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.

The Bald And The Brave

I’m bald and, although not exactly proud of it, have come to appreciate the positive subtleties thus provided by its uninvited arrival, none of which I will trouble you with at the moment. However, I will relate that my wife recently informed me that if I were to die she would probably marry another bald man, which is cool, except for the very fact that she’s actually been thinking about it. What’s more, she says I have a good head for it, it being bald, that I have not a pointed crown nor a regrettable scar, no odd ridges here or there, and that I ought to be thankful.

While I’m at it, I should note that I’m also thankful that I still have all twenty nails on toes and fingers, that my penis is still attached and receiving adequate blood flow and that a meteor didn’t come slashing out of the heavens last night scrambling my bald head like some speckled egg.

When I started losing my hair, and I can admit it freely now, sure, it bothered me. In fact, to ease the burden and pressure I wrote a poem about it, one that always brought smiles to those who listened, primarily the follically-aloof and bushy-headed. Off the top of my head (an unfortunate pun?) I can't seem to recall the entire thing, but I will never forget the climatic ending.

Here it is:

“Think I’m Goin’ Bald” (condensed to highly climatic ending)

...The fall-out continued but I tempered my mind,
When I’m an old codger not a gray hair shall you find.
The benefits are few but tend to appease,
The wind is no problem and washin’ it’s a breeze.
But all is not lost the dilemma is finally solved,
I’m not really losin’ it I’m just highly evolved.


Yep, clever don’t you think, but what else would you expect from a bald man?

One time a little kid on the street stopped and looked up at me and asked quite innocently, “hey… what happened to all your hair?” His mother stepped up and grabbed him by the tiny shoulders, offered a forced smile and some under-the-breath apology that didn’t quite register, and shuffled him on down the street in a huff. I was dumbfounded of course and didn’t say a word. But I didn’t smile either. You want to talk about the sheltered children of America? Well, they’re all still waiting on the damn tooth fairy but to them I’m a freak, and in my mind I pictured his stupid hairy neanderthal father and walked away with a satisfied grin below my unencumbered forehead.

Poor kid.

You might have noticed that I titled this little story, this essay, confession, whatever the hell you want to call it, The Bald And The Brave, which is only about half right. I’m really not that brave at all, except that it takes some courage to go out into public these days, what with the obsession on beauty and all that crazy hair, the legions of ashamed and desperate men signing up for the International Hair Club, the toupee of the month subscription from Hairy David, and if all else fails, spray this black shit all over your noggin and walk fast.

So yes, I still go out. I’m not that big of a chicken shit. Let me go fetch my hat and I’ll prove it to you.

The Darkest Day Of My Life

It began as a nice April morning and I remember performing a yoga routine and feeling good. I had just started doing yoga a few weeks earlier and in a small yet comforting way it was giving me a sense of peace. It felt good to be more limber and to feel more calm. Things were looking up.

I was taking a shower when it happened. Amazingly, with the water running and being a good twenty miles away the rumble still reached my ears. Something abnormal had clearly just happened. Some sort of strange sonic boom or maybe even a plane crash.

I don't recall exactly what I was thinking inbetween that moment and when I finally turned on the television. Did I rush through my shower or did I remain calm, perhaps believing that my ears had somehow deceived me, and continue with the normal routine? All I remember now is that I turned on that television as soon as I got out of the shower and a news helicopter was already hovering over the Alfred T. Murrah building, black smoke twisting into the air, and the first speculation I heard from the reporter was that a gas line must have exploded.

Within a minute the enormity of what happened had already sunk in. I knew, we ALL knew, that many lives had been instantly lost. Fifteen minutes later I was driving to my office down the Broadway Extension, heading south out of Edmond toward downtown Oklahoma City, listening to radio reports as I watched that cloud of smoke drifting away to the west. Suddenly a pick-up truck rushed past me, hellbent and well over 100 mph, and I could only speculate that the driver had a loved one down there. Of course, anybody that knew someone working down there was scared to death. At that point no one could know for sure which exact buildings had been involved so there is a chance that his loved one survived. I will never know.

The rest of that morning I watched news reports and it became obvious that there had been some kind of exterior explosion, possibly a bomb, and then reports surfaced that another bomb was about to go off. The cameras showed all kinds of people fleeing in panic, women with their dirty purses and their hair all messed up, wild-eyed policemen, reporters who decided that they didn't necessarily need to become a part of the story. But when that scare subsided soon thereafter the stories of the survivors began to surface, how the lucky had escaped, about the search and rescue that was being valiantly conducted, and then came the news of the day care center.

The children.

I picked up my dad for lunch that day. He knew nothing of the explosion and hadn't heard anything despite being located only a few miles north of the site but that's another story. We didn't eat anything. Instead, we drove towards the Murrah building and got as close as we could, maybe ten blocks away. From what really amounts to just a bump in the road we had a clear view of the north side and it looked like a monster had just taken a huge bite out of it. Tatters on the edge were still blowing in the wind. You could only look for a minute or so and then you felt a twinge of shame, understanding that there were dead bodies underneath all that debris. Maybe someone still alive and struggling to breathe. Right now. Only ten blocks away. We drove away slowly, helplessly, a vile sickness spreading deep inside our guts, and how can you really ever drive away from something like that? I went home around 3 pm and continued watching reports with Lou Ann, Nicholas and Benjamin. You thanked God for that. Your family safe. Simple yet so damn essential. The sky was darkening and threatening to rain. The gloom congregated above us, through the television, through our radios. On our faces, in our sad eyes that could not look away. Despair.

Nick had a baseball practice scheduled for later that afternoon. Seeking some kind of respite I took him. We played catch for about ten minutes and then it started to rain. No one else showed up and we went home. We had made an attempt at the comfort of routine but failed. That's okay... there would be other days for blue skies and baseball.

Despair. Nicholas had a two schoolmates who lost fathers that morning. A teacher who lost her brother. Gloom. More rain. This is real and tomorrow morning it will still be real.

Made him love death. Saw what that did to him. A bitter soldier with no war to fight... so he created one. Really, in the end, just a foolish coward. Loser. Maybe there is a place in this life for suicide?

We humans are always trying to find ways to turn the tide, flip it, make something bad into something good. It's part of our survival instinct. To feel the pain of hate if we must and then try to understand it's source and create a flag of hope from any of it that appears salvageable. So I thought about writing some songs about the bombing of the Alfred T. Murrah building and did so, about 6 or 7, most of them complete with the music stamped inside my head. Not very good I'll admit but the process helped me feel better. After ten years it's all still there.

And I do mean all of it.

Below I offer one verse from my own personal healing tonic... my very own little flag of hope.

Angels' descension

Unseen by the eyes of man,

Man's pretension

To believe that he can understand.

A decade later, the horror of 9-11 included, and I guess I still don't understand. But I believe that's okay... for now.

July July & A New Admitted Guilty Pleasure

I just finished reading Tim O'Brien's July July, a short novel revolving around the 30 year reunion of old friends at a small Minnesota college. As usual the story includes strong references to Vietnam as one young man went off to war, the other to Winnipeg, but that's just a small part of it. I enjoyed it as I suspect I will enjoy anything O'Brien writes... just something about his Minnesota roots and his affinity for baseball caps I guess. And it blows me away to think that as I played with my plastic army men on the sandy beach of Lake le Homme Dieu in the late 60s that not that far away a young Tim O'Brien was struggling with his very own decision. He decided to go to war, not out of courage but out of fear of not going, survived, and we're all fortunate that he did. Quite frankly high schools ought to make room for his The Things They Carried as required reading but I'm sure that would meet with some kind of kooky right-wing objection.

And I have to admit something right here and now... I'm in love with Karen Carpenter's voice. Funny, she considered herself a drummer but I'm thinking she had the most distinctive female vocal chords of the last 25 years or so. It can melt cold butter and maybe even the cholesterol in my veins. Of course I was far too cool to dig the Carpenters back in the 70s but if you live long enough you have the opportunity to reconsider a few things. Listening now with old tinnitus-y ears and a new perspective the sad tragedy of her death hits home and kindles a fresh appreciation.

Willie & The Fire In Beulah

I recently read Rilla Askew's wonderful historical novel "Fire In Beulah" which recounts a tragic event in the history of my home state (if not the nation... if not the world... if not the...), the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921. A very creative work that captures that oil boom opulence period distinctly and you really wind up caring about the characters, both black and white.

A minor character in her story is a young black boy named Willie. He was about ten at the time of the riot so that would put him in his mid sixties during the 1970s. I have an idea to write a short story about Willie as an old man living in Enid during the mid 70s, a story concerning his surviving the event and the emotional scars that he carried the rest of his life.

April Fool's Day

Well, I actually created a blog on December 31st, 2004, and subsequently destroyed it sometime in February. New Year's Eve was (is) a damn good time to start one but maybe April Fool's Day will be a more fitting beginning?

Looking back on it, I now realize that I had written quite a few nice little posts attempting insight, a couple of funny vignettes (one concerning the recent rehab of George Carlin), one recount of a near catastrophe that devolved into snivelling sentimentality, and one or two items that bordered on smug self-gratification that apparantly motivated me, on sober reflection, to delete it ALL into the netherworld along with my cure for cancer and the answer as to why we are all here.

But a few weeks ago I yearned to revisit my blog. So here I go again, with no true purpose or outline, other than to record some of my ideas for future consideration. And deletion?

I'll try to curb the smuggery this time.