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Oh the Treasures to Be Found in the Wee, Small Hours of the Morning

 

Where to begin. It’s 1978. Jimmy Carter is in the White House. The disco hit Boogie Oogie Oogie has us shaking our booties till we just can’t boogie no more. Streaming services are something offered only by a urologist. And yours truly is a wide-eyed 17-year old luxuriating in the endless summer between high school graduation and the start of college.

 

Having been sprung like a jailbird from the confines of Henninger High School in Syracuse, NY, I felt the dizzying freedom an inmate must feel after serving their sentence and being released into the good graces of society. I had served my sentence – 12 long years (as opposed to the “short” ones?). And I believe I served my sentence with some distinction and even got time off for good behavior since I graduated after the 11^th grade (woo-hoo!).

 

This rite of passage complete, any future schooling would be pursued on my terms. I would no longer be a burden to society. In the future, it would be a burden on me. But for now I was happy to navigate in this once in a lifetime twilight zone between high school and college. It seemed bizarre that having dearly earned the sweet release from mandatory public schooling and its free education, I would now immediately plunge voluntarily right back into it, and even pay my own way for the privilege. God works in mysterious ways, and so does higher education.

 

I mention all this by way of establishing set and setting for what was to be my 1978 Summer of Otherworldly Delights. It was a pleasantly disruptive time for me. One I looked forward to with dizzying anticipation. Up until this point in my life I’d always known what I’d be doing the next year. My GPS had come from the factory with the route of my formative years all mapped out till graduation, upon which it uttered the now commonplace phrase, “You have arrived?”

 

Really? That was it. That was the journey. Someone or something thinks I have arrived? Well OK boomer. Freed from the restraints of compulsory education, I could now plug in the GPS coordinates of my choice and travel there as I saw fit. This is the freedom everyone so dearly seeks. This is what it felt like in 1978. My choices would be limited only by my imagination and, of course, that sabotaging little voice inside that reminds you, “Oh, you couldn’t possibly aspire to that.”

 

 

Four Foremost Factors, Poorly Ranked 

Long term I didn’t know what would occupy me, but in that short term summer I had fertile little plans gestating happily in my still maturing frontal lobes. First and foremost there would be, “no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers dirty looks.” In truth school wasn’t that bad, but I was glad the compulsory part of it was over and I was ready to move on.

 

Second and not foremost, I would work. Circumstances were such that I could be productively plugged into gainful employment whenever I chose to work (which was often) at our family glass and mirror business. A business my divorced, disinterested and dithering dad ran with all the aplomb of a dust bunny. I had developed a fondness for its mom and pop retail charms as well as an appreciation of its minor commerce with major players like Carrier, Conrail and GM’s Terex heavy equipment division. Anyway, the upshot of my unexceptional work ethic was that I enjoyed my time with dad and always had a little walkin’ around money. 

 

Third and still not foremost, the “little plans” that I mentioned included one big plan. A strange and wonderful plan catalyzed by my new found freedom and a penchant for out-of-this-world experiences. I resolved to dissolve into the nocturnal abyss and share in the treasures to be found in the wee, small hours of the morning. This would be undertaken in the still of the night within the eerie confines of nearby and dear by Sunnycrest Park.

 

Fourth and kinda foremost without actually being foremost, my other plans that summer included playing pick-up basketball games, visiting with friends and moving my mother out of our top floor flat at the end of August when I was off to college and she off to a posh one bedroom apartment closer to her work in downtown Syracuse. With mommy lacking any extra rooms, and daddy sleeping on a cot and living in the back of the glass shop and unable to provide adequate shelter for anyone (not even himself), the umbilical cord was cut and I was now an emancipated child at 17. Read the rest of this entry »

1. 

   Ship Happens.
   Keel with it!

   Sank You Very Much – Great ship but usually found at the bottom of the ocean

2. Heroine On Board – The Coast Guard is always stopping this ship owned by Wonder Woman Gal Gadot
3. The Lima, the Piñto and the Santa Garbanzo – Sailed by Christopher Legumebus
4. LGBT QE2 – That is one royal party ship
5. The USS Raymond Burr – The other “Old Ironside”
6. HMS Brawny – Sister ship to the HMS Bounty
7. HMS Corgi – Sister ship to the HMS Beagle
8. Andriadorable – Way cuter than the Andrea Doria
9. The Lucidtania – A clearer thinking version of the Lusitania
10. What’s Your Cap Size – Worst double entendre ever
11. Titanic II – With Global Warming there are very few icebergs to avoid
12. Listing Heavily – Corporate ship of Craig’s List

People never have to leave home now. They can be home-birthed, home-schooled and work from home. They can have meals and groceries home-delivered.

If they get sick – homeopathy.

All their friends – homies.

All their hits – homers.

They can even visit the Great Outdoors by sitting on their ovens where they’re Home, Home on the Range.

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.

1. New England Damn Chowder – Favorite soup of Tourette sufferers
2. Cyrillic Alphabet Soup – It’s Greek to me
3. Split Bee – It hear it gives you a buzz
4. Chicken Poodle Soup – Made only from poodles who were euthanized
5. Vicious-soise – A stone cold soup made from really mean potatoes
6. Gaznacho – Another cold soup of congealed cheese and tomato
7. Maxistrone – When minestrone just isn’t enough
8. Italian Wedding Soup/Italian Divorce Soup – These soups have you coming and going
9. Dense Onion Soup – It’s a French Onion Soup, you just can’t get through to
10. Me So Soup – This soup is all about you. Also called Narcissisoup.
11. No Alarm Chili – Chili for white folk
12. Lobster Disc – A hard shell, hard drive programmable bisque

1. Walla Walla, Washington now Stuttgart Stuttgart, Washington
2. Shakespeare’s birthplace now Stuttgart-upon-Avon
3. Muslims would now make their annual pilgrimage to Stuttgart.
4. Plane ticketing would be very tricky, but at least you’d never land in the wrong city
5. More conversations would sound like this:

Where you from?

Stuttgart.

Really! Me too.

5. Truth or Consequences, NM now Stuttgart or Stuttgarts, NM
6. Bombay, India now Mumstuttgart, India
7. The Sinatra hit New York, New York now New Stuttgart, New Stuttgart
8. Conversation:

So where have you lived?

Well I was born in Stuttgart, but I was an Army brat so we pretty much moved from Stuttgart to Stuttgart

9. Conversation:

We honeymooned in Stuttgart Falls.

Oh, it’s beautiful there. That’s near Stuttgart isn’t it?

No, you’re thinking of the one on the Canadian side.

     10. A Gambler’s Complaint:

I’m so pissed off about the World Series. I can’t believe Stuttgart beat Stuttgart. I mean Stuttgart had all the players and yet Stuttgart still won. I hate Stuttgart.

      11. Reworked city of Rome phrases:

Well, Stuttgart wasn’t built in a day

When in Stuttgart do as the Stuttgartans do

All roads lead to Stuttgart

       12. And finally, Fairbanks, Alaska would still be a miserably cold place to live in

As they say, “There’s a lot to unpack here.” But my stuff will never get unpacked. How can it? I have way too much baggage. You too? I thought so. I’m not worried though and neither should you, because eventually it all gets put in its place. Fraught, little David may experience pangs of free floating anxiety at his mountains of baggage to be dealt with, but serene, knowing David is completely equanimous about his barrage of baggage. More baggage, I might add, than can be found on Carousel 8 at LAX International Terminal after an Airbus 380 unloads its baggage hold for its 525 passengers. That’s a lot of baggage and a lot to unpack. So let’s start.

 

You may wonder how you produced so much baggage to begin with. I mean you were just going for one lifetime on planet earth. It was advertised as a 28,000 day, 27,999 night, no expense paid trip to the 3^rd rock from the sun, but somehow you managed to pack enough for 3 lifetimes. And now you’re stuck with all this baggage. And because of the profligate manner in which you spent your onboard ship credits (Free Will), you managed to produce a whole other lifetime of karmic baggage. You forgot rule number one: when you’re in a hole, stop digging. Well at least you were smart enough to avoid the Time Share sales pitch. You were smart enough to avoid that right? Don’t tell me you’re going to do a 2-hour Time Share sales pitch – well, more baggage for you. I just think you could’ve invested your time more wisely.  

 

This idea of “stop digging” is akin to the doctor’s creed of “First do no harm.” And as this pertains to the traveler’s journey here on earth the creed should be, “First, just bring what you need – which is nothing. Well nothing but an open heart and a closed mouth. And stop producing more baggage. Jesus Christ! Can’t your stuck mind be a little more flexible?” We wish it was that easy. But who among us isn’t guilty of trying to shape our world to suit us and consequently produce more baggage than Samsonite does in a year.

 

Oh, d-d-dear. What’s to be done about all this unbidden baggage? It feels like there are 1200 separate Pandora’s Boxes in my head. Who would want to open them, let alone unpack them? Let’s examine quickly the schemes and plans I’ve hatched to rid myself of unwanted baggage: Maybe Goodwill will take it. Maybe if I ignore it, it will just go away. Maybe if I get rich enough I can distract myself for an entire lifetime so I don’t really notice my challenges while I focus on fun stuff like writing clever little essays or choosing just the right tone for my spray tan or binge-watching Real Housewives of Cell Block H – Yuk! In all cases, never underestimate the power of distraction.    Read the rest of this entry »

1. Imaginary Friends Support Group – It’s not who you know, but who you think you know
2. Massagynist Anonymous – Support group for men who rub women the wrong way
3. Leaf Blower Awareness Association – Just in case you weren’t aware enough
4. Alcoholics Specifically Named – Life is too short for anonymity. Go public or go home.
5. American Fart Association – This group stinks. However it’s very popular with 6-year olds
6. The Why Are We Always 6^th on the List Support Group – So predictable
7. The Because We’re 7^th On the List Support Group – So after the fact
8. PTSD – Pre Traumatic Stress Disorder support group for worriers who are traumatized by things that haven’t happened yet
9. 9¾-Step Recovery Program – For people who simply don’t have the time for a 12-step recovery program or just really like Harry Potter
10. Agoraphobic Hermits LTD – This group pretty much keeps to itself. No meetings, no roster, no nothing. “Minding our own business” is their rallying cry.
11. The Useless Thoughts and Prayers Support Group – This group really tries to be sincere
12. Dealing with Real Depression – A self-help group for people who live below sea level
13. The Club for Trying to Read the Tattoos on Black People – I think they’re getting ripped off. Maybe artists should use white ink
14. Adventurers Who Plan to Conquer the North and South Pole – It’s the new bipolar
15. Polar Bears Who Go Both Ways – It’s the even newer bipolar
16. LGBTQ? with ADHD – Support group for people of letters – many letters
17. Undereaters Anonymous – Not an organized group, but comprises about 25% of the world nonetheless
18. The Alliance to Prevent Total Eclipses of the Heart – Only Bonnie Tyler is eligible

Drawing from their rich tradition of shunning modernity while embracing simplicity the Amish community has opened a 666-acre family fun park called The Amish Amusement Barn. Hoping to win converts to their joy of sober merriments, Church Elders say they raised this Barn as an analog antidote to today’s digital distress. Church Youngers say it puts the “fun” back in fundamentalism. Contrary to the generally positive inhouse reviews, Church traditionalists lament, “We have visited this so-called Amusement Barn – and we are not amused.”

For purposes of writing a review (full disclosure: This review was underwritten by Famous Aimish Chocolate Chip Cookies – a division of Mennonite Industries) yours truly visited this proper paean to God-given fun. And in keeping with the sentiments of the Amish community, this review is written by candlelight on a typewriter while sipping on some mead. I hereby submit the following review:

The Amusement Barn bespeaks good, clean fun the way God meant it to be pre-Garden of Eden – i.e., tempting, but not too tempting. And with a janitor to visitor ratio of 1:5 this Amusement Barn is a classic case of cleanliness being next to Godliness.

The park seems to be from a bygone era. But as wary visitors begin to participate in the Amusement Barn’s rides, games and reveries, they find themselves transformed from a nervous Nellie in digital distress to a serene Solomon in analog rapture as the yoke of modernity is lifted from their weary shoulders. That’s how I see it anyway. But maybe that’s just the mead talking.

Located deep in Mennonite country, where men are Mennonites and women are Womennonites, The Amish Amusement Barn begins to reorient their guests immediately upon arrival with visitors parking at a staging area about 1 mile from the Barn. From there they’re whisked away in an enchanting little horse and buggy driven by authentic Amish teamsters. As your stately open air conveyance gently jostles you on its journey to this Mecca of merriment, anxieties begin to melt away to the extent one hardly notices the 40 ton 18-wheelers rumbling by on the interstate at 70 mph, not 3 feet from the buggy.

Read the rest of this entry »

In a move piggybacking on the popularity of its Hall of Animatronic Presidents, the Disney Co. announced a new attraction – The Hall of Stationary Bowling Pins. Disney hailed the new exhibit as a great way for haggard park guests to hit the reset button – especially if someone has just knocked down all the pins. In a fickle world of short attention spans and immediate gratification, the Hall’s celebration of Zenlike joy in promoting the quiet veneration of stationary bowling pins seems a risky bet – especially when set against thrill-seeking clientele expecting the exhilarating sprays of Splash Mountain.

 

The hushed museum quality of this static exhibit is as dialed down as they come. And yet, however counterintuitive it may be, this retro-move seems to have struck a nerve with parkgoers. And this strike has carried over to the bowling pins. For example, many visitors were overcome with emotion after viewing the shrine and commented how strange it was that something so very stationary, could also be so very moving. Go figure.

 

Visitors to this shrine can expect to swap out their shoes at the service desk in order to walk on the hallowed hardwood floors. And once inside the hall, patrons are asked to stay in their assigned lane and to keep their minds out of the gutter. Visitors are invited to commune with, and observe these proudly erect stationary pins. Some say they can even experience a pinsetters pride while gazing upon these 10 triangularly displayed pins in all their imperturbable glory.  

 

They’re all there: The kingpin, the 7-pin and that rascally 10-pin. See them all spotlighted one by one in their unpainted, undifferentiated and motionless glory – standing at attention and bathed in patriotic light. The bowling pins possess a Presidential eminence despite betraying no movement, no speech and just the thinnest personification beheld in these wooden monoliths. They’re a lot like Calvin Coolidge that way. Keglers sometimes spend the whole day here, buffing there balls and dining on chili dogs at the 11^th Frame Snack Bar.

 

Solemnly situated next to the stationary display is the venerated Tomb of the Unknown Bowling Pin. This orphaned and unidentified pin is resting fittingly in an old alley. As befits its status, the Tomb of the Unknown Bowling Pin is dutifully guarded 24/7 by an active-duty Pinsetter squatting at attention and resplendent in a crisp, camouflage bowling shirt. Rain or shine, the elaborate Changing of the Pinsetter ceremony is a well-attended, somber occasion played out every 2 hours or every 300 game – whichever comes first. They say whenever there’s a Changing of the Pinsetter at the Tomb of the Unknown Bowling Pin, you can hear a pin drop.  

 

After emerging from the exhibit, Marty Cliché remarked, “The Hall of Stationary Bowling Pins is right up my alley. The entire experience just bowled me over. It strikes me as a great place to spend spare time.”

 

The Hall has not been without controversy with some calling it a pagan idolization of inanimate objects. This anti-bowling group would like nothing other than to see this Mecca to False Idols knocked down and scattered to the winds while the PBA (Professional Bowlers Association) strenuously disagrees saying, “Whomever shall knock down these pins has gotta have balls.”