Intermezzo

Hello, Everyone,

Well, today I’m supposed to be giving you “To New Mexico 3,” a.k.a., the next installment of our adventures in the Land of Enchantment. I’m just sure you’re finding them fascinating. Really, really fascinating. Downright compelling, even. You betcha. So stop snoring. And going face down into your keyboard. It distracts from the vast dignity of this situation.

Where was I? Oh, yes. I was going to write #3, but, here’s the thing, I’m running out of time. Over the next two weeks I’ve got to grade forty blue book exams, plus another forty papers, file my grades for two classes, prep another class for its first blue book exam, prepare for another class that begins two weeks from yesterday, write the syllabus for a third class that starts in July, and, oh, yes, edit between three and six chapters (depending) of a technical manual. I’m doing that last on a freelance basis. Great fun. So long as you like prose that reads sorta as follows: “The lesser wingnut of the self-steering Autopilot developmental impact environment for Closed or Semi-Open projects being restructured for OS2 compliance is probably the most important virtual fastener in the programmer’s quiver.”

I kid you not.

Still, I suppose it could be worse. I could be reading Postmodern historical theory. Or income tax forms. Or memos on torture from lawyers from the former Bush administration. This is better. But, then, so’s waterboarding.

Anyway, so I’m establishing a new kind of Xcargo. It’s called an “Intermezzo.” I call it that because is sounds much classier than, “A couple of paragraphs that I dashed off at high speed so I’ve actually got something to post at the end of the week but that’s Okay because you won’t read ‘em anyway.” Besides, it requires 31 fewer words. And in this day of resource scarcity and declining expectations it’s important for us all to conserve where we can. I think it’s very Green of me. And I ought to be proud. For being green. And I’m not even hung over. Which is when I’m usually puce. Or is that pucing? Whatever.

Oh, and there’s another reason for me to have Intermezzos. That’s because I like to have Martha, my wife, read my column before I post. She catches the occasional typo, and the rather more frequent descent into total incoherence. And when I say, “total,” I mean TOTAL. No halfway incoherent for me. No sir. When I do a job, I do it well. And incoherence is something I’m really good at. Why, I could get an advanced degree in pure gibberish. Goes along with the Ph.D. I didn’t get last year. And worth just about the same thing.

But, anyway, I like to have Martha read my material so that if I mention her in the text, she isn’t surprised when it goes live on the Blog or goes out via email. And that, in turn, cuts down on the possibility of her being insulted and taking after me with a baseball bat. Or a meat cleaver. I hate those. Terrible headaches afterwards. And, so, by showing her my text before hand she can inform me, gently, lovingly, and tenderly exactly where I’ve gone wrong. And then whack me with a frying pan. Which is much softer than a meat cleaver. Though it is, admittedly, stereotypical, but one must always applaud the maintenance of fine old traditions.

But, you see, the thing of it is that now and then Martha is as busy as, or busier than I am. She barely has time to breathe, much less go over my interminable prose. And I’m reluctant to ask her do so when she’s already flat out taking care of twenty-seven other tasks at once. For one, I hate to make her cry. For another, I worry about that frying pan. It’s getting some serious dints. Poor thing.

So, that’s why I’m introducing today the Intermezzo. It’s a shorter form of Xcargo which may be only be a couple paragraphs long but which I’ll be able to write and post in the limited time I’ve got, and with a relatively limited number of errors if Martha’s unable to read ‘em before hand. It’ll be sort of like Depth Charges, but one at a time rather than all at once.

Ergo, in future, you can look forward to Intermezzos on politics, science, philosophy, world events, art, music, literature, and other good stuff like that about which I know pretty much nothing at all. But, hey, that never seems to stop anybody else. So why should I get left out? I mean, really.

Right, so, next week, I’ll be back with a New Mexico if I’ve got time, or an Intermezzo if I don’t. But, one way or another, I shall return.

In the meantime, though, go check out my newest little venture: The Compleat Kick Ass Guide to Writing In College. You can find it at:

http://stores.lulu.com/compleatkickassguide

This is a little ebook that provides a few tips and tricks about how to survive the questionable joys of writing for university professors, instructors, lecturers and others of that ilk. And, speaking from the perspective of being one, I can assure you that some of us are very ilk indeed.

So, until next time…

Onward and upward.

mjt




Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

To New Mexico #2

Okay, everybody. This week we get to Lyndon Baines Johnson, traffic jams, toxic fogs, mutant margaritas, and, of course, how Martha didn’t whack me with a tire iron, though, God knows, she had reason.

And that’s before we get off the ground…

*

So, anyway, you’ll recall from last time that we were on our way to visit my parents in New Mexico. You may also recall that we’re on a super-tight, super-crunched, super-unforgiving schedule. We absolutely, positively, 200% have to be able to leave on Friday morning and be back on Wednesday so that I could teach on Thursday, and both of us could teach on Friday, and Martha could get to the Tufts graduation on Sunday morning, and both of us could get to our son David’s graduation on Sunday afternoon and if anything, anything AT ALL, should go wrong and delay us…we’re in deep-doo-doo with a side order of Oh-Freaking-Farpdoodles on toast.

Right. So, comes the Thursday before we leave and I have to teach a class in U.S. History at Cambridge College. Which is in … get ready… Cambridge. Surprise, surprise. You didn’t expect that, now did you? Thought not. So, little lesson for you. Next time, be on your toes.

Anyway, it’s in Cambridge. The one in America. Not the other one. Which has punts and guys who wear funny hats. And it’s a kind of boat. I mean the punts. Not the hats. And besides, that other Cambridge is in England. And nobody wants to confuse our Cambridge with their Cambridge. No siree. Because you never know where that kind of thing will stop. Why, next thing you know, you’ve got people with funny accents saying things like “Tally-ho.” Scary, isn’t it?

Where was I? Oh, yes. So, Cambridge College is just up the street from Harvard. But I like Cambridge College better. For one thing, I got a part-time job there. If I sent a vita to Harvard, well, you could hear them laughing clear to Cleveland. Though, truth to be told, I’m not entirely sure I would want to teach at Harvard, even if I could.

You see, Cambridge College teaches people who want to get a degree, gain one or more skills, and actually go out into the world and do something. Where-as Harvard…let’s just say that it is a school with a rather different clientele. I’m not saying that Harvard students aren’t scholarly, or energetic, or intelligent. But, sometimes, on occasion, at least among some of them…I feel that they are not on a journey, precisely. They have already arrived.

Anyway, I was doing a class in American history at Cambridge College. It was a good class and I liked the students, but it met at exactly 4:10 and ran to 6:30 pm. So, Martha and I had a plan. We’d get packed after we got home and then we’d drive down to Cambridge together. We live in a little town called Winchester, which is a really great place if you don’t mind suburban. Which is not to knock suburbs. I mean, hell, John Cheever made a career outta ‘em. If I could only find a bit more blatant corruption and decadence around here I’d be a happy man. So, for heaven’s sake, you guys, come up with a few dozen wife-swapping, Satan-worshipping, drug-using, alcoholic embezzlers. I’m counting on you. There are bestsellers to be written.

But, anyway, so the plan was we’d drive down, she’d drop me off, I’d go teach my class, and she’d park and go have a coffee at a local coffee shop. I’d meet her there and we’d drive over to the hotel near the airport where we would spend the night before catching the plane in the morning.

Great plan. Couldn’t be simpler. Sure fire. Idiot proof. Right?

Well. Er. Ah. Depends on the idiot. I, for instance, am a top of the line idiot. Major. Massive. I mean, the idiot proofing that I can’t unproof hasn’t been invented yet. So there, too.

Martha drops me off and I go teach my class about Lyndon Baines Johnson, the Great Society, Vietnam, and a whole bunch of other stuff that happened in the 1960s and 1970s. (I’m teaching American history from the Revolution to the 1990s. Makes for some symmetry. You got George III on one hand and George W. on the other. Kinda like bookends, you know? Or those salt and pepper shakers in the shape of Tiki Heads you got for your mother when you were eight and didn’t know better. Lot of similarities but with fewer holes in the foreheads. )

Martha, meanwhile, goes off to park.

It’s not easy to park in the area around Harvard University. Technically, it is known as Harvard Square, and it is chock-o-block full of shops and restaurants and other trendy places that attract people with very large checkbooks. This means that there’s also lots of cars there, and they all fight for the relatively limited numbers of spaces available. You can, if you are unlucky, spend a whole evening going around, and around, and around…finding nothing. I regard it as metaphorical. Sort of like my time in that doctorial program. But with fewer chances of road rage.

But, because Martha is Martha, and she finds parking lots while the rest of us are still stuck behind that garbage truck that mysteriously materialized just as we headed up the one way street, she finds spaces just exactly three feet away from the front door of wherever she wants to be. It’s quite obnoxious, really. I tell her to stop showing off. She doesn’t listen. She so rarely does. And a very good thing, too. I mean, considering the source.

And, furthermore, on the day in question she finds a lot in less time than it takes me to sneeze. ‘Course, with a nose like mine, that’s a complex process and tends to take a while longer than for normal people. I mean, just getting the sinus strain gauges up and running can take the better part of fifteen minutes. And we won’t even talk about how long it takes to get the shockwave dampeners and the muzzle flash suppressors screwed onto the nostrils. I mean, heck, I’ve been known to sneeze on Tuesday and not get any results before the following Friday.

So, anyway, Martha is driving in Harvard Square and she sees a guy pulling out of a parking lot. Great, she thinks, and she pulls over and lets him leave the lot. She notices … oh!...that as the guy’s car pulls out, there seems to be a greenish fog behind him. Poor fellow (she thinks), his car is over-heating. He might have a problem. There might be a repair issue. He ought to go to a garage. Because, of course, everyone knows that you should regularly check the oil and coolant in your automobile. And if you don’t do that, well, then, you could get into trouble. And what kind of twit wouldn’t have their car on a Regular Program Of Preventative Maintenance?

And he pulls out. She pulls in. Then, she notices something else. To wit, the fog? It’s still there. In fact, it’s getting thicker. And deeper. And smellier. And it wasn’t coming from the car ahead of her at all.

No.

It was…however… coming from . . . OUR car.

It is at this moment that my beloved wife realized EXACTLY what kind of twit wouldn’t have their car on a Regular Program Of Preventative Maintenance.

My kind.

And now I must (alas) report an unfortunate failing in my wife. I must, with deep sadness, explain that she has the habit of holding me responsible for my own actions. And for no other good reason than that I did them. And at at fault. And thoroughly to blame for the whole situation. Which is very unfair of her, I think. I mean, really, once that sort of thing gets started, where do we stop? We might have to end up holding people accountable. Which heaven knows would be a mistake. Why, if we did that, whole presidential administrations would be unworkable. And several CEOs of large corporations would be in jail instead of on beaches in tax haven countries with underage sexual partners in very little clothing. Why, it would be the end of civilization as we know it.

So, anyway, Martha gets parked and realizes that yes, indeed, my radiator is boiling over. I’d been meaning to flush the thing and/or top it off for quite some time. But. Well. You know. One thing led to another. And then a third. And two the seventh plus or minus the square root of pi. And, er, that is, I never did it.

Right, she says, sitting in the car, watching it boil.

She reaches down and hits the button that supposed to pop the hood. Then she heads out and goes to see if she can fix things. Only, when she gets to the front of the car, the hood doesn’t quiet open. You see, when the designers of this particular vehicle invested their brain cells, they put ‘em in places like the engine and safety. But the hood? Well, that’s another matter. Not a neuron got spent.

So, to open the hood, you actually have to wiggle your fingers in under the lip of the the thing and find a concealed clasp that can only be reached by a mutant orangutan with index fingers the length of a Mashie Niblick. This task is made particularly amusing, for orangutans and others, because, of course, the engine is hot. And, so, you’re having a wonderful time getting scalded while you’re also NOT getting the hood open.

Martha tries, and tries, and tries, but can’t get it open. So, she asks a guy on the street if he can figure it out. He tries, and tries, and tries, but he can’t get it open, so he asks another guy on the street, who tries, and then asks… well, let’s just say it was quite a party when it was all done. I understand they were just getting ready to call out for pizza when the hood got bored and popped open all by itself.

Okay, so now Martha had access to the radiator. The question was what to do about it. As you may or may not have guessed, getting a gallon of anti-freeze in Harvard Yard is not necessarily an easy thing. Oh, tons other stuff you can get. Miniskirts, microbrews, monographs, those, sure. But not anti-freeze. This is because no one in Harvard Square ever has car problems. Just a need for drunken Ph.D.s in miniskirts. Which is a terrifying thought, when you consider it.

The point being that there’s no anti-freeze to be found. But, Martha’s a resourceful woman and shortly discovers a gallon of distilled water at a local shop that offers such items chiefly as a means of cooling high powered, turbo-assisted, fuel-injected hyper-spatial super-bongs (but in a very scholarly way, of course). This she pours into the radiator and it stops steaming. It does go Weeee! and afterwards has a severe attack of the munchies. But it stops steaming.

Martha, however, is only getting started steaming.

Meanwhile, I’m back in my class, blissfully ignorant of the facts. As I am of so many things. It’s a long standing policy of mine. What you know can’t hurt you. Or, rather, it can, but at least you don’t worry about it before hand. And afterwards you can say it was a Learning Experience. I lie a lot.

Where was I? Oh, yes, so I’m finishing my lecture on LBJ and the Great Society and how the most liberal and compassionate president of the second half of the twentieth century yet managed to somehow get involved in the Vietnam War. Truth be told, he only inherited it, but he did keep it, and that made all the difference in this tragic world of ours.

So, I conclude my lecture and all the students go filing out with the looks of vague but total incomprehension that I so often produce in my students. Good to know I inspire them.

Then, I gather up my books and head down to the cafe. Strangely, Martha isn’t there. That’s odd, I think. But, I add, she’s probably just busy shopping and forgot the time. Found something interesting. Time just slips away. You know how women are when they get to shopping. Ha. Ha. Ha.

I look up. She’s coming through the door. I plan to tease her about her shopping. Ha. Hee. Ho.

She looks at me. I look at her. I see her expression.

Ha. Ha. Ha . . . whimper.

“You,” she says, as the comes to the table, “are going to buy me the biggest margarita on the East Coast.”

Oh, I say. Right, I add. Salt or no salt?

“With…freaking … out.”

Okay, I say, in a wee small voice.

Truth to be told, Martha is remarkably controlled about the whole business. She never once suggests what anyone else in such a situation would be perfectly justified in suggesting. Like, where exactly to put the steering wheel and how many degrees to turn it after. Oh, and here’s fun ideas about what to do with the break pedal.

Anyway, we gather up our kith and caboodle, and head off for the hotel.

Which is when the fun part starts.

Yeah. Fun. You betcha. Just a barrel of monkeys.

But that’s for next time.

Onward and upward.








Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

To New Mexico #1

Okay, folks, fasten your seat belts, put on your crash helmets, say a brief prayer, and get yourself fixed. As we used to say in the Old Country. Don’t worry. It’s not like what they do with dogs.

No. Today, I’m going to start the tale of our recent trip to New Mexico. And back. And a load o’stuff in ‘tween.

Heaps of fun.

You just wait and see.

*

So, here’s the thing: my parents are now getting on in years. Oh, they’re still hale and healthy and all that, but they are in what we so commonly and so hypocritically refer to as Their Golden Years. Though, come to think it, why not copper, zinc, or Yttrium? I’ve never known. In fact, truth be told, as it is so rarely, I’ve never no known what a Yttrium is, or how many Yitts are in a Rium and whether they’re better with mustard or sauerkraut.

But, anyway, now and then, we need to go visit my parents. This provides the opportunity for a number of things to happen, such as: a) we get to check on them, b) they get to check on us, c) Martha gets a bit of vacation, and d) I get to decide, once again, that my parents are wonderful people… who deserved a lot better kid than the piece of rotten dorf-burger that I am and it was a horrible accident of fate that I got born to them and didn’t get hatched as frog-specific toe nail fungus in Love Canal. And this is after several years of therapy. And enough Prozac to pulverize a pachyderm. Ah, Medical Science. Sigmund Freud would be proud.

Anyway, so we ought to go visit. The kicker? They are in New Mexico. We are in New England.

No problem, you say. You just get on a plane and go, right?

Well, sorta right. But there are a couple of other complications. First, both Martha and I teach. Most of my classes (in writing, as a rule) are online. So I can do those anywhere. But, this Spring and Summer I was also doing a U.S. history course that met in person and on Thursday afternoons and ran from four to six.

Martha, meanwhile, teaches at Tufts and has lots and lots classes and she can’t miss most of ‘em.

Ah, but there’s more. Martha also needs to be back from New Mexico in time to go to the Tufts graduation on Sunday, 17 May. You see, she’s faculty. And students (and their families, who pay bills) like to see faculty now and then. Preferably in caps and gowns. Makes ‘em seem so terribly learned. Little do they know. Ha. Chortle. Laugh. Etc., etc., and, of course, etc.

But, don’t tune out now, further complications are on the way. And in full living technocolor. I have to be back in town on Thursday, 14 May, to teach the last session of that U.S. History course that meets on Thursday. AND, the next morning, Friday, 15 May, at nine in the morning, I have to be downtown at Northeastern where I’m beginning a new class. Specifically, I’m doing another U.S. class, this time to fifteen Chinese exchange students. Many of whom speak very little English. But no stones tossed. My entire knowledge of Chinese boils down to “Ni hao,” which, I gather, means “hello.” At least that’s what it says on the Internet. For all I know it really means, “My left ear closely resembles a cod fish kissing a leprechaun.” Couldn’t say for sure. But it might explain some of the looks I get.

Anyway…but, we’ve still got a couple more wrinkles in the warf and woof. You remember I said that Martha had to be at Tufts on Sunday, 17 May? Well, that’s in the morning. In the afternoon, our own son, David Tillman Tucker, is ALSO graduating from college. He’s getting his Batchelor’s from the School of the Museum of Fine Arts (SMFA), and it’s been a long time coming, and we’ll be damned if we miss seeing him get his diploma. Well, actually, they don’t get diplomas at the SMFA graduation ceremony. They get flowers. Which, when you think about it, is sort of what you’d expect from an art school. That or a nice set of watercolors. And a brush. Or a chisel. With a cute little two ton block of marble. One to a grad. Be fun to watch ‘em carry it.

Okay, so, there you have the temporal parameters. But, there are spacial ones as well. We’re leaving from Boston’s Logan airport. That’s not something without its own challenges. Parking is expensive and there may not be any of it. Security is tight (the 9-11 attackers came from here, you’ll recall) which means lines are long. But, that, of course, is assuming that you can get to the airport in the first place. You see, Logan is basically on the same highway that leads in from the North into Boston proper. That means that the road is always, Always, ALWAYS crowded. Basically, at any one time you have one of three options: 1) bumper-to-bumper, 2) gridlocked, and 3)Bang Your Head Repeatedly With The Door So You’ll Be Unconscious And The Pain Will Go Away. (That’s one of my personal favs.)

Such being the case, it is usually easiest for us to drive to a hotel near the airport, stay the night, park the car in one of the long term lots around the area, and take a shuttle bus to ‘port in the morning. This is particularly true if it’s an early flight. At some ghastly hour. Say, three or four in the morning. Which it always is because God, in his wisdom, degreed on the eighth day of Creation that no plane shall leave Logan for Albuquerque save for at the most inconvenient times humanly (or inhumanly) possible. It’s a trial and a test for the faithful by which we shall prove our worthiness of heaven.

So, we’ve made reservations at just such a hotel.

Okay, but, now, let’s go over all this again. Let’s get it down so we’ve got it, as it were, straight.

We have to:

*Go to Albuquerque,

*BUT, we can’t leave until after six on 7 May,

*AND we have to be back no later than 13 May

*BECAUSE I have to teach a class on 14 May

*AND I have to start a new class on 15 May,

*AND Martha has to be at Tufts graduation on the morning of 17 May,

*BUT we BOTH have to be in downtown Boston that afternoon for our son’s graduation.

Got all that?

Now, you may have noticed that in all the above there ain’t much room for error. A slip up here, a slip up there, and the whole thing goes down like …well…like a bushel of bowling pins on the wrong end of a wrecking ball.

So…

Shall we have some foreshadowing here? Okay. Here it comes.

Gee. Golly. What’s that we just heard in the distance?

Why, it sounded for all the world like Godzilla and King Kong slamin’ down a couple o’ spares at the Smash & Crash Bowladrome.

Wonder what that means…

Onward and upward.




Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

Depth Charges!

Hi, Everyone.

Well, I’m back from New Mexico and I’ve got lots and lots and LOTS of stories to relate. There’s the flight, the train, the trip to Old Town, the return, and the Graduation We Almost Missed and how this might have resulted in the scragging of a subway car operator.

But…

Before I get to all that, I’d like to restart an old Xcargo tradition. To wit, today, we’re going to have a visit with the lowest form of explosive-cargo…

Death Charges!

*

So I’m really kind of fearful for the Republican Party. Oh, it’s not that the GOP is doomed or anything, despite the excessively hopeful pronouncements coming out of the DNC. Remember, just a few years ago Republicans were saying the same thing about the Dems.

But, it is true that the current party leadership seems depressingly weird. You’ll recall that Dick Cheney is leading an apparently successful crusade against Colin Powell on the grounds that he, like Mr. Obama, is not tough enough.

Thus, once more, we have the interesting image of a man who’s never gotten closer to an armed conflict than a Baghdad drive-by photo-op in an armored plated limousine accusing an honest-to-God-war-hero of cowardice.

I mean, sheesh.

That’s like Barney Fife hating on Arnold Schwarzenegger for insufficient biceps.

*

While we’re on the topic, the chap that Cheney is promoting (as the next GOP presidential candidate?) is Rush Limbaugh.

Now, I’ve nothing against Mr. Limbaugh or any other sideshow freak, but the other day I saw a video of him performing his radio show. He was bouncing, bumping, and spitting, and, God forgive me, but the only thing I could think was that he resembled a large and angry mushroom.

So, you see my point, I trust. There is just something scary about the Party of Lincoln taking as its public face…a dyspeptic fungus.

*

Speaking of Dick Cheney, is it true that he was produced when German geneticists gene spliced a pit bull and Donald Duck in mid conniption fit?

Just checking.

*

Speaking of the GOP reminds me of Arnold Schwarzenegger which reminds me of the Terminator which reminds me of the new Terminator movie (“Salvation”).

I’ve been interested in the film since it came out. I probably won’t ever see it, at least not on the big screen, though I will rent it on DVD when it comes out. I like to be able to fast-forward through the boring bits, like all that tedious plot and character development, so that I can get to the explosions. You know. The good stuff.

Anyway, when I first heard about the film, I was sure the new Star Trek would clean the Terminator’s clock. I figured that the special effects would bring in the fanboys (and girls) in droves, while the teenaged James Kirk and twenty-something Spock would get the un-fan girls (and their mothers) into the theaters as well, sort of the way that Orlando Bloom did for Hobbits and Pirates.

Now . . . I’m not so sure.

You see, I think I may have underestimated the appeal of _ Terminator: Salvation _ . I think, in fact, that it touches something real and important in the hearts of almost all men and most women.

To wit, the sincere desire to go out and blast the holy living shit outta sumthin’.


*

Actually, I’m kind of serious. I think most of us (it’s certainly true for me) really, really want the cathartic release of violence, but without moral consequences.

So, zombie movies (Dawn of the Dead), vampire movies (Blade), and Frankensteinian machines (Terminator, Matrix) are perfect. You get to destroy something without actually committing murder. You can’t kill something that’s already dead, or was never living in the first place.

But, also, I think there is another factor at work.

Specifically, I think most of us, secretly, when no one is watching, are at least a little bit on the side of the zombies, the vampires, and the killing machines.

You see, if they win…well, it’s the end of the world, but… on the other hand…

That guy that cut you off in traffic this morning, the snotty woman at the personnel office, the bully who stuffed you in your locker in eighth grade, that dipsh*t at the DMV, the highway cop that caught you doing 56 in a 55 mph zone, your ex-husband or wife or their lawyer, that pompous ass on the dissertation committee, the guy who yells into his cell phone in public places…

They all get nuked, too.

Might be worth it.


*

Actually, I’m very interested in movies from a cultural perspective. Whether they mean to or not, they tend to reflect the social discourse of our age. They reveal to us what the larger society says we can and cannot say and believe.

For instance, a few years ago I was watching the bonus features on the DVD of a famous horror film. The film in question was rooted in Catholic belief; characters went to hell and heaven and limbo, and were eternally damned for suicide (even if, or particularly if, it was actually an act of self-sacrifice designed to spare others pain and suffering).

Truth be told, it was a pretty gruesome film with a pretty gruesome conception of God, but, be that as it may, it had great special effects. In fact, the special features included an interview with one of the talented FX chiefs involved.

In the middle of the interview, the man said an interesting thing. He said that his effects may have been more successful because he was Jewish, not Catholic, and so brought a new perspective to Catholic conceptions of hell.

Now, there was nothing wrong with him saying that. Not a thing.

But…

Suppose, just for a minute, that a Catholic filmmaker were to make a horror movie based on a not terribly respectful reading of the Torah.

Can you imagine the storm of protest that would result?

*

Besides, which…

Why go to movies? If you want a real Catholic horror story, you just have to open up your copy of the New York Times or any other major newspaper in recent months. There, you will probably find a story about a major report released by the Irish government about child abuse in Catholic reform schools and orphanages. It seems, according to the report, that nuns and priests systematically raped, beat, abused, and exploited tens of thousands of children under their care.

Moreover, it seems that the larger Church made no effort to discipline the pedophiles and sadists among its clergy. Rather, it spared no expense to cover up their crimes, and, more, blackened the names of their accusers.

And this . . . THIS . . . is what we receive from those who present themselves as our moral superiors, who claim a direct link to God, and announce that they are thus empowered to judge our failings.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not just nuns and priests that I object to here. I’ve seen my share of corrupt Protestants. There have been Buddhist murderers and Hindu tyrants. We all know about the 9-11 hijackers. And, yes, Stalin and Pol Pot had their faiths as well. They were evangelical atheists in good standing.

The point being that there are an awful lot of people out there claiming divine justifications for pretty terrible things. And we all know that. We know it, and yet, somehow, we end up following them just the same.

Which makes me wonder.

Could it be that another reason that we find apocalyptic movies attractive is that we know, on some level, that when and if God comes, he’ll have the Terminator with him…

And we’ll damn well deserve what we’re going to get?


*

Onward and upward.

mjt





Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

Busy, Busy, Busy....

Okay, everyone,

This week’s column is going to be kinda short and next week’s is going to be even shorter. In fact, it isn’t going to exist at all. I’m not doing an Xcargo for the week of May 11, 2009, or for the week of May 18, 2009.

That’s because I’m busy. Very busy, Very, very busy. As in Holy Jumping Catfish-&-Cattle-Prods busy. As in I’m-never-gonna-get-this-all-done and afterwards they’ll-find-me-propped-up-in-front-of-my-computer-and-gibbering busy.

That’s because ye ole bunch-o-things are happening. Specifically, next week I’m flying off to visit my parents in New Mexico. I’m so looking forward to the flight. You betcha. The three a.m. departure times. The lines. The almost missing the plane. The friendly Homeland Securitoids with large caliber fire arms. The teeny-weenie chairs. The knees under my chin. The scrumptious airline food which now consists entirely of small indigestible nuggets of something or other that’s hawked at a penny per peanut. Golly. Gosh. Good times.

But there’s more. Before the whisper jet leaves the tarmac, I’ve got other stuff to do. Like, I’ve got to finish up editing several chapters of technical manuals. You see, since the overpaid-underworked-Academic gig didn’t pan out (no great loss, really. I look terrible in tweed), I’m trying to make a living by, first, teaching lots and lots of classes at lots and lots of different schools, and, second, doing freelance tech stuff.

The aforesaid techie stuff I’m doing right now consists of wading hip deep through a 400 page guide to a certain open source programmer’s tool with tons of easy-to-read prose like “The autodingdong pre-code process generation wingnut should be first de-pre-referenced and objectified under the GNU-non-compliant FLANGTHORB variable where Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you.”

Oh. Joy.

Actually, it isn’t as bad as reading postmodern literary criticism . . . nor the last three books of my former dissertation committee…but, on the other hand, so’s a happy afternoon spent sticking toothpicks under your fingernails.

Anyhoo, then there’s teaching. This week I’ve got to finish grading the papers from my English 1 class. And I’ve got to do the lecture for it. And I’ve got to prepare the next paper assignment. And I’ve got to get ready to do the final grades. And I’ve got to do it all while at least pretending I know what I’m doing. I don’t. Know what I’m doing, that is. Not really. And I’m proud of it. So there.

Oh, and here’s a little tip. It isn’t just me. NONE of us knows what we’re doing. Next time you’re taking a class and you wonder about your instructor, rest assured, he’s just as clueless as you think he is. Or she is. More so. Teaching is very often the art of staying just one step ahead of the class. Or running to catch up with it. Then you try to have a good attitude about it.

And there’s the rub. The nastier your instructor, the more pompous, the more often he/she refers to “professionalism,” “scholarship,” or “academic rigor,” the further behind they actually are. They’re scared (even if they don’t exactly know it consciously). So, if you’re student, and you do your very level best, and you turn in the finest paper you can possibly write . . . and he/she still grades it like it was toxic waste and suggests you pursue a career as a crash test dummy (and we’re not talking the musical kind here, buckeroo), remember, you already have your revenge. Your instructor is three quarters in the grave. And knows it.

But, anyway, after I get the English 1 class done, I’ve got to get my English 2 class ready to roll. That means I have to write several lectures, come up with a syllabus, plan my lessons, and hope to God that none of the students have already taken my English 1 class because they’ll see how much I’m basically just repeating myself dully. And I do dull well. Some would say I’m the Duke of Dull. Or the Tsar of Tedium. Or the Baron of Boring. Insert additional alliteration here and snore. Then repeat.

BUT, that’s not all. I return to Boston on a Thursday. The next day, the Friday, I get to start a whole new class. This time it’s a course in American history. You see, I’m teaching an undergrad seminar for thirty or so students . . . most of whom are Chinese. It’s part of a program, you see, by which foreign students come to colleges to Learn Our Wisdom. Boy. Have we got a surprise for them. We haven’t got any. Wisdom, I mean. We’re dumb as a brick. They should have realized that when we let Wall Street brokers loot our economy. And voted for George W. Bush. And invaded Iraq. But, apparently they weren’t watching. And we’ve already cashed the check. Now, there’s a learning experience for ‘em.

So, anyway, I’ve got to come up with ANOTHER bunch of lectures, and another syllabus, and an assigned textbook, and a passel of handouts, and several assorted readings. By next week. While editing GNU-complaint dozy doats. And grading papers. And planning English 2 classes. And flying places. God help my students. Somebody has to. Sure ain’t going to be me.

(In fact, truth be told, it’s going to be an interesting class. You see, I’ve taught a lot of Chinese students in my time. We’ve gotten along fine. But, I’ve always wondered, will the day come when, finally, we face the reality that people may be friends, and nations may be allies, but ultimately, states do not marry until death do them part. Ultimately, they seek their own ends. Will my students ever sit before me as I lecture, smiling, but with that fact in mind? Theirs is, after all, a rising power. Whereas, in the last twenty years, we have done so very much to waste our own energies, resources, and dignity.)

But, moving on…

So, that’s what I’m up to. And that’s why I’m not going to be writing an Xargo next week or the week after. It’s hard. I know. Still, buck up. I’ll return. My absence is only temporary.

But I can’t write much more at the moment. I’m too busy with all those other chores.

Oh, and something else. I forgot. There’s another thing that is commanding all my time and energy. It’s a question that haunts me, that occupies my thoughts, and demands all my attention.

To wit: If there is a didgeridoo…

Is there also one that doesn’t?

Until next time…

Onward and upward.
















Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

I’m Sooooo Confused

Okay. We all know I’m not too bright. Indeed, Dumb As A Brick springs to mind. And we’re not talking a high quality class o’ brick here, Buckeroo. Not one of those snotty red ones with pressed corners. No. We’re talking cinder block. The kind that have big empty spaces in the forehead.

That being the case, I get confused. A lot. With extra stupidity and a large side of dim. In fact, you may consider what follows today as an official SOS, Mayday, and Oh-Heck-&-Halitosis we just took a low yield nuke up the left nostril. Which is all to say that I’ve say that I’ve listed some things below which really, Really, REALLY confuse me and I’m hoping someone out there—some wise and informative soul—will explain ‘em to me.

So, put your thinking caps on, assume a learned expression, and please send me your answers ASAP. Or, failing ASAP, then just generally SAP. People say that a lot about me. He’s the biggest SAP I know, they say. Nice to know that I’m outstanding in my field…

Anyway, here goes:


*

In the news recently there have been a number of disturbing stories about environmental/animal rights terrorism. There have been multiple fire-bombings of the offices and even the homes of individuals whom activists have judged unworthy of life. A neuroscientist at UCLA who uses animals in his work had his car blown up (it was a matter of only luck that he wasn’t in it at time). Last year, another scientist AND her family were attacked in her own home by SIX masked animal rights activists. Meanwhile, the FBI has officially listed Daniel Andreas on its most wanted list. Andreas allegedly firebombed the offices of companies and organizations that he felt were anti-Earthish.

But, the people responsible for these things are just a few extremists, right? Just a few crackpots? The bad apples which spoil the barrel of quite legitimate animal rights activists? Responsible organizations, like, say, People For the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) would never, ever, dream of doing such things, would they?

Right?

Well, then, how to explain another story, also in the news, but somehow not receiving a lot of attention? Everyone knows about how the Obama family got a new puppy. Less know is that Vice President Biden’s family also got a dog. They bought a little German Shepard pup from a legitimate and humane breeder by the name of Linda Brown.

Now, remember, the People Who Know Best have been telling us for years that if we’re going to buy a dog, we should only buy from a Breeder. They aren’t like those nasty “puppy mills” that used to supply pet stores. So we should all give kudos to the Bidens and we should all be happy, right?

Wrong. PETA decided that the Bidens should have gotten their new dog from a shelter. Much more humane, you see. BUT, Biden is vice president of the United States. He has all these Secret Service agents around him. Hard to get through a wall of Secret Service agents. They have guns. They shoot back.

So who does PETA go after instead?

You got it, Linda Brown.

She was PERSONALLY singled out for abuse in the organization’s advertising campaigns. Her business was repeated inspected by state authorities (apparently acting on PETA’s allegations that she was running a puppy mill) and, while she was ultimately cleared, she was out some $4000 in legal fees.

She is quoted in the press as saying that she will never, ever again sell a dog to anyone famous.

Now, all of this leads one to uncomfortable places. If there is a difference between the animal rights extremists and PETA, then why has PETA attempted to ruin the life of an innocent person? How far is it removed from the firebombs of the fanatics? How close is it to the masked thugs who invaded the home of a woman and beat up her husband?

And most of all, how do we bring ourselves to believe that this organization is benign? How do we convince ourselves that it doesn’t have, at its heart, cruelty rather than kindness? That its activists are not motivated by a love of the earth, by rather overt sadism? Who delight in making other humans suffer in the name of a good cause?


*

Next thing that confuses me…

There has been quite a bit of furor of late regarding the Obama recovery plan. I don’t know whether it’s a good one or not (I can’t balance my check-book, much less understand how to keep the national economy running) but it has been interesting watching the debate itself. Most (but not all) liberals and progressives are for the plan. Most (but not all) conservatives and libertarians are against it.

But, most interesting of all has been the “Tea Parties.” Certain groups of conservatives and libertarians are presenting their opposition to government intervention into the economy as resistance to tyranny, and so they link their protests to the Boston Tea Party of the Revolution. As you’ve doubtlessly heard, they state that their goal is to “teabag the White House”—this, of course, to the great benefit of late night talk show hosts and The Daily Show. Always nice to be handed a punch line on, as it were, a silver platter.

Okay, but what is far more curious is that “the Tea Party” begins to look more and more like a political organization, perhaps even an alternative to the GOP. That’s fine…political activism is an American right . . . but where things get hinky is in the Party’s relationship with Fox News, which has (more or less) openly sponsored the movement. Indeed, despite repeated (and heated) corporate statements to the contrary, there is some speculation that Fox basically created the Tea Party in all its baggy wonder.

Oh, and Fox News itself has become famous (some would say infamous) for its ultra-nationalist, ultra-Americanist, super-patriotic commentators, weeping over the fate of the nation, and launching into barely coherent rants about crypto-communism in the Oval Office.

But . . . Fox News is owned by Fox Broadcasting…which is owned by Fox Entertainment…which is owned by News Corporation . . . which is owned by Rupert Murdoch.

Now, Murdoch is (at least according to the Wikipedia entry I just scammed) now an American citizen. But, he was born Australia and spent of his career there and then in Britain where he was associated with right-wing political organizations. He only moved his company HQ to the United States in 2004.

So, here we have the Tea Party, an organization presenting itself as the defender of American values and American liberty, that is (in effect) controlled and created by an Australian multi-billionaire who has spent most of his life anywhere but America.

And nobody seems to mind.

Which confuses me.

I mean, suppose that someone from some other country, say, China or Egypt, were to move to the US, buy a TV station, and began preaching Liberalism…

Can you imagine…even begin to imagine!…the pure hell sh*tstorm that would follow?


*

Last thing that confuses me…two apparently unrelated stories.

First story: like most everyone else with access to YouTube I was stunned by the performance of Susan Boyle, the Scot who appeared rumpled and plain on a TV talent show and then proceeded to blow-away the place. Like most everyone else, I found her story inspiring and her talent amazing. And, maybe, the thing I loved most about the whole affair was the sight of the program’s smirking judges getting plastered to the wall.

However, here’s the kinky thing. Since then, I’ve started to pick up jeers in the news and on the ‘net. A number of self-described critics are saying that Boyle is some kind of fraud. Those Who Know Best have begun to say that she was not as poor, as lonely, as disadvantaged as we thought… merely ALMOST as poor, lonely and disadvantaged. Therefore, they say, we should reject her. They say she is a fake Horatio Alger story, manufactured for the sake of ratings, and that we should not consider her “real.”

How profound and insightful of them, I’m sure.

Second story: In the news today I see that two men in Michigan have been arrested for (prepare yourself) burning a six year old child with a blow torch. The report, as I have seen it, is that the two men were brothers. One of them was the child’s father. For reasons not revealed, they allegedly took the torch to the child … for amusement? As a punishment? For simple cruelty’s sake? We do not know.

The men are in jail. The child is in protective custody.

And here’s what confuses me.

Given the second story . . . given its horror … given what it may say about us as a society, why does the first story exist at all?

That is, considering the enormity of the problems facing us, all the places where we might expend our energy to protect the innocent, to heal the sick, to feed the hungry…

Why is it that Those Who Know Best, secure in their corporate offices and tenured positions, have chosen instead to slander a powerless woman . . . whose only crime has been to pursue the personal expression and personal success which, or so they tell us, are legitimate goals for us all?


*

So those are some of the things that confuse me.

For all I know, they confuse you, too. But I’m hoping they don’t. I’m hoping that you’ve got some great answers. And you won’t mind sharing ‘em. Soon. By return email. Right now.

Cause, otherwise, I might just start suspecting that maybe . . . just maybe …a whole lot of people who are telling me that they’re morally superior and devoted to all things good and wonderful and American … are, in fact . . .

As full of sh*t as a Xmas Turkey.

And nobody wants me to think that.

Do they?

Onward and upward.



~Michael Jay Tucker














Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker
All rights reserved

Scholastic Inaptitude Test: A Quickie

Just a quickie today, because it’s late in the game and I’ve got deeds to do and promises to keep and lots (and lots) of papers to grade and a chapter to edit. So, sort of as a follow-on to S*cks to be me…

I’m teaching a lot these days. Sometimes it’s in person. Sometimes it’s online. Sometimes it’s English. Sometimes it’s History. Sometimes it’s at one college, sometimes another.

Now, this is interesting because I don’t have a Ph.D. and probably never will. But, the students don’t seem to mind, particularly. And this is in spite of the fact that one of my own former professors said that I was incapable of scholarship and that I was “Unfocused.”

Maybe my students tolerate me because they aren’t particularly focused themselves. Oh, not that they’re aren’t focused on getting their degrees…their eyes are on the prize indeed…but they are not, shall we say? Homogenous. They are a diverse lot.

In just the last couple of semesters I’ve had students who were from pretty much every place on earth. There was a Hungarian, a Peruvian, five Nepalese, an Austrian, a Moroccan, a Saudi, three Chinese, one Taiwanese (“I think of myself as a citizen of Greater China”), a Japanese, several Koreans, five or six Indians, an Ethiopian, a Columbian, a Nigerian, an Israeli on leave from his army service (he was a sniper by training), a Belarusian, two Bulgarians, two Russians, a Salvadorian (“I’ve survived three earthquakes”), an Ivorian, an assortment of Brazilians, a Venezuelan (“I decided I wouldn’t go back after I was kidnapped. I mean, the second time”), and, of course, just to top it off, a very articulate gentlemen who was born in Brazil but made his first fortune in Peru, travels the world as multinational consultant and was a visiting professor at MIT. But, you see, he doesn’t have a bachelor’s. Many European and South American educational system don’t, that is, require them. So, he was in my class…

This was, of course, in addition to the usual assortment of students who were more “typical” albeit not always less colorful. There was, for instance, the woman who bred ferrets for a living, the young man who had danced professionally with the Twyla Tharp Company, the Marine Corps vet who looked as though he were 12 (he was all of nineteen) and who had earned a Purple Heart in Iraq, and one very intelligent young man who identified himself as a “member of the deaf community” and came to class each week with two signing interpreters.

I like to think we get along fairly well. I watched with some amusement while the two Bulgarians discovered one another and began, over the course of the term, a mild flirtation. Then, too, there was the delicately negotiated relationship between the Peruvian, whose parents owned a Guinea Pig farm (her research paper was on the proper way of preparing one for dinner. It seems you serve them with potatoes), and the woman who raised ferrets and was, we soon discovered, a member of PETA.

But, my story actually doesn’t involve my class, but rather one of my professors. The same one I mentioned above. The one who said I was unfocused. He is very Focused. He is Tenured. He is Outstanding In His Field. He is a Recognized Authority. I came to call him “The Hindenburg.”

Anyway, one day, before I left his program (as unfocused as ever, as incapable of scholarship as before), I was standing in a hallway and happened to be telling some friends about all my many sorts of students. He came out of an office and heard me. Then, he looked a little pained and asked, “How do you stand it?”

At first, I thought he was joking. But, a glance at his face set me straight. He meant what he said.

I stammered out something about enjoying my work, and that the students were fascinating. Meshing my world-view and theirs was a delightful puzzle. Each time I succeed in teaching them something, it was a personal victory to be savored.

My professor looked at me coldly. His mustache quivered. Then, he said, “ I suppose . . . if you’re interested in …teaching.” He made the word sound like a disease. “Those kind of people.”

Then, with a dismissive shrug, he waddled off to some class or another. There, he would face (I knew) a comfortingly monolithic community. A bland assortment of suburban youth, secure in their upper- to upper-middle class privilege, would snore comfortably and non-threateningly in the tightly linear rows of seats before him. They would offer him no challenge. He would present them with nothing unexpected. Everyone would be happily focused.

And as he left, I realized something.

I do not miss being “capable of scholarship.” I do not mind being unfocused. I would rather strive (however feebly) to be a teacher than a Tenured Authority In My Field. I would rather stay among my night students and my part-time students, at Community Colleges and Programs of Continuing Education.

Or, to put it all another way…

Given a choice between my professor’s privileged Few and my energetic, exciting, and sometimes challenging Many, I’ll take the Many.

You meet a better class of people.

Onward and Upward.

































Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

S*cks To Be Me (#9): Slip sliding Aaawwaaay

So. Here it is. The pièce de résistance. Or maybe even an extra big pièce de résistance. Or, hell, a whole damn pizza de resistance. With anchovies and whip cream. And a side of slaw. And yes, that does sound revolting. And it is one of the many reasons I didn’t become a professional chef. You can thank me later.

Anyway…as you know, I’m doing a humongous series on my adventures in the last few months of 2008. It is titled Sucks To Be Me. And I’m understating. About the sucks part. I mean, the word “Vortex” springs to mind. Insert images here of whirlpools, undertows, ships going down with all hands, and Bermuda Triangles. With or without UFOs and giant squids. Your choice.

So far, I’ve gotten through Martha’s chest wall injury, my eye surgery, a flooded basement, and getting kicked out of a certain academic program by three professors who shall remain nameless. Except, of course, for a few quick references to Larry, Moe, and Curly. And Tweedledum and Tweedledee and Tweedledumber. And The Three Walking Analogs Of Rectal Gonorrhea. But, otherwise, my lips are sealed. I’m good like that.

Today, though, we are going to get to the final little chapter of my 2008 saga. It involves ice.

Lots of ice.

Lots and lots and LOTS . . .of freaking… ice.


*

Okay, so when we left off last time, we’d just had an ice storm. I had rushed outside to move the cars before Tom . . . the really nice guy we hired to plow the drive . . . arrived.

You see, as I said last time, we live near the top of a little hill where (in effect) three different roads intersect. The city snowplows coming from three different directions drop their snow . . . here. Which is how we normally end up with drifts of the stuff in our driveway that are “as high as an elephant’s eye.” Or, at least as its scrotum. Which is really more appropriate to the story. At least, when you think about it.

Most of the time, I go out with my handy little shovel and whittle that all away . . . after six or seven days of backbreaking labor. But, this time, because of the eye surgery and a few other facts (like realizing that I’m, shudder, 52 and not 25), I allowed Martha to convince me (she only had to bash me with the snow shovel two or three times) to hire someone with a plow truck to do it for us.

Ah, but the kicker is that to let Tom plow the drive, we have to get the cars out of it first. This usually means my hurriedly shoveling enough of the snow away so that I can back our cars out and then park them on the street while he does the rest.

Now, some more background. We have three cars. Two of these are Hondas. The other is a sporty little Toyota that used to be Martha’s pride and joy. She’s a car fanatic and she particularly loved her little Celica. The problem was that it is no longer easy for her to get into and out of it, so, a while ago we decided to get a more sensible vehicle and sell her old one.

That was the plan. It has been sitting in the driveway ever since. Somehow we never get around to selling it. Funny thing about that. And I’ve caught Martha standing in the driveway at mid-night, petting the car, and telling it not to worry because mama’s right here.

So, that’s the three cars.

I run outside to move them.

Then, I stop running.

However, I do NOT stop moving.


*

Everything . . . EVERYTHING … is covered with a sheet of ice. It had sleeted during the night and now the world is doing a pretty good impression of Ice Station Zebra. The sidewalk is under about a inch of the stuff and I seem to be drifting along, gently, toward the curb.

Well, “gently” may be a bit much. More like . . . well, did you ever hear that joke about the dancing chicken? The one they put on the hot plate? (“What do you think makes the chicken dance?”) Sort of like that. But with fewer feathers and more squawking.

*

I finally managed to come to a stop ‘round abouts the lamppost. I then take careful stock of the situation.

Oh, I say. Gosh, I add. Then I say something else. I will not record what it was. Suffice to say that it made some of the ice melt. And turned the air blue. And sent mothers rushing to cover the ears of the innocent young children. Who, of course, already used words like that and were texting their friends about the boring guy who didn’t even know how to swear properly.

Anyway, I finally made it to the cars and, after much bashing of ice off doors, I get them open and began my moving operations. Mine is a CRV and has four wheel drive, so it was pretty easy for me to get the thing out of the drive way and parked on the street. Martha’s had new snow tires, so it did pretty well, too.

That left . . . the Celica.

I got in. It sneered at me. I started it. It chortled. I started to back out. It began to giggle.

*

It was when I backed all the way out and was in the street that I realized something interesting was happening.

To wit… I was sliding.

I don’t mean that I was sliding forward. I don’t mean I was sliding backward.

I mean, I was sliding sideways.

I mean, the car was sliding SIDEWAYS…

I mean, I’m in the car and it is sliding In The Street . . . SIDEWAYS.

As in, the driver’s side door is even now headed toward the fence of the guy who lives down where the street curves to the left.

As in, yes folks, step right up… I’m screwed.


*

Now, I’ve been driving cars on the ice when they have decided to skid nose first into something.

And, I’ve been driving cars on ice when they have decided to fish tail their way into oblivion.

But I have never . . . ever . . . been sitting STILL in a car, and then had it slide. Sideways.

If you’ve never tried it, I suggest you give it a shot. It is a wonderfully quick way to get religion.

*


Somehow, I managed to get the car slowed down enough to point its nose down hill and toward the main street. Then, I managed to drift it to the intersection and make a right hand turn.

Crisis averted, right?

Well, no. ‘Cause, of course, I still have to get the car back UP the hill.

Okay . . . I’m not a great driver on snow. I’m not used to it. It’s particularly annoying because Martha drives in snow really, really well. So much for my macho image. Well, not that I had much of one anyway, but, it’s the principle of thing.

But getting back to my story…

I have to think this out. There is a short side of the hill and a long. I’ve just come down the short. But, it’s pretty steep and I don’t think I’ll be able to get the little car up it again . . . at least, not given the ice.

But if I drive down the main street a block, and make a right turn, then I’m back on our street and the Long Side of the hill. If I can get moving fast enough maybe I’ll be able get back up to our house.

Brilliant, I think.

I go down the block, I make my turns, I get into position, and put my foot on the gas!

By God! I find myself moving up the hill like a Celica-stallion! I’m sliding a little here and there, but I’m doing it! By God, I’m doing it!

And then…

This little old lady lives down the way. She is 339 years of age. And three quarters. She drives a huge Detroit beast of that sort that my son and his friends used to call a “Pimpmobile.” She has never been known to go faster than 25 mph. On the freeway. In the high speed HOV lane.

It is this exactly at this moment that she elects to exit her driveway. Into the road. In front of me. At a snappy six or seven miles an hour. And then, of course, she begins to slide backwards. Towards me.

At the last second I managed to get my car off to one side . . . well, technically, into a snow bank, but who’s being technical? She drifted on past me down the hill. She gave me a friendly little wave.

I think I heard later she finally stopped somewhere around Providence, Rhode Island. I understand she’s bought a condo there.


*

Okay, I say to myself. We’ll try this again.

I get the car dug out of the snow bank, drift back to the bottom of the hill, and once again, start the dash up the ski slope … I mean, the road.

And once more, I’m doing it! I’m doing it! I’m dashing along like Santa on Steroids! I’m almost to the top of the hill…

And then…

You know the guy on your street whose got no neck but lots of derriere? The guy who bought the pit bull so he’d have the meanest dog on the block? The guy who has a gun rack over his Jacuzzi? The guy who bought a four-wheel/four-door stretch luxury pickup truck (with DVD player) that he needs like a hole in the head because he never takes it anywhere ‘cept maybe the Mall? The guy who you’d like to ask, sorta in passing, Say, Just How Small Is Your Penis, Anyway?

Well, as I’m going UP the hill, our version of that guy in his shiny four-wheel drive is coming DOWN the hill, at high speed, taking his half of the road from the middle….

Wanna guess who ends up in the snow bank again? Wanna? Huh? Wanna?


*

Anyway, I finally make it back up the hill. I get there just about the time Tom, the plow guy, arrives.

He watches me fish tail into a spot sort of in front of our house. I roll down my window. He rolls down his window. “Like to a buy a car?” I ask. “Cheap?”

He shudders. “Think I’ll pass,” he says.

*

With Tom’s help, and quite a bit of sand, I finally get the Celica in place. Then, the driveway gets plowed. And everyone’s happy. Or, happier, anyway.

I stagger back into the house. Martha meets me and says, “You know, in the all the time you were out there, I didn’t see a single City snowplow or sand-truck. I think you ought to call the department of public works and complain.”

For a moment, I consider it. Then, I realize I already know what they’ll say if I do. They’ll apologize and then add, “We tried to get up your street an hour ago, but some damn fool in a Celica was sliding down it sideways and blocked the way.”

No, I think. I’ve suffered enough. Besides, we have a bottle of tequila in the cabinet. And it’s calling my name.

*

So, that was (mostly) the last of my adventures for 2008. There were a couple of more snowstorms, but no more sleet. Christmas came and we enjoyed it hugely. New Year’s followed, and we bid the old year farewell.

Actually, it wasn’t so much bidding it farewell as hoping we’d never see anything quite like it again. But, then, it probably doesn’t want to see us, either.

But, since then, things have been quite a bit quieter. My new bionic eye works fine. Martha’s gotten over the chest wall injury. The basement’s dry and the appliances work. I’m teaching and writing . . . though, I’m still trying to figure out what to do about my former dissertation committee. I had thought of inciting a crazed mob to grab torches and pitchforks and head up to the castle to scrag the good doctors Von Frankenstein. But, alas, all the lynch mobs I know are heading over to Wall Street. All those bankers, you see, taking bonuses…

I guess I can understand. It’s all a question of priorities.


*

So, that was the end of 2008. At least for me.

But…

Let me be serious for half a moment. I called this series Sucks To Be Me. But, come, it was hardly that bad. The eye surgery was scary, but it proved benign. Martha’s injury was painful, but, over time, she recovered. The appliances were (briefly) an inconvenience. But, they were only an inconvenience. I can survive washing dishes. My dissertation committee did me real economic and emotional harm. But, in the end, they were no more significant than any schoolyard bully. Perhaps it is true what they say about the banality of evil. Perhaps small evils are the most banal of all.

All in all, not so bad…

At least I do not know famine and slaughter, as does so much of the world. At least I do not have AIDS/HIV, the way that millions have here and abroad. At least I am not in a war zone.

Which makes me wonder . . .what would it take . . . how much effort would it be . . . to make my problems the worst the world knows?

It may be that the price cannot be paid. The effort would be too vast. The intent is too utopian.

And yet…

And yet . . .

Would it not be a lovely thing to try?

*

Onward and upward.



















Copyright© 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

S*cks To Be Me (#8): The Ice Storm

Okay. I swear. I promise. This will end soon. The S*cks To Be Me series will, eventually, stop. You will be released. Set free. Made Whole. And afterwards, you’ll be able to sit your grandchildren on your knee and say, Yes, I Survived The Great Tedium Deluge of 2008-09. And I recovered. Of course, it took many years of therapy. And enough electro-shock treatments to power an aircraft carrier. And that’s why my eyes are crossed. And we won’t mention that faint scent of singed rubber. But things are just ducky now.

Anyway…

As you know, I’m doing a seemingly interminable series on the wonderful little adventures I had at the tail end of 2008. You’ll recall that these included sheer terror, eye surgery, getting kicked out of my Ph.D. program (by a set of academic “advisors” who may be best likened to ambulatory excrement. With weevils), a flooded basement, assorted dead appliances, and, oh yes, a Christmas Tree that didn’t get hugged. And probably never forgave us for it. And developed a complex. But that’s what therapy is for. And, in the words of Freud, ah, to be Jung again.

Where was I? Oh, yes. So, last time, I’d just had my cataract surgery. After much dread on my part, it turned out to be quick, painless, and easy. I was in and out in like 20 minutes. In fact, I was a little disappointed. I mean, I was looking forward to all those wonderful opportunities to bore total strangers trapped with me on airplanes with stories about all the horrors I endured for Perfect Vision. But, no. Was not to be. Sad reality. I blame myself.

Anyway, so, I had the surgery. Everything was going fine. I figured now, finally, Things Are Going To Get Back To Normal.

Gosh.

Golly.

Darn.

You’d think I’d learn.


*

I had the surgery on December 15. That was a Monday. By Friday, it had . . . begun . . . to …snow.

And snow. And snow. And …snow.

By Saturday, it had snowed A LOT. There were happy little drifts of white icy shit everywhere. And, oh, by the way, if I ever get my hands on freaking Frosty The Snowman…well, let’s just say Napalm Enema and leave it at that.

But there’s more to the story. We live on a hill. Our street runs down from the hill and to the main street below us. But, there’s another street that intersects ours just about directly across from our driveway. In effect, we live on a three-way intersection.

Now, what that means is that snowplows coming up the hill … and snowplows coming down the hill … and snowplows coming along the Third Street . . . all meet. Right in front of our house. And stuff most of their freaking snow into our driveway. Meaning, quite literally, there may be four feet (or more) of snow piled up at the mouth of our driveway after any one storm.

This is known as life in picturesque New England.

Did I mention the Napalm enema?

*

Okay, so, what this means is that SOMEONE has to go out and shovel the aforesaid driveway.

Three guesses who that someone is.

You want some hints? Okay. There are two of us living in this house. There’s me. And then there’s Martha. We also have a dog. His name is Oreo.

At the best of times, Martha has some difficulty walking across uneven or challenging terrain—like, say, if it is knee deep in snow. And, right at the moment, she can’t stand on ice at all—the chest wall injury, remember?

Meanwhile, Oreo lacks opposable thumbs. Which means he cannot hold a shovel.

Lucky bastard.

*

So … a short time later, I am standing out in the snow.

Shoveling.

Alone.

While the left side of my head (the surgery side) sort of feels like somebody with a very large jackhammer is trying to get out. While tap dancing. In golf shoes. With extra long cleats.

I look up at the window of the house now and then. I see Martha. She sees me. She waves. She smiles. Then, she goes and has another cup of coffee.

I whimper a lot.

*

Anyway, for the next day or so, I feel like what’s left at the bottom of a birdcage shortly after Tweetie has a charming tête-à-tête with an E. Coli the size of a Buick. That, plus the fact that my eye surgeon just about had a cow when he found out I’d been doing major physical labor right after my operation … “You Did WHAT?”… made me admit that, yes, instead of shoveling snow myself, maybe, next time, we could actually hire someone to plow our driveway.

We answer a few ads on Craig’s List and, voila, the next thing you know we have an arrangement with a really nice guy named Tom. He’s got a diesel pickup with a plow and he’ll come on mornings after big snows. Cool.

In fact, it’s particularly cool because about a week later, we had another storm. A fairly sizable depression rolled up the coast, bringing with it all sorts of moisture, which it proceeded to dump on us.

But it was an odd storm. It didn’t start off as snow. Rather, it began as sleet.

Now, here’s a confession. When I was a boy living in New Mexico, I had no idea what sleet was. Oh, I knew the word. I’d hear broadcasters or my parents talk about “sleet and freezing rain.” But, I didn’t have an emotional understanding of the term. I didn’t really intuit, or grok, the genuine and inner meaning of Sleetness. Or the Gestalt of Freezing Rainism.

But how could I? I hadn’t experienced them. And, to quote another and better humorist, there are some things that cannot be explained to virgins in either words or pictures.

*

But, if, per chance, you are lucky enough to not have experienced sleet and/or freezing rain— and are, thus, sleet-virginal—then let me provide you with some background data.

Rain, when it falls, can get you wet. Snow can be slippery and block driveways.

But, sleet…

Sleet, or freezing rain, is partly water and partly ice. When it hits something, it sticks and freezes. In the winters here, after an ice storm, you’ll see cars, houses, telephone poles, power lines, and, most of all, trees absolutely glittering with ice.

It can be rather beautiful, actually, particularly on a sunny day. Envision a world in which everything is sheathed in white, all of it shimmering in the dawn, the light breaking prismatically into tiny, hard-edged rainbows.

Unfortunately, it is also deadly. The trees break under the weight of the ice. The power lines snap and drop live and sparking in the street. House roofs sag.

And cars?

Those slide helplessly in the road.


*

Just in case you’re wondering, pretty much everything in the previous section …particularly the cars and helpless part … is known as “foreshadowing.”

Great word, that Foreshadowing. Make a note of it. Might come in handy the next time you have to write an English paper or be pompous at parties while discussing pretentious European movies with no plot and no characters but great full frontal nudity. And I only read it for the articles.


*

So, late in December, but not quite next door to Christmas, we wake up and find ourselves in a gray, overcast day. From the windows we hear the little clicking noise of sleet on glass. If you’re interested, it sounds a bit like rat claws on hard tile. Really cheery.

I stagger out of bed. I look outside. The sleet is slowly giving way to pure snow. There are already two to three inches of it on the ground. That means that Tom will be here with the plow shortly. But he’s not here yet.

Ah-ha! I think, wisely. Here’s my chance. I’ll run outside (I decide) and move our cars onto the street. That way, Tom will be able to plow the whole driveway.

Boy, am I smart.

You betcha.


*

I grab my keys, slip my pants on over my PJs and head for the door.

It strikes me, as I go, that I haven’t seen any city-owned snowplows … or sand trucks…on the hill. Or on our street. Or on the intersecting street. Or on the main street down the way.

Well, I think to myself, if they’re not sending out sand trucks, it must not be that bad. Maybe the storm wasn’t as big as they expected. In fact, who knows? Maybe, at last, Things Are Getting Back To Normal.

Thinking thusly, I step outside and …

Do you know the term “helpless as a hog on ice?”

Look it up.

You’ll understand.


*

But that’s for next time.

Onward and upward.












Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

S*cks To Be Me (#7): The Eye Part 2 (to a power of six)

Okay.

I’m going to finally, finally, finally (I promise) get to my eye surgery. I know I’ve said that like fifty-nine and three quarters times before. I know that I’ve tantalized you with images of a giant, bat-winged, fuzzy-eared, tentacle-equipped, fang-encrusted eyeball (with scales). And, I know, I’ve not delivered so far.

But, heck, if you wanted speed, efficiency and quickness, you’d be reading Twitter right now.

But the Eye…

*

As you’ll recall from columns way, Way, WAY back, I needed cataract surgery. The discovery of this aforesaid fact produced a certain in effect in me. That effect was technically known as sweat-poppin’, limb-trembling’, stomach-churnin’, heart-knockin’, breath-gaspin’, pants-wettin’ …terror.

As in Terror.

As in HOLY CHRIST THEY’RE GONNA CUT OUT MY EYE!

Well, that’s a little bit of an understatement, but Subtle is my middle name.


*

So, for weeks before this little trip to the eye doc, I’d been having these teeny-tiny, teeny-weeny, itsy-bitsy manifestations of some slight anxiety. Little things. Like panic attacks. And trembling. And hyperventilation. And, now and then, just for variety, throwing up a lot.

The reason for my anxiety? Well, I’ve sort of gone over this a bit in my other columns, but suffice to say that I have a thing about knives going into my eyeballs (can’t imagine why) and I knew about what cataract surgery USED to be like.

The operative word there is USED. You see, these days, cataract surgery is a pretty trivial thing. But, not that long ago, it was a DELETED dreadful business involving major surgery, stitches … STITCHES! … in the eye itself, month-long hospital stays during which your head would be pinned between sand-bags to prevent you from rolling over, and, well, lots of good stuff like that. The kind of sheer unadulterated nastiness that you just can’t get these days. Well, at least outside a Freddy Krueger Movie Marathon. Or a Rush Limbaugh Poetry Slam on Steroids.

And I’m just enough of an historian to know all that stuff. Ergo, not to put too fine a point on it, I’m terrified.

Just in case you didn’t get that, let’s spell it out. T as in Torture, E as in Eviscerate, RR as in Rack and Ruin, I as in Incredibly agonizing, F as in Flayed, I as in Indescribable pain, E as in Extreme anguish, and D as in total Destruction. Terrified.

And, mind you, this is all going on while I’m also dealing with all the other stuff I’ve described over the last few weeks—getting kicked out of my Ph.D. program by the Goddamn pompous asses who were supposed to be my advisors (anyone with experience in voodoo doll construction please contact me at the above address), the furnace breaking in the middle of winter, the flooded basement, etc., etc., and, of course, etc.

So . . . my nerves are shot.


*

December 15.

The day of my surgery arrives.

I wake up early that morning. I spend long moments staring into space. I shiver a lot. I wonder about writing a will. I wonder if it’s too late to be Born Again. Or convert to Catholicism. Or buy a Juju. But, no. The Juju shops aren’t open yet. Pity, really.

So, Martha gets up just after I finish filling out my Do Not Resuscitate order and Last Will and Testament. We have a small bite of breakfast. Breakfast bites me back. And then, we’re on our way.

*

We arrive at the location of my execution . . . er, I mean, where I’m going to have the surgery. It isn’t a hospital. It’s a medical office building just down the highway. It looks sort of like the place where you’d go to buy order entry software. And not a Freddy Krueger in sight.

We go into the lobby and I join a group of other men and women waiting our turn. I’m a little out of place. At 51 (as of 2008) I was fairly young for cataract surgery. Everyone around me is older. They look at me with faint suspicion, as though I’m there under false premises. Yes. I really don’t need the operation. I just have this fetish for sharp knives. Inserted into my eyeball. Next week, I’m off to the proctology office. I’m bringing my own sewer snake. Can’t wait.

So, we sit. I shake. And, in about twenty minutes, they call me.

Right. I stand unsteadily. Courage to the sticking place, oh boy. Walk the last mile. Keep a stiff upper lip. No hysterical weeping in the front office. Frightens the interns.

They take me back into the rear office. A nurse gives me a shot…

And…

And . . .

The next thing I know, it’s twenty minutes later, and the same nurse is giving me juice and a cookie.


*

Seriously, that’s about all I remember of the operation. I have a faint recollection of some lights flashing. But, not much else. No angst. No suffering. No doctors yelling “STAT,” and rushing me off to the ICU.

It was really kind of a disappointment.

I said to the nurse. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Nothing else?”

“Uh…no.”

“Where’s the pain and suffering?”

“We try to avoid those as a rule.”

“Well…damn.”

I think they ought to keep a box of toothpicks around the office. Just so they’ll have something to stick under the fingernails of people Who Expect More. Maybe I’ll write ‘em and suggest it.


*

A little later, I toddled out to the front office again. A couple of other patients asked me what it was like. I told them, “I’ve had hair cuts that hurt more.” Which was true. There was the woman in Dallas with the straight razor. But we won’t go into that. Way too horrible.

Anyway, shortly after that, Martha takes me home.

*

Pretty much for then on it’s a gentle coast down hill. I had to wear an eye patch for a while. But, basically, that’s all there is to it.

Like I say, kind of a disappointment.

The good news is that I’m no longer near-sighted in my left eye. The weird news is that I’m now far sighted in that eye.

Understand, that’s a very new thing for me. I’ve been myopic since I was about six . . . probably before, but no one noticed that I was squinting all the time. They thought I was just a nasty bitter child with a bilious attitude. And proud of it, too.

But, now…things are very different. I had to get reading glasses. I now wear only one contact lens (on my right eye) and that adds a certain note of complexity to morning preparations—I’m used to having two, you see, and I have to remember which eye it is that doesn’t get one now (harder than you might think when it’s 6 am and you’re trying to wake up).

Then, too, there is the fact that colors are bit different. Many seem more vibrant. And my depth perception is changed. Better, but changed. You see, now, I think I judge depth the way that most people with two eyes do—that is to say, I triangulate. But, before, I think I was scanning rapidly from side to side, and then (unconsciously) comparing the different scans. It took some real effort on my part to give up the latter (jury rigged) method for the former. But eventually, I got the job done.

And, in the process, I gained new respect for the one-eyed, one-horned flying purple people eater, famed in song and story. (And we’re talking the Sheb Wooley original, here. Not Alvin and The Chipmonks.)


*

So, that wraps up the eye surgery part of my story.

In fact, it should end the whole “S*cks To Be Me” series. Certainly, at the time, it seemed to me that events just couldn’t get any weirder. And that, as a result, Things Had To Get Back To Normal…

But of course . . .

The year 2008 had one last little adventure to throw my way.

It would involve going down a hill…sideways …in a Toyota…during a sleet storm.

But that’s for next time.


Onward and upward.























Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

S*cks To Be Me (#7): The Eye

Okay, folks. Here is where the shitake hits the ocular. Here’s where yours truly comes face to retina with the Giant Basketball-Sized Mutant Bat-Winged Red-Glowing Flying Eyeball (from Hell) and afterwards becomes a Bionic Bifocal Cyborg (eat your heart out, Terminator).

In short, this is where I have cataract surgery.


*

Okay, let’s have a quick recap. You’ll recall from way, way back at the start of this series that I have cataracts. I’m young to have ‘em (I’m 52 as of this writing) but I got ‘em just the same.

So, that means I gotta have surgery to get ‘em out. Specifically, I had to have surgery on the left eye. The right one’s probably going to follow in a few years.

Now, as you’ll also recall, it turns out that these days cataract surgery is pretty simpld. It is even an outpatient procedure. They give you some very cool drugs, wheel you into a special room, use advanced tools to open a micro-incision in the eye (so small it doesn’t even bleed), remove the old lens, and insert a new one. You’re out in a few minutes. No pain. Lots of gain.

And I knew all that. Knew it inside and out. Had thoroughly researched it. Talked to doctors. Talked to other people who’d had the procedure. Yep. You betacha.

And ya wanna know what?

I was, more or less, with admitted exceptions, and adding the necessary qualifications…

Scared shitless.

*

As you may further recall from the beginning of this seemingly interminable series, I was scared because I am just old enough, and just enough of an historian, to know that not long ago cataract surgery wasn’t that simple. Just a few decades ago, it was major ordeal involving a whole lot of knives, quite a bit of blood and suffering, and then, afterwards, stitches in your eyes

As in stitches.

As in FREAKING STITCHES.

As in OH CHRIST FREAKING GODDAMN JUST KILL ME NOW AND GET IT OVER WITH.

Whimper.

I’m so glad I’m good at dealing with stress.


*

So, there’s all sorts of stuff I have to do _ before _ I can have the surgery. I have appointments to go to. I have eye exams I have to take. I have to get a complete physical.

Except, funny thing …ha ha fricking ha . . . I find myself missing appointments.

Now, I’m pretty anal about appointments. I always have them in my calendar. I get to ‘em early. Hell. Sometimes I’ve been known to bring a gift. Say, a bottle of wine. Or a three bean salad. Or my famous guacamole, kumquat, and calamari cordon blue casserole (with green chilies). It’s known far and wide. Always take it to potlucks. Makes me a great favorite will all the folks down at the emergency room. I understand they’re naming a stomach pump after me.

Where was I? Oh, yes. But, now, for the first time in my life, I find myself forgetting appointments. Time, and time, AND time again…the various offices of the various eye doctors with whom I’m dealing call me up and say something like, “You do know you were supposed to be in here at nine, don’t you?” And I’d say something like Oh God-Delete It To Halliburton in a Farping Station Wagon and either go dashing off to get to the office or, more likely, have to reschedule.

You don’t think . . . maybe . . . just perhaps . . . could it be? . . . there’s just a tad of avoidance going on here, would ya?

Naw. Course not. Couldn’t be. Could it?

*


But, mind you, there are complications to this. My surgery is scheduled for 15 December. I have had to fight, and squirm, and struggle to get an appointment that early. If I don’t make it on that date, then . . . I have to sweat it out for another couple of months. Which I’m not really happy about doing.

So, I buckle down and try to really, Really, REALLY make every appointment and meeting.

The kicker? It’s just about this time I start picking up static from everyone else involved.

For example, the way I found I had cataracts? Well, way, way back I’d gone in to my ophthalmologist for an eye exam. I wanted to get contact lenses. After my doc had mentioned that I had to have my eyes gouged out … er, that I needed cataract surgery…she had duly ordered the lenses for me.

Cool. So, of course, it takes a while for them to come in. But, they show up on a Tuesday. I pick ‘em up, take ‘em home, and put ‘em in that evening.

Now, the next day, Wednesday, I’m scheduled for a very early appointment (like 9 am) at another doctor’s to have the length of my eyeball measured. They shine this little laser thing into your head. Great fun. Kinda like playing The Target in a good game of Starship Enterprise. Phasers on kill, Mr. Sulu.

But, that morning, I show up, with my brand spandy new contacts in my eyes, and the technician says… says … says “uh-uh.”

“Uh-uh?” I say, curious.

“Nope,” she adds.

“Nope?” I remark.

“No can do. No way. No how. Outta the pool. Game over.”

“Come again?”

“You’re screwed.”

It turns out when you wear contact lenses, your eyes adjust to them by minutely changing shape. That means the eye may not be the same length, or whatever, when the surgeon whips out the old chain saw and heads for your socket.

“But I’ve only worn ‘em for five hours,” I say.

“Tough toadies,” she responds, compassionately. Or, anyway, words to that effect.

It turns out, in fact, that you’re not supposed to wear your contacts for something like two weeks before they do their pre-operative measurement. My operation is now just about sixteen days away. It is just barely . . . BARELY . . . possible for me to get a new appointment for the necessary exam before the surgery.

At first, the technician doesn’t want to make the appointment but, fortunately, the folks at my regular ophthalmologist’s office are so mortified that they’d forgotten to tell me not to wear the lenses that they pushed a little and we got it all worked out.

Now I had only one last hurtle to …well . . hurtle over before I went for the operation.

But…

It proved to a be a real doozy.


*

I had to get a complete physical from my general practitioner prior to my operation. I made my appointment and saw the guy and he’d given me a clean bill of health. Then, he adds, “You know, this is overkill for your eye surgery, but why don’t you get your cholesterol tested . . . at some point in the near future.”

Okay, I say, and toddle on my way.

Now, notice the wording here. I assume, from what the good doc said, that the cholesterol test is separate from the exam I needed for the eye surgery. I think, in retrospect, that the doctor thought that, too. I think everyone thought that.

Except…my doctor’s staff.


*

So, time goes on, and as the date of my operation gets closer and closer, I start getting phone calls from the office of the surgeon. It seems that my regular doctor … my GP … had not faxed the results of my physical to him. Without those results, no surgery was possible.

Therefore, I start leaving messages at the office of my GP. Each time I phone, a staff member tells me, “Oh, yes,” we’ll take care of that.”

Except, then I’d get another message from my the eye surgeon saying that it hadn’t happened.

Finally, on the morning of the Friday before my surgery —that is, on 12 December, when my operation is scheduled for 15 December—I end up going to the GP’s office. I go to the desk and say to the nice lady there, “Can I get a copy of the results of my physical so that I can fax them to my eye surgeon?” Because I am in real need, here, I am at my absolute politest. I mean, I’m so damn polite that butter freezes in the old set of choppers. I’m so polite that Miss Manners would be freaking out.

And then . . .

And then . . .

One of the intake nurses comes out and starts yelling at me.

As God is my witness.


*

I don’t mean she’s talking loud. I don’t mean she raises her voice.

I mean Yelling.

I mean really Yelling.

I mean yelling at me in front of a lobby full of other patients.

All of whom are looking at me like I gotta be Jack the Ripper.


*

Finally, I get the story. It seems that she is peeved at me because I haven’t had the cholesterol test…which is What The Doctor ORDERED.

Further, she will not allow my records to be sent to the surgeon because I haven’t done What The Doctor ORDERED.

And, lastly, if I have any objections, I can go kiss …

Well, you can guess what she suggests I can go kiss.

I ask to see the Doctor. “He’s busy.” I explain that I’m going in for surgery on Monday. She suggests I go suck an egg. I say that the doctor had said I didn’t need the cholesterol test for the surgery. She suggests something I can do with the egg after I’ve sucked it.

Finally, she agrees that if I go, right then, to the lab downstairs, and have them draw blood, and if the lab can get the results today… “which they probably can’t”… then, maybe, she’ll let the office staff fax the results to the surgeon. That is, if she remembers. And they aren’t busy with “something important.”

Now, let’s walk through what’s going on here. This test requires that you fast for a least ten hours before you take it. Otherwise, the results are meaningless. I haven’t fasted. So, my taking the test is a complete waste of time for everyone concerned. Further, the doctor, to the best of my knowledge, has not actually specified that I take the test before I have the surgery. So, even if the test results did mean anything, nobody needed them before the Monday of my surgery.

So, what is all this about?

The answer, of course, is power. What is happening is that the intake nurse . . . I guess she’s actually a physician’s assistant rather than an RN . . . is demonstrating to me that she, not I, controls the situation. She is demonstrating her power and relishing every second of it. Moreover, she is doing so in front of the other patients, just in case they get any ideas…

It is about then that I recall a line from one of Raymond Chandler’s detective novels. “Put a monkey in a uniform,” his character says, “and it will try to give someone orders.”

Never in my life have I seen that principle so completely in operation.

(And, yes, soon after this, I find a new doctor.)


*

Well, to make a long story long, I finally got all the tests done, all the appointments taken care of, all the results faxed to the right people.

So it is, then, that the morning of the fifteenth arrives.

And I awaken from an uneasy sleep…

Shaking like a leaf.

But that’s for next time.

Onward and upward.


mjt

















Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

S*cks To Be Me (#6): Basement Boogie-Woogie

Hello, everyone,

Right. So, this time, finally, at long last, I promise, no kidding, I’m going to get to the Big Bad Basement in Xmas. And we’re going to have rocks. And me. Digging like a gopher on steroids. In a blizzard.. While flying monkeys in UFOs from Oz dive bomb a certain ex-Vice President with high-powered excrement bombs. And I’m not talking Al Gore here. Fill in the blank. Here’s a hint. D*ck Ch*ney.

Okay, so I’m making up the part about the monkeys. But, you get the point. And all the rest is true. And, by Golly, flying monkeys SHOULD be sh*t bombing the aforesaid Veepee. It’s the code of the west.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The Basement.

*

So, as you’ll recall, we’d decided to have the Christmas tree in the basement this year. We have a family room down there, even though we don’t use it much. Until we got the furnace fixed, it was cold down there in winter, and because we haven’t had time to go get some lamps and such, it’s been sorta dim all year around.

But, this year, we decided we were Going To Make An Effort. And Efficiently Use Our Space. And Overcome the Lethargy of Everyday Existence. And Make Total Fools Of Ourselves In A Gesture of Total Futility. That, too, is the code of the west.

We called up our son David and he came out from his apartment and we all three trotted off to buy a tree. It’s sort of a tradition around here. We make it a family outing and regard it as the start of the season.

Sometimes David brings a friend. A few years back, it was his then girlfriend who joined us. She’s a bright and intelligent person who does things in Philosophy. She’s also a tree hugger. Literally. She likes to hug trees. “It’s how you know if they have an affectionate nature,” she says.

So, that year, when we went to the lot where they sell Christmas trees, we embraced spruces. Several of them. Deeply. Passionately. But, don’t worry. It was entirely Platonic. And, besides, the important thing is that you have a good healthy attitude about it. And part friends.

Anyway, we hugged several trees and eventually found one that, she said, had a sweet disposition and a cheery outlook on life, and we took it home. The scary thing? She was absolutely, 100%, completely right. It was one of the best Christmas trees we ever had. Didn’t shed needles. Was just the right size.

Like, I say, scary … but if it works, well, hey. I’m thinking of applying the same principle to lawn care. Maybe give it a shot on shrubbery. Not sure how it’ll work on cactus though. And that package marked Burpee Seeds? Naw. Might frighten the neighbors.

*

Anyway, so this past Christmas it was just David and us. We went to a local plant nursery, garden center, and green house operation that also does Christmas trees during the holidays. It’s a great place, really. Lots of flowers, shrubs, and stuff. And it’s entirely staffed with people who either speak no English or have an attitude problem. Or both. And would just as soon that you go away and die someplace. Ah, the joys of the season.

But, we found a tree and took it back to the house. David and I then wrestled it out of the car, across the lawn, and into the basement. Martha followed close behind to give us direction and moral support. Of which we got lots. Fortunately, she’s a kind and generous soul, always willing to share.

We arrived in the basement and positioned the tree. I said I’d hold it upright while David went and got the tree stand and then we’d get started decorating. Martha said she’d make hot cider. David said he’d be right back and dashed off for the stand.

So…I’m there…holding this tree.

And I notice…a smell.

I’d picked it up before a couple of times. I figured maybe the dog had slipped downstairs and done a flying euphemism behind the sofa. When nobody was looking.

Except…except…it didn’t exactly smell like that.

Holding the tree in one hand I reached down with the other.

Squish…

The carpet was soaking wet.

*

Okay, so here’s the deal. I grew up in a desert. The idea that water might fall from the sky … FROM the FREAKING sky! … is hard enough for me to credit. The idea that it might do so in sufficient quantities to flood things is downright unbelievable.

So, it came as a particularly nasty shock to me to learn that, here in New England, water can actually build up against the side of your house and seep through the space between the foundation and the wall.

And that’s what happened. Water had pooled just in the front of our house and come back in down the wall. The whole basement was wet. The carpet was wet. The clothes in the downstairs closet were wet. A bunch of our books were wet. The electrical wiring (YIKES) in the corner was wet.

End of Christmas in the basement plan…



*

David and I lugged the tree back upstairs, spreading needles and braches everywhere. We then had a rather pleasant remainder of the evening decorating it.

But, the issue was what to do about the flood downstairs.

I chatted with my father and, later, a friend named Skip. Both know about doing home, fixing cars, cutting large things with chain saws, and other guy-stuff like that. Stuff I don’t know squat about. I’m a terrible embarrassment to both of ‘em. But, heck. That’s true for almost everybody I know. So, they can just stop acting like they’re so dang special.

It turns out, though, that the solution to the problem is something called a “French Drain.” That is not a joke. There really is such a thing. I checked on the Internet. So it has to be true. (Doesn’t it?)

At its simplest, a French Drain is just a shallow trench filled with gravel. You dig it along the side of your house and then water…rain, runoff, whatever…enters the gravel and goes down into the ground and not (or so one hopes) into your basement.

You can also get more sophisticated French Drains. Some, for instance, will have a perforated pipe under the gravel to carry the water away from your house entirely. In fact, we later discovered that one of our neighbors had recently invested in just such a system. He had lots of pipes. And gravel. And expensive surveys. And it worked really, really well. Carried all that rainwater away from his house. Down the hill. And into … our…yard.

I’m planning on giving him a small gift soon. It’s sort of a belated housewarming present. It’ll involve a large box filled to the tippy-top with live but somnolent skunks. And an alarm clock. Attached to an air raid siren.


*

Now, all this business of French Drains assumes a new importance when you recall the time of year. It is December when this is going on. As of that date, we hadn’t yet had any snowstorms.

But, as we learned from a quick glance at the Weather Channel, there was a whopper of squall headed our way. It would, said the Weatheroids, going to hit town around mid-afternoon the following day. Further, they added cheerfully, we could expect up to three…as in THREE feet of snow.

For you folks out there on metric, that’s about a meter. And either way, it’s technically known as OHMYGOD AND FREAKING SH()T!

This coming storm presented, however, unique problems for moi. You see, if we did get that much snow, then a bunch of it would be up against our wall and … and …

Think gondolas. And motor boats. And sail boats. And the Harvard Crew. Stroking. In our basement.

*

The next morning, I’m out like a shot to buy gravel to fill a trench. The hardware stores I try don’t have any, so I end up going back to the same local plant nursery-garden-center-green-house where we’d gone to get the tree.

I found a clerk-type person with bad skin and body odor and said to him, “I wonder if you could help me.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Don’t know. What are you trying to do?”

“I need rocks.”

“Rocks?”

“Rocks.”

“You mean you want a Christmas tree.”

“No, rocks.”

“Oh, you want pine wreaths.”

“No. Rocks. You know? Stones? Igneous, Sedimentary, and Metamorphic.”

“Ah, I understand now. You want tree decorations. They’re in the green house.”

“Er. Sorry. No. Rocks. David killed Goliath with one? Remember? In the Bible?”

He looked at me for a long time. Then he said. “In December?”

“In, as you say, December.”

“Jesus.” He pointed back toward where the dumpsters were. “I think we have some bags left over back there.” Then, he wandered off, looking disgusted and muttering.


*

To make a long story long, I did find several bags of gravel out in the back, next to the dumpsters, and under about a foot of ice. I paid for ‘em and headed for the house. And, shortly thereafter, I was out in the front yard wailing away at the ground with a pick and shovel.

A neighbor went by. She stopped. “You know,” she said, cheerfully. “This is the wrong time of year to do gardening.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes. You see, it gets cold. And the plants freeze.”

“Ah,” I said.

“So, you might want to wait until Spring. Or sometime.”

“But,” I said, “I’ve got to do this now because I’m putting in a very special crop.”

“Which would be?”

“Snow peas.”

She understood perfectly and went away.


*


I got the trench dug and filled with rocks just as the snow got started in earnest. I then went and took a shower for about a month because if it wasn’t true that I looked like death warmed over, I WAS able to do a pretty good impression of the same dish microwaved and served on toast.

But, I’m happy to report that it seems to have worked. We haven’t water in the basement since.

So, I say to myself, Things Are Getting Back To Normal.

And then…

And then…

I remember.

This is all happening the week of 8 December.

On 15 December … less than a week away . . . I’m scheduled to go meet the Flying Fetish Bouncing Bat-Winged Eyeball. With a meat cleaver.

But that’s for next time.

*

Until then…

Onward and upward.














Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker