Summer Existentialism

Mid-summer; hot, humid days separated by warm nights; open windows, breezes, outdoor smells.

Conjugate tenses: am weary, was weary, have been weary. There are things to do and no reason to do them. I lie prone upon my bed with a lassitude that comes from prolonged ennui. I study the open window shaded by slightly parted Venetian blinds. I tell myself I should get up, be productive, but I get lost in the drone of an insect: grasshopper, locust, cicada maybe. No, cicadas are old news; they’re gone now, are they not? Gone into their underground hidey-holes to spend years before peeking their antennae out once more to see if the world still carries onward. Lucky cicadas, cocooned in darkness. The drone swells and fades to silence. Swells once more, lingers, fades again. Over and over the sound fills my ears, fades, repeats, until I lose awareness of it. Be productive? And the point would be…? Have had, had had, would have had. My mind wanders to once beckoning paths, now closed, terminated, not with the revelation of a door slammed shut, but ever so gently, like hands on a clock, like twilight fading imperceptibly towards darkness, like a very long screw being slowly twisted. There is no future for me; there is only present.

I sigh. It was always thus.

After a while I get up. I go to my garage. I locate grass shears, and I kneel and clip the long strands of wiregrass infringing upon the border of the apron. It is hot. I sweep the cuttings and put them into my trash can. I haul a few items from the garage that might be sellable and set them on the apron so I can photograph them. I tell myself that one day I will put these things on an Internet auction site. Or possibly I will do nothing and allow them to become someone else’s problem. Both options have merit. Soon I am sweating and thinking, “Who needs this?” I’m losing motivation rapidly. I put everything away and go into my house, close the windows, and turn on the a/c. The a/c is set to hold the temperature at 79°. A jar of coconut oil sits on my kitchen counter. Coconut oil melts at 76°; below that temperature, a jar of coconut oil looks like a jar of paraffin. Unscrew the lid and look inside; touch it, it’s like candle wax: one almost expects to find a wick in the center. But in the summer, in my house, day or night, a jar of coconut oil always looks like a jar of water, its oily goodness never getting cool enough to congeal.

The day inches forward, the hours become filled with those small bits of here-and-now that happen when we’re not looking, not paying attention. What did I do today? I wonder if I was even conscious. No, of course I wasn’t. How else could a whole day slip past me unnoticed, to join all the other unremarkable days that litter my recent past?

Now twilight has fallen, astronomically, meteorologically, metaphorically. I go for a walk. The air is still; nothing moves except me. The only sound I hear is the rhythmic slap of my sandals on concrete. I feel the jolt of each step. Here and there I see someone sitting on his front porch, on her front porch. I see a woman sitting and looking my way. I see an old man sitting in his chair; he’s looking my way, too. I don’t take it personally – they’re looking at me because I’m the only movement in their field of vision. It’s funny how we tune out what doesn’t move.

I arrive back home. The outside temperature is comfortable, so I turn off the a/c and open a window in front and another window in the back, in my bedroom. I check the outside temperature and see it’s 81° – heat index 85°.

I ate a small serving of spinach lasagna before my walk. It left an empty spot that now craves a snack: bread smeared with peanut butter and honey. I eat my snack food, drink a half dozen swallows of milk straight from the bottle, return the bottle to the fridge. Day is done. What will tomorrow be like? I already know: it will be like today. Like yesterday. Like the day before yesterday and the day before that.

I was wrong. It was not always thus.

Is there anything on television? No. There’s never anything on television. How can anyone watch the fare TV serves up these days? Well, I can always write a blog post. I can write about what I did today. Except, I did nothing. I have nothing to say, nothing to write.

It is Tuesday, was Tuesday, now it’s Tuesday night. There was a time when I’d sit at a neighborhood bar and enjoy the ambience, maybe talk for a while with another bar patron. You can meet some interesting people at a bar, and I mean interesting in a good way. But that was yarns ago, when I had a semblance of a life. At least, enough of a semblance to fool the average acquaintance who didn’t look too closely.

It’s time for bed, time for my routine: brush, floss, rinse. Sometimes, for a while, I’ll lie in bed and ponder my existence. Sometimes, for a while, I’ll lie in bed and try hard not to ponder my existence. I long ago lost the ability to sleep well. Now, I often lie awake in the dark until false dawn lightens my window. Or I may sleep for two hours, then lie awake the rest of the night. Or I may sleep for forty-five minutes. It’s a special kind of torture: lying in the darkness for hours, waiting for the sun to rise. My doctor prescribed sleeping pills for me, and for a while they worked. Now they don’t. But I still have some, and I have something else – a mostly-killed bottle of vodka under the kitchen sink. Enough remains to kick-start those sleeping pills.

I wonder if I’ll sleep tonight. Yes, I think I will.

Alison Krauss

I’m not a big fan of Bluegrass music, but I like some of it. For example, I like to listen to Alison Krauss sing When You Say Nothing At All in this 2002 concert video. The band is, of course, Union Station. The song was written by Paul Overstreet and Don Schlitz and originally recorded by country music singer Keith Whitley. Krauss’ soprano voice does it justice.

Alison Krauss has studied fiddle since age 5, was winning local contests by age 10, and was recording at age 14. As of 2012 she has won 27 Grammy awards from 41 nominations, making her tied for the most awarded living recipient. She is the most awarded singer and most awarded female artist in Grammy history.

Royalty

Hear ye, hear ye! The Royal Babboo has been birthed. Or so the news people have been harping today. With all the hype surrounding this baby, His Royal Tiny-ness had better come floating out of that hospital on gossamer wings. And his poop had better glitter like gold.

The royal family is excited and proud. They’re proud because Catherine, Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Cambridge, has accomplished something today that only about 360,000 other women were able to do today: have a baby. And it’s a healthy baby. Though I don’t know the parents, I’m glad it’s a healthy baby. But I feel a little bad for those other 360,000 women. Most of them have never even seen a doctor, much less have one deliver their babies.

What makes this kid different from you and me? Answer: he’s royalty. You might ask, exactly what does being royalty mean? I’m glad you asked. I’m here to answer those questions. Royalty is just a word that means you’re very special. You might also ask, how does one get to be royalty? Answer: your parents have to be royalty. And how did they get to be royalty? Answer: their parents had to be royalty. And so on back in time. It’s like an infinite regression. Where did it begin? No one knows. But I hope we all remember what Aristotle said about infinite regresses. (If you don’t remember, you can stop at this point and read Posterior Analytics. I’ll wait.)

It goes without saying that in America, real people have no interest in the Royal Babboo. It’s the news media that love the story. Hollywood celebs probably love the story, too, though I haven’t discussed it with actual celebs. It just seems, to me, to be the kind of thing celebs would love. Especially female celebs. Come to think of it, it’s been female journalists who have been harping on this baby story all day. I wonder if being female has something to do with loving babies. There might be a connection.

But back to the Royal Babboo. Poor kid: he, through no fault of his own, comes into the world as a future king. That means his entire working life will consist of attending ribbon-cutting ceremonies at schools, factories, supermarkets and shopping malls, giving speeches to the clueless multitude, wearing his Sunday clothes every day of the week, and going around speaking as if what he is saying is actually important – and pretending people really want to hear it.

But it’s not all bad. When he grows up he gets a nice house, rent-free, and all the jewels he can fit into his crown.

Leslie Clio

Leslie Clio is a German blues-pop singer. She describes her musical style as “modern soul-pop with a touch of retro.” This song, I Couldn’t Care Less, is from her debut album, Gladys.

Trivia

Remember the 1968 movie 2001, A Space Odyssey? The movie’s main character was Dr. Dave Bowman, played by Keir Dullea.

The sequel to 2001 was 2010 (aka 2010: The Year We Make Contact), filmed in 1984. Dullea reprised his role as Dave Bowman. Bowman’s wife, Betty, was played by actress Mary Jo Deschanel.

Mary Jo Deschanel is the mother of actress Zooey Deschanel (New Girl) and actress Emily Deschanel (Bones).

In 2010, the captain of the Russian spaceship was Tanya Kirbuk, played by actress Helen Mirren.

Kirbuk is Kubrik spelled backward. Stanley Kubrik directed 2001.

2001 introduced us to HAL9000, the human-sounding computer that killed most of the ship’s crew – although in its defense, it thought it had to do so to succeed at its mission. You probably recognize this bit of dialogue even if you never saw the movie:

Dave: Open the pod bay doors, HAL.
HAL: I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that.
Dave: What's the problem?
HAL: I think you know what the problem is just as well as I do.
Dave: What are you talking about, HAL?
HAL: This mission is too important for me to allow you to jeopardize it.
Dave: I don't know what you're talking about, HAL.
HAL: I know that you and Frank were planning to disconnect me, and I'm afraid that's something I cannot allow to happen.

And who can forget HAL9000’s iconic red eye?

2010 introduced us to SAL9000, HAL9000’s earthbound sibling. SAL9000’s voice was performed by actress Candice Bergen (though credit went to “Olga Mallsnerd”, a pseudonym.) And whereas HAL’s eye was red, SAL’s eye was blue.

SAL9000 is also the online name of a Japanese man who famously (or infamously) married a character in a popular video game. Her name is Nene Anegasaki. He then took her – and his handheld game console – on a honeymoon to Guam.

Mid-July Update

I went to bed at 10:30 PM and awoke at 3 AM. My bedroom window was open a few inches and I could hear rain falling. The air temperature was about 72°. Several times between 3 AM and 7 AM I seemed to drift in and out of sleep, but every time I awoke it was raining. I finally got up and out of bed at 7:30, showered and shaved, but didn’t eat. I had a 9 AM appointment at a lab for blood work and so I was fasting. I left home at 8:45 to drive to the lab. As I turned onto the final street before the lab, I drove past a flock of Canada geese waddling about beside and in the road. I got to the lab at 8:55. As I signed in I mentioned to the young lady at the sign-in window that the Canada geese were “out of control – they’re everywhere.” She said the geese would often come to the front door as the lab closed, and she said the geese would hiss at her as she left the building.

Today the lab wasn’t busy and I didn’t have to wait. The young woman at the sign-in window said, “Go through that door and go to room three.”

The same young woman turned out to be the phlebotomist. She drew three vials of blood, stuck a cotton ball on my arm and taped it down. I said “Have a nice day,” got in my car, and drove to the nearby Walmart, where I picked up a few grocery items and then drove home.

At home, I unloaded the grocery items, putting some in the fridge, and got back into my car. I drove to a nearby auto repair shop to get my Jeep inspected. I have a dim view of auto inspections. I don’t think inspections make the roads any safer. However, I do think inspections give repair shops a chance to rip off drivers if they feel so inclined. The mechanic pulled my Jeep into one of the bays and put it on a lift. Up into the air it went. Two guys pored over the underside of my car with flashlights like border guards looking for illegal drugs. Finally the Jeep came back down and the mechanic entered the waiting room. He told the cashier that “The Jeep passed inspection,” but he said the brake fluid and power steering fluid smelled “nasty”. The cashier recommended that I replace both for a total price of $180 (plus tax and whatever fees they charge). I said, “No thanks.” I’m sure there are numerous things in and on my engine that smell nasty. I don’t recall reading anything in the owner’s manual about replacing stuff that smells nasty. I don’t doubt that the mechanic is correct – the brake and power steering fluids have been hot and may be oxidized, or whatever they do when they get hot. However, I’m not convinced a funky smell means I should spend almost $200.

I should mow the yard today – it’s been a week and the grass is getting tall. But today, the grass is soaking wet. Wet grass tends to clog the mower deck. Maybe I can mow tomorrow – but even then there will be a 50% chance of thunderstorms.

My amigo CyberDave, who just moved to Memphis, no longer has to mow grass. He is living out of boxes in a hotel for transients – one of those accommodations where you pay by the week for a small room with a tiny kitchenette. Lucky guy.

It’s almost 1 PM – time to break out the Walmart salad I bought this morning. Bon appétit. (That’s French for “yum”).

Nathan’s Famous 2013

Unless you live under a rock, you’re probably aware that a company called “Nathan’s Famous” holds a hotdog eating contest every Fourth of July in Coney Island. This year first place went to six-time (now seven-time) winner Joey Chestnut, nicknamed “Jaws.” He consumed 69 hotdogs in 10 minutes to break his old record of 68 hotdogs. Or as people in the sport (yes, it’s a sport) would say, he ate 69 HTBs – hotdogs with buns. According to the official stats, that’s 20,010 calories, 1173 grams of fat, and 48,990 mg of sodium.

Which makes me wonder, how do you train for eating 69 hotdogs? You must have to practice nearly every day. To eat 69 dogs today, do you eat 68 yesterday, 67 the day before, 66 the day before that, and so on back to when you were a regular person? And how do you handle all the calories you’re consuming so that you don’t weigh a half ton on the day of the contest? Does one vomit it all up, à la bulimia? Because vomiting up sixty-some half-chewed hotdogs even once would cure me of any desire to compete in an eating contest.

There is also a women’s competition. This year Sonya “The Black Widow” Thomas won by downing 39-3/4 HTBs, beating runner-up Juliet Lee by 3/4 HTB. Sonya’s effort was down from last year’s competition in which she consumed 45 HTBs. Still, for a 98 pound woman, eating over 39 hotdogs in 10 minutes hardly makes her a slacker.

I’m reasonably satisfied with my food intake today. For breakfast, I scrambled an egg with a serving of egg white. For lunch, I ate a chile relleno. For protein, I drank a glass of unsweetened almond milk blended with a scoop of whey powder. For dinner I stir-fried Asian veggies and served them over brown and wild rice. Total calories: 1115. In an eating contest, I wouldn’t be in the same city, much less in the game.

The Sally Factor

Sally, my neighbor of ten years, is a woman in her mid-50s; 56 or 57, I think. She has arthritis in her knees, which makes it difficult and painful for her to walk or climb stairs. I’m older than Sally, but because I’m a man and have an instinct, inborn or taught, to “help the women-folk,” especially those women-folk who are no longer as agile as they once were, I have often done small things for Sally to make her life a little easier. When I saw her attempting to prune a plum tree in her yard, I grabbed my lopping shears and helped her for the next two hours. When she complained about the huge forsythia bush growing in her front yard, I grabbed my chain saw and lopping shears and spent the next three hours cutting through the thick stems and then cutting them into pieces to fit into her trash receptacle. It was hard work. But neighbors help neighbors.

I repaired her fence when it threatened to fall over. When a tree-removal service tore up her back yard with a treaded vehicle, I bought a dozen bags of topsoil and some grass seed, and I did my best to repair the damage.

At one time her back yard was so overgrown it couldn’t be used, so I cut low-hanging limbs and removed vines and opened up the yard to make it more spacious. Sally was delighted.

One day Sally appeared at my front door, worried because her fuse box was smoldering. I walked over to her house, climbed the steps to her back porch, opened the fuse box, and pulled out the main fuse blocks – interrupting the incoming circuits. Later that day an electrician told her my action probably prevented her house from burning up.

Recently I rescued years of photographs on her laptop when it refused to boot up. I’ve loaned her things whenever she asked: a 100 foot extension cord for her electric tiller, a lawn sprinkler for watering her garden, and so on. I helped her after her she totaled her car in an accident. I’ve never asked for anything in return. I helped her because we’re neighbors. Neighbors help neighbors.

Sally has trays of potted flowers in her backyard and on her front porch and steps. Last summer she asked me to water her flowers for a week while she vacationed at the beach. So I did. Per her instructions, I watered her backyard plants with a garden hose and used bottles of water for the plants on the front porch and steps. Watering the plants took 15 to 20 minutes each day and I was mosquito bait the whole time. But that’s okay. Neighbors help neighbors.

My lawn mower is not self-propelled and it’s becoming harder to push it around my yard. I’ve considered buying a self-propelled mower. Sally owns a self-propelled mower which sits in a shed in her backyard. She never uses it; for the past few years she has used a lawn service. I decided it would be good to try Sally’s mower on my yard before making a purchase. I have bushes to maneuver around, and some require a lot of pushing and pulling to mow between them. Maneuvering a heavier mower might offset the labor saved by the self-propel feature. Using Sally’s mower on my yard would inform me whether a self-propelled mower would be a worthwhile purchase.

One afternoon I saw Sally in her yard. I walked over and asked, “Sally, can I borrow your lawn mower to try out on my yard?” In the ten years I’ve known Sally, this was the first time I had asked her for a favor.

Sally’s reply: “No. It’s put away, and getting it out of the shed is too much trouble.”

And that was that. Sally walked away. I said nothing, but I looked through a window in the shed and saw the mower sitting in a corner. A couple of boxes sat between the mower and the shed’s double-doors. I returned to my garage and got out my old mower. I was pretty sure I don’t understand people.

Yesterday Sally said to me, “I’m going to the beach next week. Do you mind watering my plants while I’m gone?”

I don’t know if it was the right thing to do, but I told her to find someone else.