Vonnegut In February

I've been a fan of Kurt Vonnegut ever since our required reading days back in high school. I've always been attracted to his unique ability to seemingly reduce a situation, many times grave, into its barest of conditions. To simplify and state clearly what is actually happening.

Not The sweaty bombadier opened the metal hatch and dropped his lethal load into the cold German sky where it would soon greet its target with a mighty message. More like A man whistling a happy tune pulled a lever and a mile below a child soon died.

In February of 2003 a unique opportunity came my way. Mr. Vonnegut journeyed to Oklahoma City University for a public appearance on campus. He had been scheduled to appear earlier and apparently illness had forced him to cancel. But now he was really coming and I knew that this would in all likelihood be my only chance to bear witness to a true literary legend. I wasn't sure what he was going to talk about, but whatever the subject, I planned on hearing it.

It was a very cold and clear night, a Tuesday or maybe a Wednesday, and the gathering was to be held at the new OCU basketball arena. It's one of those facilities with a jogging track around the top so that you can gather round the rails and look down upon the action. After originally sitting in the bleachers I gravitated upstairs and onto the track and secured a spot with a decent railing view. I recall when I first spotted the esteemed gent, sitting among the commoners in the bleachers on the far side, and I couldn't help but smile to myself wondering if those sitting around him even knew that this was indeed the man. While those around him chatted and told jokes and laughed he just sat there with a somewhat quizzical look on his face as the introduction took place. Too much ass-kissing was what the arched brow announced to me and only me of course.

And then the time came for that older gent in the corduroy jacket and frazzled hair to rise on those old knees and lumber down the three or four rows to the podium.

I'm not much for public speaking, in fact I abhor it, so I'm always amazed when a person first ascends to that microphone while all breathlessly await and breaks the trance established by the previous speaker with their own tone, their own pace, their own style. Mr. Vonnegut began to speak and I at once felt like I already knew this man, this voice, a wise grandfather at last received by a new brood of needy earth children. His style was to talk to you in a direct manner, heartlfelt and simple. He seemed to be a man at ease with himself, to possess confidence in the rightness of his own obvious comfort. And if you happened to feel the comfort that's okay, and if not, well, that's okay too. But don't expect any changes.

He began speaking from a lectern on the basketball court facing the crowd that sat in the bleachers from where he had just come. That left his back to the other side of the court and a crowd just as large not to mention all the spillover folks literally hanging from the rafters, including myself. He immediately quipped that this was a new experience for him and did not feel right, having his back to half of the crowd, and he asked a young man dressed in a suit and a tie who was obviously working for OCU to please remove the lectern and place it over underneath the basketball hoop. So the young man, who seemed more than a little self-conscious mind you, attempted to do as he was told while Mr. Vonnegut continued his speech, except that he came up short, very short, sliding the lectern only a few yards away from where it originally sat.

Mr. Vonnegut stopped in mid-sentence and stared at the young man, a look of perplexed curiosity overtaking his face, and he slowly approached the poor kid who just stood there without expression. "Don't you know what a hoop is?" he asked with honest concern, and the kid froze, did not move, did not say a thing, and as this old strange man approached him the crowd's voice rose together, as a crowd's voice is prone to do on such occasions, and cried "move the lectern to the hoop!" although all together it couldn't have sounded much like that and probably only added to his confusion. Still, he somehow got the message, the lectern was finally moved even beyond the hoop, and then the young fellow in the nice suit and tie faded off into the shadows, his stiff movements halted, his expression unbroken, his nerves unquestionably shattered.

Most of us found this small interaction quite comical and I was exhilerated with Mr. Vonnegut's use of the term "hoop" because that's the kind of guy I am (to answer Steve Forbert's long-ago inquiry).

Soon enough the topic turned more serious. War. When a man who has been there, has seen it, smelled it, survived it, talks, well... I listen. All of the opinions of those who have never fought should be respectfully listened to I suppose and then inspected for their inherent flaws formed by partisan perspective and individual motivation. And then tossed back into the dugout by an umpire like a bruised foul ball.

Mr. Vonnegut was firing fastballs at us. War is a horrible tragedy. We should not invade Iraq. Does this administration truly understand what it is about to do? They must be crazy!

I will admit that at the time I was probably in the camp of thinking that a proactive military option was acceptable, maybe even desirable, after 9-11. I had placed trust in the President of the United States of America and his cronies. They must know what is best. But Mr. Vonnegut's emotional plea was evough to provoke some thoughtful repose in me. And to this day I remain somewhat confused about my stance. Two things remain clear however: our freedom is precious and NOT to be taken for granted, and war is hell.

There you have it. Now... what to DO about it?

I recall that Mr. Vonnegut ended his speech on a much lighter note and I left the building satisfied and inspired. I was very happy that I had attended. Thank you Kurt Vonnegut.

Not The President ordered the military to begin air strikes at 0100 hour in a display of shock and awe. More like The man closed his Bible with a prayer and nodded to the other stiff man off in the shadows, a man who would jump through hoops if ordered to. A few hours later eleven sleeping children died while dreaming in their beds.

Pro-life indeed.

Where The F Is The Rain?

Still trying to finish The Ruminator. I hope to complete the first draft this week. Then I'll prune and mold for awhile.

I'm looking forward to starting the next story about Willie, the black man who as a young boy survived the Tulsa Race Riot. I have some ideas for that one and I feel like this is a story that I need to squeeze on out.

I'm still planning on finishing Baked Plain before summer's end.

And up there sunning on the horizon... gulp, The Lost Child.

Music: The new EELS is ok but there's really nothing new there. I say either cheer up or dig deeper. Maybe both. I'm warming to Springsteen's Devils & Dust, especially the title track, where Bruce ruminates (there's that word again) about fear being the root of all evil, which I have concluded myself for a while now. Nice falsetto boss. I received a wonderful surprise today from Jim Smart, an awesome homegrown effort called Mist, with an appealing sonic texture to it and a cool lyrical vibe. On order, Dwight Twilley's 47 Moons and the Ken Emerson disc featuring an appearance from that ukelele maniac todd rundgren.

ps: we're in a springtime drought around here. No storms or tornados or nothin'! I always like to break out a good bottle of wine when the Oklahoma skies start to boil. Bummer. Buy wheat futures now!

Bukowski, the EELS and Light

While working out at the YMCA this morning I was listening to the new EELS "Blinking Lights" CD and reading "Post Office" by Charles Bukowski. As I lunged up and down on the elliptical contraption it dawned on me that most of my sweaty brothers and sisters might think of me as one depraved son-of-a-bitch if they knew what I was listening to and reading. I don't believe these two works of art constitute standard fare among the soccer moms and cpa dads with all their suv's stamped "W" out in the parking lot.

And what might they do in retaliation if they were to find out? Stick me on a treadmill and turn it up to, say, 8.5 mph and as one wild mob surround me and never let me off until I either become flattened like George Jetson or repent?

No need. I repent here and now on my own free will. I'm not really depraved at all. Just a seeker of the Light, which may be easier to find once you've ventured through all that dark.