Category Archives: falling down
On falling down in Chicago
So, Friday night in downtown Chicago, on Michigan Avenue, I slipped and fell in a puddle of ice water. Now before you all make lots of jokes about how clumsy I am, imagine first the scene and circumstances: it was dark, raining, the temp was around freezing, there was a ton of traffic, and the city of Chicago had not cleaned up its corners. It was hazardous. I slipped on an invisible piece of ice that was camouflaged by bad lighting and lots of water. The good thing was that I did not stick out my hands to break my fall, that bad thing is my left elbow took a beating. My butt landed in a pool of icy water that broke my fall. It all happened in the blink of an eye, and all of sudden I was sodden and soaked and looking up into the Chicago night sky. I suspected I was hurt, but I popped up immediately, much to the horror of those standing over me. After a quick assessment of my graceless return to earth, I realized that although my elbow was really unhappy, the rest of me, though cold and soaked, was probably okay because my derriere gracelessly landed squarely in a puddle of ice water which had curiously reduced and deflected and absorbed the force of the fall. Though my pride was damaged and wet and cold, I decided to continue on to dinner. At the restaurant, they gave me a bag of ice for my elbow along with my risotto. I continue to recuperate. My elbow is bruised but healing, my soaked clothing has been dried, and my pride, well, I decided to leave a bit of that on Michigan Avenue.
On vacation
It comes around about twice a year: a moment when I don’t have to get up in the morning and go. That doesn’t sound like much, but after weeks on end of nothing but deadlines, meetings, and the rest, one really appreciates a little down time. For me, vacation is less about going to the beach, or climbing a mountain, or visiting a foreign country than it is having some time to myself when I can do what I want to do. This sounds a lot like complaining, but I’m not complaining. I love my job and when vacation is over, I’ll be right back in the saddle fixing problems, answering emails, and teaching class–happy, in other words. My problem, everyone’s problem probably, is that the day-in, day-out, stress of the routine starts to wear on the nerves after awhile. Breaking free of the office for a few days is, however, great for moral. Sometimes getting away from it all gives you that new perspective that will make everything easier when you return. That is why vacation is such a good thing to do. The daily grind can be a backbreaking routine that just sucks the life out of your spirit. Whenever I get the chance, then, I do something to break up the routine, and believe me, it makes everything a whole lot better. So this is my chance to catch a breath of fresh air, to do some things for myself, be creative, cook a little, take a long winter’s nap. I don’t need excitement or strange places, odd food or dangerous past-times. All I really need is a fresh log to throw on the fire and somewhere to rest my weary feet.
On vacation
It comes around about twice a year: a moment when I don’t have to get up in the morning and go. That doesn’t sound like much, but after weeks on end of nothing but deadlines, meetings, and the rest, one really appreciates a little down time. For me, vacation is less about going to the beach, or climbing a mountain, or visiting a foreign country than it is having some time to myself when I can do what I want to do. This sounds a lot like complaining, but I’m not complaining. I love my job and when vacation is over, I’ll be right back in the saddle fixing problems, answering emails, and teaching class–happy, in other words. My problem, everyone’s problem probably, is that the day-in, day-out, stress of the routine starts to wear on the nerves after awhile. Breaking free of the office for a few days is, however, great for moral. Sometimes getting away from it all gives you that new perspective that will make everything easier when you return. That is why vacation is such a good thing to do. The daily grind can be a backbreaking routine that just sucks the life out of your spirit. Whenever I get the chance, then, I do something to break up the routine, and believe me, it makes everything a whole lot better. So this is my chance to catch a breath of fresh air, to do some things for myself, be creative, cook a little, take a long winter’s nap. I don’t need excitement or strange places, odd food or dangerous past-times. All I really need is a fresh log to throw on the fire and somewhere to rest my weary feet.
On the Grinch
Many years later, while drinking coffee with me in Starbucks, Max sleeping quietly at our feet, the Grinch told me of the day that his heart grew bigger by five sizes. He liked having a name like Cher or Madonna, but it was hard as a youngster because he scared everyone. Though he smiles a lot now, back in the day when he stilled lived in his cave, he suffered from depression and was a prisoner to much darker thoughts than he cared to discuss. Living alone, he said, was a terrible thing and no one should live in complete isolation, especially during the holidays when his solitary ways seemed so much more bitter and lonely than they did the rest of the year. He and Max moved into Whoville that year, after the “incident,” and he took a job fixing musical instruments. After his story broke, though, and the television show came out, he only did the job so he could interact with others. Secretly, he was thrilled that Boris Karloff did his voice. What the cartoon did not really go into was the depth of his depression, the breadth of his isolation, or the blackness of his despair. Up to that point Christmas and its joy had been torture. In those bad old days, he had wept openly in bitter despair upon hearing the music come up the valley to his cave. He was supposed to be happy, but he wasn’t, and he couldn’t figure out why. He sipped his triple-caramel large macchiato (with a triple shot of espresso) and got whipped cream on his lip. He laughed and smiled. Max stirred under the table. He told me about his therapy, his anti-social behavior, and his eventual road to recovery–Dr. Geisel is a genius, he said. His book about depression, and the black hole of despair to which it drove him, will be out in the spring. He is the current mayor of Whoville and hasn’t been back to the cave in years.
On the Grinch
Many years later, while drinking coffee with me in Starbucks, Max sleeping quietly at our feet, the Grinch told me of the day that his heart grew bigger by five sizes. He liked having a name like Cher or Madonna, but it was hard as a youngster because he scared everyone. Though he smiles a lot now, back in the day when he stilled lived in his cave, he suffered from depression and was a prisoner to much darker thoughts than he cared to discuss. Living alone, he said, was a terrible thing and no one should live in complete isolation, especially during the holidays when his solitary ways seemed so much more bitter and lonely than they did the rest of the year. He and Max moved into Whoville that year, after the “incident,” and he took a job fixing musical instruments. After his story broke, though, and the television show came out, he only did the job so he could interact with others. Secretly, he was thrilled that Boris Karloff did his voice. What the cartoon did not really go into was the depth of his depression, the breadth of his isolation, or the blackness of his despair. Up to that point Christmas and its joy had been torture. In those bad old days, he had wept openly in bitter despair upon hearing the music come up the valley to his cave. He was supposed to be happy, but he wasn’t, and he couldn’t figure out why. He sipped his triple-caramel large macchiato (with a triple shot of espresso) and got whipped cream on his lip. He laughed and smiled. Max stirred under the table. He told me about his therapy, his anti-social behavior, and his eventual road to recovery–Dr. Geisel is a genius, he said. His book about depression, and the black hole of despair to which it drove him, will be out in the spring. He is the current mayor of Whoville and hasn’t been back to the cave in years.
On American Pie
You can go read the critical explanations of what Don McLean’s song, “American Pie,” is all about–Buddy Holly, Dylan, the Stones, the sixties, but I don’t think that most people think about those things today when they listen to the song. I imagine that most people think about lost loves, youth, music they loved, ideals, tragedy, religion, and a host of other associations which the broad metaphors and wide-open tropes of the song suggest. The beauty of the song does not lie in the exact meaning of each reference–the jester=Dylan–but in the voice that wants to tell a story about lost innocence and cynical experience. As adults we listen to this song, and some piece of it resonates with the things that have happened to us: a first girl friend, music, a pick-up truck, a glass of whiskey. What matters is that we listen to that voice which tells us that “for ten years, we’ve been on our own,” and we know that we are no longer young, no longer under the protection of our parents, no longer in the possession of our youthful ideals. We feel empty, rage, read too much bad news from our doorstep, seen too many widows on the nightly news. “American Pie” is about what is lost with age. This is the common experience which is shared with everyone who listens to the song. Each person fills in the blanks with the failures and losses in their own life. What makes the song special, however, what makes it stand apart from the pop music fluff of the seventies, is the song’s ability to evoke that period in everyone’s life when everything was lived so intensely, when everything was a drama, when you could still “kick off your shoes and dance,” when you still might wear a pink carnation. There is no remedy for the loss of innocence, and experience has taught us that although those high ideals we might have harbored in our youth were hot and burning, that life is a little easier to live without those preoccupations. Yet the loss of innocence is also a bitter affair when you realize how foolishly you acted, how unrealistic you were about the way the world worked, and how bitter experience can really be–“My hands were clenched in fists of rage.”
On American Pie
You can go read the critical explanations of what Don McLean’s song, “American Pie,” is all about–Buddy Holly, Dylan, the Stones, the sixties, but I don’t think that most people think about those things today when they listen to the song. I imagine that most people think about lost loves, youth, music they loved, ideals, tragedy, religion, and a host of other associations which the broad metaphors and wide-open tropes of the song suggest. The beauty of the song does not lie in the exact meaning of each reference–the jester=Dylan–but in the voice that wants to tell a story about lost innocence and cynical experience. As adults we listen to this song, and some piece of it resonates with the things that have happened to us: a first girl friend, music, a pick-up truck, a glass of whiskey. What matters is that we listen to that voice which tells us that “for ten years, we’ve been on our own,” and we know that we are no longer young, no longer under the protection of our parents, no longer in the possession of our youthful ideals. We feel empty, rage, read too much bad news from our doorstep, seen too many widows on the nightly news. “American Pie” is about what is lost with age. This is the common experience which is shared with everyone who listens to the song. Each person fills in the blanks with the failures and losses in their own life. What makes the song special, however, what makes it stand apart from the pop music fluff of the seventies, is the song’s ability to evoke that period in everyone’s life when everything was lived so intensely, when everything was a drama, when you could still “kick off your shoes and dance,” when you still might wear a pink carnation. There is no remedy for the loss of innocence, and experience has taught us that although those high ideals we might have harbored in our youth were hot and burning, that life is a little easier to live without those preoccupations. Yet the loss of innocence is also a bitter affair when you realize how foolishly you acted, how unrealistic you were about the way the world worked, and how bitter experience can really be–“My hands were clenched in fists of rage.”
On parking badly
It’s an old story: you arrive at your parking garage, ready to get to work, and someone, driving some behemoth of a vehicle, has parked badly enough to take up two parking spaces. I wonder if the challenge of parking between the lines is too much for some people. Is crappy parking a sign of rebellion? Are they thumbing their nose at authority? They not only did not make it between the lines, they are also parked in some cockeyed diagonal fashion which makes parking next to them impossible. I tend to shun parking anywhere near them for fear of getting my own car involved in their reckless ways. You look for another spot, but what should you do? Leave a note explaining to this careless person what a moron they really are for parking so badly? First, parking is not that difficult, so I am amazed when people find it so hard to do. Believe or not, I like order in my world and the lines in a parking garage are there to encourage people to park in an orderly fashion. Yet, on a daily basis I must face people parking badly. People park wonky, on the line, off-kilter, and they invalidate a spot next to them. What kind of mind can turn a blind eye to the order of the lines in a parking lot? How can they leave their vehicle precariously parked for the whole world to look at and wonder about their careless ways? Are they completely without shame?
On parking badly
It’s an old story: you arrive at your parking garage, ready to get to work, and someone, driving some behemoth of a vehicle, has parked badly enough to take up two parking spaces. I wonder if the challenge of parking between the lines is too much for some people. Is crappy parking a sign of rebellion? Are they thumbing their nose at authority? They not only did not make it between the lines, they are also parked in some cockeyed diagonal fashion which makes parking next to them impossible. I tend to shun parking anywhere near them for fear of getting my own car involved in their reckless ways. You look for another spot, but what should you do? Leave a note explaining to this careless person what a moron they really are for parking so badly? First, parking is not that difficult, so I am amazed when people find it so hard to do. Believe or not, I like order in my world and the lines in a parking garage are there to encourage people to park in an orderly fashion. Yet, on a daily basis I must face people parking badly. People park wonky, on the line, off-kilter, and they invalidate a spot next to them. What kind of mind can turn a blind eye to the order of the lines in a parking lot? How can they leave their vehicle precariously parked for the whole world to look at and wonder about their careless ways? Are they completely without shame?