Del Is Short for Delicate
And so, for conversation
after conversation we
sat in a circle as the
ocean breeze chilled
the sweat from our
shirts and our blou-
sers and cooled our
hearts a bit, as they
[our hearts, that is]
each attempted nev-
ertheless outpace the
others. Our precious
hearts. We needed
this. Or that was be-
yond a shadow of
doubt at the time,
anyway. But did we?
Some of the attend-
ees were upset about
one thing or another
and had to either
prove the validity
of their anger or
to simply vent
to those who,
more than any
other group of
folks that he
could image
gathering into
a setting of this
size and in a location
like the peaceful one
they huddled in, sim-
ply would not begin
to get it. Or allow it.
Like these, his people,
who would certainly get.
He believed this. And
I wonder years later if
it might bother him to
know that some did,
some did not, and
others just endured
it, steeped in confu-
sion. These meetings
worked well that for
such things because
at any given moment,
even those sitting in
the circle weren’t paying
much attention to any-
thing being spoken,
which was okay and
but was understood.
Often their attention
would seem to be on
the ocean, to which
they were not study-
ing or admiring at all,
really. Just meditating,
either screwing in their
brains so tight that
thoughts came and
went quickly and
were each paid almost
no attention; meditation
as precipitated by the
grand ocean that lay
before them, and the
by the us the sat in a
circle on the sand
in close proximity
to it. Some, rather
than meditating, pre-
cisely would seem to
just dissolve into the
comfort of its white
noise. Often they’d
nod off for extended
periods of time, do that
quick jerky dance akin
to what it must look like
being electrocuted at
some point, coming to
attention almost immed-
iately, and they were
clearly back into the
fray; the subject of the
moment. This, in particu-
lar, was a favorite practice
of mine during much of the
duration of these meetings
we’d had each month for
several years now. Each
of the attendees also
knew quite well that if
I didn't meander back
and forth between alert
and semi- or unconscious-
ness that I would be other-
wise overwhelming the
entire group, not letting
one of them get a word in
edgewise for fifteen minutes,
a half an hour or sometimes
even much longer. And these,
my friends, knew this about
me. And made me feel that
it was accepted, for the most
part, eliminating the usual
guilt that encounters such
things. When I did mangle
or mismanage the pace of my
melting into the ocean and of
then returning again, and in-
stead allowed my overly dram-
atic voice to overstay its welcome
before realizing that here I was,
once again, doing my damnedest
to maintain attention indefinitely,
I'd say (or at least feel) a bit of a
whoops and in no time had dis-
solved back into the Pacific. The
health that comes with knowing
(right or wrong, even) that people
accept you as yourself, don't seem
to want anything else. Just me,
as they listen attentively, by all
appearances. This ot only is life
but it surely must extend it if you
have the pleasure of living that
on a regular basis. Sure, a few
of the more clever folks would
use the time for their bathroom
break. We always tended to
overdo it a bit on the snacks.
But as I remember it, it was
sheer peace and the always
unpredictable and always
enlightening run of some
apparently necessary
thoughts and emotions
with people who felt
like your family (e-
motius that usually
wound up by meet-
ing's closure to be
summed up as
absolute joy, im-
mensely appropriate,
keep it up Del you are
doing so well, aren’t
you?)
But now it’s all sand with a few
eroded memories that got washed
back into the sea. I go there some-
times, trying to remember the people,
exactly where we were sitting, but I
just can’t remember a thing except
what I’ve just recounted, and much
of that might be some sort of prob-
ably necessarily revisioned history
(I neither take the pace of the pass-
Ing of time nor the long-term effects
of trauma for granted. Or do take
them for granted, but incorporate
them into my common sense, how-
ever uncommon it surely is.) This
is what I’ve been doing these days.
And lots of furrowing of the eye-
brows. Also, I keep thinking about
sanity. And what, if anything it
might mean. Maybe it’s the ads
for the revision of The Twilight
Zone that brings that thought
into full bloom for me. As I do
remember some things. Like
how when a person gets con-
fused, quite often those who
witness this simply play
along. People get con-
fused; we play along. Or
you do. Whenever it’s
you that’s doing the
playing along, thank
you. It can be very…
placating. But, before
you find yourself doing
it a next time, if there
happens to be one,
lock your eyes on
mine for a minute
and tell me I’m al-
right, maybe give
me a hug. I love
you for doing this
time and time again,
whoever you are.
Wherever you are.
Conversations,
Needs and
Needing a
Conversation
Simple enough said,
I suppose, but with
no words comes no
meaning—less than
nothing, no doubt;
cuz what’s meaning
within a singular sem-
i-conscious mostly bar-
ren chamber unless the
echoes get to pass be-
yond the great wall of
mystery? To point,
your pal, whom I’ve
never met until now,
furthermore only to-
night ever having
spoken with him
a first time (Re-
member? You ans-
wered the phone,
then promptly
handed it to him
for whatever rea-
son.). I believe that
he said more to me
on that phone in less
than five minutes than
you have in three years
of being on the same line
most every one of those
days at least once. I ev-
en gleaned from this guy,
your friend, a fairly sub-
stantial bit of info, most
specifically about you.
And he wasn’t making
a presentation, mind
you. He was simply off-
ering a bit of your local
news, drinking a beer,
teaching me a new
language (well, a
apt phrase or two,
in any case), yet I
barely even under-
stood a word he said.
I wish you more than
anything in the world
lightheartedness and
great health and happi-
ness. Because these are
what I now lack thanks to
these months of disconnect,
or, rater, non-connection.
There is so much of what
I had assumed was quite
the contrary, as I still re-
call and cannot beat the
mysticism out of that sad
burden. But upon a redir-
ected rendering, it seems
there was less than a big
zero transpiring via that
perfectly taught line that
always runs from you to me
and me to you, no matter that
you exist, if at all, at the opp-
osite end of the planet. A
straight line, mind you. It
will always remain a mystery,
but that was the problem, real-
ly. One always wants to know
at least something. Or per-
haps that is just me. You
were the most interesting of
them all, and yet you never
had any interest whatsoever.
Did you? In me. In life. In
lead an Interesting life. or
even in those bursts of plea-
sure I’d have the pleasure of
witnessing on a few occasions.
To me, they were and always
will be genuine miracles. My-
story miracles. Each caused
my own pleasure just bubble
up and burst forth on more
than a mere occasion. These
tings happened. And I sup-
pose I created a fiction a-
round them. But man,
what I would not give
for even a singular such
similar moment. An ex-
plosion. Of joy. Two
things which one might
have a difficult time
putting together into
one, when you say the
words out loud, I sup-
pose. But it is just a fan-
tasy, like those three years,
I suppose. They were, if they
were, and it would be, if it
could be again after all, ex-
plosions across an ocean. A
big, beautiful, goddamned o-
cean. I don’t know how much
more specific I can get, sitting
here with my head wagging back
and forth between an empty cell-
phone and the shiveringly vast Pacific.
People Get Confused; We Play Along
A biography may come in any shape or size.
That doesn’t necessarily make it a cretin.
For one thing, people are fine with that, in
general. It certainly seems that way to me,
in any case. Rule number one: everybody
lies. Rule number two: everyone in gen-
eral is a good person. Now it all adds up,
as we have just used the scientific meth-
od to prove that lies are just fine. What’s
the truth, anyway? So there you have one
of my primary rules for living a longer and
healthier life: just don’t make it a problem.
Treat it, like my mother (and countless
other progenitors) used to always find a
way to slip into any day whatever, as
if they to simply roll like water off a
duck’s back. So the next time you have
the occasion to run into someone you
know, are acquainted with or can't recall
their presence beforehand—that is,
when beginning any type of engagement, be
it high or low, short or incredibly long in
the wind department, I suggest your draw
in a breath, try to allow any preconcep-
tions to float some other direction, and
do yourself the favor of giving the whole
honest thing a nice long vacation. Because,
let me be clear, honesty, it’s just not a thing.
Just remind yourself (silently is best) that
you are happening upon a liar. Because you
are. And, especially if this seems like it’s too
big of a problem for you to begin with, you
might disturb the issue altogether away by
making it interesting. For example, I tend
to use as a general means of learning a lot
about people I meet, know, and sleep with
by playing the game of Hm, I Wonder What
THIS Dude Lies About? Navigate through
the whens and the wheres of the missing
pieces until they begin to find logic, reason.
There are, I find, one or two basic reasons
that an individual chooses his or her person-
al line of dishonesty. We’re basically simple
folks, leading pretty simple lives, no matter
how we might even fool ourselves into be-
lieving otherwise [number one most common
lie, as it turns out]. Dishonesty and hypo-
cracy are the real deal, people. Honesty
is just plain bogus. It is, as some say of
more specific hypocritical schemes, a
ludicrous construct. I’m not suggesting
that being truthful isn’t a direction toward
which we should aspire, in the same way
that some do toward the ideal of nirvana.
All I am saying is that the notion that com-
plete transparency or being totally truthy
is bogus (extra hint: check out any compen-
dium on etiquette to discern the moments
in life when the truth is inappropriate). And
not that it is my job in life to point out all of
these whizz-bang discrepancies inside of
which we like to take residence, but when
this subject arises, my mind tends to migrate
toward the paranoiacs who believe Big Brother
might be watching, and that consuming time (cons-
ciously) striving for privacy is a means to get him
off your back (and let’s face it, there are
massive swaths of folks who get piping hot
about the idea that someone may be watching,
or [even] recording them). Whether this find
is a subversion of exhibitionism or a (sub-
conscious) subversion of just plain wishful
thinking, allow me a moment where-
in honesty might be appropriate
and submit for our consideration that
when you spend your precious time on
this bedeviled, beguiling and beautiful
planet worrying about such nonsense, that
it is a complete waste of time, and that it
surely becomes for a lot of us a means to
eliminate no small percentage of our youth.
I am somewhat certain that it is not current-
ly the apocalypse. And I’m pretty sure, as well,
that the inevitable mob of zombies has yet
to make their stiff-walking appearance.
However. Good people. We are sprinting
into the heart of the 21st century and al-
ready well into the post-Big Brother Era:
it’s a freakin’ given that we are, each and all,
being watched. You are not having a night-
mare in which you are the star of a Lifetime
movie about a stalker. There aren’t even
any commercials. You are being watched.
Either in real-time, or via recording. May I
therefore offer that perhaps rather than walk-
ing around in a constant state of paranoia,
that we take for granted that all the world
is, indeed, a stage (and that the surveillance
crew is just beyond the audience)? Can’t we all
just take that piece of news and slip it into our
worry-free pockets? Or, better yet, let our
crocodile tears roll down the downy back
of a duck and worry about the bigger
problems in life; the problems that can
literally be adjusted? And then, I say,
take a little bit of that extra time that
you’ll soon find you have on your hands
and milk every ounce of joy you can out
of every minute you can; out of each
turnip of a day you wake up to find
yourselves in. It’s just a suggestion.
But it seems to do pretty well by me.
First Ladies
[or how not to explode under pressure]
Some regular-looking guy
sidles up to the bar, orders
a drink, reminds himself that
it’s April already (for Pete’s
sake!) and that he has yet to
do his taxes (for a few years
now, in all honesty). But
yet, he believes. In the sys-
tem; in its ideology; in its
process to reduce evil as a
means to slog through an
increasingly complex good,
i.e., the progress of human-
kind; even in romance, (and
he a disavowed goth kid,
he claims—and I can feel us
all strain to find, earnestly,
a smidgen of that kid, as we
chomp our various potato
incarnations. You can see
him trying to find the kid
that must have been he, or
the one that was the he that
once was. So he believes in the
progress of mankind. I learn
all of this as a sit net to him
during one of those overly-
long dinners, but this is
one I have no anxiety en-
during (a dinner that was
mostly just drinks, which
has got to help that re-
laxed lingering). I sat
through literally seeing a
light-bulb suddenly pop
out its beam of lumin-
escence on at least a
couple of occasions. The
most meaningful to me was
when he suddenly felt he un-
derstood everything. Just in
that moment. And for only
a few that followed. Then it
apparently left him. (I know
these moments well, when
everything suddenly makes ab-
solute sense and can be ex-
plained away, even in terms
of some of the most peculiar
pairings that exist in the
same cosmos; in fact, with-
in mind-boggling proximity.
Anyway, it was an occasion
of some significance, this
dinner taken with complete
strangers, at least it seemed
so to most of us, who tuned in
from time to time to listen to
his pretty elementary but/and
poignant ramblings. Good for
him, I am thinking days later,
perhaps, because not every
Tom, Dick or Harriet has her
very own nickel psychiatrist
(if we’ve learned anything
during these sessions in which
we find ourselves dining
with complete strangers,
isn’t it surely this: that no-
thing whatsoever should be
taken for granted), nothing.
Most especially that Dame
Jade refills my prescription
without fail. Every. Single.
Month. (My problem is in-
deed anxiety, purportedly.
And it doesn't just happen
on airplanes. Therapy works,
right?). Unless you’re on one
of those new, those, whattaya
call them?, those 90 day refill
plans. And that, my friends
(during which we both stifle
chuckles), is, as they say (and
even by me, while, of course,
so often wondering so hard
on who this they might act-
ually be) an entirely different
ball of wax (and don't we know
it!), thank you. We remember
the first time we realized what
a doctor’s appointment was
all about so that we can pass
such morsels on to those as yet
initiated (humanity, progress, etc.).
It is, quite simply, to prance in to the
doc’s lobby, sit for the five to twenty
minutes (on average) until called,
at which time you try to recall with
some accuracy the maze of cubicles
and gadgets you need to map yourself
from where you were sitting to her
office (also, remember that she goes
by Jade, says don’t call her Doctor
anyone), and once you find this
nice little working box with a view
of Alcatraz say, Okay Jade, I’ve a
fear of flying, and I’ve been tak-
ing a poll for something like 20
years now on what my people—
the ones with the same condi-
tion—a poll which won’t be the
handist tool of the trade but,
is not completely illogical
[Don’t forget Miss Jade that
I’m basically logic personified,
right? So, anyway, Jade, dear,
this very lengthy and logical
[semi-scientific] poll I took
using my old pals as lab rats
which weren’t exactly rand-
omly chosen, was my way of
trying to find a way around
this illogical fear—as my de-
sire to see a good portion of
the world seems to beg for
a remedy to this fear, it looks
to me like Xanax is going to
be my answer. I mean, really.
I still. Very much. Desire.
To experience. As much.
Of THE WORLD. As is human-
ly possible at my age. So
can you please write me a pre-
scription for enough Xanax] (I
would prefer the 1 milligram
to the point fives) to get me
to Boston and back [that'll be
the trial run, of course, which
by the way worked splendidly]
so that shortly after that i can
turn 40 in Paris, hang out with
the Parisians for a couple of
weeks, and get back in one
semi-sane single solid, please?
Then she off course habitually
inserts her hand into her
left lab-coat inside pocket
and comes out with that old-
school looking rubber-band
topped prescription pad
that is, we all now understand,
the guiding light of these visits.
Within seconds she has written
you out a prescription for some-
thing illegible (i'ts true) that turns
out to be, like, 20 Xanax. That,
my friend, is a game-changer.
That’s a part of humanity evolving
in which we can palpably feel our-
selves participating, if not some-
time clinging to with our dear
lives.
Soon,
there-
after, he turns 40 in
Paris, France – his
very first trip abroad.
And the rest is history
(which you can judge,
if by nothing else, by
his medicine cabinet
alone. (Ah, alone a-
gain, poor dear med-
icine cabinet, what?)
Well, lots has been
learned, I would say,
especially today. We
learned how to do one
thing the unwritten but
most appropriate way,
in a world which we
find increasingly more
bizarre, day after
day after……day.
Embrace Your Inner Sociopath
(inspired by the book of the
same name by Jenny Mollen)
If you’re Jason Biggs’ wife, don’t
just write a book about hair, I
believe she’s saying. Hair is
somehow related to sociopathy,
it would seem. One learns a
lot more on YouTube these day
than one (at least I) bargained
for. Just a few new musical
talents would wet my whistle,
having been a pariah of society
for so long now, and attempting
to un-pariah myself, slowly but
oh I certainly do hope surely.
But I can’t stop listening. I
Have the same problem with
almost all news related to
our president and the soap
opera he so entertainingly
spins from reality. That
thought makes me con-
tinue to watch Ms. Mollen,
who shows everyone in the
studio audience how to
properly breastfeed. “One
must make sure the curtain
hangs open at least enough
on the mound not being
sucked that it is visible.
We call this showing off
our voluptuous.” There
is a pause as if this must
be truly taken in. “And if
you happen to have two
going at once?” an aud-
ience member goads.
So Ms. Mullen demon-
strates that the volupt-
uous results in such a case
can be awe-inspiring, if not
entirely too compelling to wit-
ness by a generic human (and
I’m exhausted by the fact that
she must mean people of all
sexes; makes me glad I never
had one of the little devils).
This double-do of course is
double-voluptuous, not
dissimilar to the Wrigley’s
Spearmint Gum twins. And
because of them as well.
God it sounds so tongue-
in-cheek, but I do love
celebrity gossip (unless
the celebrity is caused
by participation in some
sport; or is one of the
Kardashians). I truly am
taken with this Jenny Mollen
Biggs (yet why she doesn’t
appropriately add her hus-
band’s surname, given the
topic of voluptuousness and
all, is truly beyond me). But
nothing shatters the fact
that she’s so damned CUTE.
And to top off this cuteness,
she cuts into a story (is it
in the book, is all I keep
wondering) about how she
dropped her son on his head
when he was a toddler, fract-
uring his skull, in fact. There
is an entire school of guilt,
it turns out, regarding this
apparently ubiquitous and
worrisome event that hap-
pens at least once around
toddler-hood. This guilt.
Well, sure. I suppose I
get it. But more than
anything else, this phe-
nomenon underscores,
personally, for me, how
celebrity kids are not much
different than you or me
(not being much of a cel-
ebrity, of course; at least
not yet, anyhow). It seems
that there would be excep-
tions to that little rule,
though. So, are we then
to get psychopathic with
any and all toddler-aged
kids world-wide? I’m so
sold. Even thought I’m not
quite sure yet what the key
word in the title, which,
whoops, is sociopath and
not psychopath, to which
I’d just alluded. My bad.
And, I’m also more than
a bit in tune with how
influenced I am by this
amazing martyr of a wo-
man who just happens to
be married to the perhaps
underrated but too over-
stated Mister Jason Biggs.
That verity rises above the
crown of my head to form
the shape of a dizzying halo
Which seems more than right.
I nevertheless look forward
to embracing my own opinions
on the matter, of course. At
some point. I’m sincerely hoping
that it isn’t just one more thing
from which us guys are vehement-
ly exempt (read, disallowed) from
doing or in participating in any way.
It does sound nurturing and
a perfectly awesome way
to get in touch with our
feminine side (sparse as
it may be on some of us).
But she sticks with the
story of dropping her son
on his noggin, repeating
the moment’s scene incess-
antly. And, sadly, I don’t
believe noggin-fractured
kid is even Biggs’ boy.
Poor Biggs sits at a
table that is placed as
an obvious display site
for the interview, behind
and to the left of the ladies
at the table, front and center.
He’s on dais a couple feet in
height, so he resembles a
museum exhibit or zoo
animal. With nothing to
do, really, unless he wants
to meed the gaze of a hostile
audience now and again (and
I suppose I don't spend enough
time on that hostility and where
from whence it might have derived);
we, the audience, see him
refer regularly to a copy of
his wife’s book. I notice a
definite Season One Orange
Is the New Black look that is
exacerbated by the obviously
intentional spots that dimly
light his head. Certainly
there is nothing National
Lampoon (nor molested
apple pie) about this
particular version of
Biggs. Half-listening
to his wife, I begin to
nod my head in agree-
ment (her voice has a
very mesmeric quality
to it) as she lures me
back to the impossible
combination that pro-
vides an incredible all-
ure (and I can see that
I’m not at all alone on
this; plus the guests are
at least eighty-five per-
cent female (to these
eyes, I should appro-
priately add). In ess-
ence, the moral of this
story (and presumably
the moral of the book
she is tandemly touting)
is don’t drop your kid on
his or her noggin. Unless
it just happens, in which
case, we all should suppose
“Why not; might as well.”
It’s a bit confusing (and
here, I cognizantly attribute
this confusion must be test-
osteron-related) whether
she’s encouraging the prac-
tice or just finding method-
ology to excuse it; to elim-
inate the guilt that surely
surrounds and follows one
after the act of dropping
your kid head-first on the
floor, or god-forbid a con-
crete sidewalk, perhaps.
And, come on, who doesn’t
drop their child on their head
at one point or another? Al-
though I do suppose that mak-
ing a habit of it might be an
incrediby alarming thing for
all involve. I'm not always
the brightest, but even I
know that for real answers
to these burning questions
on this subject I've never
given a thought to is that
the entire world population
of mothers should be con-
sulted. Scientifically. As
purely as is convenient.
Perhaps even a random
sampling of fathers, too.
This I think surely due
to the fact that I’d love
to be involved in such
a census; to affect
some world knowledge.
Wouldn’t that be a
kick! Granted, I've
never had a child of
my own—that I know of,
anyway). Well, I’m not
even sure Ms. Mollen-Biggs
is a celebrity or not. But
she has turned out to be
such a delight to catch.
And encouraged such ex-
pansion of thought. And
this isn’t even TMZ (which,
truth be told, I never watch,
anyway—which my wife
loves to repeated remind me
that this makes me a complete
celebrity gossip hypocrite). It’s
CNN (where I get the brunt of
my celebrity gossip, while try-
ing so hard to skip the rest of
the news altogether. But.
Celebrity gossip. What can
you do? At least when you’re
me. I can attest to the fact
that I never once spent mon-
ey (mine or anyone else’s)
on a National Enquirer. I
can even say with some con-
viction that this is a good thing.
And while I cannot say how
good or bad this segment has
been for anyone in today’s
audience, I do sincerely
believe that it’s not been
a great couple of ours for
our dear Mr. Biggs. Nor,
perhaps, I must sigh, for
CNN, who decided to take
this initial plunge into the
‘studies’of his psy-
chotic or pathologic or
sociopathic, yet oddly
hypnotic wife and her
unpinpointable cause
celebre. Whatever can
be said, I’ve certainly
had my moment of
growth today. And all
of those in attendance
have surely had one as
well. Even with the ad-
mixture of disturbing
and confusingly comical,
life-threatening stories
such as this must abound.
I am even certain there
will be things that I learned
from this spectacle which
will only be discovered in
hindsight. So, without even
delving too deep into the
disturbing parts (I’m easy
to tune out, you see, and
quick on the draw with re-
gard to such matters). I
picture the folks departing
quickly up and out of the
theatre doors and into
the mid-day sunlight
as better people for
having experienced a
spare moment or two on
such a confusing subject
(which I am not convinced
is less confusing than when
off she roiled with the first
few words of the evening)
(but doesn't that deeper
confusion somehow equal
a relatively higher import-
ance than, say, less confus-
ing stuff. Like Newton’s Law,
I suppose. Anyway, I’d never
even given this subject a
chance; or, well, it is one
that i must admit never once
crossed my mind in the first place.
That is not until today, when I had
the honor of attending this fine
pseudo-political event. Something
that always comes to mind when I
drop by to one of these town hall
meetings is that life, you know, is
honestly a total gamble. Don’t
you think? I certainly do.
