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GUN-HAPPY IN SOUTH AFRICA

2/27/2013

 
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                 Gun-Happy in South Africa
    The United States and South Africa have curiously congruent histories. The U.S., poisoned by slavery, went to war to preserve national unity, yet emerged divided by racism and segregation. South Africa, poisoned by apartheid, avoided war by letting its deposed masters keep their loot, but they quickly rebuilt an aparthied of gated communities. Today, both have fear-driven populations isolated behind self-imposed walls who turn to guns for an illusion of safety.
    Yet how comprehend Olympic sprinter, Oscar Pistorius, pouring rifle fire through his own closed bathroom door, and although the only other resident of his apartment was his girlfriend, later claiming to have no idea who was behind that door. His plunge from national hero to accused murderer is eerily echoed by the arrest of his brother, Carl, also for murder of a woman. American journalist, Charlene Hunter-Gault, who now lives in South Africa, recently described the country as so rife with violence against women, that thousands of similar crimes, lacking celebrity appeal, do not even merit police investigations.
    Every day since the Newtown massacre, Americans have been murdered with guns, now in the thousands, a slaughter that goes as unremarked here as the murder of women in South Africa. This consequence of gun-obsession has nothing to do with deranged loners running amok. Even if every last American mental case were tagged and disarmed, there would remain those, deemed legally sane, who isolate themselves, build personal arsenals, demand the right to carry guns into malls, movie theaters, stores and bars, pretending to be loyal Americans while threatening armed insurrection if thwarted.
    Both South Africa and the U.S.A. made remarkable social progress in the 20th century, which only reveals how much more is urgently needed in the 21st.


LOCK THE TAIL WHEEL!

2/23/2013

 
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Lock the Tail Wheel!
       (Photo left: B-17 taking off,

                    tail wheel locked.)    
    With WW II engulfing the U.S., we needed tens of thousands of airplane pilots—fast. The result was a high speed training program, aviation cadets warned that two of every three would be “washed out,” not because they couldn’t learn to fly, but because they couldn’t learn fast enough. Tens of thousands of pilots won their wings and got the job done, which doesn’t mean they were well-trained. Many planes crashed because of “pilot error,” the awful number buried in statistics.
    I made such an error, but luckily it didn’t kill me.  Before take-off, one check-list item was, “Tail wheel locked.” On landing it stayed locked until the plane slowed to taxiing speed when it was unlocked so you could steer off the runway and to a parking space. One day in the last run-up before take-off, we (me and my co-pilot) forgot to lock the tail wheel. The co-pilot hit the turbo boost, I advanced the throttles,  released the brakes, we moved forward, high revs, engines roaring, and immediately the plane drifted right. I tried to correct but the rudder is useless below 40 MPH, and by then we could be off the runway. It hit me: the tail wheel was unlocked!
    Hands on the stick, full left rudder, I screamed “LOCK THE TAIL WHEEL!” but in the din my co-pilot gave me a “HUH?” look so I let go of the stick leaned over, head well below the windshield (or to use an army expression, head well up my ass), reached a hand to the floor, found the lever, slammed it home, popped up, grabbed the stick and got us airborne.
    Now that same thing is happening to the whole U.S. as the economy is gathering speed and becoming airborne after a Republican-caused economic crash, only to have these same head-up-their-ass Republicans insist on letting the tail wheel flip and flop in the the so-called Sequester.
    It’s worse than pilot error, which, Heaven knows, was never deliberate, just the result of young pilots not fully trained before going off to fight a war. What’s happening now, is deliberate, not only by the likes of theory-dazed fanatics like Rand Paul, but many who realize full well it will cause havoc but are nevertheless willing to let the country crash and burn (again!) to keep their super rich string pullers happy.

LIFE IS A RIVER

2/20/2013

 
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JOHNNY APPLESEED
                               Life Is A River
    At the first Appleseed rehearsal, Joshua Clarke showed up carrying a Bible. He’d never worked for Agnes deMille before but had skated in Sonja Henie’s Hollywood Ice Show. At the audition she’d liked his barrel turns, boyish face, mussed black hair, and body more like a hockey player than a figure skater.
    By the end of the first week the cast had begun to know each other, but not Clarke. He read his Bible in breaks and took off by himself for lunch. One day he was reading, Science and Health, Key to the Scriptures. The women couldn’t decide if he was straight or gay.  
    In the opening number, I was paired with Merry Christy. “What’s with Clarke and those books?” she said.
    “Shtick. Plain old shtick. Everybody has shtick.”
    “Oh yeah? What’s mine?”
    “Hard-bitten show gypsy who’s seen and done it all.” Merry had two ex-husbands and at 31 was pushing the limits of the dancing chorus.
    “How about yours?”she asked.
    “My shtick is not to have shtick.”
    When not needed, Clarke would arrange himself and his tome on the first steps of the stairs to the toilets so people had to step over him.  In one number he was paired with Ingeborg Svensen, so fair she looked bleached. with a face like a Hallmark cherub. The second week she and Clarke left for lunch together. After lunch, deMille worked on the Hoedown in which Ingeborg and I were partners. “Joshua says life is a river,” she whispered.
    “Could be,” I said.
    “No, really. He makes it so clear.”
    I passed this to Merry and on the next break she grabbed me and approached Joshua on the stairwell. “Hey, Joshua!” He looked up. “Is life a river?”
    He peered at Merry, at me, at Merry. “Are you really interested?”
    “I’ve got to know,” said Merry.
    He closed his book, which turned out to be the Bhagavad Gita. “Buddha taught that all of God is in a single atom. and also that God is more than everything else put together.” He paused.
    “Where does the river come in?” asked Merry.
    “God is mind is life, which flows like a river and sometimes separates into tiny drops, like water over a waterfall. The drops are you and me.”
    “Aha,” said Merry. “So what happens when we hit bottom?”
    “We return to the river.”
    “Until the next waterfall?”
    “Unless you’re evil. The wages of sin is death.”
    The break ended. “Mad as a March hare,” Merry muttered.
    Next day Ingeborg said, “Joshua knows you and Merry thinks he’s crazy, but it’s okay.”
    “Do you think he’s crazy, Ingeborg?”
    She looked at me steadily. “No, I don’t.”
    “I don’t either.” She rewarded me with a cherub smile.
    One day I noticed Clarke had a new tome. Dianetics, but a couple of days later it was the Bible again. I asked about Dianetics. “Junk,” he said.
    In Philadelphia, Merry said Ingeborg was slipping into Clarke’s hotel room every night.
    “They’re discussing the Bhagavad Gita.” She snorted.
    Monday of the third week in Philly, they showed up wearing wedding rings.  “We got married yesterday,” said Ingeborg. The cast crowded around.     
     “Still think he’s gay?” I whispered to Merry.
    “Marrying proves nothing! Gay or straight they’re both queer as pink jock straps.”
    The women dancers came back from lunch with a cake. DeMille produced a bottle of champagne and Dixie cups. She proposed a toast.
    “May Johnny Appleseed run as long as these two in their brave new partnership!”    
    Everyone raised a Dixie cup, Merry’s arm straight as a Nazi salute.
                                                                                 ***
© Stuart Hodes, 2013

THE WORLD JUST ENDED, OR DID WE TRANSFER OUT?

2/17/2013

 
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   The World Just ended! Or Did We Transfer Out?   
    In 1967, physicist, Hugh Everett, presented his Theory of the Universal Wave Function, a scientifically valid description of the Universe that includes an infinite number of parallel worlds. Today it is known as the Many Worlds Theory.  Serious physicists believe it is closer to reality than any other explanation.
    The idea that the Multiverse is continually forking into infinite new Universes is really no harder to comprehend than the sheer wonder of the night sky. Sci-fi writers love parallel universes because the concept opens mind-bending possibilities. Among others, it can explain the power of prayer; when a prayer is answered, you’ve taken a fork into a world where what you prayed for is reality. That being so, it can improve things for you in this world. Here’s how.
    First: predict the end of the world.  Someone is always predicting the end of the world, and there are always people eager to believe. The most recent prediction was from the ancient Mayans, December 21, 2012.
    Second: offer a way to survive.  Many end-of-the-world forecasters promise their followers ascent to nirvana, others left behind. Then, when the world doesn’t end, they look silly. Some avoid this by committing mass suicide, like People’s Temple and Heaven’s Gate. Entirely unnecessary. Even if they do make it into some ginger peachy Eden, in this world they’re dead and buried.
    Third: base your prediction on ancient wisdom. The December 21st prediction came from the ancient Mayans, but the world is littered with more ancient wisdom than used plastic grocery bags: ancient Chinese, Egyptians, Greeks, Hebrews, Zoroastrians, Persians, Pre-Columbians, Native Americans, Indians, alchemists, astrologists, occultists, Rossetta Stone, Machu Picchu, Adjanta, Ramayana, even the cave drawings at Lascaux.
    Ancient wisdom isn’t always logical. In fact, logic is best avoided. If something seems hard to comprehend, interpret it, being careful to avoid prior interpretations. You don’t want your followers drifting into some doomsday cult. If you prefer, go into a trance, evoke a spirit, and get your ancient wisdom from the source.
    Fourth: make up a catchy name. A few suggestions: Communosophy, Emigration Salvation,, Heaven's Heart,  Horizonites, Ineffable Assembly, Infinitography, Lifeline Congregation, Noah’s Archangels, Psycholism, Quantum Ascenders, Soul Cadets, Sublime Voyagers, Trajectorians, Transcendental Cohort, Translationistas.

    Get the idea?
    Fifth: Proclaim a date. At exactly midnight on—your date—gather your followers. You know that the world is about to end, hear the clock strike, and lo! you are still alive! This is proof positive that you were right because it proves you are in an alternate reality! Go forth, watch the sun rise, and explore your brave new world.

OUT OF THE PARK!

2/13/2013

 
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                              Out of the Park!
    It’s always a thrill to watch a heavy hitter knock the ball out of the park, as Obama did in his State of the Union speech last night. To me it was pure “Wow!” but pundits ordinarily ready to heap praise, Rachal Maddow, Chris Matthews, Reverend Al, seemed in shock. Their comments amounted to little more than, “Aw shucks!”
    I found myself thinking of the first Obama vs. Romney debate, the one Romney “won,” wondering if despite winning the next two, Obama was once again showing us that that first had been a fluke.
    Marco Rubio, putative rising young Republican star, offered a rebuttal like an infield pop-up fly out that ends the inning. He looked rumpled, a bit plump, and without his erstwhile mannikin gloss. His words came out in dry gulps, like he was comprehending them for the first time knowing that millions were listening, making his throat go dry. All he could do was snatch desperately across the screen for a plastic bottle of water. Didn’t help.
     His so-called rebuttal ignored the state of the union to mix cranky complaints about Obama with don’t-tax-the-rich mumbo-jumbo that was hopeless even before it went stale. If it was Rubio’s chance to shine, he blew it.
    Some Republicans certainly know by now that what caused their defeat at the polls was not some tactical oversight, or bad PR, or a demographic shift, but rotten policy. They’ve been wrong about everything and the public has gotten wise. I’d not be surprised to hear that Republican string-pullers had deliberately thrown Rubio to the wolves. Teach the young pup that he’s not ready for prime time.
    There’s another young pup in the news too, King Kim, III, better known as Kim Jong Un, overfed face grimly fixed following news that North Korea has set off another atom bomb. Can anyone look at North Korea and not wonder when the whole starving decaying country will collapse?
    Republicans too, live in a decaying house of cards built of false, fraudulent, self-serving ideas, sheltering a weird mix of so-called Libertarians, Tea Party malcontents, women-bashers, assault-rifle toters, holy rollers, blue collar lotto-playing wannabe millionaires, with a few out of sight money-mad billionaires to yank their wires.
    Strange that a brilliant State of the Union address with a travesty rebuttal, and an atom bomb explosion with a travesty justification happened to happen at the very same time.

ONE NIGHT STAND  (A Short Short Story)

2/4/2013

 
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                  One Night Stand (A Short Short Story)
    She’d been in American Ballet Theater, corps de ballet plus a few solo bits, a lean five foot six, honey skin, dark eyes, long arms, neck, legs, serious expression. Her dancing was clean but impersonal. I wondered if it was because she thought Broadway was a comedown.
    We understudied the leading dance couple. Every show we’d watch their scene and the dramatic Agnes de Mille duet that followed, standing in the downstage right wing, she in front, me behind. One day I slid my arm around her waist and she let it stay. After that, every show, ten minutes, eight times a week.
    Backstage, our paths hardly crossed, but four times a week we took Dagonova’s professional ballet class. I’d watch her when the women did their solo combination. She watched me when the men did theirs. And every Thursday afternoon, 4:30 to 6, we rehearsed on stage with a pianist.  Afterward, in the two-hours before sign-in, we’d walk to the New York Times building on 43rd Street, employee cafeteria, 11th floor, good food, low prices, full of chorus dancers and singers on matinee days, sort of a show gypsy secret.  One Thursday at dinner she mentioned she’d gotten engaged.
    “Congratulations.”
    “Thanks.”
    “To a dancer?”
    “No.”
`   “Show biz?”
    “Nope.”
    “Well, that’s smart.”  I asked if he’d seen the show.
    “Opening night. He takes his clients to opening nights.”
     “Clients?”
    “He’s a lawyer.”
    It meant he hadn’t seen her because she’d replaced the original understudy. “He should take one to see you in the Act Two opening.”
    She had a flashy bit in the reel, but when she looked down I realized it was a dumb remark. And I didn’t want to talk about her fiancé.
    “Do you miss Ballet Theater?”
    “Not a bit.”
    “Too much touring?”
    “Too little living.”
    She meant men. Plenty of ballet men were straight, especially Russians, of which Ballet Theater had a dozen. But touring was for affairs, and with so many more women, often not even that.”
    Do you have a girl?” she asked.
    “Guess not.”
    “Not sure?”
    “I had one but she ... got away.” Waited for more. “She’s an actress. The other guy was an actor but found a real job and quit. I suppose they’ll get married.”
    She frowned. “You ever think about quitting dancing?”
    “Not more than once an hour.” She rewarded me with a chuckle. Maybe that’s what gave me the nerve to ask, “Are you passionate?”  
    It didn’t faze her. She thought about it. “I’m enthusiastic.”
    That night during the show I wondered what would happen when I slid my arm around her. When she relaxed back against me, I knew I still had my ten minutes, eight times a week.
    Closing notice went up. We’d been playing to half houses so it was expected, yet the certainty of being unemployed in two weeks was unnerving. And I wouldn’t see her except maybe at ballet class. We didn’t have to watch our scene anymore, but both showed up in the wing. During the final performance, Saturday, I whispered in her ear:  “I need to spend a night with you.”
    She didn’t tense or pull away, so I quickly added, “Not making love. I mean we don’t have to...  I just want to be near you, beside you, for a whole night.”
    “All right,” she said.
    Final curtain, mascara black tears, reassuring hugs, makeup boxes packed, dressing rooms cleared. I waited for her outside the stage door and we walked to the subway. She wouldn’t let me pay her fare.
    She lived on the upper west side. After coffee and a bite we took separate showers. Her bed was king-size. She got in on the right. I slid in left. We didn’t touch. She lay on her back staring up. I lay on my right side watching her, but made no move. After maybe ten minutes, sleep oozing into me, I felt her hand come to rest on my arm. Sleep fled.  I reached toward her.
    We couldn’t sleep in on Sunday because she had to go to Brooklyn to meet her fiancé. I took the subway with her. She wouldn’t let me pay her fare. We sat silent until the train rose into the mid-morning light of the Manhattan Bridge.
    “Last night...” she said.
    “Magnificent!” I exploded.
    A finger flew to lips which held the hint of a smile.
    We got off at Atlantic Avenue, climbed out of the Williamsburg Bank Building. Brooklyn was sunnier than Manhattan. At the corner, she gestured that I could go no further,
    “Well, so long.” I made no move to kiss her.
    She nodded.
    I watched her walk the long block until she turned right on Fort Green Place. The next day, Monday, she didn’t show up at ballet class. Or after that.


                                                   ***

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    Author (Yuma, AZ, 1944)

    Being 90 years in this world,  with great kids,  great grandkids, great wives (two, one at a time) and great memories, I wonder why some people seem to have stopped loving the U.S.A.? I will wonder in print right here. If you wonder too, or can provide some answers, please comment.
                                   Stuart Hodes

    Picture
           With my friend, Nero.
                   April, 2012.
        Photo by Ray Madrigal

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