Ars Gratia Artis

I'm no longer allowed into certain movie theaters. No, not because I talk nor use my cell phone during the features, but because of what I do afterward. First, when I enter the theater, I sit in a seat at the aisle on the end of a row but in the darkest section; then I wait. The moment the last scene of the film fades, the final credits start rolling. At that moment, it's still dark for a few seconds in the seats. So I stick my foot into the aisle, and watch as a half-dozen or so patrons trip and tumble atop each other, then I quickly try to hide. If I'm still covered by some darkness, I cry out at that point, "You idiots! Look at the damn screen!" Movie-goers are so American: controlled by impatience and convenience, they have to rush out the theater and into their parked cars and onto their cell phones---just to find themselves in a traffic jam.

Look what they miss by ignoring the ending credits: The credits name those who made the film. We can begin learning a bit about their careers and talents. "Hey, so-and-so was the cinematographer for this movie. Wasn't he the one for that other movie I saw? No wonder this film had those odd-angle shots---that's his pattern. Ah, so-and-so was the director; now I see a particular theme running through the three or four movies of his I've seen. Hmm, interesting---guys of Eastern-European background, e.g., seem to excel in cinematography. I wonder if that has anything to do with the so-called melancholic spirit of their Eastern Christianity?" Where a movie is made is interesting for sociological and economic reasons. Many a movie I thought was filmed in a certain place because it was set there turned out to be made elsewhere. Learn the names of minor actors who in the near future often become major ones. "Hey, I remember that dude in his earlier flick, such-and-such." Ah, the music. Almost every movie ends with an interesting song which not only summarizes the film just shown, giving it additional meaning, but somtimes played for the first time for the public at this credits time, and, bingo, I've heard it before it reaches others on the radio. I grit my teeth and clinched my seat the other day at my latest theater adventure, seeing, er, "Nights in Rodanthe" (yes, the Old Doc has a soft side), as the most romantically sad and new song played during the closing credits---"In Rodanthe" by Emmy Lou Harris---and all the klutzes around me were walking out the theater babbling as if nothing more artistic was being presented to them. And so forth. Finally, now and then a movie's final credits and music have ground to a halt, I unbuckle my seat belt, scoop up to eat whatever popcorn the idiots next to me spilled to the floor, rise from my seat, and, lo, another scene unexpectedly appears on the screen, one which either adds addtional insight to what just played, or one which signals that a sequence to this movie is in the works---and my fellow theater patrons, who are by now sitting in their traffic jam, have missed this.

Well, I just hope that my closet of movie-going disguises doesn't deplete soon---the fall season of new, adult-theme movies is upon us. I wonder if Roger Ebert ever did this?

-Old Doc

Le Crieur

"What's wrong?" the little woman frequently asks me. "Nothing," I reply, "why do you ask?" "Because you moaned again, that's why," she says. "Oh, that," I answer, "you gotta remember, I'm half-French." It was characteristic among French-Canadian Americans, especially the older ones, to release moans/groan/sighs several times a day. When I was a kid, the assistant pastor in my home church was directly from Quebec. When he would be sitting in the confessional and even while celebrating Mass, he would emit loud moans over and over. His fellow French-Americans were accustomed to that, and "les Americains" (the non-French ones) simply had to become accustomed to him. In Cajun-French-American folk music, most of the songs, whether slow walzes or fast two-steps, have sad stories. Thus it's preferred that the male lead singer of those songs have a high-pitch voice which more easily carries the feel not only of the sad words but also his accompanying, frequent moans---hence he is called "le crieur" ("the cryer"). So when Joanie complains about my sighs, I just tell her that I'm an unappreciated musical talent who should be on "American Idol." She tells me to go skin a Canadian moose.

-Old Doc

Hey, Coach

Every man remains strongly influenced by the athletic coaches of his youth. For me, they were Coach Marty and Coach Randall. The former was my high-school football assistant coach, a nice, decent guy. All of my classmates liked him---the girls because of his young-Tony Curtis looks and the guys because of his beautiful, model-like blonde wife who would visit his classroom now and then. Marty didn't know much about the French and the history he tried to teach us; it didn't matter. The latter, Coach Randall, was my Little League baseball head coach, a six-foot-four lanky guy, fair to all, always encouraging in his remarks, and as smart as a whip. A few years ago, the little woman and I drove to my home town to visit my two mentors. Marty we found in his nice home, cheerful with that twinkle in his eye he always had, and his wife still a looker. Randall we found having had to sell his spacious house, and having moved back into the very old, deteriorated, original family house. Coach answered the door looking morose and unkept; his wife was unwilling to talk to visitors; the house was dark. Their beloved adult daughter, Randall told us, had committed suicide just a couple of months before. And so it is with life in general---it comes with joys and sorrows, and we can't foresee which ones the future will bring. Meanwhile, all we can do is prepare our children or our students or the kids on our sports teams for the big game of life itself. Take care, Coaches.

-Old Doc

Language 2: The Two M's

I can't watch t.v. anymore. No, not that there's nothing good on it, as some people claim. It's simply that I can no longer see the screen. Why not? Because it's covered with old mayo, smeared tomato, etc. Why? Because of all my supper sandwiches I threw against the screen. Why? Because of the continued misuse by almost everyone, including professional broadcasters, of the words, "may" and "might." It's so simple: "may" states permission, "might" states possibility. But "might" is almost never heard anymore today---it's all "may." So when I'm watching the evening news while eating my supper, and the educated, well-tailored announcer says, "The legislature today said it may raise taxes next year," my head hits the roof with anger, and my sandwich hits the screen. "For heaven's sake, calm down," says the little woman, "they only MAY raise our taxes." "Oh, you and the announcer mean that the legislature MIGHT raise our taxes, little woman?" I reply. "Yes, that's what we said, our taxes may rise." "No, that's not what was said," I retort, "it was just announced that the legislature gave its PERMISSION---"may"---for our taxes to rise, which is different from saying that they MIGHT and thus MIGHT NOT rise next year."

And so it goes with many other topics. For a
linguistic purist, it becomes utterly frustrating as to exactly what is meant by the speaker or sign when only "may" is used. Imagine the linguistically sensitive captain in his silo manning the nuclear missal, and hearing his superior say, "Some intrusion into our North American airspace reported just now. Just heard from the general that we may have to fire our missile in ten minutes." "Oh, Lord, God help me," the captain thinks to himself as he proceeds setting the proper switches to launch his nuclear missile in exactly ten minutes. Now, THAT "may" give the t.v. announcer some really important news to report.

-Old Doc

Sounds Like: White Cliffs of . . .

No one, I mean no one, at a public information booth at a mall, a park, etc. ever knows the capital of Delaware when I ask him or her. What are we paying these people for?

-Old Doc

The Snowball Man

No air conditioning when I was a kid. We'd spend many summer hours outside in the sun and heat. So when the snowball man would be heard clanging his little bell while walking and pushing his cart down our dirt road, we'd go crazy with anticipation. We never knew his name; he was old and skinny and had bad teeth. Give him a nickel or quarter, name your choice of "poison" (from among the bright red, purple, orange, yellow, green bottles of juice flavoring lined up in his cart), and watch him begin shaving the giant chunk of ice to make your snowball. But he wasn't friendly, and a couple times he tried to cheat my older brother and me with our change. One day, Mike had enough. After snowball man gave Mike his snowcone, and turned his back to begin shaving another one, Mike suddenly dumped his snowcone down the back of the old man's pants. Not wanting to leave his precious cart unattended while jumping around trying to clear his pants, the man simply began push-running away with it while yelping from his unattended cold bottom. The snowball man never came down our street again. Mike liked grape, I liked cherry.

-Old Doc

Please Don't Take Me

Okay, I'll admit it: I've seen 'em. It was a cold, pre-dawn winter morning, and I was a boy delivering newspapers on my bicycle. My delivery area was the northwest quadrant of town, and I had reached the last residential street there. As I was moving to the west, I glanced at the woods and the horizon to my right. "Oh, a Christmas tree," I said to myself, "it wasn't there yesterday. Somebody's lucky." A Christmas tree isn't a decorated festive fir but an oil well whose lights placed up and down its edges make it look in the dark like the outline of a real yuletide tree. The lights numbered only three, though---round, white, and bright and in a triangle arrangement.

My bike and I rolled two or three more blocks to the west, then turned a block south. It was then that my eyes were drawn upward. They were not that far away---difficult to judge, but I approximated two football fields high---three round, white, bright lights moving right to left in a straight line. Not a sound came from them in the quietness of the chilly air, even though they were not farther away than, say, a distant helicopter. Despite their fair proximity, they were not moving fast, and they emitted no sound. One trailed the other, as the first one passed just above the star in the far background and the other two passed just under it. "Hey, wait a minute!" the thought hit me, "these lights look familiar. I glanced back east and toward the horizon. The Christmas trees lights, which looked exactly like the ones now above me, were gone from the horizon. Hmm, these three lights overhead had moved very quickly to where they were now. The lights continued to move slowly and noiselessly toward the north, gradually disappearing into the pre-dawn fuzziness.

My two local newspapers of the following day did not report any such lights. My parents' call to my uncle, a scientist who worked with climate and agriculture in the area, yielded no report of any weather balloon nor pre-Sputnik aircraft in the sky. Did I see U.F.O.s? Surely. Flying saucers? No way to tell---they simply were "unidentified flying objects." Nothing otherwise unusual happened---unless I count the fact that for the next two weeks my entire bike faintly glowed in the dark. Hey, Greenies, thanks for the safety aid! That's my story, and I'm sticking with it.

-Old Doc

Gunned on the Runway

I find myself liking the current television program, "Project Runway." Why? I don't think I have the slightest idea; I'm not young, never liked sewing nor fashion, and don't have any sense of style (my neckties are at least twenty years old). Well, it is fun watching these eccentric and sometimes egotistical personalities compete, and eventually create some imaginative designs. Tim Gunn irks me, though. For someone such as I, who rarely says "please" or "thank you," Gunn's constant and impeccable manners drive me up the wall. Two days ago, I bought myself some fabric and a small sewing machine for the corner of my office. Oh, Lord.

-Old Doc

Go to Hell

I hate snakes; I fear snakes. All you have to do is tell me that hell is a huge snakepit for all eternity, and, bam!, I immediately quit my gambling, dancing, cursing, cardplaying, drinking, and generally loose living. Preachers in the pulpit should wear giant snake costumes.

-Old Doc

Did I Turn Off the Stove?

I wish I could live three months of every year, corresponding with each season, in four different cities in North America (don't wanna go too far from my beloved Burger Kings). If so, I think I'd choose summer in Montreal (with its environs of French Quebec), autumn in Boston (with its New England countryside environs), winter in New Orleans (with its Cajun and Southern environs), and spring in San Francisco (with its Portland to Vancouver environs). I'd stay away from Cleveland.

-Old Doc

This Mickey Ain't No Mouse

He's not an A-list actor, but he's been one of my favorites for a long time: Mickey Rourke. From "9 1/2 Weeks" and "Bar Fly" to the recent "Sin City," Mickey has been a fine character. A few years ago, Mickey semi-retired from the screen in order to pursue his childhood interest, pro boxing. Although skinny and middle-aged, he beefed up, fought and won a batch of pro fights as a lightheavyweight. He retired from that, returned to acting in small roles, and is back in a big way starring in the current flick, "The Wrestler." He plays an over-the-hill pro grappler, and talk among critics of an Oscar nomination for him has begun. Hell, if Mickey did it, so can I. I've begun intensive physical training, and expect to have my first boxing match this spring. Besides inspiration from him to do some fighting, he's inspiring me to do some acting. So in the ring I'll just be pretending to know what I'm doing. Wish me and Mickey luck this spring.

-Old Doc

End of a Marriage

Ever notice how similar an auto-repair shop is to a hospital? You bring in your "patient" to the "emergency room" where it's diagnosed by the "attending physician." He consults with his colleagues (all Board certified, of course), and goes to work on your patient. Your car has its brain (electronic
computer system) repaired, or its blood (oil) transfused, or its feet (tires) cushioned, etc. Afterward, he usually gives you some medicine and advice for the patient's continued care. Then you're presented the bill, and you hope that your Blue Cross will cover it. I think that the next time Joanie needs medical treatment, I'll take her directly to the Goodyear Shop.

-Old Doc

Twice Blessed

Omaha is an unusual cite for a world heavyweight championship fight. Nonetheless, then-champion Joe Frazier agreed to it because his challenger, Ron Stander, was from across the river in Iowa. I was in the city visiting my brother, so we took my young son to the place where Stander was training a couple of days before the fight. To our surprise, his training site was the grimey basement of a small bar in the rough part of town, and only a dozen observers were on hand. Then we heard that Frazier was holding court and signing autographs at the main mall, so off we went. We entered the mall lobby to find Frazier seated at a table but with a crowd of a few hundred and some thirty persons deep surrounding him. Luckily my son was seated atop my shoulders, because the champion was able easily to spot him. "Let that kid through," Joe told his bodyguards, and they began pushing the fans aside to allow me, son, and brother to approach Joe's table where he promptly signed his autograph, then patted son on his head. "Wish me luck, kid," Frazier said. "Good luck, I replied." "Not YOU, you idiot," a bodyguard whispered to me.

It was Cleveland a time later. Then-champion Mohammed Ali was in town to defend his world title against Chuck Wepner of Newark. I took my same son to the arena, where the local pro-basketball team plays, to watch Ali work out. When he finished sparring, the bystanders gathered near the ring steps to watch the champ descend. Ali's trainer-counselor, Bounini (the creator of Mohammed's famous "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!"), began pushing the fans aside. But when he saw my son, he had Ali stop beside him so that the champ could pat son on his head.

So does my son today like boxing? No. And he disdains the new middle name which I legally added to his birth certificate: Mohammed-Joe.

-Old Doc

Bonnie and Clyde

When I was in first grade, our once-a-month volunteer art teacher, a young woman in her 20s, gave us a lesson. When she stopped at my desk to view my drawing, she criticized the sharp-point tops I had drawn on my mountains and pine trees. It burned me to be forced by her to erase the tops, and to draw gentle-slope ones instead. "This is MY drawing," I thought to myself, "what gives her the right to change it?" The lesson stopped with the end of the school day. I began walking home, and when I reached the street corner, suddenly I heard a police-whistle blow. It was the art teacher's husband, who was volunteering as the crosswalk guard! He said I was jaywalking, and ordered me to write 50 or so punishment lines for my regular teacher for the next morning. "I've been crossing this way for weeks," I thought to myself, "who's this newcomer to tell me where to walk?" From that day on, whenever I doodle at a meeting or a lecture, I repeatedly draw mountains and pine trees with sharp-point tops in heavy lines; I deliberately drive five or so miles per hour beyond the speed limit past school-crossing guards; and I avoid as much as possible 20-something-year-old married couples.

-Old Doc

Oh, You Great, Big Beautiful Doll

My mail-ordered Sarah Palin doll arrived today. (Remember, I think she's as cute as a button.) I wound the small doll, then disappointedly watched as it simply made right-turn circles over and over, while its recorded voice kept saying, "I see Russia! I see Russia!" I placed her in my northern-exposure garden to keep the cats out. She's still there.

-Old Doc

Fall into Place

Summer has come to an end. No more R.C.'s and Moon Pies for me.

-Old Doc

Old Shoes for Baby

All these years I didn't know that auto tires which are older than five years, despite their new appearance, present a serious danger while driving. I shudder to think how many times I might've endangered my family by driving with "new" tires which were five to ten years old. Recently I finally retired Smokey, my '75 Delta 88 Oldsmobile. Like me, she just couldn't go anymore. I have her up on blocks in my backyard. I felt sorry for her, and wanted to reward her for all the transportation she did for me. I bought and mounted four ten-year-old tires on her.

-Old Doc

Language 1: The Lowly Hyphen

A few years ago, before the popularity of digital photography, I was searching for a photo shop in the mall. The professionally made sign in the shop's caught my eye: "60 Minute Photos $5." "Nice," I said to myself. "I read your sign. I'd like to see the photos, please," I told the young clerk. "Which photos, sir?" she replied. "The 60 photos," I replied. "You have 60 photos you want to develop?" she asked. "No, I want to look at the 60 photos, the 60 small photos you mention in your window sign," I said. "Er, you have 60 small photos? You have them with you?" she responded. "No, miss, I don't have any pictures with me. I want to see the 60 small photos for $5, which you're advertising," I said with more earnestness.

Now she felt bothered: "What small photos?" I grit my teeth: "The 60 miNUTE photos right here in your sign!" She quickly answered, "Oh, no, the sign says we'll process photos in 60 MINutes---one hour---for $5. You can leave your film here, and return for it in an hour." Arrggh! "No, your sign doesn't say that," I angrily retorted, "It says 60 miNUTE photos for $5! If it meant processing done in 60 MINutes it would have a hyphen between '60' and 'minute'!" Now, this is something you apparently do not explain to a younger person raised in the linguistic looseness of the past couple of decades. "Oh, whatever!" was her reaction as I grabbed her pen, and quickly added a hyphen where it belonged on the sign.

Later in the evening, I drove to an office-supplies store. As I was entering it, I noticed that the closed restaurant next door had a small drive-through on its side and a large sign on the window there reading "Take Out Window." Still seething with anger from the photo shop earlier in the day, I
did exactly that: I found a rock in the parking lot, threw it through that window, then went about my business in the office-supplies store. Two days later, I had to return to that store the item I bought. At that moment, I glanced at the restaurant next door. Its window had been repaired, and the sign on it now read, "Take-Out Window." I slept better that night.

-Old Doc

Cheap Gold

It always seemed to me that for an activity to be called a sport and not merely a recreation, it should significantly engage one's body with at least two or three of these four "s" characteristics: skill, strength, speed, stamina. Is, for example, auto racing a sport? It certainly requires skill and, I guess, if the race is long enough, stamina; but serious strength is not involved, and speed is the property of the car, not the driver. Maybe a winner's prize should be given strictly to the car---maybe give it a new coat of paint. Is golf a sport? Again, much skill is needed, but where are the substantial strength, speed, or stamina? Stamina is found in the caddie's back and in the golf cart's battery. Maybe this is why older men can stil play this "sport." And what's with archery and rifle shooting at the Olympics? Skill, period. I haven't seen the badminton games, but I don't think I want to. I think I'd be embarrassed to be awarded a gold medal for archery, stationary rifle shooting, or badminton.

-Old Doc

InVinceabull

My friend, Vince, is a Northerner who naturally thinks that Southerners are culturally backward. Yeah, well, let's see YOU expand your speaking parameter by giving single or even double elongation to your vowels, Vince.

-Old Doc

Grandma's Revenge

My brother and I loved Grandma, but we used to taunt her. Oh sure, we'd play cards with her---she spoke no English, so we'd play the simple "Battle," or "War"---and we helped her bake cakes. But we'd alternate that with taunting her, raiding her refrigerator when she wasn't looking, taunting her again, removing her towels hanging on the backyard clothesline and hiding them, etc. I was still a young boy when she died. In front of her casket at the funeral home, I knelt to view her body and to pray. A few moments later, a relative seated behind me shifted position on the leather couch, causing a crankling sound which I immediately interpreted as Grandma moving in her casket. I froze in absolute terror! Grandmothers and death are mysterious.

-Old Doc

Aunts and Uncles

For pets, most people have a dog or a cat, some have a bird, and a few have an art farm. An art farm---how unusual---no barking, no biting, no scratching, no chasing, no chatter, no mess. Just watch the hundreds or thousands of ants silently going about their task of building this, building that---like tireless, non-government engineers. I guess the owner could become emotionally attached to particular arts in the colony. I think that tomorrow I'll buy myself an art farm. Let's see . . . Ffwwweeet! Here, Fido, Rex, Oscar, Waldo, Ruthie, Marduk, Bob, Hazel, Dopey, Winston, Freddie, Jezebel, Clyde, Elmer . . .

-Old Doc

Old Crow's Car

It was spring semester of my freshman year in high school in our small rural town many years ago. Billy ("Old Crow" to his fellow students) was a senior and one of the few boys in school to own a car; his was a box-shaped '49 Ford. The natives were restless, and it seemed a spur-of-the-moment thing to do. Many of us boys began removing all the seats, except the driver's, from Crow's car. Then we piled both into and onto the sagging vehicle, packing it like sardines in the manner in which college students use to pack themselves into phone booths. Boys lying intertwined on the hood, on the square trunk, on the roof---boys mashed into the empty inside of the vehicle. I was planted in the front seatless "seat" right next to the driver, Crow himself; my brother, Mike, was somewhere on the back floor. Crow made his move to fire up his bomb, grinding his elbow into me as he had to manipulate the floor-planted shift. Twenty-nine high-school boys stuffed inside and outside this one small car! It chugged as Crow drove it oh so slowly around the corner, all the boys screaming for air and from crushed ribs, and right to the town's newspaper office. One quick picture by the photographer, and we made a world's record! Old Crow, you da man!

-Old Doc

A Priest, a Minister, and a Rabbi

. . . simultaneously enter a bar. Upon seeing them, the bartender says, "Hey, what's this, some kind of joke?"

-Old Doc

Little Green Men and a Woman

What a treat! I caught them on public television the other night, their concert from Dublin: a group of five young, Irish and Scottish men called Celtic Thunder. They sang traditional Irish and Scottish songs and contemporary pop songs individually and collectively, backed by a large orchestra---classy and entertaining. They will appear soon in Boston; watch for them.

One of the best traditional Irish tunes I've ever heard is "Marble Halls" by Enya. Its dreamy melody and romantically sad lyrics transport me to King Arthur days. Arthur himself would have been enchanted by the song and by Enya. I think I now know why Enya doesn't use her last name in public. It's Face.

-Old Doc

Raphael's Friend

I never liked John Wayne, thought he was not much of an actor. He was famous, though. My friend, whose middle name is Raphael, worships Wayne; he has many Wayne pictures and figurines in his house. However, Raphael doesn't ride horses, and refuses to wear ten-gallon hats. Way to go, pilgrim.

-Old Doc

Caution

Whoa! What are you doing here? How did you get this far into my mind, when even I don't know yet what the topic of this blog entry will be? Kindly leave now, so that I can think. Thanks. And don't touch anything.

-Old Doc

Saint Pip

We called him Mister Pip. No one knew his real name. "Pip" was the corrupted French for "pipe," and because he always had his pipe in mouth or hand, and because he was thought to have come from French Quebec, that's what we called him. Mister Pip was what years ago was known as the "village idiot." In our small rural town, he stood out; we was short, had dark but graying hair and a little top hat and large suspenders, and never spoke---kind of a merger of Charlie Chaplin, Peewee Herman and Marcel Marceau. Even though he was mentally slow, he certainly could take care of himself. In fact, he was downright delightful. He would walk main street smiling, always smiling, and waving to folks. But Mister Pip's favorite venue was the downtown movie theater. Not a single showing day or night would he miss. He loved standing in line for tickets with the dozens of movie-hungry kids or adults, because that's where he could be the center of attention. He would perform what seemed to us children to be dazzling magic with his pipe, hat, and lightning-fast hands. He liked to coax a nickel from a kid, as he then would somehow transform it into a quarter as a gift to the wide-eyed youngster. Popcorn and candy he would buy, and freely give them to others. One time, he persuaded me and my brother to do a little jig with him, which merited each of us a quarter from him. Adult women and elderly men he would help from their cars and up and down the steps into the theater. He was never known to have angered nor acted improperly toward anyone. In short, all adults and children in town loved their Mister Pip, and looked forward to being with him on the streets and at the movie house.

One day, Mister Pip no longer appeared in the ticket lines or elsewhere. You can imagine how the townspeople then reacted. No one called for moments of pause in the ticket line to remember him. No one asked for any kind of report on his whereabouts or possible death. No one mentioned naming, say, the popcorn stand after him. No kids drew commemorative pictures of him. No mention of him was made in the church announcements.

God bless you, Mister Pip, wherever you are!

-Old Doc

(Eyes,) Ears, (Nose,) and Throat

I neither send nor receive text messages. I rarely use my cell phone; I don't even know its number. I don't know how to carry bottled water on my person. On the other hand and only in the last few years, my students did and still do constantly use these objects. However, research shows that in the entire 200-year history of public and private, elementary-to-college education in America, not a single student ever died of dehydration in or between classes. Research shows too an alarming and growing number of automobile accidents and even ambulatory accidents (walking into posts or doors) among young people because of distractions due to cell-phone use. All of this we simply don't need today. I wish I could text-message THIS message to the students. But I don't know how to do so; and, of course, no one calls me. Please call me. My cell-phone number is . . . just a moment . . . is 337-462-9299 (337-GO-AWAYY).


Two minutes have elapsed. You still haven't called.

-Old Doc

Harvey

Every morning for the past week or so, I've seen a large brown rabbit in my front yard. It just sits there motionless and staring at me for a couple of minutes, then it darts away. Strange. I've got to think, got to think! Do I know this rabbit?

-Old Doc

By Author or by Title?

The stock market baffles me; I've never understood it. Where is the safest place to put what little money I have? Probably not under my mattress, not in my freezer, not in my shoebox---burglars know where to look. Maybe on my bookshelf and stuffed into two or three books---books on the stock market.

-Old Doc

What a Beautiful Sunset (I Think)

The answer often depends on how the question is phrased, doesn't it? Instead of asking one of my girl students, "Do you think that, because of the periodic changes in the world's climate, the sun has risen in the west at least a couple of times in past ages?," I asked her, "Do you think the sun rises in the west every 20 years or so or every 4, 457 years?" She answered, "Every 4,457 years," because, I assume, that would mean that she wouldn't have to worry too soon after graduation about the implications of the sun's action. I liked isolating the airheads in the classroom. They thought I was picking on them. Ancient people worshipped the sun.

-Old Doc

Letters (Blogs?) from a Nut

Author Ted Nancy had a bestseller in 1997, "Letters from a Nut" (Avon Press). His book was a collection of about 100 letters which he had written to, and replies from, various hotels, museums, restaurants, product makers, etc. in America. In each letter he wrote, he tried to seem as sincere as possible as he asked the particular recipient---say, a hotel manager---if he could have a room reserved, and be allowed to bring his private, giant mattress into his room; or to, say, a bus company, if he could ride the bus crosscountry while fully dressed in a red-shrimp costume. Many businesses took the bait, and sent Nancy their own sincere (and thus hilarious) replies, going out of their way to make sure that they would not lose a potential customer. Well, ten years have passed, and it was time for someone else---in this case, I---to do the same thing, albeit it on a much-reduced scale. But the two-dozen similar letters I mailed to businesses didn't net one single reply. Are hotel clerks, restaurant managers, etc. that much more sophisticated these days? Was "Letters from a Nut" now included in their training programs? Did my scrawled signature on my letters look roughly like Ted Nancy's? I don't know. I do know I've missed out on any complimentary coupons, the kind of which Nancy received from some of them.

Speaking of letters: Over the years, I've written a few hundred professional, business, or personal letters to other professionals. Guess which category or profession has been outstanding for not even acknowledging my initial letter? No, not physicians, as busy as they are. No, not college professors, as arrogant as they might be. Catholic clergymen---not Protestant nor otherwise. Go figure. Maybe Catholic clergymen can most readily detect deviousness.

-Old Doc

What Time Is It?

It's a truism, I know, but it bugs me, and I wish I had the philosophical ability to work out its implications. It's this: whenever a person is alive, he or she is alive in the present, never the past nor the future. One implication, I suppose, is: if a person continues to be alive in a self-conscious state after physical death, this means that he is alive in the present---certainly at least his present and, it would seem, the same present as not only all the dead but also all the living on Earth. In this sense, therefore, only the present---not the past nor the future---exists for self-conscious creatures. I wish my wristwatch had Arabic, and not Roman, numerals.

-Old Doc

Thanks

Hey, you! Yes, you, the current reader. Please adjust your screen a little to the left; it helps the blog process. Thanks.

-Old Doc

Got a Light?

I like the new cable-t.v. program, "Mad Men"; I hope it wins an Emmy. I'm not sure why I like it so much---could be the memorable old cars which appear on its street scenes. (Er, one moment, please. . . . What, Joan? No, no---after you finish the dishes, iron my four long-sleeve shirts. What? Yes, add it---starch never hurt anything. And I have envelopes for you to stamp, and to take to the post office.) Okay, I'm back. Or it could be the catchy t.v.-commercial jingles. And I used to smoke. Go, "Mad Men"!

-Old Doc

College of Blue Jays

Almost 300 million people in the U.S., and the best we can offer as President are the relatively inexperienced Barack Obama, the computer-ignorant John McCain, the unknown but strongly liked Libertarian candidate, and the well known but strongly disliked Ralph Nader? Jeez! Why do we saddle candidates with such burdens so comsumptive of time, money, and energy as they spend at least two years running for this office, and saddle the public with their endless speeches and preoccupation with their personality quirks? Then the whole nonsense is repeated two years later.

Let's change the system of presidential election. Let's copy the College of Cardinals of the Catholic Church, who elect the Pope. A couple of weeks before the current President's term expires, place our 100 U.S. senators under lock and key; after all, they are our elected officials; their favorite lobbyists could pay for their food, etc. Tell them that only the following are eligible for President: only those who have served at least four years as a Vice President, U.S. senator, U.S. representative, U.S. Supreme Court justice, secretary (head) of a U.S. Cabinet, or governor of a state. In the first round of secret voting, each senator would vote for the one person of his or her choice. Then the top, say, ten choices of the Senate would be named, and become eligible for the secret second round---successively until one candidate acquired 75% of the total votes. The newly elected President would serve for six years without eligibility to succeed him- or herself. If some senators during this sequestered election process fell ill, or became temporarily insane, or wheeled and dealed and bribed, or murdered a colleague, etc.---in ways which sometimes happened in papal elections---then so be it. After all, the Presidency is at stake; and the public wouldn't be bothered every two years. I made a D in high-school civics.

-Old Doc

Birdbrain

I'm confused. I don't like wall pictures of animals or birds, but I have a strong like of birds themselves. Indeed, for many years I've kept one or two in succession as prisoners in a cage in my house. These parakeets or cockatiels have gone by the names of Tigleth Pilesser III, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, St. Anthony the Hermit, etc. Oh, I've lost bits of two fingers to them, but after going a week without food and water, they learned to relax. And I'm a fanatic feeder of wild birds. It's kind of a spiritual exercise for me, reminding me of the gospel verses, "Look at the lilies of the field . . . the birds of the air . . . Your heavenly Father takes care of them . . . [see in them] the presence of the Father's kingdom, and seek it." So, as I engage in providential care of the birds of the air and the yard, I see my very pale attempt to duplicate God's providential care of me. The neighborhood kids wait for me to go the outdoor feeders in my yard, then they taunt me, "Look at the crazy birdbrain! Look at the crazy birdbrain!" But what do they know? They, like most people, prefer dogs (see my blog entry, "Dogfight"). Well, I do admit that "dog" spelled backward is "god" ("God"). What is the theological sigificance of this? I don't know, but I can ponder it as I feed my birds, listen to the children's taunts, and hear their yapping dogs in the background.

Oh, one more thing. Please see that Joanie has inscribed on my tombstone: "Feed My Birds."

-Old Doc

Mea Culpla, Mea Maxima Culpa

When we were kids, my brother and I would ride his bike to the movie theater every week. I say "his bike," because I was a latecomer (foolish me) to learning the art of bicycle riding. So I would sit perched like a gargoyle (Lord, how embarrassing) atop his handlebar while he pedaled for the two of us. We'd prop his bike against the outside wall of the theater along with the dozens of other kids' bikes (no fancy bikestands nor locks in those days), and enter for the movie. One time, upon exiting the theater, we were shocked and angered to find that Mike's bike was missing from the pile of two-wheel vehicles. After we stood there for several minutes bemoaning our fate, a boy suddenly turned the corner of the nearby building, and headed toward the theater riding . . . Mike's bike. As soon as he stopped at the pile, my older brother grabbed him by the collar, and was about to reduce the number of his teeth with a punch while asking him, "Why the hell did you steal my bike?" "To go to church and confession," was the culprit's shakey reply. Lucky for the boy, Mike appreciated irony when he saw it.

-Old Doc

Blackboard Jungle

I miss my students. I indeed had one who, after patiently listening to thirty minutes of my boring lecture, raised his hand to ask, "Teacher, may I leave the room? My brain is full." Semester exams are around the corner, and I do have advice for today's students:

The more you study, the more you know.
The more you know, the more you forget.
The more you forget, the less you know.
The less you know, the less you forget.
The less you forget, the more you know.
So why study?

-Old Doc

The Kokonut

A few years ago, when the original style of chatrooms was popular on the Internet, I befriended a certain chatterer in a religion-talk room. Her colorful name, Koko, attracted me to her particular comments. I then introduced her not only to some contemporary theological trends but also to a few pop, country, or rock singers with whom she was unfamiliar--for example, Leonard Cohen, Mickey Newbury, and Jesse Winchester--and to some aspects of Southern culture. It turned out that she lived near Boston. A few years later, by the time she personally met me and my wife, Koko had already become a new vice president of the International Mickey Newbury Fan Club. I've benefitted not only from Koko's friendship but also from her secret weapon: a convent of nuns who live down the street from her house, who successfully pray for outsiders' requested needs, and who bake and mail out the most-tasty fresh bread and cakes. In short, she has been both delightful and crazy, a veritable Kokonut. I just wish she'd lose that indicipherable Boston accent.

-Old Doc

The Owl

I strongly like movies. In my list of all-time favorites is a small group of flicks which amaze me with their imaginative creativity. Two of those happen to have been written and directed by the clever, wide-eyed Owl--as he often is depicted in cartoons--Woody Allen. Allen's "Zelig" and "The Purple Rose of Cairo" involve magic with the silver screen. In "Zelig," the main character by the same name is inserted into famous political, military, or cultural scenes at different periods in history. These scenes are taken from real-life film clips or photographs, so Zelig uncannily seems to be a proper part of each scene. In "Purple Rose," the characters on the movie screen in a certain theater suddenly begin speaking live to the patrons watching from their rows of seats, amazingly step live from the screen and into the theater itself, then step back into the action of the movie.

When I was a small boy, my brother and I would, like all kids in those days, frequent the local movie theater every Saturday afternoon. Our teenage cousin, Rita, was one of the workers in the refreshments stand, and in the confusion of the crowd crushed against the stand, she would slip us extra or free popcorn and candy. It was a relaxing and fun time to spend the afternoon--until the moment would come, as it would now and then--that brother and I had to change seats. That would entail my having to walk in front of the very first row of seats right under the screen. I would tremble and shiver transversing that giant canvas with its blinding light, moving character figures, and booming voices. I wonder if similar childhood experiences later inspired the "Zelig" and the "Purple Rose" in the mind of the Owl.

-Old Doc

Five Brothers

What is more pleasant than the aroma of pipe smoke? What, you think it must be repugnant as cigarette smoke and especially cigar smoke? No, no--that's because you're probably a young 'un who hasn't smelled pipe smoke at all, because in turn we these days simply don't encounter it anymore. Let's face it: pipe smokers are as scarce as chimneysweeps. And, I suspect, you haven't met the Five Brothers.

Five Brothers was the favorite pipe-tobacco brand of old Uncle Lennert--in fact, his only brand. He was a merchant marine who would be briefly at home only every five or six weeks. I was a kid then, and he would give me money to walk a few blocks to the corner store to buy his beloved tobacco. After all, his fiery mouthpiece was constantly lit, and his stash of the brown leaves had to accumulate before his next departure for overseas. Lennert always would add a nickel for me to buy candy as my reward. I was just old enough to recognize the "5c" sign in the candy rack, but I wasn't certain if that meant the same as "one nickel." It did, of course, but each time I entered the store, I could ask for a pack of the tobacco, but I simply was too shy to ask the clerk-owner if those candies cost a nickel. So back to Uncle Lennert's I would go. He would be pleased, of course, to see his pack of Five Brothers, but would be baffled as to why I didn't want to buy any candy for myself.

It's tough being shy. The non-shy among us always think that the only thing the shy have to do is speak up or act confidently, and the shyness will disappear. It doesn't work that way. Ahh, shyness cost me many a sweet candy bar. I compensated by soaking in the sugary-tang aroma of Five Brothers. I never learned their names. And Uncle Lennert died of throat cancer.

-Old Doc

National Treasures

Like Bob Seger in his song, "Like a Rock," I've been moodily sitting by the fire, and "I recall." I remember the girls on whom I really had a crush: Katina in first (yes, first) grade; Bonnie in third grade; JoAnn, Cindy, Sharon, Katina, Clara, and Sandra in junior high and high school; Joanie in college. Say, you don't care, do you? Joanie does.

-Old Doc

Palin by Comparison

I'm confused. Is it wrong to vote for Sarah Palin (and John McCain) only because she's as cute as a button? Just how sacred is the sacred right to vote? I don't know. I have to admit that, beginning with the Presidential election of 1972 and continuing for the next few, this is what I did in the voting booth: Always surprised to find the list of Presidential candiates numbering about a dozen instead of the expected two, I'd become excited about the possibilities. The name of Gus Hall always caught my eye. Hall was the perennial ("perennial"? What is the word for "every four years"?) candidate for the U.S. Communist Party. I didn't care. I think his name subconsiously reminded me of Huntz Hall, the goofball member of the gang in the old "Bowery Boys" movie series; he played "Satch," and I always enjoyed him. So Gus Hall received my vote time after time. But Gus is gone. Will I now find myself voting for Palin? Does she subconsiously remind me of my fifth-grade classmate, Sharon, on whom I had a crush?

-Old Doc

Dogfight

I googled a friend to find his address. To my surprise, one site had him mentioned in a lawsuit of a few years ago. It seems he was cornered in his backyard by a vicious rottweiler from the neighborhood, and his wife had to call the police to rescue him. The dog escaped into the nearby yards causing damage to others, so my friend was not directly nor legally involved in the suit. "What an opportunity!" I thought to myself upon reading this, "A chance for 'man bites dog'!" Having myself been surprised and bitten five or six times by dogs when I was younger, I developed not only a dislike for the non-human species but also a fantasy in which I am cornered by such a growler. In response to Fido, I loudly bark, show my teeth, and await his attack. He bites me, but damnit I grab his tail or legs, and spin and smash him against a wall. (Did I mention I don't like dogs?) The fantasy was prompted, I suppose, by what happened in real life: After a bite from a particular dog while on my bike on my newspaper route many years ago, I told my older brother. He responded by going to that dog owner's house at night, inticing the dog, and then breaking its jaw with his own hands. (Mike didn't like dogs, neither.)

Many moons later, two of my children each acquired a pet dog. Slowly did I learn to trust and pat each dog to the point at which they (the dogs, not my kids) and I are comfortable with one another. Thus have I been "saved" from my distrust and disdain of "man's best friend." Would I now have the nerve to counterattack an attacking canine? Probably not. But I still occasionally fantasize about its eyeballs spinning in circles, its skull cracking against the cement, its blood and brains splattering across my clothes, its legs breaking with the sound of matchsticks, its voice howling like . . .

-Old Doc

Hurry, Kane (Next after Ike?)

I went to confession yesterday. I told my priest that I was feeling guilty about having moved away from hurricane territory, away from serious effects of the storms, and away from friends who suffer those effects. He told me to volunteer to do hurricane-relief work through the church or a civil agency. I went home, ate a good Mexican supper, and watched "Big Brother."

-Old Doc

My Hero

Well, I'm still confused. Why hasn't Dagwood, the star of the comic strip, "Blondie," significantly changed his attire in decades? I guess it doesn't matter. He has a great wife and children, and, even though his boss gives him headaches, he's never definitively been fired from his job. Dagwood is my hero. I too haven't changed my style of attire in decades, and I too have a great wife and children and now grandchildren. My bosses have driven me up the wall, but they've never fired me. I guess I'm following the right dagwoodian path.

-Old Doc

Souring of the Sweet Science

Well, I'm confused. It's been said that most sports turn boys into men. This, I think, is especially true of my favorite, boxing. But now we have the emergence of what is called extreme fighting which turns men into animals. What is sporting or aesthetic about a fighter sitting atop and continuing savagely to beat his helpless opponent? Reminds me of cockfighting finally outlawed only a month or so ago in South Louisiana. Maybe extreme fighting, since it's only a "sport," could be introduced as an acceptable substitute for, say, the disputed "torture" of waterboarding.

-Old Doc