The Blossoming

Overnight, the cherry tree has blossomed.  Next year, I would like to, somehow, know the night that this will happen and set out the Adirondack chairs, with their accompanying table, near the tree.  The sun will be setting and ML and I will take our places and await the grand opening. 

The light will be changing, deepening, and all the birds will be saying goodnight to each other.  The shapes of the trees and the houses nearby, and the mountains to the west, will be taking on new meaning and character.  My car, outside the garage, will begin dreaming of long, curving stretches of blacktop, with the radio fulfilling its purpose and the air rushing by, as it exercises all cylinders.

ML and I will toast each other and quietly discuss the day’s events and thoughts.  We will review the conditions of the children and our friends.  We will count our blessings, as the moon rises behind us, and this new light will allow a different type of observation to begin.

The first star will introduce itself and give us a minute to compose our wishes.  For a while, we will both be lost in our own thoughts, a quiet review, and an anticipation of things to come, a silent thank you, radiating outwards from our soft hearts.

Down by the road, a coyote will warble or call or howl or however you want to characterize it.  In fact, it isn’t any of those, but simply his sound, his expression, just like our conversation, but his is intended for a more widespread audience.  The owls in the neighborhood will exchange the who-whos that signal the beginning of their day.

Like a tide, immeasurable and inevitable, the light will change, the night progress, and all the rushing around, the activity, the competing thoughts of the day will settle, slowly, and a calm will come over everything.  This calm will feel like an almost tangible addition to the darkened, quieted, yet incredibly alive moment, near the tree.  Our patient hearts will begin to fill with anticipation.

As the moon finishes its glide, to a point almost directly overhead, an overture, like the buzz before a show, will begin.  There will be a slight breeze through the warm night.   And, then, all of us – ML, myself, the flowers at our feet, the stars shining down, from above, on all of us, animal, vegetable, and mineral – will be able to feel the moment when it begins: that first blossom.  There, on the left, about halfway up.  Or, no, near the bottom, over there.   Before we can decide which was actually first, it ‘s happening all over. 

A song, part lullaby, part hymn, part love song, is being sung.  The blossoms swell the chorus.  This is a performance, but also an experience of exultation for each blossom and, ultimately, for the entire tree.  It is a living, breathing expression, a celebration of its own being, its history, its future and its innermost existence.

Everything is hushed and attentive.  The blossoming continues until completion and, then, in a rush of emotion and appreciation, ML and I rise out of our chairs, applauding.  I hear the coyotes and the owls adding their praise.  A noise bursts out of my mouth that takes me by surprise, an inarticulate sound of connection.  ML begins to whistle and stamp her feet.  It’s a beautiful moment.

First, one and, then, two windows light up in the neighbor’s house.  I look across the street and see one there.  ML and I hug, beam at the tree and its individual decorations, alive with purpose, out and about for the season, and turn toward the house and our beds.

Invisible Tibet

It’s a time of give and take. A time of growing pains. (Always true. Always.)

One of the great things about the present moment is that we can be aware of what happens on the other side of the globe. And, instantly. News travels fast. And, not just the headlines.

We now have the ability to become aware of a new development, the creation of an idea, a poem, a melody, and we can instantly comment on, add to, and/or be inspired by these. There is a cyber-democracy that is settling, like a light spring rain, on all of us, the participants of life.

In today’s New York Times, there is an article about a woman, Tsering Woeser, living in China, who is half-Chinese and half-Tibetan. She is blogging her views of the situation between her two countries. The headline is, A Tibetan Blogger, Always Under Close Watch, Struggles For Visibility.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/25/world/asia/25woeser.html?_r=1&ref=world

As has always been true, the visibility (and availability) of truth has always been its best defense.

It is becoming much more difficult for someone to silence the opposition. Now, both sides, and everything in between, can be heard.

We can support this by placing our attention on those who are threatened, allowing for the safety of individuals, the education of others, and a chance for democratic change, rather than control by those in power, or those with the larger stick, or those, through their control of the media, who twist the dialogue of the moment to their own ends.

Ms. Woeser and countless others like her, are out there, shining a light on actions that may pass unnoticed by a busy, chaotic, and often resigned and overwhelmed world. They are inviting us to pay attention to and become aware of what is happening around and to us. They are bravely speaking out and hoping we will listen.

Exercise your independence by your act of attention. Each computer hit moves Ms. Woeser and our future closer to real communication and responsible movement forward in time.

The Times article - http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/25/world/asia/25woeser.html?_r=1&ref=world

Ms. Woeser’s blog, Invisible Tibet - http://woeser.middle-way.net/

How I feel about Y2K.

I apologize about the title. There are so many things going on. I’m reading a book called The Overwhelming Brain or The Overwhelmed Brain or The Overflowing Brain or something and it talks about just how much multi-tasking and thinking is actually, physiologically possible. There is so much to do and there is so much information available now and not only available, but unavoidable, that our brains are short-circuiting. We forget. We can’t prioritize. We can’t keep up.

I won’t say I’ve flipped my lid, but it does feel a bit unstable. Y2K, West Nile Virus, terrorists, salmonella, the economy. And those are just a few of the huge, abstract fears that are out there roaming around, breaking into my reverie with thoughts of death, sickness, and destitution. I won’t even begin about the many thoughts that go through my head when I look into the mirror or my checkbook.

Just to rant on a little longer – there’s stuff like getting a haircut, my lunch with Kit next week, getting the oil changed, Cait’s graduation, did I answer that email to Dan, and March Madness! As I write this, it brings to mind a hundred other things that have been waiting patiently, though tapping their feet, on notes scattered about on my desk. I have piles of lists and lists of lists. When am I going to get to all this?

And, it’s not just me; it’s all of us. You’re on my list and I’m on yours and we are all connected in ways that may never become clear and in events that may never take place. Or, they will take place, but without us, because we misplaced the list it was on or we transferred it to our calendars incorrectly.

I keep thinking I will take care of this or that important thing on the weekend, when I can slow down and think about it. But, weekends go by and it’s almost April! 2009! There’s part of me that is still back in the ‘60s. And, some of me in those other years. Is that memory or neurosis?

My mind is trying to catch its breath, which is a weird thing if you know anything about science. I don’t, but I’ve always wanted to. I used to buy books explaining things like biology, physics, Time, UFOs, even history, but I never had the time or the breath in my mind to read them. I once thought osmosis (whose definition I looked up) was a possibility and, as an experiment, kept these books scattered around the house. Now, having the advantage and privilege of hindsight, not to mention the advice of my more orderly wife, I see I was wrong. There is so much I don’t know. I don’t even know how much I don’t know.

Anyway. So many books, so little time. So little time, so little time.

I have got to calm down. This is not helping the situation. Neither is the coffee I am abusing to help me stay up to date. This is not a pleasurable, social cup in the morning; it is a necessary supplement, just like vitamin C or anti-depressants. The proliferation of coffee shops, spots, or whatever they’re called is like gas stations. They’re everywhere. They’ve become essential to society’s well being. They provide the fuel to keep things running.

Is it the coffee or is it us? Everyone seems a little jittery. I wish I had the time to pursue this philosophical question. It’s kind of like the chicken and the egg. I like both, but I’ve got stuff to do.

What will actually happen when my brain short-circuits or becomes overwhelmed? Will I find myself momentarily stunned and then return to a pace I can handle? Or, will my eyes go large and my hair start on fire, while I shake uncontrollably? And what will things be like if many people are affected like this? A pandemic of guys spontaneously combusting because they and their Blackberries have freaked out. That would be hideous and would accomplish nothing. And there is so much to accomplish. At the moment, I can’t even think about it. I’ve got to go.

To a T.

What is casual, can stretch to fit all sizes, and is appropriate for any occasion, from fashionable to that of the most humble sort? What item of clothing can make a statement so clearly that it’s impossible to miss? Here’s a hint. At one time, it was considered underwear, but now it’s no big deal if you wear it to the grocery store. Forget Madonna. I’m talking about T-shirts.

It’s funny. In the catalogs, both off and online, the T is always capitalized. Many think this has something to do with its shape. But no, the initial design of this invaluable garment originated with a guy named, Tom. Tom knew a good thing when he saw it and sent off one of his first prototypes to the Patent Office in 1897, with the words “Patent # What?” scrawled by hand on the front. Because of his foresight and business acumen, generations of Tom’s descendants have lived the good life of those whose ancestors were either brilliant, as in this case, or ruthless, as in the case of countless others.

The T-shirt became the first line of defense in the war on perspiration. It also provided a layer of warmth in colder climates. It combined practicality and versatility.

Although the T-shirt did not live in fear and secrecy, it remained something of an unmentionable until Clark Gable established it as a fundamental garment of masculinity. After his historic portrayal as Clark Gable, visibly at ease, in a T-shirt, men all over America were soon posing for their sweethearts and just about every other woman they could corner. They even posed in front of mirrors, enjoying the confluence of form and function. In this case, their own form. They contemplated the bulges that were highlighted. For some, this was an endlessly fascinating biceptual moment of rapture. For others, it was a not altogether romantic revelation of love handles.

The rise of the Japanese economy and workforce, as the source of everything cheap and essential, propelled the worldwide adoption of the T-shirt. Inexpensive colorfast dyes didn’t hurt either. Suddenly, the T-shirt was seen everywhere. From the crowded streets of India to the leisurely boulevards of Indiana. From the sand dunes of Timbuktu to the street lights of Times Square. From the beaches of Sao Paulo to the wheatfields of South Dakota.

Small children, big children, male and female, young and old, people of all philosophies, political persuasions, and those petite or even more than portly were wearing them. This trend in fashion was quickly followed by jeans and athletic shoes. In dress, if not in ideology, the world came together for the first time in history.

This humble item soon found its voice. At first, it identified with a team or a garage on South Street, but it soon developed to carry messages from sources as varied as Einstein and Mickey Mouse.

Here are just a couple of examples:

Make Love, Not War
I’m with Stupid.
I’m not as Dumb as you look.
Where there’s a will, I want to be in it.
I say no to drugs, but they won’t listen.
A day without sunshine is, you know, night.

Once I saw a teen-aged girl, walking with her parents. Her shirt read, ‘I Bring The Pain.’ As a parent, I can’t seem to shake that image.

With the right T-shirt, I feel ready for anything. I am able to draw from my drawers a shirt appropriate for any occasion. There is no limit to what I can say or what my walking canvas can convey. Without it, I am at a loss. Voiceless, unsure, and half-naked. Not exhibiting, not highlighting, not protesting. Not cool, not hip, and not hot. Just a guy. Just another lumpy torso. Just me.

But, damn, just look at those biceps.

Spend and Tax Spend and Tax Spend and Tax

I will never again complain when I see six guys standing around watching one guy fix a hole in the street. At least, you can see them. They’re not hiding anything. But, hey, what about those bankers? Those financial titans?

Just like the guys in the street, they are now receiving taxpayer dollars, but the amounts we have given them, in the ongoing bailout, is more than shameful; it should be illegal. What’s shameful are politicians, who write bailout bills that don’t mandate, require, and legally limit the money the bankers are able to put in their pockets.

I won’t go into the incredibly obscene amounts they’ve made off with in the last twenty years. Then, it was clients and shareholders who were willing to pay them. But now, it’s our money. Taxpayers, well off and near-destitute. People who have lost their jobs and, perhaps, their houses.

Business practices, non-existent ethics, and greed are the precipitating factors in this financial meltdown. These emperors of Wall Street still had clothes, until the house of cards they were playing with finally collapsed. A house that had been held up by a belief and faith in the system and their professionalism.

Now, we are desperate and want someone to fix it. It is thought that only these financial wizards have the knowledge to do this. Naively, we believe that their sense of responsibility and the obvious reality of their failure will cause them to work hard to bring this about.

Unfortunately, they have traveled far beyond responsibility and any concern other than their own interest. They see only the next step in their journey. The step that has them directing their abilities to seize the opportunities these billions of tax dollars create. To them, this is an unexpected dividend.

To be fair, these guys have families. They are not inhuman. They simply don’t care about anyone else. They have shed the skins of shame, compassion, and responsibility. It seems our government representatives have also. Obama has given us hope, but who will help him act?

The Big O

The Big O I am talking about is not Obama or Oprah. I’m referring to Obesity. And, just because it starts with O, doesn’t mean it’s an Irish disorder. It seems to be an American one. A guy’s gotta eat. You can’t argue with that, but it gets tricky when he can’t tell when to stop.

As we age, it is said that our bodies change. That’s obvious at certain points. There’s adolescence and its various spurts and smells and its clothing and hairstyle challenges. And, there’s the regrettable decline, shrinkage, and cosmetic breakdown of older age and we all know where that leads.

Also, somewhere, in between, each gender may undergo a shocker. Pregnancy is quite a departure from one’s normal bodily changes, as is hair loss, though I assure you I am not equating the two. Obesity, a statistical reality, is not quite as organic. This is something that happens as a result of our own actions.

As children, we are on a mission of growth. We can’t help it. We’re programmed to become adults and, though all bodies can achieve this, sadly, some minds are left behind. Sugar, in all its attractive forms, appears crucial. Shakes, soda, and candy become a food group unto themselves. But, in this, appetite has a purpose beyond mere satisfaction.

In the early dawn of mankind’s journey, kids ran around all the time. You couldn’t stop them. Sports, riding their bikes, wrestling. A parent had to put his foot down and raise his voice to get them to come in and sit at the table. As our standard of living and technology progressed and reached new heights, things began to change.

Sedentary activities got popular. Neighborhoods changed and parents became reluctant to let their kids run wild. Diet Coke became an acceptable breakfast among adults. Advertising introduced the concept of infinite appetites, both physical and psychological.

I’m just noting that things are different now. Our options have increased. And, just as these changes haven’t happened all at once, the same is true of our weight. It only seems like overnight. One day, you look in the mirror and not only are you older than you thought, you’re also a lot bigger than you could have imagined. Suddenly, everyone’s talking about obesity and you realize they’re talking about you and your children.

Holy Cow! How did this happen? Of course, it’s not everybody, but you can’t deny the numbers, whether they come from the National Science Foundation or from the scale in your bathroom. I never thought I would ever be as big as a house. It just happened. Little by little. Dessert by dessert. Cookie by cookie.

Information is empowering and admitting what’s true is the first step to rehabilitation. After the shock settles in, it’s time for action, although, in this case, inaction might be the best response. Sure, that burger and fries or that Club Sandwich and fries or that piece of apple pie and fries look good, but armed with awareness and an understanding of the consequences – health and otherwise – it is possible to bring about the necessary corrections.

I can reverse the trend. It’s possible to slim down and get healthy. I need to exercise my will. Become more than just a statistic. Be able to look myself in the mirror and see the changes. In time, I will accomplish my goals. My only question now is, do I have to give up doughnuts?

Let’s Face The Music

At last, a President who can dance. I think this bodes well for the country and the world. Dancing is not only the oldest, but also the most universal means of communication. And, right along with the development of Dance has been that of Music. These are among the most fundamental building blocks of Civilization, Neuronal Development, and Progress, in general. Some say, it’s in our genes.

It’s hard to feel a need to invade, torture, or hate someone, when you are singing about true love, getting the spirit, or doing the Boogaloo. Barack has personified, and made overtly political, this kind of next step in Evolution since the beginning of his career. He gets it. Stevie. YoYo and his buddies. Bruce and Beyonce. And, Aretha.

A lot happened this week. Barack became President. Bush took off for Texas. Cheney, in his chair, embodying Mr. Potter from It’s a Wonderful Life, rolled back to Montana or wherever he can call home. Barack arrived like a breath of fresh air and policies began to change.

Things are different now. We have a Black President. His presence resonates with and makes clear one of the true wonders of this country. That this is a place where, despite the less than admirable parts of human nature rearing their ugly heads too often, people of the most diverse backgrounds are all here, together, trying to work things out and make them better. And, we are. However long it takes.

This happens by getting to know each other. Seeing that our hopes are similar. That our dreams have a lot in common. And, that this idea of America is a good one and worth pursuing.

Barack is a real guy. And now, he’s the real President and Leader. I can watch the News again with an anticipation that something good may have happened. The fog of the last eight years is lifting. And, despite everything, I can now see that the world may not be coming to an end.

In his campaign, Barak talked about Yes, we can, about Hope, and about Change. Everything is possible. He was just reminding us.

Get up and dance to the music. Let Freedom sing!

The Attack of the Pharmaceuticals

On those nights when I can muster the courage to watch the news, my expectations are always exceeded. Or, is it that my fears are always confirmed? Whatever they are, they consist of a frightened anticipation that things might be even worse than the night before. Also present is an unspecified dread that the events they are reporting may have some kind of direct impact on me. Every now and then might be bearable, but night after night?

As disturbing as these reports from around the world are, the commercials shown between the news segments are as, no, are even more disturbing. They not only seem to take up more minutes than the actual news, but they directly relate to my mortality and the general breakdown that my body, like all others, must undergo over time. Personally, that breakdown seems to be gathering momentum. Aches, pains, and problems make themselves known on an ever more frequent basis and they seem to stick around longer.

I’ve been reading about the Mind-Body Connection and, each night, I see that these drug companies have no interest in helping me. They would rather plant the seed that Arthritis or PAD (whatever that is) is taking root, at this very moment, in my quite vulnerable and susceptible body. Statistics have proven this and you know you can’t escape that kind of truth. No matter how special you might think you are today, tomorrow you will be just one more number in a long and indifferent report.

You and your friends will never again be able to be more than 30 yards away from a bathroom. You‘ll have all kinds of trouble going, stopping, getting up in the night, and a lot of other things I don’t want to think about. You could be out biking with other gray-haired guys, who never even think about going. Or, you could be kayaking miles away from the nearest bathroom. All you have to do is ask your doctor about it. You’re there all the time, anyway. Just ask him.

Sure, there are some side effects, but they’re not major, only dry mouth, excessive perspiration, sudden seizures, vomiting, runny nose, debilitating muscle spasms, difficulty breathing, dementia, and the ever-present threat of sudden heart attacks, leading to death. Okay! I’m asking!

It used to be that I only needed to be aware of the heartbreak of Psoriasis or an occasional blinding headache, but just as things are deteriorating in the Middle East, so are they deteriorating right here at home. At my house. In my bed. Inside me!

I never used to have any of these problems. I could go for walks without suffering blocked arteries. My allergies never bothered me. Heck, I didn’t even have any. And, though not a Casanova, I have always thought of myself as a local Don Juan. But now, I know that I am part of the growing (if I may use that word) E.D. population. I find myself envious of guys I would have laughed at before. I see that they have fulfilling relationships with people they are actually married to, and many of them have matching bathtubs! By the ocean!

Each day, my list of problems grows. I can’t keep up with all of them. I think it’s safe to say that there is no part of me that isn’t diseased. My eyes are dry, my joints ache, I’ve got Athlete’s Foot, my stomach is upset and full of gas, my blood can’t circulate properly, my levels are low, my blood pressure is high, I’m often disoriented, and I’m about to have a heart attack, at any moment.

I can’t think about the News. I’ve got a lot more problems than that. No wonder I’m depressed. Maybe there’s something I can take for that.

Words. Wurds. Wudz.

I love them. I need them. I revel in them. I juggle them like ripened pears on a day glistening with the sunshine of a thousand years. Wait a minute! I apologize. Carried away, again. The deal is: there are so many of them. They represent opportunity, but also confusion. Some, like Bam, for instance, seem inevitable and obvious, but I can’t think of many like that. Most are arbitrary, or, if not, way beyond any logical origin I can figure out.

Take, chair. Does that look like a chair? Sure, but you knew that. You could just as easily have called it table, or fire truck.

One step below usage lies madness. So, for our purposes today, let’s dispense with reason. Kind of sounds intriguing. The fact that we’re using words to describe all of this is hurting my head. What I really want to do is to point out the sounds of some words that may provoke wonder, bafflement, even experimentation. Or, a million other things. You just can’t tell with words.

If you were me, you would realize, 1. How hard it is to stop writing, using these regular words. 2. How thinking like this might drive you crazy. 3. The philosophical, if not practical, dilemma initiated by a question like Why? or how chaos is created by subtracting meaning from a perfectly good system of communication.

Consider the following words as words, as sounds, as objects without definition.
It’s an example of focusing our attention, like a microscope, on a part of something and not being able to recognize it. Okay, okay. Enough.

Gazebo Bingo Pluto
Jello Honcho Bongo
Bamboo Kazoo Wahoo
Whoop de do

See what I mean? And, it’s not just the ones that end in O, though that does add a bit of fun. That’s simply a function of the suffix, O. None of these words are really related.

How about words like:

Smock Aplomb Pizza
Keel Bunch Urchin
Orbit Swank Rash

As objects, they are interesting. As sounds, they are evocative. Let’s mess around.

“Keel your swank orbit, my little pizza. That smock showed wahoo honcho. Could gazebo bingo the bamboo from aplomb?”

This is getting good.

A rash bongo led the jello to a safe urchin. In Kazoo, we bunch.

And, so on.

Words. Wurds. Wudz. They intoxicate. They reduce me to tears. They inspire the ineffable. They illuminate the elusive. They call us to action. They are a smock bunch. They orbit the jello. Who knew the rash gazebo? Remember the whoop de do!

Polka - Curse or Cure-all?

It’s a simple matter of heaving your weight to one side, in three short steps. 1 – 2 – 3. Then, to the other side. 1 – 2 – 3. Turn slowly through the six total steps. Repeat endlessly.

Those are the details. The important things about it are girls, music, and beer. The order of these will vary with the circumstances, but isn’t it wonderful to be able to combine the three most important things in life into one brief dance?

Let’s examine in, cursory, if not excessive, detail these three fundamentals of the good life. Girls – They hold a fascination for a guy like me, not only for the obvious reasons, which I won’t go into, aside from noting that they (girls) are warm, soft, and much more discriminating than I am. Yes, this could also be said of kittens, dogs, and all sorts of animals, but have you ever seen any of those doing the Polka?

What really fascinates me about girls is their minds. I swear I am not lying. Their view of the world, their sensitivity, and their imaginations. It’s a puzzlement and a wonderment. Plus, many of them can keep time and carry a tune. In Polka, as in Square Dancing, one (me, I) is put in direct contact with this magic. Excitement is inevitable!

The instrumentation of accompaniment can range from full orchestra to quartets, from tubas to saxophones, from guitars to the almost indispensable accordion. The accordion is a versatile and portable instrument that has the added bonus of being able to supply the bass, the beat, and the melody.

Most scoff at the accordion, but throughout the history of the instrument (and it is a long and distinguished, not to mention, romantic one) there have arisen great artists, such as, Frankie Yankovic, Fat Louie Szykowski, and Babe Wagner – all household names. All it takes is a few notes and you know you’re in for something special.

Beer, besides being one of the basic food groups, (as necessary to life, some argue, as water) is the lubricant, nay, the WD-40, of Polka. It frees the participants of shyness. It facilitates movement. And, it can round off the rough edges of one’s inexperience, one’s lack of coordination, and make each partner essential to the dream. I won’t go so far as to say, it is the blood of romance. That’s gross and inaccurate, but it helps with dry lips.

These three elements combined, have been known to provide comfort, enable excess, and promote needed exercise. Romance aside, Polka is a workout. But, it is one where everyone is smiling and ready for more.

In addition, it can be a poetic expression for sensitive souls. Just take a peek at these Polka titles:

The Fireside Polka Jolly Wife of Mine Polka

Twenty Flowers Polka The Ponytail Polka

Hoosier Susie Polka Mother-in-law Polka

Strip Polka The Okey Dokey Polka

And, who can forget such favorites as:

My Baby’s Got A Nice Dupa
The Night Lil’ Wally Came to Town
Waukesha, All Praise To Thee!

I have many Polka memories, and not just because I’m from Minnesota, a state known for its cultural, intellectual, and musical luminaries. Early morning AM radio, while driving through endless fields of corn, in sunshine or in blizzard. That wedding reception where my girlfriend and I fell into the closet, while trying to retrieve our coats. That old white, clapboard community center, alone, in a forest clearing, up North, and a party just for the hell of it, on a Sunday afternoon.

Some say there is no beer in heaven. Does that mean, by extension, that there is no Polka, either? No one’s God could be that cold. But, just in case, I’m getting mine in now.

Voting

I’m voting today! My mail-in ballot is about the size of a regular paperback. Say, Water For Elephants or The Power of Now. It’s filled with ideas, choices, and possibilities. Some are obvious and some require a closer reading. The choices presented seem to cover every aspect of life, no matter how mundane or personal. My say is counted along with everyone else’s. The result will determine the direction of the next four years. Laws will be made and taxes imposed. Everyone will be affected. That’s scary.

This brings to mind the close ties (or proximity) between Halloween and Election Day. Deliberate symbolism or non-partisan coincidence? Hard to say. Some candidates do resemble familiar frightening figures. Think back over the commercials you’ve recently seen. The ones that haunt you. Frankenstein? Dracula? The Mummy? That bumbler in the 4th or was it the 6th District? Hmm… how like Uncle Fester. Would you rather the elite Gomez Addams or the more middle-class Herman Munster?

The weather is turning, the shadows are falling, and goblins seem to be everywhere. Halloween, at its purest, is not exclusively about candy and the hoarding thereof or even about scaring the pants off us. Originally, it was a harvest festival. To countries around the world, it is a celebration of abundance. Or, not. Reaping what you sow?

We practice trick or treating. This choice is sometimes confusing. That’s why we have ballots. So we can keep it all straight. Vying with each other are devils, witches, skeletons, and those who would do Eeevil. Just glance down the list of candidates. I’m sure you can identify them.

Politicians are not necessarily evil. Perhaps, it’s just the system. Or, might it be something else? Something entangled in symbols of pagan hoopla? Is bobbing for apples as innocent as it appears? Could it be a euphemism for voting? What is it about masks? Why does so much in Washington take place in the dark? Would you trade your vote for a Butterfinger?

It may seem childish, but these guys are serious. Vote for Me! Or, else. That’s frightening.

To be or not to be

There are a lot of people in the world. They are all over the place. Six and a half billion. China, all by itself, has 1.3 billion. The world’s population will double in 61 years. Is that a long time? 61 years ago, it was 1947. U.S. population was 144 million and now it is more than 301 million. 61 years from now it will be 2069. Wow. To me, that seems like a lot. A lot of numbers and a lot of people. What are we all doing here?

It’s all how you look at it. On one hand, in the grand scheme of things, we’re insignificant. On the other, we’re an important part of everything. At any one moment, lots of things are taking place. Large and small. Dinosaurs are squabbling near the foothills. Org is making dinner, over a fire, for his wife. The Renaissance is moving forward and Guiseppe is trying to park his gondola. The slaves are freed and Bob is working his back forty. The Beatles are on Ed Sullivan and the family down the street is having TV dinners. Bill Gates is figuring something out in science class and Bill Smith is falling in love.

As Mighty Mouse said, Are we mice or are we mice? It’s a matter of perspective. Am I a grain of sand on the beach, a speck of dust in the universe, one Cheerio in a 14 oz. box? Or, am I a part of the whole, an essential element in the cosmic mix, a determining factor in evolution?

There are a lot of things going on right now that affect us all. Climate change, financial chaos, and the election. What effect can I have? Do my actions have meaning? Is this speculation juvenile? Most of the time, I am amazed at how lucky I am to be here, in this particular place, at this particular moment. I try my best to enjoy my family, my friends, and the music in the background – Little Richard, Beethoven, and Monk.

This is true for a lot of people. This idea of perspective is crucial. Because of this luck, we get to have a choice. We can decide that we have a part in life and everyone is important. There are artists and paint makers. There are politicians and voters. Some are parents and some are children. Or, we can allow ourselves (choose) to feel hopeless, marginal, insignificant.

There are a lot of choices, especially for an extremist, like myself. There is good and bad, light and dark, honesty and lying, action and inaction, faith and despair, soccer and futbol. Wait a minute… You get the picture. At moments of existential angst, like tonight, I take comfort and direction from the words and wisdom of James Brown – Get up offa that thing. Dance and you’ll feel better.

This always points me in the right direction.

Say What?!

I haven’t written lately, because I have wanted to stay away from politics. There are several good reasons for this. However, it’s everywhere. It’s in the air. Heck, it’s on the air. And, it’s on everyone’s mind. You can’t turn around without seeing that look that says, I don’t want to, really, but we better talk about the situation. One can’t avoid the ads, the conventions, the speeches, the conversations, or the media.

From seeing and hearing all this, it seems that most Americans can’t read, can’t distinguish fact from fiction, can’t tell the difference between oratory and rabble rousing, won’t discuss anything in a rational manner, and just about everyone is scared to death. Who can we trust? It seems we can’t trust ourselves or each other. This makes things difficult.

Old ideals are perverted. Hard work, education, and the belief that anyone can grow up to be President is now elitist and, definitely, out of touch. Truth, Justice, and the American Way, have become what works, I’m sorry, and I can’t help you. Not to mention, I don’t know you, I’m busy, and I’m on vacation.

Many of us are opportunistic, racist (though that’s hard to admit), and guided by the justifications of religion. Definitions are fluid. Facts are subject to change and revision. Effort, hope, and responsibility are suspect. Fear gathers momentum.

It seems that there could not be a clearer contrast than this election and its parties and their aspirations, directions, and methods. And yet, at the moment, the obvious is obscured. The candidates are neck and neck. That really is frightening.

We can try to understand each other. We can vote. We can cross our fingers. We can hope. And, despite everything, I know we can change.

The Convention

Politics, with all of its talk of bills and laws and foreign relations and domestic policies, seems to take place in Washington, far away, and is something out of our hands and inevitable, like taxes. The Democratic convention, which just ended, reminded me that it can also be about things more tangible, real, personal, and emotional.

Watching on TV is no substitute for being there, but even that medium, so artificial and distancing, couldn’t dilute the power of this one. Not that it didn’t try. We watched it each night on PBS, the supposed station of the people. It took until the last night and repeated yelling and cursing for us to realize that their commentary, any commentary, trivialized and insulted what was taking place. With C-span and its picture-only style, we finally were able to have an uninterrupted experience.

The convention, though planned and scripted as to who and when, seemed to develop in an organic and natural way. A bit scattered at the beginning, it began to coalesce. The Clintons gave their endorsements (despite the backstory) and testimony from regular Joes began to tie this process to the reality that this was the way we govern ourselves and who we elect to do it. As it progressed, it no longer seemed that our lives are controlled by an alien species we refer to as politicians. We saw real guys with real lives. They weren’t so different from us. They have their path and it is to serve in government.

Although I admit to optimism, to responding to Sousa, and to red, white, and blue, the longer I watched, the more patriotic and motivated I became. In contrast to the cynicism and helplessness I usually feel, I was reminded that we have a history and it goes back more than eight years. The United States is not without blame for many things, but we do have ideals and they are just that – something we keep aiming for.

Given the nudge by all this hoopla and discussion, by the speeches and stories, I can look around and see the melting pot they talk about. I see the examples of possibility and opportunity that exist in this country. It’s not just a nice story. In the world we live in now, no one and nothing can remain hidden. Reality, though sometimes filtered, is always before us and demands action.

Part of that action was unfolding at the convention. The ideas and ideals of hope, determination, and goodness were given voice. Even television and its chattering personalities, could not blunt the feeling shown in the words and the faces that were lighting up the evening.

America is a different kind of place and this gathering presented the wish of countless hearts to evolve and embrace and include whoever aspires to similar ideals. Obama was right when he said that it wasn’t about him, but about us. This election no longer feels like a mechanical abstraction that takes place in November, but a real decision that involves us all. A process that can move us forward, closer and closer to those ideals.

Exercise your right to vote. You’ll feel stronger.

Questions, Questions, Questions

They’re everywhere. When they get together, they multiply. Once put into motion, they take on a life of their own and it appears there is no end in sight. How big can a question get? Is a profound question more demanding than one that is casually dressed? And, who is to say which is which? Isn’t everything relative, anyway? And, won’t an excess of questions drive us crazy?

How can we possibly sort them all out? There seems to be no stopping them. Just when you think you’ve answered plenty for one guy, or have finally set them aside for good and gone about your business, here comes another one.

First, from birth, there’s, when’s lunch? A bit later, it’s why am I going to school? Sure, there’s learning and everything, but then you wonder about issues of control and conformity, not to mention the rationale for authority. Why can’t I say that? Why can’t I go outside? And, perhaps more importantly, what’s her name?

Dion said it best, why must I be a teenager in love? It’s a bittersweet moment for these teenagers and will lead to other questions that lay the groundwork for a process they call maturation. This maturation has its own set of questions, such as, who am I? Why am/are I/we here? (What!?), and who are you? This is the beginning of a personal philosophy.

This process of maturation and the development of a personal philosophy can take a while. I guess it all depends on when you want to stop or when you’ve had enough and you just can’t take it any longer.

After you’ve settled the serious question of How am I going to make any money, you tackle ones like, Is marriage possible? Or, even desirable? That maturity issue keeps poking its head into things and asks, am I really ready or responsible enough for that kind of thing? And then, what about kids?

A bit later, while looking in the mirror, you turn to your wife and ask, am I getting older? She looks at you, with sympathy. You begin to notice things that bring up questions of their own: What happened? Where are those hairs disappearing? Do I really look like my Dad? And then, the David Byrne question, how did I get here?

My own maturation process tells me that all these questions are Male-specific. And, it’s true. I have no idea what questions women are asking themselves. Which brings up another question, why are they so different? Not that I mind. I’m glad they are, but they’re a mystery.

Some questions just won’t go away, no matter how many times you think you’ve answered them. Who do I think I am? Or, rather, who am I? What is this world all about? Why are things the way they are? What should I do? What’s the best use of my time? Sometimes it’s, are you kidding me? The number and scope of questions is limitless. Which begs the question, why me?

I’ve found that it’s a good plan to pay attention, but to always go with the flow. My favorite question is the one that asks, what exciting thing is going to happen next?
Answers are hard to come by, but there’s always another question.

A big, warm hug?

The Olympics begin in China today. Who says money doesn’t make the world go round?

There is a lot of talk about the civilizing influence of the Games, the accomplishment and dedication of the athletes, the extension of world records, and the indomitable human spirit.

The other side to it is the tyranny and ruthlessness of the Chinese government, the unmistakable and pervasive pollution, the doping scandals, and the contrast of the opulent presentation of the Games with the struggles of so many of China’s billions. Certainly, we’re not blameless, either.

This situation resembles the stark difference in the upcoming election here. There is a choice between two very different candidates – young versus old, hopeful vision versus a defensive posture, clear thinking versus a desperate confusion, a new kind of candidate and the old, predictable guard, an attempt at a realistic and practical assessment of the problems and challenges that demand action and an unimaginative continuation of the dated and destructive policies that have brought us to the lowest point in our history.

George Bush makes feeble statements about human rights, but won’t really risk offending our biggest trading partner and the main investor/owner of the dollar. China rushes to present a clean, smiling face to the world, while he accepts his box seat and has a hot dog or the Chinese equivalent.

The Games and the competition there are inspiring, but behind the scenes the environment takes its last gasps, while politicians and businessmen are only interested in power and profit.

The state of information made possible by the Internet makes it impossible to hide the facts that result from our actions. Now, that’s true progress. This gives everyone an opportunity to recognize what is actually occurring and make the decision to dedicate ourselves to more basic and necessary matters.

A truly exciting competition would be one where all of the participating countries try to outdo each other in saving the environment, guaranteeing human rights to individuals, creating peace, and extending the brotherhood represented by the Games to a world that desperately needs it.

Pass the torch. Let it begin.

The Wall

Our little town is one of the stops on the tour of the Vietnam Wall. This is a three-quarter-size replica of the memorial that is in Washington, DC. Despite its reduced size, it is big. All 58,000 and more names are there in dark granite.

It travels around the country in a big semi-trailer and is put up and staffed by volunteers. Maybe you’ve seen it. In our town, at least, the wall is set up in a wide, open cemetery near the highway.

The names on the wall and what they represent quiet everyone who visits, even children. The long columns of names and the meaning of it all are hard to comprehend. It is so final.

Each name represents a real person. Not just letters, but a living being whose death affected and still affects so many other lives. This is an ongoing tragedy, even so long after the event. And now, we have another pointless war and will have yet another memorial.

I’m glad the wall is traveling around America. Everyone will have an opportunity to experience and, for a moment, at least, contemplate its meaning. It is our duty to all of the victims of war, and to each other, to take our thoughts, as we stand before this endless list of names, and imagine and dedicate ourselves to a much different and more humane future.

My English Teacher

I fell in love with my English teacher
For reasons intellectual and aesthetic
She was a lodestone of learning
And also of love
She was, in fact, magnetic

She introduced herself to one and all
“Miss Swan,” I echoed softly
She was a goddess, well, like a goddess
I loved her instantly and awfully

She had a look, a manner, a way
There were many great qualities about her
She said, Make friends with grammar today
Not for a moment did I doubt her

Her vowels drove me crazy
Of each sentence, she was the subject
And after that first day
Her definition was my ubject

Her consonants were endearing
And her syllables most alluring
And when she alluded to her participles
It was torture worth enduring

She was a walking dictionary
With a little slang thrown in
Each day eager, with pencil sharpened
I’d wait for class to begin

Her nouns were always proper
Her tense was unconditional
But when she got excited
She was certainly untraditional

Conjunctions were all I thought about
Both in and out of class
To study, together, our great language
Was a pleasure unsurpassed

Her adjectives were so affecting
That I felt like rushing to her
To declare my love, then and there
And, with verbs transitive, try to woo her

I memorized each complex phrase
And pondered about gender
I wrote a thousand poems of love
I was too shy to send her

Her articles drove me wild
As did her tone (so parenthetical)
Her pronouns were so personal
But our positions antithetical

Our stars were crossed
Our fates confused
Our classroom time
So much misused
I loved her singular
I loved her plural
Indented, in brackets
As woman, as girl
As teacher, as guide
As exclamation
As simile, as metaphor
As inspiration

The parallel construction of our love
That I hoped would now surround me
Turned out to be just single-spaced
For she never thought about me

I could fashion a paragraph with the best
But my love remained unrequited
For only in my imagination
Were we to be united

What sort of life could we make together
Simply, one so sadly imprudent
Equals we could never be
For she, the teacher
And I, the student

Geezer Rock

Keep on rockin’ me, baby, and take it to the limit, you witchy woman, because I get around and, Roxanne, there’s a man downstairs, and he just might be Jimmy Buffett, I don’t know.

They’re back. They only look like they’re on loan from the other side. It’s no one’s fault. We all get older. Even, rockers. Maybe, especially rockers. Just look at their lifestyle – traveling, late hours, sex, and drugs. Come on.

These poor guys were young once. Hey, so were we. They made music, much of it great. But now, they’re back, touring, being featured on Public Television for fund-raising, on covers of magazines, whose reporters are astonished by their continued existence, and in business sections, where their bottom lines are making guys in suits jealous.

Everything changes. That’s what they all say, but, whether because of our refusal to let go or our need to revisit those thrilling days of yesteryear, or because of their need for money, it seems like every old Rock and Roller is out on tour this summer and nothing has changed. You can see everyone from The Allman Brothers to ZZ Top. From Barry Manilow to Neil Diamond. Just like 1979. Iam;I cried. I can't go for that. No can do.

Last week, on my way to see Steven Colbert, I passed Channel 6, our public TV station, and the words, Never my love, came softly toward the couch I was on. The Association!? No! Please! Please let them sink beneath the waves of memory! Their hair was perfect, but the rest of them had fallen and filled out. The lights were not helping. A close-up revealed their undiminished sincerity, but they were still cheesy. I would rather forget.

Some guys are always going to be worth seeing – Dylan, Santana, Aretha, Stevie. But, most of the others should leave our memories alone. I love the Beach Boys, but, besides half of them being dead, Hot Rods and Surfing just don’t hold the same interest they once did.

Oldies has a new definition. Antique. Even Old School is old. But it doesn’t change the music. There’s power there. There’s beauty. I love to hear it. The music has never stopped in my house. And, never will, but, please, everything in its place. There’s something disturbing about seeing Leon Russell hobbling, with a cane, across the stage or Stevie Nicks, shuffling up to the mike.

In other genres, age works. In jazz, Doc Cheatham, Count Basie, and Dizzy were all doing it, until they keeled over. Lee Konitz is still out playing and playing better than ever. In Bluegrass, Bill Monroe and the Stanley Brothers were/are revered masters. In Blues, you aren’t legitimate, unless you are seasoned by several decades, and classical players age well, just like their instruments.

But, for Rock and Rollers, the sound of rebellion, or Motown, the Voice of Young America, it just seems creepy when white-haired, wrinkled guys perform these songs. I hate it when the audience and I are praying that one of the original remaining Temptations will hit that ecstatic high note.

Hey, it’s only rock and roll, but I like it and I like it as it is: a moment in time, a sound that inspires memory and imagination, and a feeling that will never grow old, even if we do. The good guys will always be good, but, if you are reaching for a height that was never very high to begin with, please stay home and don’t tempt me to revisit those past moments of triumph, humiliation, and Three Dog Night.

Let the good times roll, keep on dancin’, and let’s twist again, like we did last summer.

I Love A Parade

Americans used to be big on parades. Every holiday had one. The Fourth spoke to everyone. Columbus Day for the Italians. St. Patrick’s Day for the Irish. The Rose Parade for rose growers and football players. Thanksgiving Day for Macy’s. Memorial Day for remembering, and Labor Day to allow everyone to make a personal statement about work.

There have been parades for special events – protest, pride, and some for plain old exhibitionism. That exhibitionism is a big part of the military. They march in formation to show that there are a lot of guys defending us. Once individuals, they now, after extensive training, have been forged into an impressive single body, ready to turn left at a moment’s notice or sling their guns around, as one. They have become a force to be reckoned with.

Back at the dawn of time, a bunch of guys from one cave wanted to visit some other guys at a cave across the valley. One of them, we’ll call him, Ugh, was kind of bossy and wanted to impress the other cave’s inhabitants. As they began their walk across the valley, it became apparent that this was just a bunch of guys in skins, and not uniform skins, a motley group shuffling in a general direction. Some had stopped to investigate an unknown flower and some were chasing each other and squealing like animals.

This wasn’t going to impress anyone. Ugh was upset. This would not do. He cried out, he gestured, he bullied, he threatened. No one understood, but it seemed to mean a lot to Ugh, so they lined up, matched Ugh’s stern expression, and moved forward as one, all the time chuckling and nudging each other behind Ugh’s back. Let Ugh have his fantasy. The funny thing was that it did impress the other group. They cheered Ugh and his buddies as they came by. It’s funny how things can affect you. Everyone had a good time and they decided to do it again, later. Next year, whenever that was.

To accompany groups such as this and groups with a more basic and combative purpose, a form of inspirational music was composed – Marches. Germans were especially good at this. In Sweden, it was more like a group of florists humming to themselves as they marched along. In America, which was founded on an odd mix of principles and violence, John Phillip Sousa wrote the soundtrack that moved the country forward.

His marches resonate deep in our psyches, whether we know it as Sousa or as that catchy tune from the movies. It gives our steps a lift. If you have ever been in a parade, you know that after marching a couple of blocks, your step could definitely use a lift.

I know, from personal experience, that introverts are just not right for parading. It’s crowded, everyone is looking at you, and it’s hard to keep your feet straight. I prefer parades with a much looser agenda. Ones that don’t take themselves too seriously.

In our town, we have the world’s shortest St. Patrick’s Day parade. It’s half a block long. I remember when this grand tradition started. We were celebrating inside. Toasting, singing, and laughing. Some one had one of those ideas that seem so appealing at certain moments of weakness and we spilled out of the bar. We only made it half a block. In later years, there was a real leprechaun – green, short, and bearded – and then little girls step-dancing and, eventually, guys performing syncopated maneuvers with lawn chairs. My friends and I cheer them on. Tradition revered and respected.

You have to hand it to the Shriner’s. Yes, they are a throwback to a more populated parade era, but they are another group that knows how to have fun. I mean, those hats. Come on. They are big, middle-aged men, wearing little hats, riding in circles, in miniature convertibles and tiny motorcycles. They may look silly, but it is well known that the expertise they have with these vehicles is unrivaled and takes much practice.

Another of the many parades in this town is in honor of Fairies and Spirits. These are represented by children, dressed by their parents. The little ones waddle down the street, looking alternately quite pleased with themselves or puzzled.

I’m not sure which town is the top parade spot in the nation. At times, it seems everyone is vying for the title and, at others, as if everyone has forgotten what day it is and simply want to sit quietly on the porch.

Once, in Minneapolis, I saw a parade of 5,000 tap dancers in costume, tapping three blocks to the tune of “I’ve Got Rhythm”. They were attempting a world record and their tapping was heard over the traffic, all the way to St. Paul.

I’m looking forward to the day when all parades are like that – just a bunch of people with a good idea, getting together to walk around and have fun. To the traditionally patriotic, this might seem the height of ungodly humanism, but it might just signify an evolution of collective behavior, higher purpose, and the celebration of a most human step forward. No more marching to war, but one happy, light-hearted step after another. Let the parade begin.

27%

I know that statistics can be interpreted in many ways. They may be wildly inaccurate and, possibly, even downright lies! This distrust is what has happened in the last few years, however, let’s talk about that another time. But, being a writer, it’s disturbing to read that only 27% of Americans read a book last year. This seems to be a function of both interest and ability.

Many writers, myself among them, sometimes wonder, if anyone ever reads what they write. Are we crazy? Are we talking (writing) to ourselves? That would be kind of a Zen thing. The sound of one hand writing.

Writers, don’t go there. Some one is out there, reading.

Aren’t you?

Okay, enough of that. How about this? In an essay, in The New Yorker, called, The Twilight of Books, it said that, “According to the Department of Education, between 1992 and 2003 the average adult’s reading skills declined.” No real surprise there. But, “The proportion who were proficient, that is, capable of such tasks as comparing viewpoints in two different editorials, declined from 15% to 13%.”

What?!!? The fact that it was 15% in 1992 is frightening, but it has declined to 13%! That blew my naïve mind. I thought of this during the primaries, which are STILL GOING ON and have, so far, failed to focus on stuff that seems to be important – like, climate crisis, people dying, misspent taxpayer money in Iraq, etc.

But back to the statistics. Are these guys voting? In our democracy, all votes are equal. Well, except for superdelegates. But, 87% (!!) who can’t compare viewpoints in two editorials? It’s like letting your dog drive. Or, like having the TSA guys at the airport determine who should pilot the planes.

According to exit polls at the primaries, Hilary has been doing well with un- and under-educated voters and Obama is doing well with those who are college-educated. Shouldn’t that tell us something?

I don’t want to sound elitist, but I would feel better if voters were somewhat competent. It makes me wonder how anything gets done. And, it makes the case that those guys already in Washington are of a special group (elitists?), who have taken control of the country.

I don’t know where this leaves us. I would normally urge everyone to get out there and vote and make sure it counts, but, maybe first, we should all go home and read a book.

In Sickness and In Health

I’m getting better. My health is returning. I know it. I feel it in my bones. In my sinews. In my toes. It’s been a long haul, but sometimes it takes something bigger than you, something armed with an aluminum bat, to get you to stay put long enough to reflect on the reflectables. No more driving obsession with plots and schemes. No more endless noodling at the computer. No indefinite fantasies of future actions.

This cold or whatever it is, has brought about a complete halt to my machinations. My attention is demanded by fundamentals – sneezing, coughing, breathing. Bed, and the surrounding surfaces, have become my new habitat. I begin consulting the ceiling. I start to notice feelings. I spend so much time in bed that I rediscover my past. Being brought low and closer to the fundamentals, I find I have gathered some of my oldest friends around me – provocative books, both spiritual and weird (but true), my guitar (all but neglected recently), a pen, some paper.

Ideas occur. Forgotten birthdates arise. My restless leg is quiet. Thoughts and no-thoughts occupy the spaces between fits of coughing. My focus expands from my well-defined personal space to a wider and clearer view. It’s as if the lenses are flashing before me - This one? Or, this one? – and, as the hours go by, I find I’m reading the tiny letters on the bottom of a chart that I couldn’t even see before. They are spelling out, m-o-r-t-a-l-i-t-y.

Mortality! Suddenly, my petty concerns are shown for what they are. Thinning hair, declining bank account, passing years are put into perspective. I realize my worries are someone else’s dreams. I begin to see that we are all here together. I feel the connection we share. I understand that there is no separation. Awareness radiates from without and within. The neighborhood disappears and the Universe, both dark and light, surrounds me.

I swear this is not the medication talking. All it takes is a bit of peace and quiet to awaken that consciousness that everyone is talking about. Once recognized as such, noise can’t stop it, busyness can’t replace it, that old idea of self may try to reassert itself as a big deal, but it can read the writing on the wall, even if it doesn’t like what it says.

Being sick is good for my health. Those crafty little viruses and bacteria have popped me in the nose, so to speak, and laid me out. Waaaa! I realize that this isn’t the big one, but it gets my attention, all the same, and attention seems to be what it’s all about. Seeing beyond my idea of self. Not taking important actions, like breathing, for granted. Sensing something much bigger than little old me. Understanding that there’s more to all this than me, you, and a billion other mes. More to it than protecting my needy self.

Now that I am almost back on my feet, I find that I feel better and not just because I’m no longer as sick, but because I’m, well, how can I put it? I’m not the same. I’m changing, evolving, growing. Awakening. And, not just to my wife’s purpose.

The life that goes on, is going on, that will go on without us, is big. It’s beautiful. I’m a part of it. I’m a part of you. You’re a part of me. We’re a part of it. It’s a part of us. It’s all one big deal. I’m not going to forget this when the coughing stops. I swear, this is not the medication talking.