i'm curious

Why do people take such revelry in other peoples’ discomfort. The classic, prat-fall, comedy of Charlie Chaplin and Chevy Chase have made generations of us laugh out loud. Home video shows on television have made fortunes on men getting hit in the nuts by a five year olds swinging golf clubs or baseball bats or while trying to hit pinattas. The fat lady going head over heels after her bicycle hits some obstruction. The dog dragging the screeming baby around the backyard by its diaper. Real funny. Don’t people realize that most of this requires somebody to be in some form of physical or emotional pain? At least Messers Chaplin and Chase were getting paid well for their efforts.

This afternoon there is a story out of Dallas about an executive with the Boy Scouts of America who was arrested for having a computer full of German child pornography. That anybody should have a computer full of child pornography should hurt us all. That anyone would relish the fact that a paid professional working with a youth organization would have a computer full of child pornography is macabre at best.

I am a volunteer with the Boy Scouts of America. Have been since 1985. All of my friends who aren't brain-dead and everybody in my office with a pulse know this. Some of them have a great deal of respect and admiration for someone who does so much for others. I had heard rumors out of Dallas but had seen nothing. As soon as the story hit CNN I was inundated with e-mails, rubbing it in. People in my office were printing it out and hand delivering it to me. Doing all they could to rub my nose in it. A few of these people wanted to innocently make me aware of it. Others (not particularly friends) were pleased at my discomfort.

What’s wrong with people to cause and take enjoyment from hurting others? I know how devout Catholics and the countless good priests feel when it comes to light that another child has reported being abused by a priest. Why is there such glee at this pain?

I wonder

Do you ever see a word you're familiar with but suddenly strikes you as odd?

Commentater

Do commentaters commentate or are they just ordinary spuds?

To Fish v.

Fish, to catch or try to catch fish, or, to look for something [finned creatures?] by feeling one’s way; grope. Take your pick. The first definition implies some modicum of skill or art as if the fisher knows what he’s doing. The second, and possibly more accurate, implies a great deal more participation by Lady Luck in the process. Lets go groping and if we’re lucky, we’ll have a fish fry.

Fishing, as a means of providing sustenance for one’s family or village, and later coin for one’s pocket, has been around for a LONG time. The earliest known story of fishing is in the Bible; the story of Jonah and the whale. The whale swallowed Jonah then after a while, spit him out. Jonah is credited with originating the phrase, “You should have seen the one that got away.” Actually, he probably stole the phrase from the whale.

Jesus Christ is well known as the first “how to” fisherman, telling Peter from which side of the boat to cast his net. If Jesus were here today he would have his own fishing show and be sponsored by Zebco. This fishing trip was also the first competitive fishing event. This is evident by the count at days end, “an hundred and forty and three”. There is no mention of how he placed in the tournament, just the count. We do know they were fishing for soles.

Isaac Walton was the first to write of fishing for fishing’s sake. He described fishing as, “the contemplative man’s sport.” Walton wrote of Piscator and Venitat plying the waters with rats and great wads of feathers for pike and chubs and of later taking their catch to the local inn to have it cooked for dinner by the voluptuous scullery maid. Unfortunately, his writing leaves you to wonder which was more attractive to him, the fishing or the scullery maid.

Today, we fish for recreation. It’s a form of escape that few pursuits provide. No crowds, no phone, leave the beeper at home, no TV, hopefully no radio. It’s the act of doing it that counts, not so much the moments of excitement when one is successful doing it. It is truly a contemplative sport. In between relatively brief interludes of adrenaline charged activity the angler has the opportunity to observe nature and turn ones thoughts inward, to solve the world’s problems. It is therefore not a game of counting, of how big one certain fish was, or how many were caught, but a game of losing oneself in the mental revelry of not doing anything else.

To cast your lure through the air in a graceful arc. The sound of line coursing through the guides of your pole and the spool spinning on your reel. To place it in the seemingly perfect location; the rings of water radiating from the lure as it comes to rest. To begin the retrieve and feel the vibrations of the lure pulsing invisibly through the water. To feel the lightest change in tension on the line as a fish bumps the lure. To feel the adrenaline surge through your veins as a fish slams the bait, turns it’s head, and swims madly for cover. The strike; the chorus of, “FISH ON.” The sound of the drag as line is wildly stripped off the reel by the yet unseen fish. The strikingly beautiful colors and markings of the fish. To feel it’s cool hard body as you remove the hook from it’s jaw. To reverently revive the fish and feel it alive, cupped in your hand under the water as its lungs are reoxyginated before gently swimming away; knowing it’s alive and strong. Hoping it grows to be caught again. You have to feel it and see it and hear it; you have to sense it to believe in it.Think of fishing as less a competitive event and more a contemplative one, one to be sensed rather than counted. To quote a wise man, “A man has to believe in something, I believe I’ll go fishing.”

feng shui blues

My aura isn’t happy!
My psyche’s all a’dither!
My office space is funky,
It makes my senses whither.

The table’s over there,
It can’t be reached from here.
I can’t see people coming.
My bounds are all too near.

The plugs are in the wrong place.
I got plants in the air.
It’s got me so perplexed,
I want to pull out all my hair.

I got those low down aggravatin’,
Personally irritatin’,
Aura bruisin’,
Psyche abusin’,
Feng Shui Blues.

It’s spring.

This declaration has nothing to do with celestial migrations. I find it difficult to measure the transit of the sun against an “imaginary” line drawn across the heavens. I have much more definite proof!

The snowbirds are traveling north. Hundreds of RVs of every size, shape, and description, most of which are hauling little cars behind them, are on the interstate. A like number of lincoln town cars, big caddies and other land yachts are intermingled into the migration. These are all jammed to the roof with luggage and you can tell their trunks are full because their bumpers are riding inches from the pavement. They all have Michigan, Wisconsin, Illinois, Ohio, or Ontario plates. Many of them will be home for Easter.

The redbuds and wild plums are blooming. The jonquils and daffodils are on their last legs. The dogwoods in my back yard started their bloom in the last two days. I’ve got a few azalea blooms popping open. This may be the year the dogwoods and azaleas bloom together. I saw it once in 1985 and haven’t seen it since. It is truly spectacular! There is now a greenish tint to the woods as the hardwoods push their tender new leaves out.

And the most sure sign yet… I got my first sunburn of the season yesterday. I got back from a business trip and a buddy of mine and I took half the day off and went crappie fishin’. We, and several dozen other anglers, went to a little oxbow lake southeast of town. Between us we caught five or six fish, all of which were released alive due to their lack of size. A few wispy clouds in the sky, about 70 degrees, a breeze so light it didn’t make maneuvering the boat a problem, good company, and cold beer. If the fish had been bitin’ better it would have been a perfect trip.

writer's block

I know where “writer’s block” comes from. It’s not a hidden creature in your mind that maneuvers between your synapses to prevent wonderfully creative thoughts from flowing through your gray matter. It’s not a voodoo curse.

It comes from trying too hard. From thinking about you’re writing too much. From someone telling you what to write about. Pressure, internal and external that can’t be vented by writing. The result is frustration and blank paper.

I was a journalism major for one semester in college. I took photographs for my high school yearbook for three and a half years. I wrote and took photos for my fraternity’s rush book, an annual miniature yearbook for deltyland. I’ve got the negative for almost every black and white photograph I took in high school and college. I all too well understand the necessity of being assigned photos to shoot. Somebody on the staff was doing a layout for one of the school clubs and needed photos, “Go take a picture of xyz”. “We need a group shot of the French Club”. I really didn’t mind being asked to get the photo of xyz. What I started minding, and it’s why I’m not a photojournalist today was the, “you shoulda done it like this”. “It woulda been better if ...” Call it my vanity. Call it my artistic bent. I didn’t like it!

I really enjoyed the candid shots. Classmates doing normal (or weird) things that reflected their personalities. Sporting events were fun. There was the spontaneity of the events on the court or field as well as those of the fans in the stands. Every once in a while someone at one of the set-up shoots would get a little bored posing and being told by someone how to stand, sit, wear their hair, and do something off the wall. Those were good shots. Unfortunately, these photos were seldom seen. They definitely didn’t get into the yearbook. It’s too bad. That one split second of reality often told more about a person than could be imagined.

Writing, I think, is the same way. Do it quick, Let it flow. Don’t think about it too much or it’ll come out sounding pretentious and stilted. A muse can’t come from an external wish to see something in writing. It has to be based on a flash between synapses that cries out to be written down. I’ll always write if for no better reason that to keep those flashes happening.

I’ll always be a photographer too. I’ve got a drawer full of cameras, lenses, flashes, and other stuff. I even have the equipment for setting up a dark room in my garage. My goal in life is to build a house and have a simple darkroom in it.

BSA National Jamboree

I'm working with 11 other adults to take 108 boys to Washington, D.C. and Fort A.P. Hill in Virginia to the BSA's National Scout Jamboree in July and August. One night on the road east, four nights in D.C., nine nights in a tent, and one night on the road west. Road and D.C. lodging will be in motels. If you're counting, that's a 2:3 ratio of beds to cots for 15 nights. We'll be traveling in three commercial motor coaches.

I've done this before: once in 1997 and again in 2001. We establish a budget, recruit leaders, recruit boys, beg for money, plan the tour, make the reservations, arrange for human and gear transportation, track down confirmations, scrounge gear, buy what we can't scrounge, haul gear, warehouse gear pack/ship gear, unpack gear, set up camp, tear it down, pack it up, ship it again, unload it, haul, and store it. I'm glad we don't do this every year!. Right now we're at the recruit boys, scrounge/buy gear phases. We've had a couple of boys drop out so we're trying to back-fill. The next one will be in 2010, the 100th anniversary of Scouting in the U.S. I hope to go again that year, but as a staff member, not a unit leader.

It's a fun/work roller coaster, The work begins at least a year and a half before departure and peaks when we load the truck prior to leaving town. It increases again when we arrive home and unload the truck and transfer equipment back to camp. There is a potential for plenty of fun during this process. The group doing the work is a pretty good bunch to work with and that helps make the work less onerous. I'm pretty sure most of them will pitch in when the hard work starts. I sure hope so. Last night I washed 56 5-gallon buckets we'll use to sit on and haul gear in. The corned beef they serve at Oaklawn thoroughbred Race Track comes from Chicago in 5-gallon buckets.

The fun really takes place when the kids are involved; kids say and do the craziest things. Many of them have never been out of the state. Most have not been to Washington, D.C. While we're there we'll tour the Capitol, the White House (I can pretend to be a Republican for a day ( I hear it washes off easily), the National Cathedral, parts of the Smithsonian, try to do all the big monuments and memorials, and do a day trip to Sharpsburg to see the Antietam battlefield.

D.C. is an amazing place the two or three days prior to the Jamboree. There will be over 40,000 Scouts and leaders at the Jamboree and most will be in Washington prior to the event doing the same things we'll be doing. I tell friends from D.C. that it would be a great couple of days for them to get out of town. I feel real bad for the families who plan summer vacations to be in D.C. during that period.

Within 12 hours of our arrival at A.P. Hill, over 21,000 tents, 5,000 dining flys, and 4,000 patrol kitchens and will be set up. Staff members, numbering around 8,000, and our military hosts will have already set up 20 sets of commissaries, headquarters tents, staff lodging tents, staff dining halls, and latrines, three trading posts, a merit badge midway where kids can work on over 30 merit badges, an art and science exhibit hall, a twenty station environmental interpretive display area, rappelling towers, BMX courses, BB and archery ranges, a portable pool where scuba is taught and tons of other stuff. It's truly amazing!

The opening and closing shows will take place on a huge professionally built stage with jumbotron sets in a gigantic amphitheater. Imagine 40,000 participants, 8,000 staff members all in Class A Boy Scout uniforms, and another 1,000 spectators, many in uniform in one place! Most people I know have never seen close to 50,000 people in one place at one time. There are only nine cities in the state over 40,000. It's a real eye opener. Some participants will walk as far as three miles in formation, starting three hours before the show to get there. It's a major logistics event. Each troop will have an appointed time and place to line up to start the walk. The closing show will include a message and maybe a visit from the President and a fireworks display that will rival the biggest and best anywhere in the world. Imagine twenty minutes of the best finale you've ever seen followed by five minutes of MEGA-finale.

Departure is less than four months away. I can't wait.

follow your nose

I drove north this past weekend to see my Dad. The return trip made me long for days past.

Driving through Westphalia, Freeburg, and Vienna I remembered trips through those villages when I was a kid. It was early morning and we were on our way to Morelands on the Gasconade River to hire a local man to shuttle our car and canoe. Half asleep in the dark, lulled by the rhythm of the tires on the road. We’d made the trip so many times you knew which way the next turn would bend and how far over it would make you lean. The locals made charcoal in those hills. Once in a while you could see the glowing kiln off the side of the road. It smelled wonderful. That’s the heart of my memory, the aroma of the oak and hickory smoldering in the huge mounds.

I read somewhere that our sense of smell is our most primitive sense. Originating in that part of our brain that harks back to our reptilian anatomy. One that we’ve almost lost contact with but can evoke a memory better than any other sense, including sight. Since humans used their large and adaptable brains to climb to the top of the food chain we’ve relied less and less on our olfactory organ. Yet, its ability to trigger memories is pervasive.

Driving through central Florida at night and smelling the orange blossoms but not being able to see them. The aching memory of love lost evoked by a passing wisp of a woman’s perfume in a crowd. Pine trees in the mountains. Your Grandmother’s kitchen. The hyacinths my mother grew in the east window of our house. The air after a spring rain.
Many of these memories are bittersweet. They remind us of what was and cannot be again. Cherished for sure, but unobtainable. They don’t make charcoal along Highway 63 anymore, but I can shut my eyes and remember.

an analogy

Everyone wants the toad in their garden but no one wants to touch it.

i'm feelin' better

I've had a mild irritation in my nose for the last month. Almost like an allergy but none of the other symptoms. The worse thing about it was some horrendous sneezing. I know I made woman and children cry and dogs cower in fear with a few of my nasal blasts.

Then, a week or so back a friend of mine, the redheadeditor, blogged about catching a cold. Shortly thereafter, I came down with a doozy.

Last Tuesday I felt like shit. Took Wednesday off. Drove to Fayetteville and back on Thursday, in retrospect, probably a big mistake. Friday my plan was to get up and drive north to visit my Dad. Started packin' the truck Thursday night. I figured I'd feel better in the morning. Friday morning I felt pretty bad but figured I could make it. I finished packing the truck, loaded up the dog, and headed north. I got about eight miles before it dawned on me I wasn't feelin' real well. In fact, I was feelin' pretty weak. I really hadn't had anything to eat since Tuesday. In a fit of lucidity I decided a seven hour (under normal circumstances) drive was not the brightest thing I could be attempting. Besides, why make the trip and be miserable the whole time and take the risk of infecting Dad and anybody else I might encounter. I turned the truck around and hit the couch.

It's Saturday now and I'm feelin' better but not up to a drive. Still haven't had anything to eat. A few crackers and some orange juice. I blame this cold on the redheadeditor. She's been braggin' about learnin' html code and I figure she found a way of sending germs through code. Kind of like those computer worms and viruses we hear about. She'll get hers one day.

no news

No muse today (or recently). Nothing has really pissed me off or inspired me to wax poetic so I've kept my mouth shut. It's been a slow week.