The JackB

"When you're in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying, 'Damn, that was fun'." Groucho Marx

Archives for September 2005

Looking For a Fight

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When I was younger it was not unusual for my temper to get me in trouble. Not unlike other young men I was full of piss and vinegar and sometimes succumbed to a lack of judgement. There were times that I went looking for trouble and times when it came looking for me.

The saddest part about this is that generally when the two sides met there was more than a hullaballoo. Those that know me know that there are times when you would swear that a hurricane follows me because there is a whirlwind of activity and more trouble than you really want to be involved in. Simple is not a good description because sometimes simple got crumpled up, kicked in the mouth and pushed to the side.

As a slightly older and I think somewhat wiser man I have managed to avoid many of the stupid problems of the past. I ignore them or walk away or deal with them in a manner that prevents my having to contend with issues that in the past would have dogged me.

However there are moments when you can see flashes of the guy I used to be and sometimes people are surprised because even though it is infrequent there are flashes of that temper.

Typically if it manifests itself now it is because I am frustrated at the lack of understanding/response to a given subject. And if you catch me/confront me during these moments you may find that I am not real receptive to a quiet conversation. You may find that there is fire coming out of my nose but I have walked away so as to maintain a civil tongue.

If you choose to try and engage me during one of these moments consider yourself warned in advance that I may try to skin you alive and will eat you uncooked or charbroiled.

The Sound of Music Sucks

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As usual The Shmata Queen’s questionable taste has led to a disagreement about the value of The Sound of Music in the modern world. In short I think that if film could be used in a similar fashion to newspaper there would be great value in wrapping fish in The Sound of Music or constructing hats out of said material.

Certainly it would make a great liner for a bird cage or do quite well as a tool to help housebreak a dog. Zookeepers would find it to be useful in cleaning up after the rhinos, hippos and elephants and mechanics would be pleased to wipe the grease off of their hands onto their Sound of Music film paper.

Sadly there is no such way to use it and the world is a lesser place. It is Mary Poppins without the pop and I would be happy to have seen the Von Trapps get trapped in a small room without windows than to have been forced to listen to such warbling and yodeling.

Blame this distaste for the movie upon my three younger sisters who used this movie the way some people require kleenex or toilet paper. Feh, phooey and blech to this drek.

It Is Only Water

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He was standing there with a look of surprise on his face, or should I say he was crouching next to my hose. A teenage boy, at best in his early 20s was using my hose to fill up a water bottle.

Perhaps it is more appropriate to say that we were both surprised. I had walked outside because I was preparing to leave to pick up my dinner and I am certain that he never expected to encounter anyone.

For a moment I was silent as I tried to assess the situation. He spoke first by saying that it was only water, but there was something about his manner that bothered me. I said that it was more than just water. I pay for that water. It is not free, it comes from my pocket. I know that I had a harsh look on my face and an edge in my tone.

I told him to turn off my hose and stand up. As he did so I confronted him, peppering him with questions.

“Why didn’t you knock on the door and ask, do you need money, what makes you think that you can just take it?”

And in return he said that he was sorry, but it was just water. The lack of sincerity in his voice further incited me. I noticed that he was heading to a car parked across the street. It had three or four people inside it and as he walked I told him to get in the car and leave.

He mumbled something at me and kept walking. I stood and stared while he flagged down cars to ask for assistance with his vehicle. Apparently it was stalled on my street and for a moment I considered walking over to offer him some water, but I just couldn’t do it.

He was willing to stop cars to ask for help so I wondered about why he couldn’t have knocked on the door and asked for help or at least permission to use my hose. It took me a moment to realize the source of my anger. It stems back to the incident at Target when my son shouted “Daddy, they have mommy’s purse.”

The more I thought about it the more that I realized that I felt violated again and though it might seem trivial, some of the anger/frustration comes from the first incident. To him it may have “just been water” but to me it was something more.

I was angry. It bothered me that he was willing to flag down cars in the street to ask for help but that he was unwilling to do the right thing and knock on my door and ask for permission to use my hose. For a moment I wanted to stop him in his tracks to get some clarification on this but it wasn’t going to happen.

He wasn’t going to allow himself to look any more foolish in front of his friends and I wasn’t going to engage in further dialogue because I really did want to let it all blow over because I didn’t want to make the situation worse.

What I mean by that is that I had to be concerned about what this kid might do to my home later. It is a sad statement, but the reality is that I had to consider whether he would choose to come back and vandalize my home in some manner.

In the time that has elapsed nothing has happened so I am cautiously optimistic that this is nothing more than a story, but I admit to being disturbed that I had to worry about any of this.

Picking on The Shmata Queen

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I am going to pick on The Shmata Queen for a moment. We all know that she has questionable taste in music, an unexplicable fascination with dying cities and a strange obsession with monkeys but she is also under the misguided belief that she is a poor writer.

You really do not have to be able to write like Hemingway or Dickens to be considered a good writer. Within the blogosphere there are a thousand examples of very poor writers and a paltry number of excellent. The place that lies in between is occupied by millions of bloggers of varying degrees of ability.

I would say that the queen is a solid writer and does a fine job of expressing herself. She has her own style and a clear tone of voice.

Her biggest problem is her failure to recognize that so many writers dislike their own work. I look at most of my posts and shudder because I think that they are quite bad. There really are very few that I think are remotely close to being good.

Writing requires practice and like anything if you put in some time you will see the results of your efforts. So keep it up Shmata Queen and you will be rewarded with a nice banana.

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Saying goodbye and Odds and Ends

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I drove out to G’s place in Simi Valley and as I rode along the 118 freeway I stared at the hills and remembered. I am choosing not to share these thoughts here with you, not today and perhaps not ever, but I mention it because the hills drove me.

The outdoors drives me in a way that I cannot express. I am touched by nature in a way that stimulates the most amazing feeling. There are times in which I have climbed the hills and stretched out upon the rock and bathed in the sunlight. I have lain there and felt the song of the earth and known without a doubt that I am a part of it all.

I have stared at the moon in the Judean Desert, the Sierras, the Georgian Bay, Ensenada, New York, San Francisco, Las Vegas, Phoenix and so many other places and each time I marveled at the thought that somewhere far away from me yet so close there was someone else sharing the moon.

Many years ago beneath a spotless Yosemite sky I had one of the more intimate moments of my life. I shared a hug with a girl. It was spontaneous and nothing more than a hug, but it was a moment that we both remember, at least I do and I suspect so does she. I don’t remember her name or where she was from and I never saw her again, but it was something special. But it wasn’t because of her or I, it was the moon and the sky.

It was a the crispness of the night, the feeling of silence and the knowledge that there was so much life in the woods that if we could actually hear the heartbeats of those around us we would be deafened.

Once while walking to the Kotel on a Friday night I was overcome with emotion. I was in the Jewish Quarter and quickly approaching the plaza when I heard a buzz that became a roar. It was the sound of hundred of thousands of prayers and it made me stop in my tracks. I fought to compose myself because the realization of what I was hearing paralyzed me. For a moment I felt like a grain of sand on the beach and I wondered if my voice could possibly be heard.

There are other moments like this that stop time and imprint themselves upon me. I have modest skills at expressing my thoughts and feelings but times like this are beyond me. These moments strike me, stab me and fill me with something amazing.

Yesterday my daughter and I had a moment like that. She toddled over to my side and raised her hands, a plaintive expression begging me to pick her up. I kissed her foreheard and stroked her hair. “

“Little one, you are tired, rest your kepie on my shoulder and I promise to keep you safe.”

She smiled and lay her head down upon me and slept and for a brief moment time stood still. There was so much love inside me that I knew that it was an effort not to cry.

Soon, very soon I shall need to go and recharge my batteries in some of my favorite haunts. The time is coming where I will be forced to go and wander because I am he who cannot hold still. The wanderlust comes upon me and I am compelled to follow it. I am an insider and and outsider.

If you forgive the Tolkienesque approach I think that my doom is to be perpetually restless. I can feel settled for short periods of time but then the feelings come and answer them I must.