September 7: Being a Cop, Passions, Secret to a Happy Life,

Zaphod and crew have a run-in with some interstellar cops in the middle of an identity crises . . .

Near them on the floor lay several rather ugly men who had been hit about the head with some heavy design awards.

Half a mile away, four figures pounded up a corridor looking for a way out.  They emerged into a wide open-plan computer bay.  They glanced about wildly.

"Which way you reckon, Zaphod?" said Ford.

"At a wild guess, I'd say down here," said Zaphod, running off down to the right between a computer bank and the wall.  As the others started after him he was brought up short by a Kill-O-Zap energy bolt that cracked through the air inches in front of him and fried a small section of adjacent wall.

A voice on a bullhorn said, "Okay, Beeblebrox, hold it right there.  We've got you covered."

"Cops!" hissed Zaphod, and spun around in a crouch.  "You want to try a guess at all, Ford?"

"Okay, this way," said Ford, and the four of them ran down a gangway between two computer banks.

At the end of the gangway appeared a heavily armored and space-suited figure waving a vicious Kill-O-Zap gun.

"We don't want to shoot you, Beeblebrox!" shouted the figure.

"Suits me fine!" shouted Zaphod back, and dived down a wide gap between two data process units.

The others swerved in behind him.

"There are two of them," said Trillian.  "We're cornered."

They squeezed themselves down in an angle between a large computer data bank and the wall.

They held their breath and waited.

Suddenly the air exploded with energy bolts as both the cops opened fire on them simultaneously.

"Hey, they're shooting at us," said Arthur, crouching in a tight ball.  "I though they said they didn't want to do that."

"Yeah, I thought they said that," agreed Ford.

Zaphod stuck a head up for a dangerous moment.

"Hey," he said, "I thought you said you didn't want to shoot us!" and ducked again.

They waited.

After a moment a voice replied, "It isn't easy being a cop!"

It isn't easy being anything.  I'm sure a nurse would say that it isn't easy being a nurse.  A college student would say it isn't easy being a college student.  Ditto a heart surgeon.  Ditto the school custodian.  In my working life, I've learned that most people think their jobs are the most important and most difficult.  Doesn't matter the job.

For example, I could say that it isn't easy being a contingent college professor.  No health benefits.  Working semester-to-semester with no guarantees of re-employment every four months, and the full-time faculty get paid twice (sometimes three) times as much as you for teaching the same class.

Or I could say that it isn't easy being a church organist.  The compensation for all the hours spent planning, practicing, and playing is minuscule.  And, come Christmas or Easter--the high holidays--the stress and demands triples or quadruples.  Plus, you have to work EVERY weekend, sometimes playing two or three services. 

Every person in every occupation has similar tales.  The truth of the matter is that a job is a job.  It can be stressful or stress-free, tiring or energizing, sad-ful or joyful.  A job is what you make of it.  A person who works at McDonald's can take just as much pride in his labors as a brain surgeon.  That's the simple truth.

I'm lucky, in a way.  I get to do what I love--teach writing and literature and film.  I don't do it full-time (which would be my dream job), but I still get to do it.  I love being in a classroom full of young minds.  Love feeling the weird, funky energy they impart.  I can honestly say that teaching is what I was meant to do with my life.

I would say that most people stumble through their lives, never really knowing what their purposes are.  They never find that one thing that fulfills them.  It's not about money or fame.  It's about passion.  Most people I encounter have no idea what their passions are. 

Me?  I'm passionate about poetry and writing and movies and books.  My mother was passionate about quilting.  She loved it.  My father was literally passionate about plumbing.  He truly loved what he did.  He kept the tools of his trade in his trucks up until the time he couldn't drive anymore.  I think the people who are most unhappy and dissatisfied with their lives are the ones who have no idea what they're passionate about.

When you don't know what puts a fire in your belly, then you turn to other, unhealthy preoccupations.  Addictions even.  Because the addiction fills that void.  Temporarily.  But pretty soon the drug wears off, alcohol transitions to hangover, sexual partner of the day goes away.  What's left?  The same emptiness that you were looking to fill.  So it's more drugs or more alcohol or another sexual partner.  It's a pretty vicious circle.

I count myself lucky.  I know my passions.  And, because I know them, I'm a better person.  That is the real secret to a happy life.

This message has been brought to you by Saint Marty.  Husband.  Father.  Brother.  Poet.  Teacher.  Organist.  Blogger.  Thinker.  Friend.

June 12: Independence of Computers, POF, Technology

The crew of the Heart of Gold are dealing with its new-and-improved computer . . .

Zaphod tapped impatiently on the hatch.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I think we might be better off with a slide rule."

"Right!" snapped the computer.  "Who said that?"

"Will you open up the exit hatch, please, computer?" said Zaphod, trying not to get angry.

"Not until whoever said that owns up," urged the computer, stamping a few synapses closed.

"Oh God," muttered Ford, slumped against a bulkhead.  He started to count to ten.  He was desperately worried that one day sentient life forms would forget how to do this.  Only by counting could humans demonstrate their independence of computers.

Yes, computers are wonderful things, when they are working exactly the way you want them to.  Sending e-mails.  Posting things to Facebook.  Allowing you to order a fountain pen for Father's Day.  Computers are great tools, when they are treated as tools.

However, technology can be very frustrating and insidious.  It can replace family dinner conversations and game nights (thank you Snapchat).  Cause small businesses to go out of business (thank you, Amazon).  Break up marriages (thank you POF).  In my life, I use computers on a daily basis, at work and home.  I enjoy my time on Blogger, typing these posts.  They allow me to clear my head, focus my ideas.  And I do scroll through Facebook during the day, even though nothing ever really changes.

This afternoon, I am heading to Calumet. Michigan, to do a performance at the Calumet Theatre tomorrow evening.  I am going to be depending on technology to keep me connected to my family--mostly my iPhone.  I am not going to get bored and go Amazon shopping in the middle of the night at the hotel.  Not going to order myself a pizza at 3 a.m.  (There isn't even a restaurant open in Calumet at that time.)

You're probably thinking right now, "What's his point?"  My point is this:  don't let technology overtake your life.  I have seen what kind of damage it can do firsthand.  It ain't pretty.  One of the best investments I made this spring was a backyard fire pit.  I purchased it in early May, and we have been using it every weekend, and sometimes during the week.  It has already made my family healthier.

You see, when we have a fire at night, electronics aren't the focus.  Phones stay in pockets.  I did not make up this rule.  It simply happens.  Instead of playing with iPhones, we play croquet and board games.  And EVERYONE has a good time, without once posting a picture of the fire on Facebook to prove to everyone else what a good time we're having.  It's been wonderful.

So, for the next day-and-a-half, I am going to be fairly disconnected from technology, except for an occasional cell phone call.  Calumet doesn't lend itself well to WiFi anyway.  This is your warning.  I will talk with you all in about a day or so.

Saint Marty is simply packing a good book to read for this trip.  (Books are these things that existed before kindles and allowed people to read in the car, house, airplane, bathroom, beach, campground, and church without the need of a power source.)

April 30: Nicer and Nicer and Nicer, Virtual Living, Computers

Zaphod is trying to do a complicated mathematical improbability problem . . .

"Bat's dos, I can't work it out."

"Well?"

Zaphod knocked his two heads together in irritation and gritted his teeth.

"Okay," he said.  "Computer!"

The voice circuits sprang to life again.

"Why, hello there!" they said (ticker tape, ticker tape).  "All I want to do is make your day nicer and nicer and nicer . . ."

"Yeah, well, shut up and work something out for me."

"Sure thing," chattered the computer," you want a probability forecast based on . . ."

"Improbability data, yeah."

"Okay," the computer continued.  "Here's an interesting little notion.  Did you realize that most people's lives are governed by telephone numbers?"

A pained look crawled across one of Zaphod's faces and on to the other one.

"Have you flipped?" he said.

"No, but you will when I tell you that . . ."

Trillian gasped.  She scrabbled at the buttons on the Improbability flight-path screen.

"Telephone number?" she said.  "Did that thing say telephone number?"

Numbers flashed up on the screen.

The computer had paused politely, but now it continued.

"What I was about to say was that . . ."

"Don't bother, please," said Trillian.

"Look, what is this?" said Zaphod.

"I don't know," said Trillian, "but those aliens--they're on the way up to the bridge with that wretched robot.  Can we pick them up on any monitor cameras?"

I have spent a lot of my life sitting in front of wretched computers, doing wretched computer work.  As an undergraduate in college, I spent the better part of five years taking programming and math classes, learning the ins and outs of a now practically extinct computer language called Turbo Pascal.  I can't begin to tell you how many thousand lines of code I wrote in that language.  As I was nearing the end of my undergraduate days, Turbo Pascal was already going the way of the stegosaurus. 

Of course, I've sat in front of computers for hours, writing papers and essays and short stories and poems during my graduate school days.  In my healthcare career, I've spent hours in front of computers, registering patients, typing up surgical schedules, entering billing charges, answering e-mails, completing online education.  And now, the future of college education:  online classes.  I've taught three online classes in my career at the university, interacting with my students virtually. 

Computers and smart phones have become as common as toilet paper in the modern world.  Everybody uses them.  People get up in the morning and immediately check their phones to see if anybody has liked their Facebook posts or sent them a text message.  The last thing people do at night is pretty much the same--check their Facebook posts and text messages again.  I guess you could call it virtual living.

I, myself, am sitting alone in my kitchen right now, typing this blog post, pretending to talk to all of my unseen and unknown blog friends out there.  It's a way of being a part of the world without being a part of the world, if you get what I mean.  Frankly, when I get home at night, after dealing with people all day, I find the solitude of a blinking, silent computer a little comforting.  Computers don't complain about grades or doctor's appointments.  They don't have feelings to hurt or respect.  Their only need is a power source.  Plug them in and forget about them, if you want.

As you can tell, I have a love/hate relationship with computers.  I've had this relationship since my undergraduate days.  At the moment, I would be in love with any computer that could grade and comment on stacks of student papers.  That is what is in store for me this evening, after I hit the "publish" tab on this post.  Lots of time with a red pen and dead trees. 

I know there are people out there at the moment perusing/skimming this blog post.  You may be reading it just a few minutes after I send it out into the world.  You may be reading it five years from now.  Ten years.  A hundred years.  Maybe you're doing research on my life for some reason.  Perhaps I won the Nobel Prize in Literature twenty years from now for my virtual literary contributions.  Perhaps all of my 4,413 current posts have been collected in volumes of books.  (Books were these objects that existed, containing words printed on bound pages of papers.  People read them.  Cherished them.)  Maybe, in the future, I'm an erstwhile Emily Dickinson, surrounded in mystery and questions, my blog posts dissected and reflected by admiring fans.

For those researchers out there, let me set the record straight about a few things.  I'm a poet.  Currently, I hold the position of Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  (Yes, that was an actual thing back in the day.)  I've been married to my wife for almost 25 years.  My teenage daughter is about to graduate from high school in less than a month.  My ten-year-old son got into trouble on the school playground today with a group of boys, and he currently wants to become an elementary school dropout and embark on a lucrative career in computer gaming.  I'm a contingent professor at a university, which means I do all the work of full-time professors without the compensation or recognition or respect of my full-time colleagues.  And, at the moment, I'm feeling fairly overwhelmed by life and the world.

And now, Saint Marty has to respond to some important e-mails.

December 17: Christmas Dough, Christmas Concert, Christmas Prayer

"Just my Christmas dough.  For presents and all.  I haven't done any shopping at all yet."

That's Holden's sister, Phoebe, talking.  Holden has run out of spending money, and Phoebe is trying to give him her Christmas money.  She hasn't done any of her holiday shopping.  She only has eight dollars and eighty-five cents.

Funny thing, Phoebe has about as much money as I do this year to spend on Christmas.  I started my shopping this evening on Amazon.  I'm not a big fan of huge retailers, and I think Amazon is killing the independent booksellers.  However, when you're strapped for cash, you can't really beat Amazon and Walmart.  There's reasons why everything they sell is so cheap.  First, they don't pay their employees living wages.  Second, all their merchandise is made by seven-year-olds in sweatshops in China and Guam.  And, third, they're run by soulless millionaire and billionaire Republicans.

I started my Christmas shopping finally this evening.  I couldn't avoid it any longer.  My sister lives in Utah, so I have to plan a little ahead for her kids.  She has four boys and two girls.  Many years ago, I instituted the rule of buying only books for my nieces and nephews.  I got a little tired of the endless lists of gadgets and games and phones and computers and laptops.  Everyone knows now that Uncle Marty gives the written word for Christmas.

I went to my daughter's Christmas band concert tonight.  But it's not called a Christmas concert.  It's called a "Winter" concert, which is a load of crap.  Any concert in which I hear three different versions of  "Jolly Old Saint Nicholas" is a Christmas concert.  And the music filled me with the Christmas spirit enough to make me click onto Amazon when I got home.

Dear God,

I know that money and expensive presents aren't the reason for Christmas.  I know about sacrifice and humility and charity.  I know about giving unto the least of my brothers and sisters.  I learned all that stuff in religion class when I was a kid.

But there's so much that I can't do this year.  So much that I simply don't have the energy and spirit for.   I'm not dreaming of a white Christmas.  I'm not decking any halls.  I'm not singing with any choirs of angels.

And that's what I'm praying for tonight.  It's a Christmas prayer.  I want to experience a little joy this holiday season.  I'm not asking for a full-blown George Bailey moment.  I'll be satisfied with something simple, small.

A phone call from a friend.  A beautiful song on the radio.  A new job.  A multimillion-dollar lottery jackpot.

I'm not asking for much.

Your faithful servant,

Saint Marty

I don't really miss this...

June 11: English, Books, Prayer of the Week

...They said they were schoolteachers and that they'd just come from Chicago and that they were going to start teaching at some convent on 168th Street or 186th Street or one of those streets way the hell uptown.  The one next to me, with the iron glasses, said she taught English and her friend taught history and American government.  Then I started wondering like a bastard what the one sitting next to me, that taught English, thought about, being a nun and all, when she read certain books for English.  Books not necessarily with a lot of sexy stuff in them, but books with lovers and all in them...

Holden meets these two nuns in a diner, and he strikes up a conversation with them.  He learns they are schoolteachers, obviously.  The one who teaches English starts asking him questions about books and plays he's studied.  Of course, being a teenage boy, he mind drifts toward sex.  Holden's mind almost always drifts toward sex.  He wonders how a nun who teaches literature deals with the "sexy" material.

It really doesn't matter if you're a nun or Brad Pitt.  If you're an English teacher, students feel uncomfortable discussing things of a sexual nature in a classroom.  I've been teaching college-level English students for over twenty years, and I can say, without a doubt, that, even though sex is on all their minds, they don't want to talk about it.  It's like the elephant in the room that everybody's ignoring.  That's one of the challenges of teaching young adults.

I love teaching.  I love the hormonal intricacies of young minds.  I love making students see things they've never seen before.  I taught a class a year or so ago called Good Books.  I chose books that all focused on mental illness.  We read about bipolar disorder and schizophrenia and the history of the medical treatment of mental illness in the United States.  It was a great class.  In fact, I would rank it as the best class I've ever taught.  I could actually see the changes in my students' attitudes and thinking.  It was exciting.

I would love to teach full-time at the university.  It's my dream job.  I've been doing it part-time for most of my adult working life.  I don't do it because it pays so well (it doesn't).  I don't do it for the glory (there isn't any).  I do it because I can make a difference in the world.  That may sound corny, but it's what I truly believe.  I can open minds and change people's ideas.  There's nothing better than that.

So, my prayer of the week is about teaching.

Dear God,

Yeah, I know.  You're getting tired of hearing from me.  But You did say that You'd always listen if I wanted to talk.

Well, You know I how I feel about teaching.  You know it's what I've wanted to do full-time for as along as I can remember.  I'm just asking if You could help me out a little bit here.  I'd like some job opportunity to open up at the university.  You don't have to kill one of the poets a week before classes start in the fall.  I don't want anything catastrophic to befall anyone.  I would just appreciate a few little miracles.

Here's what I need:  some publications, some awards in writing contests, and a full-time teaching assignment.  On the scale of miracles, those are pretty small, when You think about it.  The Israelites needed You to part the Red Sea and write some commandments down on stones.  All I'm asking for is an itty, bitty little job at a university.

Thanks for hearing me out.  I know You've got my back, no matter what, so I'll try not to worry (even if my job at the hospital gets eliminated).  You are the God of enough.  You've always given me and my family enough to get by.  I trust You.  Like I have any choice.

Your child,

Saint Marty

It's all about trust

May 10: Joe Miller, Gifts, Books

"I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's!" whispered Scrooge, rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh.  "He shan't know who sends it.  It's twice the size of Tiny Tim.  Joe Miller never made such a joke as sending it to Bob's will be!"

Scrooge has obviously had his change of heart in this little passage.  He's about to pay for a turkey to be delivered to his clerk's house, and, of course, the joke is that he's not going to tell Bob who sent the bird.  Joe Miller was a popular 18th century comedic actor; after Miller's death, a posthumous book, titled Joe Miller's Jests, was published.  Miller's name became synonymous with witty exchanges and practical jokes.  Thus, Scrooge's allusion to Miller.

The reason I chose this Carol passage is that I forgot to send my nephew/godson a birthday present earlier this week.  He turned nineteen on May 7.  I realized my faux pas yesterday and quickly remedied the situation.  I hopped on Amazon.com and ordered him a copy of one of my favorite books, Yann Martel's Life of Pi.  I'm not sure if my godson is going to like this gift, and, frankly, I don't care.

Several years ago, I got tired of the tsunami of toys and electronic gadgets my nephews and nieces kept requesting for Christmas and birthdays.  I vowed that I would never contribute to the profits of Mattel or Hasbro or Nintendo on behalf of my sister's children again.  Instead, I would fund book publishers.  For almost five years now, I have bought nothing but books as presents.  I have heard few complaints.  For the most part, my sister's kids are voracious readers.

It's not like I don't put thought into the books I choose.  I try to cater to each child's tastes.  One child likes dragons.  Another child likes bugs and frogs.  My niece is into supernatural romance crap thanks to Stephenie Meyer.  My godson has reached adulthood.  He's in his first year of college.  Therefore, he's getting books that I think he should read.  Books I love.  Hence, Life of Pi.

I know that most of my gifts are not greeted with the same kind of enthusiasm as a prize turkey at the Cratchit household.  I'm OK with that.  No practical jokes here.  Take that Joe Miller.

Saint Marty's doing his part in support of literature and literacy.

Happy birthday to my godson!