Friday, December 17, 2004

Ilsa Krage, Rest In Peace

Previously posted to rec.music.makers.guitar.acoustic Dec 26 2002, 12:49 am

Outside of Hannover, Germany, is a small town called Bad Nenndorf. The'Bad' refers to the spa (bath) that is the central attraction of the town, basically the spa is a place of healing for the sick and the elderly. This small town of a few thousand happened to be the home of my high school sweetheart, named Alexandra (about whom I could write books, but this is another story), and it was the final destination of a newly graduated, yet still completely stupid, young college student who had grand aspirations to learn a new language, get a job in a foreign country, and win the girl in the Summer/Fall of 1994.

Alex' parents had been kind enough to allow me to stay at their home while I looked for a job in chemical engineering. At this point, I had learned four details that had escaped my attention before brashly leaving my home country; the first is that an 'aufentheitsgenehmigung' (a.k.a. work permit) is required before a foreigner can have a job, the second is that the American bachelor's degree is virtually worthless compared to the German diplom (the diplom is the equivalent of the American master's), third, the unemployment in engineering was almost 30%, and fourth, Alex had fallen in love with another man while I made my plans to visit her.

Instantly it seemed two of my goals were shot. Alex finding someone else crushed me, but I kept my cool and remained a gentleman and a friend. However, the first three details caused me a lot of problems because I was running out of money. Because I had difficulties finding work, Alex'parents were kind enough to offer odd jobs so I wouldn't be sitting on my hands all day. One of them, and by far the most pleasurable, was takingTimi, the Bassett hound, for a walk.

Mind you, I like dogs well enough, they are fun to play with and they have an infinite well of affection for people that pay attention to them. But walking a dog does not exactly make my day. What did make my day was visiting Ilsa, Alex' grandmother and Timi's owner, before and after the dogwalk.

The ritual went like this: I would make the short walk to the house next to the church (and what beautiful houses they had!), re-learn how to open the fence gate (you'll find European doorknobs etc. tend to be like Bizarro world in the Superman comics, everything similar, but not quite the same), and I would press the doorbell and wait as I heard Timi bark. The door would open eventually and a portly old woman with eagle-sharp eyes would answer the door while holding a dog leash. She always asked, in slow, deliberate Hochdeutsch (High German, the dialect used in newspapers, news,and the Bible) "Hallo Dennis, guten tag, hast du schoen geschlafen." (Hello Dennis, good day, did you sleep well?, I often walked Timi in the morning). I'll say right now that she spoke no English outside of similar words in her native dialect in Plattdeutsch, any words I tell you are my translation, and she cannot be held accountable for the accuracy.

I would take the leash, ask Timi if he was ready (Bist du fertig?), and go walking for an hour or so in the wonderful parks and trails in the area.Timi is a good dog, he heels when you tell him to (although he responds better to German commands) and in general he never bothered anybody on the trails, he minded his business and left his signatures where they needed to be.

And then I would return to Ilsa's house. Each time she would ask me if I was thirsty, and ask me what I would like. I always asked for apple juice, she would slowly, yet deliberately, get the glasses, bring the juice from the refrigerator, and then, adding a detail I hadn't seen before, a bottle of carbonated mineral water. She would mix them in about equal proportions (maybe just a little extra juice), and we would talk.

For those of us who have not tried to really learn another language, I have one observation to make: There is a long journey between knowing a little bit of a language from school and being fluent. If someone you know has spent a year in a foreign country, I promise that though they can speak andread quite a bit, they are nowhere near fluent. I had been there for a few weeks, and though I was working hard, I was still flabbergasted by the sounds coming from people's mouths...it sounded nothing like what I had learned.

Except for when you are talking with children and the elderly; both groups tend to speak slower, use less slang, and use a simpler vocabulary. I suspect the former uses simple words because they haven't learned the complex ones yet, while the latter chooses their words carefully, and experience tells them what their listener would know.

This was Ilsa's gift, and it is shared by her daughter Renate (Alex'mother). She always knew if I understood what she said, and if I didn't get it (which was half the conversation), she could instantly rephrase her comment in a way that I would comprehend. I can't tell you about her hours of patience as I flipped through my dictionary discussing the news, politics, and philosophies of life. We would argue about the benefits/disadvantages of getting all of the Lotto money at once (she said it was better to get it over disbursements, I said it was better at once, and mentioned the time value of money. She pointed to a story about a guy that said the first thing he would buy is a Ferrari, I said that a fool and his money were soon parted...she laughed at that one).

Then we talked about World War II. I have always been a person to appreciate a story from the horse's mouth, and having studied WWII more thoroughly than was required in history, I was eager to hear what she had to say. I was almost always held speechless when she spoke.

Contrary to popular American opinion, the whole German nation was not behind Hitler's rise to power. He came in a fell swoop, quickly capitalizing on the bad economy by promising better days for a stronger Germany, and then he put his system in place faster than anyone had dreamed. She talked about how the Junior SS children were being ordered to report their parents if they should call Hitler a pig or something similar (sounds Orwellian, eh?), and then she described the universal fear that everyone shared, the government was feared. She was always candid, and I asked if she knew aboutthe concentration camps. She honestly said she didn't know, but everyone had heard rumors that seemed unbelievable at the time. However, repeating the rumors could lead to problems, so people didn't talk about them.

She then told me a story I will never forget. Her husband was a cook in the German army on the French front. For over a year he had watched the French people be brutalized, slaughtered and starved, and eventually he did something that I seriously doubt that I would ever have the courage to do; he would steal food from the German kitchens and take them to the French people across the border in the middle of the night. I don't think I need to elaborate about what the consequences were if he were caught. Just imagine that... I had met him, and although he was a rather distant man, I have often told that story of courage to others. He died of cancer three years later.

I had many conversations with Ilsa over my six weeks in Hannover, and promised her a postcard when I returned home. I did send her a postcard(after a long time), and on a return trip to Germany two years ago I visited her again, speaking better German, and after I had walked Timi, we had the same wonderful conversation. And, mandatory guitar content, on my second visit I had my guitar with me and I showed her some of my better songs. I could tell she truly enjoyed some of them (especially Bruce Springsteen), she was smiling as I played, which I learned later she had done less often. While watching her smile, it had amazed me how much German I could understand, and how most of it was the result of a patient old woman with a Bassett hound that needed walking.

Three weeks ago I had called Alex to wish her a happy birthday (in spite of a failed romance, we've always remained close friends), and she was somewhat distraught because she had to travel often between home and work because her grandmother was ill. I was concerned, and I asked Alex if Ilsa was okay. She thought she was, although they were worried, and I told her I would send another card hoping she would feel better.

I bought the card, and I was ready to write it this morning. I called Alex to wish her family a Merry Christmas, and then I learned that Ilsa had died less than a week ago. I had asked to speak to her mother (who speaks no English) and as usual, I couldn't express how much the time I spent with her mother meant to me. I could only say I'm sorry and that I hope that she'll be okay. As usual, Renate understood, but it still felt empty. I didn't ask about Timi, maybe I should.

Now I have a card with nobody to send it to. I think I will write one simple phrase with no address, maybe a fake one in Germany. The sentence will read,

'Gute Nacht, Ilsa, und schoen schlafen.' (Good night Ilsa, have a pleasantsleep).


Farewell Reader, have a good day.

Hussman

Thursday, December 16, 2004

Current Events

I am preparing for my trip to Europe over Christmas and New Year's. Two weeks split in some way between Hannover, Berlin, and Vienna. I'm realizing that I'm starting to get excited about it. I'll have the chance to see three of my best friends; Alexandra (Alex), Oliver (Ollie), and Bernhard (Berni). All three have had real impacts on me, mostly for the better, although some for the worse. If I'm lucky, I'll be able to zip over to Nancy and see my sister, but I'm not counting on that (I'll be in France enough this year).

Although my job will bring me to Europe often (I have several trips scheduled for next year), I've noticed (as have others first) that all you see on business trips are the 'finest hotels, airports, and conference rooms in the world.' You would think that you would enjoy fine dining, new cities, and free drinks, and you do, to some extent. What most people don't talk about is the endless hours of working, e-mailing, talking about work or planning work or calling people to set up meetings about work...you never get to enjoy the location, you're always busy.

So this trip to Europe, being all pleasure, is something I've been needing for a while. Thanksgiving was a lot of work with some rest, this is full-time no responsibilities. My goal is at least three stories out of this trip, preferably with no visits to the police station.

Talk to you for sure in two weeks, but maybe a little sooner.

Farewell Reader, have a good day.

Hussman

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

Found in Translation, Part I

Let's set the wayback machine to February, 1999. I'm a graduate student working on my last year of my doctorate, I'm living with my ex-girlfriend (discussed elsewhere in this blog), and, in general, I feel like I had a good handle on what life was about.

All of that changed in the span of time it takes to read a two-line e-mail.

I still remember it clearly. I was working on a computer from our apartment in Tulsa, and I had checked my university e-mail account. There was a message from 'philipe.XXXX@yyyyzzz.fr' Spam has already been around for sometime, and I was about to hit the delete key, except that I had been receiving questions about my guitar tablature posts recently, and I've made some nice acquaintances from the other side of the world because of a kind reply. I knew the .fr meant France, so I hit 'Enter,' and waited for my slow connection to load the message. The e-mail was short, but devastating.

'Hello, my name is Jessica XXXX-MyLastName, and I was born in France in 1964. I'm looking for Denis YYYY MyLastName who was born in New York in 1941. Can you to help me?'

I knew for whom she was looking, and I knew what help she needed. The last name was the same as mine, and there could be only one reason why. At times, I have a detailed imagination, and it was interesting to see where my mind went in the ten seconds following the receipt of this message.

I'm a young girl in France, in school, looking at the rest of the children during parent's day, and wondering where my father is. Days pass, and repeatedly throughout my life I explain to people that my last name comes from an American father, and no, I haven't met him. I see random strangers in the street speaking English, and each time I wonder if it could be him looking for me, he looks like me, doesn't he? Men come and go in my life, and though I loved them, there is one whose face I still long to see, one person for whom I shed tears late at night when I'm alone, even though he is unaware of my existence. And all I know about him is that his name is Denis.

And that also made my reply to her short.

'He is my father, and I suspect that you are his daughter. If this is true, write me back. There is much to discuss.--Dennis'

I was stalling for time. I certainly needed to know more before we talked, but I also needed time to think. How do you tell someone that their father, ahem, has issues?

My relationship with my father has always been difficult. My parents divorced when I was three years old. When we lived in New York, my brother, Sean, and I would go to visit him and his new wife Robin on most weekends. During these times, I have to admit, we had a great time and he was as much of a father as a divorced dad could be. He taught us how to fish, took us to see Star Wars, watched car races with us, and in general was accessible for questions that sons ask their fathers.

All of this changed when we moved to California. We had left New York for a year, but throughout the whole time, he hardly ever called. After we returned to New York, our visits to him were more infrequent, often less than once a month. I don't recall us ever saying we didn't want to go.

After another year in New York, my mother had received a marriage proposal from my stepfather, and we moved to Oklahoma. The phone calls became infrequent, until he even started forgetting our birthdays. After a year in Oklahoma, he basically ignored us. At this time, he also stopped paying child support. My mom had offered to drop child support in lieu of him setting up a savings account for $100 a month so we could use the money to visit each summer. He said no, and didn't pay anyway. Mom let it go because she was married, but we were dirt poor because my stepfather was not what you would call an 'earner.'

We visited New York about four years later, and called my father to see how he was doing. He had divorced Robin and married another woman named Frannie at this time, but not after having another child with Robin. He must have been thinking about the child support payments because he was kissing our butts in a very large way. He bent over backwards saying how he wants to be part of our lives, if we wanted some tapes, etc.

Many people would think that I/we shouldn't regret the next action, but we definitely should have explained it better. We enforced the child support, and it pissed him off. He had to pay until we were 21. He complained, but then again, he didn't know I had only one pair of pants.

We visited two years later, I called him and said we'd like to see him. He replied, 'Why, did your mom want to bleed more money from me?' I said, 'Nevermind.' and hung up.

The rest of the relationship consisted of three phone calls for a few minutes each.

One could argue the child support issue was a reason for him to be angry (he chose not to see us when we came), so I can accept part of the blame for our problems. But he literally abandoned an earlier family, and never told anyone about them. And he had a daughter that he hasn't seen since a little after she was born.

"Shit!" I yelled, Christine asked what was the matter. Mildly giggling (in the most insane sort of giggles) I told her briefly what I just read. She was compassionate, and I was reminded of how she always says 'Everybody has an interesting family.' Her family is interesting, and indeed, mine is too.

I called my mother and asked her if she knew about this. She said no, and her first question was,

'Dennis, do you think he got a divorce?'

I didn't think about this, and I realized that it would really hurt her if the answer was no. I wondered if there was a way to set the clock back five minutes.

But it was too late. I replied already, and there was no turning back. I also had a feeling that this woman in France needed my help.

I told my mom that I didn't know about the divorce, but I would find out. I told her that I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting this. Neither did she.

The next day, I saw a reply from Jessica in my Inbox. It said...

-to be continued


Farewell Reader, have a good day.

Hussman

Sunday, December 05, 2004

What Kind of Man

Mid-October 1995

The phone rang.

It’s near noon and I had just returned from class, weary from another all-nighter induced by sadistic graduate engineering professors.

“Dennis”
“Hi mom”
“I just brought Grandpa back from the hospital.”
“I thought he got back two days ago.”

He was supposed to be taking a break from experimental cancer therapy; they were going to start radiation later that week. His prognosis was not good; we were worried.

Mom replied,

“Someone broke into his house last night looking for diamonds of all things. Grandpa pulled the gun from under his pillow and the guy took it from him and beat him up with it.”

My thoughts on having a gun in the home were radically altered in seconds.

My mom and grandfather lived in a very small town in Oklahoma called Osage. So small that the only public establishments were two churches and two bars, both equally attended. There was no police station or law for at least ten miles.

The ‘diamonds’ bothered me. He didn’t have any, but Grandpa had shown his silver and gold bullion on occasion to people other than family. Something told me that a perverted game of Telephone lured someone who was no more than two degrees of separation from me to his house at the exact wrong time. Most likely I knew this person.

“Is Grandpa okay?”
“He is bruised really badly on his arm and head, but he seems all right.”
“I’m coming home.”
“No, no, it’s okay, he’s all right, and you’re busy.”

Which was the truth, I was.

“Who did this mom?”
“Grandpa said he was skinny and had a deep voice.”

Skinny, probably a crank addict looking for money, the town was known for it.

“Can I talk to him?”

As Mom gave him the phone, I’m wondering what kind of man could beat up an old man.

“Are you okay Grandpa?”
“Ohhh, that bastard got me good, Dennis, you should see the bruises. But I’m okay.”
“Are you sure? It’s not that far…”
“Yeah I’m sure, you got school.”

We chatted a little more and concluded the conversation.

“I’ll come to the hospital and see you this weekend. And Grandpa, if I find this guy…”
“I know Dennis, I know”
“I love you, Grandpa.”
“I love you too.”

Those were the last words he spoke to me directly.

Later that week

The phone rang.

It’s mom again, and she’s crying.

“Dennis, something is wrong with Grandpa, you need to come see him.”

I finally told my professors what is going on, and find out they are not so sadistic after all. I rushed to the hospital.

I saw the man who had lived a troubled, imperfect life lying in a bed with his eyes closed. Occasional murmurs came from his mouth. My mother was telling him to say hi to me. He managed to utter the last words I ever heard him say,

“That’s my daughter…”

Yes, she was always his daughter. I wondered if he knew I was there. The doctors told us to leave.

Halloween, 1995

I was standing next to my mother as the neurosurgeon tells us that Grandpa had a subdural hematoma induced by the trauma of the beating, and they had to perform emergency surgery to relieve the pressure on his brain. My mother asked what he will be like when he wakes up.

The surgeon firmly replied,

“If he wakes up, ma’am, you have to accept that possibility.”

She’s shocked. So am I. Clearly this man has said this too many times to be truly sorrowful, but he tried.

November 2, 1995, 12:50 A.M.

The phone rang.

I heard my brother Sean’s voice.

“Dennis, you need to go to the hospital.”

I was playing chess with my friend Jason who lived close to the hospital. The rest of the family was home about fifty miles away. We were all tired from the deathwatch; however, my mother wanted to be sure that he did not die alone.

November 2, 1995, 1:05 A.M.

I’m too late.

I was holding the hand of the man who always had Cokes and candy bars in his refrigerator for me when I was young, who had import beer for me when I was in college, who would act like he didn’t know that I sometimes took a pack of cigarettes, who smiled as he gave me twenty dollars for an imaginary date that he knew I didn’t have, who bought my plane ticket home from Germany after I foolishly thought that I could live and work there because I wanted to.

I was holding his hand, and it was turning cold. I let him die alone.

I remembered my last words to him, and promised myself that the killer would soon join my grandfather. I wondered about what kind of animal could kill an old man.

November 2, 1995, 2:00 A.M.

My mother asked me if I was here when he died. I said no. It seemed impossible for her to appear more hurt, but yet she did.

The one time in my life I should have lied to her, and I didn’t.

Late-November, 1995

The phone rang.

My mom told me that someone broke into Grandpa’s house again and ransacked the place. The fool, I thought, he was still looking for the diamonds. He was as good as caught; they said the house was too dirty for prints the last time, which I doubted, but now the evidence was fresh. A little bit of dust, a modem connection to the NCIC database, and we have a lead to my grandfather’s killer.

She asked me to be there when the police came.

The Next Day.

A grossly fat man wearing black jeans, a black pocket T-shirt, an Osage County Police Department baseball cap, a cheap badge, and a gun arrived in his personal vehicle. He had no forensic equipment. We brought him inside. I point out that the cabinet doors were closed before, and now they were open. I reminded him that this was a murder.

He looked at his watch, ignored me and told my mom that he couldn’t do anything. This was Osage County’s Finest in action. I was about to unload on him, but my mom could see it, and gently pulled me away.

I told Sean, and he was as angry as I. We both knew justice would not be served through the system. We both planned for it ourselves. Older people in town gave us tips; some of them were too good to not have been tested. I didn’t ask them how they knew about them.

I remembered a quote from John Dryden, “Beware the fury of the patient man.”

Early December, 1995

The phone rang.

Sean said he needed to talk to me.

He approached my mother’s neighbor late at night. Sean was was with my cousin, Mike, and he was drunk. The neighbor was certainly not one of the churchgoers in town, and most of the people that hung out at his place were suspects.

However, we didn’t suspect him because Grandpa had crawled to his door first, and he was the first to give him aid.

Sean told him, “I know you know who killed my grandfather you son-of-a-bitch.”

The neighbor pointed a shotgun at him and said,

“I don’t know nothing for sure, now get off my fucking porch.”

Sean laughed and said, “You’re not going to shoot me.” He closed the door.

Mr. Rogers would never want this man for his neighbor, and I was terrified that he was still my mother’s.

My mother has never heard this.

January, 1996

I saw a woman on TV crying. She had lost her son in the Oklahoma City bombing. Her anguish was real, and she was demanding swift justice.

I understood her pain, but I knew it is not justice that she wanted. She wanted what I wanted. She wanted revenge.

At this time I realize that in almost every case, ‘justice’ is a euphemism for ‘revenge.’

Early January, 1997

After being gone for almost a year on an internship, I’ve returned to graduate school. My brother pulls me aside and says,

“Dennis, I think I know who did it.”

Bloodlust tempered by caution entered my mind. I didn’t like hearing the word ‘think,’ you have to know. He whispered a name, and he was certainly a suspect. He described an unmistakable look of guilt on his face when he met my brother’s eyes. I suspected that at least this person knew who did it, and we could find out. It could be possible only if one question had the right answer.

“Who have you told?”

He said something other than “Nobody.”

I cursed him, and told him to forget it. He objected, he thought the guy was cool. I replied,

“Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead.” (Ben Franklin was a wise man).

He understood, three people knew already. I told him it’s over for at least eighteen months, minimum, and never speak of it again. There was too much to lose, not enough evidence, and we couldn’t count on an encore performance from Osage’s Finest. I could see that my words hurt him, but they were necessary. I remained patient, and remembered the name.

January 16, 1997

Ennis Cosby was senselessly gunned down while changing a flat tire. The killer was apprehended because he couldn’t keep a secret.

January 17, 1997

Bill had performed at our university the year before; unfortunately I had missed the show. Large poster boards were put up on the walls of the Student Union so students could express their sympathy. I think that I wrote something to the effect of

“Mr. Cosby, I’ve also lost someone to senseless violence, I can only say the pain lessens over time.”

I looked at the words that I wrote, and I wondered if I believed them.

Later that month, Bill Cosby asked the judge to spare the murderer his life.

I was confused. I didn’t understand how he could maintain his values in the face of such a tragedy, but I admired it deeply.

September, 2000

I had returned from another summer in Germany, and was relaxing before starting work. While reading Frank Herbert’s Chapterhouse: Dune, my world was changed and the last vestiges of my anger were quenched as I read eight simple words in the final chapters.

“Revenge is for children and the emotionally retarded.”

My jaw dropped as I put the book down. I thought about Israel and Palestine, and then I thought about the Marshall Plan. I saw which solution worked, and which one didn’t. I remembered creation and destruction parables. I knew then that I was not a child, and I knew that I was no longer emotionally retarded. I was glad that my brother came to me first, and that he told somebody something that he shouldn’t have.

I learned that Frank’s wife had often said those words before she passed away. I realized she must have been a remarkable woman. I understood Bill Cosby’s plea to the judge, and understood he is a wiser man than I.

I told my grandfather that I’m sorry that I can’t fulfill my last promise to him. I’m sure he would have understood.

But I still wondered what kind of person could hit an old man.

Later that month, 2:00 A.M.

I was dreaming in German, and I awoke from it in the middle of the night. I remembered when I returned from there the first time, my Grandpa greeted me in German. I never knew how he learned it.

I missed him and thought about him. And then a key detail about the life of the man who killed him came to me, and I was certain that it was correct. I didn’t know the ‘why’ to my question, but I knew the ‘how.’ For the first time, I felt pity for the killer. Oddly enough I thought about writing my realization as a song. Then I went back to sleep.

July 3, 2002

I had finished the song a few months before, but I hadn’t played it for my family because I hadn’t seen them in person. I visited my brother’s family for the holiday. My mother was traveling; she’ll hear it next.

Late in the day, my body tired from throwing his kids into the pool, I played the song for him. He liked it. He told me that he wouldn’t do anything about Grandpa anymore. He, like me, had found his peace. I didn’t ask him how he came to that conclusion, but I suspected there were two reasons, and they also happened to be the cause of my soreness.

He asked if he could have a copy of the lyrics, and he wanted me to play it again. I gave him a copy. The final verse reads,

“And if you should ever cross my path,
I don’t know that if I would cry or laugh,
Because I can’t imagine the hell you’re in,
knowing nobody loves you like we loved him.”

Note: This story was published previously in Atomica Magazine.

Farewell Reader, have a good day.

Hussman

The Proper Way to Kill a Bear

I was born in New York, and lived in Oklahoma for 18 years. However, I have significant formative memories where I had spent my second grade year in a small town called Freshwater, California. Freshwater is a town in northern California outside of Eureka, and there was not a lot there besides potheads, lumberjacks, and more potheads.

For some reason, my uncle had a mid-life crisis and decided he needed to become one with nature. So he packed up his family for the fifteenth time, moved to Freshwater, and immediately began dominating the town by buying the only grocery store and bar. The bar-store also had one of the larger houses attached to it. Even when he's becoming one with himself and nature, he still winds up running the show. He asked my mom to come out with my brother, Sean, and me so she could help him run the store.

We had quite a few people in this house; my Aunt Kathy, Uncle Pete, Pete Jr (fifth grade), Joe (fourth grade), Mike (second grade, like me, but six months older), my mom, my brother (kindergarten) and me. Oddly enough, there was a television show called Eight is Enough on TV at the time, we could relate.

Now on to the story. Pete and Joe were always very competitive for many reasons. This led to a faction of Pete vs. All The Rest of Us, because Joe was our hero. He was two years older than Mike and I, and he would hang out with us as long as we did what he said. Sean always came along too.

Freshwater is located in the middle of the Redwood Forests, and Reader, I promise there is not a better playground for children. All throughout the woods are stumps of trees that were cut for lumber, and these stumps are easily converted to forts. From there, you can have wars with other children. When you get tired, you find a stream and drink from it, and when you get hungry, you eat clovers (or whatever they were called) that have a tangy, sour taste to them. Freshwater is also at the foot of Mount Kneeland, and it's wonders are far too vast for kids with a free Saturday not to explore.

Mike, Sean, and I were with Joe where we met a local kid named Steve somewhere near the base of Mount Kneeland. Like the rest of us, Steve was taken in by Joe. (Incidentally, Joe has always been the natural leader, even now his job is upper management). Both Steve and Joe had the tendency to get into trouble a little; and I think their synergistic mayhem probably caused more havoc in that town than the last time the dealer ran dry.

It was fate that day when the five of us were together in the woods, because in our path were Pete and Jeb (insert evil music here). Pete and Jeb were about the same age, one year older than Joe and Steve, but they probably had just started puberty. They were bigger, if just for a little while. If I recall correctly, someone had found clay pigeons and a war had broken out between Pete and Joe as to who owned them. A mighty battle ensued, pigeons were thrown, and I think this was the last time that Joe did not win the fight between the two. Our ragtag bunch followed Joe's retreat as we ran into wilderness of Mount Kneeland.

The day started off good. We approached a river with brown, murky water. Naturally, as kids who are growing up around a bar know, this must be the fabled Whiskey River, and we all took long drinks from the tepid water. We dared not complain about the taste because we saw the reactions of people to the poor souls that can't hold their liquor. We all drank 'whiskey' until we were good and drunk, and started up the path to the mountain. Looking back, I'm not certain that bar was the best environment for a kid to grow up, but I'll be damned if anyone ever sees me grimacing from a shot of whiskey.

The mountain could be generous. Indeed, as we walked along the path it was the sharp eyes noticed something. Joe shouted,

"A knife!"

There it was, a real hunting knive complete with a scabbard. Joe put the knife on his belt and pressed on.

The mountain could also be greedy. As we rounded a corner, we came to a place in the path that we had to cross. We had no idea until we were in it that we were trapped in quicksand! Actually, it was not the quicksand of the Tarzan movies, this was a bunch of mud about one or two feet deep. The problem was that when you pulled your foot up, your shoes would stay in the mud. Like mine did. Permanently. The others pulled their shoes off in time, but try as we might (and we didn't try long...), my shoe was lost forever. I spent the rest of the day wearing one shoe, and this day had just started.

Sometimes I wonder about the fate of that shoe. Is it fossilized in the mud graveyard? Or did it free itself to experience a life of its own?

We walked on. I remember crossing a road and going down a path (and probably thinking that I would like to go home) near the motorcycle trails. It was the afternoon, and we saw a man and woman walk the other way. That would be the last human contact we would have for at least eight hours, and it was well past noon.

We went down a hill and crossed a motorcycle berm and continued to walk in single file; Joe first, then Steve, then Mike, me, and Sean behind us. Clouds came over, and soon the woods were covered in shades of gray. The mood was ominous and we started to get a little scared. It was this point when Steve mentioned something about the bear. The Bear, I thought. The Great Big Bear. Just what I needed.

We had a discussion about how we would defend ourselves should the bear come. Of course the bear would only come up from behind, so it was Joe who came up with the clever plan. Sean would alert me by tapping me on the shoulder, and then jumping to the side. I would do the same to Mike and limp over to the side, Mike to Steve, Steve to Joe, and Joe would spin in a whirling dervish while pulling the knife from the scabbard, ready to fight for our lives.

Even as a young lad I had a fairly vivid imagination. I pictured the fight between the bear and Joe would be a valiant one, with only one possible ending. Of course Joe would wrestle with it, get on top, raise the knife over his head, and bring it down into the heart of the screaming bear, while the rest of us watched with delight. As an adult, I still have a vivid imagination, but the fight I envision now would have ended a little differently...

Food became a problem. Joe had only two sandwiches left in the knapsack, and all five of us were hungry. Joe had decided that it would be difficult for him to fight the bear if he was hungry, so naturally it made sense that he have the sandwiches. I think he tore half of one off for Steve, because Steve would help. Mike, Sean and I didn't quite know that we were duped that day, but the relief it gave us to not fight the bear made the hunger worth it.

It was almost totally dark, and the weather had a damp feel to it. We were lost and we knew it. Making it even worse, we found out that we went in a complete circle, and we were totally disoriented. After about another hour of walking through the woods (remember, I have one shoe), I think it was Steve who recognized the motorcycle berm.

That was it! We scrambled up the hill, found the path where the lovers were walking, and made it to the road. After about 10 minutes, a car found us and we stuffed all of us inside it. Apparently quite a few of the townspeople were looking for us, and after a five minute ride in a warm car, we were home.

The parents were doting on us, it wasn't ten minutes before we were bathed, clothed, and sipping hot chocolate watching the Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe. We had no problems with lions, after all, we were ready to kill a bear.


Farewell Reader, have a good day,
Hussman

Saturday, December 04, 2004

A Real Fish Story

I spent Thanksgiving week in Miami visiting my family. There are several things that happened during the trip that I may write about later (my journal habits have been very poor), but for now I'll just talk about going fishing.

Now see here, Reader, for the first time ever, you are about to hear a story about fishing that doesn't have one lie in it.

My uncle has a place on the Keys, and he also has a good-sized catamaran (about 30 feet or so) that is docked in a slip. We went to the bait shop and bought several pounds of chum and a five gallon bucket with about one hundred or so live shrimp. My cousin Joe also bought a large hook, apparently we were expecting to get some monsters today.

My cousin Mike was looking forward to this. Apparently he hadn't had a lot of fun during the fishing trips; he's never caught anything during several trips to Florida. I can relate to that in Oklahoma lake fishing, but for some reason, I do better in the ocean.

The Florida keys have the Atlantic ocean to the south and the gulf to the north. The wind was blowing rather strongly, which churned up the ocean considerably (three to four feet waves), so it seemed reasonable that we would go to the bay side. Which we did. We crossed under a bridge, found a spot to drop anchor, dropped the chum bag in the water and started tying our lines.

I hadn't fished in quite some time, but one of the few things my father had taught me was fishing knots, casting, and how to reel in uneven patterns. My uncle gave me a quick refresher on the reel (it had been a while), I added some weight, hooked the shrimp through the tail and let it fly.

Mike was the first (and last) to catch a buoy, so we had to weigh anchor and free the rig. After that, we were on our way. Normally when I fished in Oklahoma, I hated it because there were no fish biting. This wasn't the case here. I was losing my bait to bites almost immediately, and I'll be damned if I wasn't having a good time.

All of a sudden, I felt the jerk, timed it right, and started reeling something in. Out of the water came a little yellowtail (we think), a whole six inches long (I measured it with a proper ruler) , dangling on my hook. I pulled it in, and it was either bait or release. I was feeling generous that day, and granted the fish a pardon. It swam away happily, probably not knowing that it was through the grace of Me that he was not gutted for chum.

Joe pulled up another fish almost exactly like mine, but a little smaller, and I think he released it too. Mike got a little pissed because he wasn't catching anything, I think part of it was that he baited the shrimp with the hook exposed clearly, and they were just nipping off his bait. It's hard to mention things like that, and Mike's solution was,

'We gotta go to the ocean side and catch one of those big motherfuckers.'

At this point, the story begins.

We go to the ocean, and the waves are killing us. Up, down, up, down, and there are not that many places to grab on the boat, so it's exercise trying to stay in it. One develops an appreciation for the term 'sealegs.' I said the fatal last words,

'Boy, if one of us is the type to get seasick, we'll probably find out pretty soon.'

Before we stopped, Joe noticed that the drain plug in the live tank (where the shrimp were) had dislodged, and we lost all but ten shrimp down the drain before we found it. That would be "Shit!" #1. We also wondered why we didn't keep the yellowtails for bait.

We dropped anchor somewhere. The boat was churning a lot, and my uncle points out that I'm starting to sweat. I told him that I was doused by splash from the wake, and he just smiled a little bit. We dropped the chum bag and started to cast again. Not a single bite, period. We were also learning a retarded ballet by trying to cast, reel and maintain balance at the same time. Mike cursed again and asked Uncle Pete to go to the Shark Reef. At this point I started getting a little feeling of nausea, but I seemed okay.

We weigh anchor, again, and when the boat engines are engaged, a buzzer goes off. This would be "Shit!" #2, the chum bag was caught up in the props. I was expecting one of us would have to get in the water.

Joe is good athlete, and he stays in shape. On the back of the boat is a diving platform that splits the twin engines. He walked out on to the platform (remember the waves are three to four feet, and just killing us), hangs on the rail with one hand, and unwraps the chum bag with the other while I pull it in. The whole time I watched him in a form of awe (almost like when we were kids) as he managed to keep his balance while overextending himself. Neat trick, Joe.

The boat starts moving, and as we get to cruising speed I notice the nausea is not in the background anymore. I move to the rail (I knew it was coming), and heave. The first time was dry, nothing, hopefully I'd be okay. Uncle Pete reminds me not to get it on the boat. Then it comes out in full force, a huge Technicolor Yawn, and I got to see exactly what a half-digested hot dog looks like. Uncle Pete tells me I should have waited so we could have used it as chum. Apparently, as in the Navy, there isn't a lot of sympathy for seasickness on the fishing boat.

Between each heave I feel this constant dizziness. It wasn't long before my stomach was empty, and I was just dry-heaving for the fun of it. I swore to myself that I wouldn't complain, and I didn't, but I have to admit just a touch of dismay when I saw that we were going farther and farther away from the docking area.

Eventually, we get to the waypoint and Mike asks me,

"Are you still blowing chunks there, Dennis?"

To which I reply (with remarkable casualness, if I say so myself),

"Oh no, they are long gone now, Mike."

Everybody chuckled, and cast their lines. I decided to take a break and 'enjoy' the dizziness.

At this point, the rest of them got to experience "Shit!" #3, which was the fact that we were right over a coral reef that snagged their lines as soon as they touched bottom. Given that they all had to cut their lines, they were out of bait, and one of the passengers, who was not complaining, was hurling his guts out every three minutes, my uncle took over as captain of the ship and said, 'Watch the anchor, Dennis, we're going in.' I tried hard and succeeded in not saying, 'Finally.'

As we pulled back into the dock, the sickness started going away already, although I had the taste of puke in my mouth. My uncle apologized for me getting sick, which was not expected, and told me that I should have taken the bodine he offered. I swear that I didn't hear about it, because I would have been all over that. He also mentioned that ginger ale, or ginger alone, is the ancient mariner's trick for combatting seasickness, and he knew I was a goner whenever I started sweating. Another trick is to wet your head with seawater (he offered for me to do that before I started hurling), because your sweating from high body temperature and it helps to cool off. I guess I'll remember that next time.

We got in and told the tale, although we didn't lay the blame on Mike in public (Joe and I did in private, he didn't care for the beating the rocking boat gave us). In the end, I actually had a damn good time, and was feeling pretty good after a half hour nap.


Farewell Reader, have a good day.

Hussman

Sunday, November 14, 2004

Random Thought

Democracy feels it's best served when the majority rules. I do not take comfort in that statement when the median is below average.

Farewell Reader, have a good day.

Hussman

Friday, November 12, 2004

Daily Rant

Wow, I've had people read my blog that weren't involved in writing it. As I read through my posts, I realize that a) I certainly shift focus a lot, and b) I appear to hate religion.

I thought I should clarify my thoughts on that topic. I don't hate religion, and at times I admire the good that a few of them do, but I am incredibly frustrated with the rest of them.

I am agnostic. Simply, I don't see any evidence that the organized religions are related to the creation of the universe; however, I am not so arrogant to think that there isn't some higher being, deity, creator or whatever. I'm intelligent enough to know that I don't know the answer to that question. I would love for there to be an afterlife, but I will never know if there is one until oxygen is no longer delivered to my brain.

And there lies my frustration with organized religions. I know it's cliche to divide people into groups of two, but I often view the religious this way. They either don't believe, or they do. If the practitioners don't believe in their preachings, then they are hypocritical power-mongers using religion for social connections and control. If they do believe in it, in most cases they have a perspective that the universe exists for the creation of man, which I view a rather...arrogant. They may be good people, and treat their fellow man well, but to assume that we are the ultimate creation of life just because we developed a system of grunts for communicating abstract thoughts and put our opposable thumbs to use seems short-sighted.

Most every religion (except maybe Ba'hai or Hinduism) believes that there brand is the correct one, and all others are wrong. I think there is a logical axiom stated that if multiple, mutually-exclusive hypotheses assume that each must be true, then all or all but one are false. So which one is correct, if any?

In any case, each religion elevates themselves above the rest. JOIN OUR CLUB, WE'RE THE BEST! The rest of you will go to Hell. The different Christian denominations are always pointing fingers at each other, saying the other taints the message of Jesus. If only they understood his message as well as I do, and I don't even believe, according to their defintion.

Many (but not all) Christians seemingly forgot the true message of the Sermon on the Mount (beautiful words, by the way), and that when Mary Magdelene was about to be killed for being a whore, Jesus said, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone." Jesus never cast the stone. If Jesus wasn't throwing it, then he was a sinner too, which implies that he understood that people aren't perfect. Everyone has moments in their life they wish they've never done, I sure do, but that is the point of living. We make mistakes, we learn from them, we improve, we make more mistakes, we survive. We don't go to hell because we ate meat on Friday.


Farewell Reader, have a good day.

Hussman

Thursday, November 11, 2004

Daily Rant

Taken from http://www.imdb.com/news/sb/#1

Protests, Prayer Vigils To Greet 'Kinsey'
Religious conservatives and family-values groups are planning to wage a battle against Fox Searchlight's Kinsey, about the pioneering sex researcher, when the movie opens in limited release on Friday. In a statement on Wednesday, Robert Knight of Concerned Women for America charged that the movie "lionized" a man whose "proper place is with Nazi Dr. Josef Mengele or your average Hollywood horror flick mad scientist." Knight went on to assert that Kinsey "was the godfather of the homosexual activist movement, the campaign to mainstream pornography, and even the campaign to strike down abortion laws." The youth group Generation Life, composed of "virgins and renewed virgins," announced that it would picket theaters showing the film. And the conservative WorldNetDaily.com has taken aim at the movie in the current issue of its monthly magazine Whistleblower, in which it charges that Kinsey transformed America "in five decades from the Leave It to Beaver innocence of the 1950s to today's wanton, 'anything-goes' sexual anarchy."

The first thoughts that come to my mind are:

1) Why should I care what these zealots think?
2) Unfortunately, some people with considerable influence do care what they say.

The arrogance of the religious zealot never fails to amaze me. Do these people forget that they are the by-products of sex? Do they not understand that Kinsey objectively studied the human urge to have sex, and that these urges are the reason they exist?

As a race, we've been having sex for much longer than we've had the ability to talk. Without these urges, the dominant males would have been enjoying themselves doing more destructive things, like clubbing sabre-tooth tigers, wooly-mammoths, and other males, as opposed to wooing (or clubbing) desirable females and procreating.

But I'll call the zealots out on their own words.

-a man whose "proper place is with Nazi Dr. Josef Mengele or your average Hollywood horror flick mad scientist."

Pure idiocy. He apparently doesn't make one key distinction: Kinsey's subjects were willing participants, Mengele's were not.

-"virgins and renewed virgins," announced that it would picket theaters showing the film.

I love that term 'renewed virgins.' People asking for a Mulligan on their first time. It reminds me of Jill's girlfriend who would wait until her period to have sex with a guy so that she could say that they 'were her first.'

-"in five decades from the Leave It to Beaver innocence of the 1950s to today's wanton, 'anything-goes' sexual anarchy."

Let's see, the only real difference between the '50's and today is that we have much more information being transmitted in real time. The media has instant access to everything. But let's say there wasn't 'sexual anarchy' in the '50's. This would be the only time there wasn't anarchy. The evidence is clear with "All's fair in love and war."


Farewell Reader, have a good day.

Hussman

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Random Thought

It amazes me at how much people in Silicon Valley complain when there is a little rain.

Introduction

Oh boy, it's been a month of Sundays since I've written here. I just read Mark Cuban's blog for about three minutes, and realized that I liked doing it when I did it.

Mark Cuban is a bright guy. He just posted a blog entry on the music industry that skewers them. I didn't know all of the reasons that he listed for the decrease in CD sales. To think, that is his spare time.

Daily Rant

Oh, nothing to rant about, really, but my mind has been wandering.

Okay, this will probably turn out to be just another 'I FOUND GOD IN PI!' post, but what the hell, it's 1:22 in the morning and I can't sleep.

I've been re-reading Carl Sagan's CONTACT. The final storyline (a message in 'pi') has had me thinking about pi and where it comes from. Obviously it's the ratio of the circumference of a circle divided by its diameter. But why can it be derived in so many different ways? Also notice that it's tied to the other transcendental numbers like e.

Sagan tries to prove the existence of god by saying there is a Message very deep into the transcendental (boy that word is fun to type) constants. I'm not so sure you need to go that far. Just take a look--pi can be related to e, and it can also be related to the product of primes.

Prime numbers are supposed to be unpredictable and you can get pi?

It's occurrences like these that make me think about Order-Chaos deities. Yes reader, that's a big jump, but stick with me. I don't remember where I read about them first, maybe a fantasy book, but assume the following:

1. Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, etc. are all some form of mythology, just like the ancient Greeks and Romans. They are religions derived by man, used for controlling man.

2. As stated eloquently by Heinlein, "The Universe is too perfect to be random."

3. Therefore, there is a higher intelligence, some form of god, or gods, and it (they) don't necessarily follow the rules in the books we are told to read.

I know what you're thinking, 'How the hell would this line of thought relate to mathematics, and then life? '

Maybe there are two gods: Order and Chaos. Perhaps they are brothers. They like to play with each other, each outdoing the other in their little games. Order does something to unite the fabric of existence, Chaos does something to tear it apart. And we see the results of their play littering the universe.

Order says, "I'm going to liberate energy into to the nothingness of existence!"
Chaos says, "Nice trick, I will make it expand forever"
Order says, "Ah, okay, I will allow the energy to assume the shape of mass, and the mass will have strong, weak, electromagnetic, and gravitational forces that will provide it shape and form."
Chaos says, "Wonderful, I will make it so that you can never know exactly the position and momentum of the most discrete particles."
Order says, "In the structure of the universe, I will provide form to the mass and energy that is reproducible"
Chaos says, "Neat, I'm forcing the entropy of the universe to always increase, and eventually it must stop moving."
Order says, "I will create a system of mathematics that is universal, and will allow the representation of reality in abstract form."
Chaos says, "The math is beautiful, but many of the fundamental constants will continue infinitely."
Order says, "And my ultimate achievement will be the creation of life that will reverse the trend of entropy and collect free energy on its own will."
Chaos says, in awe, "Miraculous, really nice one there. But they must die."

And so their games continue. I don't believe they are watching us closely, although we may be a part of them. To me, the universe is much too big for them to be preoccupied with the not-so-significant actions of creatures little more advanced than the common ant. In short, it's their world, we're just living in it.

Did I observe an interesting person?
Menen was crying at work again today. She lost her husband over two months ago, but sometimes she is still wracked in grief. It's hard to know what to say to her, although I find that saying hello to her later in the day seems to help a little.

Have I heard anything funny today?
I am working on a bit with Jesus in a sanitarium.

Hobby Update
My guitar playing has steadily declined. I tried working on Paganini's No. 16 (5 has been intimidating), but it seems that I can't get the focus I once had when I was younger. I need to redirect my goals on this.

Stand-up is getting better. A lot better.



Farewell Reader, have a good day.

Hussman

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

Daily Rant

Long time since posting.

I just read the following from Yahoo!

In an Associated Press interview, Mrs. Bush also endorsed sexual abstinence programs for teens, which are slated to get double their current funding under the president's latest budget proposal.

Sounds a bit like the Junior Sex League in 1984

Not that I'm a conspiracy type, but you have to admit, Eric Blair knew the tendencies of government.


Farewell Reader, have a good day.

Hussman

Monday, January 05, 2004

Hobby Update

Worked on 'Stray Cat Strut' last night, easy to play, fun to sing, definitely including it in the set list. Backed off on Paganini again, damn that song is hard, but I still want to play it.

Farewell Reader, have a good day.

Hussman

Sunday, January 04, 2004

Random Thought

The world now knows that Jessica Simpson has absolutely no talent. Her Sugar Bowl Star Spangled Banner is the worst I've ever heard. Christ, I do better in the shower.

Friday, January 02, 2004