Capote

Please stop by and wish Pia a Happy Two-Year Bloggiversary. (This is the only acceptable spelling of the word and I plan to have it officially recognized as such by the OED.) Anyway, she reposted her very first blog entry, and it truly is excellent.

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It was a Friday. The phone wasn’t ringing, or plans had fallen thru, or something. That seemed to be happening slightly more frequently with each month torn off the calendar. It was mid-September and I had just wadded up August and tossed it at the trash can sitting in the corner of the room. I missed. The phone rang. It was Dawn.

I don’t remember exactly when I met Dawn. I remember being struck by a splendid piece she had written. About the same time, she had become a fan of my writing. We began corresponding. And later, talking.

“Hello, Doll.” We flirted like that, as much as that can be considered flirting. “Whatcha doing?”
“Nothing.” I gave my standard, albeit more often than not accurate, answer. “You?”
“Mother’s in town. We’re getting ready for the shower on Sunday. What are your plans for tonight, Doll?”
“No plans. I think I might go to the bookstore.”
“And get what?” Her genuine curiosity came thru in the tone, if not the words.
“I don’t know. If you could choose one book to recommend, what would it be?”

She responded with a book and author I’d never heard of, which wasn’t at all unusual. Dawn was very well read. I was embarrassed at not having read more. But at the same time, I loved these conversations when we would talk about books and authors. Her voice would come alive. It was as if she were talking about her very hopes and dreams.

From time to time, I would prod her for more information. She had a good grasp of my interests, and was typically a good judge of what I would like, and what I might not. I would ask her what she thought of some book I had heard of but had never read. Trying to get more ideas. More names. More books.

Sometimes she would spout off author after author after book after book. Usually faster than I could jot them down. Some I’d heard of. A very few I’d read. Without telling her, I would always look up online the ones she mentioned, and read about the authors. It was exciting to me, too. I felt like I was learning.

She went on to give me several ideas on this particular Friday. Among them, Capote, whom embarrassingly, I’d never read.

I made a mental note of as many of the names as I could remember. Put on jeans, a polo shirt, and flip-flops. It was still more summer than autumn. I picked up August, wadded it even tighter in my hand, and threw it away. Then hurried downstairs and out into the night.

The nearest decent bookstore was a twenty minute drive. I didn’t mind at all. It was good to be out. I spent an hour in the bookstore that night. Among the four books I bought was Breakfast At Tiffany’s. I chose to read it first. It was around 1:00 in the morning when I laid down and began to read.

The desire to sleep took over after just a few pages that night. But from the very first line, I was captivated. It was brilliant. Every line, perfect. Every word, so carefully chosen. I could not believe that someone could write so well. It was breathtaking.

When I finished the book the following night, I wished it wasn’t over. I wished that he had written a thousand more. I felt inspired.

The only thing I can think to compare it to was when I had read To Have And Have Not, my first Hemingway. I would say it even surpassed that, except that it feels like blasphemy to say such a thing.

“You’ll say the world has come between us. Our lives have come between us. But I know you just don’t care…”

Heat index conspiracy

Well, I guess my Tuesday blog entry paid off. One of my friends read it, then she drove thirty minutes one way to bring me some stew. How sweet is that! I’m doing much better now. Not sure what that was.

Yesterday morning I was online, not surprisingly, and looking at the weather. It said the temperature was 90 and the heat index was 97. That got the old cogwheel turning and I began to wonder, what exactly is the heat index?

Windchill, I get. X degrees with wind speed of Y equals Z degrees with no wind. Right? So is heat index the theoretical temperature with no humidity? And if so, why? When is there ever no humidity, especially here? Who would really know what 97 with no humidity would feel like?

It all begs the question, why do we need the heat index? Well friends, I have a theory. But I’m not sure you’re ready for it. I believe we are the target of a systematic process of intimidation and manipulation, the likes of which we have never seen. No? OK, well maybe not.

But I do believe it is a ploy by the weather people. Think about it. For years, they could just give us the temperature and we’d be like, “Wow, eighty-seven degrees. Really? I was wondering how warm it was today.”

But then, we started getting our own thermometers. They became commonplace, not just a tool used by meteorologists for observing atmospheric temperatures. A few people even got their own rain gauges, and weathercocks.

The weather people panicked. Because let’s face it, without us to watch them, they are nothing. They had to come up with something new. Something we didn’t have. Something to make us think we still needed them. So they created things like wind VIL, isobars, and yes, the heat index.

Then they could say things like, “This is the heat index today. This is how hot it really feels. This new measurement renders your piddling thermometers which give only the simple air temperature virtually useless, on days with temperatures of more than 80 degrees and relative humidities of more than 40 percent. You imbeciles! What made you think you could possibly understand the complex interworkings of meteorology!”

If you don’t believe me, take a look at the actual heat index formula:

HI = -42.379 + 2.04901523T + 10.1433127R – 0.22475541TR – 6.83783×10^(-3) T^2 – 5.481717×10^(-2) R^2 + 1.22874×10^(-3) T^2R + 8.5282×10^(-4) TR^2 – 1.99×10^(-6) T^2 R^2

(Heat Index (HI), where T is equal to the ambient dry bulb temperature in degrees Fahrenheit and H is equal to the relative humidity.)

Geesh! Seems like I remember seeing that on the board in college one day when I walked into the room and immediately dropping the class.

It’s the same thing with pilots. All these gauges, knobs, lights, and buttons in the cockpit. We walk in wide-eyed and think, “Wow. I could never learn all that.” When in reality, I bet the majority of the time they only use like 4 or 5 of them. On. Off. Landing gear. Simulated turbulence… you know, just to mess with people.

I mean, really, how hard can it be? Everyone knows you pull back on the thingy to ascend and you push forward to descend. And if all else fails, there’s always the auto-pilot.

In other heat-related news, driving home Wednesday night I saw a church sign that said, “If you think it’s hot here…”

It made me giggle… er.. chuckle. Is something wrong with me?

“Cos I know there’s a better place than this place I’m livin’. How far is heaven…”

WTC

World Trade Center, the movie, opens today. And I, for one, will not be seeing it. Just like I did not see United 93.

It sickens me to know people are making money off of a movie about such a tragedy. What is wrong with people? Whatever happened to respectfulness? Sensitivity? Plain human decency?

Is it just me? Am I too sensitive?

All I know is, there is no part of me that has even the slightest desire or inkling of morbid curiosity to watch a movie about 9/11. Or to watch actors paid to play the part of real people who died and those who lived thru that worst of all days. Not now. Not yet.

I go to movies to be entertained. And there is nothing entertaining about what happened that day. Waking up and watching the horror unfold on television that morning was almost like a movie. But it wasn’t. And shouldn’t be. Not yet. It just feels too soon to me. Much too soon.

But Hollywood just couldn’t wait. Not even five years. And if you think it has anything to do with something other than money…

I picture the producers and directors sitting around, fidgeting. Like a group of men waiting to ask out a beautiful young widow whose husband has just passed away. They want to wait a little while so that it doesn’t appear tasteless beyond belief. But they all want to get to her first. To be the first to sleep with her. They don’t care about her feelings, her grief. They don’t care about her at all. Their motives are purely selfish.

I’ve read the reviews. It’s supposed to be tastefully done. A story of heroes. It’s supposed to be a feel-good movie. Well I, for one, don’t want to feel good. It’s not time to feel good. I want to hurt. And remember. And honor this hole inside me, inside each of us, created by that day. And never forget how I felt.

I don’t need a movie to remind me. I can close my eyes and see the images on the TV screen as clearly as if it were yesterday. And if I want to see heroes, I want to see the real heroes themselves. I’d rather read about them. Or watch some television special with stories of and interviews with people who were actually there.

Finally, no matter how well or tastefully a movie is done, it’s still a movie. And as such, will inevitably trivialize or lessen to some degree the reality of what occurred. Take Titanic, for example. What’s the first thing you think of when you hear Titanic? The 1500-plus who lost their lives? Or Leonardo DiCaprio, Kate Winslett, and that old lady?

Maybe this movie is done very well. That’s not my point. My point is, it’s much too soon. The pain and loss and emptiness are still far too fresh. Far too real.

The first Titanic movie didn’t come out until forty years later. Tora! Tora! came thirty years after Pearl Harbor, which until 9/11 was widely considered the worst attack on America. They should have waited at least that long before doing a 9/11 movie.

At least a generation. Then it tells a story to those who weren’t alive or weren’t old enough to remember what happened. Then time has had a chance to heal us. Not completely. Not entirely. We’ll never reach that point. We’ll always hurt. We’ll always remember.

A lot of people still remember Pearl Harbor.

I, for one, never saw it.

“I had a brother at Khe Sahn, fighting off the Viet Cong. They’re still there. He’s all gone…”

Last remaining single cousin

I haven’t been feeling well the past couple of days. Woke up with a very mild sore throat Friday morning. It hasn’t gotten any worse or better, but it also hasn’t gone away. Is there a WebMD in the house? Began feeling really tired yesterday. Left work early and laid in bed most of the afternoon and evening.

Fortunately, the History Channel was off da hook last night. (It’s a hip phrase the kids are using. Don’t concern yourself with it.) First, they had a UFO special on that I hadn’t seen before. Then came Lost Worlds: Secret Cities of the A Bomb. Am I the only person who saw this? It was fascinating. And some of those Calutron Girls were pretty cute!

The past few days have been filled with little friendly reminders that I am still single. Post-it notes, if you will, that say things such as “Still a bachelor,” “You need a woman”, and “You’re 33, get married already.” It began Thursday when I went to the mall to look for a new shirt, tie, and maybe pants to wear to my last remaining single cousin’s wedding on Saturday.

As stated previously, I prefer to have a female with me on shopping excursions. When I do have to go alone, I like to find an attractive sales associate in the store to help me. Well, this wasn’t happening at either store I ventured into Thursday night.

After looking around for half an hour and getting no help in the first store, I walked down to store B. One lady attempted to help me there. But after an hour of her trying to help, I wound up picking out a shirt and tie on my own while she was taking care of some other customers.

Reminder number two was Friday when I drove to Atlanta. By myself. Stayed in a spacious hotel room with two beds and a balcony. By myself. Ordered room service for breakfast. By myself. (From the price of my omelet and orange juice, I have deduced that eggs must be very rare in Atlanta.)

The wedding Saturday went off without a hitch. Actually, I guess that isn’t entirely true, since the entire point of the wedding is to get hitched. So there was one intentional hitch, at the end.

As it stands now, I am the last remaining single cousin. At least over the age of 20 or 21. It’s actually not that bad. I think of it kinda like a great quarterback who hasn’t won the big one. The best golfer never to win a major. Basically, I’m to relationships what Colin Montgomerie is to golf. We’ve both gotten close. Just haven’t closed the deal yet.

Driving home Saturday, I was making excellent time. That is, until the interstate was closed because of a wreck north of Birmingham. So I and every other northbound driver were routed off onto a two-lane road.

One might think driving thru the Alabama countryside for ten or twelve miles at an average speed of six miles per hour would be a pleasant experience. Yeah, not so much. What normally would be a three hour drive ended up taking six.

Oh sure, there were highlights. Like the college kids two cars ahead of me continuously getting out of their car and running up to the vehicle ahead of them, dribbling a basketball out the window, etc. There were the fields and woodlands and little country homes, one of which had a Confederate flag flying in the front yard.

And then there was me attempting to, uh, refill a mostly empty Mountain Dew bottle. (I knew I shouldn’t have stopped for that 20 ounce Dew, Zero candy bar, and scratch off tickets before I left Georgia.)

If we can’t avoid hitting the toilet seat while standing still, well you can imagine what fun it was trying to keep it in a one-inch diameter hole. While driving. And trying not to be conspicuous. In stop-and-go traffic.

Let’s just say I didn’t eat anything or touch my face with my hands until I got home to my anti-bacterial soap.

And now, I’m sick. With no one to bring me juice or a wet washcloth for my forehead. Yet another reminder.

So you see. Shopping. Road trips. Weddings. Traffic jams. Being sick. Peeing in a bottle. These are just some of the reasons I need a female companion. And over the past five days, I’ve gotten that message loud and clear.

When or if I’ll find said companion remains to be seen. In the meantime, whenever the next major golf tournament is, I’ll be rooting for Monty.

“Now they’re goin’ to bed. And my stomach is sick. And it’s all in my head. But she’s touching his chest now. He takes off her dress now. Let me go…”

The Ex-Files: Kara

I will be trekking over to the ATL this evening for my last remaining single cousin’s wedding Saturday. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this third installment of the Ex-Files, a glimpse into Bone’s vast yet mostly unsuccessful dating past…

At some point during the years of 1992 or 1993, I met Kara. It has been said that all great couples have an interesting, amusing, or uncommon story about how they met. Well, Kara and I were no different. Or, we were very different.

It was the custom of the day after the mall closed at 9 PM to ride around the parking lot and socialize. Looking for someone you knew or someone you wanted to know. And that’s where the paths of our lives intersected.

She, and her friends, in her green Honda Accord. I, and my friends–my posse, entourage, if you will–in my friend’s black 1990 Hyundai Excel hatchback. We pulled up beside each other, right in front of the Castner Knott. I could tell immediately this was someone who was going to be a big part of my life for a long time. Or at least four or five months.

OK, truth is, I couldn’t really tell much about her at all. It was dark and we weren’t directly under a street light. So we all agreed to meet up across the street inside the McDonald’s. That’s where I first saw her jet black hair, cute slightly-oversized nose, and… some-colored eyes (green, I think). I got her number, which seemed a whole lot easier to do then. And the rest, as they say, is a blog entry.

Three memories stand out more than others from my time with Kara. The first concerns the making out, the cornerstone of any strong relationship. She had an active tongue. She was an aggressive kisser, to the point that I had to be aggressive back, almost in self-defense, or fear being choked to death.

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t bad. I mean, it was making out, after all. But sometimes it seemed like she was checking around for a loose crown in there or something.

To prove it wasn’t bad, one night as we were driving around in my burgundy 1989 Mustang she directed me to a place she referred to as Skyline. A place she described as a lookout point where people went to make out. Well, I couldn’t imagine a better idea. Unless maybe we would be playing Sega after making out.

We drove down a road I’d never been before, crossed an intersection, and continued along the road, up a hill and thru some trees. We wound up in an empty parking lot next to a large building. Sure enough, down below the lights of the city could be seen. As could the buildings of the local mental facility. Nevertheless, we began.

Maybe ten minutes later those all-too-familiar blue lights began flashing behind us. The officer knocked on the window and asked me to step out of the car. Suffice it to say I never went back there again. Those are memories you can’t replace.

The other thing I remember about Kara was that her mother really liked me. So much that after Kara and I weren’t dating anymore, but still in touch from time-to-time, her mother would call me at work to chat. I didn’t mind it. It was just different. The only time in my dating life anything like that happened.

I think her mother always wanted us to get back together. But we never did. I still remember where her parents lived. They still live there, to this day. I just googled it. I recommend googling at least one person per day, just to stay in practice.

It seems I went thru a phase where either the girls liked me and the mothers didn’t, or vice versa. Then, of course, there was the time where neither the girl nor her mother liked me. That was fun.

But that’s another story for another nostalgic edition of the Ex-Files. So until next time, uh, word to ya mother.

“Tomorrow we can drive around this town, and let the cops chase us around…”

Nocturnal recurrences

Tried to make the title of this post alluring, as the post itself…

I had one of my most common recurring dreams last night. No, it’s not the underwear dream. I guess since I pretty much run around the house in my underwear all the time, and even take the trash out to the dumpster in my underwear, that isn’t so much a dream anymore as it is reality.

No, last night I dreamed that it was Christmas Eve and I hadn’t bought anyone anything. It was only a couple of hours until the first family gathering, and I didn’t have time to buy gifts.

I’ve had this dream or something very similar to it several times. It has become my most common recurring dream. I don’t remember having it until the last year or so.

It isn’t always exactly the same. Sometimes I go try to buy something at the last minute and all the stores are closed. Sometimes I have a day or two before Christmas. I go to the store but can’t find anything good. I wander around on the verge of panicking, feeling sadness and angst. And end up buying gifts for my family that I know they don’t want.

The odd thing is, my family always goes overboard for Christmas. It comes from my Mom. It’s her favorite holiday and she always buys too much. And by too much, I mean just enough (if you’re reading this, Mom.) I’ve even had ex-girlfriends say half-jokingly that they missed dating me around Christmas, because Mom would go overboard with them, too.

My sister and I inherited her love of Christmas and tendency to buy lots of presents. And while I love going shopping on Christmas Eve simply for the atmosphere of it all, I’ve never waited until the last minute to start, or been in danger of not having my gifts bought.

I wonder what the dream means. I have it year round, not just near the holidays, so I don’t think there’s a literal interpretation. And while it’s not exactly the same everytime, it always makes me feel unprepared, anxious, and upset.

This morning, I woke up with a headache and realized I had a migraine that apparently started while I was asleep. Surely a dream couldn’t cause a migraine? I also woke up with a scrape on the back on one of my fingers. What am I doing at night? Maybe I should set up a video camera. No, I don’t already have one set up!

What recurring dream do you have?

“Said that she go back to school and try things once again. But you know it didn’t take too long till she lost her way…”