Permanent State of Denial

Wednesday, September 2nd came and went a few days ago, without much fuss or fanfare. Just another entirely forgettable weekday, right smack in the middle of an equally forgettable work week. It was noteworthy only to me, as it marked the anniversary of my grand entrance into the world, my 36th trip around the sun. From my vantage point, I can throw a rock to 40. From 40, it's a reasonably short walk in my comfort waist Dockers, braided leather belt, and golf shirt to age 50. Once I have arrived at 50, I will be so preoccupied with lawn care, keeping the garage organized, and monitering my prostate health, that I will have scarcely noticed that an entire decade has passed, and am now on the doorstep of 60. I am certain I will spend the remainder of my 'golden years' driving to buffet's at 3pm with my blinker on the whole way, complaining that there hasn't been anything good on television since "30 Rock", and inexplicably incorporating words like 'revelrouser' into my daily vocabulary.

Dismiss it as a comical exaggeration if you will, but if the last ten years are any indication as to how fast the present can become our distant past, then, I am uncomfortably close to owning a Buick Le Sabre, and becoming the target audience for Depends commercials.

It's funny though, how our minds seem to lag decades behind our bodies in the aging process, ignoring the ever increasing stiffness, joint pain, and diminishing athletic skills, as if operating in some sort of permanent state of denial. We are not blind to the physical deterioration of others- athtletes, celebrities, even our peers. We might even derive a measure of enjoyment out of bantering over the reverse metamorphosis taking place for others. But somehow, our minds convince us that it's everyone else that's getting old, we however, are still in our prime.

I have yet to determine if this is solid proof that we were purposefully designed to live on indefinitely, or if it's simply a cruel byproduct of imperfection, that our bodies often give out long before our minds are willing to concede that inescapable reality.

Either way, I've decided to accept my station in life, and wear my age like a badge of honor. After all, I've seen my high school yearbook picture, and frankly, I am not the least bit interested in firing up the 'flux capacitor', and getting the DeLorean up to 88mph to relive the glory days. Because the truth is, for the vast majority of us who weren't All State quarterbacks, and varsity cheerleaders, there weren't any glory days. Sure, I had a kick ass poster of a Lamborghini Countach on the wall, and a major crush on a girl named Susan Sholly, but, guess what? I drove a 3 cylinder Geo Metro, and Susan Sholly ended up pregnant 3 years after high school. That's certainly not worth revisiting. Anybody want to trade in their copy of 'Anchorman' on BlueRay, for some old episodes of 'The facts of life', or 'Fall Guy' on Betamax? I certainly don't. And yes, I probably start alot of conversations now with the phrase-" I remember when..." but, damnit, reminiscing is fun, and a great way to keep dinner conversation lively, and avoid awkward silences. I am happily married now, but if I were to ever end up single again due to, say, an unfortunate hiking accident, or unexplained electrical fire, I think I have alot more game now than I ever did at 21. I couldn't close the deal with Susan Sholly in High school, but you'd better believe If she took one look at my sculpted physique now, and were exposed to the full force of my arsenal of sensuality and seduction, she would be powerless to resist. Or, perhaps I am still in denial.

No stops for the broken

Thick flakes pattered the windshield, muffling the mindless wipers. Inside the cab of the salt licked truck crisp air stirred only with his soft breath which was muted by the cold of the scant daylight. Lifeless eyes fought the beats and clatter of the pickup, piercing the white of the outside. A look of astonishment and abandonment scared his face, as the wisps of ghostly fields tacked and flickered in the windows like an old time cinema. The roll and dip of the meadows ventured a thousand times passed him unnoticed. Some dozen inches of snow that canvassed his driveway burped and gurgled under the tires as he slowed and came to a rest before a lonely house. A veil of winter buried the small home. What was once a chattering tree of the yard was silenced by the shortening days. The hum and stir of life, the pungent odors of spice and cinnamon yielded to the must of the rising frost. The colors of the fall had finally poured their last crimsons out as an offering to the ghostly long nights.

One salt charred door winced open. A thick boot dropped from the truck and sat still for just a moment. Mud mixed with ice crept up the laces of the sodden boots. He forced another leg from the truck, sitting cowardly as if grasping for a lost thought. One breathy sigh pushed through the high collard jacket tossing vapors through the cinched bulwark that shielded the frozen death. The clap of rusted metal startled the lone snow hare taping out its jagged trail in the distant fields. The pickup was behind him. Few wisps of hair tossed gently on his fleshy crown that poked through the collars and wraps. A man aged by life more then time fiddled with slurry of keys as he patiently made his way to a grey door of what was once a home. Despite the muted sensations of woolen hands he massaged the worn key that loosely fit the lock and tumbler to the house. For a moment the man swollen with the layers that preserved his life-giving warmth, stood before the door, before the home, before the emptiness that surrounded him. A pause, a low glance by his shoulder as if some silent specter caught his attention, a breath, and the crack of the opening door clapped in the silence only to be washed away by nature’s cold breath.

As the man step in and barracked the pains of the outside behind him, the hollow raised floor announced his arrival to a breathless house. Two griping stomps roared out despite the thatched doormats vein battle for silence. Only his tired feet where now free of the last vestiges of the preceding hours. As he pealed the moist jackets and mittens his true humanity peered bashfully upon a room as if expecting a warm salute. Without the edifice to shield the elements the bent, defeated shell whispered only the honesty of frailty, the ephemeral state of mortality.

Placing the final item of apparel patiently on a low standing bench before the door, he looked up for a first as if seeing a foreign dwelling. A moment passed and he remained unstirred. Finally a movement. He worked his way, now familiar with his surroundings in a reminiscent way, toward a lonely turntable. Chopin’s Ballade in G-minor lay waiting to talk to the still room, and the warm red woods of the walls seemed wanting, needing of the vitality the soul of music bestows. Click, he began the wobbled spin and lifted the arm looking for a place to set the needle, and then paused. Beside the meshed speakers still silent, looked on a simple portrait. The delicate austere frame complemented the chaste decor of the home. No ornament just necessity; a necessity that spoke for contentment. Broken charcoal still dry filled the fireplace. A simple couch evenly worn accompanied a small round table, just room for two. Warn spines of thumbed books nestled together on a shelf behind the turntable. But it was the portrait the defeated him. He stood as the record wore on as if holding on to time, yearning to bring the past forward with each silent turn. But it was not to happen this way.

The Needle tore across the record as the man wrapped twice on the low table the held the turntable. Opening clenched fist he pugnaciously slapped the records dial off and flung himself around. Looking as if to repair to the kitchen in haste he wobbled for a few tilted steps, as if intoxicated by the linoleums quaint flowers that tastefully distracted ones eye from the worn yet orderly appliances. Turning back slowly the fallen hazel eyes blinked once through the tufts of grey behind which they where sheltered. His continence shifted to shame, and he lifted the small portrait. Through his pale twisted reflection in the thin glass he could see two happy people. These people belonged to this home, and for a moment the man was lost, as if he made a mistake being here. His eye deepened as shadowy pools. The mans shoulders rose slowly. Silence, deep winter silence, sterilized the moment.

A lone clock in a distant room kept time as if to tease the man for his vitality. A sentient reminder of the shallow brooks of life, ever-changing, pulling some worn stones on and abandoning others. As the mans shoulders fell a knee bucked and he braced himself on the small couch. Lowering himself with one arm, his eyes remained faithfully fixed on the photo. And there he sat silent, bent as if crushed by an illusive weight, the weight of emptiness. Frail, alone, clutching only the delicately framed portrait another tick of the clock went unnoticed. Thick flakes pattered the windows of the house. Crisp air only stirred with his soft breath, which was muted by the cold of the death of daylight. The distant clock marched on as if to mock, sharing nothing with each incessant lunge of the hand but the inevitability that for him another moment would follow.

Shopping for men's dress shirts (Part 1)

So I’m in Macy’s the other day, looking for dress shirts that have the measurements I need (15 ½ - 34/35) and finally find a couple that have those readings. Perfect. I grab a couple from different companies, including Hugo Boss and Geoffrey Beene, and head to the dressing rooms just to make sure they fit right.

And here is where the reason for my post today begins. This is part 1, with part 2 coming in the future…

If you’re selling something, generally your goal is for it to be very easy for potential customers to see your product in action, and hopefully once this happens, the product will sell itself. For instance, if you were interested in purchasing an iPod, Apple has set up rows and rows of iPods within their stores so that you can see just how easy it can be for you to carry all of you favorite movies and music with you wherever you go. Imagine though, if Apple decided that instead of making it easy, they were going to require that you open all of the packaging for a brand new iPod, break out the USB wires, and sync it to a computer within their stores anytime you wanted to see how an iPod worked. They would never do this, right? And why do we know this? BECAUSE DOING SO WOULD BE FREAKING RETARDED! How would that encourage people to give their product a test drive? And yet, my friends, that is exactly what dress shirt makers like Mr. Boss and Mr. Beene have done.

Back in the mall dressing room, I’m quickly given the task of unwrapping this shirt I want to try on. Think about that for a minute. This dress shirt is wrapped in plastic. Why? Is it going to go stale if exposed to air for too long? Did Mr. Beene unwrap an individual piece of cheese one day and think to himself, “This screams class”? Why are dress shirts the only line of clothing that has earned being wrapped in plastic?

Once said dress shirt is unwrapped, get ready, because now the real work begins. And unfortunately if you don’t have an engineering degree from M.I.T., this next step may be more stressful than a day in the life of Jack Bauer. For whatever reason, the shirt has roughly 7 strategically placed sewing pins inserted into it. Why? Again, we can only guess. Was the shirt alive when you packaged it? Was that the only way to keep it from escaping while on its way to department stores across the country? Is there a safe house in Wyoming where escaped dress shirts can gather and live out their days peacefully, like the pre-cogs did at the end of Minority Report?

Seriously, they’ve taken more security precautions with this shirt than they did with the velociraptors at Jurassic Park. The whole experience makes me feel like a contestant on The Amazing Race trying to figure out the bus schedule in Cairo.

By the time you’re done you pray to god that it fits, because if it doesn’t, then you get to do the whole thing all over again with a different shirt. Well I refuse. In the past, I’ve been determined to find a shirt that fits, and end up going through this routine several times. But a man can only take so much. Eventually you will break. Inevitably I end up walking around like Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind. I see sewing pins that aren’t there. In ties, in shoes, in pineapples…they’re everywhere. Before you know it I’m having insightful conversations with Ed Harris about how the whole thing is the Russian's fault.

So please, can we stop treating new dress shirts like they're something sacred?

Right now you’re probably asking yourself 2 questions….1) What could part 2 of this tale possibly hold and 2) can ManBearPig possibly squeeze more pop culture references (4 so far) into this story than your average Talk Soup episode (5)? Stay tuned…

Notes from the end of the Bench

The headline reads “American with swine flu dies”. Initially the reader is to assume in all horror that the “Brigade” has claimed their first American victim. The panic should now begin!

I will give you time to compose yourself…

As you are calming down, lowering the brown bag to your side, I should inform you of two facts. First, this happened in North Mexico otherwise known as Texas. Second, which you can only find out after scanning through a poorly written AP article, “Texas health officials stopped short of saying that swine flu caused (her) death”… she actually had “chronic underlying health conditions”. That is a nice way of saying her immune system didn’t work so well.

The underlying problem here… where can the News be found? The above story appeared to report the News, but after further investigation it was a sensationalized title, they really just wanted me to be scared enough to click to read the whole article so that I could see the adds for “Hot” singles in My area. If it would have said “Women in a coma gives birth then dies”, they know I would have just moved right past it to read, “Scary moments on ‘Idol’”. But by making me think that I was in danger… they sucked me in.

Were has Walter Cronkite gone, or even Paul Harvey? I flipped through the network channels stopping briefly for a riveting weather report, no News there! Granted it looked vaguely like the News, but with E! Entertainment sensibilities. CNN, Fox News, ESPN, all over hyped agenda pushing blood hunters, all fear - no substance. The Newspapers are going out of business, and the internet is just a vast wasteland of ads and pop ups.

What will it take to make the news more, well, newsy? Has this been the reality all along? Will ManBearPig be sending his assistant to my office with breakfast? That’s the News I would like to hear!

Tribute to Alexander Solzhenitsyn...

A titan of Russian literature Alexander Solzhenitsyn passed on August 8th 2008. This is a tribute to his seminal work One Day In The Life Of Ivan Denisovich….

A Sum Greater Than The Parts?

What is a satisfactory conclusion to another mans summation? What place does the observer have in judging the vision of the artist? Under what pretext can the hearer judge the mind of the master? In so much as the infant cannot judge the method of his conception, so a man cannot sit from afar in the seat of arbitration, and weigh the worth of another mans conclusions. In Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s One Day In The Life Of Ivan Denisovich, the author cinches up his story like a rope, fastened tightly around the waist in place of a leather belt, with the conclusion, “A Day without a dark cloud. Almost a happy day.” But was his conclusion enough? Was it Satisfactory? This was Solzhenitsyn’s story, and like a line entry at the end of the day’s blotter, it is a reconciliation of his experience, the sum of real parts of his life. Although the specific abstracted contents of his narrative of twenty-four hours in a Siberian Gulag are fictional, the general circumstances are an intrinsic part of the character of the author. As Emerson said in regard the recounting of the past, “In proportion to the completeness of the distillation, so will the purity and imperishableness of the product be.” So pure is the distillation of Solzhenitsyn’s narrative that one cannot help but be intoxicated by its sincerity. Upon this precept any thinker is drawn to consider the parts that make up One Day In The Life Of Ivan Denisovich.

Francis Bacon once wrote, “Virtue is like a rich stone, best plain set” Virtue triumphs from amidst the thin walls of a ramshackle work camp in the form of a plain set man. In Solzhenitsyn’s narrative the Protagonist Ivan Denisovich or Shokhov as he is known, moves through the story at a deliberate gait. His actions, his words, his and character are not above par, they are not beyond reproach, yet they immortalize the virtues that can radiate from the depths of man. Ask of favors when in need, and repay just dues on time, can be seen in a borrowed pinch of tobacco. For work is what makes life, as sloth is poison to the soul, radiates from the vigor that seems imbued in the worn body of Shukhov. Solzhenitsyn’s triumph of the will over oppression plays out, not in melancholy pining, but rather the circumspect honesty, that even when striped of nearly all dignity life itself is good. There is no cynicism in Solzhenitsyn’s portrayal of Ivan’s virtue, wisps of satire maybe, but boldness is not often without some absurdity. Philip Rahv summed it up with some concision when he reflected, “the nature of man under extreme conditions of inhumanity, is treated unpretentiously, without despair or overt bitterness . . .” Any one who so chooses can see the virtue and triumph of man through Solzhenitsyn’s words.

“To have no regular work, no set sphere of activity, what a miserable thing it is? . . . Effort, struggles with difficulties? That is as natural to a man as grubbing in the ground is to a mole,” said Will Durant. So where the words of Schopenhauer, and so to the maxim presented by Solzhenitsyn. As we follow the day, the cold, the hunger, the exhaustion, there is one incubus that looms over the heads of all gulag prisoners like the sword of Damocles, that of the guardhouse. The isolation, inactivity, and punishment that could only add misery to the miserable. One would think that a break from the driven labor would be a welcome reprieve, but not with isolation, it was a potential sentence to eternal rest, welcome or not. The thoughts and fears of Shukhov highlight one of the greatest of human necessities: Activity. Despite the droning, white-washed images that accompany the labor camp, Solzhenitsyn’s drives home this point when he writes, “Shukhov went to sleep fully content . . . he’d built a wall and enjoyed doing it” This among his other gyrations and plodding made Shukhov alive, and as Rahv put it, “not merely a victim . . . but always a person” Again a pure distillation of truth that those of sloth may dismiss, and those of action applaud.

Another triumph of Solzhenitsyn’s narrative is the clarity of thought and universality of vision. The great Voltaire once spoke of his own writings, “like little brooks, which are transparent because they are not deep”. So to it is with Solzhenitsyn’s ideas. The manageable clarity lies in his reaching for touchstones that lie beyond the walls of politics and ethnicity. This is most plainly set forth in is frequent use of proverbial sayings. “You live with your feet in the mud and there’s no time to be thinking about how you got in or how you’re getting out”. “Work is like a stick, it has two ends”. Simple aphorisms free the narrative, give it truth, and bringing warmth to the frostbitten pages. The beauty of the English version also rests in the translation. Pithy sayings heard often are like the slap that so quickly looses its sting. These Russian proverbs though, as cleverly communicated to english, blow moisture into frigid minds, leaving one with lessons that edify the soul. The simplicity also hones the symbology. Although the novella does not reek of ideology, this temperance only poorly masks Solzhenitsyn’s inclination when he makes expressions such as, “A genius doesn’t adapt his treatment to the taste of tyrants!” The statement he is trying to make is only there to the hearing ear, but is a clarion call for reformation to the listeners.

So the question: is Shukhov final observation, “A day without a dark cloud. Almost a happy day” a satisfactory ending? The answer from the prospective of this reader is no, this is not a “satisfactory” ending, it is Solzhenitsyn’s ending. There is not a question of satisfaction that be put to consideration. Place the words of a fellow gulag zek along those of Solzhenitsyn’s and a comparison could be drawn; Interview a guard banished to Siberia and incite could be had; read and reread this work and greater depth and understanding could be gleaned. Never though could one rightfully judge how satisfactory the conclusion is; a summation that a man has drawn from the necessarily private interpretation of eight years of dreary existence in a Siberian Work Camp. Possibly if a great thinker had trodden day by day astride him, then there would be substance to merit an opinion. Even then a judgment would be shallow, as private thoughts that motivated this reflective summation are beyond critique. An Arabian proverb says, “A fig-tree, looking on a fig-tree, becomes fruitful” So too as naive readers are graced for a day by the company of Ivan Denisovich, they see, feel, touch, images, and a time as remote as the Siberian Wilderness. One can hope to earn a morsel from the lessons learned, and not attempt to slap at the piercing icicles of Solzhenitsyn’s insight. One can be warmed by this Russian author’s sum of the chipped pieces of a broken life; a sum that is a pure distillation of the spirit of man; a sum only as great as our hearts.

We pigs have had enough. Phase 1 of new world order now in full swing.

For eons of time, man and pig have been involved in a one sided relationship. One sided in that we pigs get to watch our entire family slaughtered and eaten by you, eventually experiencing this fate ourselves. While man enjoys consuming every last bit of us. Not what you would call a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Think about it, what part of the pig body do you not consume? You even found a way to eat our feet. And let me stop you before you blurt out a certain body part you think you don’t consume with a simple, delicious reply…sausage.

But while you were busy adding bacon to your hamburgers, ham to your omelets and sausage to your pizzas, you also started to degrade the very animal that was giving you so much pleasure. If someone is a messy individual, you refer to him simply as a “pig”. If you’re greedy and selfish, that person is labeled a "hog". In a book about a pig befriending a spider, then doing the stand up thing and raising one of the spider’s kids when the mother dies, the book’s title mentions only the spider. You tried to make it up to us years later with Babe, but it was too little, too late.

Attempts at this sort of thing have been made before. But where mad cow disease and avian flu failed, we will not. Only when you realized just how powerful our group is did you start to refer to us as “swine”, rather than the derogatory pig. Egypt is even going all "Herod" on us, commanding all pigs in the country be destroyed. Again, too little too late. Since you are now powerless to stop us, it is best for you to sit back and await phase 2. It will be swift. It will be just. The time is now.

Sincerely,


Pig Brigade


P.S. – The prophecy said there would be a black President when pigs fly. Well what do you know? One hundred days in and a Swine Flu! Sorry, that’s a little pig humor. Enjoy Dying!

Things to Do List

Dennis DiGiorgio's Things to Do List - March 09'

* Purchase subwoofers for new truck.

* Discuss pros/cons of lifting versus lowering new truck. Make decision, and act quickly.

*Purchase tickets for 3 day weekend in Belize.

*Pick up left shoe and belt from Taylor's.

*Call carpet cleaners, ask If they have something strong enough to remove party induced vomit from fabric.

*Continue working on new public talk outline- need more graphicly violent illustrations.

* Go to tanning salon-( if spotted, just tell them I am heading to the Subway next door.)

*Add songs to Ipod Elsinore playlist

*Assemble boat load of bikini clad ladies for wakeboarding day trip. (Note- make sure everyone brings their student ID's )

* Decide how to spend wad of cash found in pocket of seldom worn jeans.

*Start 'lemonade diet'. Have to lose those pesky 3lbs I've gained and get into prime "river shape".