American Fez

Ablutions In Time

One hot summer long ago, after waking late with a post-party heavy head, I found it necessary to eschew showering in order to arrive at work on time. To compensate for this shameful neglect of personal hygiene, I applied such an excess of roll-on deodorant to my underarms that the spindly hairs hanging there clumped together, taking on the semblance of impressive stalactites suspended from the caverns of my armpits. I also enveloped the bathroom and myself in a blizzard of talcum powder, then slathered inexpensive aftershave around my neck and across my wrists. Despite my emergency estrangement from soap and water, I was determined not to stink. At least, not of young man smells anyway.

The industrial-strength mentholated talc, minty fresh deodorant, oil slicks of Old Spice, and the residual essence of too much booze seeping from my pores combined to turn me into a sort of walking mojito scented candle, burning at both ends. "Did they shampoo the carpet last night?" someone asked as I passed by their desk. To make matters worse, I'd decided to sprinkle a lot of talc into my shoes as well, so little chalky clouds of powder puffed out of the sides of my penny loafers with each step, as if I was wearing a pair of steam engine funnels instead of socks. The lesson I learned that day was this: bosses don't really care if you're behind schedule provided they don't require breathing apparatus in your presence. 

Nowadays, of course, I work from home and could postpone showering indefinitely. But the experience described above scarred me for life, so standing beneath a cascade of hot water has become an essential stage in my morning transformation from groggy biped larva into fully-fledged human being. I simply cannot function without washing away the cocoon of sleep with a steady stream of powerful detergents. I don't know how I would cope without the convenience of modern plumbing. I certainly wouldn't survive in a dystopian, post-apocalyptic America where provision of public utilities was cut off. Don't expect me to leave the compound at dawn to scavenge for supplies in the ruins of civilization if I reek of my own perspiration, that's all I'm saying.

Rabid Dogmatics

An interest in politics is rather like a virulent and seemingly incurable case of rabies in humans. Observe the crazed, fang-bearing, frothing at the mouth, inchoate barking of so-called facts and opinions by those infected with politics. They are vicious beasts to be avoided at all costs.

Fortunately, political animals are easy to detect, even in the wild, since they betray themselves with car bumper stickers and badges proclaiming their own deadly nature. Placards promoting pathogens such as "Trump" and "Biden" in the windows of homes are warning signs of which the cautious visitor should take heed. Do not enter and stumble into the jaws of insanity. God knows what disorientating, brain-devouring, savage dangers lurk within. 

But, alas, evasive action becomes more difficult with every passing year. The rabid dogs have taken over the kennel and relentlessly chase the rest of us around the neighborhood. It's only a matter of time before you are stricken with Blue Death or Red Death, probably sometime in November when the political animals are in heat.

Is there an antidote? The rabid fangs of the dogmatics are sunk so deep into our skulls that it seems unlikely. All we can do is desperately try to think for ourselves as the deadly virus seeps into our systems. Nurturing a sense of gallows humor is a good place to start, although apparently supplies are already running very, very low.

The Path Mistakenly Taken

I've always thought of the Kabbalah as esoteric Hopscotch, a mystical version of Snakes and Ladders, a parlor game that should definitely be played instead of studied. On a recent slow news day, I thumbed through a local newspaper article about a self-described wizard. At first I thought he was merely an overgrown child playacting his Harry Potter fantasies, and vainly scanned the accompanying photographs for that revealing claret and banana colored Hogwarts rugby scarf. But no, this wizard meant actual reality-altering business. He mentioned the Kabbalah frequently and a diagram of its pathways was tattooed upon his forearm. To be fair, he called himself a  'chaos magician,' not a wizard, although the difference between that area of speciality and reading spells from a book while wearing a spangled conical hat was not made clear. Surely one cosmic conjuror is much the same as another? As long as summoned succubi do his bidding, what does the wizard care about nomenclature? I guess even enlightened masters enjoy their little cliques.

Rather obese, balding and squinty-eyed, sloppily dressed in a Heavy Metal t-shirt and cargo shorts, he looked more like someone who spends too much time sitting down watching television than an explorer of Astral Planes. Perhaps the numerous metal piercings in his face made it difficult for him to achieve any sort of transcendent travel arrangements? I also wondered why, if he could command the spirits of the air, he was still living in a studio apartment? And why was he running a Go Fund Me campaign to self-publish his guide to chaos magic for beginners? Could he not both resolve his inadequate living situation and satisfy his authorial ambitions with two waves of his magic wand? Apparently not. My reading suggested he always needed to push his bed up against the wall to create enough space to chalk a magic circle on the floor, conditions that hardly seemed conducive to lording it over powerful demons.

No doubt the wizard would claim material success was not the goal of his craft, that he was seeking sacred knowledge and not money in the bank. But he didn't know anything beyond vague intimations of a primitive animist philosophy. His magical studies appeared to be nothing but the extensive coursework for a doctorate in gibberish, a lot of theatrical sturm-und-drang effort for zero tangible reward. I couldn't help thinking how humans complicate everything and that the wizard was a prime example of such self-delusion. The secret of life is probably much simpler than we can ever understand. The Kabbalah is a map of psychic territory that needs no mapping, and those who consult it only become further lost than they were already, not being able to see the ladders for the snakes.

Class A

"Religion is the opium of the people." But considering modern man's numerous dilemmas, perhaps it is truer to say that religion is the medical marijuana of the people. After all, such a therapeutic effect is how the various religions of the world ameliorate the day to day terrestrial experience of their adherents. 

And there are many similar comparisons we can make. All human activities have their analogous drug-of-choice. Social media, for instance, is the heroin of the people, reducing its users to isolated and anxiety-wracked addicts incapable of any action except desperately seeking their next update. Spectator sports are the PCP of the people, inducing violent spasms of adrenalin in agitated fans leaping up and down in front of their big-screen televisions. Politics is clearly the dehumanizing crystal-meth of the people, resulting in the destruction of communities, mental derangement, and loss of interest in personal hygiene.

So what is the opium of the people? Where might you find an old-fashioned opium den still serving customers? Obviously it's Hollywood, befuddling easily-distracted viewers into imitating its tinsel-tinged, technicolor simulacrum of what is already an ersatz version of reality. So stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Disney.

As for blogs like mine, I feel they are the narcotic equivalent of some mythical plant only found in the deepest recesses of the Amazonian rainforest, requiring five days of fasting and participation in a bizarre torchlit ceremony while wearing a feathered headdress before any effects can be felt, specifically telepathic communication with 'Blogger,' the wizened and inscrutable spirit who lives in the magic Internet tree. Hi there!

Radio Waves

If you clasp a seashell to your ear, so it is said, the roar of ocean surf can be heard, and by extension, I suppose, the sounds of mermaids singing, although their voices are seemingly obscured by some sort of aquatic static. But perhaps that's just how mermaids sing? An inchoate whooshing noise that resembles the roar of the surf that modern man, with the notable exception of T. S. Eliot, no longer recognizes as serenades from the watery depths. Alas, we shall never know, since Eliot doesn't elaborate on the substance of mermaid song, merely claiming it was audible to him despite not being sung to him. So who can tell the truth of the matter? A seashell held to the ear could merely contain the echo of severely flatulent fish and nothing else for all we know.

A large conch shell decorates my bathroom. Rescued from the shores of Antigua, I can still recall standing on the golden Caribbean sands with it pressed against my ear. All I heard was a reproving inner voice telling me I should have washed the thing off first because it could be dripping with local sewage and bacteria. Or perhaps some malevolent Antiguan invertebrate might use the opportunity to squirm its way through my ear into my head and begin the slow process of devouring my brain. Not quite the tropical island experience I was hoping for. Nevertheless, I rinsed the shell clean in saltwater, safely packed it in my luggage, and flew it home to my bathroom, where the gurgling of pipes and buzz of a ceiling fan are too loud to hear anything at all, no matter how hard I try to listen.

So if you really want to hear the sounds of the sea, I suggest listening to one of those commercially produced therapeutic audio recordings of the ocean. Although what is exactly "therapeutic" about twenty foot tidal waves slamming into a pebble beach in the middle of a tsunami I shall never understand. The tape I heard was called Coastal Meditation but was more like Neptune's Fury. All I could think about while listening to it was the hulls of wooden ships being smashed to smithereens and the cries of drowning men. And that, of course, is the real hardcore music of Davy Jones' Locker radio, not that namby-pamby, whooshing mermaid muzak that pretty seaside shells held to the ear disseminate.

The Odyssey

Many years ago, when I was a small boy at the seaside, I plucked a gleaming amber colored pebble from the surf and put it in my pocket. I was merely following the suggestion of a popular nursery rhyme that advised such action when catching a falling star, but I had never even seen a falling star, never mind caught one, so the amber pebble would have to do. It was shiny, after all, so what was the difference? There were many other attractive pebbles on the beach, but only that particular pebble, I decided, would not look out of place in a heavenly constellation.

Back at home, I set the pebble down on the top of my dresser, which served as a makeshift altar for all the found objects I had brought in from the world outside and deemed worthy of display: a crispy length of shed snake skin, a kaleidoscopic toy marble, a damaged tintype image of an ancient couple, an old, chipped Toby jug. Alas, being no longer wet, the pebble had already lost its luminosity and the gleaming amber color faded to a dull tan. It looked like any other ordinary stone you might find on the ground. No longer a shiny substitute for a falling star, it was also no longer worthy of display in my youthful eyes.

Of course, nowadays I realize that was a shamefully shallow judgement. Jejune, as they say. Clearly the pebble was still an object of wonder despite losing its wet-look allure. Because what an amazing journey it had made from unknown foreign shores to the top of my dresser. A falling star simply drops out of the sky and is either caught, supposedly, or just disintegrates upon impact with the Earth. My pebble, however, was the Odysseus of pebbles. How I wish I'd kept the heroic pebble instead of disappointedly tossing it into my mother's garden. I sometimes think about where it might be now. I hope it made it back to its Ithaca.

Staycation Blues

July has caught me by surprise, as if slapping the back of my head with a rolled-up brochure advertising all-inclusive summer vacations in faraway, virus-free, coastal resorts.

'Shouldn't you be somewhere fun by now?' July says, getting up close and personal, its hot breath searing my face. 'Why are you still working from home when you could be working from the beach, laptop balanced on a beer crammed cooler, answering emails while sitting in the shade with autofill spreadsheets and all conference calls on mute.'

It's a good question. But, alas, all travel options are impractical this year. After all, who really wants to wander through a tropical paradise wearing a plague mask and flip-flops, or annex a six-foot circle of socially distanced personal space on the lanai, afraid of boisterous bacteria partying in the hot tub?

At times like these, I stare out of the window thinking an Olympic size swimming pool would easily fit in my driveway. Some deckchairs, a few potted palms, a makeshift cabana, and I can pretend I'm holidaying on the French Riviera. I'd be forced to risk parking on the street, but that's an inconsequential inconvenience compared to enjoying my fantasy version of Saint-Tropez each day.

'You should have thought of that before,' July tells me, exhaling yet another blast of super-humid breath. 'It's too late now. If you started building a pool today it wouldn't be finished until the Fall. I bet the planning permission alone wouldn't be granted before October.' 

Ah yes, the Fall. I wonder what words of wisdom November will have for me. 'Stay inside. The second wave of Coronavirus has arrived. It's not safe out there anymore.' Summer's chiding and cajoling to leave my house rapidly turning into Winter's full-blown paranoia for hibernation.

Frankly, I'm already nostalgic for this past Spring and the early days of lockdown, when a break from routine seemed like an adventure and an interesting challenge to the daily grind, those April and May mornings that truly made a novelty of the Novel Coronavirus.