Now That We're Evolved...

I’ve mentioned in previous posts that everyday I commute on the train to Union Station in downtown Los Angeles. For the past 11 years, I’ve slept every morning and eavesdropped every afternoon (my two favorite past times) on my ride to and from work. Recently, I woke up early from my train ride slumber to call my son and wish him a “Happy Birthday.” Since I couldn’t go back to sleep the last 15 minutes of the ride, I decided to practice my second favorite past time. Do you know what I heard? NOTHING. Not a peep of gossip; not a complaint session; not a tangled soap opera of deceit playing out for my personal enjoyment or righteous indignation. Now, mornings are normally slow because a lot of us try to grab a few extra winks. I can fall into a pretty deep coma on the train. I’ve missed my stop more than once and had to be picked up in San Bernardino. Occasionally, I’ve snorted so loud I woke myself up. A few times, I’ve tried to cuddle with the person next to me. Of course, once I wake up and wipe the drool off the corner of my mouth, I either blush and apologize if it’s a woman or blush and start talking about oil changes or sports scores if....(never mind).

Back on point. After saying, “Hello,” to darkness, my old friend, (Get it?) I started thinking about how my daily commute has changed over the years. Before there were little pockets of friends, quiet and chatting in the morning; laughing boisterously in the afternoon. Christmastime saw knitters, crotchetiers, and cross stitchers feverishly working on that last gift. (I tell you, these people were concentrating so intently and working so dedicately that if they were twenty year’s younger, I would have thought that Kathy Lee Gifford had a new Wal-Mart line coming out.) But still, through all of this they were chatting it up; freely giving advice or encouraging “You-can-do-it-” pep talks. This past holiday, they were still there but there was very little talking. Why, you ask? What has devastated this once social haven? Simple. The Ipod. That’s right Steve Jobs and his brand of techno-fruit are responsible for the decimation of front-porch society on the Metrolink train. (Is it not bad enough that he is responsible for eliminating the use of pencils and paint brushes in Walt Disney cartoons?) People don’t talk anymore; they all listen to music. All of a sudden, everyone has to get their groove on. And I’m wondering, “When did that happen?” I suspect it was about the same time we all decided to carry around little bottles of water, or drive around in huge ugly military vehicles painted bright yellow that get 8 miles to the gallon. Social communication is on it's death bed. Visiting with your neighbor or egads talking to the person next to you and making a new friend is history. For the most part, people don’t talk on their cell phones either; instead, they text each other acronyms. Verizon doesn’t charge us to talk to each other (as long as you’re “in”) but they keep close count on the number of text messages you send. BTW ISH LOL (By the way, insert sarcasm here. Laugh out loud.). And face it, the only time socializing is going on, we're not talking to each other; we're talking into the Star Trek-Bluetooth do-hicky in our ears. I’m half-expecting someone to all of a sudden say, “Scotty, beam me up,’ and then disappear. And if they did wouldn’t that just be AGBS?! (a great, big shame)

I can't help but question, "Is this why we evolved?" I see where aposable thumbs are a definate plus, especially since that's what everyone is typing with; albeit, incorrectly spelled and without puctuation but "im nt juging." Correct me if I'm not understanding the story. We started out as single cell critters; evolved into monkeys; lost our tails and started walking upright; built the pyramids; discovered nuclear fusion; made Pauly Shore movies, and now we are so caught up in what's fast, easy and convenient that we're not connecting to each other. Where do I begin? Oh, I know. OMG!

How Mark Got His Groove Back

I was going to name this post, “The Runner Stumbles” or maybe “The Dieter Eats Cheesecake.” That’s the way it feels. I started blogging for several reasons. I wanted to learn about posting and embedding video. I love writing and I wanted to develop my craft and stretch myself artistically. Take that rusty bike, repair the wheels, oil the gears; put a playing card in the spokes and take her for a spin. (That’s a metaphor) And I was doing it. I was writing consistently and having a blast. I could feel the creative juices flowing. People were reading my posts and being impacted by what I was writing. Some posts made them feel happy; some made them feel angry but it was an awesome experience to make people feel something. I was looking at unfinished projects with new interest. And then it happened; Cheesecake. You can relate can’t you? Maybe you’ve exercised three days a week for 3 months straight and something happens and you start sleeping late. You’ve lost 20 pounds and all of a sudden you realize you’re eating a Double Double and you the new jeans are fitting you tight. That’s how I feel about my writing. I was doing it. I had a hobby. To some extent, I had a dream or at least a daydream. The Oscar wasn’t in my hand, but I was making acceptance speeches in the shower again.

Like the rest of our busy lives, there isn't any one person or thing to blame. It’s no ONE's fault. Life happens. My life, which I still wouldn’t trade for anything, happens. Cheesecake. But I’m back. It’s not easy but I’m back. And the title of this post is appropriate. It’s not about the stumbling or the cheesecake. It’s about the action that is supposed to take place after the realization. It’s time to get back on that treadmill and work my way up to a marathon (again, more metaphor). I’ve got to order the Double Double protein style instead of animal style and do something so that I don’t have to unpack the fat jeans. (Okay, that’s not a metaphor.) I’ve got lots to say. I hope you’ll still be here to listen. I'm not done, yet.

Hello, My Name is Mark. I'm a Tube-aholic

So I’ve got this new monkey on my back. While researching my nebulous musings and teachings I have stumbled on and become addicted to this little gem of a place called YouTube. At this place, you can watch absolutely ANYTHING you want conveniently delivered at the click of your mouse without commercials in cute little 4 minute packages. It’s like cable TV without the infomercials.
Honestly, don’t you just hate that “Set it and Forget it”guy and that lady who talks about making mini-fruit pies with white bread and apple pie filling. (I don't care if you DO sprinkle powdered sugar on it. That’s not pie; just a weird toasted sandwich.) But YouTube, this place is Nirvana. By the way you can watch their music video, “Smells Like Teen Spirit” anytime you want. (I honestly believe if it weren’t for the poor hygiene-thing, Grunge would still be big.) And YouTube is contagious, too. At my last men’s group, one brother’s eyes lit up when I mentioned watching a documentary about Raul Ries and another said, “Really, H.R. Pufnstuf? I remember that song.”
(But Puf‘nStuf was watching, too and knew exactly what to do. He saw the witch's boat attack and as the boy was fighting back…Don’t judge me, I said this was a problem.) And you shouldn't judge. There is valuable information here. YouTube is not just fluff. You can watch stirring discussions on Einstein's Theory of Relativity or the impact of Global Warming on polar bears. (No one ever does, but it's there.) In the course of one YouTube session I watched a behind the scenes look at I Love Lucy (Fred was an alcoholic. Ethel hated him. Ricky was a womanizer); I listened to the lovely and tragic Miss Patsy Cline sing, “Sweet Dreams” (the hair on the back of my neck stood on end) and I shook my tushie to Nancy Sinatra singing, “These Boots Are Made For Walking” on the Ed Sullivan Show (my… never mind) And it didn’t cost me a thing; just my monthly internet bill and two hours of my time. Well, and if you want to get picky about it, 8 hours of my time because I did this every night this week. Oh and while I was doing this I didn’t spend any quality time with kids or work on the short story idea I had in mind (The idea passed) and my wife went to bed… ALONE.
We recently got rid of the television because my family was segmented. Everyone was spending every free minute in a different room of the house and my wife wanted us to reconnect. It worked wonders. Just last week my family was interacting and communicating, or at least that’s what it sounded like they were doing. I was busy watching Suzanne Sugarbaker deal with her weight (They Shoot Fat Chicks, Don’t They?) Ross and Rachel end their relationship (They were on a break.) and Will Truman confuse Anastasia Beaverhausen for his friend Karen Walker. (Makes me laugh just typing it.) What did I miss anyway? Reading my kids a story? Cuddling with my wife? Being an active participant in this God-given life of mine instead of mindless video-viewing blob? (At least I’m not hating so much that I’m spitting up bile anymore, right?)
So there you have it. I admit I’ve got issues but I still don’t think it’s a problem. I can quit whenever I want to. I can do this socially and it won’t take over my life. I’ll just have to take it One Day at a Time. (I wonder what would happen if I typed Valerie Bertinelli?)

Touch Me In The Morning

Every morning at 5:40 a.m., I make my daily one (1) hour forty (40) minute pilgrimage on a Metrolink train followed by a subway, bus or shuttle tour of downtown Los Angeles where it is my job to bring balance to a building that was literally built on a crooked foundation. (this place )
During all of this, when I’m not asleep I people watch. I like to think of this as a sociological or psychological exercise. This sounds much better than “stalker.” I see women enter the train without a speck of make-up and by the time they exit they’re ready for their close-ups. I’ve met a guy that I would swear (if I were a swearing-type of man) was the son of my father’s illegitimate daughter. I considered talking to him, but what would I say? “By the way, you look exactly like my dad. I think your grandma gave it up when she was seventeen and my dad, your grandpa had to choose between going to war and going to prison.” I settled for taking his picture with my cell phone repeatedly while he slept and showing it to everyone I knew. “Do you want to see my nephew?” (It’s only stalking after they tell you to stop, right?)
I’ve seen couples go from introduction to flirting (that’s a hoot) to relationship and sometimes to bitter breakup. For several years, I sat near an ex-priest and his wife. She told me he consecrates the Eucharist every Sunday morning for her in the living room of their house in Banning. (It’s a two bedroom, Mediterranean right on the golf course.) On more than one occasion, I’ve witnessed sympathetic women holding hands with married men as they listen to how the old shrew just doesn’t understand him and how all he wants is to be close to someone. Believe me, my biggest challenge is not yelling, “Hey Juliette, I think Romeo’s wife has a pretty good understanding how her man is and if you’re smart you’ll keep both hands on the table.” Once, I made a point of introducing myself to the bum’s wife as she picked him up at the train station in the afternoon. After a few moments of conversation, I gave Mr. Misunderstood a smile and an “I’m on to you.”-look. He soon found another area of the train to sit. I would have followed him, but again with those darn stalking laws I would be the bad guy. (Go figure.)
There are so many different types of people; knitters and readers; sleepers and talkers; the casual and the constipated. A few weeks ago, I got on a bus that is always standing-room only and takes me to great coffee. I was lucky to get the last seat and even luckier that a woman didn’t come on so I was able to keep it. (My mother raised me right. You should see some of the beasts that won’t get up.) I sat down as people filed past me to stand in the open areas. As I did this, I oh-so-barely brushed the elbow of the stone-faced woman sitting next to me.
Immediately, she jerked away, pulling her arm as close to her as she could. This troubled me deeply. I thought to myself, “This poor woman. What is she feeling? Am I threatening her? Does she think I have an ulterior motive?” I swear it was just my elbow. I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt AND a jacket. There was a good quarter-inch of material between our naked, pulsating bodies. I wondered what happened in this woman’s life that made her recoil like she did. What events in her life damaged her ability to be touched, nay brushed by a freshly-showered, extremely handsome gentleman who was wearing deodorant? I felt the need to say something, to do something. Unfortunately, the bus was very crowded and was just about to pull off from the stop. Something stirred me to act. I did the only thing I could think of doing; the only appropriate thing to do in this situation. I touched her again. And I kept on touching her; every bump in the road, every curve that we took, my elbow tapped her. I bumped her so much; you would have thought we were on the Cyclone at Cooney Island. By the time we got to good coffee, you could have fit three people in the space between us. She was folded into something that looked like a cross between twisted pipe cleaner and an origami crane. I knew that this snotty, rude woman who never said, “Good Morning” was going to immediately go to the washroom at her office, neatly place several layers of paper towels on the counter and wash off my kooties with the individually wrapped wet wipes and bottle of Purell she kept in her top desk drawer right behind the can of Lysol. And you know what? I didn’t regret my actions; not one little bit. Until….
…until this week. I was standing in the same bus and I saw my sanitized friend do the same thing to an overweight woman wearing white stretch pants, an oversize top and large hoop earrings. (I’ guess she didn’t get the memo about wearing white after Labor Day.) “Stretch” must have touched Miss Sunshine at least once because she looked like someone whose back went out in the middle of a game of Twister. But Stretch wasn’t bothered by any of this. It was obvious she was very comfortable with herself. I mean, besides not wearing a bra. Stretch was happy and nothing was going to change that. It was a good day. God gave her the last seat on the bus. (I’m just assuming the seat next to the pickle is always the last seat.) I started to think about the way I reacted to this one person’s bad attitude. Instead of apologizing for molesting (I mean brushing) her elbow with mine and going about my day; or even trying to show her some kindness, I let her bad attitude get me down. I let her steal my joy. Whatever made this person behave the way that she did is really none of my business. God doesn’t call me to correct, or to teach or even to understand her. And He’s not asking me to treat her the way I treat my friends or my family. He’s calling me to love her as much as I love myself; to share just a little bit of the infinite love that He’s shared with me. I sat with that a minute. (Well, stood with that.) I was thankful that God doesn’t treat me the way I treated this person. I thanked God for not nudging me with His elbow and for His grace and His love. And then I became very happy; so happy I had to hug someone. (Is it stalking if you’re doing it because God gave you a revelation?)

Just one of the crowd

When I was a teenager, I remember one time Uncle Angel and Aunt China came to visit. Aunt China was talking to my mother and my grandmother about someone else’s kid hanging around a person she didn’t deem appropriate. “Show me who you’re with, I’ll show you who you are,” she said. I didn’t like it. Maybe because at that particular moment I was a teenager at home on a Friday night, hanging around with two old ladies, a woman who slept in hair curlers with cold cream on her face, and an old man with hair growing out of his protruding ears (believe me, I’m not throwing that stone). I should have been hanging out with my dad. He was upstairs watching television in his underwear.

For whatever reason, that statement bugged me more than kissing my aunt’s hairy cheek goodbye.

Do I hate this statement because it’s wrong or because I’m in denial about its truth?

Let’s assume it’s true. Since starting this blog, I’ve been poking around looking at other people’s pages. If this statement is true, I’m not as cool as I imagined. There are a lot of stange creatures in the Blogspot zoo I checked myself into. (No cracks) On that same note, do I judge my family by the people I see on their My Space pages? Twenty-five years ago we had the good sense(?) to commit our sins in the dark where they belonged. Today, kids take pictures while they’re in the middle of it and post it for everyone to see.

Now to be fair, this sword should cut both ways. My good friends, Slugger and Jack, own tool belts and can do things with them. Does hanging out with them mean I’m handy? (In reality, I can’t figure out how to work a Dyson and Slugger hung my Christmas lights last year while I held the ladder.) I think there lays the answer. Anyone who knows me knows that if I could do a repair I wouldn’t have had to sell my last house. Hanging around with sinners doesn’t make you one, just like hanging around Christians doesn’t make you one of them either. It does put you in a position where you can be influenced and overcome by your surroundings. (Good in one instance, bad in the other.) It can also get you on someone’s My Space page. It’s best to have your eyes open at all times except when they should be shut tight. (you know what I mean.) I’m reminded of a song sung by Amy Grant.

I looked into the mirror,

Proud as I could be,

And I saw my pointing finger

Pointing back at me,

Saying, "Who named you accuser?

Who gave you the scales?"

I hung my head in sorrow;

I could almost feel the nails.

I said, "This is how it is

To be crucified and judged

Without love."