My original dilemma was meant to be simple: Does death (of a secret holder) release you from your promise to keep the secret. I don't think we've settled the question and I doubt we will.
So let's move back into the pre-mortem realm. This is how I deal with my own secrets.
1. If there is anything in my life that I don't want anyone to know, I tell no one. Those are real secrets. I can think of two of those at the moment.
2. Of the remaining sensitive pieces of information, of which there are many, I divulge them from time to time. And when I do, I try very hard *not* to say, "Please don't tell anyone." My preference would be for the person I tell to use his or her discretion when deciding whether or not to reveal certain information about me. In my opinion, keeping another person's secret can be a burden. When I tell someone something sensitive, I trust that the person will consider my feelings along with everything else when deciding whether or not (and with whom) to share the information.
3. I don't have any trouble adhering to item #1 above, but I have occasionally failed at item #2 and asked that a particular person or persons not be the recipient of certain sensitive information about me. And yes it's because I don't trust the person I'm telling to use appropriate discretion with certain individuals. I consider this my failing. I should not give this person any sensitive information if I have to add certain individuals to the "do not tell" list.
So I think I've answered a big question: What is a secret? A secret is something you tell *no one*. Everything else is all about negotiation, relationships, respect, and discretion.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
He Sez: Secrets
I think you're making this much more complicated than it is. If you promise to keep a secret, you keep it. Period.
That said, an exception can be made if keeping the secret would result in grievous harm to someone. The rules are similar to those imposed by law and ethics upon a medical care practitioner.
The idea that if someone tells you a secret it means they want it out is, to me, both illogical and repugnant, whether the person still walks upon the earth or lies beneath it. No offense, Anonymous.
That said, an exception can be made if keeping the secret would result in grievous harm to someone. The rules are similar to those imposed by law and ethics upon a medical care practitioner.
The idea that if someone tells you a secret it means they want it out is, to me, both illogical and repugnant, whether the person still walks upon the earth or lies beneath it. No offense, Anonymous.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
SheSez: Secrets
When Durf and I discovered we couldn't have a civil conversation about my "secrets" post, we thought we should take it to the internet. (Slight exaggeration.)
Here's how I perceive the issue. Once again setting aside discussions about secrets that, if kept, would lead to serious harm -- like death or dismemberment -- I pose this dilemma.
Your great grandmother killed her brother. You learn this from your grandmother, who elicited a promise from you that you would never tell. Your grandmother, great grandmother (and her brother, of course) are long dead. You have kept the secret lo these many years, but now you realize you aren't going to live forever. So you consider the pros and cons of revealing the secret.
Perceived disadvantages (to me...assuming I would be the revealer):
1. If anyone knows I made a promise not to tell, they might think I cannot be trusted with their secrets, or anything else, for that matter.
2. Anyone still living who might have had a relationship with my great grandmother might think less of her. They might judge her without all the facts.
3. A person described in item 2, above, might have a psychotic breakdown. Because he or she was unaware of this big event in great grandmother's life, said person might distrust all of his or her perceptions of the world and...as I said...have a psychotic breakdown.
Perceived advantages:
1. This is my family history, with valuable lessons to be learned about my people and how they (we) relate to each other and the world.
2. This is regular history, which could tell us about the times, the culture, the people.
3. The affected people are dead. Copyrights expire. The very fact that I am supposed to keep the information a secret is interesting.
4. Just because I tell a dead person's secret does not mean I can't keep a live person's secret.
5. Maybe Terry Gross will invite me to be on Fresh Air.
Ok, folks, feel free to weigh in. Do you tell?
Here's how I perceive the issue. Once again setting aside discussions about secrets that, if kept, would lead to serious harm -- like death or dismemberment -- I pose this dilemma.
Your great grandmother killed her brother. You learn this from your grandmother, who elicited a promise from you that you would never tell. Your grandmother, great grandmother (and her brother, of course) are long dead. You have kept the secret lo these many years, but now you realize you aren't going to live forever. So you consider the pros and cons of revealing the secret.
Perceived disadvantages (to me...assuming I would be the revealer):
1. If anyone knows I made a promise not to tell, they might think I cannot be trusted with their secrets, or anything else, for that matter.
2. Anyone still living who might have had a relationship with my great grandmother might think less of her. They might judge her without all the facts.
3. A person described in item 2, above, might have a psychotic breakdown. Because he or she was unaware of this big event in great grandmother's life, said person might distrust all of his or her perceptions of the world and...as I said...have a psychotic breakdown.
Perceived advantages:
1. This is my family history, with valuable lessons to be learned about my people and how they (we) relate to each other and the world.
2. This is regular history, which could tell us about the times, the culture, the people.
3. The affected people are dead. Copyrights expire. The very fact that I am supposed to keep the information a secret is interesting.
4. Just because I tell a dead person's secret does not mean I can't keep a live person's secret.
5. Maybe Terry Gross will invite me to be on Fresh Air.
Ok, folks, feel free to weigh in. Do you tell?
Friday, October 28, 2011
Change in philosophy.
When I blogged about blogging a couple of days ago I described some changes I intended to make - more photos, some all-photo posts, no politics or commentary. After thinking more about those things, however, dear readers, I've decided to shake things up, partly because, from my viewpoint, "dear readers" = "empty void". When I mentioned that to Twila, she told me we're not blogging for whomever might be out there, we're blogging for ourselves. So:
1. The "oui" in "oui-sez" now means Twila and Durf only.
2. I'm going to write about politics, drugs, my bowel movements, or whatever else I'm thinking about at the time.
I'm still intending to do some all-photo posts, though.
1. The "oui" in "oui-sez" now means Twila and Durf only.
2. I'm going to write about politics, drugs, my bowel movements, or whatever else I'm thinking about at the time.
I'm still intending to do some all-photo posts, though.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Odd Days: Blogging & Secrets
I have a certain fascination with secrets. For now, I am setting aside all debate over dangerous secrets. My interest is in family secrets or personal secrets that people hide for fear they will be judged or ill-treated if the secret is unveiled.
I admit to being conflicted. For the most part, I concur that a living person's secrets are hers to keep, or not. But then suppose the person dies. Are you still bound to keep her secret? Does the truth have merit? Or must we concede the right of a person to reach beyond the grave and demand the continued preservation of her reputation or sensibility even though no revelation could possibly cause her any suffering (she's dead)? I dare say you could find hearty arguments to support both sides.
For some people, the issue is cut and dried. Take Frances Mayes, for example. I once heard her tell an audience how grateful she was to have such a rich family history on which to draw for her books. So I posed the question to her. Does she use family secrets in her books? She slapped me down. "Of course not. And what an offensive suggestion."
Were I to ask Pat Conroy the same thing and I have little doubt I would receive a different response.
I began to ponder the secret issue once again as Durf and I draw closer to resurrecting our HeSez-SheSez blog. In the past, we have never laid down ground rules. If I let out a scream from my office after reading his blog, Durf inevitably offers to resect any and all offending words or sentences.
I wouldn't call this a quid pro quo arrangement, though, for at least two reasons that I can think of: 1. Durf is more open than I am. He is willing to expose himself (or me, if I concurred) in ways I never would...unless I was willing to forgo sleep and/or hide in a cave for the rest of my life.
Second, when it comes to Durf, I am extremely cautious about saying anything that might offend him. That's my nature and is a characteristic Durf does not share. (IMO, IMO! No offense, Durf.)
But when we start to blog about something besides our trips -- to NY, India, Italy etc -- it seems likely we might come face to face with the "secret" issue.
Stay tuned!
I admit to being conflicted. For the most part, I concur that a living person's secrets are hers to keep, or not. But then suppose the person dies. Are you still bound to keep her secret? Does the truth have merit? Or must we concede the right of a person to reach beyond the grave and demand the continued preservation of her reputation or sensibility even though no revelation could possibly cause her any suffering (she's dead)? I dare say you could find hearty arguments to support both sides.
For some people, the issue is cut and dried. Take Frances Mayes, for example. I once heard her tell an audience how grateful she was to have such a rich family history on which to draw for her books. So I posed the question to her. Does she use family secrets in her books? She slapped me down. "Of course not. And what an offensive suggestion."
Were I to ask Pat Conroy the same thing and I have little doubt I would receive a different response.
I began to ponder the secret issue once again as Durf and I draw closer to resurrecting our HeSez-SheSez blog. In the past, we have never laid down ground rules. If I let out a scream from my office after reading his blog, Durf inevitably offers to resect any and all offending words or sentences.
I wouldn't call this a quid pro quo arrangement, though, for at least two reasons that I can think of: 1. Durf is more open than I am. He is willing to expose himself (or me, if I concurred) in ways I never would...unless I was willing to forgo sleep and/or hide in a cave for the rest of my life.
Second, when it comes to Durf, I am extremely cautious about saying anything that might offend him. That's my nature and is a characteristic Durf does not share. (IMO, IMO! No offense, Durf.)
But when we start to blog about something besides our trips -- to NY, India, Italy etc -- it seems likely we might come face to face with the "secret" issue.
Stay tuned!
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Odd Days: Separation of Church & Football
For 55 minutes on Sunday, I watched Tim Tebow, new quarterback for the Denver Broncos, run around the field like a five year old playing keep-away from his big brothers. That painful 55 minutes was made tolerable by the hilarity of the commentators who couldn't believe they were reporting on a professional football game.
In the last two minutes of the game, the opposing team decided to lie down for its afternoon nap and Denver won...barely.
So during the post-game interview, the reporter said to Tebow, "Tim, geez, that sure was an ugly game. What happened to you out there?"
And Tim said, "Well, first of all, I'd like to thank my lord and savior Jesus Christ."
Huh?
Really, I'm curious. Does he want to thank Jesus for forgetting to teach him how to play football? Or for letting him make a fool of himself in front of, say, 10 million people?
Or maybe he really was thankful. Thankful that his jersey didn't get torn (because it sure did get dirty). Or thankful that he wasn't boo'd off the field. Or thankful that he hadn't bragged to any more than 10 million people that he would turn around the woeful (pathethic) Denver Broncos.
Who knows what he was thinking, but isn't there a law that forbids virginal 24 year old males from donning a football uniform, running onto a field to maim and kill as many opponents as possible, and then thank Jesus Christ on national TV?
If there isn't such a law, there ought to be!
In the last two minutes of the game, the opposing team decided to lie down for its afternoon nap and Denver won...barely.
So during the post-game interview, the reporter said to Tebow, "Tim, geez, that sure was an ugly game. What happened to you out there?"
And Tim said, "Well, first of all, I'd like to thank my lord and savior Jesus Christ."
Huh?
Really, I'm curious. Does he want to thank Jesus for forgetting to teach him how to play football? Or for letting him make a fool of himself in front of, say, 10 million people?
Or maybe he really was thankful. Thankful that his jersey didn't get torn (because it sure did get dirty). Or thankful that he wasn't boo'd off the field. Or thankful that he hadn't bragged to any more than 10 million people that he would turn around the woeful (pathethic) Denver Broncos.
Who knows what he was thinking, but isn't there a law that forbids virginal 24 year old males from donning a football uniform, running onto a field to maim and kill as many opponents as possible, and then thank Jesus Christ on national TV?
If there isn't such a law, there ought to be!
Sunday, October 23, 2011
On blogging.
I decided to blog about blogging, since that's what I've been thinking about lately, when I think about blogging. In the 1st consequence is that I changed the layout of the site. I also added links to the NYC blog in our 1st blogs, in 1997 and 1998. Those are both “he says, she says”, and they embedded the blogging idea in our brains (mostly Twyla's, but she embeds lots of stuff in my brain).
My contributions to the 2nd blog in “he says, she says” were written, of necessity, with voice recognition software. That turned out to be kind of funny. So I'm writing this entire blog using my current voice recognition software, with no corrections, to show how far the science is advanced in 13 years.
More important, I got thinking about blogging because of this blog, “we–says” (because it sounds better than “new–says”), which has had limited success. On an average day it gets about 7 hits, and 4 of those are from Twyla and myself. That's kind of lame, and I was thinking about quitting blogging again. But then I decided to try to change things instead of quitting.
Our NYC/news*blog was kind of an automatic winner. I could just post off about the project, and Twyla traveled all over and posted her experiences those things were entertaining, it seems.
Now were back in Loveland, and Loveland, as lovely as it is, is no New York City. Not a lot of exciting things happen here, although occasionally a dog is bitten by a coyote, Umberger eats berries from our tree, or a bobcat walks across the road. It's not easy to get photos of those things. I could make a recording of coyotes howling at night, but don't think it would be too interesting.
When I got to thinking about blogging, 2 things popped up.
One is that people don't like to read about serious topics. There is enough of that in the news in in your own lives. No one really cares what I think about politics or drugs, so I decided to tear up my drafts on those subjects.
The other is that text is not attractive. Readers are much more likely to enjoy pictures.
My plan, then, is kind of obvious. I'm going to avoid blogging my opinions, unless something extraordinary happens, I'm going to try to include pictures and all of my posts. In fact I have planned some 100% photo blogs.
Whether those things will make this blog more appealing this for you, dear readers, to decide.
My contributions to the 2nd blog in “he says, she says” were written, of necessity, with voice recognition software. That turned out to be kind of funny. So I'm writing this entire blog using my current voice recognition software, with no corrections, to show how far the science is advanced in 13 years.
More important, I got thinking about blogging because of this blog, “we–says” (because it sounds better than “new–says”), which has had limited success. On an average day it gets about 7 hits, and 4 of those are from Twyla and myself. That's kind of lame, and I was thinking about quitting blogging again. But then I decided to try to change things instead of quitting.
Our NYC/news*blog was kind of an automatic winner. I could just post off about the project, and Twyla traveled all over and posted her experiences those things were entertaining, it seems.
Now were back in Loveland, and Loveland, as lovely as it is, is no New York City. Not a lot of exciting things happen here, although occasionally a dog is bitten by a coyote, Umberger eats berries from our tree, or a bobcat walks across the road. It's not easy to get photos of those things. I could make a recording of coyotes howling at night, but don't think it would be too interesting.
When I got to thinking about blogging, 2 things popped up.
One is that people don't like to read about serious topics. There is enough of that in the news in in your own lives. No one really cares what I think about politics or drugs, so I decided to tear up my drafts on those subjects.
The other is that text is not attractive. Readers are much more likely to enjoy pictures.
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| The Blogospace |
Whether those things will make this blog more appealing this for you, dear readers, to decide.
Odd Days: Who Needs NY Foliage?
You might recall that Durf and I joined the fall foliage frenzy while we were in NY last year. We did what everyone else did: we made a list of all the perfect places to see the changing leaves and then next to each one we wrote down the date the colors would be at their peak. They actually publish that stuff in the newspapers back there!
Unfortunately, the whole foliage phenomenon is more art than science. Consequently, one weekend we found ourselves wandering around the Catskills wondering why all the leaves were green. Perhaps we had taken a wrong turn (thanks, Navi!) and stumbled into a heretofore undiscovered forest of evergreen deciduous trees.
Ah, memories.
This year we are back in Colorado and most nonresidents believe we have only four kinds of trees: spruce, fir, pine and aspen. Well...take a look at this photo, which I shot this morning from a spot that is a hop, skip and jump from our front door.
Eat your heart out, NY.
Unfortunately, the whole foliage phenomenon is more art than science. Consequently, one weekend we found ourselves wandering around the Catskills wondering why all the leaves were green. Perhaps we had taken a wrong turn (thanks, Navi!) and stumbled into a heretofore undiscovered forest of evergreen deciduous trees.
Ah, memories.
This year we are back in Colorado and most nonresidents believe we have only four kinds of trees: spruce, fir, pine and aspen. Well...take a look at this photo, which I shot this morning from a spot that is a hop, skip and jump from our front door.
Eat your heart out, NY.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Odd Days: Revenge of the Navigatrix
To get from Jonesborough TN to Columbus OH, where my sister was keeping a pizza warm for me, I expected to hop on Highway 23, toggle cruise control and soak in the scenery. Just to be safe -- in case an alien took over my brain and drove Bubba (my car, duh!) off onto some nameless blue highway -- I gave my navigatrix the address of my destination.
She and I were getting along just fine all the way through Tennessee, Virginia, and most of Kentucky when all of a sudden she instructed me to get off the highway and make a left turn. I'm no fool. I did what I was told.
I soon found myself wandering aimlessly around the streets of Ashland, Kentucky. "Turn left, turn left, turn right." At some point I saw a Starbucks and the next thing I knew, my car was careening into the parking lot. Ten minutes later, coffee in hand, I re-entered Bubba and told the navigatrix to continue directing me to Columbus.
"Turn left. Turn left." It felt like I was going in circles. I looked at the screen and when I turned my eyes back to the road, I saw a car coming directly at me. In my lane. Holy CRAP, Navi had me turn down a one-way street! I pulled over, gasped for air, and then I put my thinking cap on. What in the world did I say that offended her?
When my heart rate returned to normal, I drove to a major (ha) thoroughfare and let Navi take over again. This time I spoke more gently, with wheedling undertones. I figured it worked because soon I had crossed the Ohio River and was heading north.
Two minutes later Navi told me to make a right turn.
"East? Why does she want me to go east? Would she really betray me again?"
It was then, in my time of greatest need, that I invoked the words of my wise old mentor. I spoke them aloud: "Fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again."
I gripped the steering wheel, stepped on the gas, and drove right by that right turn.
She and I were getting along just fine all the way through Tennessee, Virginia, and most of Kentucky when all of a sudden she instructed me to get off the highway and make a left turn. I'm no fool. I did what I was told.
I soon found myself wandering aimlessly around the streets of Ashland, Kentucky. "Turn left, turn left, turn right." At some point I saw a Starbucks and the next thing I knew, my car was careening into the parking lot. Ten minutes later, coffee in hand, I re-entered Bubba and told the navigatrix to continue directing me to Columbus.
"Turn left. Turn left." It felt like I was going in circles. I looked at the screen and when I turned my eyes back to the road, I saw a car coming directly at me. In my lane. Holy CRAP, Navi had me turn down a one-way street! I pulled over, gasped for air, and then I put my thinking cap on. What in the world did I say that offended her?
When my heart rate returned to normal, I drove to a major (ha) thoroughfare and let Navi take over again. This time I spoke more gently, with wheedling undertones. I figured it worked because soon I had crossed the Ohio River and was heading north.
Two minutes later Navi told me to make a right turn.
"East? Why does she want me to go east? Would she really betray me again?"
It was then, in my time of greatest need, that I invoked the words of my wise old mentor. I spoke them aloud: "Fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again."
I gripped the steering wheel, stepped on the gas, and drove right by that right turn.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Odd Days: Storytelling
I love stories. I loved being read to as a child. After Mom read us our bedtime story, and after the lights were switched off, I would turn on my radio and listen to the Lone Ranger. Nowadays I rely on NPR to tell me stories. On (very) rare occasions, I can talk Durf into reading to me, but I daresay he puts that activity in the same class with climbing Pikes Peak.
All this by way of saying, our primary reason for going to Tennessee recently was to attend the storytelling festival in Jonesborough. Ok, and a little teeny part of me thought that there was a teeny weeny chance that Pat Conroy, master storyteller that he is, might also make an appearance. (He didn't.)
So, what is a storytelling festival, you might ask. Well, think Telluride, but replace the films with people who run up on stage and tell hour-long whoppers. Replace the well-heeled and slight snooty audience at Telluride with hillbillies, cowboys and down home folks like yours truly. Replace the Rocky Mountains with colorful hollers and there you have it.
There is no requirement that the stories be true, and apparently no requirement that they not be stolen. Only that they entertain. And that they did.
I want to go back! Next time, I'll bring some wine to go with my fried fish and tater tots. (No bars in Jonesborough!) And I'm going to take my sister with me. She won't be sitting in the audience, though. I'm going to put her on stage, because nobody tells whoppers like she does!
All this by way of saying, our primary reason for going to Tennessee recently was to attend the storytelling festival in Jonesborough. Ok, and a little teeny part of me thought that there was a teeny weeny chance that Pat Conroy, master storyteller that he is, might also make an appearance. (He didn't.)
So, what is a storytelling festival, you might ask. Well, think Telluride, but replace the films with people who run up on stage and tell hour-long whoppers. Replace the well-heeled and slight snooty audience at Telluride with hillbillies, cowboys and down home folks like yours truly. Replace the Rocky Mountains with colorful hollers and there you have it.
There is no requirement that the stories be true, and apparently no requirement that they not be stolen. Only that they entertain. And that they did.
I want to go back! Next time, I'll bring some wine to go with my fried fish and tater tots. (No bars in Jonesborough!) And I'm going to take my sister with me. She won't be sitting in the audience, though. I'm going to put her on stage, because nobody tells whoppers like she does!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
The Great Indoors.
One thing Twila really likes is being outside. If she had her choice, I'm pretty sure she'd want to be outside anytime the weather was clement. Maybe she should have been a bear.
I've been outside, too. For instance, walking from my car into a store. It's entirely tolerable. If I want to spend time with my wife, though, which I do, often I have to be outside longer.
Sometimes we ride our bikes. We start from our house, pedal around awhile, then end up back at our house, tired and sweaty. I'm not sure I see the point.
Other times we hike. We put a lot of stress on our bodies, and often we suffer. I've blogged before how I feel about that.
I am a modern man. I take medicines, for example, because they're the main reason human life expectancy has gone from 18 to 79 years. And I like houses, which were invented to keep us comfortable. I don't see any reason to leave the pleasant environment of a house when I don't have to.
When you're inside, you don't need to wear raincoats or mittens. You don't need sunscreen. And the chances of being run over by a bus are exceedingly low. It seems like a win-win-win situation, to me. When someone, such as "guess who", suggests that we go outside, my first thought is, "Why would we want to do that?"
It's like retirement, in a way. Twila is already planning all the things we can do when her business winds down. I keep thinking about all the things we can *not* do.
In spite of differences like these, Twila and I get along wonderfully. I bought her a tandem, for example, so we can go bicycling and I don't have to pedal.
It's all about compromise.
I've been outside, too. For instance, walking from my car into a store. It's entirely tolerable. If I want to spend time with my wife, though, which I do, often I have to be outside longer.
Sometimes we ride our bikes. We start from our house, pedal around awhile, then end up back at our house, tired and sweaty. I'm not sure I see the point.
Other times we hike. We put a lot of stress on our bodies, and often we suffer. I've blogged before how I feel about that.
I am a modern man. I take medicines, for example, because they're the main reason human life expectancy has gone from 18 to 79 years. And I like houses, which were invented to keep us comfortable. I don't see any reason to leave the pleasant environment of a house when I don't have to.
When you're inside, you don't need to wear raincoats or mittens. You don't need sunscreen. And the chances of being run over by a bus are exceedingly low. It seems like a win-win-win situation, to me. When someone, such as "guess who", suggests that we go outside, my first thought is, "Why would we want to do that?"
It's like retirement, in a way. Twila is already planning all the things we can do when her business winds down. I keep thinking about all the things we can *not* do.
In spite of differences like these, Twila and I get along wonderfully. I bought her a tandem, for example, so we can go bicycling and I don't have to pedal.
It's all about compromise.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Odd Days: In search of Pat Conroy
Sure, we wanted to gorge on seafood. And sure, we wanted to prowl the cemeteries. But in my heart of hearts, I went to Savannah with the hope of running into Pat Conroy. Of course, he would invite me to have coffee and then we would chat. I might ask him how he was coping with his depression, whether his daughter was speaking to him, whether he was still happy he forgave his father for beating the shit out of him. You know, that sort of thing.
Well we didn't run into him in Savannah, so we drove on over to Beaufort, S.C. which is only about 30 minutes away. Conroy lives on Fripp Island, but he comes to Beaufort for coffee.
In case you are ever in the mood to stalk Pat Conroy, you will need to act like a local. If you are "made" -- as the lowlife tourist you are -- you will see local lips pressed together tighter than a clam shell dipped in super glue.
To pass as a local, you must first learn how to pronounce the name of the town. Had you ever been to Beaufort, N.C. where people know how to talk, you would think to pronounce the S.C. doppelganger "Bo-fort." But you would be wrong. Beaufort, S.C. is pronounced "Bew-ferd." (Hailing from a state that calls the Poudre River the "Pooter River," I cast aspersions with some trepidation.)
For all of that, we failed to track down the elusive Mr. Conroy and reluctantly turned our tourist-mobile toward Jonesborough, TN (pronounced Johnsburg).
Just kidding. About the pronunciation, I mean.
Well we didn't run into him in Savannah, so we drove on over to Beaufort, S.C. which is only about 30 minutes away. Conroy lives on Fripp Island, but he comes to Beaufort for coffee.
In case you are ever in the mood to stalk Pat Conroy, you will need to act like a local. If you are "made" -- as the lowlife tourist you are -- you will see local lips pressed together tighter than a clam shell dipped in super glue.
To pass as a local, you must first learn how to pronounce the name of the town. Had you ever been to Beaufort, N.C. where people know how to talk, you would think to pronounce the S.C. doppelganger "Bo-fort." But you would be wrong. Beaufort, S.C. is pronounced "Bew-ferd." (Hailing from a state that calls the Poudre River the "Pooter River," I cast aspersions with some trepidation.)
For all of that, we failed to track down the elusive Mr. Conroy and reluctantly turned our tourist-mobile toward Jonesborough, TN (pronounced Johnsburg).
Just kidding. About the pronunciation, I mean.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Odd Days: Savannah, give me sordid, please!
I was in Savannah last week. That city has history! And when I learned that it is the most haunted city in America, I conjured ghosts of tortured slaves, mutilated rebels, maybe Johnny Mercer's grandfather. But no. Savannah earned the title in somewhat less interesting fashion...it applied for it.
You see, before publication of the book, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil (the true story of a sordid murder that takes place in Savannah), Savannah had a mere 4 million visitors a year. The year the book came out, 10 million tourists descended on the city. The numbers declined as the years passed and Savannah needed a gimmick to lure people back in. So the city won the haunted title by reporting more unexplained parapsychological (is that a word??) events than any other city in the competition.
So now there are more ghost tours than residents. But my friend and I love kitsch, so we signed up for a tour of Bonaventure Cemetery. As we were driving to the graveyard, I commented on the declining number of tour companies going to Bonaventure (two apparently went out of business while I was on the phone with them).
Our refined southern belle of a tour leader explained that other tour leaders chased away customers by revealing too many sordid details about too many unpleasant events, thereby turning people off. "One fella" she huffed "actually stood next to Johnny Mercer's grave and rattled off all of his extra marital affairs! Can you imagine? Nobody wants to hear that kind of trash."
And I'm thinking, "They don't?"
Later, in the cemetery, we pass a statue of a runner poised over a grave. "Who's that?" I asked.
"Oh, she's a marathon runner who committed suicide."
"Oh my! What's her story?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said. "I refuse to learn the sordid stuff."
And I'm thinking, "ACK! I want the sordid stuff! Give me my money back!"
As we were returning to our hotel, I tried one last time, "So what do *you* think? Did Jim Williams kill his lover Billy Hanson?"
"Let me tell you this," she said, "Jim Williams did a lot for this town!"
And that was the end of *that* conversation.
You see, before publication of the book, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil (the true story of a sordid murder that takes place in Savannah), Savannah had a mere 4 million visitors a year. The year the book came out, 10 million tourists descended on the city. The numbers declined as the years passed and Savannah needed a gimmick to lure people back in. So the city won the haunted title by reporting more unexplained parapsychological (is that a word??) events than any other city in the competition.
So now there are more ghost tours than residents. But my friend and I love kitsch, so we signed up for a tour of Bonaventure Cemetery. As we were driving to the graveyard, I commented on the declining number of tour companies going to Bonaventure (two apparently went out of business while I was on the phone with them).
Our refined southern belle of a tour leader explained that other tour leaders chased away customers by revealing too many sordid details about too many unpleasant events, thereby turning people off. "One fella" she huffed "actually stood next to Johnny Mercer's grave and rattled off all of his extra marital affairs! Can you imagine? Nobody wants to hear that kind of trash."
And I'm thinking, "They don't?"
Later, in the cemetery, we pass a statue of a runner poised over a grave. "Who's that?" I asked.
"Oh, she's a marathon runner who committed suicide."
"Oh my! What's her story?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said. "I refuse to learn the sordid stuff."
And I'm thinking, "ACK! I want the sordid stuff! Give me my money back!"
As we were returning to our hotel, I tried one last time, "So what do *you* think? Did Jim Williams kill his lover Billy Hanson?"
"Let me tell you this," she said, "Jim Williams did a lot for this town!"
And that was the end of *that* conversation.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Finally, my life has purpose.
Being retired means... well, having no meaning. You get up each day and you don't have to go to work, there is little you really *have* to do. No-one pays any attention to you. You are both idle and invisible. In other words, it's almost the perfect life.
Nevertheless, I wanted to mean something. I wanted some purpose. I wanted more money. And now, at last, I know the answer.
I'm going to become a Professional Pinball Wizard.
Probably I should have thought of that sooner, because in our basement are two pinball machines that I restored, and I have a strong background in pinball. There are really only two difficulties to overcome.
Difficulty #1. I have to become a pinball wizard. That means, first, developing hand-eye coordination. The only way to do that is to practice for endless hours. Even then, there are challenges. At a professional pinball tournament, there are many different types of pinballs in various conditions. It is essential to know the rules for each one. The "how to play" manual for my "Twilight Zone" pin, for example, is 45 pages long. I'll have to download manuals for different machines and, if an unfamiliar one shows up at a tournament, learn as much as I can in a couple of practice games. Finally, the hardware on every machine is different. The spring on each plunger that launches a ball is different, for example. My strategy for that is to first launch about 1/3 of the way to the playing field, then launch a bit farther, and calculate from those the appropriate in-play launch.
Difficulty #2. There are no Professional Pinball Wizards and no professional tournaments, as far as I know. Only one company still manufactures pinball machines, and no-one cares. When my young nephews and nieces visit I turn on the machines, they hear the seductive sounds and see the flashing lights, and then they yawn and turn away. Pinballs don't compare, apparently, to blowing someone's virtual brains out with a virtual rocket launcher.
Still, one can dream.
And practice for endless hours.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Freud & Freund.
Freud famously said, "The great question that has never been answered, and which I have not yet been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is 'What does a woman want?'"
Freund not-yet-famously says, "PFFFT! What a woman wants is... security."
What do men want? Women.
Let the bargaining begin.
Freund not-yet-famously says, "PFFFT! What a woman wants is... security."
What do men want? Women.
Let the bargaining begin.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Odd Days: Lunatics Part II
As Durf & I have mentioned before, Colorado laws and Colorado drivers (for the most part) are quite bike and runner friendly. This is in contrast to states like Florida where the generally accepted practice is for drivers to run bikes off the road. If they happen to hit the bike in the process, all the better. If they miss, well, they hope to scare the rider to death.
In truth, though, there are lunatics in every state. And the behavior is much the same. A lunatic in a car likes to come up behind a bike and blast the horn. That causes the bike to swerve wildly. The car zooms by, well within arm's reach of the bike. Sometimes the driver leans out the window and hollers, or offers up a finger.
If the target of the lunatic is a runner, who would be running facing traffic of course, the car comes toward the runner, moving across the white line and onto the shoulder to make sure he is in the runner's path.
I'm not making this up. These things happen to me several times a year. After my heart rate returns to normal, I usual ponder the lunatic's motivation. Is he jealous because he isn't a studly runner/biker? Does he feel that runners/bikers have no business on the road -- even in the dirt off the shoulder? Does it just make him mad that people want to exercise? Does he feel that the world would be a better place if people drove everywhere and then sat on a couch for recreation?
You gotta think there's some humanity deep inside these people and if you could just get the burr out of their butts, they would lighten up.
Well good news. We've found the prescription: A tandem. Everybody loves a tandem. They wave, they smile, and they shout as they pass. But they don't shout vile epithets, they shout "Tandem!" -- not realizing that his name is actually Dracula.
In truth, though, there are lunatics in every state. And the behavior is much the same. A lunatic in a car likes to come up behind a bike and blast the horn. That causes the bike to swerve wildly. The car zooms by, well within arm's reach of the bike. Sometimes the driver leans out the window and hollers, or offers up a finger.
If the target of the lunatic is a runner, who would be running facing traffic of course, the car comes toward the runner, moving across the white line and onto the shoulder to make sure he is in the runner's path.
I'm not making this up. These things happen to me several times a year. After my heart rate returns to normal, I usual ponder the lunatic's motivation. Is he jealous because he isn't a studly runner/biker? Does he feel that runners/bikers have no business on the road -- even in the dirt off the shoulder? Does it just make him mad that people want to exercise? Does he feel that the world would be a better place if people drove everywhere and then sat on a couch for recreation?
You gotta think there's some humanity deep inside these people and if you could just get the burr out of their butts, they would lighten up.
Well good news. We've found the prescription: A tandem. Everybody loves a tandem. They wave, they smile, and they shout as they pass. But they don't shout vile epithets, they shout "Tandem!" -- not realizing that his name is actually Dracula.
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