During my first overnight camping trip, at the age of four, my dad taught me how to make an archery bow out of a green sapling and nylon string. At five, I could tie several knots and differentiate between tinder, kindling and fuel. Peter appeared when I was eight or so, and by then I could pitch a tent, wield an axe, lash a fence, rig a fishing pole, fire a black powder rifle and properly sharpen a knife.
“Peter just has no common sense,” my dad would say, shaking his head. Dad led our church’s all-male scouting group, which met every Wednesday evening. We drove 40 miles each way to these meetings for several years, as we did to two services every Sunday, during the time when Pastor Steve led the church in Webster City. For a period we picked up Peter along the way. This guy had a knack for breaking everything. To this day, you can’t go on a camping trip with my family and ask, “Who broke this?” without the inevitable reply- “Peter.”
As an example, while setting up tents at the beginning of one camping trip, Peter asked if he could help. “Sure,” my dad said, “Grab one of those tomahawks and hammer in those tent pegs.” Yes, we did have several tomahawks lying around. Oh, does that seem weird to you? Also, our tent pegs were railroad spikes. Anyway, Peter took a hack at driving in a railroad spike using the sharp end of the throwing hatchet instead of the butt-end, leaving a remarkable chip in the blade.
Peter was several years older than me; closer to my brother’s age. My brother knew algebra. Peter did not know left from right. I began to wonder what common sense was and why Peter didn’t have it. Dad began taking some extra time to thoroughly explain things to Peter. I asked why Peter’s own dad didn’t teach him these things, and my dad explained that some kids don’t have responsible or attentive dads and others didn’t have dads at all. It occurred to me that common sense was something akin to things your parents are supposed to teach you.
My first pocket knife had raccoons etched on the blade. When I showed it to Peter, he couldn’t figure out how to work the locking mechanism that keeps the blade from slipping shut. After demonstrating how it worked, he promptly closed it on himself and cut a finger. I quickly fetched a band-aid, hoping I wasn’t going to get in trouble for being in part responsible for the mishap, and watched wide-eyed as Peter futilely tried to figure out how to apply the bandage. I eventually had to adhere it myself. Peter had no common sense.
Dad had given me this knife during a strange fishing trip a few years prior. We attended a much closer church in Fort Dodge then, and it was evenly divided into the older teenage kids- Sean, Jay, Troy and my brother, and the younger grade school kids- Stevie, Trent, Jeremy and myself. Honestly, the other kids were a bunch of hoodlums. Fort Dodge was a poor and rough-and-tumble town. My dad was in charge of the older kids and Jeremy’s dad was in charge of the younger kids. Jeremy’s dad taught us the scouting group's Code and the definitions of some of the strange words it contained, including “loyal,” “courteous” and “obedient.” I specifically recall him defining loyal as, “You know, being loyal to someone or something,” which I realized was no explanation whatsoever. I wondered if he knew what it meant.
On the day I received the knife, we went fishing near a spillway in Fort Dodge, and were given strict instructions to be very careful around the dam- no getting near the water, no running and no climbing or crossing the protective barriers. Before long, us younger kids had gotten bored with fishing and were running, climbing and shoving each other on top of the spillway.
Suddenly, we noticed a commotion below where the big kids still were, and Jeremy’s dad seemed to be attending to my dad, who was holding his back. Without knowing what was going on, I decided I’d better start following instructions and stopped horsing around with the other kids. Shortly thereafter, one of them slid down the spillway and probably would have drowned if my dad hadn’t gone in after him and fetched him out of the water. (I honestly don’t remember which kid it was, but for easier readability later on, I’m going to suppose it was Trent.) After that, it was time to leave, and as we packed things up dad gave me the raccoon-laden pocket knife with strict instructions as to its proper usage, and I considered this my reward for being relatively obedient.
The scouting group meetings generally consisted of a morality lesson and a fun activity. One activity was ring-toss, which consisted of attempting to throw wooden shower curtain rings around the neck of one of a cluster of soda bottles. The reward for accomplishing this feat was the bottle itself, but since I didn’t particularly care for soda, I found the game a bit tedious. One day while this activity was taking place, Peter revealed a box, and inside was a set of handcuffs replete with key. These things were pretty much the coolest thing I had ever seen.
Peter said they belonged to his dad, who was a cop. By this time I had determined that Peter didn’t have a father, because of the common sense thing, so this bombshell surprised me. However, Stevie’s dad at that other church was a cop, too, and Stevie was the worst behaving kid of the bunch. So it seemed even police officers could be bad fathers. After that, I’d continually ask Peter to bring the handcuffs again, but he never did. Also, his stories pertaining to his father’s occupation and whereabouts was in constant flux, so I began to suspect he was inventing him like Dill in To Kill a Mockingbird.
On one camping trip, while a few of us were milling around in our tent, separate from the adults, the taboo topic of girls came up. “What would you do if a girl drove into the campgrounds right now?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, uninterested. It seemed a stupid premise. Girls weren’t allowed on these camping trips. Anyway, I had a sister who wasn’t particularly mysterious, so I was simply glad for the respite from one being around.
Peter, however, went into a monologue: “First, I’d bring her back into this tent and close the flap. And zip up all the windows. Then, I’d slowly unbutton her blouse, starting at the top and working my way down…”
“Why would you want to do that?” I interrupted. Peter gave me an indecipherable look. I didn’t know whether it meant my question was stupid or that he didn’t actually know the answer, either. I never got the chance to find out, as Little Steve, the pastor’s kid, quickly put an abrupt end to the conversation.
After pondering this awkward moment, I concluded that this was another example of Peter’s lack of parental guidance. Otherwise he would have known better than to have inappropriate fantasies about girls.
On another occasion, my dad returned home late, and mentioned it was because he had been visiting a kid in prison. It was a kid from the Fort Dodge church’s scouting group way back when who I didn’t immediately remember, but eventually recognized as the infrequent member who had once shown me how to construct an effective paper airplane. How could someone smart enough to know that be in jail? “I think his dad had a drinking problem and might have been abusive,” my dad explained. “Do you remember- we visited his house once to try and help and I even reported his situation to social services, but they didn’t do anything.” I vaguely remembered. “He was the one who threw the knife at me.”
“What?!” This was certainly news to me.
“It was on that same fishing trip when Trent fell in the spillway. At the previous meeting we had done an activity and as a prize I had given him a pocket knife with raccoons on the blade- I think you have it now. Anyway, I think his dad must have found him with it and he’d gotten in trouble for it, because the next week during that fishing trip he drove up, got out of the car and threw the knife at me while I was sitting at a picnic table and it hit me square in the back. Luckily, it had rotated so the point of the handle hit me even though the blade was out but he still threw it hard enough that it really hurt. At first, I thought I’d been shot.”
“That’s not why he’s in jail, is it?”
“Oh no, I figured he had enough problems. I guess I was right.”
Why would my dad now be going out of his way to visit an incarcerated person who had once tried to kill him? It defied common sense, unless I was to stick with my original interpretation of the term.
I find an exploration of the term “common sense” yields more questions than answers. I assume the idea is a derivative of the Jungian concept of the collective unconscious, which I, as a subjective individual, can only see as a load of hooey. I don’t believe I can remember things that didn’t happen to me. Will a bird raised in isolation still fly south for the winter without being introduced to a migrating flock? Hell if I know; nor do I consider the question germane. Instincts are distinctly separate to memory, as the former are things done without a previous sensory influence.
I have no idea how accurate or precise my memories are, nor am I able to perceive to what degree they have been altered, influenced or changed over time. Are my remembrances more or less influential than the actual experiences I’ve had, many of which are totally irretrievable to my consciousness? I don’t know the answer to that question, either.
My friend Eric is fond of postulating, “Can you think it if you can’t say it?” It is a clever question in part because the quest for the answer requires both intense examination and detailed articulation. In the end, I’m of the opinion that the impression that it often takes years to properly explain things that have been known all along point toward the reality that we can’t say much of what we think. An example is the person who can provide the answer to a math problem but is incapable of “showing his work,” or demonstrating the method used to come to that solution. However, even if it is in fact correct, one cannot trust the conclusion without demonstrating a fully coherent process of obtaining it. It would be unjustifiable to place any validity in unexplainable beliefs.
Does an unsolved mathematical equation have a solution? The best answer we can give is simply to try and solve it. Yet, I firmly believe that questions without answers exist in abundance. One seemingly useless thing to do is simply assume an answer and then assume that answer is the correct answer.
At least one impossible question is immediately posited here: If the blade of that knife had found its mark, who would have saved Trent from drowning?” There are no answers to purely hypothetical questions with no applicable predetermined rules. There is no point it wondering, “What if….” Life is what it is, which is to some degree separate from how we remember it to be, unless we are to argue life doesn’t exist at all, but is a figment of our own imaginations. That assumption must be rejected on the grounds that it forces us into an egocentric existence where nobody else matters. Because it cannot be demonstrated otherwise, we must assume the consciousness of the other is as relevant as our own. (I am making an argument that can align itself with Pascal’s wager here: it would be a lesser transgression to assume equality and be wrong than it would to assume inequality and be wrong.)
I often find my mind returning to moments in life that found me bewildered. Many of these seem to pertain to juxtapositions between the world those who raised us intended us to see, and the world as it reveals itself despite them. I am reminded of another scene from To Kill A Mockingbird, when Atticus says, “There's a lot of ugly things in this world, son. I wish I could keep 'em all away from you. That's never possible.” As illustrated in Plato’s allegory of the cave, refusing to question the validity of how we immediately see things is detrimental to our growth.
In the years since Peter, I’ve come to the conclusion that when people say, “It’s common sense,” what they mean is they are incapable of effectively explaining their reasoning, likely because the logic is dubious, so they will instead refuse to answer on the unfounded grounds that the question is stupid. I see no evidence that common sense exists at all, but that some of us are better inclined towards finding reasonable and effective solutions than others.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
How To Fall In Love Without Really Trying
Part One
When I arrived in Iowa, I had gone almost a decade without watching television. Overwhelmed by the hundreds of programs offered on my brother’s gigantic flatscreen, I spent the first several weeks catching myself up to date while looking for work. As nearly everything on television is constantly being rerun, this wasn’t particularly difficult. One day, while flipping through channels, I paused at some program about guys who have romantic relationships with life-sized dolls. At first I thought it was a documentary Janine had recommended, but then I became curious whether the people on it resembled the character played by the satisfyingly ceaselessly creepy Dennis Hopper in the cult classic movie River’s Edge (1986), starring Crispin Glover (in a hilariously quotable performance), Keanu Reeves and Ione Skye. I really, really enjoy this movie, despite the fact the director seems to have had little clue as to what to do with what he potentially had.
One interviewee in this television program explained that he dates dolls because he doesn’t know how to meet real women. Maybe your conversation ice-breaker needs work, I snickered to myself.
One trait I possess but have never been able to fully explain is that, as an anonymous person in a group of people, I am completely uninteresting. I was always the last kid picked for the elementary recess football team, despite the fact that I wasn’t really too bad. Whenever I go to any gathering with a group of male friends, I watch in the background while girls swoon over everyone in my group except me.
However, and this is a big but, if I am able to finagle myself into a one-on-one conversation in a setting relatively free of distractions, I become a bit of a babe magnet, as long as the girl can get (past) my rather tasteless and often punny sense of humor. Other prerequisites include the avoidance of small-talk, which I can never pull off, and someone who finds cockiness and clumsiness attractive when paired.
Perhaps the lynchpin to this contrast in dating success lies in my rather entrancing baby blue eyes, which I can use to full effect only when I capture someone long enough to lock gazes. I tend to not make eye contact with people I have no interest in; it can cause unwanted attention/confusion. (I fully realize these are ridiculous statements to be making of oneself, but my friends with vouch for me that it’s true: my eyes are magic.)
I had pondered the doll fetish guy’s concern long enough that the next time someone whined, “I don’t know how to meet women,” I’d prepared a rather brilliant (I say so myself) response: “I’ll tell you how to meet them if you tell me how to avoid them.”
My eyes get me in trouble sometimes. One nuisance is I have a rather strong weakness for pretty girls. On another television show, one that I actually enjoy, called Iron Chef America, there’s often a curmudgeonly judge named Jeffrey Steingarten, and in one episode he rudely says to the lubricious Jeri Ryan aka Seven of Nine, “It’s no accident that beautiful women have bad personalities- they think they can get away with anything.” It’s a fact, Jack.
Right after my last relationship ended in misery, females were invisible. I had no interest and no sex drive for perhaps the first time since puberty. This was a very nice state to be in, actually, as it greatly tapered distractions. Then one morning about five months after the fiasco, a woman got onto the bus, and as she turned and bent slightly to put her ticket into the machine, I found myself thinking, holy crap that is a fine ass. Uh, oh. Fortunately, she didn’t sit close enough to make eye contact.
I determined that my next tattoo would be an anatomical heart inside of a birdcage on my ribcage, the most painful area I’ve had inked, to remind myself not to let another girl run recklessly off with my easily-seduced and gullible self. It would also bring to mind Molly, who hearts hearts and is my closest female friend with whom I remained prudently platonic.
Part Two
A few months more solidly on my feet, a co-worker asked whether Carolyn and I had met. “I’ve seen her around,” I deadpanned. Carolyn laughed. I instantly wanted to make her laugh more. Too bad she’s so cute, otherwise she might be fun to converse with, I thought. With the exception of her finely contoured backside, I hadn’t looked at her yet.
When we did get around to striking up a conversation, my tat plans somehow came up. The next time I saw her, she stated, “I’ve been thinking about your tattoo idea- the imagery seems pretty intense.” I heard, “I’ve been thinking about you….”
I decided to find out what this chick was about, which I was obliged to wait a week to do as we work together only on Sundays. In the meantime, that other co-worker mentioned Carolyn was my age. (I can’t discern ages at all.) Noon on Sunday arrived. Carolyn mentioned robots. I heart robots. I mentioned Fast, Cheap and Out of Control. She admitted, “I started watching that but fell asleep. I’ve just been watching a lot of fluff lately, like Dr. Who.”
This is somewhat akin to mentioning to an 80’s era Bulls fan that you’re closely related to Michael Jordan. We’re talking Times Square ball-drop. In fact, I once jokingly declared I model my life after The Doctor to an ex who’d never heard of the show, but months later read aloud a sentence from a book which described it as a “children’s television program,” to which I responded, “That’s harsh.”
It goes without saying that I went into a diatribe about the second (and best!) Doctor (played by Patrick Troughton) and attempted to score some easy bonus points by explaining how the female sidekicks were much stronger characters before Tom Baker, the fourth Doctor, started complaining of being upstaged.
We moved onto hobbies. “Lately, I’ve been trying to learn to skateboard.” Okay, timeout. Molly and I once had a stalemate discussion about which was hotter, girls who skateboard or girls who play bass guitar.
Carolyn and I share an affinity for direct communication, juvenile humor, the absurd and macabre. We both read obituaries, appreciate wandering aimlessly through cemeteries, shop almost exclusively at Goodwill, enjoy science fiction and find children unnerving. We like chess and can’t stand Scrabble. We are bi-centennial babies (and therefore Dragons), which comes in handy when swapping memories as we experienced each year at the same time. When I casually mentioned I would love to study Kendo, she exclaimed, “Swordfighting? Me, too!”
“Too bad our interactions are limited to Sundays during work. We should meet up in another setting sometime. Like dinner, or something?”
“That would be great,” she responded, “but I have dietary restrictions in that I’m a vegetarian.”
“So am I.” I tried not to sound shocked. This is happening in the middle of nowhere, Iowa.
Leaning into the counter which separated our areas of work, my oceanic orbs drank deeply into a pair of bottled whisky worlds. It occurred to me that we were the same height. “Let me get your number and we’ll figure out a time to do something,” I suggested.
“Do you have severed heads in your freezer?” she replied.
“I shrink them so they can be displayed chronologically on my mantle.” My attempt at humor fell flat.
“There’s an Indian restaurant in Hiawatha.” It gets better. “Do you like the X-Men?” It gets better.
After the dinner and movie, my brother asked how it went. I shrugged, “First dates are easy; it’s two years from now that’s the tricky part.” I then instantly bombarded her email box with a series of mistakes and personality traits from previous experiences I intended to avoid henceforth. I realized this might be received as absurd after one date, but my fears were assuaged when she replied not only with answers but a longer list of her concerns. Our sense of ethics, desires and expectations were not just compatible; they were virtually identical.
For our second outing, we played a leisurely game of disc golf on an overcrowded course in Coralville. When Carolyn headed toward the wrong tee early on, I intoned, “Don’t go that way! Never go that way!” in my poor impersonation of a blue-haired worm with a British accent. Our conversation quickly and excitedly turned to all manner of things pertaining to The Labyrinth (1986), but mostly David Bowie and Terry Jones.
By the fifth hole, where the basket lies directly beyond a steep slope, play had bottlenecked. When our turn came, a small crowd had gathered on a little ridge behind us. As I approached the concrete platform, I was remembering that last time I played this course, during which this drive had flown directly into a tree on the right and rolled down the hill before resting under a log just in front of where people were now watching expectantly. (The difficulty in this particular throw lies in that, if you don’t throw the disc steep enough, it won’t clear the incline, but if you throw it too steep, it will tend to fall short and also curve too far to the left. My previous mistake was most likely a result of anticipating I’d error by throwing too steep and attempting to compensate by throwing the disc too far to the right.)
As I positioned my feet for the throw, a voice behind me demanded, “Andrew- don’t fuck it up.”
I glanced back to spy her mischievous grin and responded, “With a crowd, too. Under pressure!” I thought of something and smiled back. “I won’t,” I added, then broke into the Bowie/Queen collaborative bass line famously copped by Vanilla Ice. My drive neatly cleared the incline and landed a few feet in front of the hole.
Based on my dating track record, it would be fair to be skeptical that this relationship will fair better, but after all the dealings with women I’ve had over the past 15+ years, I consider myself something of an expert in the process. Being with Carolyn is both comfortable and engaging, and she has demonstrated herself to be reliable and trustworthy. I already look forward to the tricky part….
When I arrived in Iowa, I had gone almost a decade without watching television. Overwhelmed by the hundreds of programs offered on my brother’s gigantic flatscreen, I spent the first several weeks catching myself up to date while looking for work. As nearly everything on television is constantly being rerun, this wasn’t particularly difficult. One day, while flipping through channels, I paused at some program about guys who have romantic relationships with life-sized dolls. At first I thought it was a documentary Janine had recommended, but then I became curious whether the people on it resembled the character played by the satisfyingly ceaselessly creepy Dennis Hopper in the cult classic movie River’s Edge (1986), starring Crispin Glover (in a hilariously quotable performance), Keanu Reeves and Ione Skye. I really, really enjoy this movie, despite the fact the director seems to have had little clue as to what to do with what he potentially had.
One interviewee in this television program explained that he dates dolls because he doesn’t know how to meet real women. Maybe your conversation ice-breaker needs work, I snickered to myself.
One trait I possess but have never been able to fully explain is that, as an anonymous person in a group of people, I am completely uninteresting. I was always the last kid picked for the elementary recess football team, despite the fact that I wasn’t really too bad. Whenever I go to any gathering with a group of male friends, I watch in the background while girls swoon over everyone in my group except me.
However, and this is a big but, if I am able to finagle myself into a one-on-one conversation in a setting relatively free of distractions, I become a bit of a babe magnet, as long as the girl can get (past) my rather tasteless and often punny sense of humor. Other prerequisites include the avoidance of small-talk, which I can never pull off, and someone who finds cockiness and clumsiness attractive when paired.
Perhaps the lynchpin to this contrast in dating success lies in my rather entrancing baby blue eyes, which I can use to full effect only when I capture someone long enough to lock gazes. I tend to not make eye contact with people I have no interest in; it can cause unwanted attention/confusion. (I fully realize these are ridiculous statements to be making of oneself, but my friends with vouch for me that it’s true: my eyes are magic.)
I had pondered the doll fetish guy’s concern long enough that the next time someone whined, “I don’t know how to meet women,” I’d prepared a rather brilliant (I say so myself) response: “I’ll tell you how to meet them if you tell me how to avoid them.”
My eyes get me in trouble sometimes. One nuisance is I have a rather strong weakness for pretty girls. On another television show, one that I actually enjoy, called Iron Chef America, there’s often a curmudgeonly judge named Jeffrey Steingarten, and in one episode he rudely says to the lubricious Jeri Ryan aka Seven of Nine, “It’s no accident that beautiful women have bad personalities- they think they can get away with anything.” It’s a fact, Jack.
Right after my last relationship ended in misery, females were invisible. I had no interest and no sex drive for perhaps the first time since puberty. This was a very nice state to be in, actually, as it greatly tapered distractions. Then one morning about five months after the fiasco, a woman got onto the bus, and as she turned and bent slightly to put her ticket into the machine, I found myself thinking, holy crap that is a fine ass. Uh, oh. Fortunately, she didn’t sit close enough to make eye contact.
I determined that my next tattoo would be an anatomical heart inside of a birdcage on my ribcage, the most painful area I’ve had inked, to remind myself not to let another girl run recklessly off with my easily-seduced and gullible self. It would also bring to mind Molly, who hearts hearts and is my closest female friend with whom I remained prudently platonic.
Part Two
A few months more solidly on my feet, a co-worker asked whether Carolyn and I had met. “I’ve seen her around,” I deadpanned. Carolyn laughed. I instantly wanted to make her laugh more. Too bad she’s so cute, otherwise she might be fun to converse with, I thought. With the exception of her finely contoured backside, I hadn’t looked at her yet.
When we did get around to striking up a conversation, my tat plans somehow came up. The next time I saw her, she stated, “I’ve been thinking about your tattoo idea- the imagery seems pretty intense.” I heard, “I’ve been thinking about you….”
I decided to find out what this chick was about, which I was obliged to wait a week to do as we work together only on Sundays. In the meantime, that other co-worker mentioned Carolyn was my age. (I can’t discern ages at all.) Noon on Sunday arrived. Carolyn mentioned robots. I heart robots. I mentioned Fast, Cheap and Out of Control. She admitted, “I started watching that but fell asleep. I’ve just been watching a lot of fluff lately, like Dr. Who.”
This is somewhat akin to mentioning to an 80’s era Bulls fan that you’re closely related to Michael Jordan. We’re talking Times Square ball-drop. In fact, I once jokingly declared I model my life after The Doctor to an ex who’d never heard of the show, but months later read aloud a sentence from a book which described it as a “children’s television program,” to which I responded, “That’s harsh.”
It goes without saying that I went into a diatribe about the second (and best!) Doctor (played by Patrick Troughton) and attempted to score some easy bonus points by explaining how the female sidekicks were much stronger characters before Tom Baker, the fourth Doctor, started complaining of being upstaged.
We moved onto hobbies. “Lately, I’ve been trying to learn to skateboard.” Okay, timeout. Molly and I once had a stalemate discussion about which was hotter, girls who skateboard or girls who play bass guitar.
Carolyn and I share an affinity for direct communication, juvenile humor, the absurd and macabre. We both read obituaries, appreciate wandering aimlessly through cemeteries, shop almost exclusively at Goodwill, enjoy science fiction and find children unnerving. We like chess and can’t stand Scrabble. We are bi-centennial babies (and therefore Dragons), which comes in handy when swapping memories as we experienced each year at the same time. When I casually mentioned I would love to study Kendo, she exclaimed, “Swordfighting? Me, too!”
“Too bad our interactions are limited to Sundays during work. We should meet up in another setting sometime. Like dinner, or something?”
“That would be great,” she responded, “but I have dietary restrictions in that I’m a vegetarian.”
“So am I.” I tried not to sound shocked. This is happening in the middle of nowhere, Iowa.
Leaning into the counter which separated our areas of work, my oceanic orbs drank deeply into a pair of bottled whisky worlds. It occurred to me that we were the same height. “Let me get your number and we’ll figure out a time to do something,” I suggested.
“Do you have severed heads in your freezer?” she replied.
“I shrink them so they can be displayed chronologically on my mantle.” My attempt at humor fell flat.
“There’s an Indian restaurant in Hiawatha.” It gets better. “Do you like the X-Men?” It gets better.
After the dinner and movie, my brother asked how it went. I shrugged, “First dates are easy; it’s two years from now that’s the tricky part.” I then instantly bombarded her email box with a series of mistakes and personality traits from previous experiences I intended to avoid henceforth. I realized this might be received as absurd after one date, but my fears were assuaged when she replied not only with answers but a longer list of her concerns. Our sense of ethics, desires and expectations were not just compatible; they were virtually identical.
For our second outing, we played a leisurely game of disc golf on an overcrowded course in Coralville. When Carolyn headed toward the wrong tee early on, I intoned, “Don’t go that way! Never go that way!” in my poor impersonation of a blue-haired worm with a British accent. Our conversation quickly and excitedly turned to all manner of things pertaining to The Labyrinth (1986), but mostly David Bowie and Terry Jones.
By the fifth hole, where the basket lies directly beyond a steep slope, play had bottlenecked. When our turn came, a small crowd had gathered on a little ridge behind us. As I approached the concrete platform, I was remembering that last time I played this course, during which this drive had flown directly into a tree on the right and rolled down the hill before resting under a log just in front of where people were now watching expectantly. (The difficulty in this particular throw lies in that, if you don’t throw the disc steep enough, it won’t clear the incline, but if you throw it too steep, it will tend to fall short and also curve too far to the left. My previous mistake was most likely a result of anticipating I’d error by throwing too steep and attempting to compensate by throwing the disc too far to the right.)
As I positioned my feet for the throw, a voice behind me demanded, “Andrew- don’t fuck it up.”
I glanced back to spy her mischievous grin and responded, “With a crowd, too. Under pressure!” I thought of something and smiled back. “I won’t,” I added, then broke into the Bowie/Queen collaborative bass line famously copped by Vanilla Ice. My drive neatly cleared the incline and landed a few feet in front of the hole.
Based on my dating track record, it would be fair to be skeptical that this relationship will fair better, but after all the dealings with women I’ve had over the past 15+ years, I consider myself something of an expert in the process. Being with Carolyn is both comfortable and engaging, and she has demonstrated herself to be reliable and trustworthy. I already look forward to the tricky part….
Saturday, July 9, 2011
I Will Survive
At first I was afraid- I was petrified! Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side… but then I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong and I grew strong… and I learned how to get along. And so you're back from outer space- I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face. I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key, if I had known for just one second you'd be back to bother me.
Go on now- Go! Walk out the door. Just turn around now, 'cause you're not welcome anymore. Weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye? Did you think I'd crumble? Did you think I'd lay (sic) down and die? Oh no, not I! I will survive! Oh, as long as I know how to love I know I’ll stay alive. I've got all my life to live and I've got all my love to give and I'll survive. I will survive! Hey, hey….
It took all the strength I had not to fall apart, just trying hard to mend the pieces of my broken heart, and I spent oh, so many nights just feeling sorry for myself. I used to cry, but now I hold my head up high and you see me, somebody new! I'm not that chained up little person still in love with you. And so you felt like dropping in and just expect me to be free? Well, now I'm saving all my loving for someone who's loving me.
Go on now- Go! Walk out the door. Just turn around now, 'cause you're not welcome anymore. Weren't you the one who tried to break me with goodbye? Did you think I'd crumble? Did you think I'd lay (sic) down and die? Oh no, not I! I will survive! Oh, as long as I know how to love I know I’ll stay alive. I've got all my life to live and I've got all my love to give and I'll survive. I will survive! Oh…!
-Gloria Gaynor
Go on now- Go! Walk out the door. Just turn around now, 'cause you're not welcome anymore. Weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye? Did you think I'd crumble? Did you think I'd lay (sic) down and die? Oh no, not I! I will survive! Oh, as long as I know how to love I know I’ll stay alive. I've got all my life to live and I've got all my love to give and I'll survive. I will survive! Hey, hey….
It took all the strength I had not to fall apart, just trying hard to mend the pieces of my broken heart, and I spent oh, so many nights just feeling sorry for myself. I used to cry, but now I hold my head up high and you see me, somebody new! I'm not that chained up little person still in love with you. And so you felt like dropping in and just expect me to be free? Well, now I'm saving all my loving for someone who's loving me.
Go on now- Go! Walk out the door. Just turn around now, 'cause you're not welcome anymore. Weren't you the one who tried to break me with goodbye? Did you think I'd crumble? Did you think I'd lay (sic) down and die? Oh no, not I! I will survive! Oh, as long as I know how to love I know I’ll stay alive. I've got all my life to live and I've got all my love to give and I'll survive. I will survive! Oh…!
-Gloria Gaynor
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