We’re getting down to the wire here. My daughter keeps asking when it will be Christmas Day, and she assures me that when that day comes it will snow. She’s also reasonably convinced that Santa is bringing her “lots of presents.” She’s probably wrong about the weather – we’ve had a string of lovely, clear days and mild nights – but dead on about the presents. Thank my wife for that. When it comes to gift giving and gift wrapping, Terry is second to no one. She does most of her shopping on the Internet, in advance, and therefore avoids the malls and all the last minute hassles that put people in a foul mood.
If Shawn Green agrees to waive the no-trade clause in his contract, he might be on his way to Arizona, paving the way for Randy Johnson to become a Yankee. After what happened to the Yanks this season – blowing a three games to none lead over Boston in one of the worst collapses in MLB history – Johnson is exactly what the doctored ordered, a dominant starter. Toss Johnson into a rotation that already features Mike Mussina and Carl Pavano, and the Yanks look reloaded for 2005. All they need now is for A-Rod to learn how to hit in the clutch.
On another sporting front, I tried to watch the Wizards-Lakers game a few nights ago and found it impossible. Kobe going one-on-five time and again isn’t my idea of basketball. Where’s the passing, the screens and cuts, the teamwork? Is Kobe as egotistical as he appears? He will probably lead the NBA in scoring but it is unlikely the Lakers will advance very far in the play offs. Phil Jackson must be laughing.
Here’s an admission of guilt: I watched the Swan last night, the beauty pageant edition, or should I say that the Swan was on while I was burning CD’s for my niece on the computer. The spectacle of the show left me speechless, but it sucked me in nonetheless. I had to check myself, ask if I was interested or repelled as I watched the surgically enhanced women come out for their turn under the bright lights. Faces reshaped, fat sucked or carved away, teeth whitened or replaced, noses molded, breasts beefed up with silicon – was it me or did all the swans essentially look like wannabe porn star? As if the surgeon had a single idea of female beauty in mind.
We are attracted to bad TV in the same way we are attracted to a three car pile-up on the freeway. Whether we want it to or not, the spectacle draws our attention, appeals to our insatiable curiosity rather than our intelligence. The Swan spectacle no doubt looks different from a participant’s vantage point, an ugly and dissatisfied person suddenly rendered attractive and in the spotlight, the glamour, the applause of a friendly studio audience. For most this is perhaps as brightly as their star will ever shine. Once the “competition” is over, it’s back to the humdrum world, and quite possibly the same condition they were in before.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Monday, December 13, 2004
The Rituals of Fatherhood
DADDY DO
Yesterday, for the first time in the seven years we have lived in Unit C, I strung Christmas lights on the landing near the front door. Ours is the only apartment or house in the immediate area lit up for the season. Of course, the operation was not without a snafu or two.
By my own reckoning, I am the least mechanical man in America. When it comes to tools, engines, electrical wiring, carpentry, masonry or cabinetry, I am a moron, a complete idiot, beyond the help of the friendly experts at Home Depot. I lay the blame for this squarely on my father, and I’m sure my father would blame his father and so on down the line. My dad knew a thing or two about card games, horse racing, golf, cooking, and cutting meat, but when it came to the basic manly arts that were second nature to most American men of his generation, he was lost.
I deployed my tools to the landing: industrial stapler, step-stool, nails, hammer, bottle of Corona, and a tangled string of lights, which I at least had the sense to plug in and test before fastening them. It took about five minutes to untangle the string. Cars whizzed past on Milpas Street while I worked, a young Mexican woman pushing a baby stroller walked by, and the neighbor across the way stepped out on his landing for a smoke. This is the same bloke who throws his butts on the driveway, where they collect in small drifts like snow, and, when the wind blows, scoot across the driveway to form small drifts in our carport.
As I sipped my Corona and untangled the lights I was thinking: this is what fathers do. They hang Christmas lights on a Saturday afternoon. This is a time honored daddy ritual, a marker for passing years. Once a year we pull from the garage or carport or storage shed in the backyard the boxes and plastic containers and bags that hold lights, ornaments, wreaths, reindeer figures, stockings, and wrapping paper. We dust the stuff off, ruminate on how familiar it all looks, and think perhaps that maybe it’s time for some new things, like a life-sized Santa to anchor to the roof.
The industrial stapler that belonged to my wife’s grandfather didn’t work. I pulled out the pin that holds the staples in place, replaced the staples, shoved the pin back in, still no luck. The thing worked when I tried it down in the laundry room, but come show time, a dud. Switching to hammer and nails, I began hanging the lights; pound the nail, hang a section of the string, sip Corona, move the step-stool, repeat. It was unseasonably warm and it occurred to me that in other places, cold places, wet places, fathers not only battle the inevitable problems with the lights themselves, but also the elements. By contrast, my most significant challenge was pounding the nails in straight.
But I’m happy to report that I did it, the lights work, flashing merrily to announce the season to the cars and pedestrians who pass by.
Yesterday, for the first time in the seven years we have lived in Unit C, I strung Christmas lights on the landing near the front door. Ours is the only apartment or house in the immediate area lit up for the season. Of course, the operation was not without a snafu or two.
By my own reckoning, I am the least mechanical man in America. When it comes to tools, engines, electrical wiring, carpentry, masonry or cabinetry, I am a moron, a complete idiot, beyond the help of the friendly experts at Home Depot. I lay the blame for this squarely on my father, and I’m sure my father would blame his father and so on down the line. My dad knew a thing or two about card games, horse racing, golf, cooking, and cutting meat, but when it came to the basic manly arts that were second nature to most American men of his generation, he was lost.
I deployed my tools to the landing: industrial stapler, step-stool, nails, hammer, bottle of Corona, and a tangled string of lights, which I at least had the sense to plug in and test before fastening them. It took about five minutes to untangle the string. Cars whizzed past on Milpas Street while I worked, a young Mexican woman pushing a baby stroller walked by, and the neighbor across the way stepped out on his landing for a smoke. This is the same bloke who throws his butts on the driveway, where they collect in small drifts like snow, and, when the wind blows, scoot across the driveway to form small drifts in our carport.
As I sipped my Corona and untangled the lights I was thinking: this is what fathers do. They hang Christmas lights on a Saturday afternoon. This is a time honored daddy ritual, a marker for passing years. Once a year we pull from the garage or carport or storage shed in the backyard the boxes and plastic containers and bags that hold lights, ornaments, wreaths, reindeer figures, stockings, and wrapping paper. We dust the stuff off, ruminate on how familiar it all looks, and think perhaps that maybe it’s time for some new things, like a life-sized Santa to anchor to the roof.
The industrial stapler that belonged to my wife’s grandfather didn’t work. I pulled out the pin that holds the staples in place, replaced the staples, shoved the pin back in, still no luck. The thing worked when I tried it down in the laundry room, but come show time, a dud. Switching to hammer and nails, I began hanging the lights; pound the nail, hang a section of the string, sip Corona, move the step-stool, repeat. It was unseasonably warm and it occurred to me that in other places, cold places, wet places, fathers not only battle the inevitable problems with the lights themselves, but also the elements. By contrast, my most significant challenge was pounding the nails in straight.
But I’m happy to report that I did it, the lights work, flashing merrily to announce the season to the cars and pedestrians who pass by.
Monday, December 06, 2004
Random Thoughts on Monday
Baseball on Steroids:
Do we give Barry Bonds the benefit of the doubt when he claims he had no idea the clear substance he was using for arthritis was in all probability an illegal steroid? I don’t know. Most people I talk to assume Bonds has been on the “juice” for several years, pointing to the fact that he came into the league at around 185 pounds and is now pushing 225 pounds of what appears to be solid muscle. Sure, Bonds works out with trainers and a nutritionist and has access to the best equipment, but that kind of muscular growth in a man in his late 30’s and now early 40’s isn’t natural. At that age, as many of us know from experience, metabolism slows, injuries take longer to heal, and the joints and muscles loose suppleness. Bonds appears to have reversed the clock, and that makes a lot of people suspicious.
I don’t know that bulking up gives Bonds or any other player an advantage when it comes to hitting a baseball moving anywhere from 80 to 100 mph. That’s a function of eye-hand coordination, knowledge of the strike zone, and split-second recognition when the ball leaves the opposing pitcher’s hand. If you watch Bonds at the plate, you realize very quickly that he knows the strike zone as well or better than any player in Major League Baseball. Unlike Sammy Sosa or Jason Giambi or Richie Sexson, to name three sluggers, Bonds rarely swings at pitches out of the strike zone. By virtue of his tremendous plate discipline, Bonds forces the pitcher to either throw a strike and risk having it deposited in the farthest regions of the outfield stands, or give in and deliberately issue a walk. The uncanny thing about Bonds, and what cannot be explained by allegations of steroid use, is how often he makes solid contact. Given a decent pitch to hit, he rarely misses.
In terms of putting the bat on the ball, making contact, steroids probably doesn’t help Bonds or Giambi or any other player caught up in the current controversy. What the drugs might do, however, is prevent a player from wearing down over the course of a long, grueling season – and that could be a decided advantage.
What I’m Reading:
Continental Drift by Russell Banks. My second reading of this fine novel, the story of Bob Dubois, an oil burner repairman from New Hampshire. Bob Dubois who flees the cold north because he senses that his life there is nothing more than a dull repetition of days and months and years, and himself a waking, walking corpse. Bob Dubois, who cheats on his wife and convinces himself that this is acceptable as long as he still loves his wife and she never finds out about his infidelities. This is also the story of Haitian immigrants, desperately poor and exploited and tossed about by forces beyond their control, and the very American notion of rebirth and renewal in a new locale.
I find it extremely satisfying to go back and several years later re-read a good novel. I catch important elements I missed on the first go round, feel the pathos differently today than back then. I come across passages I underlined five or seven years ago and wonder why they seemed significant.
Of Passing Interest:
Was a report in the Los Angeles Times about smut stores setting up shop in the heart of small-town America. Apparently, the decent, bible-toting residents of Kansas and Iowa and Missouri enjoy sex toys and XXX movies just as much as any resident of San Francisco or Manhattan. It’s somehow comforting to learn that good ol’ American porn sells in places so concerned with “moral” values.
Do we give Barry Bonds the benefit of the doubt when he claims he had no idea the clear substance he was using for arthritis was in all probability an illegal steroid? I don’t know. Most people I talk to assume Bonds has been on the “juice” for several years, pointing to the fact that he came into the league at around 185 pounds and is now pushing 225 pounds of what appears to be solid muscle. Sure, Bonds works out with trainers and a nutritionist and has access to the best equipment, but that kind of muscular growth in a man in his late 30’s and now early 40’s isn’t natural. At that age, as many of us know from experience, metabolism slows, injuries take longer to heal, and the joints and muscles loose suppleness. Bonds appears to have reversed the clock, and that makes a lot of people suspicious.
I don’t know that bulking up gives Bonds or any other player an advantage when it comes to hitting a baseball moving anywhere from 80 to 100 mph. That’s a function of eye-hand coordination, knowledge of the strike zone, and split-second recognition when the ball leaves the opposing pitcher’s hand. If you watch Bonds at the plate, you realize very quickly that he knows the strike zone as well or better than any player in Major League Baseball. Unlike Sammy Sosa or Jason Giambi or Richie Sexson, to name three sluggers, Bonds rarely swings at pitches out of the strike zone. By virtue of his tremendous plate discipline, Bonds forces the pitcher to either throw a strike and risk having it deposited in the farthest regions of the outfield stands, or give in and deliberately issue a walk. The uncanny thing about Bonds, and what cannot be explained by allegations of steroid use, is how often he makes solid contact. Given a decent pitch to hit, he rarely misses.
In terms of putting the bat on the ball, making contact, steroids probably doesn’t help Bonds or Giambi or any other player caught up in the current controversy. What the drugs might do, however, is prevent a player from wearing down over the course of a long, grueling season – and that could be a decided advantage.
What I’m Reading:
Continental Drift by Russell Banks. My second reading of this fine novel, the story of Bob Dubois, an oil burner repairman from New Hampshire. Bob Dubois who flees the cold north because he senses that his life there is nothing more than a dull repetition of days and months and years, and himself a waking, walking corpse. Bob Dubois, who cheats on his wife and convinces himself that this is acceptable as long as he still loves his wife and she never finds out about his infidelities. This is also the story of Haitian immigrants, desperately poor and exploited and tossed about by forces beyond their control, and the very American notion of rebirth and renewal in a new locale.
I find it extremely satisfying to go back and several years later re-read a good novel. I catch important elements I missed on the first go round, feel the pathos differently today than back then. I come across passages I underlined five or seven years ago and wonder why they seemed significant.
Of Passing Interest:
Was a report in the Los Angeles Times about smut stores setting up shop in the heart of small-town America. Apparently, the decent, bible-toting residents of Kansas and Iowa and Missouri enjoy sex toys and XXX movies just as much as any resident of San Francisco or Manhattan. It’s somehow comforting to learn that good ol’ American porn sells in places so concerned with “moral” values.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
A Short Story
FREELANCER©
August 2002
I brought Maxwell along for the interview, partly because I didn’t want to do it alone and partly because Maxwell had never seen an estate like Coldwell’s in his life and I thought it would be instructive for him to see how the super rich live. We stopped at the Westside Grill and had two beers apiece before heading out to Shangri-La, or Riven Rock as the wealthy suburban enclave is officially known.
Usually I’m prepped to the gills when I go out to interview someone, hyped up on facts and dates, but everything I knew about Malcolm Coldwell fit nicely in a thimble. The man was filthy rich and more reclusive than Howard Hughes. As far as I could determine, nobody had ever seen Coldwell, and there weren’t even any photographs of him on file anywhere.
Coldwell’s estate had a name: Casa de Dolor, the house of pain. “What’s that all about?” Maxwelll asked as the wrought-iron gates slowly swung open. “Beats me,” I said. In a fenced clearing off to our right a herd of deer was grazing. Further on I counted a dozen bison. Hearing my rattletrap Buick the animals raised their shaggy heads.
“What’s up with the buffalo?” Maxwell asked.
“Beats me,” I said.
“Big place,” Maxwell said.
“It’s a chunk of real estate, no doubt about it.”
The road wound around a small man-made lake. Swans and ducks floated on the water. Two Mexicans in a rowboat were dumping buckets of fish into the water. On the far side of the lake there were four bronze statues, each at least twenty feet tall. The first one was of Buddha; the second of Jesus; the third was a fierce looking devil with horns on its head and claws on its feet; the fourth statue was of Bugs Bunny.
“What’s it supposed to mean?” Maxwell asked.
“Got me,” I said. “Good, evil, funny.”
After passing through a thick stand of eucalyptus trees we came upon a go cart track and a rusted ferris wheel with tall weeds growing around its base. We still hadn’t caught sight of a house, which I figured had to be grand. Further on there was another bronze statue: Snow White being gang-banged by the seven dwarfs.
I lit a cigarette. “Go figure,” I said.
“As your personal physician I must advise you against smoking,” Maxwell said.
“Warning noted, doc.”
“I should disclose that I never actually graduated from medical school, though I did practice in the state of Maryland under an assumed name and without a license.”
“That’s good to know,” I said.
“I miss the white coat and the free drugs,” Maxwell said.
The road veered to the right, dipped down and over a wooden bridge, past pines and oaks; once we cleared the trees we saw a low wooden building that looked like a caretaker’s shack. There was a golf cart parked out front. As we neared the building I noticed that it was window-less and that the front door was made of solid steel, like the door of a bank vault. I also noted that the road dead-ended at the shack.
“Do you have any grass?” Maxwell asked. “I need to alter my perception. I feel a strange and bizarre experience coming on, a mind-blowing sort of thing.”
“Steady, doc, steady. I’m kind of wondering myself, though. Where’s the manor house. This can’t be it. ”
“Only chemical stimulants can counteract the ominous vibe I’m picking up. I hear Indian music in my head, a slightly out of tune sitar. It’s very strange.”
“You’re very strange, doc.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s go,” I said. There was an intercom by the door. I pressed the button and waited for one of Coldwell’s servants to answer. A man as rich as Coldwell had to have servants – butler, maid, cook, masseuse, spiritual advisor and so on, a small army of people to take care of his every need, fetch him things, fluff his pillows.
After waiting a couple of minutes I pressed the button again.
“The vibe is intensifying,” Maxwell said. “My left testicle is throbbing.”
“If Coldwell’s not here I’m going to be really pissed. I fished a cigarette from my pocket and was about to light it when a voice came on the intercom: “There’s no smoking on the premises. It bothers the buffalo.”
“We’re here to see Mr. Coldwell. My name is Sullivan. I have an appointment.”
“You’re late,” the voice said.
“We had car trouble,” I lied.
“As they say, shit happens. I’ll buzz you in. Go straight ahead to the elevator.”
Maxwell’s eyes were as big as saucers and he seemed to be in the throes of an internal meltdown.
We pulled the steel door open and stepped into the shack, which was as dark as a mine shaft. The elevator took us down for what seemed an eternity. Maxwell recited the Lord’s Prayer in a shaky voice.
“Since when do you pray?”
“Two minutes ago. How does the Hail Mary go?”
The doors slid open and we found ourselves in an enormous room with yellow walls, lit by floodlights so bright we were forced to put our sunglasses on. “We’re in the bowels of hell itself,” Maxwell said. “We’ll never see the sun again. This is the end of the line. I blame you, Sully. You didn’t tell me we had an appointment with the devil.”
“Get a grip, doc. We need to keep our wits about us. “
Just then the lights went off and a synthesized female voice came over a hidden speaker: “In a moment you will see some floor lighting that will direct you to Mr. Coldwell’s private chamber. He will be waiting. Please follow the lights.”
“This is getting weirder by the minute,” I said. “No wonder nobody has ever seen this turkey.”
The floor lights were purple, the size of miniature Christmas lights; some flashed off and on while others remained lit. Maxwell was freaked out of his mind and stayed right on my heels. I thought of the funhouse at the county fair, how there was always a green “Exit” sign somewhere for the faint of heart. No such luck here. Even if we wanted to we couldn’t turn around and go back because as we passed them, the lights went out and stayed out. I couldn’t see a thing, not even my shoes. I was seriously pissed at Rosenthal for giving me this assignment and when I got back to the office I was going to call him a fat toad and make him take me to dinner. Coldwell was freakier than Michael Jackson.
A door slid open with a pneumatic whoosh and closed again behind us. Now we were in a comfortable looking room with leather couches and high-backed leather chairs, leafy palms in big clay pots, Persian rugs, bookcases filled with leather-bound tomes. I caught a whiff of jasmine incense. Hundred of candles burned in rose-colored holders. At the far end of the room was a dais that looked like something out of the Arabian Nights, and upon it, reclining on a red velvet chair was a boy who appeared to be about twelve or thirteen. He wore green and gold robes and red Converse high tops. His skin was as pale as milk. His blonde hair was mussed, as if he had just rolled out of bed.
The boy inclined his head at cushions on the floor. Sit.
I said, “Where’s Coldwell? Are you his kid? Can you get him so we can get this over with? My Weird-O-Meter is bouncing off the chart. “
“I’m Coldwell.”
“Sure, and I’m David Letterman. C’mon, my friend here is dangerously unstable and my patience is running on fumes.”
“I’m Coldwell,” the boy repeated. “I enjoy your column, Mr. Sullivan. You have a gift for political satire that is as great as your mistrust of the wealthy. We’re not all cut from the same cloth. There are as many wealthy saints as there are wealthy miscreants.”
“OK,” I said. “This is very amusing but what do you say we cut to the chase? Either get Coldwell or let us out of here.”
The boy dug a hunk of wax from his ear, studied it for a moment before flicking it on the floor. “I’m 47-years-old. I made my first fortune before I turned twenty when I sold the rights to a board game to Milton-Bradley. I look young because I rarely go out in the sun. The air down here is triple carbon filtered to remove impurities. I eat nothing but organically grown food, mainly leafy green vegetables. I never touch alcohol or carbonated beverages. My only vice, if you can call it that, is mint chocolate chip ice cream. I love the stuff, even though it’s full of dangerous food additives. Nonetheless, I expect to live to be 110. I’m heavily invested in bio-technology stocks because the waves of the future are being created in laboratories as we speak. Cracking the DNA code is only the beginning. Last year I donated over ten million dollars to various charities. Making and giving away obscene amounts of money makes me happy.”
I said, “By nature I’m very skeptical. You look thirteen to me. Can you prove you are who you say you are? Do you have documentation?”
“I once had a hand in the production and distribution of adult films. I made a tremendous amount of money. It was easy. Few people know this about me.”
“Like a birth certificate,” I said. “Or a passport.”
Oh, I never travel,” Coldwell said. “Even for a man of my wealth controlling the variables is too difficult. No, I’m very content right here where I can manipulate my environment as I see fit. Shall we start the interview, Mr. Sullivan? For once I am eager to allow the general public a glimpse into my world. The last time I checked I was one of the top one hundred wealthiest people on this planet. That’s an impressive fact, an astonishing fact. Think about it: the top one hundred out of billions of human beings. It’s an extremely elite group, populated by the best and brightest, the most cunning, the most determined, the most ruthless, the most opportunistic.”
“What about a driver’s license? You must have one of those.”
“Don’t be silly. I have a driver. My favorite color is blue. I’m a devoted Woody Allen fan.”
“What kind of car do you have?” Maxwell asked.
“A mint-condition Nissan Sentra, one of the first ever produced. Langston drives me down to the mail box and back every day. Langston is a very competent driver, adept at avoiding potholes. I sit in the back.”
“There are no potholes in your road,” I said. “Not one.”
“That would explain why Langston misses them,” said Coldwell.
I looked over at Maxwell; he had crazy fear all over his face. He was rolling imaginary rosary beads in his hands.
Coldwell placed a tiny yellow pill on the tip of his tongue. “When I was a child I had a Barbi doll. I dressed her and undressed her and carried her everywhere. My father found my fascination with Barbie disturbing and sent me to a psychologist, Dr. Lindstrom, who showed me ink blots and asked what they meant to me. We did this over and over and over, one blot after another. I was convinced that Dr. Lindstrom wanted me to admit that I had homosexual longings or some sort of gender confusion. He was an unsympathetic man. He smelled like charred liver. He put his hand on my knee one day and I bit him so hard that his thumb was nearly severed. I still remember the taste of his blood. To this day I enjoy playing with Barbie dolls. I have an extensive collection.”
“Hallowed be thy name,” Maxwell muttered. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, full of grace, hallowed be thy name. . .”
“So,” I said. “You live down here, eating leafy vegetables and breathing purified air, while you control your financial empire. Do you call it an empire or something else?”
“As a descriptive term empire works for me. My money is in constant motion, searching for opportunities, weighing risks, occupying niches, bridging gaps, changing from dollars to yen to marks and back again. My money makes money, and then that money makes more money, in an endless pattern of accumulation. It’s a wonderful thing. Did you attempt to find photographs of me, Mr. Sullivan?”
“Yeah, of course. “
“I’ve never been photographed, not once. Anonymity is a source of power and mystery. I prefer to live and move in shadow, the unseen hand behind the heavy velvet curtain. I’m also in my fourteenth year of celibacy. I believe celibacy promotes spiritual clarity. What do you think of that, Mr. Sullivan? Does that kind of discipline impress you?”
Maxwell was tugging at my sleeve: can we please get out of here? Maxwell looked sick, and in fact he suddenly doubled over and vomited on the rug.
“That’s it,” I said. “Maybe we can finish this fascinating discussion another time. What do you say I give you a call next week? How do we get out of here? No need to show us – just point me in the right direction.”
Coldwell pressed a button on the side of the recliner and a pygmy dressed in full livery appeared out of the shadows.
“As you wish, Mr. Sullivan. Dobobo will show you out. He’s a bit skittish around strangers so please don’t make any sudden moves. He bites, you know. Farewell. I want you to know that I’m not the least bit dangerous. Simply a freak, that’s all, a harmless freak with a tremendous personal fortune. “
We followed the pygmy back to the elevator. Before we got topside I had already decided to resign from the paper and go freelance. From now on I would chart my own course, interview who I wanted to interview. No more of this shit. When I got back to the office I was going to put my foot in Rosenthal’s flabby butt.
The pygmy let us out and the big steel door slammed shut. We stood blinking in the harsh daylight. Coldwell’s voice came over the intercom: “A harmless freak, nothing more. Until we meet again, gentlemen.” And then he laughed.
August 2002
I brought Maxwell along for the interview, partly because I didn’t want to do it alone and partly because Maxwell had never seen an estate like Coldwell’s in his life and I thought it would be instructive for him to see how the super rich live. We stopped at the Westside Grill and had two beers apiece before heading out to Shangri-La, or Riven Rock as the wealthy suburban enclave is officially known.
Usually I’m prepped to the gills when I go out to interview someone, hyped up on facts and dates, but everything I knew about Malcolm Coldwell fit nicely in a thimble. The man was filthy rich and more reclusive than Howard Hughes. As far as I could determine, nobody had ever seen Coldwell, and there weren’t even any photographs of him on file anywhere.
Coldwell’s estate had a name: Casa de Dolor, the house of pain. “What’s that all about?” Maxwelll asked as the wrought-iron gates slowly swung open. “Beats me,” I said. In a fenced clearing off to our right a herd of deer was grazing. Further on I counted a dozen bison. Hearing my rattletrap Buick the animals raised their shaggy heads.
“What’s up with the buffalo?” Maxwell asked.
“Beats me,” I said.
“Big place,” Maxwell said.
“It’s a chunk of real estate, no doubt about it.”
The road wound around a small man-made lake. Swans and ducks floated on the water. Two Mexicans in a rowboat were dumping buckets of fish into the water. On the far side of the lake there were four bronze statues, each at least twenty feet tall. The first one was of Buddha; the second of Jesus; the third was a fierce looking devil with horns on its head and claws on its feet; the fourth statue was of Bugs Bunny.
“What’s it supposed to mean?” Maxwell asked.
“Got me,” I said. “Good, evil, funny.”
After passing through a thick stand of eucalyptus trees we came upon a go cart track and a rusted ferris wheel with tall weeds growing around its base. We still hadn’t caught sight of a house, which I figured had to be grand. Further on there was another bronze statue: Snow White being gang-banged by the seven dwarfs.
I lit a cigarette. “Go figure,” I said.
“As your personal physician I must advise you against smoking,” Maxwell said.
“Warning noted, doc.”
“I should disclose that I never actually graduated from medical school, though I did practice in the state of Maryland under an assumed name and without a license.”
“That’s good to know,” I said.
“I miss the white coat and the free drugs,” Maxwell said.
The road veered to the right, dipped down and over a wooden bridge, past pines and oaks; once we cleared the trees we saw a low wooden building that looked like a caretaker’s shack. There was a golf cart parked out front. As we neared the building I noticed that it was window-less and that the front door was made of solid steel, like the door of a bank vault. I also noted that the road dead-ended at the shack.
“Do you have any grass?” Maxwell asked. “I need to alter my perception. I feel a strange and bizarre experience coming on, a mind-blowing sort of thing.”
“Steady, doc, steady. I’m kind of wondering myself, though. Where’s the manor house. This can’t be it. ”
“Only chemical stimulants can counteract the ominous vibe I’m picking up. I hear Indian music in my head, a slightly out of tune sitar. It’s very strange.”
“You’re very strange, doc.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s go,” I said. There was an intercom by the door. I pressed the button and waited for one of Coldwell’s servants to answer. A man as rich as Coldwell had to have servants – butler, maid, cook, masseuse, spiritual advisor and so on, a small army of people to take care of his every need, fetch him things, fluff his pillows.
After waiting a couple of minutes I pressed the button again.
“The vibe is intensifying,” Maxwell said. “My left testicle is throbbing.”
“If Coldwell’s not here I’m going to be really pissed. I fished a cigarette from my pocket and was about to light it when a voice came on the intercom: “There’s no smoking on the premises. It bothers the buffalo.”
“We’re here to see Mr. Coldwell. My name is Sullivan. I have an appointment.”
“You’re late,” the voice said.
“We had car trouble,” I lied.
“As they say, shit happens. I’ll buzz you in. Go straight ahead to the elevator.”
Maxwell’s eyes were as big as saucers and he seemed to be in the throes of an internal meltdown.
We pulled the steel door open and stepped into the shack, which was as dark as a mine shaft. The elevator took us down for what seemed an eternity. Maxwell recited the Lord’s Prayer in a shaky voice.
“Since when do you pray?”
“Two minutes ago. How does the Hail Mary go?”
The doors slid open and we found ourselves in an enormous room with yellow walls, lit by floodlights so bright we were forced to put our sunglasses on. “We’re in the bowels of hell itself,” Maxwell said. “We’ll never see the sun again. This is the end of the line. I blame you, Sully. You didn’t tell me we had an appointment with the devil.”
“Get a grip, doc. We need to keep our wits about us. “
Just then the lights went off and a synthesized female voice came over a hidden speaker: “In a moment you will see some floor lighting that will direct you to Mr. Coldwell’s private chamber. He will be waiting. Please follow the lights.”
“This is getting weirder by the minute,” I said. “No wonder nobody has ever seen this turkey.”
The floor lights were purple, the size of miniature Christmas lights; some flashed off and on while others remained lit. Maxwell was freaked out of his mind and stayed right on my heels. I thought of the funhouse at the county fair, how there was always a green “Exit” sign somewhere for the faint of heart. No such luck here. Even if we wanted to we couldn’t turn around and go back because as we passed them, the lights went out and stayed out. I couldn’t see a thing, not even my shoes. I was seriously pissed at Rosenthal for giving me this assignment and when I got back to the office I was going to call him a fat toad and make him take me to dinner. Coldwell was freakier than Michael Jackson.
A door slid open with a pneumatic whoosh and closed again behind us. Now we were in a comfortable looking room with leather couches and high-backed leather chairs, leafy palms in big clay pots, Persian rugs, bookcases filled with leather-bound tomes. I caught a whiff of jasmine incense. Hundred of candles burned in rose-colored holders. At the far end of the room was a dais that looked like something out of the Arabian Nights, and upon it, reclining on a red velvet chair was a boy who appeared to be about twelve or thirteen. He wore green and gold robes and red Converse high tops. His skin was as pale as milk. His blonde hair was mussed, as if he had just rolled out of bed.
The boy inclined his head at cushions on the floor. Sit.
I said, “Where’s Coldwell? Are you his kid? Can you get him so we can get this over with? My Weird-O-Meter is bouncing off the chart. “
“I’m Coldwell.”
“Sure, and I’m David Letterman. C’mon, my friend here is dangerously unstable and my patience is running on fumes.”
“I’m Coldwell,” the boy repeated. “I enjoy your column, Mr. Sullivan. You have a gift for political satire that is as great as your mistrust of the wealthy. We’re not all cut from the same cloth. There are as many wealthy saints as there are wealthy miscreants.”
“OK,” I said. “This is very amusing but what do you say we cut to the chase? Either get Coldwell or let us out of here.”
The boy dug a hunk of wax from his ear, studied it for a moment before flicking it on the floor. “I’m 47-years-old. I made my first fortune before I turned twenty when I sold the rights to a board game to Milton-Bradley. I look young because I rarely go out in the sun. The air down here is triple carbon filtered to remove impurities. I eat nothing but organically grown food, mainly leafy green vegetables. I never touch alcohol or carbonated beverages. My only vice, if you can call it that, is mint chocolate chip ice cream. I love the stuff, even though it’s full of dangerous food additives. Nonetheless, I expect to live to be 110. I’m heavily invested in bio-technology stocks because the waves of the future are being created in laboratories as we speak. Cracking the DNA code is only the beginning. Last year I donated over ten million dollars to various charities. Making and giving away obscene amounts of money makes me happy.”
I said, “By nature I’m very skeptical. You look thirteen to me. Can you prove you are who you say you are? Do you have documentation?”
“I once had a hand in the production and distribution of adult films. I made a tremendous amount of money. It was easy. Few people know this about me.”
“Like a birth certificate,” I said. “Or a passport.”
Oh, I never travel,” Coldwell said. “Even for a man of my wealth controlling the variables is too difficult. No, I’m very content right here where I can manipulate my environment as I see fit. Shall we start the interview, Mr. Sullivan? For once I am eager to allow the general public a glimpse into my world. The last time I checked I was one of the top one hundred wealthiest people on this planet. That’s an impressive fact, an astonishing fact. Think about it: the top one hundred out of billions of human beings. It’s an extremely elite group, populated by the best and brightest, the most cunning, the most determined, the most ruthless, the most opportunistic.”
“What about a driver’s license? You must have one of those.”
“Don’t be silly. I have a driver. My favorite color is blue. I’m a devoted Woody Allen fan.”
“What kind of car do you have?” Maxwell asked.
“A mint-condition Nissan Sentra, one of the first ever produced. Langston drives me down to the mail box and back every day. Langston is a very competent driver, adept at avoiding potholes. I sit in the back.”
“There are no potholes in your road,” I said. “Not one.”
“That would explain why Langston misses them,” said Coldwell.
I looked over at Maxwell; he had crazy fear all over his face. He was rolling imaginary rosary beads in his hands.
Coldwell placed a tiny yellow pill on the tip of his tongue. “When I was a child I had a Barbi doll. I dressed her and undressed her and carried her everywhere. My father found my fascination with Barbie disturbing and sent me to a psychologist, Dr. Lindstrom, who showed me ink blots and asked what they meant to me. We did this over and over and over, one blot after another. I was convinced that Dr. Lindstrom wanted me to admit that I had homosexual longings or some sort of gender confusion. He was an unsympathetic man. He smelled like charred liver. He put his hand on my knee one day and I bit him so hard that his thumb was nearly severed. I still remember the taste of his blood. To this day I enjoy playing with Barbie dolls. I have an extensive collection.”
“Hallowed be thy name,” Maxwell muttered. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, full of grace, hallowed be thy name. . .”
“So,” I said. “You live down here, eating leafy vegetables and breathing purified air, while you control your financial empire. Do you call it an empire or something else?”
“As a descriptive term empire works for me. My money is in constant motion, searching for opportunities, weighing risks, occupying niches, bridging gaps, changing from dollars to yen to marks and back again. My money makes money, and then that money makes more money, in an endless pattern of accumulation. It’s a wonderful thing. Did you attempt to find photographs of me, Mr. Sullivan?”
“Yeah, of course. “
“I’ve never been photographed, not once. Anonymity is a source of power and mystery. I prefer to live and move in shadow, the unseen hand behind the heavy velvet curtain. I’m also in my fourteenth year of celibacy. I believe celibacy promotes spiritual clarity. What do you think of that, Mr. Sullivan? Does that kind of discipline impress you?”
Maxwell was tugging at my sleeve: can we please get out of here? Maxwell looked sick, and in fact he suddenly doubled over and vomited on the rug.
“That’s it,” I said. “Maybe we can finish this fascinating discussion another time. What do you say I give you a call next week? How do we get out of here? No need to show us – just point me in the right direction.”
Coldwell pressed a button on the side of the recliner and a pygmy dressed in full livery appeared out of the shadows.
“As you wish, Mr. Sullivan. Dobobo will show you out. He’s a bit skittish around strangers so please don’t make any sudden moves. He bites, you know. Farewell. I want you to know that I’m not the least bit dangerous. Simply a freak, that’s all, a harmless freak with a tremendous personal fortune. “
We followed the pygmy back to the elevator. Before we got topside I had already decided to resign from the paper and go freelance. From now on I would chart my own course, interview who I wanted to interview. No more of this shit. When I got back to the office I was going to put my foot in Rosenthal’s flabby butt.
The pygmy let us out and the big steel door slammed shut. We stood blinking in the harsh daylight. Coldwell’s voice came over the intercom: “A harmless freak, nothing more. Until we meet again, gentlemen.” And then he laughed.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Poem - Breakdown
Stuck on the shoulder
of the 405 in a disabled Pontiac
stupid piece of Detroit crap
Cars and big rigs zoom past
cell phone junkies heading
over the rise
into the guts of LA
Another rat race morning
another turn of the screw
another jam up on the grade
Where is the tow man?
They said he was
coming from Burbank
way the hell over there
Where’s the CHP or the
Good Samaritan? Where’s
Roadside Assistance?
Lumber is moving
pipe is moving
sod is moving
cement is moving
shiny new toilets, too
We’re not moving
by inch or foot
hazard lights blink
at indifferent faces
behind smoked glass
You can tell what the faces
are thinking:
“Poor bastards, glad that’s
not me.”
At least it’s not dark or pouring
rain, count that blessing
while we sit here
broken down
on your birthday
of the 405 in a disabled Pontiac
stupid piece of Detroit crap
Cars and big rigs zoom past
cell phone junkies heading
over the rise
into the guts of LA
Another rat race morning
another turn of the screw
another jam up on the grade
Where is the tow man?
They said he was
coming from Burbank
way the hell over there
Where’s the CHP or the
Good Samaritan? Where’s
Roadside Assistance?
Lumber is moving
pipe is moving
sod is moving
cement is moving
shiny new toilets, too
We’re not moving
by inch or foot
hazard lights blink
at indifferent faces
behind smoked glass
You can tell what the faces
are thinking:
“Poor bastards, glad that’s
not me.”
At least it’s not dark or pouring
rain, count that blessing
while we sit here
broken down
on your birthday
Sunday, November 21, 2004
An Essay for Vanity Fair
A few months ago Vanity Fair magazine solicited submissions for an essay contest, the aim of which was to explain America, in about 1500 words, to the rest of the world. I sent this in.
The black and white worldview trumpeted by Rush Limbaugh and the talking heads on Fox news is fodder for a small but vocal minority. Lost in the cacophony created by Limbaugh and his ilk are the values and aspirations of Thomas Jefferson, Franklin Delano Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy. The superficial and trivial divert our collective attention from the important issues of the day; we become more exercised and energized by the latest reality TV craze than we do when our government weakens the Bill of Rights in the name of protecting us from terrorists. Instead of gathering in the streets in united protest, we sit in our darkened living rooms, isolated, transfixed and pacified by the images on our oversized television screens.
Are we nuts or merely asleep? Too often it’s hard to tell.
Four years into the millennium we present ourselves to the world more as a menace than a light shining through the darkness; we bluster and blunder like a schoolyard bully. The planet is still round, as far as anyone knows, and yet we demand that our neighbors choose a side, declare that they are either for us or against us.
When and why did we hit the wall, run out of ideas and idealism, lose sight of our promise? How do average Americans convince the world that we are not mirror images of our political and cultural leaders? Indeed, how do we convince you that we are not the arrogant buffoons we seem to be when we tramp the streets of your cities and towns?
Our essentially generous and fair national character is still alive, best expressed by Whitman and Thoreau, Frederick Douglass, Lincoln and FDR, Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison and James Baldwin, Robert Johnson and Bruce Springsteen, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Margaret Mead, William O. Douglas and Robert Kennedy and Rosa Parks, in words and deeds that penetrate beyond the veil of myth.
And here’s a notion sure to arouse the ire of the Fox brigade: if the world cannot see the essential decency in the American character, the fault lies with America, not the world.
I like to think that we still have the character of Atticus Finch in us, in places large and small, cosmopolitan and provincial, where men and women instinctively protect the weak from the strong, the poor from the rich, and the disenfranchised from the privileged; where men and women stand on principle, no matter the cost to themselves.
THE UN-AMERICAN AMERICAN
First and foremost, do not judge us by the low standard set by the dingbat in the White House. Remember that the majority of voters did not elect him – he was selected and installed by a cabal beyond our control. Many of us were horrified on the day Mr. Bush raised his right hand and swore his oath. We knew trouble would come, though we could not predict what form it might take. But we knew.
First and foremost, do not judge us by the low standard set by the dingbat in the White House. Remember that the majority of voters did not elect him – he was selected and installed by a cabal beyond our control. Many of us were horrified on the day Mr. Bush raised his right hand and swore his oath. We knew trouble would come, though we could not predict what form it might take. But we knew.
The black and white worldview trumpeted by Rush Limbaugh and the talking heads on Fox news is fodder for a small but vocal minority. Lost in the cacophony created by Limbaugh and his ilk are the values and aspirations of Thomas Jefferson, Franklin Delano Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy. The superficial and trivial divert our collective attention from the important issues of the day; we become more exercised and energized by the latest reality TV craze than we do when our government weakens the Bill of Rights in the name of protecting us from terrorists. Instead of gathering in the streets in united protest, we sit in our darkened living rooms, isolated, transfixed and pacified by the images on our oversized television screens.
Are we nuts or merely asleep? Too often it’s hard to tell.
Four years into the millennium we present ourselves to the world more as a menace than a light shining through the darkness; we bluster and blunder like a schoolyard bully. The planet is still round, as far as anyone knows, and yet we demand that our neighbors choose a side, declare that they are either for us or against us.
When and why did we hit the wall, run out of ideas and idealism, lose sight of our promise? How do average Americans convince the world that we are not mirror images of our political and cultural leaders? Indeed, how do we convince you that we are not the arrogant buffoons we seem to be when we tramp the streets of your cities and towns?
Just when I think we have sunk to the bedrock, I meet someone who restores my faith in America’s potential; someone who believes that a drastic change in direction is long overdue; someone who has traveled enough and read enough to preserve the ability to think for himself; someone who recognizes our hypocrisy and myopia and yet clings to the belief that we might yet become a nation among nations, an equal among equals on a planet desperate for cooperation and community; someone who understands that to think such thoughts is not un-American or anti-American or subversive, but is in fact quintessentially American.
Our essentially generous and fair national character is still alive, best expressed by Whitman and Thoreau, Frederick Douglass, Lincoln and FDR, Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison and James Baldwin, Robert Johnson and Bruce Springsteen, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Margaret Mead, William O. Douglas and Robert Kennedy and Rosa Parks, in words and deeds that penetrate beyond the veil of myth.
And here’s a notion sure to arouse the ire of the Fox brigade: if the world cannot see the essential decency in the American character, the fault lies with America, not the world.
I like to think that we still have the character of Atticus Finch in us, in places large and small, cosmopolitan and provincial, where men and women instinctively protect the weak from the strong, the poor from the rich, and the disenfranchised from the privileged; where men and women stand on principle, no matter the cost to themselves.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Pointing Skyward
As a big baseball fan, I've never understood why players like Barry Bonds, Albert Pujols or David Ortiz point to heaven after hitting a home run or cracking a key hit, but do not point or gesture when they strike out with the bases loaded or ground into a rally killing double play. Why thank God only when something favorable happens? Presumably, God is always watching his devoted children -- when the crowd is cheering and also when the front row hecklers are in full froth. Isn't it hypocritical to thank God only when things are going well?
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Some Tongue-in-Cheek political commentary
I wrote this little satire several months ago; obviously, it makes no difference now because the other side won.
BUSH & CO. SPEAK PLAINLY
Donald Rumsfeld:
“What I knew and when I knew it? I’m not sure I can answer that, I mean, I have no specific recollection of what I knew or when I knew it, or even if I knew what I knew when I thought I knew it. This is a fluid process, but let me assure you that I’m very sure of what I know now as opposed to what I didn’t know then. I can’t say that I know now what I didn’t know then, but I’m fairly certain that my recollection of what I cannot recollect is accurate.”
George W. Bush:
“I’m the President and we’re at war, so that makes me a wartime President.”
Dick Cheney:
“I see no conflict of interest in my relationship with Halliburton and frankly, I’m not going to answer questions of this nature again.”
Laura Bush:
“Yes, from time to time I read the President a bedtime story. What’s wrong with that?”
Condi Rice:
“I believe the WMD will be found in time. Saddam knows where they are and we have Saddam, therefore, we also, de facto, have the WMD. The fact that we don’t have them physically – that we can’t touch or inspect them – doesn’t mean they do not exist, and anyone who claims otherwise is simply engaging in anti-American rhetoric.”
Donald Rumsfeld:
“Abusing the abusers in a war zone is not the same as torturing the torturers during peace time. I mean, it’s the same thing as a golfer; is a golfer still a golfer when he’s not playing golf? I mean, at what point does a golfer cease to become a golfer and become something else? ”
George W. Bush:
“I have been to the mountaintop and I know there is no evil in the American heart. None. Take my word for it. We are righteous and our motives are as pure as the driven sand, er, snow. The transformational power of snow is very great. Anyone who says otherwise simply doesn’t understand how the world works.”
Dick Cheney:
“Exporting jobs overseas is good for America. Why? I don’t feel compelled to explain why and in fact I believe I have a constitutional right not to explain. The fact of the matter is that the more American jobs we export the more our economy grows. Anyone who says otherwise simply does not grasp the complexities of global economics. It’s perfectly clear that the more jobs we export to India, the richer Americans become.”
John Ashcroft
I believe the best way to preserve civil liberties is to take them away. Our civil liberties may be the basis for our freedom, but it is our freedom which renders us insecure and vulnerable to attack. Anyone who claims otherwise is simply unpatriotic. We can be free or safe but we can’t be both.
Laura Bush:
“Well, we’re still reading the first Harry Potter story. How long have we been reading it? I don’t see how that’s relative. It’s a very complicated story. Anyone who says otherwise hasn’t read the book.”
Condi Rice:
“It’s not fair to say that none of us read the pre-war intelligence reports, although I have no specific recollection at this time of what those reports might have contained, but my guess is that they contained intelligence.”
Donald Rumsfeld:
“What’s the difference between abuse and torture? Well, if I go home after a lousy day and kick my dog, that’s abuse. If I hold him down and stick a needle in his paw, that’s torture. I can assure you that no animals were tortured or abused in the Abu Ghairb prison – at least that I’m aware of, and I’m certain that I’m not aware of any.“
Dick Cheney:
“I see nothing unethical or unlawful about taking a Supreme Court justice duck hunting. All we did was shoot ducks and drink whiskey and there’s nothing illegal about that. Democrats have made baseless accusations that I plied Justice Scalia with Jack Daniels and tried to influence his thinking. This is utterly false. We drank Johnny Walker Black and talked ducks, nothing more.”
George W. Bush:
“Love Harry Potter. There’s nothin’ better than a good fantasy.”
Donald Rumsfeld:
“What I knew and when I knew it? I’m not sure I can answer that, I mean, I have no specific recollection of what I knew or when I knew it, or even if I knew what I knew when I thought I knew it. This is a fluid process, but let me assure you that I’m very sure of what I know now as opposed to what I didn’t know then. I can’t say that I know now what I didn’t know then, but I’m fairly certain that my recollection of what I cannot recollect is accurate.”
George W. Bush:
“I’m the President and we’re at war, so that makes me a wartime President.”
Dick Cheney:
“I see no conflict of interest in my relationship with Halliburton and frankly, I’m not going to answer questions of this nature again.”
Laura Bush:
“Yes, from time to time I read the President a bedtime story. What’s wrong with that?”
Condi Rice:
“I believe the WMD will be found in time. Saddam knows where they are and we have Saddam, therefore, we also, de facto, have the WMD. The fact that we don’t have them physically – that we can’t touch or inspect them – doesn’t mean they do not exist, and anyone who claims otherwise is simply engaging in anti-American rhetoric.”
Donald Rumsfeld:
“Abusing the abusers in a war zone is not the same as torturing the torturers during peace time. I mean, it’s the same thing as a golfer; is a golfer still a golfer when he’s not playing golf? I mean, at what point does a golfer cease to become a golfer and become something else? ”
George W. Bush:
“I have been to the mountaintop and I know there is no evil in the American heart. None. Take my word for it. We are righteous and our motives are as pure as the driven sand, er, snow. The transformational power of snow is very great. Anyone who says otherwise simply doesn’t understand how the world works.”
Dick Cheney:
“Exporting jobs overseas is good for America. Why? I don’t feel compelled to explain why and in fact I believe I have a constitutional right not to explain. The fact of the matter is that the more American jobs we export the more our economy grows. Anyone who says otherwise simply does not grasp the complexities of global economics. It’s perfectly clear that the more jobs we export to India, the richer Americans become.”
John Ashcroft
I believe the best way to preserve civil liberties is to take them away. Our civil liberties may be the basis for our freedom, but it is our freedom which renders us insecure and vulnerable to attack. Anyone who claims otherwise is simply unpatriotic. We can be free or safe but we can’t be both.
Laura Bush:
“Well, we’re still reading the first Harry Potter story. How long have we been reading it? I don’t see how that’s relative. It’s a very complicated story. Anyone who says otherwise hasn’t read the book.”
Condi Rice:
“It’s not fair to say that none of us read the pre-war intelligence reports, although I have no specific recollection at this time of what those reports might have contained, but my guess is that they contained intelligence.”
Donald Rumsfeld:
“What’s the difference between abuse and torture? Well, if I go home after a lousy day and kick my dog, that’s abuse. If I hold him down and stick a needle in his paw, that’s torture. I can assure you that no animals were tortured or abused in the Abu Ghairb prison – at least that I’m aware of, and I’m certain that I’m not aware of any.“
Dick Cheney:
“I see nothing unethical or unlawful about taking a Supreme Court justice duck hunting. All we did was shoot ducks and drink whiskey and there’s nothing illegal about that. Democrats have made baseless accusations that I plied Justice Scalia with Jack Daniels and tried to influence his thinking. This is utterly false. We drank Johnny Walker Black and talked ducks, nothing more.”
George W. Bush:
“Love Harry Potter. There’s nothin’ better than a good fantasy.”
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Poems from an Occasional Poet
EVEN DOZEN – For Terry
Count on the winds of November to blow
The sky clear
Make it easy to see what can’t be seen
In the space between summer and Fall
The mountains emerge in stark relief
Bluish purple in the changed light
Leaves cut loose and soar
Collect in the gutter, crackle underfoot
This is our time, our day, our hour.
An even dozen and counting
Remember when we climbed through the ruins
Of that castle in Portugal
High on the hill
Past the stations of the cross
The whole hillside to ourselves
Together in the steamy heat of the Yucatan
And a dark London afternoon
On the train to Paris
The subway in New York
And back again to where we began
Back to feeling every emotion life offers
The freedom and claustrophobia of union
And children
The pressures of every day grind
That make us forget the very reason
For it all©
FRIDAY
Friday and the fog rolling in
Tom said, “stay out of the barn”
Sabbath found no answers to the riddle of his life
The Dodgers are back to the wall
The Cards are flying high
Beer and baseball wait
A little of one, a lot of the other
Tomorrow we travel the highway through the sprawl
Wife and kids
Papa at the wheel
Now the two-faced hag in the corner wants to make friends
With those she envies
Bush & Kerry again tonight, meeting in the electronic Town Hall
Vegas bookies post the odds, Karl Rove works his spin
More of the same the same the same, my lies poll better than your lies
Democracy at its worst, its ugliest
I’m tired of the whining, how nothing is ever good enough
Don’t upset my leaky rowboat, my comfortable sinking
I’d rather die than change, wilt than grow, ebb than flow
There is more than all this, right?
This means little in the grand scheme of
Birth and death
War and famine
Wealth and poverty
Good and evil
What matters is rising about the pettiness, rising out of the gutter
The slime, the sewer, the shit
Walking tall when others crawl, speaking true while others lie
Soon enough we will all be dead©
MOCKING US ALL
Sun on concrete
white sheets on gray steel
Raise the final curtain
on a morning preordained
Sanctioned by law
Kill the killer
for his crime
Sitting stoic
and remorseless
over the last meal
Mocking the priest
the rabbi
and the minister
with a chilling look
Once a child
normal
as any other
clean
as any other
light
as any other©
BREAKING MORNING©
Seagull on a lamppost
A real bird’s eye view
Of the old gangsta off his porch for the first
Time in memory, tatted arms bare against the chill
tasting paroled freedom
Of a couple of kids locked in a mating dance
Near the high school
A ritual as old as the law of attraction
Of the comings and goings and secret couplings
The silent longings of lunch hour lovers
The desperate competition for attention
The first electric touch of skin on skin
The unrequited heartache
Of the unused Armory, the rusted canon
And the grounded helicopter, helpless as an insect
Without wings
Of the silent stadium draped in silvery dew
Solitary footprints marking the passage of man and dog
Of a weedy lot near the commandante’s street,
Fenced and chained against the day when bold money
Transforms it
Of abandoned shopping carts and broken cars
Cracked glass sparkling in the sun
Count on the winds of November to blow
The sky clear
Make it easy to see what can’t be seen
In the space between summer and Fall
The mountains emerge in stark relief
Bluish purple in the changed light
Leaves cut loose and soar
Collect in the gutter, crackle underfoot
This is our time, our day, our hour.
An even dozen and counting
Remember when we climbed through the ruins
Of that castle in Portugal
High on the hill
Past the stations of the cross
The whole hillside to ourselves
Together in the steamy heat of the Yucatan
And a dark London afternoon
On the train to Paris
The subway in New York
And back again to where we began
Back to feeling every emotion life offers
The freedom and claustrophobia of union
And children
The pressures of every day grind
That make us forget the very reason
For it all©
FRIDAY
Friday and the fog rolling in
Tom said, “stay out of the barn”
Sabbath found no answers to the riddle of his life
The Dodgers are back to the wall
The Cards are flying high
Beer and baseball wait
A little of one, a lot of the other
Tomorrow we travel the highway through the sprawl
Wife and kids
Papa at the wheel
Now the two-faced hag in the corner wants to make friends
With those she envies
Bush & Kerry again tonight, meeting in the electronic Town Hall
Vegas bookies post the odds, Karl Rove works his spin
More of the same the same the same, my lies poll better than your lies
Democracy at its worst, its ugliest
I’m tired of the whining, how nothing is ever good enough
Don’t upset my leaky rowboat, my comfortable sinking
I’d rather die than change, wilt than grow, ebb than flow
There is more than all this, right?
This means little in the grand scheme of
Birth and death
War and famine
Wealth and poverty
Good and evil
What matters is rising about the pettiness, rising out of the gutter
The slime, the sewer, the shit
Walking tall when others crawl, speaking true while others lie
Soon enough we will all be dead©
MOCKING US ALL
Sun on concrete
white sheets on gray steel
Raise the final curtain
on a morning preordained
Sanctioned by law
Kill the killer
for his crime
Sitting stoic
and remorseless
over the last meal
Mocking the priest
the rabbi
and the minister
with a chilling look
Once a child
normal
as any other
clean
as any other
light
as any other©
BREAKING MORNING©
Seagull on a lamppost
A real bird’s eye view
Of the old gangsta off his porch for the first
Time in memory, tatted arms bare against the chill
tasting paroled freedom
Of a couple of kids locked in a mating dance
Near the high school
A ritual as old as the law of attraction
Of the comings and goings and secret couplings
The silent longings of lunch hour lovers
The desperate competition for attention
The first electric touch of skin on skin
The unrequited heartache
Of the unused Armory, the rusted canon
And the grounded helicopter, helpless as an insect
Without wings
Of the silent stadium draped in silvery dew
Solitary footprints marking the passage of man and dog
Of a weedy lot near the commandante’s street,
Fenced and chained against the day when bold money
Transforms it
Of abandoned shopping carts and broken cars
Cracked glass sparkling in the sun
Saturday, November 13, 2004
Man Thrusts Big Toe in Water
I'm old enough to remember when there was no Internet, electronic mail or weblogs, and I confess posting anything for all the world to see makes me feel like a narcissist. Who gives a rip about what some middle-aged guy from Santa Barbara, California has to say -- about anything?
On the other hand, we are living in an Age of Dumbness, a fact proven by the results of our recent national elections, when the voting public made a half-wit President legitimate and also elected a bunch of right-wing crackpots to the House and Senate. I'm still grappling with the aftermath, the portents and implications of what occured eleven days ago. Hell, I'm still wrestling with the popularity of "Reality" TV.
Forgive me, I'm slow.
In the Age of Dumbness our cultural gatekeepers ask people like Paris Hilton and Carmen Electra for their opinion on politics, even though one can argue that neither is more qualified to offer an opinion than I am. I have, after all, been voting for nearly a quarter century. I remember Carter, Reagan, Bush I; I've watched Peter Jennings, Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw grow old. The hypocrisy of the Clinton impeachment is still fresh in my mind, the stark contrast of the famous presidential blow-job with the deadly perfidy of the current Administration. Go figure.
So, perhaps, after all, I have something to add to the world of electronic chatter that might make sense to someone other than myself: a thought on current events, an impression of a Saturday afternoon sky, a rant against the local school district, or a revelation inspired by a fine novel. The urge to communicate has been with our species for a very long time, so why shouldn't this caveman scratch some words on the wall?
On the other hand, we are living in an Age of Dumbness, a fact proven by the results of our recent national elections, when the voting public made a half-wit President legitimate and also elected a bunch of right-wing crackpots to the House and Senate. I'm still grappling with the aftermath, the portents and implications of what occured eleven days ago. Hell, I'm still wrestling with the popularity of "Reality" TV.
Forgive me, I'm slow.
In the Age of Dumbness our cultural gatekeepers ask people like Paris Hilton and Carmen Electra for their opinion on politics, even though one can argue that neither is more qualified to offer an opinion than I am. I have, after all, been voting for nearly a quarter century. I remember Carter, Reagan, Bush I; I've watched Peter Jennings, Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw grow old. The hypocrisy of the Clinton impeachment is still fresh in my mind, the stark contrast of the famous presidential blow-job with the deadly perfidy of the current Administration. Go figure.
So, perhaps, after all, I have something to add to the world of electronic chatter that might make sense to someone other than myself: a thought on current events, an impression of a Saturday afternoon sky, a rant against the local school district, or a revelation inspired by a fine novel. The urge to communicate has been with our species for a very long time, so why shouldn't this caveman scratch some words on the wall?
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