The Journey by Jet

 

peregrination - noun - a long, meandering journey. Google

Although I fear that I might have blogged about this subject before, I am going to take a stab at it again since I might have been overly critical initially regarding the topic. And I am also thinking that some of you missed the original essay.

Journeying by jet may be the most expedient, safest means of transportation albeit it is no longer 100% enjoyable like it used to be, let's say, in the early 1960s when topnotch airlines, such as Pan Am and Eastern, dominated the skies. With the onset of People Express in the 1980s, practicality and affordability replaced stylishness and comfort. People Express gave passengers the options of paying for food and taking their carry-ons on board. It also employed men as well as women in the cabin so that the "sexist" label "stewardess" graduated into the P.C. "flight attendant." (There might have been other airlines that did this around the same time as well. I am just relying on my own memory, which may or may not be accurate.) 

It goes without saying that 9-11 made things tough at the airports. Before the terrorists attacks, security was loose and family and friends could accompany travelers to the gates or meet them there armed with affectionate signage as they disembarked their planes. I have to admit that this is the one thing I truly miss: the ease of entering and exiting air terminals with or without family and friends.

But despite the desperately disappointing changes, no one is staying home. On a recent trip to Raleigh-Durham from LAX, I had to change planes in Chicago. On a Wednesday in mid-May, all three airports were packed to the gills with travelers so that the flow of people reminded me of a salmon run in an Alaskan river. The planes themselves were also full so that tensions were high and the F-bomb bombings booming as extra space in the overhead bins was nonexistent. I also noticed that on the 737-8MAX jets, there is no such animal as first class, making me feel like I was on a city bus but with two additional seats per row. Squeezed tightly into our seats, we became unwillingly upfront and personal physically with each other. I actually felt sorry for the passengers with a few extra pounds as there was no room for them.

I know what you are thinking. Where is the part that includes the praise?  Okay, here it is. In the midst of the chaos, there is often calm. Every once in awhile, the stranger sitting intimately close to you is not only talkative, but interesting. On my Southwest return flight from RDU via Phoenix, a kind gentleman of approximately my age sat next to me and proceeded to fascinate me for the full hour and a half trip to Los Angeles. An international fish monger/importer (first I've ever met), he regaled me with pretty personal tales involving his Brazilian ex-wife, talented children, exotic girlfriends, place of birth, familial history, etc. T.M.I.? Maybe. But after going through the motions of driving two-point-five hours that morning, returning the rental car, negotiating stuffed airport terminals and security, hopping on and off and on planes traversing the country, I craved the diversion. And you know we authors love to draw any reality from life and then fictionalize it. Unbeknown to him, Mr. Fish might just become the romantic love interest in a salacious beach novel that I'm hoping to begin as soon as I sell the dramatic tome I just finished writing. Yes, there is always a silver lining in the clouds jets populate daily.

Happy trails and peregrinations to all who travel in the friendly or unfriendly skies more than they would like. 

#personal essay, #blog, #blogger, #jet travel, #air travel, #social commentary

Elegance on the Inlet

 

elegance - noun - the quality of being graceful or stylish

Although most of you know what "elegance" means, it is not a word that you hear much lately. Unfortunately, in everyday life, "elegance" has taken a backseat to "shabby chic" (another term that could just be outmoded). On the other hand, if you look hard enough, you'll be able to find it among the relics of the past. 

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of experiencing what elegance looked like in the 1930s. For Mother's Day, my daughter treated me to a tour of the Queen Mary, a seafaring vessel much larger than the fabled, ill-fated Titanic and much faster. Originally named Queen Victoria, the suffix ia in keeping with Cunard line's tradition, the ship was renamed after King George V's wife Mary ("Queen Mum"), not quite as grand a monarch as Victoria, but you couldn't sway King G; his queen was nonpareil. As the cruise ship is permanently moored in Long Beach, California, you can book a stateroom for as little as $130 a night, not a bad deal considering the high price of time travel these days. (Of course, I'm joking.) 

Our tour's docent, a retired history teacher, presented us with myriad facts, enough to fill the captain's quarters sans him in it. What I'll always remember pertains mainly to World War II. The vessel had been freshly christened when the U.S. military commandeered it to transport 800,000 soldiers and personnel to the battlegrounds of Europe from New York. (Churchill had quarters on the ship. His bed was terribly small, poor man.) The initial bunch of soldiers that were dispatched numbered over 16,000. Considering the ship was built for only 2,000 passengers, it was a tight squeeze for the men that had to rotate bunks every eight hours. Sheets were rarely changed. I kept thinking the whole time that my dad who had been drafted into the infantry of the U.S. Army in the early 1940s might have been one of the thousands who didn't have an opportunity to experience the original elegance of the ship as it had been stripped down entirely to accommodate all of the brave young and painted gray to camouflage it from German submarines. Even the murals were covered so that the anxious passengers would not be tempted to leave marks of immortality on them. 

At present, the overall tonal effect of the ship's interior is a subdued sepia like a tired photograph, which the wooden paneling and veneers, deep, albeit faded browns of fall, and tarnished golds create. The only bright colors emanate from a few oil murals depicting subject matter leagues from anything having to do with the sea. 

The most memorable room on the Queen Mary, an Art Deco ballroom complete with a stage for the privileged first class few, has been a favorite of Hollywood location scouts looking to recreate the time period. For example, on its teak floor slow-dance Robert Redford and Kim Basinger in "The Natural," a fantastic filmic ode to baseball based on Bernard Malamud's short story. A actor friend of mine, who was an extra in the scene, told me all were transported back to the romance of the time and held breathless for the hours it took to film the scene. I can only imagine how elegant the elegance of those recreated moments were.

After making sure we saw every inch of the ship, my daughter and I disembarked only to sail off in our Uber, glancing over our shoulders to hold the last few glimpses of the radiant black, white and red Queen Mary in all of her royal majesty in our minds. The tasteful elegance of the Queen Mary (1936-1967) will never be surpassed.  

#personal essay, #QueenMary, #elegance, #blog, #blogger

Anomalies: Nothing Is As It Seems To Be

 

anomaly - noun - something that deviates from what is expected.

Life is filled with errant anomalies. Just when you think you have it all down, you don't. The norm is no longer normal. Nothing is what it seems to be, especially not here in La La Land.  For whatever reason, Americans are in love with celebrity. The celebrated are placed on pedestals and worshipped like Greek gods; however, they aren't. Most of them run opposed to expectations. The more biographies and autobiographies of celebrated people I read, the more convinced I am that somehow these very ordinary folks have had to pay a high price for fame. And the more monetarily fortunate people I come into contact with in Hollywood, the more I realize just how true the adage is. 

Case in point, a good friend of mine, a former actor, is a storyteller, an award-winning one. Last week, I attended her one-woman show at what looked like a former gift shop in Laurel Canyon, a former bastion of musical creativity. A fan of truth, V. opened the flood gates and inundated us with honesty. A few short decades ago, her former husband had been a top Hollywood sitcom writer. He had one hit television show after the next. Soon his coffers were overflowing with extra capital, which he invested in race horses, trotters to be exact, not like the thoroughbreds you saw running through the mud for the roses today at Churchill Downs. The man had fifty, all housed at various stables throughout the country. But they weren't winners. Before he knew it, he was in debt almost a million dollars. He couldn't sell the horses, nor did he want to; so without a second thought for his young daughter who idolized him and his wife who pretty much despised him (for his selfishness mainly), he put an end to his Shakespearean tragedy in Greek fashion by taking his own life. All of the aforementioned V. exposed to us in sixty minutes of articulate, oral, literary prose, memorized painstakingly. As it has been said before, there wasn't a dry eye in the house. 

Another case in point occurred just last night as I was volunteering at the BeachLife music festival in Redondo Beach when I offered to assist a forlorn, albeit very well-dressed, woman in her quest for the VIP restrooms. After announcing for no real reason her unfortunate plight (she had lost her mansion in Pacific Palisades to the L.A. fires), she caught my attention and my sympathy so that I became her personal escort and unlicensed therapist for the next ten minutes. Apparently, she had been married and divorced from a very well-known, high-powered Hollywood producer who assuaged her resentment at his departure by buying her and her children the dream house lost in the conflagration. At present, she and her brood are renting an economical ranch-style home in Santa Monica, something she described as being quite the nightmare. (Most would not think so. I'm guessing.) Before leaving her to return to latrine duty, I hugged her, falling into the velvet softness of her black mink jacket that masked the fragility of her soul. She didn't seem to want to let go, poor thing. (In hindsight, I'm thinking she might have been a tad sauced. No matter.) As I pushed through the crowds toward the food court, it occurred to me that money and fame can't buy happiness. In fact, they often buy misery instead. 

The gossip tabloids pen what they want you to hear, and most of the time, the writing reveals the gloss only. Which is why readers formulate opinions that are inaccurate. No life is perfect; no individual is perfect. Celebrities feet touch the ground like those of ordinary people. Because of the complexity of their lives, perhaps they experience more pain. The takeaway here is that happiness is something that emanates from within and cannot be bought. The next time you feel envy for a celebrity whom you don't know at all, remember the theme of this blog: Nothing is as it seems to be. 

#blog, #blogger, #celebrity, #personal essay 

Duckology

 

duckology - noun - (a neologism coined by me) - the study of the fundamental nature of ducks. 

duck - noun - a water bird with a broad, blunt bill, short legs, webbed feet, and a waddling gait (Google).

I don't know about you, but I adore ducks. Definitely. If reincarnation is a reality, I'd like to come back to this planet as a duck. Why? Despite their somewhat awkward outward appearance, in terms of their abilities, they are the next best thing to Marvel superheroes. 

According to Google (a reliable source), ducks can walk relatively long distances, swim as long as they want, dive down 240 feet to catch fish, and then upon exiting the pond, dry off instantaneously just by ruffling their feathers before flying off. In fact, ducks can soar above most small planes, reaching an altitude of 21,000 feet and speed of nearly 60 mph, surpassing most biplanes. Although not all breeds of ducks mate for life (most mate for just the mating season, which is about eight months), the whistling duck, like the swan, mates for life. Not too many species, including humans, can pull that off. Ducks, like happily married persons, get so emotionally attached to their mates that if their mates die, they grieve the loss, often falling into duck depression. Which is extremely tragic especially as ducks have no way of connecting with licensed psychotherapists. Not that I or Google knows of anyway. 

Those who don't like ducks peg them as "dirty" and as "rapists," but since ducks act on instinct, the males' aggressiveness toward unprotected, virginal, single females is merely a means of guaranteeing that the species perpetuates. (Apparently, female ducks have complicated vaginas that are hard to penetrate. Yikes! TMI.) Obviously, ducks do not have the moral sense to understand that they are being sex offenders. And fortunately, neither the human legal system nor the law enforcement community considers them felonious. (Thank Goodness! Can you imagine male ducks sharing cells with convicted human rapists in prisons? Hahaha!) So why should anyone else? (Ah, give'm a chance! They are so cute!)

My idea to coin the term "duckology" came last week when I was about to take a dip in my apartment complex's heated pool. Atypically, out from behind the chaise lounge chairs waddled a handsome Mallard couple, making a beeline for the pool. Of course, I had to film their flight for TikTok audiences, not thinking they would have the gall to step into the pool with me around. Not only did they enter the pool (and rather delicately by putting one webbed foot in at a time), they had the audacity to remain floating around in the pool while I did laps. Eventually, though, I unintentionally managed to create a wake that started to make them seasick enough to exit the pool as elegantly as they had entered. After drying off doggy style (but with far less vehemence and flying H2O droplets), the two sauntered over to a cabana to rest–as anyone would–protected from the sun. 

From a safe distance, I became immersed in duckology (the fundamental study of ducks) via silent observation. I noticed that the female Mallard fell asleep almost immediately, whereas her male did not. He chose to keep watch vigilantly in order to protect her from me or any other human (or "rapist" ducks) in the vicinity. Although I was far enough away not to be threat, he wasn't going to take any risks. When I finally decided to leave, I couldn't help but think that we humans, possessing the ability to rationalize, could definitely learn something from these water birds with minuscule brains. 

Ducks can be benignly savvy. For one, the duck pairs treat each other with much more respect and genuine caring than a large cross section of the human population. They are also incredibly loyal to each other. Impressive. 

The older I get, the more aware I become of miraculous Mother Nature, probably because I take the time to notice. I hope the next time you are in a park, if you see any ducks, think of duckology and do a little observing yourself. You might just learn something that I didn't, something positive that you can apply to your own life to improve it. 

Just sayin'. 

#blog, #PersonalNarrative, #ducks, #SliceOfLife, #nature

Gun Culture: The Wild West: Then and Now

 

culture - noun - the customs, arts, social institutions, and achievements of a particular nation or people. (Google)

Second Amendment: "A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed." 

I don't like guns. Never did, never will. The reason why is binary: 1. I am a textbook pacifist and 2. Before I was so committed to peace and love, I used to accompany my gun-admiring ex-husband to the local shooting gallery for kicks. While there, I was pressured into trying my hand at shooting just about every kind of gun you can imagine even James Bond's Walther PPK and Dirty Harry's .44 Magnum, which by the way, sent me flying against the back wall of the range. Ouch! Ergo, I know the unmitigated power of these mini canons, and it still frightens me forty years later. 

On the other hand, I didn't grow up in a community that had its own erroneous interpretation of the second amendment. Most in my town didn't own or operate guns. My father didn't. None of his relations did. In New Jersey, one of the original thirteen colonies (in case you've forgotten), our ancestors who fought in the Revolution (I have a distant grandfather and four other relations who did) could define "militia"as they fought in one and understood that it was necessary "to keep and bear arms" to secure the newly freed nation from the tyranny of successive monarchs. Let's not forget that back in the late 1700s, the military as we know it did not exist. Since it was no longer relevant after about a hundred years, the amendment should have been removed from the Constitution. As we know, it wasn't, and fans and/or members of the NRA continue to misconstrue its meaning today by possessing guns for sport or protection: "It is my Second Amendment right to own an arsenal!" Hmm. Is it? But I have a feeling that not as many want to or feel the need to own firearms in New Jersey as, let's say, in Oklahoma. 

Let's face it. This country was built on guns. Viva the Revolution! A bit later on, the newly "civilized" West was definitely built on guns, hence the moniker, "Wild West." After moving from the East to the West last year, I have managed to befriend individuals who spent their childhoods immersed in the Western gun culture. According to one close friend, at one time, just about everyone had a gun in California. Free-spirited, male teens in search of notoriety enjoyed getting together with their peers, driving out to the desert to erect makeshift shooting galleries where they could experience "gun happiness" for hours sans parental supervision. It was easy because fifty years ago, firearms were not as regulated as they are at present. Even if they were, police were/are scarce in the desert. Gun shops were abundant, drifting like tumbleweeds from neighborhood to neighborhood, going in and out of business until the onset of reported school violence at which time they vanished like concrete-block mirages on the horizon. 

However, those same boys who are now in their sixties and seventies have preserved their arms by closeting them in locked safes somewhere in their homes. They still take them out to admire their design, polish them up, or shoot them whenever or wherever they can albeit legally. Hence, the love affair with controlled (?) explosives continues. Sadly, I guess human beings will never get beyond a handy lust for loud authoritativeness. 

Just sayin'. 

#word-to-words, #slice-of-life, #blog, #blogging, #editorial, #reading, #vocabulary, #ReadersMagnet, #spilled thoughts, #personal-essay, #writing community, #writing, #truth, #guns, #second amendment, #Western culture, #American Revolution, #Eastern culture, #hobby

The Adumbrated Wilderness

 

adumbrated (part.) symbolized (Google)

For those of you who fall under the religious nomenclature of Christian and are practicing, you are aware that it is the season of Lent, which is marked by Jesus's forty-day journey into the desert to contend with Satan. Any desiccated environment (picture Death Valley here) is synonymous with the wilderness, otherwise known as an "uncultivated, uninhabited, inhospitable" region (Google). In their reflections, a.k.a. sermons or homilies, those of the cloth use the image of the wilderness to adumbrate where many of us are today: feeling quite alone and/or anxious amidst the turmoil of contemporary society. 

Unfortunately, many modern-day Protestant churches (and perhaps even Catholic ones) are losing parishioners because the young are getting lost in a wilderness of Sunday activities unrelated to the sabbath, but also because they don't feel connected to institutions that they view as antiquated. Which is a shame because religion isn't. Faith isn't obsolete. In fact many need it more than ever but just don't realize that they do as they are lost in the busy business of their daily lives. 

Fortunately, there are some parishes that are not short of attendees. Mine, for instance. Known among national Presbyterian boards as "the little church that could," my congregation, the Culver City Presbyterian Church (with eighty members), is not lost in the dark remoteness of irreligiousness. The light that emanates from it is small but bright. The singles, couples, families from all walks of life and pronouns unite as a community, stand by their belief system, and inculcate it in their children. All–even the most isolated socially–are welcome. What they hear each week coming from a young, vibrant, former actor of a preacher (who looks like Uma Thurman) they interpret as the word of God, the living Bible. Her verbiage, a reflection of the Good Book, holds meaning. It pretty much cajoles them to follow in the steps of Christ, finding purpose in their lives. Don't we all need that? A purpose? Yup.

Although I have never viewed myself as a "religious" person, I do see myself as spiritual. I attend church because what is spoken I find relates directly to problematic situations that I visit in my life. The messages can offer solutions. Ergo, in my case, the reverend is more of a prophet who also proffers solace and guidance not only to me, but others who venture to the simple Spanish structure weekly for a heady concoction of verbal hope. 

I know that the infidels may bypass my words altogether as they are "done" with what they believe is mere mythology. I can't change their minds. But I will say that among my various friends, those who do have a spiritual center of some kind (not necessarily Christian but Jewish or Buddhist) are a lot happier than my friends who have created their own adumbrated wilderness by worshipping materialism, capitalism, or any other "ism" that propels them forward or holds them in place. 

Just sayin'. 

#word-to-words, #slice-of-life, #blog, #blogging, #editorial, #reading, #vocabulary, #ReadersMagnet, #spilled thoughts, #personal-essay, #writing community, #writing, #truth, #Christianity, #religion, #solutions, #philosophy, #PresbyterianChurch, #church, #Lent

The Madness of March: Defining College Basketball

 

madness - n. - a state of frenzied or chaotic activity (Google)

It is often suggested that the month of March comes in like a lion yet goes out like a lamb weather wise. When it comes to what is known as "March Madness," the opposite may just be true as it is its own version of spring fever. Before I go into why I happen to like this athletically competitive time of the year, it is worthwhile to note that "madness" has three definitions, all of which apply to college basketball and its fans at this juncture. The first meaning is "the state of being mentally ill," the second is "extremely foolish behavior," and the third is posted at the top of this page. The way I look at it is that March Madness embraces all three. The diehard fans who watch all of the games could just be mentally challenged somehow, or others who don't quite understand their addiction might think they are. If they indulge themselves in betting sprees or in getting too emotionally invested in their own brackets, their behavior may be categorized as "extremely foolish." And finally, since basketball tends to be a fast sport given to personal fouls and quick ball turnovers, as a result, there is frequent "frenzied or chaotic activity" both on and off the court. Surely, whoever named the tournament March Madness considered the validity of the entire definition, not just the third. 

I suppose I enjoy watching college basketball for reasons related to the three-prong denotation. Admittedly, I like the cacophonous, collective cries of chaos that often ensue when a game is very close. Whilst engaged in spectating, I, too, find myself morphing into one of the temporarily tattooed cheerleaders relegated to the sidelines and shout out abbreviated compliments or insults sans any regard as to where I am, which is often in a sports bar at lunch when few are even watching the game on the widescreen TV. No worries. My unchecked ebullience is just a reflexive action. Okay, fine. Some who could care less about the sport might think I am quite mad, have Tourette's, or am just a silly buffoon, but it is all part and parcel of the fun. Right? I'd like to think so. 

If we delve a bit deeper, we might agree that coming together to participate in March Madness is a way of uniting the country during these divisive political times. Perhaps it is. It reminds me of the movie "Invictus," Clint Eastwood's poignant, celluloid rendering starring a former colleague of mine, Morgan Freeman. If you don't remember it, the plot is based on Nelson Mandela's uniting of South Africa after the separation of Apartheid via a rugby world cup match. The paradox is that sports have a unique way of temporarily dividing yet uniting people. Fans among friends cheer for their choice to win. Even if there is a bit of ill will resulting from a loss, it doesn't last too long. It helps warm a chill in the stands if the losing team on the court can shake hands with the victorious side and walk off into the locker room sans any animosity. It is what their coaches instruct them to do, and it is called good sportsmanship, something we could all use to revisit. 

Perhaps all of the aforementioned defining attributes are why March Madness is such a huge draw. We Americans need the temporary insanity, the foolhardiness, the bedlam that all merge into escapism. We can lose ourselves in the fast and furious for two hours or so and get a break from more serious mayhem that the 24-7 news cycle keeps reporting. And maybe, just maybe, some of us will get lucky and win dollars for our bracket choices. Which just might be capitalism at its best.

#word-to-words, #slice-of-life, #blog, #blogging, #editorial, #reading, #vocabulary, #ReadersMagnet, #spilled thoughts, #personal-essay, #writing community, #writing, #truth, #MarchMadness, #basketball, #CollegeBasketball, #Invictus, #ClintEastwood, #NelsonMandela, #Morgan Freeman