The Reluctant Athlete
If gloves could talk...this one wouldn't have much to say.
"You want me to play softball in a prison?" I asked incredulously.
"I know," said Brian in a calm tone that resonated with sympathy and reassurance. We both knew that my objection had little to do with the unusual venue, and it was painfully obvious that he was desperate for players. So desperate, in fact, that he was approaching one of the last people you would want to ask if you wanted to forge a decent softball team. My brother tried to bolster his sincerity with a smile, but he could barely suppress a laugh as he tried to entice me by adding, "It'll be fun!"
"Yeah, fun," I grumbled. Brian belonged to a service organization that not only did the occasional good thing for the community but also participated in a recreational softball league. Scheduling a game against the inmates of our local minimum-security prison was a way to join the two vocations. Unfortunately, only a handful of members had signed up for the opportunity. Joining Brian in this endeavor would be the noble thing to do, but it would require a complete consumption of my pride. It was akin to taking a willing dive into a pool of embarrassment. "Let me think about it."
Sweet Home, Perstai
Standing before my 2-story home in Perstai. I hope to add a basement soon.
"You should get a home in Perstai, Dad," urged Melinda. I had reservations. I was not looking for new ways to occupy my time, and I had seen how willingly Melinda would sacrifice a free hour here and there to amble about her virtual world. I couldn't quite get it. It seemed like her avatar never did anything of much significance, yet unwinding within this mythical land apparently provided her much pleasure. I had to admit that Animal Crossing, the Nintendo Wii title that made Melinda's imaginary journeys possible, was a clever game. Its designers had crafted a tightly controlled environment that gave a satisfying sense of individual freedom within a dynamic fictional society fueled by limited artificial intelligence. Melinda was well aware that she was playing a game by herself and that her illusory interactions with pixelated neighbors were nothing more than simple, scripted encounters. But she didn't care, because it was fun.
"Maybe," I said, by which I meant, "No."
She had already persuaded Mom to establish residence in Perstai, and I had noticed Julie starting to take almost as much pleasure in this digital alternative existence as Melinda did. Sometimes one of them would watch the other strolling about town for awhile, then the one playing would log off and the one watching would log on. It didn't seem to make much difference who was actually playing, as both gamer and observer appeared to be equally absorbed by Perstai culture.
"Look," one of them would say, "Bones just clapped when I caught that fish!"
"Ha, ha!" the other would guffaw, and I would glance at them with withering condescension. Time wasters. It would be a cold day in Perstai before I indulged myself in that sort of pointless activity.
Stranger Danger
One minute everything is fine, and then...
Twice in my life I have been momentarily convinced that a total stranger was about to kill me. Given my sheltered upbringing and habitual avoidance of risky behavior and potentially unsafe scenarios, it seems an unlikely statistic. Both incidents occurred when I was a college student engaged in the most humdrum of pursuits. One moment I was just another Joe Average going about his ordinary business, and then suddenly I was staring death in the face. Or so I thought.
My first brush with mortality happened on an otherwise dull September evening. I had moved into my dorm room a few days earlier than most students due to required training for my work-study job. As a member of the dormitory security staff, I would be expected to know what I was doing by the time the rest of the residents arrived. I didn't mind getting a head start on campus life, especially since it was easier for me to move in while almost everyone else was still out.
Organization Man
First by artist, then by original release date. An island of control in a sea of chaos.
I am not an obsessively organized person, but I will acknowledge a few quirks that, to some, may represent an unnecessary attention to detail, if not a hint of madness. Although many facets of general housekeeping escape my devoted attention (just ask my wife), there are certain areas in which I am particular. None of them are of great importance, but they are distinct preferences nonetheless.
For example, I usually take care to sort the money in my wallet by denomination, from smallest to largest. While I'm at it, I would prefer that all bills face the same way. Never would I intentionally insert any currency into my wallet "head-first," as I should not like to encounter an upside-down image when fishing for cash. Not that I couldn't deal with it, but I simply would rather not, and I don't mind taking the few seconds to put a buck in the right way. Okay, once I did further organize my ones by serial number, but that was when I was saddled with a few minutes of unoccupied tedium, and though it did provide me a tiny amount of mental satisfaction, trust me that you could take a peek inside my wallet right now, and I guarantee that if there's any money in there at all, the serial numbers are all mixed up. Not that it matters.
Art For Hoi Polloi: Salvador Dali
Lowbrow meets lowbrow: Rocky emulators sprint up the visage of Salvador Dali.
Recently I came across a live webcam of a construction site in St. Petersburg, Florida. I was surprised to find not only active workers but fairly interesting activities going on, and I zoomed in to watch a pair of laborers installing triangular glass panes into a large, metallic lattice that bulged from a concrete edifice. The structure looked somewhat odd for a conventional building but rather conservative for its intended purpose: the next home of the Salvador Dali Museum. Given the famous surrealist's iconic imagery of melting watches and drooping appendages propped up by crutches, one might have expected a design that abandoned recognizable geometric forms altogether.
The new facility, slated to open in 2011, is only a few blocks from the current museum, but it will offer fifty percent more gallery space and more than twice the overall area. More importantly, it will provide robust shelter from violent storms for its collection in a way that the present building does not; so vulnerable is the existing museum to damage that its exhibits must be removed and stored during severe weather warnings. Constructing a more secure home for these treasures sounds sensible to me, because I would hate for the world to lose the original work of such an incredibly talented and imaginative artist. I have been captivated by Dali's art all of my life, and obviously many people feel the same way. Why, then, do I have the nagging sense that serious critics would dismiss his oeuvre as pandering to the lowest common denominator?
Perhaps because it does.
Confidentially…
What do Bugs Bunny, taking a bath, and a precocious vocabulary have in common?
This is a cautionary tale, a story of how ignorance and the nuances of language can combine with coincidence to convey an unintended message of a mortifying caliber. It is the true account of a boy who was unaware that the unpleasantness confronting him was a consequence of his own actions, for he knew not what he was doing. Thankfully he remained in this state of immaturity for several years, allowing his fragile psyche to recover from the staggering truth when, at last, the individual links merged into an undeniable chain of events.
To appreciate the predicament fully, we must begin in the middle. Our protagonist - let's call him, say, Bobby - is a quiet second grader at a Catholic elementary school. He is in the class of one Miss M., a teacher beloved by most students and yet prone to a certain foulness of mood when crossed. It is the very same Miss M. who once made a spectacle of her displeasure with Bobby's older brother (whom we shall call B.J.) and the sloppiness of his desk by dumping B.J.'s accumulated possessions onto the floor before his peers. B.J. stood there stunned and uncomprehending, wondering why Miss M. did not simply order him to clean out his desk rather than unleashing her pent-up fury. But Bobby does not know about this darker side of his instructor, nor can he conceive that he is about to similarly provoke her ire.
Yes, Wonderful
Ever have one of those days?
"I've been nominated for membership in the National Geographic Society."
"Aw, youth is wasted on the wrong people!"
"This old thing? Why, I only wear it when I don't care how I look."
"Well, I'm sorry - HEY!"
"Out you two pixies go, through the door or out the window!"
If the previous quotations are instantly recognizable to you as lines of dialogue from It's A Wonderful Life, and if you cannot read the words without also hearing them and visualizing their associated characters, then you and I have something in common. We're two among the countless devotees of the 1946 Frank Capra classic, its sights and sounds replaying within our cerebral folds after many hours of repeated exposure. There's only one reason why anyone would voluntarily watch a movie again and again, and that is, of course, that you like it. Obvious, right? But the widespread appeal of this film is varied, and perhaps the only thing upon which all lovers of it will agree is that it is a great movie.
As for me, and in the words of Henry F. Potter, "I'll go further than that." I think It's A Wonderful Life is as close as anyone has come to making a perfect narrative movie.
Please Rewind
Do the abbreviations SP, LP, and SLP mean anything to you?
The year is 2009. The setting: an elementary school. During a break between classes, I dart into the office and scan the staff mailboxes. Lurking in my apportioned slot is a shrink-wrapped, rectangular box of vaguely familiar dimensions. I retrieve the item and turn it over in my hands, noticing the logo of the publisher that sold us our recently adopted textbook series. Good heavens! I exclaim mentally, as an archaeologist might upon uncovering an ancient artifact. This is a VHS tape! I stand there bewildered for a moment, puzzling over the fact that a major educational publishing house has issued new product in this archaic format. It's a little like having an auto dealer hand me a crank to start my car.
Though VCR's still doggedly fast-forward and rewind within the dusty, pre-fab entertainment cabinets of many homes and upon the media carts of outdated classrooms, the formerly ubiquitous devices are in terminal decline, destined for exile in an archival land of film projectors and 8-track players. DVD's are already experiencing their own heyday, with clouds of streamable digital content predicted to make those aluminum discs obsolete. If it weren't for the voluminous amount of existing VHS tape preserving all that has yet to be digitized, getting your hands on a functioning VCR might be as difficult as tracking down a vintage pair of parachute pants. One day soon, they'll be as quaint as turntables, available exclusively as a means to transfer precious analog moments to your hard drive.
I can still remember the twinge of jealousy I felt when I heard that the Walsh family down the block had a VCR.
The Price of Vandalism
Ramp to nowhere: the morning after fire destroyed the Sway Fun glider.
Where were you on the Saturday night after Thanksgiving? That's what the police will be asking you, if they ever discover that you were responsible for the apparent act of arson that lit up the field behind our house like a campfire gone awry. Have you thought about what you might say? If your alibi doesn't persuade the authorities of your innocence, they're likely to stare into your guilty eyes and demand an answer to the question the whole neighborhood is wondering: What were you thinking?
I can only speculate - and hope - that you weren't thinking. Because if your irresponsible and cowardly crime was the deliberate end of thoughtful planning, then breaking the law is merely the beginning of your problems. I would prefer to think that you are young, perhaps one of several peers involved in a prank that got out of hand before it could be stopped, and the whole unfortunate incident is very much contrary to your character. I would like to believe that you are ashamed of your actions and consumed with regret. I wish that you could muster the tremendous courage to step forward, admit what you have done, and begin the long journey to make a complete reparation for it. That is the most optimistic scenario I can envision.
Reminiscents
I hadn't thought about this object for quite some time.
The other I day I was teaching my class while walking about the room with a long, wooden pointer that I sometimes use to highlight important information but mostly enjoy twirling as a prop. There's something about giving it a few spins that seems to relax any physical tension while simultaneously enabling me to focus my thoughts. On this occasion, I was giving some routine instructions, thinking ahead to how I might best manage the next activity, and absentmindedly spinning my pointer. After a few rotations, I held the long stick still, and in doing so I unwittingly brought the small metal ring fixed to its blunt end to within a centimeter of my nostrils.
For an instant I was suddenly transported from my classroom to another place. It was not so much a detailed location as it was a sort of vague, cerebral space, and dominating this mental plane was the vivid apparition of a gyroscope. I recognized it at once as the cherished childhood possession that my sister had given me, one of a number of gifts that were thoughtfully chosen to improve my overall development. Alas, her attempts to increase my physical activity were unsuccessful, as I never quite got the knack of shooting the basketball, and I simply could not advance more than several bounces on the pogo stick before careening dangerously askew. But the gyroscope occupied my attention for many hours. I would moisten the end of a string on my tongue, delicately thread and load the axle, then set it going with all my strength. I loved watching it stay upright no matter how precarious its perch. The sturdy device had a peculiar smell, a dank and earthy metallic odor, a sort of dull acridity that smelled just like...just like...well, just like the little metal ring on the blunt end of my classroom pointer. I hadn't thought about my old gyroscope in years, but everything from its shape to its heft in my hand suffused my mind in an instant.
Such is the power of our sense of smell to resurrect latent memories.