Facebook Follies & Xmas Weekend 2010

Below is something I typed in response to a lot of very nice people at Facebook that wished me a happy birthday. I admit it up front ... I'm a Facebook novice, not at all familiar in the quirks and oddball behavior that may operate there, but nowhere else in the civilized world.

See, the piece that I wrote is fairly lengthy by Facebookian standards. As such, I used my typical format, which features the radical concept of paragraph breaks. You know ... a double-space between each paragraph to indicate a change of thought or location or perhaps underwear.

As every writer worth his salt once learned (probably in early elementary school), paragraphs are important. I've tried to live by that rule ever since the 3rd Grade, when Miss Ishioka complimented me on my sentences and especially the paragraph structure. My structure was solid, man! (Thus revealing the source of my long-standing crush on Miss Ishioka). Point is, the text and its format were no exception to the most rudimentary rules of basic grammar.

Except, it seems, at Facebook. Double-spacing to indicate a paragraph break doesn't exist (or so I found). Every attempt I made to post resulted in an extra unrequested blank line (and sometimes a bonus of two!) to be inserted. The only other option was to have it all run together without any breaks at all That is inconceivable to me. So, with so much excess barren space between paragraphs, the piece looks like, if you pardon the word, shit. It's ugly and I don't like it one little bit.

Yeah, call me Mr. Fussypants if you want. It won't change my mind one iota. It's basic. I expect whatever you, I or anyone posts to make its appearance in the exact same form the well-meaning poster intended. Am I right or am I wrong?

Some people have asked me why I don't spend more time with Facebook. This is a prime example why not. *snort*

==================================================

Anyway, now that THAT'S over with, here's what I wanted to say in reply to everyone that noted the inauspicious occasion of my dropping some 61 years ago:

To those who took the time to come by and throw nice words at me, I humbly say thank you. Be ye a friend, a family member and/or someone I've come to know in the world of pro rez or anywhere else, I am truly pleased that you did.

Quickly, I'll pass along that I greatly enjoyed this past Saturday and Monday in Powell River, spending time with Li'l Cindi's parents and younger brother. (Yes, Li'l Cindi was there, too. What are ya, a wiseguy or sumpin')? I won't place Sunday in quite the same sphere of enjoyment, having downed a bad piece of something or other I really shouldn't have eaten during Saturday night's Bacchanalia.

Hoo boy ... It's been 20 years minimum since I last had to assume so many anatomically absurd positions whilst desperately clinging to the throne. Which pretty much sums up Sunday, from about 1 a.m. and all through the day. Sorry, there are no photos available.

Still, that failed to dampen the fun of hangin' 'round with the Family Augustine, no matter what minor setbacks befell this innocent. Mom and Dad Augustine are the youngest "older people" that I know, both in appearance and attitude. And 99-year-old Grandma is every bit the same. That means they all need careful watching.

And younger brother John is one of the bravest people I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. The guy is 40 (or close to it), and has been fighting (and overcoming) a mountain of what most would call disabilities. Yet, he can still keep up and fire off one-liners with the best of 'em. I know for a fact that I'd never have been able to withstand that which is routine to him. I'll get the opportunity to see him again late in March, when the Augustine Three come to Vancouver to visit.

Really, the whole bunch (including aunts and uncles, their children and their animals) are so full of life and good cheer that you can't help feeling much the same way, too. (My team of investigators assure me that it comes naturally to them, which for no reason within my grasp, troubles me).

And so, like it or not, I can proudly proclaim that I managed to survive Christmas 2010. However, do you not agree that it's just a wee bit odd that the only one to have had an adverse reaction of any kind was the Jew? I'm only sayin' ... don't that seem jest a little strange to you? (insert forced laugh here)

Otherwise, I hope everyone that reads this had themselves a fun-filled and joyous holiday with one more bash to go (if you're into that sort of thing). But let's all make a point of treating ourselves and others with both the respect and humor we all deserve. After all, it's a proven fact: if you smile at everyone you meet, before long you'll find people saying, "What's so damn funny?"

With hugs for one and all (for the guys, of the manly variety only ... in most cases),

= Richard =

P.S. Oh, yeah. About my birthday. Spent the day doing housework, which is unusual behavior for me any time of the year. I have no idea what inspired it, and I'm sure this form of illness will be long gone by morning.

Movie/DVD Review: Ironweed

About a month ago, I saw Ironweed on DVD for the first time. My introduction to the film was at least twelve years ago in a movie theater. Right away, I was reminded of the great performances by Jack Nicholson, Meryl Streep, Tom Waits and Carroll Baker. That and the poetic but sobering atmosphere is why it’s stayed with me since that initial viewing.

There's no getting around the fact that Ironweed is a very sad movie, as well as a beautifully realized character study. As such, the pace is moderately slow but not languid. Jack Nicholson's performance is wonderfully understated. I so much prefer an understated Nicholson. Because when he cuts loose (and he does here, more than once), it hits so much harder. The contrast is stark.

Meryl Streep is her usual brilliant self, infusing her down-in-the-dumps character with several different personalities (she effortlessly glides between friendliness and hostility, usually in very small steps). It all depends on the situation and whoever else might be involved. She's borderline, but she can be solid, too.

So, Jack and Meryl (as Francis Phelan and Helen Archer) more-or-less hang out together, living on the streets of Albany, N.Y, as a freezing cold winter approaches. Francis has been on the bum for some 17 years as he moves around the country. Now he's come back home, which means he'll have to decide how to go about visiting the family he deserted.

While that aspect takes its time to build, Francis has another problem: he's an alcoholic haunted by ghosts from his past. Too frequently for his liking, they appear as a group, all of them accusing Francis of being the instigator of their individual deaths.

These tragic mistakes in his life replay themselves irregularly. His errors weren’t made with deadly intent, but they overwhelm him none-the-less. Francis Phelan lives with an inhuman amount of guilt. He sees these victims in their shiny white state and indulges in accusatory "conversations," filled with rancor, indictment and denial. It's a performance not to be missed.

If you're willing to take the time to become involved with the story at this emotional level, it will get to you ... guaranteed. The best part is that Ironweed is free of heavy-handed manipulation and false sentimentality. These people aren’t angels by any means, but poor choices in combination with the collapse of the economy and just plain bad luck are what led them to their current state. By the time the movie is over, most viewers will feel a genuine and sincere sadness for these people to one degree or another. This is the real deal, folks.

In almost all of her earlier films in the '50s and '60s, Carroll Baker played beautiful, sexy, kittenish and highly desirable characters (they always had an aura of intelligence, too). Here, she’s no different, fitting in very comfortably as the wife Francis left. (She is also definitely older, meaning the sexy bit is out. It wouldn’t have worked in the context of the film, anyway).

Through all of the pain she and the kids suffered due to her husband’s self-banishment, she has every reason to be bitter, resentful and perhaps even furious to know he’s still alive. She’d been badly damaged, to be sure; but by the time of his return all these years later, she’d reached a stage of understanding that takes her (and us) well beyond those raw emotions.

The biggest surprise in the film is a great performance by Tom Waits, in the role of Francis's best buddy. Waits is endearingly likable, sometimes pitiable, as a homeless hobo with a heart; he also happens to be an alcoholic and a junkie.

The director is Hector Babenco, who also directed Pixote and Kiss of the Spider Woman. With that kind of résumé, it should come as no surprise that Ironweed has poignancy by the barrel. With occasional lighter moments (Meryl Streep singing her heart out to a small number of patrons in a bar/lounge is a delight), it succeeds in preventing the audience from becoming morose.

It’s too bad that more people didn’t take the chance to go and see Ironweed when it was first released. As we know, the motion picture business is a slave to box office receipts, and even with such an outstanding cast and director, this one just didn’t make the cut.

The haunting theme stays with you long after the movie runs its course. During the closing credits, those still alert will recognize Meryl Streep, as Helen Archer, is humming along to the moving melody, her slightly off-key yet pleasant voice just barely audible. It is the perfect coda for the film.

For guys who may think this movie isn't for them, ask yourself this question: are you man enough to handle genuine emotions? If the answer is yes, then don't let anyone tell you that Ironweed is a woman's film. To be succinct, it's for anybody who knows himself a little bit and can understand his feelings, both the happy and the sad. This is a people's film.

Word of Advice: Play it safe! Before settling in to watch Ironweed, be sure the phone and other external disturbances are shut down. You won’t want a lot of interruptions as the story plays out. Also, be sure to have a couple of boxes of Kleenex within reach (you may or may not need them). The film is wholly satisfying but you should be prepared; so long as you invest yourself in what you're seeing and feeling, it’ll grab you in places you may not have been grabbed in a long, long time.

Ironweed is highly recommended either in a theater or on a DVD near you.

Memories of Rock Music ... Opus Two

To carry on the rock music theme from my previous column, the following reminiscence is the flip side of the coin. (To view Opus One, see the June 6, 2010 entry). Without any doubt, this qualifies as my worst rock concert experience, hands down. I've yet to receive the apology I still think The Rolling Stones and their management owe me.

It was, I believe, the year 1969, and The Rolling Stones were appearing on a Saturday night at the Fabulous Forum in Los Angeles. The L.A. Kings hockey game, originally scheduled for that same evening, was moved back earlier to a 1 p.m. start. In theory, that would give the staff a couple of hours to make the change from a hockey rink configuration to that of a stage show.

Tickets for the concert sold so quickly that the promoters couldn't avoid succumbing to the demand for more. (I'm sure the profit incentive had nothing to do with it. Riiight). So, less than a week before the event, a second Stones concert was added. The building was therefore going to be used for three separate events within a 12-hour period; hockey at 1 p.m., first Stones concert at 7 and the newly added Stones concert at 11.

I managed to get ahold of a couple of tickets for the 11 p.m. show, and scored a date with a young lady I knew from the college I attended. Although I was in the early stages of getting to know her, she was someone I liked quite a lot. We arrived in Inglewood around 10 p.m., an hour before the second show was due to get underway.

Parking was a nightmare. I wound up paying a local homeowner $10.00 to leave my car in his driveway. (This was an outrageous sum to pay for parking in those days. I believe the tickets to the concert were under $8.00 each for seats halfway up). For the record, the temporary car-park was better than a mile away from the venue, so we had to hoof it from there. My dainty young date was less than pleased. She was wearing shoes not meant for a lot of walking, and groused about it all the way. It made me feel kinda lousy.

When we finally arrived at the venue, there were thousands upon thousands of people milling around in front of the building and in the adjacent parking lot. As it turned out, the first Stones concert didn't actually get underway until 10:30 ... half-an-hour before the later one was scheduled to begin! All of the opening acts were name performers. (I recall them as being James Taylor, Electric Light Orchestra and The Ike and Tina Turner Revue). I later heard that they weren't too agreeable about cutting their performances short.

The unforeseen late start meant that everybody that had arrived for the 11 p.m. show had nowhere to go. What with thousands of people forced to wait outside for hours feeling more and more antsy and irritable, drinking, toking and partaking in other consumables quickly became the preferred method of time management. Here and there, the odd fight started. Inglewood police and the Forum security boys tried to calm things down, but only succeeded in making matters worse. Several of the more violent and obstinate individuals were arrested. For a time, it appeared a riot was in the offing.

At 2 a.m., the doors finally opened and the first show crowd came out. Certain still-impatient and irritated members of the by-now stumbling drunk/stoned second-show-mob began jeering and throwing objects at them. A few more fights broke out.

My date and I finally got seated and chit-chatted until 4 a.m., when the show began. And at that very moment, she casually informed me that she hoped it wouldn't run too long, for she didn't want to be late getting to the airport. This came as an unexpected news flash to me. Until then, she had said nothing. Now, I found out she had a ticket to catch an early morning flight to Phoenix. Assuming the show ended around 7 a.m., she'd have to rush like hell to make her 8 a.m. flight. What with my car being more than a mile away, I felt even worse as I empathized with her plight.

When I inquired, she casually mentioned that she was heading to Arizona to visit HER BOYFRIEND, who apparently had a temporary job there. Now, THERE was a bit of information I really wanted to hear.

For me, that was the last straw. In a tone that probably displayed more hurt and anger than I intended, I told her that if the show wasn't over in time, I'd give her the money and she could call a cab. It may not have been terribly gallant of me, but by then I was angry and didn't give a damn.

She sulked and refused to say anything more to me for the rest of that night/morning. Boo hoo.

The crowning moment came when the guy sitting next to me doubled over and impolitely vomited on the floor, with a portion of his dinner splashing onto my shoes. Thinking back, that was probably the highlight of the night.

I'm not sure, but I suspect the above explains why I occasionally wake up in a cold sweat with a strong desire to scream long and loud while frantically flailing and wiping away at my feet.

Oh, wait ... one last thing. My erstwhile date had indeed departed to go to the airport early on in the Stones' set. As I had promised, I stayed and went back to my car when the show was over, a little after 7 a.m. When I arrived at the house where my car was parked, I saw something that almost made me cry. There were some three or four cars also parked there, locking me in until their owners arrived. Had to wait for almost an hour before I could get the hell out.

It was at that time when I began to feel my concert-going days were nearing the end. Funny, I've yet to repeat anything close to this when attending a symphony concert every now and again...

Memories of Rock Music ... Opus One

Hello again to all wandering eyeballs. Delighted you decided to drop by (or ended up here through a grievous computer error)...

Not long ago, I was over at a favorite hangout, AKA the Wrestling Classics Message Board
.
While scanning the topics, I chanced upon an active discussion taking place: who do you think is the greatest live performer in music history? That broad expanse was immediately narrowed down to the best onstage musician (or band) over the past 40 years. (After all, despite the claim of "having seen and heard him myself!" from one mischief-maker, how can we really know that Mozart wasn't the hands-down winner?)

Bruce Springsteen, James Brown, Michael Jackson and Queen were among the names most frequently mentioned. And since it was the middle-of-the-night and I was done working on another project, I decided to jump in and offer my $.02. So, for better or worse, the following is the response I posted. I'd like to think it brings back fond memories for some and gives a moderately sharp image for those too young to have "been there."

I appreciate your e-mail messages, so don't feel too shy to send along your thoughts about this column.

Thanks for taking the time to read!

= Richard =


I saw Jimi Hendrix perform on five different occasions (maybe six). Arguments can be made that he could be sloppy as hell if he didn't especially feel creative during any given performance. But when he was on and improvising with inspiration...

The single most amazing Hendrix show that I attended took place around 1968 at Bill Graham's Filmore in San Francisco. The energy throughout the place, even before Jimi took the stage, was unlike any I'd known before. Basically, it was an overexcited, upbeat, happy and stoned crowd. Somehow, it felt more "pure" than other concerts I'd attended.

Halfway through his set and between songs, Hendrix took ahold of the mic stand and said something like, "Hope you don't mind if a friend of mine comes out to join us."

The great guitarist Jeff Beck (don't know if he remains so nowadays) came out stage left, waving once or twice at the stunned but ecstatic audience; and along with the band, launched into Jimi's "Stone Free." Watching, we saw how the musicians were actually feeding off the crowd's passions and giving it right back. Before long, the two guitar legends began exchanging licks back and forth, both frequently smiling and sometimes laughing as they each made an effort to top the other while staying true to the song itself.

And don't kid yourself ... while a lot of them were loud and joyfully delirious, certain passages were somewhat muted and not at all frenetic. What this meant was that our anticipation of what was just over the horizon built back up. (Wrestling Psychology 101). Hendrix and Beck threw the lead to one another more and more frequently, each playing his part one notch louder than what had preceded him. (This goes to 11!)

And finally, when the drums and bass slammed their way back in simultaneously with the guitars hitting a chord that was both ringing and pure, the crowd couldn't help but explode. The music became utterly deafening as it continued soaring higher and higher, proving that drugs alone still couldn't take you to THIS place. Even though "Stone Free" continued on a little while longer, we'd reached the apex.

Possibly as much due to a circulating shared substance, at that moment I felt lightheaded as a flash of colors went off in my head. Never again have I felt that same thing. It was nothing but a real live genuine Jimi Hendrix Experience.

As I said, I've no idea how long that version of the song lasted, but it didn't matter. We bystanders were overwhelmed with what we were witnessing.

Should Alzheimer's come along one day to claim my brain, I'm betting I'll still remember that concert...

The New "V"

V for Victory was a popular U.S. catchphrase during World War II. When it comes to the new remake of the highly popular 1980s sci-fi mini-series, V is for Vacuous.

Many reviews of the pilot episode of "V" have been positive. Not so in this instance.

Me, I was laughing (sometimes derisively) at the cliched inanities spouted by the cast gratuitously and generously throughout the script. Genuine grown-up people do not, as a rule, emit junior-high-school-level dialogue as exemplified by the dimwitted and exceedingly shallow characters in this opus.

Now, if you're 11 years old, this is fine fare. The special effects look particularly nice in hi def. You also need not concern yourself with annoyances such as a basic grounding in reality, character development, and actual ... you know ... adult-like behavior by adult-like people.

Look, I don't expect most television fare to be particularly sharp and pointed. After all, when people tune in to a weekly program, they're primarily seeking to be entertained. I have no problem with that in the least. But, in my opinion, the current version of "V" doesn't even attempt to reach people who have achieved a level of education beyond the 7th grade. I'm not suggesting the show has to speak to graduate students and above. All I ask is that the producers of a program refrain from treating me, as a participating member in the audience, as an idiot. Do that, and I'll be glad to meet you halfway.

My point is this: the story was flimsily constructed from the git-go, trotted out as it was in a frantic rush to "get to the good stuff." By the end, I didn't give a damn about anyone I met. That's a huge mistake. If the story you're telling is supposed to be compelling, then you need to give your audience a reason to become emotionally and intellectually involved. Of course, it's impossible to tell us everything about everyone in a 45-minute episode; but "V" skirted the issue entirely. As far as I was concerned, that aspect was a miserable failure, at least in the first episode.

The humans, the ones we're supposed to care about only because they keep showing up, are mired in a phony TV world where each of them is pigeonholed and labeled. We have the heroic and sexy FBI woman/single Mom. Naturally, she is eternally capable of handling any situation with certainty and bravery, both at home and on the job. (This, as opposed to her male FBI partner who is ineffectual and in need of constant direction. Because we all know that in law enforcement, everybody works in a 2-person team comprised of one hard-ass with a heart of gold and one fumbling but usually likable sidekick). The woman's kid is very smart, kind of a wise-ass but basically a good boy, attractive (of course), and just as daring as can be. These false movie-and-TV constructs have no depth beyond the surface and the obvious.

Were the Earth to experience an actual "space invasion," even a seemingly friendly and benign one, the impact would be ... well ... earthshaking. We're meant to believe that 19 cities around the world are semi-occupied by aliens from another world. Yet, after a mere day or two, everybody relaxes and accepts the strangers readily (except for a few dyspeptic skeptics who manage to form a semi-organized underground in about a week's time).

It also comes as little surprise that while the arrival of the spaceships was indeed a worldwide phenomenon, the entire story is seen from an American perspective. Apparently, learning how the event is seen elsewhere by people of different cultures and conflicting world views is unimportant. No, that kinda stuff is way too complicated. And because none of this is addressed or even implied, we are left to assume that the rest of the planet sits meekly by and waits for the U.S. (and one plucky kid) to handle the matter.

Nope. I ain't buying it. Be it science fiction or fantasy, the basic premise still needs to exist in a world most of the intended audience would recognize. This one, even with all the handsome images (who wants to make a bet with me that's where the majority of the budget went), came across as a live action cartoon without any of the intelligence or wit.

Just one man's opinion, izzall.

WAITRESS

I have to admit it right off the top. At my advanced age, I managed to develop an interest in a lovely young waitress at a local eatery. Not without good cause, mind you. This particular head-turning delight would easily capture the attention of any healthy heterosexual male between the ages of 14 and 94. Well, that certainly qualified me, and for that reason I did not consider myself out-of-line.

To my increasing annoyance, the incessant tsk-tsking of my grown-up brain was frustratingly unwelcome. Floating in and out with its repetitive warnings, the intrusion only served to disrupt the lovely illusion I was busily forming.

Naturally, this all took place between us in utter silence. No one outside of my inner-self needed to know that I hosted these internal conversations on a semi-regular basis. The unrelenting brain, in its typically pointed fashion, continued to ask such questions as “just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Before long, whenever the brain insisted upon breaking through the wall and barging into my consciousness, another factor from within was prepared to deal with it. The raging hormones of my inner 16-year-old, the very same adventurous teenager who continues to remain active (all the while refusing to get a job), was ready with his response.

“What’s the problem? What could be healthier? It’s perfectly normal! Don’t be so old-fashioned! Hey, man … ignore that tired old codger. LET’S LIVE WHILE WE STILL CAN!”

Refusing to address the hyperactive kid directly, the grown-up brain countered with a snort of contempt. “You hear that? He makes no sense. You could easily be the girl’s father! Hell, maybe her GRANDFATHER! You already have two terrific and special women in your life. Aren’t you the one who says openly and frequently that you’re damned lucky to have them? So grow up, you silly old fool!”

This phenomenon, it’s amazing. But I must be honest. In the end, there would be nothing the brain could say or do that would mute the sense of possibility, spurred on as it was by the overanxious kid’s imagination. The tug-of-war would continue, but the “wouldn’t it be nice” dream the kid kept pushing never stopped driving that message home. A politician running for office should be so persuasive.

Approaching the restaurant, I once again thought of the young waitress’s lovely unblemished features, made all the more appealing by her sparkling blue eyes. Her hair positively glimmered as sunlight bathed it. The work-ordained ponytail she sported merrily bounced along to an inaudible but insistent rhythm. It all conspired to create a symphony of loveliness in cadence with her movements.

By the time I'd entered the gastric emporium, I had already made the decision to put my best foot forward by simply going with the flow. Jauntily striding in while still attempting to organize my thoughts, I quickly noticed the waitress in action. Her arms were extended as she expertly carried dishes full of tempting lunch fare. The thoughts I entertained had nothing to do with the food.

Soon after the hostess seated me, the waitress approached with a menu, all-the-while flashing her warm and inviting smile. None-too-cleverly, I began building towards the real purpose of my visit. You know the bit … a hello, intended to be perceived as smooth, a little joke and a wink of approval. She returned the greeting, politely giggled at my attempt at humor, and acted as if she hadn’t noticed the wink. Maybe she hadn’t.

When the busy waitress returned minutes later, rather than placing an order, I told her I had a question to ask. That was just fine, she stated. No doubt anticipating that the query was related to a menu item, she seemed slightly taken aback when I said, “My dear, are you married, engaged or otherwise seriously involved with someone?” In my mind, I congratulated myself for not coming across as too much of a jerk (at least in my eyes).

The look on her face confirmed that I’d indeed caught her by surprise. But she also recovered quickly and responded with little hesitation.

“Yes, I am. I have a pretty wonderful boyfriend, and he’s a very remarkable guy.” She lowered her shimmering blue eyes slightly and added softly, “I know you understand.”

“Of course I do,” I said, perhaps a bit too quickly, adding, “Actually, I fully expected something along those lines.” I didn’t believe my own words.

Concluding with as much gallantry as I was able to muster, I added, “He’s a very lucky fellow, he is. I want to wish you both nothing but happiness.”

“Thank you,” she said, again flashing her killer smile. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to take your order.”

You know, it’s amazing how the brain is wired. The waitress’s blonde ponytail, still bouncing with the precision of a metronome, hadn’t yet faded from view when the brain dropped by for a visit. True to form, it was only too anxious to drive its triumphant point home. "Was I on the mark?" it asked. "Well, was I?"

“For crying out loud,” I grumbled, gritting my teeth. "Not now, all right?" Surely this three pound lump in my head was only too aware that I very well knew the answer to its rhetorical question. Did it really have to be so maddeningly smug when alluding to the obvious?

The damn thing continued speaking in the same tone as an adult would to a perpetually misbehaving schoolboy. “You see what I was saying? There was no chance … I’ll repeat myself … NO CHANCE of ever establishing a connection. But you had to go and give in to your puerile flights of fancy. I kept telling you, did I not, to stop before you started?”

My response, which was accompanied by a mental grimace, came rapidly as I silently shot back, “Okay. Okay. I get the message. Now knock it off!”

“Fine. There’s just one last thing I’d like to add before I finish,” my berating brain proclaimed. “The next time this sort of thing occurs …”

“Yeah?” I responded to the chastising organ with resignation.

“Remember your age!”

“I get it. I'm with you. You’re right, and I’ll try.”

Since having this last conversation some hours ago, I sincerely believe I’ve come to accept those parting words from my good and true friend, the brain. I am now far more cognizant of my years every waking moment.

My back hurts incessantly. Sometimes I stand before an exasperated toilet, barely able to pee. I’m taking a lot of short naps for no particular reason. I get irritated without provocation. Yes, I truly do understand. I now feel every bit as old as I really am.

Wait a minute. What’s that? Who the hell is playing that hip hop noise so loud? TURN THAT CRAP OFF AND I MEAN RIGHT NOW! YOU KIDS ARE SPOILED ROTTEN! GET YOUR USELESS BUTTS OFF MY LAWN AND OUT OF MY SIGHT, OR I’LL CALL THE COPS! DON’T THINK I WILL? TRY ME, PUNKS!

See? My brain is really very smart..

BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN

Note: It may appear that what you are reading is a duplicate column, found on both of my websites (Perspectives on Wrestling and Richard Berger’s Point of View). Please be aware that the first three paragraphs are indeed identical. After that, they diverge into separate subjects. I view it as a quick and easy way to get the same point across without re-writing. Others may call it proof of laziness.

Hello to my friends everywhere…

I must apologize. I’ve not been updating both of the websites far longer than I ever would have anticipated. I want to thank those folks that took the time to send e-mail inquiring about the status of my health, both physically and mentally. It’s good to be able to say I’m doing reasonably well (okay, the mental aspects have always been questionable), and I sincerely appreciate the concern people have expressed. In general, things are not bad, and the fact is they could be a whole lot worse. So, there are no complaints from me.

Occasionally, situations of the personal variety will crop up unexpectedly. In some cases, they demand virtually all of one’s attention. Such was the case for yours truly. And while the difficulties appear to be resolved, the circumstances demanded most of my time and all of my patience. Trust me; nobody would have wanted to read anything I might have written during that period.

So, unless the loose ends aren’t secured as well as I’d like to believe they are, these sites will be updated more frequently. And yes, to the few that inquired, I’m still working on the book. An announcement will be made as it comes close to publication, hopefully before year’s end. But for now, let’s move forward.

All societies are complex by their very nature. Depending on what philosophy a government practices, individual expression will be permitted more in some than in others. Still, despite variances in tolerance from country to country, the urge to conform is a human trait. From the most totalitarian and oppressive nations to the more lenient and liberal, the desire to create a society that abides by a certain code of conduct is consistent.

Despite the ominous move towards a police state mentality in the United States' recent past, there still remains a somewhat more open attitude than what is true for many countries. True, at least when it comes to general behavior and how people conduct themselves in public settings. This is at the heart of the point I hope to make. While likely to be considered trivial by many, I believe it to be indicative of how a society perceives itself, both at home and in the world.

I’ve found myself becoming more and more unhappy and discouraged as time passes. The downgrading of human verbal interaction in the North American public has, in my estimation, reached an all-time low. Hearing young and old alike using four-letter-words as a part of general conversation, most of the time unnecessarily so, causes a certain dyspepsia within me.

My reaction is certainly not unique. I’ve observed the distressed facial expressions of people within hearing range of a barrage of foul verbiage, and they mirror mine. No matter what the age of the offender (although it is particularly disheartening when it comes from the very young), it is undeniable proof of a coarseness that is pervasive throughout North America.

Sadly, this form of “verbal violence” has grown unrelentingly. And worst of all, it seems to have been accepted to one degree or another most everywhere. Perhaps it's a case of mass resignation to the ever-growing avalanche of foul language. Still, I'm a cockeyed optimist, and I continue to believe it may yet be halted, or at least minimized.

Now, I absolutely have no problem with hearing or using foul language when it’s appropriate. There are plenty of people that will tell you they’ve been witnesses to a crass diatribe or two (million) springing from these lips. No, I do not disparage the USE of such words, only the MISUSE. To insert powerful and incendiary terms as a matter of course sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph, brings about three results:

1. It sends a message that the spouting individual most probably possesses a limited vocabulary and is handicapped by lower-than-average intelligence.
2. It encourages the more impressionable within hearing range to emulate those they may consider cool or tough or more worldly. In which case, they “learn” that this is tolerable behavior.
3. Words uttered infrequently carry more weight than those used commonly. By employing terms that had once been reserved primarily for the rare occasions when they emphasized a point, they now fail to grab the listener's attention. By using profanity in everyday conversations, the very purpose behind it is defeated, with the intended impact greatly reduced.

Plain and simple, I maintain that it is not a respectable form of expression. When the occasion calls for a particularly strong word or image, then fine, you’ll get no argument from me. (The exception would be as it pertains to the time and place involved, which has everything to do with it. As a rule, when children are in the area, it is NEVER appropriate to delve into the blue).

If people truly want respect from others, they would be far better served by talking in a conversational and convincing manner without resorting to vulgarism. Breaking out colorful terminology among friends in a private setting is perfectly reasonable; when talking within earshot of the general public, it is not.

Being an avowed left-leaning person all my life (at least politically), it bothers me just a bit when it comes to laying out rules and regulations on how the populace should behave itself. The freedom to develop our own strengths and discover our own limits as a people begins within the individual. Beyond the basic tenets (i.e. do not kill others with the possible exception of self-defense), I’d much prefer living in a community that adheres to a standard. One that promotes the principle that each and every person may choose his own philosophy of life.

But when it comes to using the English language in public, I maintain that there must be an understanding and an agreed upon accord. It would be one small step towards comprehending ourselves and others, along with strengthening our solidarity as a people. The flagrant misuse of words and their intended meanings only serves to undermine such goals as well as diminishing us as a society..