If you've never heard of Marshall McLuhan, you shouldn't be reading this. McLuhan is the secret handshake to the twenty-first century. He's the saintly avuncular avatar to end all saintly avuncular avatars. Poke around and find him and come back. You'll thank Bloomsday.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VFo5Ky8YE8c
In reward for past sorrows, I shall BLOOM into health again. Breath of life, SUNSHINE you'll be to me, All the years to come will smile on us.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
A Three-Penny Opera
Moments strike. This morning I saw my wife, Molly, and our fair-haired son, Amonymous, off to their respective domains, then set to my own ritual preparations. There was a cup in the sink, a travel mug, caked with dried coffee from a week's worth of car rides to and from the (improvisational moral) theater where I work. The kitchen was tidy, but for this one gunky mug, so I ran some water in it to prep it to clean and when I poured the beige swill into the drain I heard the distinct clink of change as coins in the mug tumbled down the dark hole.
A cherished memory struck me so hard, I swooned: my father, thirty-odd years ago, standing trapped at the kitchen sink with his hand stuck in the drain after chasing an errant spoon. He struggled and gasped and swore and laughed at himself. "Get your mother," he said. An hour later, the house was filled with drinking buddies, laughing and mocking the smart guy poverty lawyer they loved to tease for his ideals and his general incompetence toward all things mechanical. The power was shut off, since the threat of the gnaw of the Insinkerator was real. He lay upon the counter top, arm lubed; a sacrificial lamb awaiting slaughter. I saw his fingers dangling underneath after the plumbing was dismantled. Some pushed, some pulled, but a violent howl marked the birth of his resurrected hand. They drank and laughed and tended to his tender, swollen limb. "One for the history books," one announced. He would never live this moment down, he knew, but he took it like a champ. He laughed along and self-medicated with bloody marys and screwdrivers, as usual.
And so I stood at the sink this morning, laughing and crying. I found a flashlight and peered into the hole and found the glint of three pennies. After a failed, cautious attempt with chopsticks, I succumbed and shoved my hand down. One by one, I found them and pulled out the trinity of mucky cents from the subterranean netherworld. I washed them off and set them on the window sill, then washed my hands. The house was tidy and silent as I dried my hands and eyes on the dishtowel. One for the history books, indeed.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IA_ubhYgjAc
A cherished memory struck me so hard, I swooned: my father, thirty-odd years ago, standing trapped at the kitchen sink with his hand stuck in the drain after chasing an errant spoon. He struggled and gasped and swore and laughed at himself. "Get your mother," he said. An hour later, the house was filled with drinking buddies, laughing and mocking the smart guy poverty lawyer they loved to tease for his ideals and his general incompetence toward all things mechanical. The power was shut off, since the threat of the gnaw of the Insinkerator was real. He lay upon the counter top, arm lubed; a sacrificial lamb awaiting slaughter. I saw his fingers dangling underneath after the plumbing was dismantled. Some pushed, some pulled, but a violent howl marked the birth of his resurrected hand. They drank and laughed and tended to his tender, swollen limb. "One for the history books," one announced. He would never live this moment down, he knew, but he took it like a champ. He laughed along and self-medicated with bloody marys and screwdrivers, as usual.
And so I stood at the sink this morning, laughing and crying. I found a flashlight and peered into the hole and found the glint of three pennies. After a failed, cautious attempt with chopsticks, I succumbed and shoved my hand down. One by one, I found them and pulled out the trinity of mucky cents from the subterranean netherworld. I washed them off and set them on the window sill, then washed my hands. The house was tidy and silent as I dried my hands and eyes on the dishtowel. One for the history books, indeed.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IA_ubhYgjAc