American Fez

When The Final Trumpet Blows

Before you are called to the Last Judgment, there will be a Penultimate Judgment to be faced. This is a preliminary trial adjudicated by all the wise men whose advice you heard but didn't follow, all the authors whose books you held but didn't read, all the freedom fighters whose struggle you witnessed but ignored. They might be prejudiced against you. Take care.

Imagine Cicero examining your unread copy of the Penguin Portable Cicero, your bookmark still wedged between pages one and two: Exhibit A in the case against. Let's hope John Bunyan doesn't show up with all those Bibles from motel bedside drawers that you always scoffed at. It will be like arriving for a job interview only to discover that a member of the panel is the road hog you aggressively flipped off a mere twenty minutes earlier.

The courtroom of the Penultimate Judgement is decorated with the works of Hieronymous Bosch, a painter who infamous Garden of Earthly Delights depicting the tortures of the damned you gazed at for a bare two minutes when visiting the Prado. Sure, there was an impatient line of people behind you. But that's no excuse for spending so small amount of time with such a masterpiece. Admit it, you were anxious to move on Bosch's tiny triptych and see that large dramatic painting of Saturn devouring his son by that artist whose name you can never remember. Which might be a problem because there's a man like Goya could be a member of the jury.

So I think you're going to have to throw yourself upon the mercy of the court. Plead guilty to being a philistine and an ignoramus. It's your only hope. After all, Jesus is always a sucker for a sad face and I'm sure Plato will take pity on you. They will give you a 'Pass,' or at least what medieval minds called an 'Indulgence.' 

But if found guilty and condemned you should lodge an appeal. Similar to Earth law, the Heavenly process takes an eternity, so buy yourself some time in the celestial waiting room. Just you and a grubby seven-year-old issue of National Geographic until the final trumpet blows. Oh, come on. It's not so bad. And it's not like you would read anything else anyway. You wouldn't be there otherwise. 

Travel Broadens The Mind

My carry-on travel bag features an exterior side pocket that I almost never use. Too insecure for important documents, too flimsy for mobile devices, too small for a book, the pocket has no discernible purpose. It seems like an afterthought the designer stitched on after discovering a sliver of fabric remaining on their workbench. 

I do recall slipping a pair of expensive sunglasses into the pocket when boarding a flight, which were subsequently cracked in half when I accidentally stepped on them clambering back into my seat after visiting the bathroom. And I once stuffed a granola bar in the pocket, apparently, although I have no recollection of that action or purchasing the granola bar. In fact, the only reason I know about the granola bar is that I've just found it in there. 

God knows how long it's been lurking in such secret seclusion. Did I buy it when we went to Italy last year? Or London the year before that? Vegas for work? New Mexico? Spain? The incident with the sunglasses was six years ago, so at least I can be sure the granola bar is no older than that.Fortunately, it was in good shape, too, with no signs of bulbous, fuzzy fungus straining to break through the still intact wrapper. So a Hazmat suit and robotic pincer arms were not required to remove it from the bag. Such are the advantages of artificial nourishment.

I often find amounts of paper money in my trouser pockets when sorting laundry but this is the first time I've come across food, and I have to say its discovery is nowhere near as exciting as pulling out a handful of surprise cash. I guess I'd feel differently if I were hungry, stranded in a deserted airport in the middle of the night. After all, such a desperate contingency is the only reason I can imagine for buying a granola bar, especially one that is yogurt coated. 

Which means I must have been paranoid at the moment of acquisition, which means I must have been flying US Air, which means I was on my way to New Mexico, which means the granola bar is approximately three years old and has traveled to four different countries as a stowaway in my luggage. Which means I'm starting to feel closer to the granola bar than I did at first, almost as if it's a faithful companion, a bosom buddy with whom to share our timeless memories of thrilling adventures in distant lands. Good old granola bar, my chewy St Christopher. 

And so I drop the granola bar back into the side pocket of my carry-on travel bag, the pocket that I always use even if I was unaware of such utility until today. The plan is Florida in May, then Portugal in September. Perhaps we'll take a selfie in Sintra. Unless, of course, there's some new draconian TSA law against transporting out-of-date snacks across international borders. You never know these days.

The Darling Beads of Creation

"Genius is one percent inspiration, ninety-nine percent perspiration," according to haughty inventor Thomas Edison. While this may be true of aligning cogs, greasing gears and screwing experimental light bulbs into position, I fail to see how it applies to other fields of creative endeavor.

It is hard to imagine, for example, Shakespeare's balding brow breaking into rivulets of pouring sweat while seated at his desk, quill in hand, thinking of a rhyme for his latest couplet. Blank verse is not easy to master, but its composition does not usually dampen the armpits of the poet. 

In fact, I'd say that the completion of Hamlet required one hundred percent inspiration and zero percent perspiration — unless, of course, it was written on a particularly hot summer afternoon when the windows of Anne Hathaway's cottage were painted shut. 

Not that such inescapable logic prevents me from marketing my own brand of "Genius" deodorant designed for inventors desirous of getting things done while maintaining a fresh scent about their persons. I even sell a pink version for the stay-at-home "maker" mom demographic. 

If you're interested in numbers, I guess my deodorant was a fifty-fifty inspiration-perspiration requiring invention. The inspiration came at midnight while trying to fall asleep by watching an episode of the execrable Shark Tank. The perspiration was mostly a pool in the small of my back.

All The Fun Of The Unfair

The financial services euphemism "wealth management" never fails to crack a wry smile on my tense, economically insecure face, when what most of us really need, of course, is a crash course in basic hand-to-mouth management. I swear my checking account never used to require such eternal vigilance. There were always a fair number of dollars remaining in the credit column between pay periods, enough that I could even transfer those dollars into a savings account. Lately, alas, as prices rise and income falls, I often find myself running that transaction in reverse. Balancing a household budget these days has become like a high-wire act, a slim tightrope strung through a labyrinth of tax withholdings, insurance premiums, food bills, utility payments, and an affordable mortgage if you're lucky. There are highwaymen lurking around every corner and the safety net appears full of holes.

Of course, our meager savings are rightly considered "wealth" by third world standards, but it sure doesn't seem like it compared to the cash stuffed in the pockets of those fat cats in the city who require a fleet of container ships to ferry their vast amount of gold from one tax haven to another. It wouldn't be so bad if we weren't dragged out to the dock every day and forced to watch. Jealous? Yes, I am. And also perplexed. You see, I had the brains to make it as a fat cat in my youth, but for some reason decided to pursue the career of a mouse wearing a beret instead. It seems a strange decision now; as if my life and prospects decided to run away and join the circus when I wasn't paying attention. So I shouldn't be surprised to be walking the financial high-wire tightrope every day, waiting for a clown car to pick me up each evening and drop me back at the beginning again.