January 20: Being Political, George, Blogger Trouble



In the last couple of days I've had a couple pretty heavy posts.  I think this whole Republican primary thing is getting under my skin.  I know Newt Gingrich sure is.  That guy has more political lives than a friggin' cat.  I can't figure out what his Kryptonite is, but somebody needs to find it.  Anyway, I will try to lighten things up a little bit over the weekend.

I've spent a couple hours today experimenting with using George, my iPad, to type tonight's post to Saint Marty.  I wasn't successful.  There has to be some trick to it.  I can type up a post and save it as a draft.  When I come back to it just a few minutes later, however, the body of the post has disappeared.  All that's left is the title and an empty text box.  I also can't get pictures to upload from George's photo library.  If any of my disciples out there have any hints or clues or explanations about using an iPad with Blogger, drop me a line.  Tell me what I'm doing wrong.  Please. (But don't use any of that tech geek language.  I don't understand it.)   I went searching for a Blogger app for the iPad.  It doesn't exist.  There's one for the iPhone.  Not sure how that would work with George.

A friend of mine suggested I switch to Wordpress for my blog.  I told her I was unwilling to start from blog scratch again.  Nasty things happen.  Readers stop reading.  You lose your entire list of followers.  We're talking a completely clean slate.  No thanks.  No matter how much trouble Blogger gives me, I will continue to use it.

Remember, change gives Saint Marty hives.

December 26: A Very Merry Christmas

I had a great Christmas.

After four church services, tons of wrapping, and a frantic version of "Carol of the Bells" on Christmas morning, I was pretty much toast when I hit my parents' house for the family orgy of presents.  A few years ago, we instituted a name-picking tradition with my siblings, mother , and father.  My father chose my name this year.  I wasn't expecting a whole lot.

They put a box in my lap.  It wasn't very heavy.  I sat there and watched other people open their gifts.  Then, I started to unwrap mine.  It was the size of a shoebox.  The first box was from Amazon.  Great, I thought, I got a book.  I'm always happy with new reading material.  I opened the Amazon box, and, low and behold, inside was...


AN iPAD 2!!!!!!

I was so astounded, I couldn't speak.  The only thing I remember saying, over and over, is, "Oh, my God!  Oh, my God!"  The rest of the day is kind of a blur.  I don't remember what anybody else received, including my kids.  Later on, I did make a Brownie Trifle and crescent weenies for Christmas with my wife's family in the evening.  Even then, I just sort of floated through the rest of the holiday.

I got home and put my son to bed about 8:30 p.m.  Then, I just sort of sat on the couch and basked in the presence of my present.  My father and oldest sister pooled their funds to purchase it.  My sister told me it was my birthday present, too, because she didn't get me anything back in October.

Saint Marty went to bed with visions of sugar apps dancing in his head.

December 23: Can I Have Seventeen-Fifty?

“Could I have seventeen-fifty?”

George begs

On October 24, 1929, George Bailey marries Mary Hatch.  They are on their way to the train station for their honeymoon, when Ernie, the cab driver, notices a mob outside the local bank.  The Great Stock Market Crash has happened, and the citizens of Bedford Falls are panicking.  George sees a mob outside the Building & Loan building, and he knows he’s in trouble.  Sure enough, everybody lines up, demanding their money.  George reasons with them.  He cajoles.  He begs.  Eventually, Mary offers up their wedding money to satisfy the crowd’s needs.  Each person asks for $20, until a little mouse of a woman named Mrs. Davis gets to the counter.  She asks the above question timidly, and George leans across the counter and kisses her.

Especially at this time of year, when all the stores are trying to get you to buy the newest gadgets, the latest DVD releases, the name-brand fashions, I can get swept up in the fever of commercialism  Yes, this post is going to be about the commercialism of Christmas.  I'm just as guilty as the next person.  I have a free laptop from the university.  At the top of my holiday wish list, however, is an iPad 2.  I have a house.  I'm praying for a bigger house.  We live in a society that's geared toward making you feel like you're never good enough, and, no matter how hard I try to resist, I always get sucked into that mentality.

Most of the people demanding money from George ask for $20.  It's a nice, round amount, and twenty dollars was probably more than most people needed in a week to survive back in 1929.  Mrs. Davis doesn't ask for more than she needs.  She asks for exactly what she needs.  I often wonder what state the world would be in if everyone was happy with just enough to get by, if we all did the math and realized we needed just $17.50.  My guess is there would be a lot less hungry people in the world.  Probably less poverty, less disease, less misery, as well.

It's Christmas, folks.  Let's all try to be satisfied, like Mrs. Davis, with just enough.  It may make us all happier people.

Saint Marty wonders if George has an iPad 2 back in his safe.  That would be just enough for him.

August 2: Bad Mood, "Cowboys & Aliens," More Bad Mood

When I originally started this blog, I meant to write about my attempt to become a better person.  A saint.  All the saints I read about as a child always seemed so calm and relaxed and happy, even as they were being burned alive, disemboweled, or fed to hungry bears.  Even the portraits of saints, with their other-worldly peace, made me want to take whatever they were on--the Holy Spirit or Valium or Xanax.  This blog was my attempt to reach toward heaven, in a way.

Well, after a little over a year-and-a-half, I'm just as screwed up, cranky, and petty as I was when I started.  Today proves that point.  I woke up in a terminally bad mood, and, for most of the day, I have stayed in a terminally bad mood.  This state has nothing to do with the fact that my friend and coworker got an iPad2 yesterday for her birthday.  (I'm happy for her.  Really, I am.  Dammit, I'm happy.)  It has nothing to do with the fact that I didn't win that chapbook contest a little while ago.  (My entry fee for the contest entitles me to a copy of the winning chapbook.  I can hardly wait to read what a piece of crap the winning book really is compared to my chapbook.)  It has nothing to do with the fact that my daughter is away at camp for a week.  (I'm sure she's absolutely miserable without me.)  In fact, I don't know why I'm in such a bad mood. 

I am sure that saints never allow themselves to wallow in self-pity, which has pretty much been my modus operandi all day long.  Actually, it started last night when my wife told me she was having car problems and I started imagining the cost of the impending repair.  I've been in a nose-dive ever since.

Tonight, my wife and I are meeting some friends for drinks and a movie.  We're going to see "Cowboys & Aliens" with Harrison Ford.  I persuaded my friend from the university to attend by telling him it was a postmodern, deconstructionist version of the American western.  He said he would go if Derrida got his ass kicked.  I told him Derrida might be disguised as a really ugly alien or Daniel Craig, but he would get a thorough ass-kicking.

I wish I could say that, after a year of trying to be more saint-like, I feel the presence of God more in my life.  I don't.  I wish I could say I can perform tiny miracles now (cure a hangnail or ingrown hair).  I can't.  I wish I could say my life is more manageable.  It isn't. 

What I have learned, over 259 posts, is that I'm not alone.  I have friends and family, people who care about me.  I have a love of poetry and writing, a passion.  And I know that prayers can be answered (my friend's biopsy result yesterday is proof of that).  Faith.

I may be in a terminally bad mood today.  I'm human.  Just like every other saint I've read about or written of.  Saints are flawed.  They're crabby.  They're self-centered.  Sad.  Angry.  Happy.  Joyful.  Jealous.  They're everything I am.  They're everything I can become.

Saint Marty isn't giving up hope.

August 1: Samuel Z. Arkoff, Empire of the Ants, New Poem

My coworker just left for the day.  Before she left, her husband dropped off her birthday present.  An iPad 2.  Very nice.  Just what she wanted.  I thought I was going to be quite jealous.  However, at the moment, I don't feel anything.  I'm not sure if my reaction means I'm numb, indifferent, or so consumed with envy I've gone into shock.  But my coworker left with a moony expression on her face.  I'm sure she's going to be spending the rest of the day playing with her new toy.

This morning, one of my best friends found out the results of a biopsy which she had performed on Thursday.  The biopsy was negative.  She was quite worried because her brother died of melanoma at a fairly young age.  I've been praying for her all weekend, had a whole army of my friends praying for her, as well.  Nobody can tell me that prayers go unanswered.

This morning, I mailed a letter to my daughter at summer camp.  I know she's doing great, but I still can't help being worried about her.

I have a new poem today.  It's based on my experience battling ants in my house this summer.  Because the weather has been so hot this June and July, these annoying little insects have invaded my dwelling.  Nothing can get rid of them.  They disappear for a little while, only to reemerge in bigger numbers.  After work, I'm going to stop at Walmart to buy a new trash can for the kitchen.  Something with a lid.   I'm about ready to set the whole building on fire if this doesn't work.

My poem is also inspired by a cheap, Bert I. Gordon film produced by the great B-movie producer Samuel Z. Arkoff in the 1970s.  It starred Joan Collins (that should tell you something).  It was incredibly cheesy and wonderful.  It was about a colony of genetically mutated ants that tried to take over the world.

A great, B-movie from Samuel Z. Arkoff

Throw in some Greek myth, and you have the ingredients for today's poem.

Saint Marty's headed to Walmart now.

Empire of the Ants

I remember the film vaguely:

Joan Collins battled an army

Of mutated ants, big as African

Rhinos, things still driven by insectile

Instinct to gather food, store it

For cold months, for a ravenous

Queen and her blind larvae.

Ants swarmed schools, houses, boats,

Like Greeks laying siege to Troy.

They carried off victims to tunnels,

Chambers of sand and decay,

Moved fast, in a perpetual state

Of urgency, because they somehow

Knew it was only a matter of time

Before Collins and her crew

Invented a magnifying glass

Big enough to fry thorax, antenna,

Wreak Armageddon, restore

The planet to its proper, human

Balance.  This summer, ants overrun

My house.  From a June and July

Filled with heat, drought, they find

Sanctuary in my cool kitchen,

The dust of sugar on counter,

Peach residue on bowl and rag.

In the mornings, I flip on lights,

Watch ants scatter like shadows

Across sink, floor, garbage can.

I press my thumb on stragglers,

Feel them curl, burst under

My pressure.  Most retreat until

Darkness returns, until they sense

Safety, like a crumb of brownie,

A core of apple, calling them out.

The way toxic waste called the mutants.

The way the horse called Trojans.

The way sirens called Ulysses,

Made the rocks soft, inviting,

Sweet as Penelope’s thighs.

Joan Collins making out with an ant