[Many of you know Jim from his Welcomat and later NY Press days, by far the best columnist I had while editing the Welco. This new gem of his appears on Patreon, an online publishing site. If you click on the headline below, it should take you there, where, if so inclined, you can join the jolly gang that supports him, as all of us should. He’s not just my friend, but the real reason I still try to write the stuff here. I’ll get back to posting my own rants next time, though I doubt it will be up to what you’re reading here, this week.]
Snippets L (That’s “50” to all you non-Romans): At Blackthorne Manor (Patreon 03/31/24)
In the last collection of Snippets I questioned the validity of the exhausted protest chant, “a people united will never be defeated.” This is, of course, not true and never has been. Now jump ahead about fifty years. At present the reigning politically-minded bumper sticker slogan seems to be “Speak Truth to Power.”
Okay, let’s begin with Socrates in the 5th century B.C.E. and move forward from there. Name a single instance in which “speaking truth to power” has accomplished a damn thing. Speaking the truth has never ever had the slightest effect on power. Power by nature doesn’t give a toss about the truth, considering it a pesky annoyance at best. Throughout history those poor fools who have attempted to present those in power with truth have had a nasty tendency to get disappeared in one way or another. So if you’re one of those socially conscious sorts who’s dropped a bundle on “Speak Truth to Power” buttons, t-shirts and the ubiquitous bumper stickers, well, good luck to you there, partner.
***
You know what skill I never mastered? (Yes yes yes I know, let’s break out the spreadsheet, right?)
Alright, let me try again. You know what skill I never mastered? Spitting. Always wanted to be able to spit well, but never got the hang of it. Whenever I tried, the saliva always just kinda fell out and dribbled down my chin. It’s awfully hard to express your defiance and contempt when in essence you’re drooling.
Well, I’ll keep at it.
***
Here’s a creepy and annoying thought. I’ve never had any time for the idea of “souls,” “ghosts,” or any form of “afterlife.” Silly claptrap invented to keep the sad and desperate masses docile. When you’re dead you’re dead and that’s that. I’ve always found it a much more comforting thought.
Still, sometimes the disassociation takes it that extra step and leaves me thinking, “I wonder if I died awhile back and simply never noticed?’ I’d been in enough sketchy situations over the years it’s certainly possible. After an overdose in the mid-’80s a doctor told me I’d been clinically dead for a couple minutes. What if I never came back from that (or a hundred other close calls), and everything I’ve experienced since has been nothing but the echoed vibrations of the last straggling neurons in a dying brain?
If it turns out I really did die some time back, and it further turns out I was wrong all along and this really is the afterlife, well I want my money back.
I try not to think about this too much.
***
It’s always so sad to see friends get old. This has nothing to do with age. I’m not talking about a few more wrinkles and hair that’s turning gray and thinning out. I have friends in their seventies and eighties who remain more vital, sharp and creative than I’ve ever been. I’m talking about friends my age and younger who seem to lose a little something overnight, a certain spark and glimmer, the creative impulse, a sense of humor. I’ve seen it happen to so many people. One day they’re cracking wise, beer in hand, laying out their latest project, the next they’re focused on Wednesday’s Zoom call with a supplier, ongoing home renovations, the shortcomings of their kid’s soccer coach, investments and lawn care. It’s as if at thirty, forty, fifty, the world finally caught up with them, beat them senseless and turned someone who was once very much Alive into an adult. Adults are no damn fun to be around.
***
This used to be a much longer bit about the insipid low-rent carnival that will bedevil us for the next eight months and far beyond. Then I thought “oh, who the fuck needs that?” and cut it in half. Then I cut it in half again. Then again and again, saying “fuck it” all the while. At last I decided to leave only the last line:
“This is why I always give the big horse laugh to anyone who wrings his or her hands while fretting about ‘threats to our democracy.’”
***
I just read a history of the Crusades. Hilarious to consider the whole flapdoodle began when tens of thousands of Christian pilgrims, thanks to some cockamamie prophecy, descended on Jerusalem one weekend like a bunch of Spring Breakers to await the Second Coming. Justifiably annoyed by this flood of riff-raff pouring into town uninvited and making a mess of things, the Muslim citizens of Jerusalem were rude to them. Big mistake, and there went the next century. So in short the Crusades were all about tourism.
***
When the young autistic waiter returned and set the pitcher down on the table between me and Schizoid Gary he said, “That’s a very nice watch.”
My watch is not an exquisite precision-engineered timekeeping accessory encased in titanium and diamonds. It’s a cheap talking watch I ordered online for $20.
“Thank you,” I said. “Here, let me show you how it works, I held it up and punched the oblong button just above the face.
“The time is three forty-eight p.m.,” the tinny British voice announced.
“I have a nice watch too,” the young autistic waiter said. “It’s a Casio. I like it because it’s waterproof, so I can wear it when I’m washing dishes.”
“That sounds like a much nicer watch than mine,” I told him.
Then he returned to the kitchen.
***
Over the course of 2023, four different reputable, nationally-respected statistical firms declared Green Bay, WI:
1. Home to the Safest Drivers in America.
2. The third most peaceful city in America.
3.The Best Place to Live in America.
And 4. The Drunkest City in America. (Four of the top five cities in this category were in Wisconsin, by the way.)
I’ll leave it to you to fit them all together.
***
In accordance with Standard Operating Procedure, I’d been dropped in a chair in a corner with a beer to ensure I wouldn’t trample any wandering toddlers. It was my grandniece’s third birthday. I’m trying to avoid bitching about being obligated to attend kid’s birthday parties. I think I’ve made my point and it accomplishes little. Bitching was justified last year when this grandniece’s second birthday was held in some kind of nightmare indoor playland for the two-to-five set. This year it was held at my niece’s house in, um, “Hortonville,” so I had no immediate cause to complain. I liked their large and dangerous dog Pluto. Plus I was able to snag my grandniece a child-sized “Taxi Driver” t-shirt for her birthday. I was mighty pleased with that.
My niece’s in-laws are a sprawling and inbred clan. To give you some idea, the entire population of, um, “Hortonville” shares the same last name, and what a last name it is. Whenever anyone in the area throws a party of any kind, the whole town show up.
Apart from one guy who couldn’t run away because his leg had been shattered when a cow kicked him(!), at the Playland thing last year I found it odd that not a one of the Hortonvillians would speak to me. Not a hello, not a peep of any kind. Even if I asked a pleasant and innocuous direct question, they would step away or begin talking to someone else about farm equipment or the best spots to fish for bass.
“Well whatever,” I thought as we were leaving.
As the Hortonville clan began streaming into my niece’s house this year I pushed myself up from my safety chair in the spirit of convivial neighborliness and extended my hand in greeting and friendship. There were dozens of people there, but they either walked past without a word or consciously veered away. It was like I was invisible or a lingering bad smell. Noticing my situation, my sister stepped over and shook my hand, which allowed me to resume my proper place in the safety chair. There I would spend the rest of the afternoon petting the dangerous dog and not trampling toddlers.
.
I was more curious than offended by the Hortonvillians behavior. Was I really that creepy? Were they afraid blindness might be communicable? Were they so uncomfortable around the cripple they found it easier to pretend I wasn’t in their midst? I guess that’s just human. I’d run into it before, but had never been so completely socially quarantined by a crowd this big in such a small space. Employing Occam’s razor , I decided the most logical answer was that I was as irresistibly charming as ever, and they were all a bunch of stupid backward inbred redneck pig-fucking hicks.
My thesis was confirmed when my grandniece opened her presents and I learned no one in the room had ever heard of “Taxi Driver,”
As we were leaving I thanked my niece (whom I adore, by the way) for having us over, wished my grandniece (ditto) another happy birthday, then added “All your in-laws are fucking inbred assholes.”
I may not be invited back next year.
lickhaven 