March 13: F$#k You, Nice and Peaceful, Same Story

WARNING:  This post contains language that may be offensive to some readers.

That's the whole trouble.  You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any.  You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck you" right under your nose.  Try it sometime.  I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it'll say "Holden Caulfield" on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it'll say "Fuck you."  I'm positive, in fact.

Holden is right.  The world is full of "fuck yous."  You can't get away from them.  They're in schools and museums and cemeteries and churches.  Every day, I walk across the university campus, and, nine times out of ten, I will hear some student talking, sprinkling "fucks" and "fuck yous" into casual conversation.  Like Holden, I think that, when I die, someone at my funeral will be on a cell phone, whispering, "I won't be long.  I swear.  I swear.  Fuck you."

My worry this Wednesday is one that I carry around with me constantly.  Money.  Same story, different day.  My daughter is going to a dance competition in May.  She wanted to go to one last month, but we couldn't afford it.  She brought home the handout with the prices of the entry fees for the May competition last night.  Let's just say it was between "ouch" and "fuck you."  I sat on the couch, staring at the paper for about half an hour.  I could feel myself slowly slipping down the slopes of panic, but I held on and remained calm.

That's the way my life has been working for a while.  I get one bill taken care, take a deep breath to sigh with relief, and another collection note is thrust into my hands.  I've been moving from one "fuck you" to another "fuck you."  In fact, I'm surprised most invoices don't include those two words some place, as in:

Monthly Service Charge:          $2567.18
Monthly Tax:                                   420.22
Monthly Fee for Popcorn                36.13
Monthly Fee for Toilet Paper        320.15
Monthly Fee for Sleep                   543.80
TOTAL FUCK YOU                   $3887.48

I'm about ready to check into the hospital with Holden.  I can't think of anything more relaxing than having somebody tell you when to get up, eat, take your pills, make an ashtray, talk to a therapist, take some more pills, and go to bed.

Saint Marty'd be relaxed until the hospital sent him the bill, with a little note saying, "Due within ten fucking days."

This says it all...

March 12: Black Smoke

Yes, black smoke is billowing over the Sistine Chapel, indicating that there will be no band concert at my daughter's middle school tonight.  Sources close to the Vatican had been anticipating this musical event all evening.  Alas, shortly before 4 p.m., the dark plumes appeared above the conclave building, dashing all hopes.

The dark smoke also indicates that I will sequestered at the university for the next couple hours, doing my obligatory time in my office.  While the Italian press had speculated I may skip this part of my professorial duties, I will not alter my daily schedule during the conclave.  I sit by my phone, awaiting the call from Rome.

The dinner menu for the conclave cardinals is unknown.  I will be dining on potatoes and ham tonight.  Later, I will walk to the fountain down the hall for a cup of water.  Papal elections are thirsty business.  So are office hours.

While the smoke blowing is done for the night, I will continue to pray and pack my bags.

Saint Marty must be ready to head to St. Peter's Square at the drop of a hat.  Or pick up his daughter in about an hour.

What do the cardinals mean by this?

March 12: The Egyptians, History, Saint Theophanes the Chronicler, Memoir

The Egyptians are extremely interesting to us today for various reasons.  Modern science would still like to know what the secret ingredients were that the Egyptians used when they wrapped up dead people so that their faces would not rot for innumerable centuries.  This interesting riddle is still quite a challenge to modern science in the twentieth century.

This paragraph from Holden's history exam proves a couple of things.  First, he knows very little about ancient Egyptians.  Second, he has a thing for mummies, which come up later in the novel when he goes to the Museum of Natural History in New York.  I think Holden likes the idea of something that doesn't change, remaining the same for "innumerable centuries."  Holden has lost his little brother to leukemia, and this loss has sent him on a downward spiral.

Holden doesn't really care about history.  He cares about girls and sex and bullies and his family.  He's a normal teenage boy.  Perhaps he's a little more sensitive than some, but what it all boils down to is hormones.  A lot of hormones.  Teenagers (and tweenagers) are so self-absorbed they wouldn't notice the burning of the Hindenburg unless it was posted on Facebook by one of their friends.

In some ways, The Catcher in the Rye reads like a memoir.  It's a slice of Holden Caulfield's life.  I have learned, since I started working on my memoir, that it's difficult to make yourself interesting.  Salinger creates a narrative voice for Holden that is authentic and entertaining.  It drives the entire book.  That's what I've been struggling with.  I write a fragment of memoir and then spend hours wondering if I'm being self-indulgent or boring.  Perhaps if I thought of myself as a fictional character, I would find composing a memoir a little easier.  Maybe I need to think of myself as Holden Caulfield.

Or Saint Theophanes the Chronicler, whose feast day is today.  Theophanes was born in Greece around 759 a.d. to a wealthy family.  Of course, being predisposed to saintliness, he soon divested himself of his wife (who joined a convent) and money.  Among Theophanes' many accomplishments is his attempt to write a history of the world.  I don't think he ever finished this project.  He ran afoul of Leo the Armenian who imprisoned him for his Christian faith.  Theophanes died in exile, away from his home and studies and history of the world.

Holden has a great story.  Saint Theophanes has a great story, too.

Saint Marty has a blog and a lot of insecurity.

Check out this cool picture I saw on Facebook

March 11: Hunger Games

When the snow is flying and the wind is howling, I want to do one thing:  eat.  A lot.  I've been playing these hunger games all day long.  I have pretty much finished off a sleeve of Girl Scout cookies.  I popped some popcorn in the microwave.  Cheddar cheese sticks.  A can of Diet Mountain Dew.  I even ate a Take 5 Bar I'd been saving for a snowy day.  And I'm still hungry.

I'm convinced it's the weather that turns me into the human equivalent of a shrew, eating 80 to 90% of my body weight in food daily.  There's something about the cold and snow and ice that makes me want to insulate myself.  I don't exercise during the winter like I do in the summer.  I hate winter running.  It simply makes me want to eat even more, to stave off the cold in my appendages.

I still have some Girl Scout cookies left.  I'm fighting the urge to open another box of lemon cremes.  I'm losing the battle.

Perhaps Saint Marty needs to hibernate, October through May.  Either that or buy more cookies.

Now, if I only had some chocolate milk to wash these down...