is never forced or contrived.

Our public schools are primarily staffed by fantastic dedicated hard working teachers who are under administrators — from all I can gather from my experiences and what I hear and read — who are a bunch of fucking idiots. The kind of lame brains who would want you to say: hey Putin another day without detonating a nuclear device, way to go pal!

Telling the next Charles Manson that he did a good job lending an eraser isn’t even a tiny step in addressing this child’s problem. Nor is it going to do much to keep other students from having their instruction interrupted when the little monster goes ballistic during class time. So this is the real problem. Schools do not have the wherewithal to really help Tommy. Certainly not by the time he’s in middle school. For most kids the ship has sailed on their school careers if not their entire lives by the time they're nine years old. Or sooner.

All schools -- from an administrative standpoint -- really do is mask problems. Like when the school I taught at decided not to continue in-house suspension because it looked bad that the vast majority of students in it were African American. So let’s hide the symptom rather than seeking a cure.

Sweeping problems under rugs is a speciality of public school administrators as is avoiding law suits and keeping the place looking sharp for one school board members come by. Addressing real problems in an effective matter...not so much. I do hasten to add that in addition to their own incompetence they are hamstrung by societal issues. Schools either don't get enough resources the wrong kind or spend too much dough paying their mucky mucks.

I could go on about schools. And on. And on. The six years since I escaped with my soul have allowed me time for a lot of reflection. I continue to be astounded at the work done by teachers and am proud to have associated with most of the ones I worked with over the years (there was one where I worked who I believe is still there who was real doozy of lying immoral scoundrel but she was the exception). Teachers are asked a helluva lot, given very little and respond like heroes.

They also respond well to praise -- but don’t need it.

I Shave Magazines and Dollar Bills

Hey I got another unsolicited email that was just a thinly disguised attempt to take advantage of my blog for commercial purposes. The sender clearly perceived me as possessing a gullible and stupid nature. I offer said email and my response. Of course I have redacted the name of the company so that they don't benefit a wit from me.

Hi Richard, 

I'm Tracey, the community manager for REDACTED.com. Here at REDACTED it's our mantra to help people Shave Time and Shave Money. That's why we've created the best razors in the world for the lowest prices around. (Oh, in case you haven't heard of us or seen our viral video, we're the members only club that delivers the best quality razors and grooming supplies for a few bucks a month.) 

Unlike you, not all of us are savvy deal sleuths and time management experts. As a result, we're asking an elite group of influential bloggers like you to create a post on your blog about other ways you "shave time and/or shave money" in everyday life. At REDACTED, we are committed to shaving time and money for our members every single day, and we love to share our favorite posts on social media! 

Let me know ASAP if you are interested! 

Chat Soon, 

Tracey

Hi Tracey with an “e.” First of all congratulations on developing the best razors in the world and offering them for a low price. You are so cool to do that. Speaking of cool..I love your mantra. How often do y’all say it?

I do have a question however, who the hell told you I was a “savvy deal sleuth and time management expert?” I’ve been trying to keep that under wraps for years. But hey if the secret is out whattaya gonna do? Am I right?

Actually I have a second question: am I really part of “an elite group of influential bloggers”? If so no one is sending me the newsletters or telling me when and where the meetings are. I’d also like to see a list of the other members of the club. If they’re just a bunch of creeps I want out.

But you were asking how I shave time and money. Simple. Every week when my copy of the magazine comes I lay it on a table with all my paper currency. Then I simply apply shaving cream, get out my razor and shave both at the same time. It’s a great time saver! Truthfully though it does seem a bit silly as neither Time magazine nor U.S. dollars of any denomination grown whiskers. It is, however, a blast.

I hope you share my ideas with others, Tracey with an “e.” I can’t wait to “chat soon.” What’ll we talk about though? The crisis in the Gaza? Mounting tensions between Russia and Ukraine? Or how about the slipshod marketing techniques by second rate companies?
You pick!

Kisses,
Richard

A Blabbermouth Tells a Stupid Joke and Another Acquaintance Dies and I Keep Writing

There’s this guy at work who never shuts up. This motherfucker person talks incessantly — mostly about himself — and says virtually nothing of any interest to anyone save himself.  Wait, forget the virtually nothing, make that absolutely nothing.

I think he’d shut up if someone drove an icepick into the base of his skull but then again there may be no force known to man that can stop the perpetual motion machine that is his mouth. Words are expelled in great long bursts as if they have a will of their own and force their way from the great recesses of his vacuous mind. No topic is off limits particularly if it relates to him. Adding to the horror is the abrasive monotone of his voice, words blasting out without rhythm as if a verbal jackhammer were at work. Of course he keeps the vocal volume is on full blast. The totally deaf can hear him. No one is immune to being cornered for a diatribe. A few of us avoid him like the proverbial plague that he is. If he's anywhere near the copy machine when I have to use it I take the polar route to get there. It's worth the extra time.

For people at work it is constant, breaks only coming when he or if we are teaching. Yes he is a teacher too. Pity his students trying to sift through the torrential downpour of his words. One imagines that after work he wanders the streets of San Francisco seeking prey. He pounces and devours the unsuspecting with words. Great swirling waves of words each more meaningless than the last. An incessant cacophony of nothing.

The other day after a rare pause in his bleatings he offered this short joke: “what’s the difference between a drunk and an alcoholic? A drunk doesn’t have to go to all the stupid meetings.”

And people rave about Oscar Wilde.

As someone intimately familiar with those “stupid meetings” that alcoholics “have to go to” I can attest to the fact that they have saved many lives. Some literally. People would have died had they not started showing up at AA meetings. Others have been rescued from poverty, illness or the dissolution of their family by those “stupid meetings.”

It’s serious.

That said people in recovery are notorious for having a sense of humor often directed at the person who stares at them in the mirror. Success in recovery requires taking the process seriously but not taking yourself so seriously.

But the joke wasn’t offensive to me because it took a jab at AA it was offensive because it was stupid. That’s another thing about 12 steppers, when they poke fun at themselves or even the vaunted “program” they have a tendency to do some with a degree of wit that is sometimes surprising for people who maybe only recently have spent their days in a constant stupor. Plus its okay when people make fun of themselves -- African Americans can make all the jokes about themselves that they want -- but other people ought to just shut the hell up.

Not to put too fine a point on it but drunks and alcoholics are the same thing. They are people who have the disease of alcoholism. What is different is a recovering alcoholic. That rare bird is someone with said disease who is trying to a) stay clean and sober and b) live successfully without her or his drink or drug of choice. And by the way doing the first without then moving onto the second is a waste of time. I’ve seen people who hang on desperately to their sobriety as it becomes their raison d’etre. They see sobriety as an end to itself when in fact it is but a vehicle with which to enjoy a healthy happy life.

Once loud mouth told his side splitter another bloke chimed in that he had gone to a few meetings once. Given his reputation for drunkenness and the fact that he often returns from lunch, shall we say “herbed up” it is not surprising that someone — perhaps himself — once directed him toward AA. Evidently with him it didn’t take and his life is so much the poorer for that fact.

I am not a preacher. If someone asks me a question I’ll gladly answer it and have done so. I also try — quite in vain — not to judge others. If judging becomes a habit for a person said individual tends to merely examine other people’s lives while ignoring their own. And you may also start thinking you know better and are special. This is a recipe for shit soup. Still it is impossible to ignore certain actions, comments and ridiculously stupid jokes. Human nature and all. And it can feel really good to vent. Seriously.

Yesterday I met my good friend Kevin for coffee. He is a living testimony to the wanders of AA having stayed sober for 25 years. Plus he has given countless hours in service time to the program helping himself by helping others. Kevin had to pass along the sad news that an old friend, Norma, was at death's door. Later in the day he forwarded word to me via email that she had in fact died (or if that's too blunt for you she passed away or on or left us or went to her reward. I prefer dead myself there's no ambiguity to it and its straightforwardness suits the occasion). Kevin had known Norma much longer and better than I, she and her husband having sat with him for many years at Cal men's basketball games. I'd chatted with her on occasion over the past 15 years or so and found her to be -- and these words are carefully chosen -- full of life. An energetic woman in her 60s (I believe her to have made it to 72) who busied herself with all manner of activity and always ready to share a few words and ask after a person. It's difficult to imagine so energetic a person still forever. But that't the way of the universe.

As a person grows older more and more people of your acquaintance die. It starts with grandparents and other older relatives then eventually there is a friend or co worker or cousin and soon parents and siblings and more friends and for someone like myself there are even former students who meet premature deaths. I tend to write about it a lot, I suppose because I'll never get to write about my own death. At least not after the event. (If it turns out I can write post mortem it'll make for a helluva story, check that -- a heavenly one.)

One thing I've noticed about death is that its the ultimate affirmation of life. You have any doubt that life is precious and to be used and lived to the fullest,  just contemplate for a minute those you know who are no longer around. I'm still wrestling with my brother's death almost two years later and being the sole remaining member of the little family I grew up in. It's a heavy burden but it also behooves one not to wallow in sorrow or self pity but to exalt in our time here. I'm still trying like hell to live up to my dad's and brother's legacies and celebrate their lives by making the most of my own. If it seems a hokey concept then you probably haven't started losing friends and family members or are too cynically minded to be worth taking to -- no offense.

So I'll miss the few occasions when I'd see Norma and I know that her husband is going to need all the love and support of those close to him, particularly his and Norma's two daughters.

Life is precious all right. I'm going to try to spend the rest of my time as positively as possible and stay the hell away from people who blabber their way through it. Who needs that shit.

A Short Bit About Sneezing and then a Longer Thing About Tourists and Some Random Guy that is Obviously Fictionalized

I don't like when people give me the god bless you after I sneeze. First if all let's keep imaginary supreme beings out of my bodily functions. Secondly, why? It's a frickin' sneeze leave me alone about it, I was already inconvenienced. Plus I don’t hear you say anything when I burp or cough so let's let it go.

And then am I really expected to thank someone for god blessing my sneeze? Come on. What if I rattle off another three or four? You going to keep it up and am I supposed to thank you for each? Talk about pandora’s box. And don't think for a second that you can get away with a gesundheit. Just because you've made it secular and ethnic doesn't make it okay. Can we just agree to ignore other peoples sneezes beyond perhaps offering a hanky if one is needed?

Hanky. There's a word you don't hear very often anymore. What a disgusting notion. You blow your nose into some cloth than stick said item into your pocket. Then maybe you get it out later and let go again. Perfect it's back in your pocket. People even hawk loogies into hankies. I suppose your hanky is more environmentally friendly than a wad of tissues. But at what cost? Yer carrying around germs for crissakes.

And here's something else that's new. Used to be that when you had to sneeze you just let go. Not anymore fella. You've got to sneeze into your arm. Supposed to do the Dracula move.  Great, now you've got snot on your jacket or shirt. Because a sneeze into thin sir is really going to start the next influenza epidemic? I call bullshit. But I’m stuck with it. I start sneezing into the atmosphere and I’m suddenly a crude thoughtless asshole. Enough with this.

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Today I took the trolley to the Ferry Building during my lunch hour to make a purchase for the wife’s forthcoming birthday. The trolley I took back only went as far as Pier 39 as sometimes happens so I had to walk the rest of the way to the school where I render my services. The walk took me through the heart of Fisherman’s Wharf.

During tourist season.

Yuck!

Places like Fisherman’s Wharf were created and are maintained for the sole purpose of separating people from their hard earned dollars. There are shops aplenty with all manner of junk that no one need and often never think to buy until they see it. Like the tee shirt that says: "will trade my wife for beer" or the one that says "will trade my husband for wine." Yokels actually stop and guffaw at this sort of thing. Tourist traps cater to the lowest common denominator in our society just as television and the film industry generally do.

Imagine if literature and intelligent cinema and local craft fares and farmer’s markets and sustainable gardens and organic food and theatrical productions and poetry were promoted a third as much as fast food restaurants or chain stores or super hero movie sequels or tourist traps. Maybe we’d have far fewer overweight men in Donald Duck tee shirts walking around slurping diet colas and taking photos of Aunt Bess and Little Emmy in front of the wax museum. Maybe if the dollar didn't rule popular culture we'd have more reasoned debates and more sophisticated tastes and fewer guys like that fella over there....

He's coming out of a McDonalds eatery emitting a belch. His family is in tow. He’s Todd Lichen from Kansas City, Missouri. Todd’s large belly pushes against his tee shirt and makes his legs look skinnier than they are. His fat has settled in his stomach and face which has a baseball cap shading it. Todd is with Linda — that’s his wife — their 12 year old daughter, Sarah and nine year old boy, Alex. Sarah is bored by everything and hates those moments when she’s not looking at her cell phone. Alex is excited, as is generally the case. He’s a bit portly already and spends too much time watching TV and playing video games but Todd and Linda don’t mind too much because he’s good boy and shows promise as a student. Sarah’s not much of a student right now but they figure that its just a phase because she can write really well and her teacher’s have always liked her. Linda likes being a stay-at-home mom. She always has plenty of projects around the house to keep her busy plus she’s got to look after her parents who are getting on especially now that her sister Lynette is divorced and raising four kids on her own oh and Linda helps her out too plus she volunteers down at the animal shelter once a week. Todd is a building inspector and the pay is pretty good and with what his folks left them they’re doing all right and even have some money invested. Todd’s brother Kirk is an investment counselor and he helped set them up.

Todd and Linda are kind of glad to be out of Missouri in July what with it being so hot back there. They’re enjoying San Francisco’s cool fog and light breezes. They always vacation in different parts of the US. Todd has never been out of the country — not even to Mexico — and doesn’t see the point what with so much to see and do around this country without the hassle of really long plane flights and passports and shots and whatever. Maybe some day when the kids are growed but for now they’re happy just to see the good ole USA.

Plus Todd likes to see his dollar being spent in country and for example always buys an American car. He loves the country its been real good to him and his family as it has been to millions and millions of others. Todd sure can’t imagine any better what with all the freedoms and such, not that he’s ever tried.

Todd is just as happy to eat lunch in a fast food place and have dinner at an Olive Garden or some other place that’s familiar. Food is food in his book and why spend a lot of money on some fancy place? There’s a real nice steakhouse near where they live that they go to once a month or so but other than that the chains are just fine. Todd figures his health can’t be too bad him not smoking and being only 43 and only occasionally having so much as a beer. He gets vegetables and fruit in his diet when he can, Linda sees to that.

As for travel Todd is real happy to go on tours and see what other tourists see. He thought their trip to Alcatraz this morning was real interesting or as he says it, inner esting. They took a lot of pictures and he's only sorry Sara looked so bored but what can you do kids are what they are. He’s looking forward to seeing the Golden Gate Bridge up close. Just like he got a kick out of seeing the Statue of Liberty last Summer and Mount Rushmore the Summer before that and the Alamo three years back etc.

Linda wants to go see the Castro District that’s so famous for all the gays that hang out there but Todd isn’t sure its such a good idea. He may have Linda take Sara there tomorrow while him and the boy go look at the ballpark where the Giants play. He never understood about the gays and why they make such a big fuss about what they are not that he cares one way or the other just so long as they don’t bother him or his family. Todd’s not much into politics though he doesn’t like paying taxes and would like to see em cut. He also wants to be damn sure that the government doesn’t try taking his guns because he’s big on the second amendment and believes everyone else should be too because its part of the American heritage or whatever. Though he doesn’t remember much of his school history Todd is real sure that the founders meant for everyone to have their own gun and he won’t hear of anything different on the subject. Other than that Todd stays out of current event type discussions, he’s got enough to concern himself what with his job and the family and of course football which he loves and other sports which he likes though not basketball so much. Todd enjoys nothing more in the world than plunking himself down in his easy chair to watch a game or whatever ESPN is talking about if no game is on. Linda and the kids have other shows they like to watch which is why there’s a TV in the playroom and another in the master bedroom.

But so anyway Todd has a tooth pick working out some pieces of meat and he’s ready to do whatever else is on the agenda he can’t remember what though Linda will know.  Linda is a good wife. Todd doesn’t even pay much notice the fact that her looks have faded pretty fast and she’d kind of filled out in ways you wouldn’t want. Linda hasn’t paid much attention to things like new clothes (for herself) and make up since Sara was born. Those days are over for her and she barely looks in a mirror anymore. Todd loves Linda with all his heart but physical passion is no longer in the cards not that it matters, both of them are generally too tired by the time they go to bed anyway.

Linda reaches into her purse for their “agenda.” Todd can’t fathom how Linda’s purse can have seemingly everything and anything in it. Tissues, bandages, gum, tweezers, tylenol, cough drops, addresses, maps, lip stick, keys, candy bars, twisties, rubber bands, pens, anything you’d need on any occasion in any emergency. Sometimes Todd kids her asking does she have a canned ham in there in case they get hungry. Todd is a kidder all right. He likes a good laugh and he enjoys giving people a hard time about this or that.

Finally as he's wondering off thinking of nothing, just looking, Linda reminds him they’re going to where they catch the cable car and that sounds real interesting. Inner esting.

Me. I’m getting the hell out of the commercial wharf area and into my building. I’ve got work to do.

The Lap of The Lord -- My Brief Flirtation With Gawd Almighty I Can't Believe that Ever Happened

Born again naturally.

I spent two months being a born again holy roller christian. Right smack in the middle of my early 20’s when what was first and foremost on my mind was getting laid and getting high. I was such a devoted member of the assembly of god church that in addition to attending services on Sunday morning and reading all the church provided literature I could get my hands on including the holiest of all books that there bible, I went out most every night and pursued all the sin I could get my hands on. Two faced me. The halo at my feet.

What was I thinking? Why had I answered “the call”? Why did I go through the motions of something I didn’t believe, not in my heart not anywhere? Why did I sit through sermons that were equal parts conservative political philosophy and what Jesus had to say? Why did I still there when the pastor lambasted Roots, the then recently aired mini series about slavery, for supposedly being racist as it depicted all white people in such a negative light? Why did I go to their barbeques and listen to conversations about how all films were evil accepting perhaps some Disney movies? What was I doing among these bible thumpers and gospel humpers?

Damned if I know. And I suppose they all thought I’d be damned for sure once I skipped my baptism and never showed my hide around their parts ever again. (A few months later one congregationalist bicycled past me as I strolled down the street and exclaimed cheerily, "jesus loves you!" I told her to thank him for me. Wonder if she ever did.)

I was staying with a young married couple, Bill and Robin who had been reborn years earlier and were regulars at the church. They were so devout that a few years later Robin left Bill for another man who she’d had an affair with and a year after that Bill was living with a woman outside the bounds of holy matrimony. Don’t guess he was still going to the church at the time. But that’s getting ahead of the story.

They let me crash on their sofa that summer as I was a college student without a place to live for two months. They were fun and funny people who enjoyed my fun and funniness though I didn’t understand about this whole god business they brought up from time to time. It didn’t seem to fit with who they really were and as I’ve already given away, wasn’t. Maybe we’re all hypocrites of one kind or another, especially when we add a religion with all its dos and don’ts and strict beliefs about why and how to the mad mix that is our brain and the original sin of the way we think with it and view the world. You’ve got to give up so much of who you really are and what you really believe to swallow whole someone else’s rules. People who are true believers and give themselves wholly to a belief system have abdicated so much of their nature that they are forever pixilated and confused but don’t have the ability to realize it. They subjugate their own ideas and fears and questions in such a way that its as if they are suppressing a gigantic dump. The fumes pour out of their system and foul the earth. So much.

Bill and Robin were always broke, often desperately so which was real bad considering they had a three year old son. Their usual response to dire financial circumstances was to pray. At one point I asked my brother to bail them out with a loan which he did and I suppose they convinced themselves that god had just answered their prayers. Yeah, right.

Bill took me to a couple of revival meetings. I went out of a combined lack of anything better to do and curiosity. When the call came for converts I could hear him pray in a whisper that I be “saved.” Well one day I just strolled on up there and accepted jesus as my lord and savior. I hadn’t felt anything at the time it just seemed like the thing to do. This was the next chapter in what was rapidly becoming one helluva crazy mixed-up  life that was going all directions at once and getting me nowhere in particular and taking me everywhere.

Here’s what it was: it was something new. Brand new. Let’s try this new thing it’s gotta be better than that old thing which was really nothing at all.  I’d come to jesus and things would get better. Better than what I didn’t know but I was disinclined to over do my thinking.

I accepted my new faith whole hog except for the prohibitions on things I liked to do and anything that infringed on my political beliefs. (And what it is with evangelicals and conservative republican orthodoxy? What is there about jesus, a hippie if there ever was one, that appeals to war mongering gun lovers who think its just tough luck if you're poor?)

So I would show up on Sundays and occasionally for other functions and pretend to speak in tongues (now there was some weird shit that I knew I was faking). I believed but did not feel that there was a god in heaven who’d had this book called the bible written and who’d sent his kid down on earth to perform miracles and die for our sins. Please note that sins are still committed and still need to be forgiven and according to the church I attended if you didn’t accept jesus you go to hell where there will be weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Some god, eh? Oh but he will answer your prayers --or not -- I mean its his will after all and just because you pray for your cousin to get cured of his cancer doesn’t mean he will be. But pray anyway because it gives you something to do while your cuz is dying and gives you some sense of involvement and if he dies so what you did your part and can’t be faulted it was god’s will. God’s will. No accounting for that.

I thought a lot about all this nonsense as I sat through church services replete with individuals giving their testimonies usually about how god had acted in their lives and how grateful they were and how god had given meaning to their life and blah blah blah. I sat there and thought what a lot of bushwa it was. How I lasted two months I do not know. I suppose it was because I was supplementing the holy spirit with alcoholic spirits and the tender affections of heathen women.

I grew up Lutheran. This is the white bread of religions. There’s no radical orthodoxy involved no out of the ordinary rituals or weird rites or goofy practices. A simple sermon, some standard hymns some rote prayers and you’re on your way and you likely wont be asked to do much between Sundays unless you want to donate a sweater to the poor.

I went to Sunday school and loved it for the stories. Gotta give the bible credit, its chock full of really good tales, maybe especially for kids. I went through confirmation when I was 14. Towards the end of the process the pastor predicted that most of us would stop showing up at church once we were confirmed, I thought that I’d be different just to spite him and in fact I showed up one Sunday after my confirmation and never again in a church until my savior summer that I’m detailing here. Before all the Sunday school and stuff started I was baptized. Of course I was baby at the time and had no say in the matter nor any memories of said event. I imagine that as an infant the whole business was rather annoying and probably even made me bawl. Point is I’d been baptized but that didn’t count in the assembly of god which believed you had to be older and aware of what was going on for it to have meaning and for god to accept it and punch your ticket to heaven.

So I was scheduled one Sunday afternoon to be baptized. I was going to ride into church with Bill and Robin as was the custom. Seemed to me overkill as I’d already endured a service that morning. I had some time to kill and as was my wont when time was available I traipsed down to a local watering hole to imbibe some spirits. Again not the holy kind. I went to a place called Madison Bear Gardens which was three floors of bars that in the evening had one floor for dancing. Another floor served food and the other was just for plain old drinking. I sat down and had a beer. As was generally the case, one beer led to another, then another and another and I was off. Besides the US Open tennis final was on TV and this was during a short spell in my life when I enjoyed playing and watching the game. Tennis lasted longer for me then the church. Less rules.

It wasn’t long before I thought something alone these lines: “screw the baptism, I’m bailing on this whole christian business and concentrating on fun.” And so I did.  I stayed in the bar and got good and zonked. By this time my stay at Bill and Robin’s sofa was over and I’d moved in with roomies in one of those dens of sin us college kids lived in. I returned to that home late in the evening to find a note from Bill. I forget all the details of it but do remember one line: "you’ve been lifted to the lap of the lord in prayer.” So there I’d been right at god’s lap and I’d passed on the idea of plunking myself down and having a seat. Imagine. And what about the almighty? There I was within easy reach and he passed on me. Gee thanks. The note assured me that I’d be welcomed back into the fold any time and that prayers were being proffered for my safe return to the church. I then realized just how silly I’d been. It wasn’t just that I’d wasted my time with this whole born again business, I’d wasted other people’s time too. Hell god himself was probably annoyed with me for giving a bunch of lip service to him then chucking it all to drink beer and watch tennis. In any case I felt free. Liberated from the bonds of religion, never to bother with it again, or to bother it again.

It's a very strange chapter in my life. One that defies easy explanation. In the intervening years I've thought a lot about god and how in all likelihood no such being exists and that christianity is done well more harm than good. Yes I know that there have been many charitable works performed by christians for hundreds of years. I also know that much war violence torture and suffering has come out of the church. But in some ways the worse -- you should excuse the expression -- sin by the church has been shutting down peoples' minds and imaginations. By providing false and easy answers and hopes that are not based on any rational thought or -- dare I say it -- science, religions have slowed human progress, stifled the arts and limited the capacity for hundreds of millions of people to reach their true intellectual and spiritual potentials.

Amen.