The Great Vonnegut

by Thomas M. Pender

I have to sing the praises of Kurt Vonnegut Jr. for those who have never read his works!

Vonnegut (November 11, 1922 – April 11, 2007) wrote such amazingly worded novels, he could sway his readers’ emotions and thought processes.  Not everything he wrote is worthy of praise – in fact some is so repetitive and cyclical, you will think you’re trapped in rap lyrics! – but a few gems are well worth crowing about.

Player Piano was his first novel, and it tells the story of man versus machine in a society where machines are replacing humans.  Right out of the box, I have to say I loved the title.  Having nothing to do with the story, the player piano is a simplified image of a contraption that, while normally operated by a human, runs on its own.  Brilliant!  The story immediately grabbed my attention, and held it through every page, so I immediately went on to his next work.

The Sirens of Titan astounded me, plain and simple, for the accomplishment in the writing itself.  Without changing anything about his main character’s actions or motives, Vonnegut manipulates how the reader sees him and changes how we think of him.  You spend the first third of the book thinking the hero is the best guy in the world, the second third wondering what the heck he’s really doing, and the last third thinking he’s the worst guy in the world . . . all through the power of Vonnegut’s wording!  As a writer and aspiring novelist, I see this as superhuman skill and talent.

Slaughterhouse-Five is about a man who becomes “unstuck in Time.”  He is constantly juggled through scenes from his past, present and future.  He experiences World War II Dresden, the planet Trafalmadore (as a human zoo display!), 1950s American married life, and his own murder in 1976 Chicago.  (Published in 1969, this would be in the near future.)  You feel for the character, and you learn from his predicament, as well.

Mother Night had a profound effect on me.  The theme is “You must be careful what you pretend to be, because in the end, you are what you pretend to be!”  This was meant as a cautionary tale, featuring an American who pretends to be a Nazi in World War II Germany.  The character has good reason to do so, but sees himself as a monster because his reason does not change the evil he is doing.  Still, I took this lesson as a positive: If you pretend to be the person you want to be, you become that person!

I was also very affected by a story written in screenplay form, Fortitude.  Published in the short story collection Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons, it tells the story of a very rich woman who should have died long ago, but is being kept alive by a building full of machines.  Only her head remains in its original form.  She is prevented from committing suicide when she becomes too depressed over her situation, so she exacts some wonderfully poetic revenge.  Here again, I was impressed by how Vonnegut evokes strong emotional reactions from his reader.

While I was incredibly disappointed in one of his most lauded books, Breakfast of Champions, I find Vonnegut’s work to be completely original in tone, and I will miss his writing.   In general, his work makes you want to laugh, but before you can laugh, it makes you think, and in thinking, you realize that what you just read isn’t funny, but kind of sad or infuriating.  I have no idea how he did that, and I’m incredibly jealous.  However, as a reader, his books are a playground for the mind.  If you’ve never read his work, I recommend you start with the first novel, Player Piano.  It’s a fine introduction to his style, and if you like it, you can easily progress from that.  If you love the written word, and the magic that a masterful writer can conjure, give Kurt Vonnegut Jr. a try.  In whatever way you are affected by his words, you will certainly be affected, which is a rare and wonderful thing in the world of literature!

The Invisible Swords of College Conquest

by Thomas M. Pender

College – or, as I’m apt to refer to it, “The Limbo of Life” – was a wonderful and magical sphere of being, where you get to be an adult, but you get to be a kid again, too!  While you are working to better yourself, it’s also the first time you get to be on your own (assuming you go away to school, as I did) to really find out who you are.  It’s also a great place to meet all kinds of people, and learn what kinds of friends you really wish to have!

To no one’s shock, my chosen friends were all loons.

My freshman year, while being incredibly challenging and lesson-teaching (mostly the outside-the-classroom-lessons-of-Life kind), was made up of nine straight months of laughter and adventure, centered around a goofy crew of a few close-knit men who made the most – and the most fun – of any and every situation.

Dating rituals, for example.  While I have no doubt that those I met and chose as friends were polite gentlemen on their dates (although they’d never admit it back then, whilst trying to maintain their coolness), in our women-free zone of male bonding time, we had great fun discussing upcoming dates, successful dates, women of interest and certainly attractive complete strangers who passed our way.  One ritual that just kind of “happened” was the sword brandishing.

On a random day when one of us in the group was discussing an upcoming date, a successful date or a woman of interest, someone . . . most likely Terry “Trigger” Thompson . . . pulled an invisible sword from an invisible sheath attached to his invisible belt, made the sound of a sword being drawn, held it invisibly aloft and made a sort of pirate-y cry of triumph.

Those of us in attendance proceeded to immediately bust our collective guts, love the action, and mimic the action.  A tradition was born.

After that, whenever one of us had an upcoming date, a successful date or had met a woman of interest to talk about, however many of us in attendance would immediately draw our invisible swords (complete with sound effects, of course!), invisibly clang them together, and re-insert them.

Silly?  Yes.  Immature?  Granted.  Fun and memorable boy fun?  Yar!

As is the case with everything that went on during that incredible year, the tradition has faded as friends have gone their ways.  Still, I know for a fact that the men these kids have become have a silly and raucous side to them, hidden beneath their business neckties and barbecuing aprons.  Should two or more of us meet up, and one have a piece of good news to share, I have no doubt that those in attendance will find that the swords of triumph, first wielded in the dormitories of Michigan State, are still firmly affixed.

Huzzah!

Assless in America

by Thomas M. Pender

I have a birth defect, which is rarely discussed in public.  It’s apparently genetic, as my father before me had the same defect.  It’s been the cause of pain and heartache, as well as shame and embarrassment.

I have no butt.

I used to have one, back when I was thin as a rail.  In fact, back then a butt was all I had physique-wise!  A bump halfway up the broom, if you will.  As I started to gain normal weight, however, the distribution of the added poundage was not exactly even.  Plenty of people complain that too much weight ends up on their posterior, but mine was the opposite problem: thighs fatter, check; love handles visible, check; stomach bigger, CHECK!  Everywhere in the derriere neighborhood was getting “pound-ed,” but apparently my behind was not invited to the calorie-fest.  Soon, with the expansion of fat above and beneath it, it simply went away.

There are some actual problems associated with this lack-o’-tushy syndrome, too.  With nothing underneath to cushion a sitting position, I can’t be comfortable sitting anywhere with little or no padding.  This has been an issue every time I’ve been in a church with only non-padded wooden pews, and also public events that feature metal folding chairs.  When I was younger and thinner, you could actually hear the bones collide with the harder surfaces if I sat down hard!  I was also known to sit on Mom’s lap throughout my teens, and teasingly say that she used to let me sit there, but the joke never lasted long, as Mom would say that my hip bones were digging into her skin.

Here was one reason I could actually look forward to gaining some normal-range weight.  But noooo!  I got the bod curse handed down from Dad.  I remember Mom following Dad up the stairs once, and Mom grabbed a handful of Levi’s denim where his body should have been.  “Look!  There’s no butt!” she announced, and the household erupted in laughter.  You just gotta love silly parents.  Nowadays, however, it’s not so much humorous as irritating . . . and I get mocked on occasion, too.  The prime-time cartoon series King of the Hill did an entire (and, admittedly, hilarious) episode dedicated to the fact that central character Hank Hill had no behind.  He ended up having to wear a kind of backward-silicone-implant thingy in order to sit comfortably.  This was shown for entertainment value, but it just may come to that one day.  Horrors!

As far as I can tell so far, my boys have not carried the assless gene.  Still, I suppose I’ll have to wait until they hit their twenties to really find out.  In the meantime, please pray for my sons’ butts.  Thanks.

Ten Great Things About Temp Work

by Thomas M. Pender

10)          Your superiors are always happy to see you

9)            No chore is beyond your ability

8)            Dress code, schmess code!

7)            When your time is already paid for, and they don’t have work for you . . . hmmm, what’s in the fridge today?

6)            Remembering names isn’t really an issue

5)            You’re invited to all the chili cook-offs, Thanksgiving potlucks and birthday celebrations, where your only assignment is to eat

4)            Not only is it not frowned upon, but it’s expected that you’ll be schmoozing and networking for your next job

3)            Temp work teaches you to never burn bridges, because you never know what co-temps or temp bosses you’re going to work with or for again in the near future

2)            You won’t be in one spot long enough to learn to dislike anyone

and

1)            Whenever blame is flying about, you can always do the “Hey, I’m just a temp.  What do I know?” bit

The Difficult

by Thomas M. Pender

Some of my poems over the years have been so short, I call them simply "thoughts" . . .

If the difficult doesn’t work,

Try the simple.

If the simple doesn’t work,

Try the obvious.

written by t. michael pender  11/12/88

©1988 T. Michael Pender.  All rights reserved.

Mr. Monk Takes His Medicine . . . And Impresses Tom

by Thomas M. Pender

The USA Network series Monk, starring Tony Shaloub as former San Francisco police detective Adrian Monk, was known to me by commercials alone for many years.  For whatever scheduling reasons, I never got the chance to check the show out for several of its first seasons.  However, the first episode I ever saw impressed me so much that it stuck with me for a year until I was able to track it down, and it also got me to watch the show regularly.

Monk, known as “The Defective Detective” in promos, was San Francisco’s most brilliant detective, who figured out the identities of murderers and motives for murder by the craziest and tiniest of details.  Then, according to the first episode, his wife of many years was killed in an auto explosion.  He was so in love and connected with his wife Trudy that her death affected his personality and connection with the world around him.  He fell victim to every phobia known to Man, particularly mysophobia, the fear of germs.

This first episode I was exposed to was entitled “Mr. Monk Takes His Medicine.”  (I would learn later that practically every episode started with the words “Mr. Monk.”)  In it, he allows a suspect to get away due to one of his fears, and he is shamed by this.  His psychiatrist (a semi-regular character, who helps as Monk constantly tackles his fears) gives him a prescription to try.  Of course, Monk is afraid to try it.

A while ago, I wrote a column on two of the most romantic lines I’d ever heard in films.  This one episode, which moved me a great deal, includes the single most romantic scene – or more specifically, gesture – I’ve ever seen.  When Monk arrives home, and lays awake in bed wondering what to do, he goes to his closet.  Since his house is meticulously germ- and dirt-free, it’s no surprise that when he goes to his closet to pull something down from the shelf, it’s in a zipper-sealed bag.  Unzipping the bag, he removes a pillow and lays back down with it, deeply inhaling at the corner of the pillow.  We next hear the voice of his late wife, who appears to him (as I later learned she does periodically) and holds a conversation with Monk about his mistake, the pills, and his fears.

I was dumbstruck by this.  The man, fictional though he may be, loved his wife so much that when she passed away, he kept her pillow in a sealed bag so that it would still smell like her.  This is ingenious writing.  The vision of Trudy even tells Monk that there’s no way the pillow can still smell like her after she’s been gone so many years, and he painfully replies that he can still smell her.

As I saw more and more episodes of Monk, the character quickly became one of my favorites.  He is a humorous character, but also a sympathetic and in his own way, a heroic character.  There are many reasons to like and to cheer for Adrian Monk, even though he has so many issues to conquer.  For me, his greatest quality is his love and devotion for his wife.  Some would say he is wasting his life by staying alone and mourning a lost spouse, but I believe that as long as someone is happy – either by moving on after a spouse’s death or by loving them alone – this can be a very romantic thing.

Certainly, the pillow ranks high on the romantic scale, whether or not the aroma of Trudy Monk’s hand cream and shampoo are still on it, as Adrian insists.

If you’ve never seen Monk, and enjoy characters who will intrigue you as they entertain you, I highly recommend the show.  If you are interested in this particular episode, it is the ninth episode of the third season, and is available for rent or purchase in the third season box set.  Also, it is available on Best of Monk, an eight-episode compilation of the (fan-picked, no doubt) best episodes of the eight-season run of the show.  Monk Takes His Medicine represents the entire third season, so I imagine that it touched a great many more viewers than just me.  I hope if you see it for the first or 100th time, it touches you likewise.

Two Little Devils And A Lady With A Fan

by Thomas M. Pender

Dad went into the Navy right out of high school.  He sailed to ports around the globe aboard the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Ticonderoga, then returned to marry Mom.  Then they were fruitful and multiplied.

When Dad returned from his travels, he looked a bit different.  There were pictures on his white skin that hadn’t been there when he’d left.  On his right arm was a drawing of a scroll, with his military ID number on it.  On his left, the head and shoulders of a lady dressed in frilly headdress and dress, with an equally frilly fan covering her face, leaving only the eyes revealed.  On his shoulder blades, facing each other, were twin cherubs . . . or half-cherubs, sort of.  The one on the left was a girl and the one on the right was a boy.  Each had wings and a halo, and stood on a small cloud.  However, each also had wee devilish horns atop his or her head, a pointed tail and a pitchfork.

These pictures could be interpreted in many ways, but when we were very young, my sister Debi and I believed as Dad told us: that the two characters on his back were pictures of us.  The little boy imp did appear to be blonde, and the female did seem to be a brunette . . . so why not?  I had no problem believing that he had put us on his back.  I do remember staring at the eyes of the lady many times, trying to figure out if she was Mom.  Dad may have said it was her, or I may have assumed it was, but there was something mysterious in that face, which only revealed the eyes.

When I was old enough to repeat the story Dad told, and my younger sister Kristi was old enough to comprehend, I would explain (while touching each tattoo) that Mom and Deb and I were each represented, telling her that Dad had gotten the tattoos before she was born.  (In my retroactive defense, this was the truth.  It just didn't occur to me that it was also before any of us kids were born!)  I was very proud to be artistically represented.  He would tell us that the devilish/angelic combo represented the goodness and naughtiness in us, and this made sense to me, in my childlike way.  I didn’t find the negative aspect insulting, and I probably clung to the positive aspect, thinking myself more an angel than a devil of a child . . . as most of us did, I imagine.

Sadly, these tattoos can now only be spotted in stray photographs of Dad.  As for myself, I was never really drawn (no pun intended . . . well, okay, maybe a little) to having art put on my body.  In my late twenties, an idea struck me that still intrigues me, though I have never gone through with it.  At first, I imagined large angel wings tattooed on my back.  After some thought, I decided that this would be much too expensive and painful to deal with.  My compromise was a pair of angel wings on my right shoulder, complete with a halo above them.  Under the wings, I would write simply “Dad.”  Years later, I realized that I would also have to add the name “Kristi” when my sister passed.  (Also “Sammy,” but that’s another story for another time.)

When I imagined these adult tattoos for myself, they were completely original ideas.  They were not meant to be based on nor echo the "angelic" shoulder blade art of my father.  Only years later did I realize that I would be carrying on a bit of a family tradition if I went through with my idea.

And that's cool, too!

The Ridiculous Sport of Baseball . . . Statistics

by Thomas M. Pender

I’m not a big baseball fan.  I can’t really sit and watch an entire game on television.  It’s pretty dang boring.  While I do enjoy watching baseball highlights (because they splice all the actually interesting events together) and a live baseball game is fun (mostly for the things going on in the ballpark between plays), watching baseball on television strikes me as a pretty uninteresting practice.

However, within the sport itself is an ongoing ritual that is sort of an offshoot of interesting.  It’s downright bizarre!

Each time a new player comes up to the bat, and each time the batter is waiting for a pitch, you will undoubtedly hear the most incredible (and head-scratchingly confounded!) statistics spill out of the TV commentators’ mouths.  These faceless experts are loaded to the rafters with figures and columns and histories no one could possibly imagine being important enough to record.  You learn such “fascinating” facts (at least, we assume no one would go out of their way to make up such stuff!) as the percentage of pitches by a left-handed pitcher the batter has hit during the month of August in an outdoor game on the day after it has rained when he is wearing his hat tilted to the left.

Yes, I made that one up.  No, I’m probably not the first person.  The first person probably made it up, then investigated!

The basic stats, while no fascination to me, at least seem to exist for a reason.  The fans can keep track of how many runs, errors and wins a player is responsible for, and this can give the fans a good idea of how well the player plays.  But come on!  Is there a need to know how many Dodgers have deceased mothers who were Aquariuses and went to private schools, then married Navy men and gave birth to triplets?

(I hope I’m the first one to make that stat up.  Still, I wonder. . . .)

Every televised sport can give you stats on a team and on individual players.  It’s part of the home-viewing experience.  Baseball, for some reason or no reason, has turned the science of statistics into a ludicrous cult of numbers, based on twisted imaginations.  Somewhere out there in e-space, I’m sure, there is a constantly updated database on the number of times each major league player has adjusted himself in each and every game.  Fanny pats can’t be far behind (pardon the pun), either.  The topics get so far out of the realm of relevance, they hardly qualify as baseball stats.  They are numbers more in tune with Ripley than Cooperstown.  They may have even given Ripley a headache.

On the other hand, in your more inexplicable moments, when you wonder which baseball team has the most players who were raised in Alaska, went to high school in Florida, and have six toes on their left foot, relax.  There is someone keeping track of that . . . and you’ll probably hear about it next spring while innocently watching a game, too!

Someone Does

by Thomas M. Pender

 

If you’ve ever wanted someone to believe in you,
     someone does.

If you’ve ever wanted someone to miss you when you’re not around,
     someone does.

If you’ve ever wanted someone to fantasize about you,
     someone does.

If you’ve ever wanted someone to cry over you,
     someone has.

If you’ve ever wanted someone to feel you’re the most important person in his world,
     someone does.

If you’ve ever wanted someone to devote his life to your happiness,
     someone wants to.

If you’ve ever wanted someone to be afraid of spending one more day without you,
     someone is.

If you’ve ever wanted someone to stare at your picture when you’re gone,
     someone does.

If you’ve ever wanted someone to want to raise children with you,
     someone does.

If you’ve ever wanted someone to talk to God about you,
     someone has.

If you’ve ever wanted someone to dream about you,
     someone does.

If you’ve ever wanted someone to want to spend forever with you,
     someone does.

If you’ve ever wanted someone to need you,
     someone does.

If you’ve ever wanted someone to give you his heart,
     someone wants to.

If you’ve ever wanted someone to love you unconditionally,
     someone does.



I do.

written by t. michael pender  4/18/91

copyright 1991 T. Michael Pender.  All rights reserved.

Jesus Don’t Surf . . . Entertainingly, Anyway!

by Thomas M. Pender

I never got the chance to watch the HBO series John From Cincinnati during its original run back in 2007, but I did catch the teaser ads.  I was very intrigued at the curiosity campaign, which showed Bruce Greenwood walking up the beach from the ocean.  Wearing a body suit and carrying a surfboard, he stops walking, looks stunned and confused, then looks down.  He and the viewers notice that his feet are about six inches off the ground!

This intrigued me, and not being an HBO subscriber, I looked forward to the day I could see it on DVD.  Well, that day came this past week.  Luckily, I saw the entire one-season show through Netflix and I didn’t purchase it.

Ugh!

I’m a fan of symbolism, when it’s used wisely.  I loved reading The Grapes of Wrath and One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest in the 11th grade, because Mr. Farah explained how the characters symbolized well-known characters from the Bible, including Jesus Christ Himself.  As I mentioned in a review some weeks ago, Christian messages distributed to the general public as entertainment should be packaged in digestible wrapping, not force-fed.  John failed miserably here.  Nothing is digestible.  I sort of understand some of the biblical symbolism, but not thoroughly, and I certainly didn’t enjoy doing it.

One of the reasons I was originally anxious to see the show was because the cast was literally filled with actors I perceive as capable: Greenwood, who I thoroughly enjoyed in the UPN’s Nowhere Man, Rebecca (Risky Business) De Mornay, Ed (Modern Family) O’Neill and Howard Hesseman, who can’t seem to leave Cincinnati behind!  This is his third television romp in that town, after starring in WKRP In Cincinnati and The New WKRP In Cincinnati.  However, when I finally got to see it, I discovered that these fine folks’ performances, while fascinating, were mired in confusing and convoluted dialogue.  In a way, it was like watching Shakespeare: you can sort of follow the basic plot, but you have no idea what individual monologues and back-and-forths are all about.  It was constantly and increasingly frustrating.

One major exception to the great casting was Greyson Fletcher, who played young surfer Shaun.  I read that he was quickly cast based on his skateboard skills alone, which would transfer well into surfing skills.  I believe it!  Fletcher is about as good an actor as Laurence Olivier is today!  It was like witnessing Day One of a mannequin learn to walk and talk.  I’m not sure I ever saw the kid blink once . . . or smile . . . or emote in any real human fashion.

I can’t really tell you if Austin Nichols, who portrayed the title character, is a good actor.  He spent the entire show grimacing as if forced to suck a lemon, and talking like he was the love child of Rain Man and E.T.!  It was incredibly irritating, particularly in the beginning of the show, when he only speaks words he hears other characters say, and only knows a few lines.

JFC was not a bad idea for a show, but it was created and delivered with no clarity whatsoever, leaving us with one confusing mess.  I seriously defy anyone to watch a single scene of this ten-episode series, and explain to me what the characters are talking about.  It’s that bad!  A shame, really.  If they had simplified the dialogue in order to tell an entertaining and digestible story, I might actually feel bad it got cancelled.