JUST MUSING: “…’bounce, bounce’…”

New Orleans is regularly recognized as one of America’s unique cities, different from the cookie cutter variants seen in other municipalities; history, architecture, culture, different tongues, peoples and food blended together within a southern milieu.  The city regularly makes the news; festivals, sports, its people.  The most recent story: a McDonald’s employee attacking a customer because the customer had the gall to complain about the fries.  Is this story a manifestation of New Orleans’ uniqueness?                

The customer admitted he might have been abrasive – when reading this, I assumed as much. When viewing the video – it was so.  He was. 

The recording starts with an employee yelling – “Get out”.  A female employee interceded, and pulled the male employee away.  The customer – he too of the male persuasion – followed both.  The employees seemed to feel the customer’s presence.  The male turned and reengaged; pushing, shoving, hitting.  What, I thought…?  All over some nasty fries…?

Years ago, I visited America’s quirkiest city to attend a seminar.  On day two, three of us decided to venture out of the French Quarters.  We asked the concierge for a recommendation, somewhere to eat outside of the Quarters.  As an aside, the McDonald’s in the recently reported story is located on Canal Street, in the Quarters.  Moving slowly through the city – before GPS’ mass distribution – anticipation – longing for the New Orleans’ experience – and hunger were forever present.    

The restaurant was small, comfortable, and clean.  The crowd was a mixture of both locals and tourists.  After looking at the menu, I played safe, I ordered a chicken salad.  Let me explain why:  I have this theory about cooks and food.  Determining the skills or talents of a cook/chef/restaurant is best gauged by doing simple.  You don’t understand…?

Fish, chicken, a salad, basics; salt, pepper, garlic, butter; unblemished, not hidden, not distorted, not covered, and dominated by a sauce – doing simple.  If the restaurant advertises its breads, does it do the basic breads well?  Is it fresh, how is the crumb, is the texture consistent?  Few does, few can.  So I ordered a chicken salad. 

The insufferable August heat, local culture, our hunger were our companions while waiting.  When the food was served, we reverted to our childhood.  Silence! Pure and utter silence; looking down, to the right, left, at the others’ plates, guarding with one hand, eating with the other; racing to finish first, to get the first debs on seconds. 

My mother would periodically look over from the kitchen, commenting, laughing – “Slow down, y’all act like y’all are starving orphans.”  We weren’t – we didn’t care.  Silence – with the exceptions of slurps, gulps, coughs; working too hard, too fast, while doing simple. 

“Slow down…!”

“Yes, ma’am…!”  

Two bites I realized the mistake.  I had been given a chicken sandwich, not a chicken salad.  I waved to the waitress.  She came over, I told.  She went and told – whispering to an older woman, pointing my way – causing the older woman to approach.  She – the older woman – had greying tips – less than mine are now.  She was approximately my mother’s age – as I am now.  She took up sentry on left side.  Her leg touched both the table and me – shoulder, arm. my body.  Her eyes foretold peril.  I understood the touching, it too part of the message.  I felt six, seven, no older than nine.  I did.

And out-of-body experience she forced me into – I was.    

“What are you trying to pull…?

“Ma’am…?” 

“You’re trying to get free food…”

“Ma’am … No, ma’am, I just want you to know of the mistake so my bill can be adjusted…”

I said one thing. She heard another. 

My, “I, I…” was followed by those her telling, threatening eyes and a declaratory sentence.  A plain, simple, non-passive voice, declarations, she spoke … “We’re not giving you free food…!”    

I tried “I, I…” again – to no avail. 

“You saw your waitress put a sandwich on the table, and you still took two bites! You’re not getting free food!  You better shut up and eat your sandwich!”

The elder one turned and abruptly went back to the area of the restaurant she came from – the place she where she was told.  She extended the same gift before leaving thought – that frightful look.  I said what I said.  I swear I heard, “enjoy”.  I’m sure I reverted to six….

One of my companions was a New York, New Yorker.  I don’t remember her name.  I remember her to be a honey-colored woman.  She was one of the few women at the seminar.  she had spent the last two days fighting off the advances, using different tactics with each advance – smiling, frowning, cajoling, off-putting laughter, silence.  This escape from the hotel was her respite, suggesting lunch, moving toward the front desk of the hotel, asking for directions, moving comfortably into the restaurant, breathing an audible sigh of relief.  Her reaction – that day, that moment showed her other side.    

New York’s mouth went agape; both hands skyward, then outward.  A finger pointed at the elder one. I grabbed the finger, then her arm.  I moved the arm from one level another – lower, to the table.  In a New York, New York, kind-of- way, she raged – “How dare her!”  

“I’m sorry.  I wouldn’t pay.  I would have to go to jail.”

I dutifully ate the chicken sandwich.  I was horrified she pointed at Momma.  I waited for the invisible hand of Georgia to reach cross the room and correct her aberrant behavior.  Absolutely, you are free to laugh.  I am a big boy.  I ate the damn sandwich.   

I grew up in a segregated culture and viewed eating in public a hostile act.  Followed as a teen, as a young adult, wherever I went; forever the suspect – these are influencing factors.  Not permitted to eat in most eating establishment; watching and living the civil rights struggle in living, daily color; electing when and where to be the guinea pig.   These influences bubble to the over surface years – sometimes expectant behavior, most times not – over and over again.    

Trained to pick “carefully your conflicts”; avoid societal attempts (“you will be baited”) to make you react by persons in authority (“police, teachers, administrators, store owners”); move away, save and fight for another day – get home – avoid the seat reserved place in the jails for those who looked like you, for the slightest of infractions – was the advice.  Both told and learned behavior.

Existing in a well-enforced, generational-ingrained, apartheid-like system of rules and mores; the 1866 Civil Rights Act – the society ignored the law, didn’t it!  The 1964 Civil Rights Act passed one hundred years later, wasn’t it?  It was, I remember, I was ten.  Old enough to understand differences color imposed.  In language, rules, prohibitions, seen through the eyes of a child; laws admittedly implemented slowly, deliberately – daily, by the courts, store owners, the police.   

“They passed what?!  Civil rights law?!  You either leave or go to jail.”    

Let me debunk a couple of assumptions.  The sandwich was okay.  Nothing exciting, but this muse is not about food, nor is it about race.  The customer in New Orleans was white, the worker was black.  Look at the video.  The video has nothing to do with race; it is a video of two fools interacting in the night.  In my case, the elder was black, my mother-mother’s color, and everyone at our table were black.  I said – this muse has nothing to do with race.  I muse to say, instead of restaurant employees trying to physically assault customers when they complain, or accuse the customer of wanting free food, public establishments should remain conflict free zones.  Instead of customers pressing the point over bad food, insulting the workers, any untoward acts should be viewed as misguided and counterproductive.

҈            ҈҉            ҈

Years ago there was a small restaurant in my community, located in an alley, housed in a shotgun house.  A shotgun house is a small house, no more than one thousand square feet, twelve feet wide – “a shotgun fired in the front, will go through and through, entering and leave every room before exiting” – so was the explanation given to me for the name.  The restaurant seemed half the size of a typical shotgun house, a smallish, confined space.  People literally squeezed-in; limited seating, not by design but circumstances.  A restricted menu – two items a day, no substitutes – open five days a week, awaited the customers who came for an exceptional home-cooked meal.  Drinks too were limited – tap water served on ice – the owner didn’t permit sodas to be served.  “No, no sodas.”  I remembered sometimes there was tea, I think.  I don’t remember, maybe, maybe not.    

Food was served as long as there was food in the pots, meaning roughly and hour and a half lunch service.  Much like visiting any grandmother’s home, the owner sat among the guest; every day, every meal; listening, nodding, occasionally laughing, resting tired feet, after having spent the morning hours cooking for family and guests.

He – a white man – came in first; excited, happy.  “This is it baby!”

She – a white female – followed – she seemed to be a girlfriend to me, not a wife – looking around – a foreign place, a foreign people, not part of her milieu.  I don’t remember any other whites in the restaurant – that day – this day.  Then she did it – – she said “eewww” with both eyes.  Back up – remember this muse is not about race.  Hers was not the old world “eewww” of my youth.  If the truth be in me, her face was no different than mine when I first squeezed-in visited the unpaved alley in the middle of the summer, entered a foreign place and looked around, amazed, eewwwa restaurant, really…? 

“Baby, you’re going to enjoy the food,” he said excitedly. 

His was an out-of-control octave moved upward, downward, sideward – with excitement, anticipation, an uncontrolled instrument.  His body told too, excited to be back – a Frankie Beverly joy – joyous, joyous behavior – boyish behavior, ready to enjoy the anticipatory feast.

She of shocked eyes said nothing – compliant, hesitant trust – following her beloved.  They took two of the remaining seat.   She looked around, before she reached in her purse.  She pulled out a toilette to wipe the table.  I smiled to myself – my behavior too girl the first time I came and every time I eat here.  She remained perplexed – looking around, not at people – never making eye contact; asking her the gods, her God – How on earth did it pass its health inspection?   Truthfully, I always wondered the same thing. 

Her mate ordered his and hers.  Remember – your choices are limited – there are only two plate choices – a easy decision.  He continued to bounce in place, excited.  He waved at the owner a few table over – meaning, she was a mere five feet away. 

“I’m back.” 

The mate remained stupefied, in manner and mode.  The rest of the room continued to eat, watch and talk about her/him/them.  She’s leaving him.  Oh Lord, poor child.  You think she will stay.  I am sure she couldn’t hear what we said; you can’t hear when you are in shock.  His excitement deprived him of both sight and sound.    

“Welcome back baby?” – The owner intoned.   

“How’re you feeling today?” – He responded, giddy, giddy; a giddy man he was. 

“I feel good, blessed.”

“… Food good today…?”

“Always is…?”  Is that your lady?”

“She …”

Before the Giddy One could say what she was – girlfriend, wife – both plates were put in place.  “You ordered the smothered steak … you get the fried chicken?  Daughter never talked much.  Daughter said little else.  She wiped a runny nose with the right hand; wiped the newly soiled right hand on her apron, before turning, slowly – back to the kitchen.  Daughter always moved slowly, so did her mother.  The owner was in or nearing her nineties; Daughter, her seventies.     

We – all of us – watched while – having seen the behavior before.  We were all primates, restrained in place and time, intruding on each other, tapping on glass, rattling each other cages, seeing nothing wrong with our respective behavior.      

Giddy One didn’t care, he was not a participant.  He raised both hands, gave thanks to his God, lowered his head and went to work, enjoying every morsel.  She remained reticent, tentative, timid, a captive of the circumstances; looking around, taking only a small portion of food initially – dangling it on the tip of the fork – to taste, carefully – as if poison doesn’t kill in small portions. 

Her face told – ummm – then the verbal expression escaped, telling the observing primates (us), the world was fine.  The bold seasonings entered every orifice, captured the senses, and compelled her guest to take a sip of water (only water, remember).  The owner heard, smiled in a sleepy, small town, southern kind of manner.  Reticent One’s reaction was no different from others.  The owner had seen the reaction before; she knew she had captured another beast.     

Reticent One moved downward for a larger forkful.  She lowered her shoulders, more relaxed, squeezed-in, like the rest of us had been for some time.  Giddy One remained locked in place, eating, saying little, nodding, wiping, shucking – each fingers – a consumed man.  He was at home, comfortable, among his fellow primates. 

All good stories possess a dramatic turn at some point.  This one does too.  First seen in the hands (much like an arthritic twitch) – flowing to both arms – upward, outward – having a cause-effect on the stomach; moving – inward, outward, causing air to propel through the diaphragm; expanding, causing a vibration in the vocal cords; causing the clear and distinct utterance of two words – only two – distinctly filling the small space we collectively shared.    

“… A roach…!”- Her first words spoken since entering the restaurant.

I looked at my food – saw no roach. I’m good.  I kept eating.

My painter was with me – he took his fork and moved the food around in the plate – looking, looking – looking.  “No roach”, he said.  He too was good.  He kept eating.

Daughter moved slowly out of the kitchen – no rush in her step.  She stood next to the Shattered Soul’s table and inquired, “Where?”

Shattered Soul pointed.  Daughter looked, nodded in agreement. 

“Yep, that’s a roach.” 

Shattered Soul didn’t say she had taken a couple of bits.  Daughter didn’t make her eat the mean.  She did the right thing – I guess – if we are to go by my standards.  She didn’t argue. She took the plate and disappeared.  The other primates went back to eating. 

Daughter came back and placed a fresh plate in front of Shattered Soul.

“Here…”

Giddy One finished his food.  Shattered Soul didn’t finish hers. 

Giddy One paid for both meals, happy, waving to everyone as he open the door for Shattered Soul.  We stayed in our lane, never asking why Shattered Soul wasn’t given a free meal.          

҈            ҉            ҈

Martin Lawrence – the comedian – commonly bases his comedy on a rather simple concept – bouncing someone, something – said with comedic effect, in a declaratory, derisive, off-putting manner, metaphorically ridding himself of the offending person or thing.  In music, the concept can be described more like – bounce-bounce – found in all genres, done with raised hands, a frenetic, participatory crowd in place, accompanied by a pulsating, melodic beat.  I muse to say, sometimes we have to bounce in life and not sweat the small stuff.  Put ourselves in the shoes of the other person – even if the other person, in our eyes is a damn fool – and even when seemingly, we shouldn’t – bounce.     

Cold, overcooked/undercooked, limp/burnt, greasy fries – we have eaten worst.  Complain – sure, do so – however once the push back comes, particularly when the fool comes from behind the counter – bounce!  Thrown both hands up, move backward … bounce!  Complain later and never go back.  No, no, no, don’t follow the fool and re-enraged.  The customer is not always right – particularly when pushing, pushing, pushing an overworked and underpaid worker, uttering abrasive words.  My Mother’s mother would have slapped the customer on the first step, while never uttering a profane word. 

My, my … back to the video – the worker in New Orleans can be seen pushing, shoving, assaulting, letting years of frustrations come out on a customer’s head.  He in turn being the drunk manly-type – I think that’s what we call it – stood his ground – and was an abrasive, utter ass.  Over french-fries?  Really?! 

I get it – the workers/owners/managers are sick to death of the games people play.  Maybe the confluence of the sun, wind, the tropical depressions, and one too many YouTube videos are the proximate causes for the bad days playing out before our eyes. 

Struggling to make a profit, working with the public – is always difficult proposition – for owners.  The workers show up not because they love McDonalds, they are trying to feed themselves, their families, realizing the salary the corporation is paying them is even sufficient to allow them to regularly eat at McDonalds.    

“You’re going to pay for the sandwich.” 

No, I didn’t see race in New Orleans during lunch.  I saw a tired restaurant worker/owner who was sick and tired, sick and tired.  She never heard a word I said.   She told me her truths instead; particularly when commanding me to eat the sandwich and shut up; the same as my mother would have, her mother would have … and you know what you do in those circumstances … you eat the sandwich and bounce.  Our exchange was a real world one – she instructing me on the literal meaning of the word bounce – which I did, like a ball. 

“Eat and enjoy your sandwich, pay and leave.” 

I complied with each instruction, left a tip, bouncing and giggling at the horrified New York, New Yorker.  “Gurl, she ain’t goin’ to hit me up-side the head.”  I knew she would.  I knew she could.           

So I muse…

Advertisements

JUST MUSING: “Jack did. Jill did…”

Jack did. Jill did.  Before explaining why, let me provide some background.  In a former life I had the fortune – or misfortune – of trying a least ten federal criminal conspiracy trials (a safe guess), ranging from one week to six months in duration.  A conspiracy occurs when two or more persons agree to participate in criminal activity in the violation of the laws of the United States. 

The pattern was always familiar, and still remains embedded in still my psyche: a federal judge reading at a controlled pace, telling jurors “a participant need not understand the full extent of the overall conspiracy to be held criminally culpable.”  Every time his/her honors said those words I touched the client and prayed that he/she would not be subsumed by the encompassing broadness of the conspiracy laws. 

People normally confess for a reason:  to clear ones conscience – a possibility; narcissism and a belief ones conduct has no consequences; sometimes as simple as being much like the chicken – to reach the other side of the road.  This muse may be a little of all.  

Recently, I was asked to participate in the reading of the Mueller Report.  “Whatever section you desire me to read”, were my words.  I was given a time to appear.  I complied and appeared.  Before talking a seat to review the materials, I saw copies of the report stacked on a table.  I then to move backward in time, seeing the past dredge upward, like spoiled buttermilk:  his/her “Your Honors” reading slowly, deliberately, to citizens engaged in their compelled civic-duty, looking over seeing the familiar conduct of the federal prosecutors, cocksure, confident, comforted by the conspiracy laws’ breath.    These visions didn’t cause me to walk out before reading.  I displayed exceptional bravery and stayed.  I did what I was asked to do. 

While reading a familiar emotion visited – anger.  Previously to agreeing to participate I had read new accounts of the Mueller’s conclusion on the conspiracy count.  I had a difficult time reconciling the conclusion with the known facts, particularly with experiences in the criminal justice system.  Why overt activities don’t constitute a conspiracy?  What exceptions did the report attempt to carve out?  Is this somewhat akin to George W. Bush exception, creating new rules out of whole cloth? Why are free passes being issued these, while others of lesser means have never been accorded privileged positions?  Why?

No matter what the press releases said – explaining why.  No matter how the political commentators’ angled the fact, the conclusion did not make sense to me.  I understood the words meaning then – in that other life – I understand the meaning of the words now.    

Turning the pages, I reminded myself of the interconnection of money and power in the daily administration of the criminal justice.  This was something I found difficult explaining to clients and others while attempting to balance the mythical scales of justice. This was the difficulty I encountered in the just reading Mueller’s finding on conspiracy. 

May I digress slightly – I promise I will get to Jack and Jill – before you accuse me of being a bitter man.  I will own my bitterness, I am.  Not bitter because of my previous life.  Not bitter because of having to try conspiracy cases and the results achieved.  Do not let my previous confession – or profession – confuse you. 

I enjoyed my work.  I was successful in the representation of those approximately ten citizens.  An eight out of ten success-ratio, in any profession, is a good return; work performed in federal courts in Houston, San Antonio, Little Rock, Galveston, among others.  The results achieved are an anomaly.  Lucky man was I – perhaps.  However, this previous work is not the reason I muse.      

Slowly moving through Section 2 – thinking too much – witnessing voice tone and tenor involuntarily shift – to the point of being shrill – wanting to stop and tell the audience … Are you kidding me!  Enveloping an insane desire to pivot in place and give a lecture on the law … This means this.   The same as those federal judges have instructed juries in the past, daily, in the future – over and over – in different jurisdictions throughout this country. 

I continued to read. Jack fell down and broke his crown; Jill tumbled after him – he did – she did.       

The finding of no conspiracy makes no sense.  The tortured journey the report took caused a recurring dream to recur- in broad daylight – not in the dead of night, not while succumbed under covers.   The criminal justice system is at its worse when power, money, and protection of a political class are at stake

When I read, “no one is above the law”, I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time and throw the report to the side and leave the podium.  I didn’t, I kept reading.  

Jack’s fall was complete. Jill’s too.  My voice and tone irretrievably broken, like Jack’s crown … louder, louder, louder … shrilly was me. 

Forever an optimist I remained, reading with an embedded hope, wanting to find an undiscovered gem, which would say something – anything – different.  Hope notwithstanding, Mueller said what he said, the report said what the press said it said (they are what we thought they were).

Time incrementally continued it predictable pace, permitting errors to highlight the ready – misspeaking, grappling with a dry mouth – clearing my throat – mispronouncing one word, two, flipping pages, moving toward the end of the text –  Old Negro Spirituals played in my head, while I looked askew, praying for a better day. 

Somehow I finished.  I moved slowing out of the room, toward the exit, into the clarifying arms of Mother Nature.  The heat encouraged me to move from one place to another, quicker, quickly, little boy in trouble fast.  My movement didn’t prevented anxiety from accompanying me out the door, down the street, back into protective covering.  It did. While Jack did, while Jill did too.

I have been pushed into a stupefying silence over the last few months; watching, reading, seeing the assaultive dance on the constitution – hourly, daily, weekly – tweeting, preening – telling us what we saw, read and heard is not what we saw, read and heard.  Reading about the litigation assault, trying to count the number of lawyers engaged in the civil litigation designed to slow, stop, cease inquiry, keeping others at bay; using money, time and influence. Watching rights flitter away – much like birds in flight – while the others stood in the shadow of my dreams looking, wondering why the law reads one way of them and not for them. 

What an impressive dancer. A smart dresser, a stable genius; holding on, delaying, pardoning, obfuscating.  Dancing, moving across the landscape, insulting what little integrity remaining in the criminal justice system, telling the rest of us how poorly he/they/his supporters are being treated, while the minions parrot the hysterical conduct, applauding profusely, sprouting the same rhetoric, threatening others who dare disagree with the invitation back to the wild, wild west.       

Watching the deadly mix of diversion and hate occur; obtaining the desired effect, in Gilroy, California, in El Paso and Midland/Odessa, Texas, in Dayton, Ohio.  Mimicking historical voices – the words used aren’t by accident – repeating the words of yore – over and over and over again.  Jack died?  Jill died? 

Hearing the citizenry now explain how vulnerable they now feel.  Whether she/he/they likes it or not, she/he/they are now the others; those we have read about, saw on television, thinking not them, that she/he/they were safe.  None of us are safe from the persistent madness. 

Fear now anger has laden my watching, having seen this before.  The criminal system becomes eschewed when an office, a man, a party is placed above the rest of us.  So that I am clear, I don’t muse to be pessimistic.  I don’t muse to be scared, angry or anxious. I muse to say we have seen and survived worst – at least my grandparents told me as much.        

Francis Hall Johnson was one of America’s greatest composers.  Johnson genres were spirituals and classical.  He coached some of America’s greatest talents – Marian Anderson, Harry Belafonte, Robert McFerrin, and Shirley Verrett.  In 1930 Johnson selected and arranged a series of Negro spirituals.  In 1958 he gave us the Negro spiritual Hold On, like other Negro spirituals, birthed under seemingly impossible conditions; conditions which would cause an ordinary people to succumb; throw their hands up and quit.  Let me see if I can make the reference to Negro spirituals make sense.        

A childhood friend’s father occupation was that of a trash man.  The father contracted with residents in the unincorporated areas to dispose of their trash.  His mother cleaned homes.  Mr. and Mr. Hiawatha Bradley had thirteen children and made sure each one of them completed high school and college.  Hiawatha told his children they were not captive by others realities.  His/her words are part of my life’s lesson.        

Spewing hate, encouraging violence, playing stupid along the way, while assuming the rest of us are stupid will not work; pardoning his way toward an election – playing the system from one end to the other, also will not work.  The recurring refrain in Hold On is, “keep your hands on the plow and hold on,” is part of the reminder.

No, no, no, I didn’t fall down on the steps of the library and awaken imbued with an over-bearing religiosity, albeit my relatives and friends would love for a small accident – a miracle – if that is all it took.  Just a small knot on his head, Lord!

 Holding on will force this president to step aside sooner than we anticipate, causing him to cut a deal (remember he is the deal maker), to avoid future prosecution.  No, the speeches and encouragement to violence from his and his supporters will not cease.  Money, power, and different life realities are privileges accorded few and their activities are designed to protect as much, tilting Lady Justice’s Arm to the point of breaking one – both – if necessary.  This conduct should alarm the rest of us.  Freeing Lady Liberty from this conduct – this assault – is an obligation bestowed upon all of us.  We fail at our peril.

JUST MUSING: “She ran fast – fast-fast…”

Jennifer Anderson began April’s London Marathon intent on besting an existing record contained in Guinness’ World Records, for running a marathon wearing a nurse’s uniform.  She did – bested the established record.  So she thought – crossing the finish line at 3:08:22, faster than the record-breaking time on the books of 3:08:54.  Guinness said she didn’t – didn’t break the record – because the outfit she wore wasn’t proper.  Is that not the proper British way of saying what was said?  Who cares?      

Nurse Anderson wore blue scrubs.  Her supposed failure was she didn’t don a traditional cap, a pinafore apron, and a blue or white dress.  What period of time was Guinness dragging us?  Did the definition of a nurse’s uniform derive from the trove of Eighteenth Century Romance novels found under the editor’s foot board?   

Nurse Comwell slid the brass spittoon in place.  The vessel was cool to touch.  Madelyn wasn’t. The metals emitted a muted tinge, brass against the iron running board.  Her dying patient was not aroused by the contact, not so in her head; Madelyn’s  desires were awaken.  She adjusted her pinafore apron, the blue uniform next, followed by the nurse’s hat sitting on the rear portion of her head – much like an invasive phallic symbol – standing at attention, claiming possession of tousled, auburn hair.    

Jennifer doth protest – she knew, just knew, as did the public, Guinness read the wrong novel. She explained to Guinness its type of uniform was outdated.  Days later Guinness agreed, ruling she did – win. 

Guinness didn’t say what it based its reversal. I imagine they probably heard the howls of those nurses who have cared, pinched, cajole others over the years; running hospitals, clinics, nursing home – nursing family members when off-duty – whispering, when moving from place to place, to others higher in rank to stop, “before you kill him.” 

I muse to say the competition didn’t have a chance. Nurse Anderson was in her element, running hither and yon with ease.  She probably had time to tell other runners to correct their posture, alter their running style, or to stop running on the side of their feet.  At the three mile post she passed a colleague.  She whispered he should stop at the next rest station – “your color is off a little” – doubling down, increasing her pace, while sweat properly wicked within the scrubs, doing what they were designed to do.  The advice Nurse Anderson bequeathed is not the point of this mythical musing.  The competition didn’t have a chance because Nurse Anderson was running in well-worn scrubs, washed repeatedly, folding and bending with the contours of the body as she ran.  Riding the back of Pegasus, dismounting half-way through the course and mounting Flicker, and two hundred meters from the finish line dismounting, looking around to see if she had any paperwork to do, and computer entries to make, prior to crossing the finish line in record time. 

Postscript:  Maybe she knew she could do it because her mother was of the switch persuasion – pulling, tugging, ripping a branch from the tree, causing her to fun faster than humanly possible to do what she told her mother she had done, supposed to have done, four hours before.  The dishes remained mounted in place, the kitchen floor still contained specs of food she had been told to sweep and mop, the dogs still had not been fed.  She didn’t know the dogs told, jumping and knocking on mother’s bedroom window.  She ran. She ran fast – fast-fast. Washing, moving from station to station, keeping her head down, mouth shut, cleaning, sweeping, thinking what profession she would be able to join to use her considerable multi-tasking skills and knowledge – how best to run from a switch – Pegasus’ and Flicker’s absence – and the type of uniform worn – be damned.   

JUST MUSING: “We’re being rolled…”

George Raymond Wagner was an American professional wrestler best known by this ring name Gorgeous George.  George gained mainstream popularity and was one of the biggest stars in professional wrestling from 1940-1950. While pundits debate the influences of the President’s influences: Fox News, Fox & Friends, Rush Limbaugh, Ann Coulter, I possess a different view after reading about the President’s Thanksgiving interview, explaining what made him thankful.

When asked what he was most thankful for, the President turned the focus upon himself, “For having a great family, and for having made a tremendous difference in this country. I’ve made a tremendous difference in the county.” Of course, one can attempt to color his statements and point out he – the President – mentioned his family first.  Any such attempt would be for naught. He then proceeded to do what he do (sic) – he doubled down, in a true Gorgeous George kind of way, “This country is so much stronger now that it was when I took office that you wouldn’t believe it.”  The hair, telling anyone willing to listen, making us listen – controlling the narrative – gift wrapped with constants references to himself.

“I am the greatest.” The Gorgeous George model, before Muhammad Ali pronounced himself as such; acknowledged by Ali as his greatest influence.

“This is a man’s world”, sung by James Brown, borrowed from Gorgeous George, adopted by Donald John Trump, every day. You don’t get it still?  We are being rolled.

For those who are not Trump fans, get over it, we seen this before. Supporting Ali no matter what, laughing at the thumping of his nose at the establishment; “I’ am a pretty man.”  Sounds familiar doesn’t it.

Calling his opponents out of their name, “a gorilla”, directed at one, no one stepped forward and condemned the act, ostracize him because of his conduct; loving him more, while he acknowledged he watched Gorgeous George sell out arenas because people either wished for, prayed for his defeat, or agreed  with him – no matter.

“I’m a bad man.” Selling out – hate, hate, hate – wanting his blood, while we cheered – pretty much – loving the conceit, seeing a pretty, youthful, brash Cassius Clay/Ali recite poetry, holding the nation, the world, fans and enemies captivated.  Don’t be shocked if the braggart who you hate so intensely is reelected.  Waving to enthralled crowd, identifying enemies, assuring the stage lighting is right, dominating the news hour, the news days; the light reflecting perfectly off a dyed mane, even on bad hair days.

The evolution of Gorgeous George was a gradual process. Perfecting his shtick – the robe,  the pre-fight ritual, bragging, bragging, bragging, then deciding to dye his mane and preen to friends and foes alike.  Gorgeous was quoted saying, “If guts is all it takes. I’ve got plenty”, when making the decision to go blond.

So George decided to become a glamour boy, too. He let his hair grown longer and wavier. The next step was to a beauty salon in Hollywood to inquire about a wig. After some thought, it was decided a wig would be too easy to yank off in the ring, so the beautician turned George over to two Hungarian hair stylists, Frank and Joseph, who recommended he grow his hair long and bleach it blond – “if he had the guts.” “If guts is all it takes, I’ve got plenty,” said George.

For those of you who are Trump fans, you’re forgiven. Buying into the bluster, laughing loudly when Gorgeous Donald redirects the argument; always redirecting everyone’s attention back to himself; conduct no different than them/us/we folks have done when buying into out-sized personalities.

“I know more about science.” “I could have been a good general.” “I know big words.” I’m sure he would have used, “I’m the greatest”, if not recognized and attributed Gorgeous George and later Ali. Plenty of guts, saying the outrageous, while fans/voters ignore transgressions, no matter how outrageous, no matter how high the pile grows;  “Ain’t no mountain high enough”, isn’t that how the lyrics read?  Feel no guilt, go out and ignore the rest of the world’s protestations, even if to your detriment.  Support the outsize personality. We did it for Ali, ignoring his flaws (isn’t he pretty, isn’t he fine); referring to Floyd Patterson as “the good Negro”, Sonny Liston as “Bigger Thomas”, isolating these black fighters from the rest of black community. Joe Frazier went to his grave perpetually hurt for the labels placed on him by Ali.

We did the same for James Brown (again another fan of Gorgeous George), no matter how many times he was placed in jail for hitting another woman.  Brown’s daughter, Dr. Yamma Brown wrote in her book, Cold Sweat: My Father James Brown and Me ,“As much as I loved my father, and I sure loved him.  I hated him during those times.” Not surprisingly, she explained she acted no different than any other domestic violence victims, “[a]fter a while, she followed in the footsteps of her mother – ‘and acted as if the beatings hadn’t happened.’”   On the good foot, you say?

Arrested on numerous occasions relating to domestic abuse during the course of his life; puffing up like Gorgeous George; Papa’s got a brand new bag, didn’t he? No he didn’t.  We paid little mind to any of this malfeasance conduct, and kept dancing.  I got that feeling. I got that feeling. So does Gorgeous Donald’s supporters.

So to the minority who supported Gorgeous Donald – as he reminds us – your boy will continue to wreak havoc on the Constitution.  So I say, I understand.  I do. I do.  To achieve a bit more appreciation to this tribute to bombastic behavior, I wish I could say, just musing!  I am not, the stakes are too high.

JUST MUSING: “Shame on you…”

The White House Correspondents’ Dinner is abandoning the presence of the comedian/comic/comedienne during next year’s annual dinner, April 27, 2019. For those you who are slow on the uptake – the White House Correspondents’ Association (WHCA) is an organization of journalists who cover the White House and the President of the United States. The organization was founded in 1914 and has an annual dinner. The dinner began in 1921 and traditionally is attended by the President and Vice-President. Since 1983 the feature speaker at the dinner has been a comedian. The proceeds from the dinner funds scholarships for gifted students in college journalism programs.

*       *     *

Crumbled – an imperfect ball – tattered along the edges, perfect for tossing into the nearest receptacle, with no intent at recycling; done with little explanation, substituted with a clean sheet, replaced by a historian. Are you kidding me?

*        *     *

There is no intent on my part to speak animus/hate against historians, or against next year’s speaker. He may be the kindness, smartest, most articulate speaker in the world. That is not my point. I simply possess a disdain for willful, historical ignorance which equates comics to court jesters, whose role is to willingly pay homage to the King.

Who is the press paying homage to by discarding the comic? The President, members who have been insulted, a marauding, insulted public?  The comic part of my personality tells me most of them didn’t grow up in large families, possess little melanin in their skin hues, exist in a new world in which the comic are pulled out of the classroom and placed on Ritalin protocol.

They are the protectors of the socially awkward; capable of reaching upward, disturbing the normal course of business, asking the most asinine, brilliant, observant questions. They – comics – seemingly gilded with a gold coated fearlessness, capable of saying what others thought, needed to be said; smiling, smirking outwardly, while the rest of us struggle to contain and envelope the same smirk. Seeing our insecurity, channeling their and our anger, stress, undefined plight – saying, saying – saying – what needed said.

What part of Michelle Wolf’s – last year’s featured comic – routine wasn’t true? Absolutely, she didn’t say what she said in a light most favorable to a sensitive press. She raised her hand, introduced herself and poked; doing what comics do and should do.

She called you – the press – cowards and complicit with the White House.  Isn’t this the same as telling the rest of us the king has no clothes?  She didn’t tell knock-knock jokes and she shouldn’t.  She didn’t tell us why, what or where the chicken was going or doing when it went from one side of the road to the other – who gives a hoot!  She didn’t pay homage to Bob Hope, comic to the Presidents. Maybe too many of them are still alive, missing the days of yore, Bob Hope – Bing Cosby – Jerry Lewis – Dean Martin – Joey Bishop. Men who admitted their role was to support the war, any war, and the presidents, growing incredibly wealthy along the way; forever refusing to make those in power the brunt of the joke. In their world humor never had a double edge.

I’m going to skip a lot of the normal pleasantries. We’re at a Hilton, it’s not nice. This is on C-SPAN, no one watches that. Trump is president, it’s not ideal. White House Correspondents’ Association, thank you for having me, the monkfish was fine. Just a reminder to everyone, I’m here to make jokes, I have no agenda, I’m not trying to get anything accomplished. So everyone that’s here from Congress, you should feel right at home.

She did what comics do – didn’t she?  Showing up with a shit-eating comic grin intact, the same grin we have seen for years; the class clown, much like our friends whose sense of humor tilted both left and right, forever smiling, struggling with his/her demons through humor. Making the rest of us think; taking risks, while exposing the King and his minions. She/he is/was/will remain an equal opportunity slayer. This is why the comic is loved/hated/despised, saying what the rest of us wished we could.

Now, before we get too far, a little bit about me. A lot of you might not know who I am. I am 32 years old, which is an odd age — 10 years too young to host this event, and 20 years too old for Roy Moore. I know, he almost got elected, yeah. It was fun. It was fun.

Honestly, I never really thought I’d be a comedian, but I did take an aptitude test in 7th grade, and this is 100% true. I took an aptitude test in 7th grade and it said my best profession was a clown or a mime. Well, at first it said clown, and then it heard my voice and was like, “Or maybe mime. Think about mime.

Poking the bear, the bully, then turning on the bully’s supporters before laughing at a beguiled audience who entered moments earlier, naively believing the role of the comic was to support them. The Press now mimics the executive branch, revoking the comics’ pass.  How sad is this?

No more comedians at the press dinner; smells a little too repressive to me.  Does the press association actually believe playing to totalitarian impulses doesn’t make them complicit in the behavior? “Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth”, seems to be the best way of explaining the Press’ reaction; standing for free speech until punched in the mouth, turning, running for cover; trying to make sense of this bold new-world, while the bully keeps punching; refusing to stand and fight, and punch the damn bully in the nose.  Turning on the court jester, blaming her/him; instead of supporting the jester for telling the truth about him – her – others.

Thanks to Trump, pink yarn sales are through the roof. After Trump got elected, women started knitting those pussy hats. When I first saw them I was like, “That’s a pussy?” I guess mine just has a lot more yarn on it. Yeah. You should have done more research before you got me to do this.

 

Good joke, bad joke, some hit, some don’t … comme ci comme ça… that’s my point. 

The press should understand the importance of the comic.  Comics invite the diversity of life into any room, telling tales in an apropos/in apropos manner, tone and tenor, particularly when the traditional outlets fail, causing the listener to believe they are forever one of us – even if they don’t know your Aunt Matilda from pooh.  So the Press Association slays the comic while a full-scale assault on the First Amendment and our rights takes place on the other side of the walls.  None of this makes sense to me.

Have they bothered to read Mark Twain, wasn’t he in part a comic? How about Benjamin Franklin, forever poking the bear – farting proudly – even though most of his life he was just as much part of the den as others.

Now, I worked in a lot of male-dominated fields. Before comedy, I worked at a tech company, and before that, I worked on Wall Street, and honestly, I’ve never been sexually harassed. That being said, I did work at Bear Stearns in 2008, so although I haven’t been sexually harassed, I’ve definitely been fucked. That whole company went down on me without my consent. And no men got in trouble for that one, either.

*        *     *

Count me as confused. Stupefied by a stupid decision, made in board rooms divorced from the rest of the world, looking at their bottom-line, hurriedly moving toward black limousines waiting out front, not knowing the driver is still laughing at Michelle Wolf’s routine, not listening to no damn books on tape, instead listening to what pissed them off so much, to the extent of killing the comic, her/his classmate. Shame on you!

You guys are obsessed with Trump. Did you used to date him? Because you pretend like you hate him, but I think you love him. I think what no one in this room wants to admit is that Trump has helped all of you. He couldn’t sell steaks or vodka or water or college or ties or Eric, but he has helped you. He’s helped you sell your papers and your books and your TV. You helped create this monster, and now you’re profiting off of him. If you’re going to profit off of Trump, you should at least give him some money, because he doesn’t have any.

 

JUST MUSING: “A little bit of random…”

If we as a society reward ingenuity, survival skills, certitude attributable to some quality other than pure luck, I firmly believe something is awry. Never, never, never have “it” – “they” – this “thing” needed anyone’s help to survive. Never appearing on any endangered species list; bounties be damned and even if subject to a bounty, the first hundred killed immediately supplemented by hundreds, thousands moving the dead, laughing at the futile effort, before disappearing into places we dare not imagine. Chemists remain befuddled, intimidated, refusing to admit failure. Lesser creatures appear on cans of insecticide – not them, no not them – to do so would constitute false advertising.

When outer-worldly event occur, not a problem; survivor of storms, plagues; any tragic events we do onto ourselves, remaining forever constant. Possessing magical abilities – first the antennae, looking here and yonder, serving sentry for others, out of the rubble, wounds; scattering hither. A good laugh is always heard, an evolutionary laugh is theirs, sacrificing a few in their exploration, conquest, survival; laughing all the while, consuming and defecating along their merry way. Through the undefined and dangerous muck, to live another day – yes they do, yes they do.

My wonderment you ask. Why has the ubiquitous cockroach been flat out ignored while honor has been bestowed on others. Never the favorite son or daughter in the populous states (California – dogface butterfly) (Texas – monarch butterfly) (Florida – zebra longwing butterfly) (New York – nine-spotted ladybug), nor in the least populous (Alaska – four-spot skimmer dragonfly) (Vermont – honeybee) (Wyoming – Sheridan’s Green Hairstreak Butterfly). The cockroach has been ignored. This should change.

Thou dost protest too much. No, no, I dost not.

I read recently there is a resurgence of horror movies in Movie Land. Without checking, I bet not one pays homage to the cockroach. Why not, they’re everywhere, Germany, Surinam, Australia, Madagascar, the African continent, Asia, Europe, the Americas. The person who screams “what’s that” is lying. They know what they saw, no matter their origin. Hollywood has been criticized for telling the same story, over and over again and for the documented failure to engage in a bit of diversity. Let me help on both counts.

Nothing scares the soul more than just one cockroach greeting you in your bed, moving from underneath, to the pillow, jumping gleefully off the bed – heard laughing (I swear to God they are laughing at us) – before escaping in a never seen crack. The movie producer would only have to take one take, only one, to scare the bejeebies out of every movie goer. Of course, everyone would refuse to go back again, moving from chair to a standing position, out the door; missing the ten thousand in the climatic shower scene. Alfred Hitchcock would be relegated to a bygone voice in history: The Birds – no one would ever be frightened again by a bunch of pitiful, squawking birds. The Psycho’s shower scene? – The actress would reach and grab a towel and leave early, spoiling the scene when she reads further down the script – ten thousand cockroaches will come up from the drain.

Pay tribute to the cockroach. Why not? Even if we were to accord them the honor -which is long due – no one is going to complain the trailer in movie reads, “All the cockroaches in the movie were real. All were exterminated and not released to the wild.” Even the cockroaches will laugh.  And PETA – People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals – expect them to be as quiet as a damn butterfly; which seems to be liked by so many states.

The other disclaimer: “All the makeup used on the actors/actresses was tested first on the unpaid, unappreciated cockroaches – didn’t hurt them a bit.”

And, Happy All Hallows’ Eve to you!

JUST MUSING: “Sometimes we break eggs along the way…”

Moving downward – reaching, grabbing – retrieving items from the basket, in order to place them on the conveyor belt. A practiced routine – daily, every other day, no particular, defined pattern – an imperfect routine, dependent more upon whim, a particular meal, a recipe. Grouping items in bunches, colors – perhaps controlled by a third eye, rationalizing the behavior over time – I am helping the cashier, the sacker. Maybe … maybe … maybe … I will admit one day my behavior is actually a testament to an attention deficient personality. Creams, butters, dairy in one group; vegetables and fruits in another; juices, water, paper products assigned to different space, assigned places on the belt – each separated by a perceptible, defined spacing.  Pretending not to care, caring, indeed caring.  Working silently, with due diligence, forever hoping the cashier, sacker, other customers would ever notice – much like life, until it becomes too much like life.  Grabbing the eggs, moving much too fast, erratic movement – slinging, a wide angle taken – causing the eggs to dislodge from the paper carton, onto the floor, the belt, seeing images – the appearance of the marbles of my youth, thrown in the circle prior to the participant, standing next to me, taking his turn.

I should have taken the eggs’ movement as a warning. If I was only so blessed, so possessed. I am not. I was not.

Perhaps a sign, a flashing light should have appeared.  I have read in a number of stories a light appears.  Defining movement of the sun – that day; the moon – that night, this too did not occur.  Telling animal behavior, moving from one field to the next, tell-tale signs of death, if we care to notice – none of these occurred this day.

Nothing to read, nothing to decipher; the events just happened – befell – tumbled out from the recesses, much like those eggs; tumbled over and out, breaking through, causing unexpected, deviant behavior.  My behavior:  moving out the door, walking twenty miles in the middle of the night, into the morning; texting back to the location left, explaining my behavior had nothing to do with anyone but myself. Seeing my father eyes, a harrowing history conveyed deep in the recesses of those exceptionally dark pupils, knowing he escaped and left us years before his death, to another world.  Seeing those eyes with each step, trying to remind myself of the promise I made during my youth, to never trudge in his path, that path, seeing his trail, step by step, inch by inch, dutifully I trudged. Controlled by one portion of the mind, instructing me to walk, while another part of the brain protested, telling me how silly I was; both watching me break every metaphorical eggs along the way.

Life is not perfect, never has been and never will be. If life was perfect, we wouldn’t have a reason to move to the next moment, hour, day, week; being able predict what awaits over the next hill is not at all comforting.  Never expressing emotions seems a rather dull existence. Absolutely, a little hint of what awaits is appreciated.  Some emotion is permissible. That moment, everything spilled out in abundance, in one fell swoop.

Breaking eggs, watching them tumble over and out, shattering. Engaging in an internal fight, trying to piece together emotions, fears, doubts with each step.  Pain radiating from the bottom of both heels; upward through both legs, arms; spreading out, before pooling – collectively – in the struggling and dueling spheres of the brain.

I expect some will never understand this muse.  Life for you may always be perfect; never a deviant movement, never too wide, eggs always remaining in place.  I get that.  I don’t get that.  All I can say – not in my world.

Listening to both voices, one saying walk, the other grabbing any article of clothing possible – holding, holding, holding – attempting to hold me in place – failing – following, silently out the door, onto the street, watching me swing widely, unexpectedly, breaking eggs along the way.  Knowing full well an emotional, internal struggle was playing out in full, living and glorious color.

No, I can’t explain fully why I broke – not now.  I can’t; emotionally I can’t.  I can assure you it was not because I was approaching another birthday.  Not because of the appearance of additional, graceful aging lines.  I will continue to admit my age.  I will continue to apply the supposed magical creams – so they tell us. They’re  magical, aren’t they?  I just can’t fully explain at this time. I pray admitting this much is sufficient, while I wipe, clean and pick up the evidence of the eggs spewed along the unexpected path. So I muse.