Bad Endings

Walking in the Shadow of Youth

I helped an old man load his groceries into the trunk of his car, which was parked curbside near the entrance to a 99-Cent store. He walked with a cane and seemed to have trouble handling his bags. A watermelon had fallen to the sidewalk, somehow escaping unblemished. But things didn’t look as though they would end well.

Do they ever? According to the old man, they do not. He thanked me profusely for assisting, and then he seemed to want to explain why he needed help, and then he sensed that this was already understood by both of us. He shook his bald head, covered by a baseball cap. Then he said, “Don’t ever get old. Stay the way you are now. Getting old. It’s no good.”

At a birthday party for an elegant lady turning 100, the centarian’s daughter toasted her . . . → Read More: Bad Endings

Looking Back on 2012: An Oral History of American Values

granny bomber

I was young like you once. Don’t laugh. It seems impossible, I know. An old codger like me of 77! You probably can’t picture when I was only 47 and healthy, with all my own teeth and a libido that didn’t yet require boner pills.

Sure, that was three decades ago, and I look a lot different, what with the thinning hair, sloping shoulders, and cute little pot belly. But my memory is still sharp, even with all the weed I smoked. I remember perfectly what we were like 30 years ago, back in ’12, and I’m glad your professor asked you to do this project. I’m glad you’re talking to the older generation. Folks like me know what America was like back then, back in the time of Obama. The USA was different.

How do I mean? Well, I’ll tell you. . . . → Read More: Looking Back on 2012: An Oral History of American Values

On the Death of a Child

little_angel

A daughter has died.

She was also a wife and a mother and a sister. She was 41. She follows to the grave a brother, who died in a car accident when he was 18.

What does one say to her parents? How flimsy and impotent words seem in the face of these outrages, when the natural order of life has been confused and perverted. For anyone who hasn’t suffered the incomprehensible losses this family has endured, it seems preposterous to offer comfort and encouragement. What qualifications or insight could we have? Only they, we imagine, fully understand the intense grief that accompanies the death of a young son. And now the pain of losing an adult daughter. It’s really almost too much for words, too much for any parent to bear. 

I have no explanations. I have no answers. I don’t understand. No doubt there will be religious professionals . . . → Read More: On the Death of a Child

Violence Voyeurism

hunger games

Outrageous. Horrifying. Disgusting.

These were some of the adjectives hurled in the press when news broke that the former world champions of football, the New Orleans Saints, for years had instituted a bounty system that rewarded their players for knocking opponents out the game. Players contributed to an in-house pool and collected $1,000-$1,500 when they scored a knockout. Hitting someone so hard that they required a stretcher or motorized cart to be removed from the field earned a special commendation.

The National Football League, presenters of America’s favorite gladiatorial spectacle, handed down sentences to the malefactors. The General Manager and an assistant coach were suspended without pay for about half the upcoming season. The head coach, Sean Payton, was banned for the entire year. And in a maneuver eerily reminiscent of the Soviet Gulag, the former defensive coordinator and alleged mastermind of the bounty program, Greg . . . → Read More: Violence Voyeurism

Near Death on Two Wheels

bike accident

Last week I experienced my first ride inside the back of an ambulance rushing to a hospital emergency room. The sirens wailed while paramedics monitored my vital signs and called out important-sounding numbers. I looked up from the gurney I was attached to, noting the oxygen valve on the ceiling, the lights, the latched compartments containing the tools of triage, and since I get motion sickness when traveling backwards I concentrated on breathing steadily and not vomiting. I heard the beeping of an EKG monitor and the crackling of a two-way radio and felt the pressure of a plastic mask over my mouth and on the bridge of my nose.

This is what many people see before they die, I realized: the inside of a speeding ambulance filled with mustachioed firemen-paramedics.

Although I felt terrible, I was almost certain I wasn’t dying. I had passed . . . → Read More: Near Death on Two Wheels

Acceptable Collateral Damage

untitled

Every time we get into our car, we die a little.

Every time we return safely home, someone else hasn’t. That driving an automobile is a dangerous activity is not open to dispute. We all understand the frequency of accidents, and what happens when cars crash: terrible collisions that ruin (or end) lives.  This specter of harm hovers over all our machines, including motorcycles and airplanes, each of which has a long-term expectation to return a predictable amount of mayhem and misery. Cars, though, are America’s default choice for getting from here to there. Our nation is built around them. So, aside from their environmental impact and all the other unpleasantness they cause, cars are also the most frequently used method for injecting danger into seemingly safe lives.

The inevitable injuries and deaths associated with driving a car must then be considered one of the “costs” of operating . . . → Read More: Acceptable Collateral Damage

When We’re Gone

12890cockroach-jpg

Do you think it’s possible that when we’re gone, when we’re just another mildly successful extinct species that came and went like millions of other species before and after, do you think those that remain will remember us? Millions of years from now, when the mass we call Earth is still spinning in the sky but the two-legged creatures who onced ruled it are a distant footnote in the eternal continuum of history, will whatever is here in our place marvel at our achievements or scoff at our folly.

We have the self-congratulatory habit of considering homo sapiens the highest form of life. Ever. When the cockroaches and beetles rule the planet (again), will they or whomever is running the show concur? These insects, or God, or Whatever is overseeing eternity, may or may not experience this thing we understand as “consciousness.” Unlike us they may . . . → Read More: When We’re Gone

Art After 40

old guitar

After the excessive optimisim of youth, the impressive energy of young adulthood, and the confidence of being all grown up, those of us who are fortunate enough to make it to our Forties generally look forward to an incremental and inexorable decline in just about every meaningful area of life — and not just health, romance, and adventure. Your work, your career, if you’re lucky enough to still have one, changes. For some, it ends. If you are, say, a professional athlete, your days of glory will either be in steep decline or finished. If you’re a model, you had better start looking for judging jobs on third-rate televsion programs.

These are extreme examples, of course. Few of us rely solely on the magnificence of our body (or the feats we can do with it) to earn a living and leave a legacy. But all . . . → Read More: Art After 40

Memorial Day

gays_military-749694

Let’s resolve to treat this annual national holiday as something more than a convenient excuse to extend the weekend to three days. Let’s remember, in memorium, as the name suggests. Let’s not, however, confuse victims with heroes, or job-seekers with patriots. Let us simply say that millions of our brothers and sisters have come and gone, and that we don’t forget them, if only for one day a year.

The Artist as Saint

david_foster_wallace

His nickname among musicians was “Prince of Darkness.” According to many who claim to have known him well, and according to an accrued reputation bordering on myth, Miles Davis was a jerk. 

Based on evidence available for review on YouTube, as well as eyewitness accounts shared anecdotally and personally, Keith Jarrett can be insufferably obnoxious.

Richard Wagner was an anti-Semite.

Some folks can separate the art from the artist; some can’t. No matter the philosophy of your aesthetics, though, eccentricity in our artists is generally acceptable, perhaps even expected. Misanthropy is not. But how do we assess the art of those whose hatred of life is bigger than their love of living? Is it possible for an artist to create transcendent, life-affirming art if, at the height of his powers, he commits suicide?

The brilliant writer David Foster Wallace killed himself last year. (His cheerleaders, including . . . → Read More: The Artist as Saint