Addiction

05/21/13

It’s an addiction . . . and addiction is something I should know something about.                                     - Keith Richards

This will be a very short post, but it’s longer than all those other posts I haven’t written lately.  I’m addicted, see, and it’s my Muse’s fault.  There’s this game on Facebook called Candy Crush Saga, and . . . well, I’m on my way to developing carpal tunnel syndrome.

Facebook.  Yeah, that’s my Muse’s fault too.  I originally opened a Facebook account just so she could kick my ass at Scrabble, which she did.  Then I got hooked on Battle Pirates - until I reached a level where other players were flattening my base when I was offline and I realized there were much better ways to spend my time.

Two weeks ago, my Muse started playing Candy Crush, and she needed to rope in friends to feed her habit by providing extra lives and boarding tickets.  Instead of doing the sensible thing – like set up an intervention for her - I enabled her.  Now I’m addicted.  She’s on level 253 . . . oh wait, she’s just informed me she’s on level 254.  I’m on level 39.  That pretty much says it all.  Gotta go mix a wrapper with striper.

High 5

05/15/13

Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.     – Jesus

Today something happened while I was riding my bike home from work that offset the ugliness of yesterday.  I was on a long straight stretch of the bike trail that passes by some large apartment complexes.  About 50 yards ahead, I saw a group of young children spread across the path, and figured I’d have to slow down.  Another bicyclist was coming in my direction, and as we passed, he said, “High five ahead.”  I thought, What did he say?

When I got close to the kids, they moved to one side of the path, and then they began holding out their hands, and I understood.  I high-fived them as I passed, and I was grinning because my heart was glad.

The beautiful thing about most children is that they haven’t learned to be cynical.

Anger

05/14/13

In a controversy, the instant we feel anger we have already ceased striving for the truth, and have begun striving for ourselves.     – Buddha

Being a bicycle commuter is, for the most part, relaxing.  Once I accepted that the only thing preventing some motorists from running me over was a fear that their paint would get scratched, I reached a sort of inner peace.  In fact, it’s not the motorists that bother me anymore: it’s some of my fellow bicyclists.

Generally speaking, there are two types of annoying bicyclists: the snobs and the suicide jockeys.  The snobs never make eye contact, never say “hi” or wave, even in response to a friendly greeting; they’re usually dressed in fashionable biking gear, and often have earbuds in.  My need for reciprocal greetings is another problem entirely, and I don’t want to explore that right now.  The suicide jockeys blast through intersections – they’re invincible, you see - and generally infuriate the already road-enraged motorists.

This morning, while I was waiting for the crossing signal at one of the more dangerous intersections on my route, a bicyclist blew right through just as the cross traffic was getting a green light.  It riled up all my stored resentment, and when the signal finally allowed me to cross, he was out of sight around the next bend.

However, he was waiting at the next intersection, which was even more dangerous than the last.  Letting my emotions get the better of me, I pulled up beside him and said something like, “You know, when you pull stupid stuff like you did at the light back there, it upsets the motorists, and they don’t just take it out on you.”

He had to remove his earbuds.  “What?”

“What you did back there.  It was stupid.  The cars were starting to go, and you went right through.”

“Are you kidding me?”  His tone questioned my audacity at suggesting he should wait, not that the light had changed.

“No.  You’re putting me at risk, too.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I think you’ve got us mixed up, pal.”

The crossing signal changed and he took off, leaving me behind.  We proceeded, both convinced of our righteousness.  Or at least I did for a while.  As I began to calm down, I realized that I had approached the whole situation in a very poor way.  I thought about my Muse, and how she might have handled the situation.  She probably would have started the conversation with something like, “Excuse me sir.  You may not have noticed, but . . .”

And then I realized the real problem:  I had been more interested in expressing my anger than in changing the situation.  My priorities were skewed.  When will I ever learn?

Mom

05/12/13

My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it.     – Mark Twain

It’s Mother’s Day, so naturally enough I’ve been thinking back on my childhood memories of Mom, trying to find that event or object that would conjure up the essence of the woman who brought me into this world.  Oddly enough, it’s a car.

My mom had a red British sports car, a Sunbeam Alpine.  It was a convertible, and it was cool.  I remember riding with her in the summer, top down, on the back roads to Tunas, where she played softball.

My mom is a strong-willed and independent woman, not afraid to go her own way.  Her father was a hellfire-and-damnation Southern Baptist preacher, and of his 10 children, I get the impression that he butted heads with her the most.  To me, that red Alpine symbolizes her fierce independence and her search for freedom.  Like her, it was playful, but also cool and smart, with a hint of rebelliousness.

I could go on about her great cooking, about how she made sure I never wanted for anything, about how she’s always been there for me, even to this day, and that’s all true.  But if you want to know my mom, think about her tooling down the road in her sports car, her boy strapped in the passenger seat and the wind in her hair.

Compulsions

05/11/13

I have with me two gods, Persuasion and Compulsion.     – Themistocles

The tab and slit on box tops must be used.  That is one of my compulsions.  It’s not entirely without reason; I’ve come up with a satisfactory explanation anyway.  It’s because I hate waste.  So, the fact that someone went to the trouble to make that closure compels me to use it.  Never mind that it was punched into the cardboard by an automated machine.  Someone designed the tab, someone maintained the machine, someone operated the machine.  Its nonuse represents wasted effort, or unfulfilled potential, and that bothers me.

My grandmother was a bit OCD, or so I’ve been told.  Before she could leave the house, she had to go to each sink and check the faucet, pushing on the handles one, two, three times to make sure they were turned off.  While her situation may have been biochemical in origin, I’m positive that compulsions can be made better or worse by mental habits.  I know this because, on many occasions, I have forced myself to keep walking when I feel a sudden doubt about whether or not I locked the front door.  I remind myself that I’ve never left it unlocked before, that it’s part of my routine, and to think otherwise is unreasonable.  It’s an exercise in faith, and it strengthens me.  So I continue on my way, secure in the knowledge that the front door is locked, and all of the box tops are fastened.

I Remember

05/06/13

The stream of time sweeps away errors, and leaves the truth for the inheritance of humanity.               – Georg Brandes

From the time I was five until I was eighteen, I lived in a rural area of southwest Missouri.  We had 125 acres of land, both wooded and open, and running through the center of it was a small stream.  To this day, I still remember the course of that stream: the place where the road to the barn crossed it, the tiny island that was my imaginary stronghold, the place where I fell in the middle of winter showing off for my girlfriend, the high banks at the bottom of the hill, the bridge under U Highway.  I still have dreams about that stream.

I remember the little waterfalls and the quiet pools, the waterbugs and crawdads, the snapping turtle I shot and how tough it was to break its eggs.  I remember watching the water flow and wondering why it never stopped and where it went, watching twigs and debris circle in its currents, revealing the forces beneath its surface.

I remember the soothing cadence of water over stone in the shifting shades of summer.  I remember the cool dusk of autumn, geese in echelon reflected in dark, silent pools.  I remember frosted swirls glazed in ice by winter’s hard embrace.  I remember saplings bobbing in the spring flood, new green grass flattened by the overflow.

These memories are a stream, a chain of sequences reaching backward in time, which is a  stream as well.

Fishing for Metaphors

05/05/13

When I can’t talk sense, I talk metaphor.     – John Philpot Curran

Yesterday, I was trying to help my Muse out.  She needed a post for her blog – the postage was due, but she didn’t have a stamp, or something like that.  Anyway, being the helpful guy I am, I came up with a rough draft and sent it to her.  It was rejected outright.  Did I mention that my Muse is wonderfully candid?  So later in the day, hoping to somehow redeem myself, I sent her another rough draft.  It too was rejected, for the ostensible reason that it would offend about 80% of her audience.  Yes, she actually pays attention to statistics and demographics.  Did I also mention that she’s a successful, widely-read blogger?

She says I get too hung up on metaphors.  I told her I go for MEGAphors.  Being both lazy and frugal, I’ve decided to post the first rejected draft here; sorry you’re getting cast-offs.  Oh yeah . . . what follows is supposed to be funny.  I should also mention that the picture up above was taken by my Muse.

Times are tough out there on the ocean of love.  Between overfishing, habitat degradation, migration shifts, and mental pollution, it’s become very difficult to find a quality catch.  As they say, “Seems like all the good ones have already been caught.”  Well yes, I am taken, but that doesn’t mean you should give up.  There’s still some interesting fish in the sea, if only for one evening.  Depending on what you’re looking for, you might be interested in one of the following:

Pink-finned Douchefish

Prevalence: Still numerous, but declining due to natural selection and common sense.

Habitat: Nightclubs, health clubs, porn shops.

Lures: Any favorable comments on their attire will send them into a feeding frenzy.

Notes: All species of douchefish look much tastier than they actually are.  The chief appeal of this fish is in its entertainment value.  You’re sure to get a kick out of its courtship display.  It’s also fun to see how many times you can catch and release the same fish.

Blushing Ruffle

Prevalence: Believed to be numerous, but counts vary.

Habitat: Libraries, book stores, churches.

Lures: Cats, employment.

Notes: This can be a very difficult fish to land; a successful catch depends on patience, so if you’re looking for an immediate meal, best move on.  There are two varieties, and it’s impossible to tell them apart until they’re in the boat.  The Northern Blushing Ruffle will simply lay there like a dead fish.  The Southern Blushing Ruffle will thrash around madly and make you wonder who’s caught who.

Blue-veined Eel

Prevalence: Ubiquitous.

Habitat: Everywhere.

Lures: Anything, even a bare hook.

Notes: This eel spoils very quickly, so it’s best to eat it as soon as possible and put the remains in the trash – out by the curb.  It’s also advisable to have your paddle ready: sometimes a few hard whacks are necessary to show it who’s boss.

Clinging Netseeker

Prevalence: Unfortunately numerous.

Habitat: Nightclubs, grocery stores, gas stations, fitness clubs . . . don’t look now, but there’s one right behind you.

Lures: Eye contact.

Notes: These fish will actually jump into your boat.  They are extremely difficult to release since they are liable to latch onto anything in sight with their powerful jaws.  While this desperation can be very exciting at first, it gets old quickly.

Amazonian Ruffy

Prevalence: Generally rare, but high concentrations may be found in the Southern U.S.

Habitat: Country & Western nightclubs.

Lures: Cowboy boots, large belt buckles, large pickup trucks, oil.

Notes: This fish is not for everyone, as it tends to be flavorful, but a little tough.  They put up a hell of a fight, both in the water and once they’ve been landed; there have been several accounts of boats damaged – even sunk – by the Amazonian Ruffy.  Some fishermen have been beaten with their own rods.  Brace yourself for a wild ride.

Vampirefish

Prevalence: Numerous, particularly in urban areas.

Habitat: Encounter groups, art film festivals, the workplace.

Lures: Energy, smiles, money.

Notes: This fish can be hard to recognize in the water.  Not until after it’s in the boat will you realize what you’ve caught.  If you begin to feel extremely lethargic, as though your very soul has been sucked from your body, and if your bank account is suddenly overdrawn, you’ve just landed a Vampirefish.  Provided you have the energy and can afford it, you should throw it back in as quickly as possible.