"Infinite Jest"

I haven't written a post in over two weeks, I've been on a mission. In my December 28th post, I commented on my new Christmas toys, one of which was a new Kindle Reader. At that time, I had just started the book, "Infinite Jest" by David Foster Wallace. I'm proud, and somewhat relieved to say that I finished it today. One thousand and fifty nine pages of the toughest reading I've ever encountered. I'm only somewhat relieved to be finished, because I wish he had invested another three years and one thousand pages and finished the damned thing. It just ends, no plot resolution, characters in limbo, loose strings untied. No sequel, the author committed suicide in 2008. Still, it's one of the best books I've ever read. The author wrote the most insightful and descriptive passages that you will ever find in modern literature. Here is a very brief synopsis.

The book (published in 1996) describes a slightly futuristic America in which the United States, Canada, and Mexico have formed a loose coalition called O.N.A.N., with the USA as the dominant partner. The plot centers around a tennis academy founded by an eccentric scientist and film maker, and around a recovering addict halfway house just down the hill from the academy in Boston Mass. The main characters include the three sons of the academy founder; One a tennis prodigy and student at the academy, one a professional football player, and the third, a mildly retarded and handicapped idiot savant. There is Don Gatley, the recovering substance abuser and murderer, and Madam Psychosis, the formally beautiful woman who is a member of a group of hideously and improbably deformed people who have sworn to always wear a veil in public. There is a group of wheelchair bound Quebecois separatist terrorists, who are pursuing a sinister plot to kill Americans through the use of a film , which, if watched, removes the will of the viewer to do anything but watch the film. A cross dressing spy, a sadist dog killer, and at least a hundred minor characters that get major play. Of course they are all integral to the plot. I guess you would classify the book as a dark science fiction comedy, although large portions of the book are neither dark nor comedic, and the book feels more prescient than science fiction.

I think that I am going to read fifty or so works of popular fiction, and then read "Infinite Jest" once again.

Ah Spring

Spring officially starts this weekend, at least for me. Daylight savings time kicks in on Sunday, and its not a day too soon. We've had a little Spring teaser the last couple of days with mid-sixties days and cool nights. I know there's more cold weather coming, after all, the average last spring frost is not until around the sixteenth of April, but I can tell that old man winter's back is broken. I got a good bike ride in today, and also yesterday. Maybe I won't have to go to spinning sessions but a few more times before I can start hitting the road every day. I've always like to ride a bike, but I got pretty serious about it about twenty five years ago, when my knees got so bad that I could no longer run. It's always tough in the Spring to get started again. I get out of shape over the winter, and the first month or so of riding is brutal.

The worst part is that I'm a year older every spring. If it weren't for mirrors and bicycles, I would swear that I'm still in my thirties. You know the old line; "Look in the mirror and see your father's face". Holy crap! When did that happen. The thing that really scares me is that I remember seeing my dad's butt and thighs when he was in his late seventies. Or should I say, what was left of his butt and thighs. My dad was a big guy like me, and I remember he had big powerful forearms like a baseball player or a lumberjack. Unfortunately, he was a truly professional drunk, while I still maintain my amateur status. The bike though, is the true measure of my age. There's this fitness formula, two twenty minus your age, that determines your maximum heart rate. A thirty year old, according to this formula has a maximum heart rate of 190, while sixty two year old (me) has a maximum of 158. This is like the laws of physics, like trying to defy gravity. No matter how hard you work out, you are tethered to your maximum heart rate. It means that you can't climb as long and hard as you did when you were thirty, you can't sprint as far or as fast, you just don't f-----g have it. (Honest to God, tears came to my eyes as I wrote this.) Over all, I'm pretty fit..........

Time out for an important news flash, channel nine will be over head at any minute. My wife just informed me that there is a whole cadre of fire trucks and equipment outside our house. After an in depth investigation, I have determined the following: My next door neighbor was having some plumbing work done at his house, and the plumber broke some kind of old device that was mounted in the basement. It was filled with Mercury, which spilled out into a big puddle on the floor. The neighbors did a little Internet investigation, and ended up calling the EPA. The EPA informed them that they should call the local fire department, and after they did so, the fire department showed up with the complete Hazmat unit, which includes two tractor trailers full of equipment, a fire truck, ambulance, and miscellaneous fireman, policemen and officials. They have been over there for at least an hour. So, back to my post.

Over all, I'm pretty fit, although who knows what might be waiting to bite me in the ass at any moment. I do physical work for a living, and I'm still pretty strong. I have not yet developed man boobs, although, when I put my heart monitor on this afternoon, I noticed that the strap did enhance my cleavage a little. I've always been very competitive, although not by any means a great athlete, and it hurts me more than you can imagine that I can't keep up with the young guys, but occasionally, I foolishly try.

Another distraction, as I'm writing this post, I'm also watching my favorite show; "Chuck". The show is stupid and banal, but I like it, particularly, I like Yvonne Strahovski, the hottest girl on TV. She had me after the episode where she put both hands on a counter top, and with out taking her hands off of the counter top, she leaped onto it. It's the equivalent of a man jumping into the air and putting his pants on. Did I mention that she's very attractive? Yes, I'm old, but not dead. Where was I?

Spring. It's just around the corner. Another day older and deeper in oxygen dept. In about three weeks I'll start sailboat racing. At least I don't have to depend on my heart rate for a victory. Unfortunately, sailing and biking compete for the same time slots. The story of my life, so many hobbies and so little time.

A November Disaster

Sadly for the Democrats in America and for the Country itself, ignorant Republicans vote and ignorant Democrats don't. I'm not saying that there are not a lot of smart and well informed voters on both sides, I'm just saying that the Republicans have done a better job of convincing their constituents to vote against their best interests. If you look at some of the poorest states and districts in the country, you have to wonder, why did so many of these poor people vote Republican, or not vote at all. Mississippi, probably the poorest state in the country has a Republican Governor, two Republican Senators and one out of the four districts has a Republican Congressman.



Race plays a part in the over all equation. In 2008, blacks voted at about the same rates as whites, around 68% of the population. Hispanic and Asian voting also increased, although not at quite as high of a percentage. In 2006 however, all three minority populations lagged behind whites in percentage of voters by race. The white population voted at about 49 percent, while the combined black, Asian, and Hispanic voters only turned out at about 35%. These 2006 numbers bode ill for the democrats in the 2010 midterms.



The other reason that the republicans did so well during the Bush years, is the Karl Rove tactic of convincing mostly white voters to vote because of various wedge issues. You know the ones I'm talking about: Gay marriage, gays in the military, abortion, and gun control. A friend of mine characterized the Republican strategy with this analogy. He used the example of Cherokee County North Carolina, a white Republican stronghold, which includes Murphy, Andrews, and Robbinsville (Which I've been told had a billboard up in the sixties that said "Nigger, don't let the sun set on you in Robbinsville). The essence of the strategy was to convince voters that they needed to keep their guns so that they could kill niggers, queers, and abortionists in the name of the Lord. Now, to their credit, most of the people in Cherokee County would probably not do any of those things, but this proposition was put forth in such a push come to shove manner, that the citizens decided that these things were more important than economic security or health care. Couple these ideas with the current strategy of blaming the democrats for running up the deficit, and the collapse of the economy, and you can see what's going to happen in November.

My Room

When I bought my house, a little over thirty years ago, we were looking the place over with the broker, and I noticed a small window that opened from the crawl space. I got down on my knees and, with my face right against the glass, I could see a small dug out space with a green rocking chair setting in it. Back then, it wasn't expected that the homeowners make themselves scarce when there was a showing to potential buyers, so I asked the old lady who owned the house if it had a basement. She explained to me that, no, there was not a basement, it was just a place her son , Yen, dug out, where he liked to spend his time sitting in the green chair under the house.


I knew the old lady's grandsons, they were about my age, and I had met Yen before. I think that Yen had suffered from PTSD (called shell shock back then), and he was far from normal. He could drive, and once he took me and his two nephews swimming a nearby creek. I remember, he got in the water about neck deep, and just stood there for at least an hour, with out moving or talking. Yen came to a bad end, he was killed by a self inflicted gunshot wound in what appeared to be a hunting accident in the woods behind McAllister School. Yen's parents, being well on in years, had decided to move to Virginia to live with their daughter. One of the prerequisites to selling the house was that they realized enough money from the sell to dig Yen up and take him with them.


I don't particularly care to sit in a chair under the house, and not having been to war, I don't suffer from PTSD, but I do appreciate Yen's preference for solitude in a confined space. I'm writing this post from my little fortress of solitude, upstairs across from the bed room. It's the place where I spend most of my spare time when I'm awake, and a good bit of time when I'm not.



It's a tiny little room, only seven feet wide, and thirteen feet long. It's a lot more crowded and cluttered than Andy Rooney's office. I sit at an old wooden desk in a chair with a high back, so that my head is supported when I doze off. It looks out through two floor to ceiling windows to my back yard. Right now the blinds are open so that, this afternoon, I could watch the snow that fell, but right now all I can see is the black of night. My wife's desk is also in the room. It is one of those big wooden office desks with a lower side section at right angles to the main desk. It takes up one entire end of the room and I can rest my feet on the end of it if I want to. In addition to the two desks, there are two computers, two printers, a little table with phone and answering machine, two guitars, a file cabinet, two desk lamps and a pole lamp, a paper shredder, a book case that takes up the entire other end of the room, a TV, two chairs, my Kindle, and me. It gets a little crowded when Kathy is in the room, but fortunately, this room is not where she prefers to spend her time. No reflection on me I hope. There are no pictures on what little wall space there is, but when my laptop is not in use, it slide shows the pictures I have filed on it. Facebook is generally running, and I check it from time to time. I have to go all the way downstairs to get a fresh beer, but there's no place to put a refrigerator without moving my wife's desk out, and I haven't even bothered to ask. I don't drink that much any way. My desk has one of those pull out boards for extra space beside the chair. It serves as a nice footrest, with my laptop laptopped, or when I'm reading or watching TV. Right now I can actually see part of the top of my desk, but when I set my computer down on it, it will be completely obscured.





Spring will be here soon, and maybe I'll come out of my hole. When it gets warm enough, I might go for a swim.

The Gods May Not Be Crazy

The Gods May Not Be Crazy

A recent sophomoric prank at Davidson College has given me a new religious perspective. It seems that a small group of fraternity brothers, with time on their hands between keggers, decided, on a dare, that it would be a good idea to go to the local pond and kill a goose with a golf club. In the ranks of frat boy hijinks, this is pretty small potatoes, even though these guys got into relatively big trouble. After all, they did kill a member of a federally protected species. Apparently, geese need more protection than hungry children, or the sick, aged, or homeless. But that’s an issue that I can elevate my blood pressure over some other time.

I am admittedly a bit of a cynical agnostic. I have tended to believe that if there is a God at all, he is as Mark Twain envisioned him in The Mysterious Stranger: Detached and aloof, taking an interest in us only in an often maliciously whimsical way. But now I see that I was wrong. It seems that the Greeks and Romans had is right. There is not one God, but instead, a big old celestial frat house full of fun loving elitist snob Gods. Picture this, what pleasure would a single God get out of stirring the stick of misery into the human anthill if he didn’t have other gods to share in the mirth. It must be true that we are all made in God’s image, because the basic human pleasures of humor and laughter are based on cruelty to others. If you don’t believe this, try to think of a single joke that doesn’t fit these criteria.

Okay, so here we’ve got this frat house full of fun loving all-powerful beings, bent on having a good time at our expense. I guess it’s like interactive TV. Picture this; A group of Gods are sitting around in the rec room, maybe drinking beer and eating Doritos. One God is flipping stations from one human scenario to another. “Watch this,” he says, as he fiddles with the remote, and a bus full of children plunges off a cliff. (Big laugh from the others.) In the spirit of one-upmanship, another God grabs the remote and causes a drought over Africa, which kills thousands. Remember, being immortal, these Gods have lots of time on there hands.

I suspect that it is also possible to achieve God status. As you might expect, the college fraternity provides a good template for how this might happen. Every year, the Gods invite a few worthy humans to join their pledge class. Potential pledges go through a rigorous selection process. No mere psychopath need apply. They would be chosen based on their earthly achievements in areas such as war, genocide, oppression, etc., but mostly for their potential for the continuing entertainment of their fellow Gods, at the expense of the human race. Some pledges don’t make the cut; Men Like Hitler, Stalin, or Dick Cheney are just too mean to become Gods. Their potential to destroy the whole world is just too great.

The pledges are carefully groomed, here on earth, in the ways of Godliness, but the hapless freshman pledges are subject to a lot of hazing by the upper class Gods. They get sent out on celestial Snipe hunts like George W Bush’s mission to invade Iraq. Imagine their laughter when he announced “Mission accomplished” all dressed in his aviator jacket aboard the USS Lincoln. They must have been rolling on the floor when they put him in front of those elementary children with his goofy deer in the headlights expression, while the men in charge decided what to do in response to 9/11.

There may even be some benevolent Gods. How they get by the vetting process, I don’t know. Maybe they are in something like the service fraternities. These Gods, considered nerd and dork Gods by the Other Gods, although well intentioned, achieve little good because they are not well connected like the frat Gods. After all, there’s no humor in good deeds.

I know this idea will seem crazy, and even blasphemous to most people, but it makes about as much sense as any other organized religion.

What to do about the homeless

What to do about the homeless? I ride through town about ten times a day, and I always notice the homeless people that congregate around the library, on the curb in front of Central Methodist, on just hanging around downtown. I think they need some place that they can go during the day.

I know that I’m putting myself out there among my conservative friends who think that I’m a bleeding heart liberal at best, or a commie pinko Marxist at worst, but that’s okay, I’m used to it.

It’s very comfortable for my right wing friends to think that the homeless are just a bunch of deadbeats, or drunks, or drug addicts, and certainly there are some out there that have one or more of those qualities. Classifying all of the homeless as such, makes it very easy to dismiss any moral obligation to help them. There are a lot of reasons for being homeless; here are the most common reasons.

1 Poverty: This is the big reason pure and simple. It can, however, take a lot of different forms. There are the working poor, who cannot make enough to pay for housing, food, and clothing. There are people who have lost their jobs, and in turn, have lost their housing. Increasingly, there are people who are no longer eligible for welfare or unemployment benefits. There are victims of marital abuse, or divorce. There are people whose medical conditions have lead them to become bankrupt.

2 Mental illness: It’s commonly estimated that 20 to 25% of homeless people are suffering from some form of mental illness. Our country has a shameful history of not properly caring for it’s mentally ill, but that’s another story.

3 Drug or Alcohol dependency: This is the tough one, and it tends to queer the deal for all of the other reasons I have mentioned. We tend to consider drunkenness and drug addictions as character flaws instead of diseases, even though almost all of us have seen evidence to the contrary. I challenge you to name one person who as a child aspired to become a drunk. I also challenge you to name one person who walked away from his addiction without help.

The one thing that all of the homeless categories I mentioned above often have in common, is a lack of friend or family support. Consider yourself transported to any city in America, put out on the street, broke and friendless, and try to imagine what you would do if you were a victim of life’s circumstances. I hope I have put you in a more compassionate frame of mind, and now you will appreciate my idea for them.

The Salvation Army runs a night shelter for the homeless in town, and I think it’s a great service to the community. The problem is that the homeless have to be out of the shelter early in the morning, and can’t return until late in the afternoon. Surly our town can provide them with a place to go during the day. A place where they can come in out of the cold, have telephone access, Internet access, a place to sit and talk, and have a cup of coffee. I suspect that before this recession is over, there may even be a need for soup kitchens in town, so I’ll include that in my wish list as well.

I’m proposing that the homeless can be given something that they can take advantage of, not proposing that we be taken advantage of. I don’t want our town to be a homeless haven, known far and wide for its’ munificence. I think that every town in America should be more considerate of its’ homeless population.

The Prodigy

Below is my first and probably only attempt at a short story. I admit that the plot is stolen from a short story my class was required to read in sophomore English. I don’t remember the author, name of the story, or any of the dialogue. I’ve cast about for years trying to find a copy of the story. I’ve even asked if English teachers of that generation, and classmates of mine remember the story, but no one does. If anyone remembers the story, I would like to know its name and author. I apologize to the author for my crude attempt to re-create it.

The Prodigy

Mary tried to wait for Tom to get home, but the news was too good. Finally she called him at the office. “Tom, Jimmy got his ninth grade PE test scores today. I couldn’t wait any longer to tell you.” “So, how did we do?” Tom asked. Mary could hardly contain her excitement. “An overall 97^th percentile, with a 95^th percentile on the IQ, and a 98^th percentile on the ambition quotient. His persuasive and manipulative skills were at the very top.”

“This calls for a celebration, I’ll be home about six, we can try the new Italian restaurant, I’ve heard they have veal. Put a frozen pizza in the oven for Jimmy, and make sure he has enough schoolwork to keep him busy. If he gets finished, he can watch that motivational DVD again. We’ve got to stay on top of the situation.”

“Tom, do you think we can stop by the Best Buy and look at a new HDTV for the bedroom?”“I don’t see why not, Jimmy’s scores will automatically up our card limit. Maybe on Saturday we can go to Bass Pro Shop, and look at a new fishing boat.” “I don’t know about that, Tom, You know I want to remodel our kitchen, and there is a PE cap that doesn’t change until his senior year.” “I know, but with his scores, I’m sure the bank will give us a bridge loan until then.” “Okay, we’ll talk about it tonight.”

While Jimmy’s mom dressed and primped for her night out, she thought about the implications of their good fortune. Tom made a good living as a design engineer, but she had chosen not to work. They had no trouble supporting themselves, but had tended to live beyond their means, and their debt burden had gotten out of hand. They were in the same boat as millions of American couples, their credit cards nearly maxed out, and their spending spree nearly over. The big three credit card companies, facing flat growth, and increasing defaults, had come up with a novel solution to the credit crunch. They combined their considerable lobbying force with that of the US Chamber of Commerce, and convinced congress to pass a bill labeled CPECA. The Child Potential Earnings Credit Act empowered parents to enter into a credit card agreement in which the Child, upon achieving adulthood, would become responsible for the debts and interest accrued by his parents for purchases placed on the CPECA credit card. To protect the issuing companies from parents that charged more on the cards, than the child, as an adult, could reasonably repay, a series of tests were mandated by the Department of Education, to measure the child’s adult income potential. The first battery of tests were performed when the child entered the seventh grade, and based upon the scores, a credit card was issued with a credit limit which reflected the child’s earning potential, and the actuarial potential of the child to live long enough to repay the debts. Because of the unpredictable vectors of a thirteen year olds’ future, the credit limit was initially low. Subsequent good test results in the ninth and twelfth grades increased the credit limit available to the parent. A high score in the twelfth grade also indicated that the child would go on to complete college, and although the parents could not continue to charge new purchases on the card after the child reached the age of eighteen, the college costs could be added to the total amount, and the initial payments by the child were deferred until completion of college, although interest was accrued on the balance.

Now, with Jimmy’s excellent ninth grade scores, they could afford some of the luxuries they had been wishing for. But she had some doubts. Mary thought to herself: “Is it really fair to Jimmy to run up all these debts that he will be responsible for? Will he be able to afford a wife and family, a house, car? Will he grow to hate us? But, all the sacrifices we’ve made for him, food, clothing, a home, why, most of the things we’ve bought, were for his benefit as well as ours. We’ve spent more on him than we will ever borrow on his credit line. Besides, his PE is so good; he won’t even miss the money we’ve spent. I’ll look for a new video game for Jimmy at Best Buy. He can play it in his spare time.”

By the time Tom came through the front door, she was in a much better frame of mind. Jimmy’s pizza was in the oven, a second glass of wine was on the table, and she was looking forward to a fine dinner, and perhaps a new TV. Tom poured himself bourbon, she sipped her wine, and they called Jimmy to the kitchen.

“Jimmy, Tom and I are going out for dinner. After you finish your pizza, you need to finish your homework, and if you have time, there’s the motivational DVD you can watch. By the way, congratulations on you PE scores, we are very pleased with you.”“Mom, since I’m doing so well in school, and my PE scores were so good, do you think I could have an increase in my allowance?”“Jimmy, we’ve sacrificed so that your mother would not have to work, money is tight, I don’t think we can afford to increase your allowance.”“Why don’t you just borrow the money from the CPECA account, you know I’m good for it.” Jimmy said in a surprisingly sarcastic tone.

Jimmy’s mom jumped up from the table and roughly slapped him. “You ungrateful little shit, I dare you to speak to your father like that. Go to your room and hit those books before I slap you again. Tom, lets go, we will be late for dinner.”

Mary and Tom came home from dinner very pleased with themselves. The dinner was excellent, and the 42-inch HDTV was on sale. Mary had convinced Tom that a new kitchen was more important than a new boat, and she had looked at new appliances while at Best Buy. Tomorrow she would call a cabinetmaker, and look at granite counter top samples. The house was quiet. She went upstairs to check on Jimmy. The light was off, but she could see his silhouette under the blanket. As she turned to leave the room, she noticed a faint metallic smell. Curious, she flipped on the light and turned around. The blood had oozed through the blanket, and stained the edges of the note of four words. No future money spent.

The End

The original story was written over forty years ago. To me, it is a prescient view of my generation’s squandering of our children’s and their children’s future. Our greed and short sightedness has saddled them with a tremendous national debt, wasted our natural resources, and arguably bequeathed to them an environment that may become inhospitable to human existence.