American Fez

Luck and Its Discontents

Wending my way to work yesterday, I determined to donate three dollars to the homeless man selling his dreary newspaper, Spare Change News, near my local bus stop.

I even removed the money from my wallet beforehand, stuffing it into a jacket pocket so I wouldn't need to fumble around selecting bills when he asked me if I was interested in the latest issue. I'm not interested but I think he deserves something for his efforts.

He was deep in conversation with a skateboarder when I arrived at his sidewalk stump. I didn't want to appear ostentatious by interrupting and grandly handing the guy my three dollars, so I kept on walking. Tomorrow, I thought. I'll present him with the cash tomorrow.

Of course, he wasn't there this morning. Apparently running behind whatever poor excuse he has for a schedule, I saw him shuffling up with his block of grimy newsprint as the bus pulled away. That's twice he's missed out on my three bucks in two days.

Perhaps my act of charitable giving is not meant to be. Or is it his charitable receiving that's out of sync with the world?

My money is on the latter. I might as well place a bet with it, after all, since it's obviously just going to languish in my pocket otherwise.

Who knows? Maybe I can double our stake. But I won't ask the homeless man to visit the bookmakers with me. Fortuna doesn't seem to like him very much and I try to stay on the right side of Lady Luck whenever possible.

Culture Squabbles

Whenever I read about the so-called culture wars in a blog or periodical (because I never hear about them in everyday life), my concentration drifts inexorably towards the infinitely more interesting War of Jenkins' Ear by the second paragraph or so.

Most of the arguments, after all, whether liberal or conservative, appeal to similar emotions as those elicited by parading an ear severed in Florida around the Palace of Westminster in London. In other words, to paraphrase the sensible logic of the much-maligned Neville Chamberlain, the culture wars are a "quarrel in a far away country between people of whom we know nothing."

That's not entirely true, of course. The tiny congregation of practicing Christians I do know are nicest people you could ever wish to meet. They are absolutely nothing like the hellfire loudmouths I read about in the Boston Globe. Similarly, the small coterie of gays I know have zero interest in sexual politics. As far as I'm aware, none of these people would take sides in a culture war. Like most people they simply want to be left alone to get on with the already very complicated business of getting through the day.

One of these aforementioned blogs I read contains a post about how the conservative side has apparently "lost" its culture war. Of course, you can only win or lose a war if you admit to fighting one. Nevertheless, I would pay good money to witness the pompous charade of Roger Kimball surrendering his pen to George Clooney on the deck of USS Hollywood.

Then I'd go home and read Thomas Traherne while listening to the ambient sounds of Aphex Twin: a well-matched marriage of words and music across the centuries despite their cultural differences.

Presidential Campaign Update In Pictures

Your visual guide to the animal kingdom's brutal and disease-ridden migration to the stagnant watering hole we call the White House

The Republican Candidates

The Democratic Candidate

Outlier Candidate

The Truth About Trees

A tree died for that, said the cashier when I asked for a paper receipt. 

It's a smug phrase implying, at least it seems to me, that the tree voluntarily gave its life for my accounting records like some sort of leafy Messiah; a self-sacrificial elm, perhaps, that fell willingly in the forest so I could present something to the taxman. 

Complete nonsense, of course. No tree gives a shaggy scallycap about my financial requirements. The orchard is a stranger to my line item deductions. The arbor is deaf to my charitable write-offs. 

Trees don't die for anything: we are forced to take their lives with axe and saw. It's just their bad luck they are rooted to the spot and cannot run away.

What's In A Name

"Depend on the rabbit’s foot if you will, but remember: it didn’t work for the rabbit."

So counsels R. E. Shay, of whose wit, wisdom and other writings I know absolutely nothing else. I don't even know what his initials stand for. 

Randolph Ernest? Rupert Egbert? Raphael Ectomorph? Rinaldo Elephantine? Perhaps he was simply christened R. E? Who knows? Who cares?

Anyway, whatever his name is, he's wrong about the rabbit's foot.

It's quite possible, for instance, the lucky rabbit's foot has been cut from an ancient rabbit who died of natural causes after living an extremely full and varied life to a ripe old age thanks to his own lucky paw.  

Or perhaps the rabbit suffered from advanced myxomatosis, a living death from which he was mercifully released by a serendipitous and painless accident in the winter thanks to that lucky paw.

Suffice it to say, once again, on a further inspection, what appears to be a humorous quote grounded in incontrovertible commonsense turns out to be merely pithy nonsense.

Ladies ad gentlemen: I give you Rhetorically Erroneous Shay. 

The Paragraph of Disquiet

Their embarrassing biological function; their inclusion as a doubtful ingredient in a popular British savory pie; their infamous availability as black market contraband cut from a drugged victim in a cheap motel bathroom: I cannot hear the word "kidneys" whispered without cringing. In fact, I would not be surprised to learn from Gray's Anatomy that one of this queasy-sounding organ's bodily responsibilities is to literally chill the spine ... Kidneys. Ugh!

Austerity Begins At Home

Being merely small daily savings, most of my economies are not really worth making. It's just money not spent: a handful of pocket change here, a few dollars bills there. My economies certainly don't add up to riches beyond the dreams of avarice. In fact, they don't even equal half a wink of one eyelash of the dreams of avarice after a heavy meal on an especially sleepy night. 

After a year of self denial, I still couldn't afford a vacation cruise with the money I'd save by not buying a Starbucks coffee each day. Such a meagre savings would barely cover the cost of the gas I'd use driving across town to see my travel agent. So what's the point exactly? I could forgo the maple frosted scone as well, I suppose, but even that sacrifice would only get me as far as Canada in steerage class.

Alas, I have no luxuries to give up: no exclusive golf club membership to cancel, no prized collection of Victorian urinal decoration to sell on eBay, no auto-renewable subscription to Gentleman of Leisure to suspend, no charitable sponsorship of an African irrigation project to abandon. So there's no ready cash to be accumulated by abstention and temperance, either.

This must be how Greece feels. Except, of course, I guess Greece can always go on a vacation cruise of itself. Unless I jump in the middle of a lake I'm pretty landlocked. Also, I'm not as interesting nor as attractive as the Aegean islands and my personal seafood scene is negligible to say the least.