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Mike, The One Mockingbird
You can only wonder is it the rumored conviviality of its occupants that brought about the events of this morning.
It is something I wonder about. Is there more than one mockingbird? Everywhere I go I keep seeing the same one.
Last night, nodding off, the rabid fox, which I haven’t until now mentioned, made demented, near death fox noises, in the woods outside my window.
I don’t know if you can hear it from where you are but there is a light tapping on the bay window by the kitchen table in the other room. It is loud enough to hear over Townes Van Zandt, who is singing a ballad about not being loved.
I know you’re going to tell me that birds sometimes fly into windows by accident and it is my responsibility as someone who purports to be sensitive to hang streamers in front of it or some other visual marker so the birds won’t be tempted to fly into my kitchen.
I don’t think you understand Mike, the one mockingbird.
This isn’t the original paragraph that goes here, that one got eaten by the ibm thinkpad, which, similar to Mike, crashes, but not into windows, into itself, unless you want me to mean Windows, which probably is the culprit. Now the whole window concept is sort of tainted for me. I don’t feel good about it. But also, you ain’t missing nothing from that original paragraph, except the one allusion to Rudyard Kipling and one tired Heavy Hummingbird alliteration/metaphor.
I can still hear him though, Mike, in the other room, now tapping along to Willie Nelson singing Rainbow Connection, which I think is a cover of that Kermit the Frog song.
I cut some cask strength bourbon in half with water and offered it to Lorina so she would have something to drink while watching Fog of War, which I think is the most chilling anti-war statement ever made and also lends perspective to current events in the sense that what this country has survived just in the last sixty years is pretty remarkable when you are able to realize it through the lens of a condensed timeline. I mean if we can survive WWII and later a team consisting of McNamara, Johnson, and LeMay and not too long later survive a Nixon/Kissinger clusterfuck, and then 8 years of Reagan, well, we should be able to survive whatever comes, except, you know, the end (and here I would like for all you fundamental Christians to at least consider the possibility that your near salivating in anticipation of an Armageddon every time—and only when—the US is involved in some world conflict near the middle east, is sort of creepy, and perhaps indicative of mental illness, which is treatable. I am not speaking to the entirety of your value system as represented by the words of JesusChrist, which for the most part I aspire to myself).
What history shows is a balance of insanity and reason. Speaking of the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the voices of reason that ultimately prevailed, Lorina expressed her fear of this current administration being faced with a crisis of similar magnitude. I got pretty good cred for wallowing in lakes of futility but I am breathing clean air with my head bobbing above that these days. I have tricked myself, I have told myself and believed me, that wallowing like that is a colossal waste of time and forgive me but I usually have to punctuate the sentiment with—you punkass crybaby bitch. Anyway, and also, I tend to feel the need to look contrary to popular opinion, regardless of the opinion, and why imagine a desolate future when there is so much of it you can experience in the here and now, if that is your cup of tea. So I said to Lorina—we can’t know for sure that such a crisis would be handled poorly by this current administration. Even though they may be lame ducks, there are voices of reason within the administration. I offered the obvious. I said we still have Colin Powell.
Lorina is a talented musician and spends time each week with talented musicians so she has a sense of timing and beat that overlaps into her everyday living. You don’t really know that a pause is pregnant until later but that’s what it was, that quiet space between me saying we have Colin Powell and her saying, oh, he resigned today. Well then, good thing Castro has been marginalized.
Autographed Novellas
Lorina's ex-husband plays with plastic sharks in public pretty near, in proximity, the place where Lorina performs one of her seven jobs. I'll come into the public place and nod at him and he'll, taking a break from the positioning of plastic sharks, nod back.
I would not say there is a growing lack of amity between us, yet, now that the words are out here, let's at least suggest that there is. There's only about 500 people you would have to know around here to say that you literally knew everyone so it is probably counterproductive to make snap judgements, or quick enemies.
Lorina's ex-husband goes by the name Spencer, although Lorina says the name on his birth certificate is Morton. I pondered the why-fore of such a thing until finally, coming up with nothing, I asked Lorina. I said, "If his name is Morton why doesn't he go by Morton, or Mort, or Mortie." Lorina nodded sadly, but with the crease of a smile on her red lips, and I, sure that I had asked a stupid question searched my database of limited knowledge for the obvious answer before she could give it to me. I did not want to seem too dense on the subject of why a person would change names. But Lorina, who was only midway through the one act play comprised entirely of facial expressions, entitled, Why Morton Calls Himself Spencer, simply raised her eyebrows, blinked her eyes (first concurrently one with the other and then sequentially), scrunched up her nose, puckered her lips, sucked in her cheeks and finishing with an impressive neck roll and a punctuating cluck of the tongue, said, "I really don't know."
So for now some things will remain mysterious. There are questions that will remain unanswered.
I was at a basketball game yesterday at the MCI Center in DC. There was a miniature but fully operational blimp floating around the stadium doing, to my knowledge, the only thing blimps are capable of doing, other than floating and steering, and that is advertising a product. The product was, nah, uh uh, psyche.
They now play over the sound system abbreviated arrangements of popular hip-hop and rap tunes throughout the game, instead of just at the breaks.
Right before the game began fireworks shot up from hidden cannons mounted on top of the goals. The smoke did not rapidly dissipate. About twenty minutes into the game the person sitting to my left, obviously so distracted by the ongoing spectacle of the modern day professional sporting event, and having forgotten about the fireworks said, "Is it smoky in here?" This guy, the guy seated to my left, is someone who, like me, is old enough to accept unpleasant possibilities as explanation for anything that may occur in life. Completely forgetting the fireworks he must have been accepting the possibility that life for him was going grey. I do not know if my answer was enough to pep him up from the potentially unpleasant reality he was facing, going blind in the middle of a professional sporting event, but he did, like me, upon receiving my answer that it was indeed smoky, fireworks be blamed, wonder just what the hell are they doing shooting fireworks in an indoor stadium. The fireworks did not even spell out the name of a product.
It was kids' day at the stadium and I got a portable basketball hoop and ball to enjoy in the comfort of my own home.
Do not get me wrong. I love the spectacle of professional sports. Even though I would fire whoever is the chief in charge of courtside priorities. I would replace those two pimply teenagers who get to sit practically under the goal so they can wipe up from the floor the leaking bodily fluids of professional athletes, with the entire cheerleading squad, who have somehow been most ridiculously delegated to the outer wings of the stadium. I would of course justify this change in terms of dollars and cents and not by the implied whim of some antiquated sexist mind-set. You know what I'm saying? Butt cheek product placement.
There was a baby race, an air guitar contest, a best smile contest, a kiss your girlfriend contest, a little kids slam dunk contest, a shoot around the world contest, an entire elementary school amount of kids singing the national anthem (off key), and of course the obligatory cute and quirky mascot. The cheerleaders had the floor for a while as did a dance team. There was a guy dressed up like a superhero who with the aide of a trampoline and landing mat executed some high-flying slam dunks, one with a full flip included. The same guy later shot t-shirts into the upper decks from a strap on device looking like a flame-thrower but which was instead a type of bazooka.
A tall guy from one team attempting to score against the tall guy from the other team became entangled with his competitor but scored anyway and to punctuate his prowess under the basket, after landing, spanked his opponent on the ass. His opponent became angry, but nobody cared, or paid him any attention, so he just went about looking confused and sullen for a few more minutes, before being taken out of the game for a rest, or to apply salve to his sore ass.
There is a huge TV screen hanging from the rafters in case somewhere in the middle of the game you realize you would rather be at home.
A guy came right up to my seat offering beer and peanuts but I figured there was probably a catch to it so I declined his offer.
A famous tall person looking slightly ill at ease in his clothing was projected onto the big screen and after seeing him on TV people nearby wanted his autograph even if they had no idea who he was. The famous tall person took more than a little time with each autograph, as if he had suddenly realized this was the time to begin that novel he had always wanted to write. He would write and concentrate and write some more. He would then look up and see the little kid who had given him the paper or ball to write on and he would smile apologetically and say a few words of explanation as to why these particular autographs might seem more like novellas. None of the children complained about this.