Surviving Twin

Spawn of The James

2009-02-23T15:25:00.002-05:00

The last time my children and I were at the library—I think it was Thursday—I was trying to round them up so we could leave and get back to the house for lunch. Affecting the tone of Super Nanny, I said something like, "Children, children of mine. Come, come. Attention, spawn of The James. We must depart." Something in this string of appellatives apparently caught Tabitha's attention.

As I was leaving for work today, I called upstairs to Caleb and Tabitha so I could say goodbye to them. They were both in their rooms; Ethan was in the office, and I had already said goodbye to him. I shouted up the stairwell: "Tabitha! Caleb!" They both emerged from their rooms and stood at the top of the steps.

"I'm leaving now," I said.

"OK, see ya," replied Caleb, in his customary way, as he went back into his room.

Tabitha came running down the stairs to receive her hug (she doesn't hug me back, but she accepts my hugs). I kissed her on her head and said, "Love you, sweetie." I heard her mutter something as I was releasing her from the hug. "Pardon me?" I asked. A tiny bit louder, and more clearly she said, "Spawn of The James." Then she giggled and marched back up to her room.

How NOT To 'Mellow' The 'Yellow'

2009-01-20T16:52:00.004-05:00

During the inauguration broadcast this morning, I didn't to get hear The Rev. Joseph Lowery's benediction very closely because I was preparing lunch at the time. Below is an annotated excerpt from the benediction. Keep in mind that each of The Rev. Lowery's requests look forward to "that day" when God will someday help to bring each of these things to fruition.

"Lord, in the memory of all the saints who from their labors rest, and in the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to get in back, …"

Help me out here. Are African-Americans still required to sit in the back?

"... when brown can stick around …"

Is he referring to illegal immigrants from Mexico?

"... when the red man can get ahead, man; …"

Native Americans are being oppressed? Where? Last I heard, they've got their own Nation, carte blanche on casinos and cigarettes, and they don't pay any effing taxes!

"… when yellow will be mellow …"

Oh. My. GAWD!!!!! If The Rev. Lowery wants "yellow" to someday be "mellow," he needs to shut his racist pie-hole. As a "yellow" myself, his rhetoric is doing nothing to mellow me out.

"… and when white will embrace what is right. …"

WTF?! What does he think this is, Montgomery, Alabama in 1955? Does The Rev. Lowery even know that Martin Luther King and President Abraham Lincoln were both REPUBLICANS?!

"That all those who do justice and love mercy, say Amen. Say Amen"

His words belie any coherent comprehension of the terms "justice" and "love" and "mercy," let alone "Amen." Whose idea was it to give this guy a microphone? Did The Office Of The President Elect get a transcript of this "prayer" before it was delivered? So much for the unity and oneness that Obama called for in his inaugural address.

End of rant (for now).

Election Day Googling

2008-11-04T09:14:00.006-05:00

As regular users of Google are no doubt aware, the ubiquitous search engine commemorates certain calendar events with modified versions of their logo, often incorporating clever juxtapositions of images related to the day or event. Among them are the obligatory major holidays, Independence Day, Father's Day, Mother's Day, St. Patrick's Day and anniversaries, such as the 50th anniversay of NASA. Google will also often recognize birthdays (Marc Chagall, Diego Velázquez, Walter Gropius), ethnic holidays (Persian New Year), and historical "firsts" (first hot air balloon flight, first ascent of Mount Everest). See the following link for examples of Google's special logos: http://www.google.com/holidaylogos.html

Today is Election Day. This morning, I used Google to seek out some information, and was curious to see what they had done with their logo in honor of one of the most cherished traditions of American life. But what I found was their usual logo. Unaltered. As if it were any other day in America.

According to Wikipedia, as of Nov. 4, 2008, "Google, Inc., is an American public corporation, earning revenue from advertising related to its Internet search, e-mail, online mapping, office productivity, social networking, and video sharing services as well as selling advertising-free versions of the same technologies. The Google headquarters, the Googleplex, is located in Mountain View, California. As of 30 September 2008 the company has 20,123 full-time employees."

If anyone can say they have benefited from the freedoms and traditions of America, Google certainly can. Few things are as important as our ability and freedom to cast votes for those who would govern over us. But for some reason, Google was not inclined to recognize it. Was it mere oversight? Or was it a deliberate eschewing of something for which our forefathers fought and died? Why would Google, a company that at least partly owes its success and greatness to the success and greatness of America, go out of its way to recognize the birthdays of Chagall and Velázquez, and yet seemingly ignore one of the most important events in the life of an American citizen?

UPDATE: As of 5:59 p.m., Google now has a special logo for Election Day. Please disregard the above.

Only From Photographs

2008-10-01T10:28:00.003-04:00

Today would have been my mother's birthday. She would have been 65 years old. My children only know her from photographs. She has been dead for 23 years, and sadly, the fact is, I as well only know her from photographs.

McCain and Whoopi: Ignorant About the Three-Fifths Compromise

2008-09-13T15:41:00.013-04:00

Apparently, neither Whoopi Goldberg nor John McCain understand the Three-Fifths Compromise as put forth in the U.S. Constitution.

During the John McCain interview on ABC's "The View," Whoopi Goldberg asked McCain if he supported Supreme Court Justices who would be considered "strict constitutionalists."

"No," McCain responded, "I want people who interpret the Constitution of the United States the way our founding fathers envisioned for them to do."

As Barbara Walters and others looked on, Goldberg rejoined, "Should I be worried about being a slave, about being returned to slavery? Because certain things happened in the Constitution that you had to change."

McCain answered, "I understand your point. I understand that point. That's an excellent point. Thank you." The audience then applauded enthusiastically.

Whoopi was referring to the now infamous canard about the Three-Fifths Compromise of Article I of the U.S. Constitution, which says:

Representatives and direct Taxes shall be apportioned among the several States which may be included within this Union, according to their respective Numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the whole Number of free Persons, including those bound to Service for a Term of Years, and excluding Indians not taxed, three fifths of all other Persons. [Emphasis added]

It is apparent that Whoopi, the audience, and John McCain have bought into the notion that the authors of the Constitution somehow considered African-Americans not to be whole persons, but only three-fifths of a person. They seem to be ignorant of the historical fact that non-slave African-Americans in the Northern Territory were included among the "free Persons." Furthermore, they seem to be unaware of the fact that the Three-Fifths Compromise was intended for the purpose of making sure the pro-slavery southern states did not have an unfair advantage in Congress, since congressional representation was determined by population. If slaves had been counted as "whole Persons," the pro-slavery southern states would have had more power and influence in the Legislative branch of our national government.

Should we be concerned that the audience, Whoopi and John McCain, a U.S. Senator, are not only ignorant of the real purpose of the Constitutional provision, but are perpetuating their ignorance? Maybe we should give the Senator a pass because that portion of the Article was concerning the House of Representatives and not the Senate. And maybe we should cut Whoopi some slack because her Constitutional education is probably not the result of personal investigation, but rather of what she has heard all of her life from our equally ignorant culture.

But what about Babs? Shouldn't Barbara Walters, an investigative journalist, be fully aware of this widely misunderstood historical fact? Shouldn't a journalist be eager to disabuse the American public of such distortions? No, of course not, because, if the kinds of questions she asked McCain during that interview, and the attitude with which she presented them are any indication, Walters is clearly an Obama supporter, and like all good Community Agitators, it behooves her agenda to piss people off, and to keep them pissed off. Reminding people of the Three-Fifths Distortion will agitate them. Teaching people the truth about Article I of the Constitution will enlighten them. The latter promotes freedom. The former promotes agitation. And it is via agitation that the media's mission is accomplished.

Hockey Mom with Nuclear Codes

2008-09-11T14:20:00.005-04:00

Here's the transcript of Matt Damon's monologue about Sarah Palin:

"I think there's a really good chance that Sarah Palin could be president. And I think that's a really scary thing, 'cause I don't anything about her. I don't think in eight weeks I'm going to know anything about her. I know that she was a mayor of a really *really* small town. And she's governor of Alaska for less than two years. I just don't understand. I think the pick was made for political purposes, but in terms of governance, it's a disaster.

"You do the actuary [sic] tables, you know, there's a one-out-of-three chance, if not more, that McCain doesn't survive his first term, and it'll be President Palin ... and it's like a really bad Disney movie. You know, the hockey mom, you know, 'Oh, I'm just a hockey mom from Alaska,' and she's the president. And it's like, she's facing down Vladimir Putin, and you know, using the folksy stuff she learned at the hockey rink, you know. It's absurd. It's totally absurd and I don't understand why more people aren't talking about how absurd it is. It's a really terrifying possibility. The fact that we've gotten this far, and we're that close to this being a reality is crazy. Crazy.

"I mean, I need to know if she really thinks dinosaurs were here four thousand years ago. That's an important -- I want to know that; I really do -- because she's going to have the nuclear codes. You know. I want to know if she thinks dinosaurs were here four thousand years ago, or if she banned books or tried to ban books. We can't have that."

Here's my modified version of the Damon's monologue

"I think there's a really good chance that Barack Obama could be president. And I think that's a really scary thing, 'cause I don't anything about his actual accomplishments. I don't think in eight weeks I'm going to know anything about him. I know that he was a community organizer. And he's a junior senator who has spent most of his term running for president. I just don't understand. I think his nomination is the result of media manipulation, but in terms of governance, it's a disaster.

"If you consider his background and the absence of actual accomplishments, it's like a really bad Disney movie. You know, the community organizer, you know, 'Oh, I'm just a community organizer from Illinois,' and he's the president. And it's like, he's facing down Vladimir Putin, and you know, using the folksy stuff he learned as a community organizer, you know. It's absurd. It's totally absurd and I don't understand why more people aren't talking about how absurd it is. It's a really terrifying possibility. The fact that we've gotten this far, and we're that close to this being a reality is crazy. Crazy.

"I mean, I need to know if he really thinks it's above his pay grade to answer the question of when a baby gets human rights. That's an important -- I want to know that; I really do -- because he's going to have the nuclear codes. You know. I want to know if he thinks the question is above his pay grade, or if he approves of sex education for kindergartners. We can't have that."

Release Valve of Poetic Brilliance

2008-09-05T10:14:00.003-04:00

So long, seems like eons
Since that last poem I wrote
An itch, an ache
The paper opaque
A fire in my throat.

Writing now
This letter, these shapes
Exuding poetic thoughts
Feeling much better
Pressure escapes
And now I have a damn fine poem
to post on my blog thingy.

What the Vachss?

2008-07-30T17:00:00.006-04:00

The maxim goes: "Journalism is what maintains democracy" (Andrew Vachss). Sadly, what may be true about journalism as an institution cannot be said about journalists themselves.

Reporting on Sen. Barack Obama's speech in Chicago to an audience of minority journalists, the Honolulu Star Bulletin describes the following:

When Obama walked on stage at the McCormick Center, many journalists in the audience leapt to their feet and applauded enthusiastically after being told not to do so. During a two-minute break halfway through the event, which was broadcast live on CNN, journalists ran to the stage to snap photos of Obama. ... Obama, who acknowledged that he needed a nap, stood up to say farewell to the audience of journalists, many of whom gave him another standing ovation. [Emphases added]

Whatever happened to journalists (at least) affecting an appearance of objectivity? Whence comes this bald disregard for journalistic integrity (soon to become an oxymoron)? As a journalist myself, I and my colleagues are discouraged by our superiors from displaying signs in our yards that express any support for any political candidate. Where are the superiors of these Obama Groupies, and what would they think of the fanatic behavior of their staff?

It appears that a climate of unabashed boldness has emerged in journalism, in which Chris Matthews can openly say that an Obama speech made his leg tingle. While journalism may indeed be needed to maintain democracy, it seems to me that it was a different breed of journalist that Andrew Vachss had in mind when he uttered his famous quote.

Dave, My Main Dude, Comes Through!

2008-06-02T21:20:00.002-04:00

Dear Mr. Matthews.

Two words: Thank you.

Best wishes for a successful and prosperous future,
James

Open Letter to Dave Matthews

2008-05-29T20:57:00.005-04:00

Dear Mr. Matthews,

In the Barack Obama endorsement letter you wrote to us, the loyal fans of the Dave Matthews Band, you asked: "Why is our country divided? Why has this division been growing?"

Mr. Matthews, I know that you're a smart man. Your intelligence is obvious and can be seen by way of your thoughtful lyrics and infectious music. Where your creativity and entertainment skills are concerned, you have my utmost admiration. However, the idea that we, as a country, are somehow more divided now than we have been in the past belies your intelligence, thoughtfulness and creativity. I wouldn't know, of course, what kind of people you interact with, but in all areas of my life and in the lives of those I observe, whether at work, among friends or acquaintances or neighbors, we all amicably and respectfully co-exist and work side-by-side, despite our many differences in opinions and myriad conflicting worldviews and persuasions. These people range from passionate liberals to hardcore conservatives, from unflinching socialists to diehard capitalists. There is no growing "division" as you've characterized it. Points of view differ between me and my friends, neighbors and colleagues, and although our ideas about how to solve the ills of society vary widely, but we still function together just fine. We may have disagreements and friendly debates, but this is not a "growing division." Nor are our opinions or ideas much different now than they were a decade ago. We are no more hostile or combative toward each other now than we were during former administrations. The notion that there is a "growing division" does not come from looking at our immediate experience, but rather from heeding what the media would have us believe.

While it's true that Washington D.C. is divided, that's really nothing new, is it? The phrase "across the aisle" was not just recently invented. The aisle is a "division" in Congress that has existed for centuries. History shows, and a quick Google search would corroborate, that division is the defining characteristic of politicians. It's not growing, except perhaps in decibel level, and that's only because it happens to be a presidential election year.

You write: "Can we not all agree that we are a country that supports its families, that protects its citizens and respects its neighbors? A country that educates its children? ..."

Mr. Matthews, I agree with you, and so do most people. But this has little to do with who is sitting in the Oval Office, and more to do with the attitudes of everyday people.

You write: "… Are we not a country that can lead by example, rather than by force?"

No, we can't. The reason is that the people who need to be led do not get to see our example. They are prevented from seeing or hearing anything except what their dictatorial governments and totalitarian rulers allow them to see or hear.

You write: "Is ours a government of the people, by the people, for the people?"

It used to be, but it's not any longer. Now it's a government of the judiciary, by the judiciary, and imposed upon the people, regardless of the will of the people. Consider the recent California ruling that allows gays to marry. Regardless of one's opinion of gay marriage, it should be a cause for concern to all "the people" that the judiciary in that state overruled the will of the people, who voted against it. That for which politicians cannot persuade the people to vote, they can fall back on the judiciary to impose.

You write: "I would like to think so. But I believe that corporate greed and its involvement in policymaking, along with political cronyism, have made it nearly impossible for the people to govern."

Corporations are made up of people. That's what "corporate" means. Everyone who has makes contributions to a 401k, a pension, an IRA or a mutual fund wants the companies they've invested in to do well. You call this corporate greed. I call this being optimistic about my retirement. Everyone who complains about corporate greed is actually complaining about their neighbors, friends and co-workers.

You write: "So, we fight amongst ourselves over the spin of political slogans and half truths. And so, we are divided. It is time for a change, and that is why I support Barack Obama for President."

I realize you wrote this a while ago, and that the things we now know about Obama were not known at that time. But if I understand politics and political loyalties, I'm guessing that the discoveries about Obama's radical socialism and disturbing associations, as well as the increase in verbal slips and distortions, will have done little to sway your opinion about him. But the fact is, he is just as guilty of spinning "political slogans and half truths" as any politician out there.

In summary, let me say two things. Thing One: Barack Obama is a politician. And as long as politicians run for president, there will be no change. The same is true of Clinton and McCain. Change has to come from the people, not the politicians. Thing Two: I love your music. But I don't love your politics. So far, you've been able to make music that does not alienate those of us who disagree with your politics. Is it too much to ask that you perform your music in the same spirit in which you wrote it? Please, Dave, for the sake of us who love your music enough to buy concert tickets in spite of your political views, please don't turn tomorrow night's concert into an Obama-For-President rally. If you do, you're going to make some of us feel very uncomfortable and awkward, and depending on how far you push it, we might end up not having a very good time, which would be counterproductive to the reason you perform, right?

Sincerely,
James

Grown-ups Talking

2008-03-23T15:45:00.012-04:00

When I was in the eighth grade, I would sometimes be so exhausted after football practice that I didn't feel like walking the twelve blocks, all the way from E. Wilson Avenue to the end of N. Highland Avenue, to get home. Besides the unfavorable prospect of such a long walk after a two-hour football practice, I had these short-ass legs to contend with. I was only about 3 feet tall at the time. Miserable. Trust me.

To avoid the long walk, I would occasionally call my grandfather, who lived about four blocks away on East Main Street, and I would ask him if he was available to give me a ride home.

My grandpa, who went by the name of Sheenie, was well known in the little community of Girard, Ohio. He was a retired city worker, who formerly took care of the parks. He was a friendly man and everyone seemed to love him, except for my grandmother, Ruth, who had divorced him long ago. I never saw the two of them together. She's dead now.

When I would call him for a ride from the football stadium, grandpa always seemed happy to oblige, and in just a few short minutes, he would pull up in his massive white Cadillac. I'd jump in, say hello; he'd ask me how I was doing, how football practice went. We made small talk and chit-chat until he would drop me off at the duplex where I lived with my father, stepmother, younger sister and younger brother. I would thank grandpa, and wave goodbye as he pulled out of my driveway and headed home.

One day, during my eighth-grade year, my grandfather died. He was at bingo at St. Rose, where they said he had a "massive stroke." I had no idea what that meant. I just remember the word "massive." As I recall the way the story was told—not to me, but around me. That's the way I learned about events. Rarely was anything ever told to me directly; I'd just hear the grown-ups talking and, oblivious to my attentive ears, they'd talk about things in very "grown-up" ways and in very "grown-up" terms—when the ambulance arrived to take him to the hospital, his last words were, "Find my teeth. Somebody get my teeth." He wore dentures. I assume they fell out of his mouth as he began to have the "massive stroke." Then he died.

The next day was his birthday. I would later hear the story—not directly, of course, but from the grown-ups talking—about how my dad and uncles went to the various places my grandfather visited everyday; Diamond's Diner on Liberty Street was among them—to tell everyone that Sheenie had died. When they arrived at the diner, they found it lavishly decorated for Sheenie's birthday, and the owner and all the regulars had gifts for him. This scene was repeated at various places they went to deliver the tragic news; birthday decorations and gifts for Sheenie, who was no longer with us.

If you're squeamish, skip the next paragraph, and proceed to the one that follows it.

I would also later hear—not directly, of course, but from the grown-ups talking—that his house on Main Street was found in a state of filth and squalor. Apparently, he had been sick for a long time and just never told anyone, evidenced by the buckets of bloody vomit by his bed and bloody bandages strewn about, apparently the former dressings for a wound that wasn't healing properly. How's that for "grown-up" terms. And if memory serves, there was also talk of flies and maggots that had moved in with him, and were keeping a compound eye on the place in his absence.

At my grandfather's calling hours, I found myself completely unprepared for what was about to happen. At age 13, I had never been to the calling hours. I know that sounds odd and sheltered. But I wasn't sheltered. I was a Lordstown Latchkey kid.* And always remarkably "mature for my age." If it still seems odd to you, consider that I never flew in a plane until I was 36 years old. So what. My family didn't travel by plane. We drove everywhere. Get over it. The world doesn't revolve around you.

*In the 70s, the GM assembly plant in Lordstown was notorious for having contributted to the exorbitantly high divorce rate in Trumbull County.

Not only had I never been to a funeral home before, but I had heretofore not faced the notion of never seeing someone ever again because of their death. I don't recall any trepidation or nervousness about seeing my dead grandfather. I just got in line. My father was part of the receiving line, so he wasn't near me. I don't remember where my sister and brother were in all of this. Perhaps they were with my stepmother. Just as I learned about "grown-up" things and heard "grown-up" terms by secretly observing the grown-ups talking, so I heard and learned about calling-hours customs by studying the behavior of these grown-ups as they moved past my grandfather's lifeless carcass. Some would just pause to look at the body and continue walking. Others would kneel, make the sign of the cross, and appear to pray or something. Some would reach into the casket to touch the hand of the corpse, to pat it or something. There were sniffles to be heard between quiet murmurs and the occasionally polite, respectful and unobtrusive chuckle. I'm sure you can imagine the scene.

Occasionally, as I moved along with the line of visitors, I would look through the crowd of tall people—everyone seemed tall to me—at my father and see him shake hands with friends and relatives. He smiled and thanked each person as they each said, "I'm sorry about your dad, Gene. He really looks good."

I would later—in the future—see my father in receiving lines three additional times: at the deaths of his mother, who died from complications related to emphysema, and each of his two younger brothers, who died of a diabetes-related heart attack and emphysema, respectively. At the most recent death, that of Ted, my father's emphysema-stricken brother, he was not standing in the receiving line, but sitting—in a wheel-chair with plastic oxygen tubes in his nose—the result of his own emphysema-ravaged lungs.

By the time it was my turn to look into the casket containing my grandfather's body, I had made a calculation. About three-fourths of the people were going through some form of religious ritual—the kneeling and praying; Girard seems to be predominantly Roman Catholic—and about a quarter of the people did nothing but look and walk on. I decided to emulate the behavior of the latter group. I also would opt not to touch the cadaver.

It wasn't until I actually looked at the make-up covered skin that I realized that I had been avoiding looking at my grandfather's former head. What I saw was a poor attempt to recapture his personality and natural look. I guess they never found his teeth. Seeing that pseudo-expression had a sudden and unexpected effect on me. In that moment, I didn't want to see what I was seeing. I didn't want to believe that that had ever been my grandfather. I found myself wishing that I could see him the way he looked when he would pick me up from football practice, hearing the way his voice sounded as he came through the front door of our duplex—without knocking—to have dinner with us on Sunday afternoons. I was no longer looking at the pale corpse, but looking past it, traveling back in time, seeing inside my mind the way he and my dad would both fall asleep on the recliner and sofa, sitting up, heads thrown back, snoring like a pair of engine-braking tractor-trailers while watching football after Sunday dinner.

Seconds later, when I snapped back to the present and again focused on that artificially propped head, the heaviness of loss, of losing my grandpa, suddenly overwhelmed me. "I'll never see him again," I remember thinking. Just then, the memories I had just moments before came rushing back, saying to me, "Yes, this stuff; you don't get to see this stuff anymore. He's not going to pick you up from practice anymore. He's not going to have Sunday dinner with you anymore. He's not going to fall asleep watching the Browns and snore like a truck on your sofa anymore." It was more than I could handle. No one had prepared me for this. Not only had I not been told what to expect or what was expected of me at the funeral home, I had no warning of what was about to happen to me emotionally. I found myself sobbing. The last time I cried like that was probably before I even started kindergarten, nearly a decade earlier. The crying came on suddenly as a sputter, then it was like a heaving, almost hyperventilating, rhythm. I had to get out of there. I was sad beyond comprehension, and quickly becoming embarrassed. I didn't want anyone to see me crying like this, most of all, my friends and cousins, who had all come with their parents to pay their respects.

I wanted to run out of the room, but there were so many people. I pushed my way through, bypassing the receiving line and my father—I don't think he even saw me—navigating the maze of people, desperately making my way toward the exit. I wasn't sure where I was going; I didn't have a plan. I just knew that I didn't want anyone to see me. I remember trying to put my sadness out of my mind, but the more I tried to push it out, the more sad I became. I found an area where coats were hanging, near the entrance, and sort of sank myself into that alcove and tried to disappear. Still heaving, suddenly realizing that I had trouble seeing because I needed to wipe tears out of my eyes and off my face, I looked out from the coats and saw the crowd of people who had paid their respects, and just beyond was the line of people who had not gone through yet. It struck me that there were all these people, yet I had never felt so alone, so absolutely and utterly without anyone to commiserate with. I would not go to my father. I was supposed to be remarkably "mature for my age." He was busy and I didn't want him to see me sobbing. I was astonished by how completely ill-equipped I was in dealing with that experience. I had no one to talk to, and had no idea what I would say even if I did. It didn't seem right. Did other people, kids my age, feel like this when a loved one died? Did they have anyone to talk to? Did their parents comfort them, hug them and explain that this is one of those difficult things in life that everyone goes through? Or did other parents leave their kids to fend for themselves, to work it all out in their own minds, to make sense of their own emotions and reactions to such a profound event?

Whatever the case, I stood there, trying to be invisible amid the coats. I happened to notice the priest standing alone in the middle of the crowd. At the moment, no one was talking to him or looking at him. I found this strange. I remember thinking that he looked unusually young for a priest. He stood quietly in his black outfit and clerical collar, hands together in prayer formation, with his index fingers touching his lips. I couldn't tell if he was actually praying, because people who are deep in thought can also hold their hands that way. But I assumed he must've been praying; he was a priest, after all. And that's what priests presumably do right? Pray and stuff?

I immediately and insatiably wanted to know what he was doing, what secret knowledge he had, and if he could help me. I wanted to know what he was praying, if anything, and what good was it supposed to do, because it sure as hell was not doing much for me in that moment. What if I said the magic words myself? Occasionally, he would look up and smile and someone would say to him, "Hello, Father," and "How are you, Father," and "Good to see you, Father." It seemed odd that this young man was being addressed as "Father" by men more than twice his age. I knew that I would never be able to work up the nerve to approach him, so I didn't. I just watched him. At any rate, it seemed to sufficiently distract me, and I was able finally to compose myself.

I don't remember much beyond that point, except later, from the backseat of my dad's car, I heard the grown-ups in the front seat talking. My father said to my stepmother, "I wish I had brought a camera. I would like to remember how he looked today." My stepmother responded, "I don't think that would have been appropriate." I had no idea why she thought that. Or why my dad would want such an awful picture.

I did not know if I could or would ever adequately describe that experience to anyone and have them understand. No one was going to explain it or make sense of it for me. And just as I learned "grown-up" stuff, not by being told directly, but by hearing the grown-ups talking, apparently they would have to learn about me the same way. Don't tell them anything directly; don't talk about my feelings, my questions, my confusion, my awkwardness, my hopes and disappointments. But it seemed that understanding one's children, at least in that generation, was not a priority. I realized that I had to work it all out myself, and came to the conclusion that I was alone.

I would eventually, about a decade later, arrive at a rational understanding of the experience and discover for myself the role of faith and the place of God and man in the Big Scheme of Things. I now see that experience of emptiness, loss and loneliness I felt was merely one of myriad factors that led me to a broader, rational understanding of life, faith, death and grief that continues to grow to this day. And, interestingly, nothing much has changed since my adolescent years, to wit, much of what I learn still doesn't come from being told directly, but from hearing the grown-ups talking.

The Timer is Everything

2008-02-27T15:37:00.001-05:00

Frozen cod filets: 32 minutes
Frozen fish patties: 16 minutes
Rice: 8 minutes
Frozen broccoli: 6 minutes

I put the frozen cod filets, one each for Caleb and me, on the baking sheet and set the timer for sixteen minutes. Sixteen minutes later, I put six smaller, breaded fish patties—for Tabitha and Ethan—on the same baking sheet and set the timer for eight minutes. When the timer went off, I flipped over the six patties, started the rice, and set the timer for two minutes. Two minutes later, I fired up the pan of frozen broccoli and set the timer for six minutes.

For the first time, everything was done at the same time, and nothing was burnt.

I Didn't Do It

2008-01-12T11:52:00.000-05:00

Listening to the news on the radio, I had a heart-stopping experience. I heard the news reporter clearly say my name. Imagine my reaction when I heard the report that James Hilson has been jailed and is being charged with criminal homicide.

Man jailed in Clairton killing
Friday, January 11, 2008
By Wade Malcolm, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

Melissa Galiyas told friends she feared James Hilson, the abusive former boyfriend accused of assaulting her.

On March 28, the day before she planned to testify against Mr. Hilson, a roommate reported Ms. Galiyas, 36, of Clairton, missing.

Last month, a hunter discovered her bones in a shallow grave on a hillside near her Vankirk Street home, and yesterday, Mr. Hilson, 36, of Clairton, was extradited from Georgia and confessed to strangling Ms. Galiyas with an electrical cord, according to an affidavit filed by Allegheny County police.

Ms. Galiyas was the cousin of Amanda Faux, 22, who was killed in a strangely similar fashion last weekend in Charleroi. And Ms. Galiyas' roommate, Jack A. Nolder Sr., had also opened his Clairton home to Ms. Faux before she moved in with the man accused of strangling her.

Mr. Hilson was facing two counts of aggravated assault for the Aug. 9, 2006, beating of Ms. Galiyas with a wooden stick, but in late March, she agreed to meet him in the woods to drink beer and smoke crack cocaine, Mr. Hilson told police.

While in the woods, the topic of Ms. Galiyas' testifying against Mr. Hilson came up, and the two began to argue over whether she would change her story for the trial, according to the affidavit.

Ms. Galiyas said she would not and started to walk home. Mr. Hilson told police he then picked the electrical cord off the ground and wrapped it around Ms. Galiyas' neck, garotting her from behind.

He later returned to the scene, after purchasing a shovel, to bury Ms. Galiyas' body, according to the affidavit. He told police he stripped off her clothes, which were found in a garbage can on nearby Miller Avenue.

Mr. Hilson, who is charged with criminal homicide and abuse of corpse, was the primary suspect early in the investigation when Ms. Galiyas' roommate informed investigators of his abusive history and the upcoming trial, according to the affidavit.

Mr. Hilson and Ms. Galiyas had protection-from-abuse orders against one another, according to records at the Allegheny County prothonotary's office. The roommate also told police Mr. Hilson would frequently try to call Ms. Galiyas, hanging up when he answered instead.

Mr. Hilson's landlord told investigators that he hastily packed his bags and left his apartment in the early morning hours of March 29. He was arrested Dec. 13 in Macon, Ga., on an outstanding bench warrant for failing to appear for trial in the alleged assault against Ms. Galiyas.

Mr. Hilson was in Allegheny County Jail awaiting arraignment. His preliminary hearing is scheduled for next Friday.

Jesus is the Reason I Don't Do the Season

2008-01-08T01:42:00.000-05:00

"You're so lucky you don't celebrate Christmas," I've been secretly told by tired and annoyed celebrants of the holiday. It's the 6th of January, and unlike the majority of people in this hemisphere, I don't have Christmas decorations to put away, scads of Christmas cards to sort through, or a dehydrated pine tree to dispose of. I didn't even put up a Christmas tree, and I haven't since 1986. But that's not all of which I've deprived myself and my children. I am also without the exorbitant after-holiday credit card balances, last-minute gift-buyer's remorse and the waiting in long lines with other frustrated shoppers, just to exchange a garment for the correct size.

Clicking on the headline (or the link below, if you're reading this via an RSS feed) will take you to the Post-Gazette website where you can click on a thumbnail image of the PDF of the page that printed in Sunday's Post-Gazette (Jan. 6, 2008). It's all about my experiences and thoughts about not celebrating Christmas.

Happy festivus.

http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/08006/847040-109.stm

Sierra Club: Outsourcing?

2007-12-25T17:02:00.000-05:00

The Sierra magazine, the official magazine of the Sierra Club, includes a membership form with which one can join and "help preserve the beauty of the Earth." The headline on the ad-side of the form says "There are some things you just can't outsource." And in the copy block below, the Sierra Club is compared to the bristlecone pine, "the oldest living tree on Earth," not because Sierra Club is old (founded in 1892), but because "the legacy of the bristlecone pine [like Sierra Club] is deeply rooted right here in our backyard."

But one can't help but wonder, when an easily caught misspelling goes to print ["These magestic trees are uniquely American and can't be found nor duplicated anywhere else."], whether or not they've done some outsourcing of their own.

Beleive [sic] in the Power of Words

2007-12-12T10:50:00.000-05:00

There's a movie slated for release on Dec. 25, 2007. It's called "The Great Debaters." Since debating seems to be in my blood, when I saw the banner ad on a website, I clicked on it. I won't bother telling you what it's about. You can read it yourself here: The Great Debaters website.

What interests me more (for now anyway) is who is in the movie, and who is behind the movie. Quite frankly, this film boasts quite a cachet of Hollywood Horsepower, to wit, Academy Award Winners, Forest Whitaker and Denzel Washington. Not only are these illustrious actors playing major roles in the film, but it is backed (produced) by none other than Oprah "Biggest Book Club in the World" Winfrey.

Given the above, and what I'm about to show you from the website, one is compelled to ask: Did anyone proof read this website before they launched it? Has any of the gagzillion members of Oprah's Book Club™ noticed the egregious spelling errors on the website since it's been launched?

Here are the portions of the "About" page that caught my attention:
First, this: The ensemble cast is "lead by Washington ..."
Click here: "... lead by Washington ..."
I understand the importance of leadership (I think), but where was the leadership when it came to writing the copy and making sure it was proof read?

Also, this: "In their pursuit of excellence, Tolson's debate team receives a groundbreaking invitation ..."
Click here: ... their pursuit ..."
Note the subject is "team," a singular noun, but the plural possessive pronoun is used, "their pursuit."

Finally, this: "Beleive in the power of words."
Click here: "... beleive in the power of words ..."
Does that include words that are misspelled? Is anyone as awestruck by the irony here as I am? Anyone? Anyone?

As of noon, 12/12/2007, they've corrected the "beleive" misspelling. So much for my self-righteous indignation.

See Saw II

2007-10-11T15:10:00.000-04:00

He: Hey. Where were you?
She: At the cinema.
He: What did you see?
She: I saw Saw II.
He: I saw Saw II, too! Which showing did you go to?
She: The 2 o'clock.
He: You went to the 2? I saw Saw II at 2, too!
She: With who?
He: Hugh.
She: You took Hugh to see Saw II at 2, too?
He: Yes.
She: Liar.
(The end)

Hard Drive Nearly Full

2007-09-25T21:07:00.000-04:00

My brain contains literally scads of useless information. Yes, literally. Yes, scads. And yes, useless. This would not normally be a problem, except for the fact that my brain seems to have reached its capacity, and now, in order to retain new information, I have to delete some old information to make room for it. Once I delete the old information, and insert the new information, the old information is wiped out, and the space that previously contained the old information is filled with the new. At least I think that's what is happening. I can never check to be sure because I cannot know after the fact what information was deleted.

This has been going on for about a month now, and there's a part of me that is beginning to obsess over the deleted information. That part of me says, "What if that information wasn't as useless as I thought when I deleted it?" The other part of me replies, "Hey, let it go. It's gone and there's nothing you can do about it." I suppose it wouldn't bother me so much if I knew for sure, after the fact, that the purged information was truly useless. But when I decide to reconsider whether or not it was really, actually useless, I realize that there's no way to actually reconsider it, because the information is purged. It's sort of disturbing. And it sort of goes like this:

Me: That's a nice song. I think I'd like to retain the lyrics.
Myself: Can't. There's no room for it, remember?
Me: That's right. Then how the Funk 'n' Wagnalls am I supposed to remember these lyrics so I can sing along at some later point in time?
Myself: Well, some stuff has to be deleted in order to make room in the brain for the lyrics.
Me: Oh. Right. So what useless information can I delete?
Myself: Hmm. Maybe that stuff about the central nervous system and neurotransmitters and how acetylcholine is excreted from the axon endplates of the motor neurons?
Me: No, I want to keep that. It sounds impressive.
Myself: Yes, that's right. Ok.
Me: What about some lame memories? There are some pretty useless memories in there, right?
Myself: No, keep those. They make good stories.
Me: Right again. Hmm. How about stuff I learnt in school that I don't need anymore?
Myself: Sure. There are all those geometry theorems, proofs and postulates learnt in the ninth grade. Remember the SAS Theorem (i.e., Side-Angle-Side Theorem, more preferably labeled the Angle-Side-Side Theorem by we ninth graders) and the SSS Theorem, etc.?
Me: Yes, that stuff sounds pretty useless.
Myself: Agreed. Shall I go ahead and purge?
Me: Sure.
Myself: Ok, here goes ...
Me: No wait!
Myself: What?
Me: What if someday I want to prove the congruency of a triangle. You know, just for the fun of it?
Myself:
Me: Seriously.
Myself. Oh stop. Please, you're being ridiculous.
Me: Ok, you're right. That is some pretty useless stuff. Go ahead. Start purging.
Myself: Purging now.
Me:
Myself:
Me: These are some lovely lyrics.
Myself: Yes, they are.
Me: I sure hope I don't need the information that was just purged.
Myself:
Me: Ya know?
Myself:
Me: Seriously. I may need that information someday. One never knows.
Myself: What information?
Me:
Myself: I said: what information?
Me: I don't know!
Myself: Exactly.
Me: I don't remember it! Oh my god.
Myself. That's the point, numbnuts. If it could be remembered, it would not be purged, now would it?
Me: You're right. I just hope I don't need it.
Myself: Need what?
Me: I don't know. I forget.
Myself:
Me:
Myself:
Me: Lovely lyrics, aren't they?
Myself: Yes. Splendid.

Reflections (Gag)

2007-08-07T01:17:00.000-04:00

He looks in the mirror and sees a familiar face. But it's not a face that is familiar to most people who know him. Most people who know him see a different face than what he sees in the mirror. They see the mirror image of that face. And not merely in two dimensions, as the image in the mirror.

Furthermore, given the fact (it is a fact) that no one has a perfectly symmetrical face, everyone who is familiar with his face does not see the same face that he sees in the mirror. They see the mirror image of that face. Were anyone to see the face he sees in the mirror, they would probably acknowledge at some point: "Something isn't quite right. Is that really him? Or is it a twin brother?"

Pondering this visage he sees in the metal amalgam-coated glass, he recognizes the fact that he has never actually seen himself. Ever. Sure, he has seen photographs of himself. But these are merely two-dimensional static images created by the chemical reaction of light upon a light-sensitive emulsion; not actually seeing himself the way others might see him, but as the camera has managed to capture reflected light. He has also seen video recordings of himself, but again, what he sees is only an illusion set in two dimensions, giving the appearance of motion and three dimensions. So even video is, at best, only an approximation and clever illusion of what others actually see.

One way to get an idea, nonetheless flawed, of what others see is to use a second mirror, and to see the reflection of his own reflection. But even then, his behavior and expressions are executed with a nearly obsessive self-conscious manner, evidenced by the fact that he dislikes having a conversation in a mirror, in the public restroom, watching himself talk to someone else, seeing his facial expressions as he talks, the way his mouth moves as the words are formed and are uttered. "Is that really me? Is that what I look like when I talk?" Well actually, no. But it's still enough to make him say: "WhoTF is that talking in the mirror?"

The reality is that no one has ever actually seen himself as other truly see him. If he ever did, he probably would dislike himself even more than he does already. And while a bit of self-loathing can be healthy, too much can be destructive. And self-delusion serves a good purpose in that one's true self is hidden, or at least obscured, by one's inability to ever truly see oneself as others see him.

Occasionally, he catches a sidelong glimpse of himself reflected in window or the glass of his car door as he slams it shut. He sees a man older than he is accustomed to seeing; a man who resembles his aged father. The oblique and cursory glance of that countenance evokes pangs, almost audible, realizing the slipperiness of time and his ephemeral earth-bound existence. It is a jab in the ribs that, on the one hand, makes him retch with self-disgust: "WTF am I doing with this short life?" It is also a stab in gut that, on the other hand, moves him to consider his mortality as an impetus toward making something of the time he has left, while still breathing the cursed air that surrounds this moribund planet.

In summary, he will live out the remainder of his existence, pulled in one direction by self-execration, which will humble him and keep him from taking himself more seriously than he ought, and pulled in the other direction by the desire to achieve, to progress, to beat back the inexorable effects of time, age, gravity and his flagging physiology, leaving behind something worthwhile and of value to others. In other words, he's a old poopy-head.*

*I laughed at this. I typed it because I am tired.

Helmet Zealot

2007-07-31T15:41:00.000-04:00

The short distance I ride my bike from my car to my building is all sidewalk. All sidewalk. The only times I'm on the road is crossing at intersections. Which means I am on the street less than pedestrians, since it takes me no time at all to cross, whereas the walkers take considerably longer.

That said, I don't wear a helmet. Why should I? Right? I mean, if it's so goddamned dangerous, why don't pedestrians wear helmets as well? After all, they are on the road, exposed to dangerous cars, much more than I am, right?

So I arrived at my building, rode the bike up the ramp and hopped off of it in my customary way. As I negotiated the double doors of the building, working my bike through the awkward entrance, I noticed one of those bike couriers standing at the security counter, delivering a package or something.

The security guys said hello to me, in their customary way. I said hello back, pulling out my wallet and waving it in front of the magnetic security scanner. I heard the familiar beep that indicates, yes, I'm (still) allowed in the building (this time).

As a side-note, I prefer to carry my bike up the stairs. I'm way too impatient to wait for the elevator; plus, whenever I have used the elevator, it never fails that a dozen people always manage to come up behind me, wanting to cram themselves into the elevator with me; I hate that.

Before I could turn and make my way toward the stairwell, the bicycle courier guy said to me: "No helmet huh?"

A bit stunned by the massively insinuating question, I replied, "Nah; I don't go that far really." I started walking away, wheeling my bike along, thinking he's got places to go, other deliveries to make, and I needed to get upstairs and start working.

But just then, the Helmet Zealot spoke again: "Got nothing to lose then?"

Normally, I would humor such a statement with: "Yes, that's true. I mean, think about it. If I had anything to lose, would I be so stupid as to ride around without a helmet? So obviously, the fact that I do not wear a helmet should indicate to you that, no, I do not have anything to lose." Upon further reflection, my plan for any similar future encounters will be to play dumb, just to make the zealot feel even more important. I will respond with: "What do you mean, 'got nothing to lose'? Should I be wearing a helmet?"

I anticipate the exchange would go a little bit like this:

Me: "What do you mean, 'got nothing to lose'? Should I be wearing a helmet?"
Zealot: "Uh, chyeah! You should always wear a helmet when you ride."
Me: "Really? Are you serious?"
Zealot: "Uh, chyeah! Don't you realize how dangerous it is?"
Me: "Seriously? What do you mean? Like I could hit my head or something?"
Zealot: "Uh, chyeah! You could fall off your bike. Or be hit by a car. The helmet could seriously save your life."
Me: "Wow. How would it save my life?"
Zealot: "Come on, man. If you're wearing a helmet, that keep you from getting a head injury."
Me: "Are head injuries bad?"
Zealot: "Ok, I detect the sarcasm. I guess maybe your head is already hard enough. Good day."
Me (to myself): Thank you, Jesus.

But I didn't any say that. For some reason, perhaps it was a particularly annoying ride that day, and I was in no mood to play along. So instead, I rejoined: "No, I'm just not on the street very much ..."

"All it takes is just one car, ya know?" the Bicycle Saftey Evangelist responded.

Suddenly I found myself supremely irritated. I don't know why. He just caught me at the wrong time, I suppose. So I replied: "Sure, and all it takes is for one piano to fall on me, too, ya know? Or a plane, ya know? Or an anvil, ya know?" I gave him my best "So-why-don't-you-just-shut-your-meddling-pie-hole" expression. As I turned to continue on my way, I could see him shaking his condescending and self-righteous head at me.

Now I look for him whenever I'm downtown. One of these days, I'll see him again, and when I do, I will holler at him and point up at the sky: "Look OUT! That anvil is about to fall on your head!" When he looks, I will laugh and push him off of his sissy-ass courier bike. Don't worry, he'll be fine. After all, he'll be wearing a helmet, right?

2007-07-23T22:50:00.000-04:00

THERE SHOULD BE A NAME FOR IT

I was walking along the River Trail, carelessly putting one foot in front of the other. I say "carelessly" because, as an upright organism adept at bipedal locomotion, I do this sort of thing all the time, and it does not seem to require special attention.

As I out looked out over the water of the Allegheny River, minding my own business, pondering the profundities of bipedalism, the flow of river water and what-not, I heard a sound that I'll never forget. I listened carefully and soon realized that I was hearing a song. It was eerily beautiful and sublime, although those words fail to adequately capture its ethereal quality. As I drew nearer to the source of the singing, I realized that it was coming from a massive white bird. It was lying on the shore of the river, half out of the water. It was apparently dying. And singing.

I wondered to myself. I say "to myself" because I could have wondered aloud, but what would be the point? That big white duck (or swan maybe?), despite its bipedal prowess, was probably not capable of the higher brain function of language. And even if it did have language skills, chances are that it wouldn't be very keen on speaking and understanding English, given its lack of lips, and the difficulty such a lipless creature would have pronouncing consonants such as P and B and F.

I wondered to myself, "Why would a huge white goose (or swan maybe?) lie here in its final moments of life and sing such a strangely beautiful song, instead of calling for help (in its own lipless language) or perhaps quietly reflecting on its existence as an aquatic fowl?"

It really was a nice song, though. Which I said to it: "Hey; nice song there," momentarily forgetting my earlier reasoning about not talking to it. At that moment, the bird picked up its head slightly. Without missing a note, it looked at me with its cloudy black eyes for just a second. Then it put its head back down and, apparently, died. I assumed it died because it stopped with the singing, and then made this phlegmy "errrrrghkkkkgggggkkkklllllgggglll" sound.

While I remember well that gurgling death-sound, it was the song that was most memorable. It haunts me to this day. There should be a name for it.

2007-07-16T00:52:00.000-04:00

They've come to take me home

He climbs up on a small flat-topped rise above the village of Batheaston in Somerset, England. From there, he sees the glittering lights of the city. He feels the gusts of wind and time seems to stop.

Strangely, despite the late hour, he sees an eagle flying. The eagle is an amazing sight, as it flies toward the man atop the hill. The eagle approaches, and the man hears a voice. He strains to understand what is being said to him, and is compelled to listen all the more intently. It seems unbelievable to him, and he wonders if he is merely imagining this voice. But he decides he must trust his imagination. He feels his heart beating as the words become clear: "Son, grab your things I've come to take you home."

Upon reflection, he decides that he cannot go about speaking of this experience. His friends would surely conclude that he was out of his mind. To dare to speak of such an event, like witnessing the miracle at Cana, would cause others to reject him, to slam doors in his face.

But he endures this from day to day, despite his life foundering, until it occurs to him what he must say and do and the conduit he should sever. He realizes that he had blended into his surroundings. He decides to distance himself from the gears and cogs of his existence. These thoughts cause his heart to pound, as once again, the eagle's voice comes to him and says: "Hey, grab your things; I've come to take you home."

He had been bewitched by an illusion spun about him, never exactly where he wanted to be. Freedom seemed to do an elusive dance, and when he now thinks that he is free, he senses the scrutiny of others; blank backlit outlines of people, who watch him although their eyes are not open.

But these shadowy outline people were not taught how to behave. The man decides that he will show another self; that he needs no one to take his place. When he attempts to explain the reason for his smile, his heart again starts to race. This time, he doesn't wait for the eagle to speak. Instead, he says to the outline people: "Hey, you can keep my things, they've come to take me home."

~ James Hilston, July 15, 2007, with apologies to Peter Gabriel.

2007-05-02T19:46:00.000-04:00

The SD factor: The demise of the left eye

What are the odds of losing one's left eye? Whatever they are, the odds increase dramatically if:

Your initials are "S.D."
Your first name ends with a "y."
Your first and last names have two syllables each.
Your first and last names have the accent on the first syllable.
You are a celebrity.

The evidence:

Sammy Davis (Jr.) [SAM-mee DA-vis]
Sandy Duncan [SAN-dee DUN-can]

Sammy Davis, Jr. lost his left eye in a car crash in 1955 (imdb.com).

Sandy Duncan lost sight in her left eye due to a tumor behind the eye which damaged the optic nerve. She was given a glass eye by the same eye doctor as Sammy Davis, Jr. (imdb.com).

As if that weren't scary enough, what would happen if one were to name oneself "Left Eye"?

"On Thursday, April 25 while returning from the village where she called home for the past few years, [Lisa 'Left Eye'] Lopes was the only fatality [of seven occupants] in a car crash that occurred when her car swerved off the road near the town of Roma, Honduras." (imdb.com)

Ironically, Lopes, formerly of the pop group, TLC, had recently signed a deal to release an album under the alias N.I.N.A. (Not Into Name Alternatives). (imdb.com)

Protecting One's Good Eye

Here's something that two-eyed people never think about: "How do I protect my good eye." It's a big deal for people who have lost one of their eyes. I find the comparison fascinating. We two-eyed people might think about protecting our eyes (plural) when chopping wood, arc welding, playing racquetball, etc. But we probably never think about the threat of total blindness in such cases. For the one-eyed person, the stakes are much higher. You'll not see a one-eyed person playing with a pointed stick. Ever. (For a perspective-changing perspective, perceive the following perceptions: Protecting Your Good Eye.)

2007-04-29T20:13:00.000-04:00

GRADUATION HAIKU
By James Hilston,
singular role model for
Okinawan-Fins everywhere

(Ahem)

Months, years of study.
Sweet success! Commemorate:
Strange tassle; flat hat.

(The end)

2007-04-12T15:51:00.001-04:00

CREDIT CARD BREAKUP

I am especially satisfied to say that I am credit-card-debt free. That's right. In one day, I closed the accounts of four credit cards. But it wasn't easy. Besides having to navigate through those insanely long and detailed automated answering service menus for every credit card company I called, I also had to listen to the pathetic whining and abject begging from the actual humans that I talked to. It is amazing how similarly I was treated by each of the credit card account representatives. It was as if they all worked from the same script. Not only that, but apparently the standard procedure is for these reps to pathetically whine and abjectly beg to the point of making absolute fools of themselves. And then, once they realize they are getting nowhere in convincing you to keep the account open, they turn on you and become quite rude and abrupt.

"Hi, I would like to close my credit card account."

This was followed by the standard proof-of-identity protocol. After my identity was confirmed, I was transferred to a special department that handles requests to close accounts. The special department person (i.e. professional whiner-beggar) soon picked up the line and said, "Hello, Mr. Hilston. Is there any particular reason why you want to close the account?"

"Not really. You're just next in line. The card is paid off and I would like to close the account. I'll also need a letter that confirms the account has been closed."

"Mr. Hilston, you've been with us since 1999. You've established quite a history and as a loyal customer in good standing, you also have several benefits attached to this account. Such as car rental discounts, cash-back rewards."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, but I just want to close the account. And I will need a letter that conf ...."

"If you're worried about the interest, Mr. Hilston, we can probably get a better rate for you."

"No, thank you. Really. I just want to close the ..."

"But Mr. Hilston, I'm sure you would want to keep a credit card handy in case of emergency. What can we do to persuade you to make us your card of choice?"

"I have a debit card through my bank that functions just like a credit card, except it withdraws from my checking account. That way I don't go into debt when I ..."

"What about online transactions, Mr. Hilston? Do you ever buy anything online?"

"Yes, but my debit card works like a credit card for those transactions, as well. Will I be able to get that letter of conf ..."

"But you have no protection that way, Mr. Hilston. With our card you don't have to pay for illegal transactions if your identity is stolen."

"But I read somewhere that 85% of I.D. theft is done by someone you know, such as a dead-beat relative ..."

"Well, a friend of mine just had her I.D. stolen from a total ..."

"Look, I appreciate all this effort your making, but I really would like to just ..."

"But you have a history with us, Mr. Hilston, and you can get cash-back rewards when you ..."

"I know, but I still want to close ..."

"Did you know, Mr. Hilston, if you pay off the balance every month, you don't pay any interest?"

"Yes, I'm aware of that, but it's not really ..."

"You've been with us for quite a long time, Mr. Hilston, and there are all kinds of benefits that you have accumulated for having been with us all these years. Car rental discounts, cash-back rewards."

"Yes, I appreciate that. But really, any benefit you could offer me does not compare to benefit of not having this account open. So I ..."

"Fine!"

"I ..."

"Fine! The account is closed!"

"OK, great can I get a lett ..."

"Aletterofconfirmationwillbemailedtoyouin7-10businessdays." [This was said as a single word].

"Um, ok. Thanks for your ..."

"Goodbye!"

Admittedly, I was stunned by how abruptly and belligerently that ended. I did not see that coming. At all. And then suddenly I feeling came over me that I hadn't felt in a long, long time. And like a post-hypnotic suggestion, the words that accompanied that feeling just started flowing out of me. Almost uncontrollably. And although I was talking to dead air, I was inexplicably and irresistibly compelled to keep talking. And found myself saying:

"Ya know, this isn't easy for me either. I know we've been together for a long time. You're absolutely right about that. We do have quite a history together. And yes, what we had was special. We had some great times together. We seemed perfect for each other. I remember how much we enjoyed shopping together. There was that first bed we bought; queen-sized, with the split box-spring that cost an extra hundred dollars. And I couldn't really afford it, but you were there. You helped me cover the difference. And how about that refrigerator with the extra large compartments in the door. Large enough to hold a gallon of milk! But it wasn't just the shopping. There was also that wonderful vacation in Florida. So yes, I remember well those many sweet and precious memories. But something has changed. It's just not like it was before. No, no, no, it's not you. I promise. It's me. I'VE changed. I'm sorry. It's over. Goodbye."