A person's a person . . .

To paraphrase Marcus Welby, M.D. (aka actor Robert Young), I am not a Presbyterian but I do play one on Sunday mornings. I sing in the local Presby church choir not for reasons of theology but simply because I like the director.

Since I am Presbyterian in robe only, I had no say in the matter, but I was pleased when recently the denomination lifted its ban on gay and lesbian clerics. (My opinion was not solicited but if it were, I’d ask, “What took you so long?”)

A century ago, the country was going to crumble if women got the vote. Well, we did, and it didn’t. Later, our military and our schools were racially integrated without the predicted apocalyptic results. Despite our bigoted little minds, bit by bit, our humanity catches up with us, and we take one more baby step toward full and equal civil rights for all.

We will get there. It’s not a matter of “if,” but “when.” Today’s news is that, according to the latest Gallop poll, more of us support marriage equality than oppose it.

Our most astute contemporary philosopher wrote in Horton Hears a Who, “A person’s a person no matter how small.” I say we go Dr. Seuss one better and make it, “A person’s a person no matter _________.” Fill in the blank, or maybe just leave it at “a person’s a person.”

Come on, people. Get over it. We have real problems to solve.

Selective biomass removal

There are no weeds. There are only plants flourishing where we do not want them. Weedness is entirely a matter of context.

          I’m pretty sure most of my neighbors consider dandelions to be weeds, while I welcome them in my yard as wildflowers. I find their smiley-face yellow heads cheery. Plus, their presence shows that I don’t poison my yard, a point of pride for me. Of course, I do decapitate the dandelions when eventually I mow the lawn, but they don’t seem to mind – they always come back.

I once had some morning glories climbing up the south side of my porch. Blue ones. Pretty, I thought. When a friend from Nebraska visited, he gaped at them in horror. “You planted these,” he said? “On purpose?” Turns out he and his brothers spent years of after-school hours and sweaty summer days yanking morning glories out of their family’s soybean fields. Context again.

My friend Joan calls weeding “plant killing.” I think that’s optimistic. At best, we discourage them temporarily. I don’t believe anything short of all-out chemical warfare will actually kill the hearty buggers, and even that ultimately proves to be temporary. (Recall the movie Jurassic Park – Nature will find a way.)

Still, I persist in the Sisyphean exercise of extracting timothy grass, bugleweed and purslane from my back garden. It gets me outside, and I can always use the exercise. But I know the task for what it really is: selective biomass removal. And temporary. 

The world is ending again?

An engineer named Harold Camping has determined that the world will end this Saturday. I don’t recall if he has mentioned the exact time. (Neal Conan’s comment on NPR this afternoon was, “Drink the good wine.” I’m thinking we should pop those corks on Friday night just in case the world ends at 12:01 Saturday morning.)

Camping has arrived at this through a Byzantine labyrinth of mathematical calculations that I clearly am not equipped to follow. It all somehow rests on the date of the flood  - not the one that’s in my backyard right now, but the one with Noah and the ark and the animals two by two – which he has pinpointed as occurring in 4990 BC.  (I don’t understand how he got that, either.) From there Camping cites Biblical references at every twist and turn, and ends up at May 21, 2011.

I’m tempted to toss a monkey wrench into this elaborate mechanism, like the irregularities of lunar months that Noah’s Daytimer would have reflected (we have to assume Noah was on the Hebrew calendar), or our switch here in the Colonies from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar in 1752.  But Camping’s an engineer. I’m sure he’s accounted for these kinds of things; engineers are so precise about everything.

So, here I am once again in the same old quandary – should I live as if this Friday is my last day on earth? (See the May 4 blog post for details re: first-class air travel, chocolate and kayaking.) And if I take him at his word and he’s mistaken? We’re left with the depressing consequences contemplated in that same post.

What to do, what to do? Surely not the dishes. Some would say I'll have to wrestle with this problem again in December 2012 when the Mayan calendar runs out, but if you ask me, they just got tired of all that chiseling and decided to let it ride until someone invented a copy machine. 

Browsing the classifieds

Every now and then I browse through the classified ads. (I’m not looking for a job or a new house. I think it’s just an excuse to sit with another cup of coffee.) These expeditions beyond the borders of my own little life inevitably prove that there is no available job for which I’m qualified, and no real estate I can afford, at least not anywhere I’m willing to live.

Today I took it a step further and leafed through an ad supplement that was tucked in with the morning paper. A thorough perusal of those shiny pages reassured me that not only is there nothing I need, there’s nothing (no thing) that I want, at least not from that store.

A career in the arts rarely leads to fortune or, for that matter,  more than moderate fame. If I worked in another field – you know, like if I had a real job - I might have more money. But I have enough money, so what would be the point? I am what I want to be when I grow up, with sufficient music and writing projects to keep me busy for at least another lifetime.

Looking past the obvious - that I have no marketable skills and not a ton of money -  I take these periodic revelations as evidence that, despite repeated attempts to sabotage my own life, I am doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. (I know, that sounds kind of new-agey but it does seem to be the case.)

As for a house, I have one. There’s a roof over my head and a floor under my feet.  It’s no mansion but it’s mine.  And I am living exactly where I’m supposed to be living.  If I ever moved, I’d have to clean.

yet more signage

I spent the weekend with a group of music friends (more on that later). A few additional contributions to the growing collection of dubiously worded signs:
Spotted on the east side of Cleveland - "Free Art for Sale."
From a joint on the eastern shore of Maryland - "Crabs and Oysters Dance Tonight." I'd pay real money to see that, wouldn't you? (I wonder if the legless oysters just sort of act as castanets, a sort of  rhythm section for the dancing crabs . . )

(if youdidn't see it, back up to the post that started it all - "Say What?"  posted April 28)

Live as if today were your last?

In the whole self-helping, psychobabbling, Dr. Philosophizing of our pop culture, the worst piece of advice I've ever heard is, "Live each day as if it were your last." This is not a good plan, people.

What would I do if I knew today to be my last day in this life? Well, I can tell you what I wouldn't do. The dishes. Or the laundry. Why bother? I'm not going to the gym either. Or shopping, even though I'm out of coffee. I loathe shopping every bit as much as I loathe going to the gym. And I could just skip getting yet another estimate for the repair of my car's rattling exhaust system. Passing the E-check would fall right off the "important stuff to do" list, if, indeed, this were the last day of my life.

So what would I do? I think I'd fly - first class, of course - to someplace where the water is clear and warm, and kayak in and out of the mangroves until sunset. (I'd take as many friends and family members as care to come along. So what if I max out my credit cards?) After a good day's paddle, I'd dine on vast quantities of perfectly prepared, well-buttered seafood, drink too much wine, and eat as many chocolate desserts as possible. (Of course I'd pick up the tab for everyone. As noted, so what if I explode the plastic?)

Right. But what if  today is not the last day of my life, which it likely is not? I'd wake up tomorrow hung over, in debt, out of clean socks and a good bit closer to a coronary. With a muffler that still rattles. I told you, people, this just is not a good plan. Oh yeah . . .  and I'd have to face a dirty kitchen first thing in the morning with no coffee. Now there's a recipe for a mental health crisis.

Eating for two

Yesterday eve, four bitchin' babes - that would be me and three of my babe friends - went to see and hear the Four Bitchin' Babes, the uppercase FBBs. From "Oh, no . . .I'm looking for my glasses again . ." to an impassioned musical ode to chocolate, there was much to relate to. Somewhere between the beginning and the end of the show, one of the uppercase FBBs stated, "I'm eating for two. No, I'm not pregnant - I'm just eating for two. I have no idea who this other person is but we're going to have words."

I understand. I've been eating for two for decades but recently that other person, whoever she is, stopped picking up her share of the tab, leaving me to metabolize all of her calories along with my own. Somewhere around the start of the new millennium I noticed she was slacking off a bit. But about four or five years ago, she simply plopped her backside into a recliner somewhere and has flatly refused to burn up even one bit of the ice cream, almond croissants or tater tots that we've been eating. I don't know how I'm going to get  her up and doing her part again. Seems to be no matter what I do, she will not budge. I'm on my own here, people.