Nuts

I have a toxic relationship with pistachios. They are probably my favorite nut, and I find their taste to be most exquisite. I could eat those little purplish/green jewels for hours. But I also have some major problems with pistachios. First of all, they are very expensive. There are no dreary off-brand tins of pistachios like there are of other nuts. One must pay a relatively high price for this food product. Apparently Iran is the world’s largest producer of pistachios, and I think they are gouging the market. This infuriates me much more than their nuclear enrichment program. I don’t eat uranium. Maybe 'Bamer, (my term of endearment for the President, pronounced “bomber.”) should make me the ambassador to Iran. Perhaps I could find common ground with Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Mahmy, (my term of endearment for Ahmadinejad, pronounced “mommy”) can deny the Holocaust, but he can’t deny that pistachios are tasty treats.

There is also another major problem with these nuts; they are very hard to eat. One must expend a great amount of effort to free the nut from the shell. Sometimes I will pry with all my might, and be unsuccessful in opening one. Other times I hurt my fingernails trying to dig in there and get them out. After a time, the effort involved seems to outweigh the benefit of the tiny nugget of food I get in return. Primitive Brian would have hampered the evolution of early hominids. They thrived on getting the maximum energy output from the minimal effort in regards to food. While the other proto-humans were eating bananas at their leisure, I would be sweating and straining for one pistachio. I never give up on a piece. If I have to smash it with a hammer, by God, I will have my nut! Sometimes there are shells with no meat inside. I will not talk about that circumstance, for it adversely affects my blood pressure.

Another problem with eating pistachios is having to find a receptacle for the empty shell pieces. Sometimes I just grab a handful and take them somewhere else to eat them. I sit down to relax and eat, only to find that I’ve brought nothing to put the empties in. After a long hard day all I want to do is enjoy a snack and perhaps a snifter of alcohol. To suddenly find that I’ve nowhere to put the unusable portions of my food is a nightmare. Sometimes I will simply place them on a table or counter, with the intention of throwing them away later. Inevitably I forget to do this. The next morning I will find the empty husks littered across the table like bones on a forgotten battlefield. My first response is to curse, and my second response is to have a craving for more pistachios. And then the tedious cycle repeats itself. These are some of the reasons why I both love, and hate, pistachios.

I mentioned bananas earlier. I don’t wish to convey the message that I don’t like bananas, far from it. I also have a toxic relationship with them. I like the taste of bananas, but prefer them to be slightly pre-ripe. I like the firm texture as opposed to the mushy texture of ripe ones. But I have a problem. Bananas are perhaps the most phallic of all foods. Eating a banana invariably seems like culinary fellatio. It is impossible, at least in my mind, to avoid the connection. Now, be it known that I am no Freudian. I am also in no way homophobic. In fact, I have been accused by many of being too comfortable with my latent homosexuality. But when I eat a banana first thing in the morning, this is the last thing I want to think about. I can usually make it through ¾ of a banana before I gag and have to throw the rest away. Such a disability stems more from a terrible gag reflex than anything else. This can only be avoided by cutting up the banana into small pieces like a child. Potassium is good for you. Bananas are good. I frequently enjoy them with peanut butter. I also have a toxic relationship with peanut butter.

I love peanut butter. I much prefer eating it to regular butter. I don’t like peanuts, but I like their butter. There is only one problem I have with peanut butter; I don’t like to eat it by itself. I can only eat it on, or with something. I feel really bad about this. I love peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and honey, peanut butter on pancakes and waffles, peanut butter and apples, and peanut butter and bananas. But I can’t eat it raw. I see other P.B. aficionados like my Mother, Sister, and Wife, eating it raw and I feel bad. It makes me feel like less of a “real” peanut butter fan. If I were a “true believer” I could eat it by itself. It gives me shame in the face of others who go all the way. Not eating peanut butter seems like an affront to George Washington Carver. I don’t want to spit in the face of one of the great African-American innovators. Its overkill, I know. Also, raw peanut butter scares me because I feel like it constricts my throat, and if I don’t drink milk immediately, I might die. It still makes me sad though.

Its like Woody Allen said, “I can’t listen to too much Wagner. I start getting the urge to conquer Poland.”

Summers in the Catskills and Battles in Space

"Well, as an old military commander once said, 'sometimes you've got to roll a hard six," said Brian to someone who was seeking advice.

"It wasn't an old military commander. It was a fictional character from Battlestar Galactica," interrupted Shawna, ruining my conversation.

"Commander Adama was in the military Shawna! Who do you think commanded the last battlestar after the destruction of the colonies? Patton?" I replied. But it was too late, the rich advice I was passing along from the grizzled old space dog fell on deaf ears. Just because he wasn't "real."

On another occasion I was speaking to someone who had recently traveled to Ireland.

"My mother's family comes from there, the McCartys. They came over during the potato famine."

"Really? What part of Ireland were they from?"

"Ballykissangel. It's Gaelic for 'Valley of the Fallen Angel.' It's near Kildargen, north of Dublin. I used to go there in the Summers. There was the pub, Fitzgerald's, operated by Assumpta Fitzgerald, the shop run by Kathleen, the garage owned by Padraig, and of course the young English priest Father Peter Clifford. It's a beautiful area, and it's so tragic what happened to Father Clifford."

"O dear, what happened to him?"

"Well, he fell in love with Assumpta, but was torn between his duties as a priest and this passion. When they finally decided to be together she was electrocuted under her pub and died. Damn shame."

At this point Shawna once again came to the 'rescue' of the person I was talking to.

"Brandon has never been to Ireland. Ballykissangel was an Irish TV show, and all of those characters are made up. There was no tragic affair between a priest and a publican, and no one rally died. They were ACTORS," she revealed. Only her long experience teaching first-graders equips her to deal with me. I expect her to be canonized one day for her travails.

"Their love was real to me," was all I could muster, reflecting on the painful memories.

These are but two of many instances that have led to two serious accusations against my person. One, that I am a pathological liar. Two, that I don't know the difference between reality and fantasy. Both of these are blatantly untrue.

First of all, I am not a 'pathological' liar; I am a 'recreational' liar. My lies are not used for nefarious purposes, but to entertain, or illustrate a point. It is rather like the parables of Jesus, which weren't necessarily literally true stories, but they helped the common man understand what he was trying to say. Not that I'm comparing myself to Jesus; we may have similar beards, but he had six pack abs and performed miracles. If I could turn water into wine, I would lack nothing in life.

Secondly, it's not that I don't know the difference between reality and fantasy, it's that I find the difference negligible. So I haven't ever met William Adama or Peter Clifford. But I've never met Richard Nixon or Julius Caesar either. All we have of them now are stories. They have no greater reality than fictional characters that exist on TV and in books. Oh, sure people have 'met' them or 'seen them in person,' but everyone knows that eyewitness testimony is notoriously flawed. I tend to agree with Graham Greene, in his book Travels With My Aunt, when he is reflecting on the death of his relative called Joe Pulling:
"What did the truth matter? All characters, once dead, if they continue to exist in memory at all, tend to become fictions. Hamlet is no less real now than Winston Churchill, and Joe Pulling no less historical than Don Quixote."

Thus, I will continue to live in this fashion for the foreseeable future. At least until my family has me committed. I recently purchased a Kellerman's staff shirt and decided that I was going to take a summer job at the resort. Only one who studies with Johnny Castle can truly master the art of dance. In an online class recently I spoke of a notorious university test known as the Kobayashi Maru, which tested how students responded to a "no-win scenario." I did not add that the university in question was Starfleet Academy, which won't be established until 2161. When I met someone who happened to be a molecular biologist I told them that I'd interned at International Genetic Technologies, Inc., or InGen. I did not add that this was the corporation founded by John Hammond in Jurassic Park.

Sometimes I am purposely lying for pleasure, but the funny thing is, sometimes these things are real to me. The human mind is a very strange thing indeed. If I become emotionally or intellectually attached to a fictional character, they become real. They are not tangible, provable beings, but they have an existence all their own in my head. In fact, sometimes I can relate to them more than I can actual people in my life. If I'm honest, its probably because there is an impenetrable barrier between us, while with real people, there is no buffer. If this makes me an eccentric, so be it. I would rather be mad than mundane.

Comida Comedy

"Do you want some sliced cucumber?" I asked magnanimously.
"We don't have any cucumber," She responded.
"Of course we do."
"No.we.don't."
"Then what the hell do you think I've been eating all week?"

With that, Shawna led me to the fridge and pulled out the vegetable in question. I felt vindicated. Surely the tactile contact with a physical item will verify it's existence.

"THIS IS A ZUCCHINI," she explained, as if to a child,"It is completely different. It looks different, it tastes different. This needs to be cooked. Didn't you notice?"

I pondered this new information for a moment, as my thought processes clicked.

"Well, I thought it tasted a little off," I begrudged.

Foods can be a great source of drama in my life.

For example, I don't like to smell a different kind of food than the kind I'm currently eating. It seems vulgar and unnatural. This is especially the case if I'm eating dessert and smell a main course, or vice versa.

Last night we decided that we wanted to try a new Mexican restaurant in town. I had just gotten home from work and was loath to change clothes, but it seemed better than to go in my shirt & tie. We were just going to get take out, so I didn't want to go through the effort of putting on an entire ensemble. The t-shirt was easy enough, but the pants I grabbed at random were button-fly. The button fly jeans piss me off because they require so much more effort, yet, they are safer than zipper-fly jeans. After the excruciating effort involved in buttoning my jeans, the thought of shoes and socks terrified me. I settled for flip flops, even though it was raining and chilly.

"Shawna! What are you doing? We need to leave now!" I always get in an incredible hurry immediately after I am ready.

"You told me to look up the phone number," she said.
"There's no time for that, we'll have to risk going in without prior knowledge."

My dash to the car which included crossing the Red Sea in flip flops, (Or thongs, as Grandma calls them. As in Brandon, are you wearing your thongs today?)which was an unpleasant experience. My hurry always takes a hiatus when I get to the car. I have to first find an appropriate song to begin the journey on. As I have over 14,000 songs on my ipod, it takes some time. I finally selected a song (I usually just skip through until I find one by Rush), and we were off.

I have been watching a lot of "Top Gear." It's a popular British show about fast cars, technology, and general British antics. Unfortunately, since I've been watching it I've wanted to replicate the daredevil maneuvers of the professional drivers. I spun the tires and fishtailed my hot-rod '95 Monte Carlo. (It is not a hot-rod) After a derisive look from my co-pilot, I began to maintain a more proper pace. It corresponded with a slow part in the song anyway. And my car probably needs a little TLC before it can compete with the Lambos on the show. Maybe an oil change. Or some oil period. I am not an expert.

The Mexican placed was closed. I'd wasted too much time.
"Son of a bitch," I exclaimed, questioning the parentage of an inanimate object, "now what?"
"Sonic?"
"My car window doesn't roll down."
"Taco Bell?"
"We would have to go in."
"So?"
"I'm wearing flip flops with a coat."
"So?"
"It's very uncouth," I tried to explain, knowing I'd lost. We went to Taco Bell.

I hadn't been to a taco bell in a long time. And I haven't ever been sober. So this was a new experience. Everything was bright and new. An unfamiliar menu made me extremely nervous. The "Big Box Meal" caught my eye.

"What is that?" I asked Shawna.
"The Big Box Meal, it looks pretty good."
"Is it for a person or a group?"
"I don't know. A person, I think."
"But you don't know. Have you ever had it?"
"No, Brandon."
"Then you aren't an expert."
"I guess not."

With that, I knew I would have to engage the natives. I always feel that it's my duty to inject a little whimsy into the lives of those in the service industries.

"Excuse me sir," I began, "That Big Box Meal, what is it?"
"Uh, it's a meal in a box. It comes with everything in the picture," he droned.
"Does the box come with it?" I asked eagerly.
"Yes."
"Is it meant to be eaten by one person?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Is the serving recommended for one person, or for a group?"
"Uh, most people just get it for one person I guess."
"So if I get one for myself, I won't look like a voracious rhinoceros?"
"I don't know. You could share it with as many people as you want. I don't care personally."
"Excellent. I'll have one just for myself, and whatever the lady would like."

Shawna looked at me with the sad attachment that people who work with chimpanzees feel. We moved on to the drinks, and I explained to her about the physics of the ice and liquid ratio. She pretended to care, as she often does. I went to the condiment section and exclaimed with surprise and joy that they had new flavors: salsa verde, and fire roasted something-something. I grabbed fistfuls of each.

When the order was called up I was filled with conflicting emotions. There were two boxes, which I was happy about, but they weren't in a bag, which was problematic. I was going to have to speak to the man again, and he was a very tough audience. But I had picked out so many condiments and napkins that I couldn't possibly carry them.

"Excuse me once again, could I trouble you for a bag? I need a more clandestine way to carry out all of the condiments I'm taking," I explained with a 'wink-wink, nudge-nudge,' kind of smile. He did not respond, but just gave me the sack.

When we got to the car, I asked Shawna why the man was so unresponsive.
"Please don't talk to the workers. We've been through this. Even people that know you don't know how to take you. You say everything in such a deadpan voice that they don't know you are joking. And your vocabulary is a little eccentric for them."
"Ah, so my perfect deadpan delivery, and vocabulary genius are too much for their feeble minds, eh?"
"Something like that."

After we spent fifteen minutes finding the right song, we went home, and enjoyed our boxes. I only used 25% of the salsa packets I'd taken.

Dolph Lundgren and Philip Seymour Hoffman

A teenager in a JROTC uniform came into the library this evening. I recognize him, but he doesn’t come in very often. I noticed his nametag, which read “Lundgren.” Immediately my mind went to that great Nordic god and pop culture icon Dolph Lundgren. And although I hate it when people do it to me on account of my last name, I asked him if he was related to Dolph. To my surprise, he said “yes, he’s my uncle.”

Now, I know what you are thinking, he’s being sarcastic, right? That was my initial assumption. But two things about that haunted me. First of all, he didn’t say it in a sarcastic manner. He is a very polite young man and a junior military something-or-rather. Secondly, I seriously doubted whether or not that this kid would know who Dolph Lundgren was. To test this hypothesis, I asked every other kid in the library if they knew who he was. None of them did. Only private Lundgren (or whatever his rank was) knew. This scored highly in his favor. I neglected my duties at the desk to go and question this child further.

I asked him where Dolph was from, how they were related, how tall he was, what his middle name was, etc. etc. He seemed to know what he was talking about, and clarified how he was related. It seems that his grandparents adopted Dolph and raised him as their own. (Not here in MO of course). This sounded truer than if he would have said that Dolph was his father or something. At this point in my research I became very excited. I interrogated him severely, using every means at my disposal. The water fountain was too far away to make water boarding a possibility however. At this point the kid seemed to become offended by my demeanor in not believing him.

I told him, “Look, it’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s just that if it’s true, it’s one of the most amazing things ever. And I don’t want to get my hopes up if it isn’t true. If I could have some mutual connection with Dolph Lundgren it would make me extremely happy.”

He looked at me strangely and stuck to his story. I then went back to my computer and did what no serious researcher should ever do: went to Wikipedia. The article said nothing about adoption, and mentioned Dolph’s parents only.

“Aha!” I shouted, “Liar,” I cried , as I ran back across the library to confront the hapless youth. “Dolph wasn’t adopted. He lived with his parents, you errant knave!” I cried. “That’s not true,” he insisted, “he lived with my grandparents. Where did you get your information, Wikipedia?” Somewhat chagrined, I lied to him. “Of course not boy, I am a librarian. We don’t do research that way,” I bluffed. He wasn’t buying it. “Well, tell me the website you went to,” he demanded. “I don’t answer to you,” I proclaimed, as I left again. Then I decided to look up some other sites, including dolphlundgren.com and IMDB.

It turns out that Dolph went to live with his grandparents at the age of 13, because of an abusive father. This was becoming eerie. Some of the pieces were actually starting to fit together. My mind was racing, my heart pounding. Could it be that I was staring at the nephew of Ivan Drago? The kinsmen of He-Man himself? I searched my conniving brain for a way to prove or disprove the kid’s announcement. Just then, as if sent by Providence, one of our regular patrons walked in. This man shares my name, and then the similarities end. He is an African American gentleman, over six and a half foot tall, and a naval soldier. The wheels began to turn.

“Brandon,” I said, “Can you come and help me with something?” “Sure thing Brandon,” he replied. I led him over to the teen area, with him towering over me in the likes of Zeus himself. The teens eyes all looked up, and their jaws dropped. They thought that they were in some serious shit. “Well, Mr. Lundgren,” I said with great cockiness, “This is my friend Brandon. As you can see by his uniform he is a bona fide military man, and thus your commander. If you lie to him, you will be de-commissioned.” Young Lundgren protested that it’s not the way things worked in JROTC, but I silenced him. “Tell him, under your oath as an officer, that Dolph Lundgren is your uncle,” I commanded. The boy looked up at the soldier and told him that it was true. Dammit! I thought, this is getting likelier by the minute. I tried one more time. “Okay, forget the fact that he is in the military. Look at him. Do you see how huge he is? He could take Dolph Lundgren. Are you going to lie to this man?” “I’m not lying,” he said,” I’ll bring you a copy of the adoption papers. My jaw dropped; it seemed that we’d come to an impasse.

I thanked Brandon for his help, and was left alone with the teens. As Brandon left he whispered to me, “De-commissioning is what they do to ships, man.” I got up in the face of young master Lundgren and said, “Listen to me. If you are telling me the truth, it’s the most amazing thing I’ve heard all day. If you get Dolph Lundgren to come in this library and say ‘I must break you’ then I’ll give you whatever you want.” “But I haven’t even met him,” he protested. “I don’t care. If you have a connection to Dolph Lundgren, bring him here, and make him say the line. Then I can die a happy man.” The boy said that he would see what he could do, and left, probably frightened. I emailed Dolph’s agent and asked him, but I probably won’t get a response. If the kid brings the adoption papers in, I’ll probably pass out.

Also, there was a creepy guy in here who looked exactly like Philip Seymour Hoffman, during one of his ‘beardy’ phases. He was trying to submit a book he’d written to the library, and writing poetry for our page. I probably should have kicked him out, but I was in the middle of a noble quest. Thus, two celebrated Hollywood actors entered the Willard Branch Library this evening, in one way or another.

On Public Restrooms

Human beings are funny little things. On the surface they seem to be nothing more than primates with delusions of grandeur. Yet beyond the simian exterior there seems to be something more, an inexplicable essence encapsulated within the species. In humanity’s not-so-humble opinion, we are capable of vast feats that surpass the greatest abilities of our animal cousins. It is this self-realization, or sentience, that gives us further distinction. Some call it having a “soul”, others a delusion. Are human beings fleshy houses for immortal souls or simply talking bits of carbon? I feel this question may be beyond my expertise. For, on the one hand we have art, civilization, technology, and the Snuggie. On the other we have war, hatred, violence, and the G.O.P. These things all speak for an unlimited dichotomous potential within each of us. Whatever the case may be, in my personal opinion, there is one thing that supports the idea that we are something special: bathrooms.

Bathrooms, as we call them in the States, are a uniquely human phenomenon. I feel that they represent the most tangible evidence that this “quintessence of dust” is more than the sum of it’s parts. Our apotheosis rests upon this development. The need to rid oneself of unusable waste is common to all life forms. It is quite unavoidable. In fact, this autonomic function is in the best interest of our species’ survival. While this activity is shared by humans and goldfish alike, there is one major factor that distinguishes us: we are embarrassed by it. Homo Sapiens find this act awkward and distasteful, and go to great lengths to keep it private. Thus the development of the bathroom. This creation alienates us from all other life on the planet. I can’t imagine a giraffe being ashamed of defecation. But humans are, and rightly so, in my estimation.

In fact, I am a crusader for the cause of bathroom privacy. My idea of a perfect bathroom would be a concrete bunker tucked away under a mountain, locked by a steel door three feet thick, with eye recognition security locks. It would be hermetically sealed, and soundproof. The exhaust fans would be made out of military grade turbine engines. Brahms would be piped in through state of the art speakers. A virtual-reality panorama would encompass the walls, projecting idyllic settings and pastoral imagery. Unfortunately I must accept crude, scaled down versions of this inspired creation for now. But there is one thing I cannot accept. One disgusting concept that I will attack with every fiber of my being until the day I am flushed out of this life: the public restroom.

Mother Nature can be a cruel and fickle mistress. One of the vilest tricks in her repertoire is sending us the urge to expel waste when we are in a public place. When this happens to me I have an internal argument between myself and my psyche. The former I will call Brandon, and the latter, Brian.

Brandon says, “Oh man, I have to go to the bathroom.”
Brian replies, “Are you insane? Do you not realize that we are in a public place, and your only recourse would be to use a communal toilet?”
“I am only too aware. And you know that I’m with you on this, but I’m afraid I have no choice.”
“What are you, a Calvinist? Of course you have a choice! Your will is free!”
“My will cannot conquer the laws of nature; I must comply. What if I get a bladder infection by waiting?”
“Dammit! You are right, of course. Stupid corporeal shell!”

And so, the point is conceded and I must obey my body’s call. It feels as though all eyes are upon me as I make the walk of shame away from the safety of the herd and venture towards the hell that awaits. I wax melodramatic and think of myself as Sydney Carton on his way to the guillotine, guilty of a crime I did not commit. People look on in shame at my inability to wait. Yet I am no scoundrel; I do this to better myself, and all of humanity. I hold my head up high, stumbling over my own feet, and approach my doom with bitter fatalism. It is a far, far better thing that I do…

The first obstacle is the door, and I break upon it like a Persian at Thermopylae. The soiled handle fills my vision with malevolent menace, like Scrooge’s door knocker. Only this time, it is not a spirit which animates it, but bacteria. I imagine the germs becoming macroscopic and writhing around on the surface of the handle. I usually prefer to kick the door open, but this can carry the wrong message to the ill-fated gentleman who has the misfortune of exiting the lavatory at this precise moment. It is safer to use a shoulder, or an elbow. Once inside I urgently reconnoiter the situation. The line of urinals spread out before my vision like distorted cubicles of filth. If they are empty, my situation is greatly improved. I can complete my task with impunity, getting in and out while humming the “A-Team” song and returning to the outside world in great haste.

If, on the other hand, they are occupied, my options become limited. The stalls are a tempting escape because of their privacy, but they can contain an insidious peril. Evidence of pervious barbaric occupants fill me with loathing and I become nauseated. But I will use them if I have to. In a worst case scenario, there are people both at the urinals and in the stalls. If this happens, then the privacy of the stalls is no longer a comfort, as a dystopian symphony emanates from therein, creating a cacophony of horrific sounds. And the urinals filled with other men, standing in close proximity are at best a consolation prize. But if there is no other course of action, I must approach the crowded urine receptacles. Sometimes there are dividers between them, which I see as proof of a benevolent universe. If there are no dividers, I cast my vote for a malevolent one, for I must stand shoulder to shoulder with brutes who have no conception of how awkward the situation is. My mind races to find some thought to take me away from the disgraceful present into a happy place of imagination. I desperately try to ignore the fact that I am surrounded by penises and liquid waste.

This mental exercise is not foolproof, because there is an unspeakable act which can drag me out of my reverie and down into the pits of Tartarus. I speak of course, of the act of speaking to one another while engaged in this activity. I don’t understand this trend. Can’t we pretend to be alone? What is the advantage of conversation during this time? It’s not a social event, for God’s sake! I can’t concentrate under such stressful conditions. And to exacerbate the situation, most of the troglodytes who engage in this behavior talk about things I can’t relate to.
They say, “Hey, did you see the game last night?” or something that showcases their bad taste, like “Dude, I’ve had way too many Keystone Lights.”

My God, I think. How can I condescend to speak to such a savage?
So I say something like, “Actually, last night I watched an episode of Star Trek, wherein Spock’s brain was stolen by space hookers. And under no circumstances would I ever drink a lower tier, watered down, light, Domestic beer!”

This usually confuses the person long enough for me to make my escape. I wash my hands desperately, trying not to touch anything directly except for soap and water. I kick the door open with abandon, and dash back into the civilized world. But the journey back to the crowd is difficult as well. I left the bathroom in great haste, and didn’t fully dry my hands. Now I don’t know what to do with them. I didn’t have a chance to inspect myself in the mirror before I left. Is my shirttail caught in my zipper? Do I have toilet paper clinging to my shoe? Was there any spillage? I scan the crowd, looking for any sign of disgust or amusement. I have an irrational fear that they will think that I performed the more heinous and time consuming activity whilst in there. I NEVER will EVER do that in a public restroom, come what may. This is an unfair accusation. Finally, I can’t take it any longer, and cry out, “I’ve only just urinated. It was mostly water.”
T
oo late I grasp the fact that this has made the situation much worse than silence would have. Now it is clear that I have discovered the definitive thing that separates human beings from the lower life-forms: neurosis. What a piece of work is man…

Of Mice and Mothmen

Mothman is a central figure in my life. Or rather, what Mothman represents figures heavily in my existence. Mothman was a name given to a mysterious creature allegedly seen in and around Point Pleasant, West Virginia in 1966-67. Eyewitnesses said that this “thing” was roughly man-shaped, winged, and stood seven or eight feet tall. It was described as being dark brown or gray and having the ability to fly. But the most striking feature seemed to be it’s large luminous red eyes. In addition to Mothman, people in that area reported seeing a number of strange things during that time. There were swamp creatures, UFO’s, aliens, mysterious men in black, androids, and a host of other dubious visitors. People from all walks of life had strange encounters over the course that year, with experiences alternatively clustering and dying off randomly. The area was abuzz with otherworldly encounters, and this soon reached the ears of John Keel in New York.

Keel was a journalist and self-proclaimed “Fortean investigator.” (Fortean being a term used to describe a host of unexplained phenomena occurring throughout time.) He had investigated UFO sightings and encounters with strange creatures around the world. Now he was drawn to Point Pleasant like a moth to a flame. He spent the better part of the year investigating these events, and experiencing his share of bizarre interludes. Strange sights and sounds bombarded Keel and kept him on edge during his stay. Phone calls from strangers with odd voices and other ambiguous signs seemed to portend an impending doom. According to Keel, these sinister forces told him that the world would end when the President lit the national Christmas tree. On December 15th, 1967 at the precise moment when LBJ fulfilled that Christmas ritual, the 700 span bridge linking Point Pleasant to Ohio collapsed. It was filled with rush hour holiday traffic, and many of those who plunged into the icy depths were witnesses to the Mothman.

Keel would come to see this tragedy as a culmination of all the nefarious activity, and blame it on “pan-dimensional” tricksters. These beings, he claimed, for reasons unknown to us, have been toying with humanity for thousands of years. They manifest themselves as creatures from our collective subconscious, having appeared as monsters, elves, gods, fairies, and aliens. Mr. Keel would later write about these events in his magnum opus, “The Mothman Prophesies.” It is imperative that this book not be confused with the horrific film of the same title. These two works have virtually nothing in common. The movie became a colossal failure and waste of time by departing from the accounts of the people of Point Pleasant, and missing the point of the story. The account recorded in “The Mothman Prophesies” has been described as a Fortean Holy Grail, and proof of paranormal activity. Yet many others would describe it with the appellation “bullshit.” Whatever the case may be, this Mothman fellow has taken his place in the abstract pantheon of my subconscious mind.

In my private study, or gentleman’s parlor, one will find a number of things. There are books stuffed into bookshelves, littering the floor, lying under furniture and stacked in corners. A number of swords bedeck the walls. There is a coonskin cap, a British military rifle, busts of Shakespeare and Beethoven, a map of Middle Earth, Russian Orthodox iconography, a large collection of pipes and tobacco, a 1970’s Lord of the Rings poster, a Willie Nelson bandana displaying a pot leaf with the words “first aid” written upon it, flasks, decanters, and tankards, and a poster. This poster is a replica of the one hanging in Agent Mulder’s office in the “X-Files” television show. It features an obviously fake flying saucer hovering over a dark forest, with the words “I want to believe” written in bold white letters. This is the first of three major slogans of my life.

When it comes to those things which cannot be proven, those outside the realm of science, I am an agnostic. I neither believe nor disbelieve, but I want to believe. The unknown is one of the most powerful forces that has shaped and continues to shape humanity. Life is a complicated, baffling, sometimes unfortunate business that plagues us so-called sentient life forms. In certain instances some feel it is imperative to look beyond the world of our senses. When tragedy befalls us, as it did in Point Pleasant, we immediately look for something to ease our grief or give meaning to what has happened. For one person, reincarnation takes away the pain of losing a loved one. Others take refuge in their belief of an Elysian paradise in the world to come. And for a select few, aliens or “pan-dimensional” beings carry the burden of why. When one cannot know, one must believe. And in order to believe, one must have faith. Yet, even if one has faith, one can never really know for certain until one crosses the threshold of death. Beliefs, whether true or not, can bring great comfort to those who suffer.

After my baptism into the world of Mothman, I became an evangelist of sorts, spreading word of this eerie phenomenon to all who would listen. Most would not, so I had to settle for those who would humor me. My interest was due in part to my ravenous curiosity of that intangible “other,” and partly due to my sarcastic humor about the human foible of irrational belief. My initial obsession with “The Mothman Prophesies” lasted for about six months. I told others about it, and encouraged them to read it for themselves. Becoming an irritating Mothman disciple, I soon made everyone within a ten mile radius aware of the events described by Keel. But like most of my eccentric interests which flare up randomly and burn out with time, my fervor for this topic soon abated. I had given up on Mothman.

Two years later the savage beast would rear its ugly head in my life again, this time most unexpectedly. A series of problems were plaguing our family at that time. We had known tragedy and loss. Our family was beginning to splinter in almost unimaginable ways. At an awkward social event featuring members of my fractured family, I decided to indulge in intoxication. When Shawna drove me home later that night, I apparently became very strange and melancholy. According to my longsuffering wife, I saw an owl in a tree and started babbling about Mothman and aliens. I claimed that they were connected to the ultimate questions of existence, and what Douglas Adams termed, “Life, the universe, and everything.” I pleaded with these unseen forces to reveal themselves to me in a tangible way. Somehow connecting Mothman with our family tragedies, I began to weep and sing “Bring Him Home,” from Les Misérables. Shawna focused on getting me home and away from the general public. She made perfunctory non-committal noises in response to my questions. Upon arriving at our domicile she retired to the powder room and away from my insanity. When she emerged I was nowhere to be found. After a thorough search of the house she looked outside. I was standing in the back yard in my underwear with my arms outstretched to the sky. Like an overweight postmodern Jesus I stood in a cruciform position calling to Mothman to come and take me home. Scandalized, Shawna dragged me into the house and attempted to comfort me as she fought her own dismay. This ridiculous chain of events was made all the more strange by the fact that I’d not thought of the Mothman in nearly two years. The next day whilst scanning the world news online I came upon an obscure piece of information that had failed to make the headlines: John Keel had died. This bizarre coincidence unnerved me, and made me think that perhaps he was on to something after all. I cursed Mothman and his gang of pan-dimensional tricksters, and vowed I would continue Keel’s work and confound theirs. But reality and a short attention span forced me to put this quest on hold for the time being.

Another perennial obsession of mine is Hamlet. I would argue that it is perhaps the greatest work in the English language. One of my favorite quotes, and consequently the second great slogan of my life, is, “there are more things in heaven and earth Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” It is indeed foolhardy egotism to claim to know everything about the world. Those who are certain that there is nothing beyond the world of the senses are mirror images of those who claim to know that there is. Horatio was more rational, and less passionate than any of the other Danes in the play. Perhaps this is why he was the only one to survive. He didn’t fully engage in Hamlet’s obsession, nor did he fully discount it. This leads to my third and final slogan, which is a quote from Voltaire: “doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd.” Standing among the dead, Horatio surely found no comfort in the fact that his philosophy of via media had saved his life. While the others were all dead, they had died in passionate belief. He kept his head and became the lone survivor. So who is more enviable, those who avoid certainty and escape the pitfalls of fanaticism, or those who fall victim to it and enter the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns?

The Postmodern Hero's Journey

The hero’s journey takes on many forms, as Joseph Campbell can attest. I went to the grocery store on Saturday. This is the worst possible day to go. Going to these stores on Saturday should be forbidden, like visiting Altair IV. Yet it was the only day that Shawna and I could go together, a necessity in our household. If either one of us go alone, the other person is bound to be disappointed at the selections (or lack thereof) made in the other’s absence. She has a propensity towards under-shopping, while I always come home laden with vestigial treasures of no relevant value.

Going to get groceries is a traumatic experience for me. It is a tragic journey, fraught with peril and suffering, whose end is always lamentable. One major reason is because we go to Wal-Mart. This behemoth, formed out of capitalistic wet dreams, bestrides our narrow world like a colossus. I feel that even ancient Vikings transported to the future to gaze upon the tactics and effects of this company, would ask them, Why so much raping and pillaging? It goes against everything I claim to believe in. So it follows that, as a Socialistic champion of the proletariat, I find the very idea of supporting that chain heinous. But as a lazy (and poor) idealist, Wal-Mart seems to be a good option for our grocery needs. I see myself giving an intimate nod to Uncle Fidel, who knows that revolutionists almost always depart from their ideals once the war is won.

Entering the store makes me feel like a class traitor. I come from a line of working class manual labors. Sure, being a librarian and freelance writer may not carry as much weight down at the docks as a construction worker, but it’s the thought that counts. Once inside, the crowds induce claustrophobia, transforming me from Michael Collins into a snobby social commentator. I remark that Wal-Mart forms the nexus of postmodern pilgrimages, where the faithful come to bow and pay homage to a force beyond their control. I stand like Jesus at the temple, telling Shawna that the poor woman buying a carton of cigarettes with her month’s income has given more than the aristocratic cougar with her cart full of expensive energy snacks. Inevitably, it comes to pass that my wry social witticisms contribute little to our progress, so I leave my lofty perch and move on. I resign myself to the fact that Wal-Mart brings out the worst in me, and that I am no better than a Nazi sympathizer in 1940’s Poland.

Our expedition begins in the non-food half of the store, which is separated from the grocery section by a Berlin Wall of cheap clothing. First stop is the “health and beauty” section. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and Wal-Mart is the god of commerce. This used to be one of my favorite sections when I had long hair. For a few years I was under the delusion that growing my hair out and sporting a long beard would disguise the fact that I was incredibly fat. On the contrary, all this did was to produce an inexplicable upsurge in Ozark Sasquatch sightings. But in happy oblivion I would pour over shampoos and conditioners with a critical eye, to ensure that my “man-mane” was treated to the best. Now that I’ve lost weight and cut my hair, the sojourn in this department only hastens my inevitable debilitating boredom. Yet even though I become extremely bored and agitated while Shawna is looking at those wares, I like to think that I am a good husband to buy shower supplies for. I object to bar soap on personal grounds, and prefer the body wash alternative. I do not need a separate AXE “douche -bag” shower gel, because I rather like the smell of my wife’s Japanese Cherry Blossom. So, at this point, I am a traitorous, snobby, claustrophobic metro-sexual who is rapidly losing interest in this outing. We must hurry if I am to make it out alive.

Soon I am lifting a preposterously large bag of dog food into the cart. This fills me with trepidation. We have four dogs, yet live inside the city limits. Our menagerie also includes a cat, Guinea Pig, parakeet, and the ghosts of several generations of fish. The only thing more absurd than housing such a variety of creatures is purchasing food for them. Ingenious marketers ensnare countless multitudes by selling pet food as if it was for the humans. I have observed the sanitary habits of my dogs, and can vouch for the fact that their taste is not discriminatory. Savory steak and Alaskan salmon bear no higher regard than their own feces. Yet, if you advertise, they will come. And we do. The food is expensive, with portions than could only develop by projecting America’s ravenous tastes onto it’s pets. The enormous bag stuffed onto the lower rack of our cart presents a problem at the check out. It is too big to place atop the conveyor belt. It is too awkward to carry. One must wheel the cart around so that the checker can scan it. But you can’t do it until after the cart is empty, so the timing is difficult. The robotic process of scanning and bagging each item must be interrupted to accommodate one purchase. And I hate making the checker’s dreary job any worse.

From there Shawna urgently distracts me away from the guns and shooting accoutrement to go look at the home furnishings. She always asks me to stay with her, and I always decline. I need some release from the pressure of gazing upon things that I don’t care about. I tell her I’ll be right back, and then venture into the toy section. As I scan the isles for the latest toys I am filled with conflicting emotions. First I have a bittersweet nostalgia for the lost days of my youth. Looking at the plastic manifestations of heroes that he’d worshiped through the television set would inspire joy in young Brian, and produce a great fear that his parents would not buy them for him. In addition to the nostalgia, I also reverberate with another emotion. Like an old man, I become angered by the cheap quality and undecipherable subject matter of modern toys. Where the hell are the He-Man toys? I am lost in a reverie until a child wanders into the isle. This is a game-changer. Children frighten me. In a post Dateline world, it is not safe to be alone with a stranger’s child, even if you are harmless. I don’t know how to respond to them, or how much interaction is acceptable. Great difficulty is found in trying to communicate with those who can’t appreciate my wit and historical references. In addition to that, children are usually unsanitary, and I don’t want to run the risk of being touched by grubby fingers or catching pink eye. As a childless adult, I find being alone in the toy department to be problematic at best. If Shawna is with me, I talk loudly about getting a toy for our “son’s” birthday, to give me an excuse to be there. She never plays along, so my time is limited. In the end, it is far safer to visit the electronics department.
I love this section. Being a pop culture junkie, I enjoy sifting through the various electronic productions. I avoid all of the latest gadgets though. I have the same relationship to technology that Congressmen have to prostitutes; they are only means to an end, and I don’t want to know anything about them. The audio-visual section is where I feel most at home. There are old movies that have been haphazardly resurrected into DVD format just to sell at a humiliatingly low price. Along with these are “straight-to-video” gems like Anacondas 3, starring David Hasselhoff. I stay away from the CDs however, because of the fact that Wal-Mart commands them to be censored. I am a strong proponent of free speech, and like my gangsta’ rap with all the F-Bombs and racial epithets intact. So I usually grab a cheapie movie, a new release, and maybe a television show, then head back to reunite with Shawna. I find her with candles, curtains, and other material manifestations of my boredom. When she sees how many movies I’ve got, she asks me nicely to put some of them back. This is a gamble I always take, on the off-chance that she will let me keep them all. It’s better to start high, and then negotiate down. After the formal diplomacy is concluded we are ready to cross Checkpoint Charlie, and enter into the wasteland known as the grocery section. It might as well be the Thunderdome, as Master Blaster wouldn’t draw any more attention here than the other shoppers.

I enjoy getting groceries. It is always nice to fill the cupboards with new things. But there are always so many people vying for space that I become filled with fear and rage like a newly captive astronaut on a planet full of militant monkeys. Take your filthy paws off me, you damn dirty ape, my mind screams when the natives get too close. People are shoving past me in desperate bids to get their particular item before they are sold out. Children are hanging off carts precariously and screaming like demons. Morbidly obese people like my former self, who can barely muster the effort to breathe are loading up on sugar and MSG. And those of that set who aren’t quite so upwardly mobile weave their motorized carts through the isles with a sweaty anger. The perpetually confused elderly have no problem standing in one particular spot for an indefinite amount of time, as if waiting for the Grim Reaper to come to them, so they can save on gas money. Average people look embarrassed and nervously go about their business with their heads down, as if they were shopping in a house of pornography.

I look around and observe my fellow man, paying very little attention to what I am doing. For some reason we always make a list, only to subsequently forsake it in the heat of the moment. A weird compulsion to get things in pairs overpowers me, like I am preparing for a culinary Noah’s ark. Oh yes, I explain to Shawna, we will need two bottles of mustard to sustain us when the floodgates open. Filled with hypocrisy, I condemn Shawna for parking the cart in someone’s way, while later I block the isle as I am lost in contemplation over the preferred spelling of “ketchup.” Cat Soup, I muse, what an abomination.

The whole process is stressful enough without the biggest fear I have when I am in the grocery store: contact with people that I both know and dislike. There are certain people whom I separate myself from intentionally. Just because I know these people doesn’t mean I want to see them. It’s not that I am embarrassed for them to spot me; it’s that I hate having to talk to them without prep time. I can’t make a game plan; there is no escape, no choice of whom you will see. Then I’ve got to be disingenuous and waste time asking and answering questions that neither of us cares about. Oh, you got a new car? Let me guess, it’s better than mine. How lovely. But it somehow makes people feel significant in the grand scheme of things to see acquaintances and ask them “how are you doing?” I don’t care how they are doing. By the time we get three isles under our belt I am ready to go home, and have no time for social nuance. Turning them over to my wife, I abandon the cart and go on blitzkrieg raids to get the rest of what we need and rush said items back to the cart. I don’t know why we are so afraid to leave our carts unattended. Why on earth would someone steal groceries from your cart while surrounded by the exact same groceries on the shelf? What motive could they possibly have? Are there anarchists who have nothing better to do than to upset the status quo by removing items from stranger’s carts?

When we are finished, and thoughts of hearth and home bring tears to my eyes, we must face the checkout lanes. I promise to make a sacrifice to Vesta, if she will get me home before dark. At a typical Wal-Mart Supercenter there are at least 150 checkout lanes, five of which are open. The “20 items or less” lanes are filled with con artists whom I believe could be carrying upwards of thirty items. Unfortunately, I can’t prove it without making a scene. So I prefer the tobacco isle, which is mostly business. I always wonder audibly how much I could get teenagers to pay me for a pack of cigarettes, and then am rightly chastised.
The awkward contact with checkers is regrettable. There are times in my life when I am forced to come into close proximity with strangers offering me a service which force me to make idle talk. Usually some sort of pain is involved. Be it the dentist, the barber, the tattooist, or the grocery clerk, it is extremely difficult for one to think of something to say to make the situation more comfortable. They are obviously unhappy, but are being watched by a smiley faced Big Brother, which forces them to engage in mundane dialogue as if we are old friends. “Did you find everything all right?” they ask, as if there was anything that could be done about it at this point. I like to upset the balance of the normal inane conversation, so I will say something like, “Who is your favorite Traveling Wilbury? I bet it’s not Jeff Lyne, is it? Nobody likes him.” Like the 15th century Dutch workers throwing their sabots into the machinery, I can minutely sabotage the status quo with my erratic questions and non sequitur ramblings. This makes me feel less awkward, and injects a little benevolent chaos into the poor laborer’s day.

When the transaction is over, for good or ill, we leave the store laden with perishable treasures and eternal preservatives. But the arduous journey across the parking lot brings fresh opportunity for seething anger. As I take my empty cart to the designated receptacle, I dodge discarded ones strewn across acres of pavement by lazy bastards devoid of souls. I don’t understand this. If these people had enough items that they needed a cart, then they have walked miles through the store pushing it’s heavy burden. Now that the cart is empty, they can’t walk a few extra feet to dispose of it properly. Normally I am against the death penalty, but there are a few cases when I become a Texan. Talking during movies at the theatre and leaving one’s cart haphazardly rolling through the parking lot are offenses worthy of death in my estimation. Murder is regrettable, but what kind of sick twisted person leaves their cart out in the open where it can do damage to the vehicles of innocent bystanders?

As I drive home I think about my quest. I wonder which wandering loner of ages past I could compare myself to. Am I like Caine in Kung Fu, or Dr. Banner in The Incredible Hulk? Maybe I have been fated to become a latter day Odysseus, endlessly wandering from peril to peril, and never finding my way home. Or perhaps I’m Frodo, involved in a great quest beyond my control. When Odysseus finally did get home, he had to battle all those suitors and the haters who had given him up for dead. When Frodo returned to the Shire he had to battle small-time thugs and a disgraced wizard. And when I get home I have to face my own final battle: putting up the groceries. These revelations stir deep emotions within my soul, and I am on the verge of an epiphany when Shawna alerts me to the fact that I am driving on the wrong side of the road.

Sing in me, O Muse, of that man of twists and turns: driven time and again off course, once he had plundered the hallowed heights of Wal-Mart…