Better is the Enemy of Good

A hiatus due to a dead computer and my own laziness has left me with a lot of events to cover, the most relevant among them being the story of how I killed my computer.
That story, very briefly, involved a pint of Old Rasputin Imperial Stout and an attempt to capture a couple of lesbians making out. I just can’t get into writing about it. As for the other big events; the week I spent hiking the Appalachian Trail with my aunt, my discovery that advertising is a form of begging, finishing Richard Dawkins’ God Delusion, and catching glimpses of b-list celebrities in downtown Boston like Gary Bussey and Rob Schnieder, well, they aren’t worth getting into either. I’ve got something more immeidiate to report.
I’m going home!
It’s great news. Incredible even. But against all the marvelous things I’m looking forward to upon my return there is one obvious down side. I have to give up, at least for a while, on getting better. This decision was recently made by my (former) surgeon in-person in conjunction with my in-high-demand GI specialist over the phone. Yes, Dr. Bootsie himself had looked at me with his cool Republican doctor eyes and declared in reference to the possible operation that “better is the enemy of good.”
Good, of course is quite relative in this case. I’m still going to be in discomfort and at risk of that god damn Barrett’s shit but to explain without getting into a painfully irrelevant repetition of details the possible benefits of the surgery apparently do not out way the potential danger of further damage of my esophagus.
I’ll leave what this might mean for the future for a later blog so I can focus on Dr. Bootsie’s statement, which at the time struck me as very relavent and true. Now, before I get into why I don’t exactly think that anymore, let me say that I truly think of Dr. Bootsie with the utmost respect regardless of any difference in political and philosophical positions. He always gave the impression that he had a genuine concern for my health as well as an honest curiosity about the particulars of my situation. He even insured me that down the road surgery could still become a solution.
So, despite the major downside I considered what the doctor had said and found some happiness with my situation. Just having an answer of some kind, knowing exactly what I had to face helped my health. Even if it was only in a small way. Then there were the thoughts of seeing Sarah and my friends again, which will be another small cure from despair over my health. Dr. Bootsie’s statement was soon pushed to the back of my mind as I began to look forward to long walks and talks and maybe a joint or two (something I’ve avoided completely for over two months). But in the time between now and actually getting home there are still things to deal with such as the transfer of my medical records, sorting out some issues in regards to my new medication and most tedious of all, finding time to spend with relatives.
The first to officially say good-bye was a friend of the family, the brother of the uncle (don’t ask) I’ve been living with for these last eight ardous months. As soon as he found out I was leaving Dave asked me to go out with him for a couple of beers at the IA Club. It took me most of the short ride down to figure out what “IA” meant. Only moments before I saw the big green letters painted on the side of this building next to a baseball field did I realized it stood for “Irish American Club”.
Before I get into the many things that I perceive as wrong with such a place let me first say that “Irish American” is, as America now supposed to exist, a kind of contradiction of terms. This concept includes other compounds. Specifically the “African” and “Mexican” ones. When compared to the non-existant concept of “Canadian American” this becomes more clear and being something of a Canadian-American myself I have thought on these terms before. What I’m driving at is that none of these compound identities with the exception of Canadian-American (because it’s a term you will soon understand as redundant) are in any way meant to denote a country of origin. They’re for labeling skin colors. Examples of less transparent terms would be black-Americans, white (sometimes red-headed and freckled)-Americans, and not-quite-black-not-quite-white-Americans.

When I walk into the bar I am made to sign this registry book. I can’t remember the exact number of members but it’s some number between one and two thousand. If the two dozen guys in there this past Saturday could be taken as a sampling (not that it needs to be) there was not a single Irish-American among them who was not also a white-American. But that quick tally was not nearly as much of a surprise as the six or seven guys hooting away on cigarettes and cigars at the bar. Now, personally I haven’t got too much problem with the idea of smoking bars. I would avoid regular visits to places that allowed it but a night here or there isn’t going to give you cancer. I was still surprised that they managed to be allowed to smoke anything in a bar in this world of strictly regulated . . . well, regulations.
Dave picked us up a couple of Budweisers and we sat down in a booth. At a quick glance Bud or Bud Light were the only two choices of beers. Commercials do wonders (good and mostly bad) on the human mind. One sip of that bubbly nonsense causes me to reflux – its excessive carbonation a clear ploy to sell the product on the basis of that omnipresent advertising word “refreshing” (the consumable cousin of advertising words like“super”, “ultimate”, and “one-time-only”). (Doubters should note that Iceberg Lettuce, orange juice and mountain air, for example, are all sold using the same word, which oddly enough also share the quality of coldness; coldness being one possible origin of the concept of refreshing.) Regardless of the beers’ contrived qualities I still did appreciate at least Dave’s intentions.
Not thinking at the time on the racial (and gender) specificity of the place even though it is located just outside the racially diverse hub of Boston I just sat there listening to Dave’s stories about being a security guard at the Boston Public Library. Dave really is a great story teller. (And before I go on I have to say that regardless of his short comings I am fond of him. We share a love of nature and I could tell that he really appreciated my Appalachian Trail stories.)
The meat of these security guard stories he was telling focused on the job’s persistent exposure to mundane sorrows, something I could personally relate to having been a security guard myself. This didn’t help me though with the difficult time I was having ignoring all his contempt filled comments about the “faggots in the bathroom stalls”. He had all the sympathy in the world for the homeless he encountered (save for one short-sighted comment about how he doesn’t understand why they just don’t get a job) but none what so ever for the homosexuals and the “disgusting” things they did. I had to resist the urge to point out that maybe they met in dirty old bathrooms because people like him think that their natural born sexual tendencies are abhorrent.
Towards the end of our second Bud his stories started focusing on this black female security guard that he referred to as “one of those feminista types”. Apparently she was always causing trouble or something but before he expanded on the thought we decided to leave. This was a relief. I dropped the empty bottles off at the bar and received a very serious nod from an old guy in a fire-engine red ball cap with the American flag on it and the words “God Bless America”. I had to hold back impulses again, this time resisting an eye roll.
The beers began to take their intended effect as we got into Dave’s car. I forgot about where the conversation had been heading and gave him a very appreciative hand shake to thank him for getting the rounds. It was then that I found myself being told about how a couple of black guys used to hang around the club for but that they didn’t stay around for long (obviously). With more than a little pride he stated that there wasn’t a single black person or Hispanic person in the club.
I wasn’t shocked; not by the statement’s matter of fact nature or that Dave said it. I was introduced to American racism years ago (still alive and from a skewed point of view, well). During my first stint working a meaningless job in the good old US of A I was employed as a broom maker in a broom factory. Apart from one equally marginalized Wiccan lady my co-workers were all what is commonly referred to as immigrants, either Hispanic, African or Jamaican. Broom making, a job that requires endless hours of standing, smelling plastic, and breathing in dust and chemicals as well as a slow deterioration of one’s soul is also one that is completely thankless. (To my knowledge there are no bumper stickers that say, “God Bless our Broom makers” even though countless backs of American women and a few backs of men are saved by well crafted brooms and convenient long handled dust pans also assembled by myself and other tireless foreign broom makers.) Some of the guys I met had been there for ten years without much of a raise and certainly no promotion save for one -- Clayon.
Or Klingon as most of the guys in shipping called this Jamaican who had nothing but an abundance of kindness. I had been promoted to shipping and began driving a forklift (which was like getting a Rolls Royce in a country where almost no one has a car) after only three weeks. Nearly every other guy in the shipping department, except for the manager, who was also very kind hearted, referred to Clayon as Klingon – and not at all playfully. It was not only derogatory but whether they meant the connotations or not it completely alienated a guy who was painfully aware of its other meanings. I was nineteen at the time and completely shocked then that there were less-than-backwater racists still walking and working amongst what I then thought of as regular people.
A few years later after being laid-off from the broom factory and regrettably losing contact with Clayon I got that job as a security guard. It was post 9/11. By then I wasn’t the least surprised that one of my co-workers, a mostly devote Muslim from Morocco named Mohammed Ahmar, was also isolated through cowardly behind-the-back comments and a few some what shrouded ones to his face. Of all the people that I got to know in my year at the former Fleetcenter Mohammed was the only one I actually considered a friend. We spent many hours in amiable debate over the existence of God, even his specifically. Not once did I feel threatened. The firmist thing he ever said to me, and he said it with one of the biggest toothiest smiles that I can remember, was “God knows.” Of both Clayon and Mohammed I have fond memories but these stories are what the Irish (I’m guessing) call small potatoes. In neither case was I, nor did I feel I was, breaking new social grounds. Social awareness since the time of that so called “Greatest Generation” has been nothing but improving. Which is to say -- it has gotten better.
Unfortunately, for some, that kind of better is the enemy of their good. Dave’s Irish American Club has changed with the times but only in a very slight degree (it has a women’s auxilliary now welcome during special events on Saturday nights, for example). However timidly, the members still stand by the idea that where ever a woman’s place is it is not in a bar and that black people should have their own clubs (and hell, why not water fountains while they’re at it).
Reflecting on all this and Dr. Bootsie’s statement (let’s not extrapolate here to the point that I am calling the guy a racist because I’m not) I have come up with what I think is an accurate translation to ignorant people speak (or thought). That is that things different are the enemy of things the same.
How does this ignorance-based manisfestation of the idea effect my situation? Well, the truth is I’ll never be able to think in any kind of absolute manner that Dr. Bootsie couldn’t have possibly pulled the surgery off and that I might just have come out a little better. But as he stated, sometimes change can be bad.
One of the hardest things in life can be determining what things are worth altering. This time I went the safer (yet still physically difficult) route. But that doesn’t mean that I think miracles (not of the Jesus sort but just those of a not quite impossible nature) aren’t worth dreaming of. Sometimes one has to be cautious not so much about what promises to be better but of what they consider good.

The Turkey and the Hawk: How I found God and why he was exactly where Captain Kirk said he'd be.

I had made a decision not so long ago that I would be finished, no matter what (famous last words?), with this stomach non-sense come the end of July. All I was waiting on was the results of one last test. Either I was going to get the surgery or walk away from the whole mess and just have to learn to deal with my discomfort and the risk of developing that condition the doctors call Barrett’s esophagus, something I have come to call the ghost of cancer-future.
This past Friday I had my appointment with Dr. Bootsie only to find out he could not provide any immediate answers because after more than a week of waiting for the results they were still not in. Regardless of this Dr. Bootsie continued to seem positive that the surgery was the correct choice barring some unusual and unexpected results. He also assured me that I was doing the right thing in being cautious about delaying the surgery and waiting until I had all the information I could have. Before I left he told me he would make sure that the results were put together that day and that he would call me at four o’clock to tell me either to go ahead with the surgery or forget about it. I was thrilled and ready to celebrate either way.
But his call didn’t come. Not until 7pm anyway. And even then it wasn’t Dr. Bootsie but the doctor who had read the test results. He told me that the surgery was to be cancelled and that there were more tests needed to determine my problem.
I’m not going to get into the details mostly cause they depress me. All that I really need to say here is that I was devastated and had to spend the last two days on the phone with pharmacies, insurance companies and doctor’s secretaries to determine my future. I had little success.
Luckily for me, in the midst of all this disappointment I found God. I have to admit that this was a revelation in the works considering that I have been studying the New Testament for several weeks. Now, my friends (all you good agnostics and atheists), do not be afraid. You will soon see that the god I found has little to do with the god of Abraham. It had much more to do with a turkey and a hawk and the recall of a Captain Kirk line from that theological masterpiece Star Trek V.
I had taken the commuter rail to the small town of West Gloucester to explore the nearby Ravenswood Park for some much needed forest quiet. I burdened myself only with binoculars, some cashews, an apple, a book (not the Bible . . . I’ll get to that shortly), and a very vague map of this park, which I found out is owned and made available by a group of people that refer to themselves quite officially as trustees. So thanks to these executors of the wilderness and my slight provisions I was able to spend a tranquil day amongst the trees.
Right from the beginning of the trip I realized it was going to be a nature-blessed (so to speak) day. Not ten minuets on the trail I noticed a garter snake slithering in the bushes. I became fond of these critters during my days as a river guide on Wyoming’s Snake River (named not for snakes but a misinterpreted motion of the hand made by the local Shoshone Indians meant to indicate their basket weaving techniques (some say to mimic swimming salmon)). A garter snake near the landing, if you could nab its fleeting tail, almost insured an extra twenty-dollar tip. I spent a few minutes crouched down marveling at its delicate flickering tongue and yellow scales lined up in a subtle but beautiful stripe before it slithered off into the shelter of dark New England pond water. Once it was gone I continued into the shade of the forest.
As the sun reached its summer heights the shade became a bright yellow-green glow. The cool morning breeze gone my mood began to shift. I was sweating heavily and grew overly aware of my city softness. Not just my belly either but my skin as well which the mosquitoes sliced through like I was New York style cheesecake. Passing an area called Great Magnolia Swamp I found myself cursing and swatting and cursing and swatting. My two hands clapped together here and there echoing about the silence with a sound like the clop of moose hooves testing a marble floor. What had happened to the me of Alaska who lived in a Yukon style tent and snapped out the lives of mosquitoes with deft one-handed claps and the composure of Mr. Miyagi?
I pushed on and tried to keep my mind off the mosquitoes by focusing on enjoying the company of a few chickadees, a couple of nuthatches and one very brilliant scarlet tanager. As a specter of that weather-crisped younger self returned I was able to let my mind and body wander. When I grew tired I sat cross-legged on an elevated pad of moss for some much needed girlfriend prescribed meditation. It was then that God spoke to me.
Before I get to what he said or more importantly the voice that he used let me tell you about my recent Bible studies. As I mentioned before I have been reading the New Testament. (The reason for this is a top secret writing project that I am not willing to discuss here.) Along with reading all the gospels in their theoretical order (I’m halfway through Luke at the time of writing this) I am also trying to read contemporary books on the Bible and God (or lack of God). The one I’m reading now is written by A.J. Jacobs, an editor of Esquire magazine. Jacobs, a self-proclaimed agnostic at the start of his project, spent a year living as closely as he could by the rules of the Old Testament. Now, I’m reserving a little bit of judgment here as I’m only half way through but so far, at the half way point, it really seems that Jacobs is beginning to “find” God.
Given this and my recent experiences my belief that there is a danger in reading the Bible (and about the Bible) exclusively. It speaks with such high authority that you can’t help, if you are truly an open-minded reader, to start thinking in thou-shalls and thou-shall-nots, which is not unlike what happens when one reads too much Catcher in the Rye and starts thinking phony-this and goddamn-that. In short, you get God on your brain and in this sense I’m no different than Jacobs. I’m just a lot less engaged in my project.
So amongst all the wondrous chirping, surrounded by a new born late afternoon breeze my head was in the clouds hanging out with old JC (as I’ve come to call him in my notes) and my new favorite biblical character (wearer of camel fur, longtime wanderer of the wilderness, and eater of locusts) John the Baptist. When I opened my eyes I noticed a daddy-long-legs had tucked itself into the shady nook under my arm and on top of my leg. Before I stood I let it crawl onto my hand and then very gently lowered it to shady patch of grass. And all of a sudden I heard the words, “that was good." It was the voice of God! I walked away with a lightness of step and a feeling of benevolence. I really was on a kind of high except I couldn’t figure out why the voice of God sounded more than a little like my own.
I chuckled at this thought and continued until, while climbing a small hill, I noticed another daddy-long-legs type insect (the guy with long legs but also with wings and a really long abdomen) limping over some rocks. In the odd sort of mood I was in I bent down and contemplated my responsibility, if any to this little creature. Do I crush him quickly and put him out of possible misery or do I allow him to live knowing that he would be an easy bird supper for say a hungry nuthatch? I decided to let him crawl on, in part because my back was getting tired and I figured God or no god it was none of my business to fuck with the order of things.
As I stretched back and let out a shallow but healthy groan I was startled by what I immediately thought was an unlikely flock of undersized grouse. Six or seven birds had burst out of the brush and flew into the shelter and camouflage of nearby trees. They were hidden so well I couldn’t find a single one. Torn for a moment between startling the birds again and my (amateur) birders impulse to identify I decided again it was best not to disturb things further but as I moved on I heard another sound coming from the brush.
A flesh colored head emerged above the tall grass making a very perturbed cooing noise and I found myself squared off against a mother turkey. With an obviously ineffectual tip of my hat I backed off. As I did I noticed that the turkey’s eyes turned suddenly skyward. There was a rush of wind from above and before my eyes could locate it the bulky turkey was airborne with her surprisingly large talons bared to defend her little ones against an attacking red-tailed hawk. For the next few minuets I watched the battle. All I can say is fuck the UFC because first off, those guys can’t fly and this battle was as equally passionate and vicious with both birds representing their respective species. To draw a comparison it was the Royce Gracie like hawk discipline of swift precise movements versus the Dan Severn heavyweight style of the turkey. (I stopped watching the UFC way back when they set up those interesting scenarios of discipline versus discipline and you watched the fights all together in one sitting on video instead of having to sit through endless masculine power-themed explosive commercials. I don’t care how the sport evolved. It doesn’t interest me. So please, spare me from trying to point out a current comparison because I don’t think there is one and, moreover, I don’t care.) The two birds crashed through tree branches until the turkey seemed to get a topside grip on the hawk and they plummeted into the brush. Feathers exploded into the air and a second later the hawk burst through them to fly out above the trees. Letting lose a cry (yup, that high piercing scream accredited to the eagle) it soared away most likely a little hungrier from the battle.
Incredible.
I quickly left the area so as to not stress the turkey family out any further and began to think on what I just witnessed. For those few brief moments before the hawk had dove in I had started to think about the curious nature of turkeys. As young birds they fly as well as grouse. Now, that’s not to say that grouse fly well but usually well enough to escape onto a tree branch. It’s hard to imagine the enormous adult turkey perching on a branch. I had begun to think in my God deluded mind that there was some sort of intelligent design to the turkey that made them the perfect bird for, say, the Puritans who loved to hunt and then pray over as they expanded their territory. But after witnessing the battle of the turkey and the hawk I realized that I was being a little too hasty and probably a little too open-minded.
Without getting into the details I read an article in the Globe and Mail the other day that a woman in Squamish, BC saved her two-year old daughter from a cougar attack. The cougar was on top of her child and she managed to get between them, scooped up her wounded daughter (who thankfully survived), and ran away. Is this not miraculous? I say yes, absolutely yes. In fact, cheers to all mothers, turkey, human or otherwise. It is well known that a mother bear will defend its young ferociously as often will a mother moose. It is something quite common in this world from mammal to bird and even to some insects (spiders, wasps, etc . . .). Its something not only incredible in each and every case of motherly adrenaline but the connections are incredible as well.
The question is do I credit God? My answer after a few moments of reflection as I began to leave the woods was an absolute, fuck no! I’m sure someone could find something that shows this in the bible but as far as I’m concerned most of the Bible is so damn vague you could justify anything from genocide to spending your life searching for a non-existent unblemished red heifer to sacrifice (check out Numbers 19:2 my friends). No, the answers to the marvels of motherhood in humans and nature, however vague, lie not in the limited Jewish traditions of the Bible but in an exploration of the marvels of evolution.
Every time I these connections in life I am marveled because it really is a sort of mystery the way the lives of animals and man are so often intertwined and yet so often pitted against each other; always playing out a kind of sacred balance (to use the fine fine words of David Suzuki). For me this is so much more incredible than the mysteries of the Bible which often involve such trivial things as whether or not to fast on the Sabbath or whether or not some foods are kosher because they might contain insects eggs (according to A.J. Jacobs on this matter “one hundred grams of pizza sauce can contain up to thirty insects eggs). When I think about this I usually ask myself some truncated version of the following run on sentence (question). Is it more incredible that some self-indulged paternal Greybeard conjured up our planet and put humans on it to brutally execute his son and then spend the next two millennia not only brainwashing but raping, pillaging and massacring in his name or that through some awe-inspiring coincidence random star dust (or whatever) came together right here in this very tiny spot of the cosmos to begin the incredibly ancient story of life that was and still is brutal but that also has produced a wondrous plethora of creatures that are capable of love. (I say “creatures”, plural, because if you don’t think animals other than man are capable of love you are an ass . . . or rather, have your head up your ass. Don’t feel bad though I used to think the same thing not so long ago.) Of course, there are plenty of level headed Christians out there that do not believe in its creation myths but still like to thump that old singular book. For them Paternal Greybeard is still out there if not in the clouds than somewhere else in the cosmos.

Enter Captain Kirk.
In Star Trek V Captain Kirk and his crew, under some duress, found this place. Kirk was introduced to the “all-powerful” being that resided there and, in short, told him to fuck off. This eventually resulted in a lot of explosions, earthquakes and the toppling of some obviously Styrofoam Stonehenge-like rocks. Spock and McCoy were, as usual beamed up to safety and Kirk was left behind to huff and puff his way out of yet another “no win scenario”. Good stuff. Really. In the end Spock, for the second time that movie, saves his captain by boarding another ship that could enter the planets atmosphere and fire directly on said god. The ship was a Klingon Bird of Prey (the hawk might not beat mother turkey but it sure as shit kicked this god’s ass) and the plan worked, which gave the three friends some time to contemplate their “cosmic thoughts”. McCoy quickly asks that puzzling question, “ . . . is God really out there?” and Kirk responds by saying; “Maybe he’s not out there, Bones. Maybe he’s right here . . . in human heart.”

As I walked out of the woods this is what I was thinking and in light (yes I do mean “in light”) of all my bad news and biblical reading of late this is the explanation that makes the most sense to me. Now, I can’t really speculate on what Shatner or Roddenberry’s thoughts really were on that line but for me it certainly does not mean that we have our own little vaporous paternal Greybeard floating about in each of our respective chests. To me it’s more about consciousness in general.
I often hear and it is mentioned often in Jacobs’ book that prayer simply just makes people feel good. I can confirm this. Prayer was something I meant and felt when I was young and loving old JC. But I know now that when someone prays they are just talking to themselves. But so what? We all need to talk to ourselves more, to really look inside ourselves because as far as I’m concerned we can all know ourselves a little better. The unfortunate aspect of this is that people seem (over and over and over again) to find it necessary to make everyone else’s inner voice sound exactly like their own.
Enter religion.
So when I say I found God the other day here’s what I’m trying to getting at. We live in a time of what is perceived as scientific enlightenment. The problem is that now people who don’t explore their inner selves, instead of getting manipulated by self righteous clergy are manipulated by the (sometimes) equally self righteous scientists like Richard Dawkins. Dawkins (I’m being a little hard on the guy here to make a point) effectively and accurately deconstructs the paternal Greybeard but replaces him with a little twirling DNA molecule. The problem is just like the Bible science is still has its gaps. So to me, in a way, they’re not that different really.
Despite its gaps there are still a lot of “true” things in the bible, such as, the concept of loving your neighbor or the idea that prostitutes really aren’t that bad. Science’s merits are, of course, much more plentiful and a lot less self-serving but they still don’t answer everything. (Take the following pertinent example. I estimate that between the eight different doctors that I’ve seen so far about my stomach problem there is nearly 100 years of scientific education (not including their time practicing) and not one of them knows how to help me with my health issues.) For those of us with our eyes truly open there is still an abundance of mystery to this thing we call life and it makes a lot of sense to me to be able to look inside myself for answers, most especially when I am in need of comfort.
It’s odd to me (and by odd I mean obvious) that they say God works in mysterious ways because the very same thing can be said about what we call heart and mind. If you think about it the presence of this kind of inner voice is something that might actually links us together. But for the love of the great Flying Spaghetti Monster we need to try to refrain from exacting on others our unverified absolutes because it is those sorts of inanities that most often split us apart.

Reality is the Fantasy of the Majority

The release of (and now multiple viewings of) the new Star Trek movie has awakened what many would call (and I will refer reluctantly to as) my inner geek. My inner geek – that part of me that is aware of and completely welcoming of the old sentiment that life truly is but a dream – has tuned me into the fortuitousness of a couple of events that have recently transpired in my life. It has also reminded me of a related note that I jotted down several months ago -- reality is the fantasy of the majority.
I googled these words within quotations before starting this blog. Aware that many before me have danced a tune or two around the sentiment (or in the case of Kerouac or Robbins have whirled about it long into the morning) I was concerned that it might not be an original turn of phrase (my turns of phrase generally resembling the wild twists and turns of a child’s imagined treasure map than the straight line constructed by the sentence in question). Only a couple of hits turned up and as a writer (that’s right Kundera, I said “as a writer”) I was relieved to see that they were all presented on my computer in that never-before-clicked Google blue.
The first was a blog by a guy named Dwight Sullivan that goes by the title of “I Always Play the Thief: Reality is the Fantasy of the Majority”. At a quick skim it seemed not unlike my own endeavors and included a link to his movie review page, which is something I myself am entertaining starting. The second link turned out to be part of Dwight’s e-signature in a forum for Marvel comics (I think). Though I didn’t get the attached comment (which read, “Thanks Wytefang and netherspirit for the work getting that up. Man that water in the Heroscape ad looks really nice. Has it been altered graphically?”) I was happy to find myself in good and articulate company. Such is the nature of great ideas. And as far as that goes I always admired Alfred Russel Wallace as much as I did Charles Darwin and am more than happy to play his part here.
But lets gets to my whies and hows and better yet a few stories.
I’ll start with the night after I saw the new Star Trek for the first time. I had turned on the TV in the hopes that I would find some station playing Star Trek II, IV, or V. The closest thing I could find was the Denise Crosby narrated Trekkies 2. Now I could go on about the good and bad of Star Trek fans but I am only going to focus here on a single comment (or group of comments) in the documentary. Crosby had basically posed the question of how far is too far to take fantasy. One of the women interviewed responded with the question of whether or not women who altered their bodies permanently for the sake of ephemeral images of beauty are that different or even worse than die-hard Star Trek fans. The concept related directly to a conversation I had with my old friend Wesley who pointed out that there is no negative term relating to fans of “Sex and the City”. “Sex and the City” (aside from showing the positives of empowered womanhood (something Star Trek was among the first to do in the history of television)) does nothing but depict the fantastical lives of a few super elite insanely beautiful New York women through plots that revolve around buying shoes and not understanding the men in their lives. The results of indulgence in this almost completely superficial fantasy can be seen in the grotesque woman that are often the subject of documentaries about plastic surgery who have been tragically deformed in its pursuit. Now compare that to a little removable Klingon make-up a Star Trek fan might don at a convention or a movie premier.
Oddly (or coincidently or serendipitously) enough I had walked by a geek convention of another sort earlier this week while strolling down Boylston. Colorfully speckled about the street were people, mostly younger, dressed in samurai and ninja like costumes often with really really spiky hair. The closer I came to the Hynes Convention Center the denser these groups became until I was walking amongst pokemon ball juggling anime fans talking about (I presume) DragonballZ. I don’t care for anime myself but I certainly don’t care that others do especially considering the light-hearted atmosphere that surrounded them.
As I was passing through I heard some grumbling and giggling out of place with the jovial atmosphere. Looking to my left I saw three sets of plentiful bosoms bouncing against the support of their black lightweight (recon?) armor as they clip-clopped on the spindly legs of their high-heeled steeds with their faces painted tones of baby blue and pink ready for yet another Friday night Battle of the Barbies. For a moment I found myself wishing I had a plastic sword to trip their spoke thin legs. Yet after they passed I found myself unconsciously glancing back to check out their behinds (the reality of behinds being that they are a lovely part of a woman still subject to more natural methods of beautification). Then, as expected, I forgot that they and their bums existed. Had the event not been connected in my head to Trekkies 2 or had I not gone to see Star Trek for the second time I would have likely forgot the giggling bimbos for all time.
Having seen Star Trek sober the first time around I decided to get a little stoned for the second viewing. As a result I purchased myself a treat, a pack of three Lindt dark chocolates, to enjoy in the theatre. Looking forward to indulging in fantasy and chocolate I took a seat in the back to the theatre leaned back, grinned and thought happy thoughts. After the opening action sequence the slower moving geek stuff began tracing Spock’s childhood explaining why he was the unique Vulcan that he was. It was then that a group of three hooligans, drunk and stoned (I assumed accurately), enjoying their Memorial Day weekend, decided to interject their anti-Star Trek comments. The first couple got a laugh out of me but then they went overboard to the point that nobody in the theatre could pay attention to the film. Not wanting to waste my chocolate indulgence on something so un-entertaining I got ready to say fuck it and walk out to go see one of the many other movies playing at the giant many-theatered cinema in Revere (which, completely unrelated, I had worked in the food court of years ago). Just before I got up though a couple of gruff voices were cast back from the front row. The hooligans bit quickly. After a few more moments of terse comments the two groups were facing off on the stairs. The hooligans were a group of three black guys, which is something I mention only because the other group was two white guys with crew cuts so straight they could have been cut by a phaser who were adding some racial non-sense to the fray that I don’t care to repeat. The hooligans shot back with their own racial comments and the tension rose exponentially. Next, the stockiest of the hooligans spread his arms apart welcoming a punch. Even in the shadows of a theatre you could make out the bulges of his shoulder muscles that pinched together the middle of his t-shirt.
Seeing things escalate the smallest of the hooligans stepped between the two groups. With one arm he tried to hold back his friends while his other arm was against a baseball jersey stretched like Mark McGuire’s over the thick chest of one of the GI Joe’s. The aggressors ignored him and punches were soon thrown. Their heavy dull thuds could be heard easily over Spock’s logical musings. As the struggle continued a sixth man got up from the front row to join the fray while the rest of the theatre whispered and grumbled.
The latecomer was older an older guy probably in his late sixties. He shared the same build (plus a gut) as the two crew cuts and it was pretty clear that he was their father. Along with the peace-keeping hooligan he threw himself in between the fight and with his help they managed to break it up and a couple of them even shook hands before leaving the theatre. A short while later only the three white guys came back.
Ignoring the racial nonsense I was thankful. Soon I was able to forget about the drama and how I did nothing about it and even how the movie fucks up the entire Star Trek universe. It turned out to be even more enjoyable than my first viewing. To show my appreciation of the end result of their actions I found them after the movie and shook their battered hands.
But that does not mean that I condone their actions, only their actions results. Sitting back not completely aware that I was wearing a grin full of chocolate I had watched the drama unfold. The thoughts that all that violence and hate was occurring because of a Star Trek movie or that these guys were defending Star Trek fans had comically crossed my mind. But the real humor went beyond that knowing that the motivation for these fellows was not anything even remotely that altruistic (as I imagined them later when they would be telling the story to their mothers, their wives, their girlfriends and their buddies). No, their motivations were boyish and simple.
And it’s not that I don’t get that. Shit, under the right circumstances I completely indorse it. There have been times in my life when I was rugby fit or drinking lots of whiskey that I too have certainly had the same impulses. In fact, they are the same fighting impulses that underlie one of my favorite fantasy characters. Who but one with the balls and macho grit of Captain Kirk could be stranded on a planet unarmed to fight a seven foot tall warrior crocodile armed with a knife and defeat it by fashioning a cannon out of sulfur, diamonds and a fucking log. With a character like that one might think that there would be more brawls in movie theaters except there is the difference between those goons and the average Star Trek fan. Whether consciously or unconsciously they know that the glory of battle is more of a cerebral concept than a cold hard reality. Even though Kirk epitomizes that boyish bravery his character - reader of Shakespeare, climber of mountains - shows overtime that he is motivated by much more than glory.
So what was my solution to the hooligans in the theatre? Well, as I mentioned I would have eventually left and went into another movie. Now, had I been watching Star Trek for the first time I would have probably reacted in a different manner but certainly my solution would not have been as directly effective (or as hateful) as beating them up. Probably I would have just found someone in the theatre to ask the fuckers to leave. And if I couldn’t do that, well, to quote a sentiment of Kirk’s, “there are always possibilities.” One only needs the intelligence and flexibility of the mind to come up with them. Sometimes, of course, even for Kirk the solution must be violence (which as I mentioned does have the virtue of effectiveness). But in the face of such decisions Kirk’s most admirable quality, fantasy or not, was his ability to judge when it was necessary and when it wasn’t.
As any fool knows, hate begets hate and like fantasy it is a construct of the mind. Good fantasy, that is fantasy like Star Trek that deals with issues like race and gender and beyond, has the potential for great good. Bad fantasy, that is the fantasy of beauty and glory where the ends don’t simply justify the means rather render the means irrelevant, has the potential for great evil. And any good geek knows that.

Let me take you down . . .

Green, Central Park is green.
After three days of partying, concerts, and wandering gap-mouthed about New York City we walked over that relatively thin strip of concrete into that grass and tree surrounded area called Strawberry Fields. All I could feel or think was green as I watched a multitude of tree fleshes wriggling out their subtle happy dance to a light spring breeze beneath a startlingly open sky and a sun that without smiley curve still beamed out an infectious grin.
This happened during another vacation from my problems only this time I was in the company of two good friends of mine who where visiting on a real vacation. So after a couple of quick somber pictures around the Imagine memorial we (myself skipping) wandered into the park to find a place to smoke a joint. We settled on a cove of trees concealed conveniently on one side by a large rock. The spot overlooked, through the flicker of more green leaves, a corner of one of several Central Park ponds. After we crushed out a joint and emptied our pipe we moved to the water’s edge in full view of a busy restaurant and a boathouse. The bustling human activity coming from both these places was not nearly as interesting to me as the animal life in the park. Stoned enough to ignore the implications of an artificial pond stocked with non-native fish I was able to enjoy the company of turtle, grackle and cormorant contained in a place somewhere between zoo and wilderness.
Sully and Ed were around for two very fun weeks. We split the time between New York, Boston and New Hampshire. We saw Franz Ferdinand, Ben Harper (opened for by the surprisingly entertaining Henry Clay People) and the Tragically Hip (twice). We fished in the White Mountains. We made and ate some quality weed brownies and watched zombie movies. We listened to incredible jazz at legendary Wally’s Café. The whole thing was a great and memorable vacation from my but the afternoon in Central Park is the memory most vivid in my mind. The juxtaposition of city to nature has always intrigued me and stepping into Central Park out of the prison of New York with its city block sized cell bars was as striking to me as when I fell asleep on a flight leaving the vast silence of Alaska to wake up (save a quick trance like transfer in Chicago) just before landing in Boston where I stepped out into a cacophony of car horns and grinding construction.
Bored and distracted, last night I walked through the graveyard where Sully, Ed and I went to smoke joints. Once the winter had broke and the hawk at the other park did not return I changed pot smoking locations to an old cemetery instead of the park trading hawk and statue for the company of bat and headstone (and whatever is left of the hundred or so corpses rotting for almost three hundred years down in that peace and silence so elusive in our living world). The ancient oaks that overlook the small square of green as well as a few lumps of tombs provide adequate shelter from cops looking for a couple of guys smoking up or dog walking people who would find hanging out in a graveyard weird. It’s no Central Park but what it lacks in green space it makes up for in soul. The chipped and cracked headstones lined up uneven always makes me think of the grinning teeth of a wise old Indian.
As I walked I was faced with the tedious process of sorting out the scheduling of my upcoming medical tests and surgery. Pleasant thoughts were not on my mind. The weight of it all dragged on me. “Back to real life” Ed had said before I left them at Logan. “Yeah and my real life really sucks” I tried to joke except as soon as I said it I no longer found it funny.
Just before I walked out of the graveyard the evening breeze whispered through the sturdy oak leaves. I looked up into the closest tree. A robin was perched there and it gushed out its evening song. My gaze followed the tree back down from the leaves to the roots where I saw one thick and tenacious extension engaged in the slow and steady process of gently pushing aside a very old and unreadable headstone. I imagined the roots of the tree reaching deep into the ground wrapped about a skull with a mouth full of nutritive dirt and a cracked but toothy grin. Though I had barely thought of John Lennon when we wandered past Strawberry Fields I suddenly remembered hearing that he had been cremated. This might not be true (and I don’t care if it is or if it isn’t) but as I stood there I began to feel a sadness for him and for anyone else whose body’s energy had not been given back to the earth. And then the unmarked grave and what it implied of the body beneath it made me smile - oak food and shelter for singing robin it having become.
I strolled on out of the shelter of the cemetery and found myself singing a line from “Strawberry Fields” that I had never really gotten. “Always no sometimes think its me, but you know I know when it’s a dream, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. That is I think I disagree”. Other than the title the song and that line probably have little to do with Central Park, death or green space but there’s something about it I know I like even though in general I’m not a Beatles or John Lennon fan.
And I don’t like New York much either but whatever Central Park might be with its altered ecosystem and concrete frame I liked it too.