I Didn't See That Coming

My favorite commercial right now is the one with the very serious group of young people eating wings or something from KFC or somewhere and a thoughtful young woman says, “I didn’t see that coming.” I understand. I mean, how could she? In the dangerous world of Fast Food, anything can happen. What I like is that, despite the intensity with which she is eating, it seems that she is on the lookout for something.

Her words of surprise are a kind of informed surprise that we can all admire. And, emulate. The economy falls. I didn’t see that coming. The war goes on. I didn’t see that coming. The President loses credibility. I didn’t see that coming.

This could be the phrase that defines a moment. The phrase that will stand for a specific time in history, like, This Bud’s for you, Where’s the Beef, and I am not a crook.

She is minding her own business, eating with her friends, and then, the unexpected, the uninvited, the unlooked for. I didn’t see that coming. It conveys the unlikelihood of whatever happened, but implies that she would have been more circumspect or cautious or decisive or prudent or something, if only she had seen it coming.

I kind of feel like that, too. And this could be a defense, or an excuse, or I could have adopted it as a philosophy. I just didn’t see it coming.

Worth The Wait

Do you spend a lot of your time waiting? I sometimes like to think that I am the master of my own fate, but then I hear the words, ‘The doctor will be right with you.’ I don’t know what the statistics are and, probably, any that exist are now out of date, because it seems that the more we have to do, the more we wait around.

I’m waiting in my car. I’m waiting in line. I’m waiting for a call. Or, that email. When I was a kid, I was waiting to get older. Now that I am older than I thought I’d ever be, I’m waiting to and am hoping I can remember what I was just talking about.

This must be why I don’t wear a watch. Actually knowing how much time is spent waiting would be demoralizing. Why they have a clock on the wall at the Post Office is a mystery to me. Going postal isn’t exclusive to employees.

I am thinking that most people are optimists. No one thinks that they’ll have to wait this long. We can’t imagine a reason for it, but reality and the Twilight Zone are getting closer and closer to each other, with each passing day. Some practical people are reading books they have brought for just this kind of occasion. I always thought these guys were a little nerdy or had no imagination, but now I see the wisdom, the incredible foresight they possess. The woman three places ahead of me is writing in a notebook. The guy across the room is on his cell phone. I used to think this was rude, but it’s beginning to appear reasonable.

It doesn’t matter if we’re waiting for the dentist or the movie, waiting is waiting. I begin looking around, to see how everyone is taking it. A minute later, it seems I am developing Restless Leg Syndrome.

It’s a miracle we don’t rush the door. But what’s true is something that gives me both pause and patience. We are, each one of us and, as a group, acting civilized in a most generous way. We are waiting together, waiting our turn. We are exercising consideration and fairness for each other. We are embodying compassion and understanding.

My impatience has turned to admiration and I look around with pride, knowing that we can cooperate and not go crazy. I take deep breath and smile, even as I sneak a look at the clock on the wall and think about cutting in line.

Over There

It must be the accent. Or, some genetic memory or pre-disposition. Or, Cary Grant. It isn’t really the old country or The Birthplace of Civilization. As an American people, we did grow up and become independent, but the ties, if hard to identify or understand, are really there. Being an Anglophile isn’t for everyone, but there are enough of you out there to have a conversation and I’d be happy to talk about it with you, anytime.

I have always thought that my forebears either appeared, out of the English mist, at a time close to the beginning of our nation or, on my father’s side, from some horse thief, who had to take ship for the New World to avoid hanging. Those stately homes and wide swaths of green (I love that word - swath) have always been of interest. There’s a lot to like about these guys. And, though I have many American heroes and even a couple from obscure countries like France, Croatia, and Tibet, many of my heroes are English. Merlin, Arthur, Robin Hood, Shakespeare, Churchill, and the Beatles. No matter where they’re from, these guys are the real thing.

I have an ideal landscape in mind that has more to do with Constable, than Van Gogh. And, oh my God, I’m drinking tea at this very moment! I like Alec Guinness movies and characters like Tom Jones, Winnie the Pooh, and Sherlock Holmes. Cricket is a complete mystery, but the greens of St. Andrews and the grass at Wimbledon are pretty compelling. And, the whole place is an island. One that not only is romantic – ships, a bit of isolation, and pirates, but, being in the water like that, it is connected to every other place on the globe. Okay, to be fair, they, the British, did make the mistake of Empire, but so has everyone else.

As far as intellectual reputation goes, Oxford and Cambridge, no matter how stuffy, still somehow float above Harvard and Yale. Everyone says that the food is nothing to write home about, but what about the invention of the sandwich? Where would we be without that? Or, English Muffins?

There’s always the suspicion that they know something we don’t or, maybe, it’s just that they seem to have bigger vocabularies than we do. Or, maybe they don’t, but, as I said at the beginning, they sound good.

There’s an attraction here. Admit it. Certainly, they have a literary tradition. Shakespeare, Dickens, Conrad (okay, he’s Polish), Gilbert and Sullivan, John le Carre, Douglas Adams. These guys can really write and they’re writing in our language. Or, we’re writing in theirs. Or, something like that. You see, the whole thing is confusing. And, really, too much has been made of it. We admire them and we think they’re crazy, just like we do everyone else.

But, maybe we’re not really that different. Maybe all this nationalism and patriotic distinction is a little overdone and anachronistic. Couldn’t we just put our arm around their shoulders and say, ‘let’s get a beer.’? We could hang out and compare the differences and, I bet, after the second beer, we’d be talking more about our similarities, than anything else. The distinction between Anglophiles and Anglos would become less important as time went on and, before the night was over, we’d be toasting each other and singing the words to songs that we all know, like Penny Lane and Mustang Sally.

Having made this connection, maybe we could begin to see the beauty in, who knows, France? Or, even Greece? It’s this separation that is beginning to be tiresome. There’s geography, but there are also airplanes. And, telephones. And, the Net. It’s a brave new world and we’re all overdue to appreciate the similarities, expand upon them, and then move on to the next frontier. This time, as friends, as admirers, as just glad to be here, as lucky inhabitants of this wonderful world.

Many Wives, Many Masters

Were you really a king in one of your past lives? I mean, of course, you were. You also had one existence where you got to steer the course of what we now know as, the Ottoman Empire. And then, there was that incarnation, when Cleopatra was begging you to stay the night and yet, you had to break her heart. You bad boy. There was never a time when you were a dog or, even worse, a snail, with a manic condition. No servant appearances or bored farmers. No insect interval, but you may not remember those because of the short life spans.

It’s amazing. This stuff happened to everyone. Not one of us is exempt, whether we accept it or not. Some remember, some don’t. That’s what they say. There is an entire literature and industry devoted to this kind of physic exploration. Guys will take your there. Induce memories. Regress you by hypnosis. Or, just look at you and start revealing your past.

I have dreams, but that’s about as psychic as I get. I want all that other stuff to happen – to see the future, be abducted by aliens, and commune with spirits, but it has never happened. I believe it, but I have never had any real experience. Sure, I’ve hallucinated, but that’s different. I want some evidence. Dreaming you are escaping Nazis or Iraqis is not the same thing. There’s so much of that on TV and that’s just the same as dreaming you’re driving a new car.

But every now and then there’s something. Something that happens. Someone you meet. And it’s not just deja-vu, which has some perfectly rational explanation that I am not familiar with. You look at them and they’re looking at you and you both feel something. I know, you think I’m talking about love or romance or something like that. Well, I’m not. Though she is a woman, she is at least 30 years older than I am and the mother of a friend. Not that I am defensive, but I am not that kind of guy. This really happened to me and though I’m not sure I can say that this person and I were related in some way in another life, I do know that we both recognized each other. We had a bond. We had an immediate connection and communication with each other. We were soul buddies. The kind of thing it usually takes years to establish.

Stuff like this doesn’t just happen. By accident or for the heck of it. You can tell when you are experiencing the miraculous. There is a faint stirring of strings off to the left and goose bumps form on your forearms. Lights flicker and the furnace rumbles. One time, I met a guy in a bar. I was working, tending bar. We started talking and, though he was drunk (it was his birthday), this was another one of those special times. We were on a similar wavelength. We recognized each other. He was quoting Whitman and telling me about his job as a ‘nocturnal boring animal’, setting dynamite charges in tunnels, up in the mountains. He said I should quit my job and go with him to learn how to fish, with sticks or something, from the Indians in Oregon. Responsible employee that I am/was, I just couldn’t do that, but I did toss my apron and vest in the corner and help him celebrate. Was this another visit from a previous existence or merely drinking? I think the former.

I do not like the fact that these encounters are so hard to pin down. So impossible to explain. That there’s never time to get down with the other person and try to figure out where you know each other from or what was happening. It’s not that they think you’re crazy. They don’t. They get it. But then it’s last call or you’re leaving town or they are whisked off by someone, to talk about something completely boring. It’s upsetting. We’re talking about something ineffable, ephemeral, almost like a dream, except something that really happens. It’s a profound encounter. I miss these guys. There are plenty of wonderful people in this lifetime, but I hate to lose touch with the people I love. I am always looking people in the eye, searching for that familiar spirit. That connection, that certainty that ours is a meeting that, in this life, at least, we should celebrate, even if we can’t prove it. You don’t run into these guys everyday. I think we are so often alone in this world, or, even if we aren’t, it’s always great to see someone from the old hometown.

The Potato Polka

When we Scandahoovians sit down to eat
We see our favorite mealtime treat
And we shove aside that slab of meat
That’s when we do
The Potato Polka

There is wisdom in those simple wuds
That one must nip things in the buds
But, please sir, spare the spuds
We want to do
The Potato Polka

My girl, it’s true, can eat her share
And can’t fit into her own chair
But, you see, she doesn’t care
Because she’s doing
The Potato Polka

Now some will tell you it’s potato
And some, they say it’s potato
But we don’t care, we want them pronto
We want to do
The Potato Polka

There’s nothing so beautiful as a spud
Though it starts its life beneath the mud
So, let’s toast this Goddess with some suds
While we do
The Potato Polka

Time For The Next Big Adventure!

This is it! A New Year! A new day! Just in time for right now.

I love these years. No matter what I do or don’t do, whether I’m here or in outer space, on the bus or not, in my right mind or otherwise, driving on the right or left, sinking or swimming, here or there, or everywhere, Time does just what it’s supposed to. No temptation to make holidays last all week. No, just for the heck of it, having only weekends during the summer. No switching the months around to see what might happen. Time is something we can count on. It’s a linear progression. You can dance to it.

Each new year, each new day, we are given a chance to get it right. To make things work out. To speak our minds and lead with our hearts. To remember what we don’t want to forget. To take the next step. To keep moving. To kiss and make up. To kiss and make out. To keep on the sunny side. To look for the silver lining. To breathe deeply. To smell the roses. To go where no man has gone before. To Do Wah Diddy.

You’ve got to admit, we are the lucky ducks on this pond. So, no need to hesitate. Simply go ahead on. See what’s around the corner.

Grab a partner. Take it from the top. And, sing out on the chorus.