Why are you Looking at me that Way?

I have experienced some strange things during my nearly 58 years, and if I were to rank those experiences on some sort of Scale of the Bizarre, I would put Disjunctive Cognition near the top.  There is a very good chance you have also experienced this phenomenon even if you have never heard that specific phrase.

In 2001, a psychoanalyst named Mark Blechner published The Dream Frontier.  In this book, he documented case after case of people having two aspects of their cognition fail to match while they were dreaming.  This happens even though the dreamer knows that there is something wrong.  Try as they might, they can’t fix it.  What exactly is Blechner talking about?  I offer the following examples from my personal experience.

I have been posting chapters of the book I wrote about meeting Athena, the guitar player who made quite an impression on me.  I have already published six chapters about her and the fallout from meeting her.  I believe there are at least ten more to come.  This post is about a dream I had about her a couple of years after we met, this post is about my first encounter with Disjunctive Cognition.

In my dream, I was sitting in a large chair.  On my lap was an athletic African American woman with a fade haircut.  I instantly knew this woman was Athena, who, in real life, is an ultra-thin Caucasian woman with blonde hair.  Even though I knew it was Athena (I mean, I really knew it was her), I couldn’t change her appearance or get her to explain to me what was going on.  It was very, very strange.

Blechner states that my experience is commonplace among human beings in a dream state.  I certainly don’t remember ever experiencing anything like that before my dream about Athena.  For obvious reasons, I woke up very confused.  Since then, I have experienced Disjunctive Cognition in one other dream.

A few weeks ago, a young man appeared in one of my dreams.  He did not look like himself, he showed up in the guise of Justin Roiland, one of the creators of Rick and Morty, a TV show that I absolutely adore.  To complicate matters further, this young man took his own life in the recent past.  Why would I have a dream about him, especially when he was “disguised” as another person?  I have no idea.  I am left with speculation and a sense of unease.

Disjunctive Cognition is something I could probably do without.  Its strangeness is surpassed only by the disquiet I feel when experiencing it.  I don’t know what to make of it, I will simply add it to the long list of odd things I have experienced and move on.  As usual, the universe feels it is under no obligation to explain itself.

 

 

Medusa by The WRB Project

This post is slightly different than those that have come before, this one is in multimedia form.  I wrote, directed, shot, edited, and produced the following music video.  We did everything in one take with a budget of zero.

I am making a short film called Modern Day Medusas.  The music video has clips from the film.  In a future post, I will tell the story of how I became involved in The WRB Project, what it is that we are doing, and what we hope to accomplish.  I hope that you enjoy the video.  The music is all original, written and performed by The WRB Project.  I think you will like it, give it a listen.

Random Thoughts from a Nonlinear Mind: Volume 2: The Athena Chapters,
Chapter Four:
Hey There Athena

Preface

A Preface, seriously?  Do I really need to include a Preface in any essay, especially this one, or have I reached new heights when it comes to absurdity?  I will let out a little sigh as I tell you that I have to start this essay off with an open letter to Athena.  Why?  Well, something happened to me when I was about halfway done with this chapter, and it completely changed the texture of what I was writing.  In fact, it changed a whole bunch of things.  As I kept revising this essay, I found myself writing and rewriting what amounts to an introduction to the next essay.  It is my hope that all becomes clear at the end of Chapter 5.  I think the letter might help part a few clouds so here goes.

Hey There Athena,

How are you?  I find that I have to remind myself often that you don’t know me at all in spite of all that wavelength stuff I have written so much about.  So let me tell you this: I am one of those rare guys who actually listen, I am not one of those people who wait to talk.  I am sure that is the reason that I have so many young women as friends.  I just might be the only guy they know who does more than pretend to listen to them, at least that is the impression I get.  With that in mind, I really would like to know how you are doing.  If you ever want to talk, I guarantee I will listen.

Even though you didn’t ask, I need to tell you how I am getting along.  I am compelled to tell you about something that happened to me a few months ago; it was really crappy and relatively traumatic.  I had a very bad day, a very bad day indeed.  I nearly drown in a cold, smelly swamp.  You can’t imagine how much that sucked.  I can’t really put into words exactly what happened out there, but I certainly try in the next essay.  Apparently, as a result of what happened, I am supposed to make you say yes or no to my lunch date request.  (Huh, really, what is that all about?)  Boy, is that a long and interesting story.  I tell it in the next essay.

So, I am supposed to ask you to say yes or no to letting me buy you lunch.  Have you thought about it at all?  Have you made up your mind one way or the other, or are you too busy to even consider it?  Maybe you have thought about it, and you simply can’t make up your mind.  If that is the case, then I would like to offer up a suggestion.  I have found that the following technique is damn clever and, perhaps more importantly, it works very well.  All you have to do is take a coin and let heads equal yes, and tails mean no.  Take it and throw it way up in the air.  The great thing about this method is that it doesn’t matter how the coin lands.  You will find that you are rooting for either heads or tails while it is in the air, and there is your answer.  If you decide you want to do that, I would appreciate it very much if you let me know how that works out.

You know Athena, one thing keeps coming to mind, and I think it might be important to say a few words about it.  I’m sorry if these essays throw you off or if you find them disturbing in any way.  They sometimes disturb me, and I am the one writing them.  The big problem is that I have never been inspired like this before, and the words just keep coming.  The words combine to form sentences, and the sentences come together to make paragraphs, and …you get it.  Just think of this, things could be a hell of a lot worse.  Can you imagine the crap I would have been sending you if I fancied myself a poet?  Good grief.

I think you know exactly why I am writing chapter after chapter, don’t you Athena?  After I went home from the concert, I started doing some research about you and your band.  It quickly became clear to me that if I did nothing, I was never going to hear from you anyway.   In Chapter Seven, I go into greater detail about my decision to keep writing about the night we met and the fallout.  I realize I am taking a big risk, but my options are limited.  Besides, I have nothing to lose.

One other thing, lots of my friends have varying opinions on what I should do about you; some have really strong opinions.  I bet you can imagine what that is all about.  A fair number believe I have lost my mind, am totally wasting my time, or any combination thereof.  On the other hand, some of them tell me that I need to show up at some random show and tap you on the shoulder.  At least that way, I can get an answer to my lunch question.  I want you to know I will never, ever do that.  In fact, I think that is the worst damn idea I have ever heard.  If you and I ever see each other again, it will be at your request; I promise you that.

I wanted to let you know that an implicit theme of this essay is that I was writing it anticipating that I would never hear from you again, that you and I would have no interaction at all.  That is reasonable enough, isn’t it?  The next essay takes a different approach.  I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I see no reason not just to spill it.  Hell, I was near death in that damn swamp, and I was lucky to get out of there.  Trust me, that changes things.  The day after I met you I told Erin, my sister in law, that even if I never saw you again that meeting you was one of the most important things that has ever happened to me.  I knew that in the instant between the time it took you to say “I’m” and “Athena.“  After writing nonstop for nine months and running every day pain-free at the cemetery with all the geese, deer, and bunnies all, I can say is “true that.”

Ryan-Tyler

 

*****

 

I had no intention of ever writing another essay about the intriguing and mysterious Athena from Athens.  I really didn’t.  But then again, I never had any idea I would write even a single essay about her.  Prior to meeting her, I had never devoted an entire essay to a single person, be they alive or dead, famous or infamous, or anywhere in between.  It simply never occurred to me even though I am constantly studying fascinating people like Einstein and Darwin.  Things are getting “curiouser and curiouser,” aren’t they?

So, this is my fourth essay about her, and I guess I probably should give a bit of an update about what has happened.  Well, pretty much nothing.  Talk about your one-sided relationships (relationship?).  Good grief.  As it stands right now, the ratio of words written to Athena compared to the ones I get back stands at 3,000 to one.  My guess is that most of you are laughing your heads off, at least that is the reaction I get from many people when they ask me if I have heard from “that Athena woman.”  Well, the ratio is going to change after this essay, isn’t it?  There is nothing I can do about it; I am once again being compelled to write, so here I go.

You know what, though?  I did get some words back, she hasn’t totally blown me off, and I take that as a good thing.  Look at it this way: How many guys out there reading this essay have ever mustered up the courage to approach the most beautiful woman they have ever seen?  Out of those, how many actually got the woman to talk to them?  Sure, I am still trying to get her to go to lunch with me, but I am not out of ammunition quite yet.  Besides, the way I see it, I am way ahead of the hundreds of thousands (yes, I said hundreds of thousands) of guys who just stare at her and shrink back into themselves as they stand in a puddle of their own drool.  But then again, what the hell do I know?  Interestingly, I find that I am asking myself that question a lot lately.  My preliminary answer is, of course, “not much.”

I think I need to backtrack a bit and clarify that last paragraph.  Chapter 2 tells the story of why I introduced myself to her.  Initially, it had nothing to do with how beautiful I thought she was.  I was standing so far back from the stage that I couldn’t really get a good look at her anyway.  Besides, my reaction to her had absolutely nothing to do with how she looked or what she was wearing.  A quick review of Chapter 2 should convince anyone of that even though I apparently have not persuaded Athena that my aim is true and that my intentions are noble.

This brings me to an interesting point that relates to our present topic.  Occasionally people will want to introduce me to some unknown woman or another.  OK, maybe it happens more than occasionally.  The explanation for why I need to meet this person is always, and I mean always, the same.  “She is sooooooo cute; you just have to meet her.”  I have no idea how or why people get the impression that “cuteness” is at the top of my list when it comes to someone I might be interested in eating lunch with.  Never once have I been approached with an offer to meet someone because she is charming and interesting or creative and intelligent or because she has a giant spark that can light up a city block.  Not one time has that happened, and it should be apparent that I don’t think it ever will.  From a practical standpoint, such people are exceedingly rare, too rare to show up in any matchmaker scenario I can envision.  I offer the following up as evidence.  Can you guess how many of these extraordinary people I have met in my life?  Yep, a grand total of one.

The other thing about this situation that drives me crazy is that if I am in a mood to ask more about the proposed mystery woman (not likely), it quickly becomes apparent that the only reason we would make a good couple is because she is alone and so am I.  I am not kidding, that is the best that anyone has ever been able to come up with.  That gives a hint as to why I simply gave up a long, long time ago.

So, the next logical question is: Have I finally given up on Athena?  Eventually, any person would, right?  I heard nothing back from her after I sent Chapter 2, and I know most any reasonable person would call it a day.  I, though, am not “most people.”  Also, I don’t really know how reasonable I am; I have never thought much about it.

You know, when I wrote in the introduction to this book that all these essays simply represent an attempt to get Athena to go to lunch with me, I wasn’t joking.  I certainly haven’t given up on that even though I am not currently making any travel plans.  I haven’t been spending any time on Expedia, but here I am writing yet another essay about her.  And this isn’t going to be the last one.  The next chapter is about a dude (three guesses) who recently came very close to losing his life; the next chapter is about all the thoughts and images that flashed before the eyes of the dude as he struggled to stay afloat in very cold water; the next chapter is about accidents and coincidence and random chance and bucket lists; the next chapter is about a deep insight I had into what meeting Athena has meant to me.

Now that I give it some more thought, this essay isn’t really about her; it is more about my reaction to meeting her.  Chapter 4 is more about me.  This chapter is an essay about the vibes I got from her and the vibes I sometimes get from other people.  Yes, I think that makes more sense.  Of course, it is not lost on me that I am making a somewhat ridiculous distinction between the person and my reaction to meeting her.  That is OK because this essay is about my reaction to her, my reactions to a few people I have known in the past, and the reaction of a guy named Tom to a young lady named Delilah.

I suppose I could have cleaned up the introduction a little and brought it up to the standards of every English composition teacher out there, but I think I’ll just leave it as it is.  I find it more than a little difficult to form clear thesis statements when nothing is clear at all.  I think everyone will find that reasonable enough.  Besides, what could possibly be more appropriate than me, with my new found voice, finding my literary home in a genre of confusion.  Just think, one day Barnes & Noble might have a section called “Confused Literature & Essays.”  There might be a big picture of me right above the aisle, along with a link to my 15,000-word wiki page.  I can see the tag line now:  “You think you’re confused, check out this clown.”

I guess it is about time to get to it as I am already well into this chapter.  My story begins where most of my tales start.  Just picture me standing or sitting somewhere, minding my own damn business, and having a good old time.  That seems to be all the setup I ever need because, ultimately, that is how all the cool stuff happens to me.  Apparently, all I have to do is just sit around and wait.  A few days ago, that is exactly what I was doing.

Last Saturday, I was sitting on my couch, minding my own damn business when my friend Olive came over, and I gave him a guitar lesson.  Man, talk about the blind leading the blind.  I have got to be one of the worst guitar players ever to pick up the instrument, but Olive is even more hopeless than me.  I was showing him one of the guitar parts to Blister in the Sun.  We are going to get the boys together and do a cover of the song as soon as someone other than me learns to play it.  Even though we are not talking Mozart here, it might be a while.  If I were you, I wouldn’t camp out at Youtube waiting for the world premiere of The PF’s version (our band, a musical group that has never even practiced, let alone played out).  My guess is it is not coming to your computer screen any time soon.

While we were strumming, my TV screen started to freeze periodically.  Olive said that his TV had been doing the same thing, so I decided to flip through the channels to see if the problem was localized to that one station or if it was an issue with the cable service.  I happened to stop on VH1.  My oh my oh my, I just happened to stop on that channel while they were doing a show on the best songs of the 00s.  Not only that, but I happened by right when Hey There Delilah came on.  Things that make me go hmmmmmm.

I heard a story I had never heard before, and yet it was a story I know all too well.  A guy named Tom from a group called the Plain White T’s wrote that incredible song about a Columbia University undergrad named Delilah.  If I ever meet that dude, I am going to buy him a beer or 12.  Talk about your kindred spirits, my my my.  Once again, I find myself at a loss for words.  How many times has that happened in this volume?

If you have not heard that particular song, then I urge you to head on over to Youtube and have a listen.  Then I want you to think about why I am going to buy that guy some beers.  If the answer surprises you a fraction as much as it did me, you will still be astounded.

Have you given it some thought?  Yep, you got it; he met Delilah only once before he wrote one of the most beautiful songs you will ever hear.  Listen closely to the lyrics, and if you are not moved by how she moved him, then I will be disappointed.  If the song does not touch you, then my guess is that you must have a heart of stone or at least one impervious to emotion.  As for me, I am shocked every time I hear that song, and I wish I had known that story before I started writing all these “Athena” essays.  I don’t really know what might have changed, but I am sure the previous three essays would be very different.

So, why am I writing about this, and what is the point?  Does this essay have some kind of theme, or have I finally taken the big plunge off the deep end?  Will I find Tom down there, or did he finally just give up and move on from Delilah?  Is there anyone else down there, maybe even someone I know?  No, I haven’t taken that leap yet, maybe an unexplainable and blissful type of curiosity has gotten the better of me, and I have to stick around to see what might happen next—more on that later, and a lot more on that in the next chapter.

This essay, as I mentioned earlier, is about the way things just jump out at me on occasion.  I am talking about those strange and elusive vibes again.  Maybe I am a tad more sensitive than most people to these sorts of things.  I know my boy Tom is.  How many people have the capacity to be moved the way he was by a single meeting with a woman he didn’t even know?  My guess is not many.  Yeah, I know I fit into that category of guys that can make complete asses of themselves after meeting someone only one time, but I have little control over that.  Talk about stating the obvious, sheesh.  I really don’t expect my name to be mentioned when the nominees are called for induction into the Subtlety Hall of Fame.

So, I have pretty much accepted the fact that I am hopeless, and if you can bring yourself to agree, then we can move this story along.  If you remember back, I talked in a couple of the previous essays about my library, and I am sure you remember the special shelf.  I still can’t quite wrap my head around the fact that there are three CDs standing at attention front and center in that space.  Come on over, you will find them right in front of the Vonnegut and Gould books.  Once again, good grief.

One of the things that pops into my mind every once in a while is the ultimate fate of that fairly extensive library.  Sure, a lot of it now is found on my Kindle, but there are volumes numbering in the thousands that are made of paper.  I am going to insist that the books stay together, I really don’t want them split up even though I don’t think I am going to care much once I am gone.

I know that there is a high probability that eventually all those books are going to go to my niece or one of my nephews.  It will be handed down to whichever one of them wants it.  It will be entirely their choice.  The one who gets it will reveal themselves sooner or later.  I do have a guess, though, as to who the lucky winner will be.

My guess as to the recipient of my library speaks to another type of vibe detector that I apparently include in my repertoire.  It is funny, but there have been a handful of times in my life when the transcendent intelligence of a person has jumped out at me.  I have been proven right every single time.  Unlike my love life, my intuition has never failed me when it comes to the “genius” vibes I get from some people.  I find that most interesting—zero percent success rate in one area and 100 percent in the other.  Apparently, there are different types of intuition, and I somehow got in the wrong lines when that nonsense was being handed out.  Looking back, I think I might have been better served by having a more serviceable vibe detector when it comes to women than when it comes to discerning some random person’s intellectual ability.  Well, I clearly wasn’t given a choice in that matter, either.  Thinking back on what might have happened, I am pretty sure that in the staging area we wait in to be born, I got the lines mixed up and somehow got a double dose of charm and personality.  That must have been the line I got in instead of the intuition line.  Yes, that probably explains it.  I got routed back into the same line, the wrong line, at least twice.  Of course, the extra charm and personality hasn’t really amounted to much.   Talk about your “watch this” moments.

So, about these various vibe detectors I seem to have.  Here is a little story about how my other vibe detector works.  I had a professor at Harvard that I am still sure is a space alien.  He walked into the room, and his genius just jumped out at me.  He didn’t even need to say anything.  I instantly knew that he was operating on a level different from anyone I had ever met.  The course I took with him only solidified my initial impression.

I still vividly remember a question I asked him one day in class.  He smiled at me and then took off on the most brilliant intellectual display I have ever witnessed.  I felt like I was floating as the clock ticked on and on.  When he was done, he paused and said something to the effect of how much he liked teaching at Harvard because the students were so damn smart.  I think someone turned off the lights after that because I was beaming enough to light up the entire room.  After class, one guy actually came up and congratulated me.  Mind you, this guy came up to me and shook my hand for asking a question, not answering one.  Clearly, one of my finer moments.

The last time Harvard did a search for a president, I recommended the space alien for the job.  I thought he was exactly what the university needed.  My voice carries a lot of weight over there, so naturally, they hired an historian instead.  Oh well, I have heard that she is doing a fine job, but we need more science and math in this country.  My choice of a Christmas present for my niece Haley will shed a little more light on my disappointment in Harvard’s decision.

I bought Haley a pretty cool set of dinos for Christmas.  Of course, she is on a big princess kick.  All her other presents were Barbie, princess dolls, Tinkerbelle, fairies, and…you get the idea.  I bought her dinos because the world has enough princesses, we need more scientists.  My message to my beloved alma mater is similar.  We have enough historians; we have enough people looking backward; we need trailblazers, we need pioneers.  That is why we need a scientist to lead Harvard.  Maybe next time, eh?

So, that is enough about how my genius vibe mechanism works. I guess it is time now to take a look back at Chapter 2.  Everyone who read it said that it was the best thing I have ever written.  That is all fine and dandy, and, in fact, I think they are right.  The big problem for me is that every single person who read it seemed to miss the point entirely.  Originally, that essay was much longer than it ended up.  I had many more “watch this” examples in there, and it became apparent to me that I was way over the top when it came to making the point I wanted to make.  Can you guess what I am getting at?  Probably not, but I thought I would ask anyway.

Writers use language very specifically because it is pretty much all they have.  I used the word “stupid” twice in that essay, and I surely used it on purpose.  I did that to link the two “stupid” situations together.  I was simply trying to make a point that meeting the girl (isn’t it funny that I still can’t bring myself to say her name) when I was younger was a “watch this” moment, and I was certainly leaving open the possibility that meeting Athena was one, too.  I say that with certain caveats.  Even if I never see her again, I am thrilled I got to meet Athena.  It was the best thing that has happened to me in a long, long time (that is a bit of a white lie).  I was not kidding when I wrote that she is the only person I have ever met who I feel is on the same wavelength as me.  I feel more strongly about that now than I did when I met her.  In fact, I am as sure about that as I have ever been about anything.  Also, she reached her hand down my throat and pulled out my voice, and that alone is the greatest and most unexpected thing that has ever happened to me.  Wow, that makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.  That is the proper and logical reaction, don’t you think?

Now that I have found my voice (thanks again, Athena!), I feel inspired and qualified to lead everyone on an interesting, and hopefully, illuminating journey.  So go ahead and get yourself ready for what scholars call a “deep think.”  Mathematicians are particularly famous for going on these expeditions.  While in a “deep think,” you are supposed to concentrate and follow the logic and implications of the argument very closely.  Get yourself comfortable, grab a diet coke or a beer, put on some Vivaldi or pop in a Steely Dan CD, and get ready for some mental exercise.  What I am now proposing is best thought of in general terms though I am positive most of the people reading this essay will have their own specific experiences to plugin.  My deep think is about Chapter 2, and those infamous “watch this” moments.  I am not sure I can explain what they are, but I can offer up some clues as to what I think is going on.

Let’s begin here.  Do you find it at all odd, from an evolutionary biology standpoint, that any person could have or even should have an instant connection to another?  This happens even though you have no idea if the other person is worthy of your time, let alone your adulation.  I have definite theories on how this can happen.  It starts with the simple assertion that evolution is never satisfied.  You might remember Pete Townshend’s song A Little is Enough (common sense’d tell me not to try and continue, but I’m after a piece of that diamond in you).  I am certainly not a “connoisseur of Champaign cognac,” set it in front of me, and I would have no idea if “the perfume nearly beats the taste.”   The only point I am trying to make is that for evolution, a little is never enough.  I have a favorite saying; I always like to remark that evolution has run amok.  There are many examples of this, and I will list a few here.

Have you ever heard of the extinct Irish Elk (Megaloceros giganteus)?  Talk about your giant antler displays, good grief.  Those guys took it to another level.  I am not so sure that there was anything practical about having antlers so big that you could barely hold your head up, but the ladies (at least the elk females) thought they were cool.

So, my argument is that if a little bit of antler is good, then a lot is even better.  If female Irish Elk are attracted to large antlers, then imagine what can happen if the display becomes gigantic.  As evolution, by means of the mechanism of natural selection, runs more and more amok, the antlers get bigger and bigger.

How about peacocks?  Those elaborate male displays are their way of saying, “Hey baby, check this out.”  Those ridiculous feathers are messages to the females that they are looking at a prime male specimen, someone they should be paying attention to.  And, you guessed it, if some feathers are good, then a giant display is even better.  If the peacocks with the most elaborate displays keep getting picked by the females, then the genes responsible for the expression of the displays get passed on with greater and greater frequency.  As evolution, or perhaps more properly natural selection, runs more and more amok, the displays get more and more ostentatious.

Hmmmmm, inspiration has just hit, and I have few ideas of my own, ideas that I needed decades ago when I was young enough for it to matter.  How could it be that these thoughts have escaped me in the past?   The next paragraph will give you a hint or two as to what is going through my mind right now.

Elaborate dances are some of my favorite examples of nature running amok.  All that nonsense is clearly about reproduction.  I have tried a bowerbird dance a few times, and my research shows, unequivocally, that those types of displays, while integral to the reproductive success of a given male bowerbird, do not work on human females.  I have a few funny stories about crash and burn scenarios involving a Bahamian beer called Kalik and a bunch of random grad students from a university that I can not recall.  Maybe I just don’t want to recall; I probably should just forget the whole thing.  In fact, I am not quite sure why I didn’t just delete this paragraph.

You can find lots of bowerbird dances on Youtube.  They are astonishing.  Watch a few of those videos, and it will start to become clear what I mean when I say what evolution has run amok.  Also, you will get a better idea of the impression I made on the female grad students who were forced to watch my performance.

The lives of living organisms are consumed with this type of behavior.  Reproduce or lose, that is the nature of life on this planet, even if a given individual is not consciously aware of it.  So, how about this?  Many evolutionary biologists are uncomfortable with the fact that same-sex relationships are commonplace across many different species.  How is this possible if the name of the game is getting your genes into the next generation?  In my estimation, it happens for the same reason that some human beings will have sexual relations with animals from a different species.  It is because evolution has run amok.  If a little is good, then a lot must be even better.  The urge to reproduce is good, so the urge to have sex, any kind of sex, is even better.

Those ridiculous and inexplicable instant connections between people fit into this type of category for me.  Obviously, people feeling connected is good for reproduction; it is necessary for the survival of the species.  In fact, it may well be the key to the development of culture.  Pair bonding surely played an important role in our evolutionary history, and early hominids could well have taken up with each other simply because they liked each other, they felt connected.  The bad thing is that evolution, as often is the case, has taken the concept to extremes.  It has, and continues to, run amok.

So, is this type of connection chemical, physical, simply nonsensical, or something else altogether?  I really don’t know, but I am well aware of those who claim it is spiritual.  I would like to say a few things about that now and, oddly enough, I need to start by explaining why it is I think humans have such big and powerful brains.  That will provide the foundation for my explanation of these type of extraordinary connections.

I think that the greatest example of natural selection running amok that I can think of is that of human intelligence.  Does it make a lot of sense that humans evolved mental capacity so great that we are capable of destroying the earth and all its inhabitants?  If the earth had a say, do you think it would have opted out of the “intelligence experiment?“  My guess is that decision would have been a “no brainer.”

If evolution had any type of an “unintended consequence” restraint mechanism, things like this would not have been allowed to happen.  As it stands, evolution has no ability to see into the future; it deals with living organisms in their present local environments.  Traits that better adapt an organism to its local environment are the ones that get selected for through differential reproduction rates.  Those specific traits have certainly been known to run amok.  Evolution sometimes gets an idea and runs with it; it picks a trajectory and goes full steam ahead.  Intelligence absolutely is one such trait, and I want to talk now about where I think all this brain power got its start.  As usual, I begin with a story.

Six or seven months ago, I was in the woods when I came across a couple people from a local natural history museum.  They were out cataloging the various rare species that are found on the land the museum just purchased.  We struck up a conversation, and it eventually led to one of the scientists telling the story of an amphibian that was present on the property.  He said he had been struggling for an explanation for the number of toes this species had; it wasn’t what he expected to find.  As I recall, this species had one more toe than all its other closely related cousins.  He asked me what I thought.  I told him that I thought that the variation that he was seeing was just an epiphenomenon, an unintended consequence of evolutionary processes that are far too complex and interactive to give even tangential consideration to structures that might or might not be adaptive.  He readily agreed with me.  Then I took out the big guns.  I told both of them that I think that human intelligence is merely an epiphenomenon of bipedalism.  The only reason we started to evolve bigger and more powerful brains is that we got up on two feet.  In other words, it was an accident, unintended and yet important.  He also agreed with that assessment.

So, what am I to say about the spiritual nature of instant and inexplicable connections between human beings?  I think there is a very good chance they are also epiphenomena.  A system where reproduction is paramount could easily lead to such unintended consequences as deep and powerful instant connections.  I really think it might be as simple as that.

I don’t want anyone to think that I am simply struggling to explain what happened to me when I met Athena.  Quite frankly, I don’t need an explanation, and I really don’t care for one.  I am not one that needs to intellectualize each and every single thing that happens to me.  I do think that random chance and probability play a much larger role in our lives than most of us would be comfortable admitting.  That might give a few more clues as to what I think might be going on.

It looks like I really don’t want (and certainly don’t need) an explanation about why I met Athena and what it might mean on some deep, fundamental level of human existence.  I’ll be perfectly fine knowing what I know, namely that I am still totally undone even though I have not seen her in nine months.  I find that extraordinary, don‘t you?  This whole situation is so outside of anything in my previous experience that I will just kick back and smile for a bit.  I don’t really see any other viable alternative.

I have to mention that any downside to these types of connections is not a reflection on Athena, Delilah, or any other person who gets caught up in a mess like this.  Not at all, they had nothing to do with any of this.  I think Delilah and Athena just happened to be standing there, same as Tom and I were.  Some things are just inexplicable, aren’t they?  If Delilah didn’t want to have anything to do with Tom and if Athena doesn’t want to even talk to me, then that is just the way it goes.  As I mentioned earlier, I am still really glad that I got to meet Athena, I truly am.  One meeting changed me in ways that I am still struggling to understand.  I actually feel comfortable enough to let all the readers in on a little secret, perhaps the worst kept secret in the history of the world, but a secret nonetheless.  I have a little “thing” for Athena; I think she is kind of cool.  I am not so sure that means anything, though.  It still doesn’t change the fact that I was not, at the specific moment I met her, given any choice as to how I was going to react to her.  Now I have all the choices in the world.  Vibes, feelings, and emotions are just that, nothing more.  I clearly will not let them define me, and they will not rule me.  Evolutionary processes have certainly run amok in my life, but I can easily hold my hand up and say that enough is enough.  I am doing my best to stay above the fray.

You know, I talk a big game, but I think if I only had one wish, I just might burn it to get her to have lunch with me.  What a surprise!  Sigh, as I mentioned earlier, I am totally hopeless, but it is my belief that admitting it might be my first step on the road to recovery.  I like to think that everyone is rooting for me.

As many of these essays are nothing more than informed opinion and unsolicited advice, I do have a suggestion for anyone who has found themselves in a situation similar to the one Tom and I found ourselves confronted with.  Maybe you have come face to face with someone and, if they spoke to you in a deep, fundamental way, immediately found yourself saying, “uh oh.”  If you can relate at all to the essays in this volume and you have a general idea of what I am talking about, then this next paragraph is just for you.  It offers up detailed instructions on what you can do about your dilemma.  As always, I am just trying to dig down deep and lend a helping hand.

It all starts with a unicorn ride.  Saddle him up (apparently only male unicorns can be ridden) and then take the beast down the winding Bunny Rabbit Trail to Gummi Bear Lake.  Once there, you can take a canoe up Fairy Dust Stream to Wood Nymph Forest.  Upon your arrival, a group of pixies will lead you directly to the complaint department.  After you open the gingerbread door, feel free to have at it.  As for me, before I met Athena, I was on a big Vivaldi kick.  I think it’s about time to switch out some CDs and get back to the Red Priest.  On second thought, maybe not.  I have a vague recollection of a conversation I had some months ago with an interesting woman I met in a dive bar.  We were talking about Baroque classical music, and we eventually made our way to the Classical Period and to Mozart and his sister, Nannerl.  Maybe I will get on with my Mozart studies.  I have intended to do that for a long, long time and now seems like the perfect opportunity.

I have decided to end this essay with another open letter.  Surprisingly, this one is not for Athena.  Quite frankly, I can’t think of one more thing to say to her (boy does that change in the next essay).  If our conversation is going any further, the onus is totally on her.  I am done for now (more big talk), I am sure I am not even going to send this essay to her, she is going to have to request it (I wrote that before I nearly drown, funny how things like that can change your mind).  This letter is addressed to a guy I have never met, the end of this essay consists of a letter to Tom of the Plain White T’s.

Tom,

We have never met, and yet we have walked along a highly unusual path together.  A strange and wonderful walk, for sure.  I don’t have a lot to say to you; I just wanted to introduce myself and tell you that your song about Delilah is superb.  It means a lot to me to hear you sing it.

I don’t know what you think now about what happened to you when you met Delilah.  It really doesn’t matter, does it?  You were moved in a way most humans will never experience.  As for me, I have a pretty good idea about what happened to you.  I guess that makes us kindred spirits, at least we have an unusual and interesting experience in common.

If we ever meet, I am going to buy you a beer or 12.  We don’t need to talk about Athena, Delilah, the meaning of life, or even the reasons why things might or might not happen.  I am not going to mention Kafka or talk about existential philosophy or any evolutionary inspired theories I might have to explain all this nonsense.  I think the only thing you and I can do is just kick back, crack open a beer, and take in the scenery.  Maybe, just maybe, if we look hard enough, and if our intuition is sharp enough, we both just might find someone in the room that jumps out at us.  Then again, maybe not.

I promise you this; if I hear a little voice say, “watch this,” as you get up to move in on a lovely young lady, I won’t say a word.  I’ll just sit there like a mute monkey on a banana boat and let you go.  I am asking you to do the same for me.  Like the kids of South Park, I have learned a few things these past nine months, and I have concluded that sometimes being part of a cosmic gag reel is far better than being passed over for the role.  At least that is my story, and you can bet your ass that I am sticking to it.

Ryan-Tyler

Sidd Finch, what can I say… you’ve never heard of him, have you?  What if I told you that the sports world stopped in its tracks in April 1985, and what if I told you it was because of The Mighty Sidd Finch.  Buckle up, this is one of my favorite stories.

Sidd Finch, Harvard dropout, wannabe Tibetan Monk, and master of the French Horn, got a 14-page layout in the April 1985 issue of Sports Illustrated. In 1985, Sports Illustrated was as good as it got.  Remember, this was a time of no internet.  Barely anyone had a PC, they were rare and costly.  News traveled slowly if it traveled at all.  And no one, I mean no one, got a 14-page layout in Sports Illustrated.  Except, of course, for Sidd Finch.

Finch wore a work boot on his right foot and nothing on the left, not even a sock.  He didn’t need to warm up to do his job, all he needed was a catcher brave enough to get behind the plate.  Sidd Finch, the mysterious orphan with an unbelievable back story, threw a baseball 168 mph.  That is not a typo. Tall and lanky, Finch used the discipline he acquired in his time in Tibet to master his mind and body.  He threw a baseball faster than scientists thought humanly possible, a lot faster.

When the issue featuring Finch was published, most people (nearly all) were startled and confused.  How was it possible that the New York Mets could keep Finch under wraps.  No one in the baseball community had ever heard of him.  No one, except for the Mets, had any scouting reports on him.  It was as if he materialized out of thin air.

At least two major league general managers (nameless to this day) called Peter Ueberroth, the baseball commissioner, to inquire about Finch.  How is this possible?  What is going on?  Did you know about this?  How did the Mets get this guy?  Is all this above board?

Newspaper editors were angry at the reporters they had covering the Mets.  They wanted to know how Sports Illustrated got this scoop.  How was it possible that reporters covering the team were not aware of this pitching phenom?  After all, those reporters were with the team every day, it was their job to report on stories like this.  How could they have dropped the ball?  How is it that George Plimpton from Sports Illustrated waltzes in and gets a big story that was right under your noses the entire time? Unbelievable.

Well, the whole thing was unbelievable.  The Sidd Finch Saga is the greatest April Fools Day joke in the history of April or the history of jokes.  Joe Berton, shown below signing a tiny French Horn in 2015, was enlisted to be Sidd Finch.  The New York Mets were in on the gag, allowing a photographer to take pictures of Finch in a Mets uniform interacting with his “teammates.”

One day, I guess it was in the late 1980s or early 1990s, I was walking along the streets of Cambridge, Massachusetts, when a car passed me.  Believe me, I got a chuckle out of the bumper sticker prominently displayed near the license plate…”SIDD FINCH LIVES!”  That is a great bumper sticker if you are in on the joke. In early April, 1985, people were not in on the joke and they lost their minds.  In the April 8, 1985, issue of Sports Illustrated it was announced that Sidd Finch retired.  In the next issue, the hoax was revealed.  I remember when the story broke, it was great fun listening to people speculate on how many championships the Mets were going to win with their Secret Weapon, The Mighty Sidd Finch.  As for me, I never trust anything published on April 1st.

Random Thoughts from a Nonlinear Mind: Volume 2: The Athena Chapters,
Chapter Three:
Siskel & Ebert and Top 10 Lists about This & That and Such & Such: A Short Essay with a Relatively Long Title about a few of my Favorite Things

 

In their Best of 1985 show, Gene Siskel & Roger Ebert rated the top 10 movies of the year just as they did every year from 1982 to 1999.  Their show was popular mainly due to their complicated relationship; I got the impression they simultaneously needed, loved, and loathed each other; there certainly was always a lot of tension between them.  I watched because I knew even though it was unlikely to happen, there was a chance a brawl could break out over a subtitled Danish film featuring partial frontal nudity that no one in the viewing audience was ever likely to see.

The most interesting, and most important, movie of 1985 was Shoah, and I must say that this essay has nothing to do with the actual film or its content.  I would never feel qualified or comfortable writing about something as serious as The Holocaust.  This essay is about Ebert’s reaction to the film and why he didn’t include it in his top 10 movies of the year.

Siskel had Shoah as his number one movie of 1985, while Ebert left it off his list entirely.  I remember Siskel being indignant as Ebert told him why he left it off.  Ebert said that Shoah was, in many respects, the sole reason for film to exist.  Shoah transcended any other movie, it went beyond the medium itself, and consequently, it belonged in another category entirely.  I remember thinking that was very cool, the idea that a movie could be so important and poignant that it shouldn’t, or couldn’t, be categorized as a simple movie at all; a movie so powerful that you can not possibly do it justice by comparing it to other mortal efforts; a movie that produced such a profound and visceral response, that coaxed such deep emotion, that language itself becomes insufficient to describe it.

Some 26 years later, here I am in Ohio, writing an essay partly inspired by a movie I have never seen.  That does not surprise me one bit, when considered in the general context of what the last few months have been like, that is the most normal thing that has happened to me.

For reasons that will become clear by the end of this essay, I have been thinking about some of my favorite things, especially musical things.  This line of thought is what made this Siskel & Ebert story flash into my mind while I was running.

Lately, wherever I go, I have been asking people; usually the servers in the restaurants I eat at, to list their top 5 or 10 favorite songs, bands, or CDs.  It is interesting how hard this is for most people.  The young ladies who say they are big music fans hem and haw and struggle to come up with anything at all.  For me, that is when the fun begins.  I tell them they are poseurs, and then they really get agitated.  “I am not a poseur!”  “Well then, tell me your favorite band.  How about a song?  Give me one in the top 10.  Give me one in the top 500.  Tell me the name of any song you like.”  “Geez Ryan-Tyler, eat your food, and I’ll think about it.“  “I’m not hungry anymore; I’ll just sit here with my arms crossed and wait until you can name a single song that you don’t think sucks.“  It is a lot of fun; a good time is had by all.

My buddy Olive, one of my oldest “fiends” (see Postscript), has so far been the only person who has been able to answer any of these questions.  He came up with Dark Side of the Moon for his album.  He stumbled on the others, and that is fine because, so far, his response is the only answer anyone has been able to give me.

As for me, I love Arctic Monkeys, the British band.  Their first two CDs were killer.  I sometimes tell women I meet that I am Brian from Brianstorm, but their vacant stares lead me to believe they have no idea who Arctic Monkeys are.  I don’t even want to think about the other possible reasons for those looks.  Inspired by another of their songs, I also have been known to tell a woman or two that “I bet you look good on the dance floor.”  Same response, nothing.  Part of the problem is that I have never said that in a place that actually has a dance floor.  Maybe, just like Elan Sleazebaggano, the guy in Star Wars that wanted to sell Obi-Wan death-sticks, I need to go home and rethink my life.  Certainly, at the very least, I need a new plan of attack.  Looking back, I have no idea what made me think strangers were going to fall for that.

I was supremely disappointed with the third CD, Humbug.  I felt that Alex Turner, the creative force behind the band, was trying to morph himself into the second coming of Jim Morrison.  There is nothing wrong with that; I understand fully that any artist must follow their muse; my problem was that I wanted the first Alex Turner, not another Jim Morrison.

The fourth CD, Suck it and See, was released recently.  I am usually a guy that buys a new CD on the day it comes out, but I did not do that this time.  I waited for a few weeks.  Why?  Honestly, I was not ready to be disappointed again.  I don’t know why I wrote that, that is not an honest statement at all; I was distracted, I completely forgot that my favorite band had a CD coming out and anyone who has read the last two chapters knows precisely why.  My failing memory aside, I can say with complete honesty that I wanted a return to the faster pace of the first two efforts, and the few reviews I read indicated that that was not what I was going to get.  The reviewers were right, but what I got instead was a brilliant set of slower paced music that blows me away. I really like this CD, and I mean a lot.

There is one particular song on Suck it and See that immediately took my breath away.  A few times in my life, I have come across things I wish I had written.  The first time this happened was when I watched Slumdog Millionaire.  Halfway through, I said to myself, “damn, I wish I had written this.”  The second time it happened, I was watching the HBO adaptation of The Sunset Limited.  The writing is transcendent, Cormac McCarthy is a true master of his craft.  That not only is something I wish I had written, The Sunset Limited is something I should have written.

That strange feeling of missing out on something important has only happened one other time, and now I am talking about a song.  I am not a songwriter, but when I heard Reckless Serenade, the eighth track on Suck It And See, it made me pause.  It instantly reminded me of someone (I know, I know, what a shocking development).  Rumor has it she is from Athens even though I am starting to suspect she comes from one of those elusive dimensions the string theory people are always referencing.  At this point, DNA tests and a certified birth certificate might be the only things that can convince me otherwise.

If I were a songwriter, and if I were much more talented than I think I am, I would have written Reckless Serenade instead of Chapter 1.  It only confirms what I have long believed, namely that Alex Turner is the most gifted lyricist working in modern music.

I find that these categories of favorite things are very fluid when it comes to me personally.  As I write this, I can say that Arctic Monkeys get the nod for the band, and that has been true for years now.  I am leaning toward Reckless Serenade for favorite song.  This is a very recent development; I first heard it a little over a month ago.  I am willing to put it there even though I am still in the infatuation stage.  As for CD, I still have to go with Steely Dan’s Aja.

These lists of favorites have been coming to mind lately because I have been running again.  When I was in my 20’s, I ran six marathons.  I have a picture somewhere of me in second place at the 17-mile mark of a relatively large marathon.  The only reason I mention that is because if I had more sense, I might have been able to stay there.  I ended up finishing 19th because of the cramp I caught shortly after the picture was taken.  The cramp had nothing to do with the six donuts I had eaten before the race; it had more to do with the additional six donuts I used to wash down the first six.  Not one of my more brilliant moves, and I still hear about it occasionally from my brother Terry.  “A dozen donuts, really…before a marathon, really?  What were you thinking?  That is the dumbest damn thing I have ever heard.”  I do not think I would have won the race, but I would have had a good chance to finish second.  Not that any of that matters now.  I do remember enjoying those donuts.

The fact that I am now able to run is, to me, a fantastic thing.   I have tried for years and years to get back out there, but my knees kept saying no.  When my doctor told me a few years ago that I needed a left knee replacement and that the right knee was in worse shape than the left one I pretty much thought it was over for me.  Recently, for reasons I do not understand, my knees are not barking, and I am up every morning, putting in the miles.  Consequently, I have been thinking hard about what music to load up for the runs.  I have been cataloging my favorite bands and songs and thinking about the order I want to hear them in.  I have always run with music and can’t imagine running without it.

I have been starting my runs with Arctic Monkeys.  That gets me through 40 or 45 minutes, and then I move to the real deal, the extraordinary music that gets me through the fatigue, the music that fires me up and makes me forget how tired I am.  Why don’t I listen to these transcendent songs from the beginning?  I tried that, and it didn’t work out too well for me.  I found myself running a 100-meter dash pace when my goal was 7 or 8 miles.  I am working on that, this morning I was able to start with the special music for a while, so things are looking up.

I think I pretty much have said all I need to say.  In a shocking turn of events (yeah, right!), I have to conclude this essay the same way I ended the first two Chapters.  Emerson once said that a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, and to that, I say “three cheers and a tiger for Emerson.“  I’ll give everyone one guess as to who shows up in the next line.

Hi once again Athena,

I am writing to inform you that the cover song I wrote about in Chapter 1, you know the one, the “supercharged meme,” has now been replaced as my favorite remake.  It didn’t stay there long did it?  As Kurt Vonnegut once said, “so it goes.”  Johnny Cash is once again in the first position with his version of Hurt.  Also, your band didn’t make any of my lists, and I am not willing to listen to any arguments to the contrary.  And don’t even get me started on music videos.  That video that led directly to the destruction of my favorite mp3 player is nowhere to be found on my list of top 10 sexiest videos of all time.  It’s not even close to the top 500.

I have never been one to clam up or shrink when the tough questions get asked, but in this particular instance, and for the first time in my life (I think), I am going to defer and let another person speak for me.  If you have any questions I would be happy to try to answer them, but we both know what you need to do, don’t we?  Shoot an e-mail to Roger Ebert, he can explain everything.

POSTSCRIPT:

For reasons that are beyond me, all H – E – DOUBLE TOOTHPICKS broke out after I wrote this essay.  Typically, when I am more or less satisfied with the most recent draft, I send it out to a half dozen or so people for comments.  This time they were not shy, nothing else I have ever written has generated this much response.

The first call I received was from my sister in law, Erin.  The conversation went something like this – blah, blah, blah, and that one part where you cross your arms and say nothing sounds just like you and blah, blah, blah.  Why didn’t you ask me who my favorite band is?  OK, who is your favorite band?  Well, I can’t remember their name but….

My brother Terry chimed in next.  Now, I typically read these things 40 or 50 times before I make PDF’s to e-mail.  The first thing out of Terry’s mouth was, “you know, there’s a typo in there.  So, Olive is one of your oldest “fiends,” eh?”  Only then did he tell me how much he liked the essay and how clever he thought it was.

My initial reaction was, “well, dammit.”  I checked the keyboard on my laptop, the computer I do most of my writing on, and I found that there is indeed a problem with the “r” key.  Sometimes it woks, and sometimes it doesn’t. (That one is on purpose.)

After talking to Terry, I went for a run, and inspiration hit me (it is so nice to be back out there).  I have decided, in a major executive decision, to leave the typo in.  Aside from being one of my oldest and dearest friends, Olive is absolutely one of my oldest “fiends.”  I am not even going to change the grammatical structure of the sentence, it is a little awkward, but I think it is pretty damn funny as it stands.

Next up is The Lovely Mara, she wrote me back with a substantial list of her favorites.  She was quick to mention that everything on her lists came right off the top of her head.  From Death Cab for Cutie to the Grateful Dead, she nailed it.  She mentioned that some people might be hesitant to talk about their favorite music because it is a personal issue, and they might worry about being judged.  My only judgment is that her choices fit her perfectly; she is a published poet with the soul of, well, a poet.

Scott found so much wrong that I don’t even know where to start.  Most of it is minor grammatical stuff that is of little importance.  One thing, though, is major, and it illustrates the biggest problem I have when writing essays like these.  He thought the transitions between some of the topics were a little “stilted.”  Dude, you are preaching to the choir.  The ideas for the general themes are easy; the execution is what is hard.

Stephen Jay Gould, the greatest scientific essayist who ever lived, wrote about these transitions.  He wondered aloud how the musical term segue became co-opted for use as a general term for smooth change in any topic.  The word segue is Italian for “it follows,”  the implication being that there is a logical structure to the author’s argument.   Let me tell you; it is a difficult thing to do; I constantly run the risk of being redundant, obscure, or both.  I sometimes just want to write the word SEGUE in big block letters and move on to the next topic.

I just went to my special bookshelf to find the Gould essay about segues.  I had to move 3 CDs to get to his books; you have no idea how much that makes me smile.   My first guess was right on; I nabbed my worn-out copy of Bully for Brontosaurus and immediately found what I was looking for.  On pages 98 to 106 in an essay called “The Dinosaur Rip-off,” I found my answer.  The term moved from classical music to radio, and that is an easy transition to understand; many people working in early radio had musical training, so the term was common knowledge, and its use was commonplace.  Then the story gets interesting.  Apparently, Johnny Carson used the term quite a bit on The Tonight Show, and that is how it found its way into popular culture.  Who knew?  Not me, and I have read that entire book at least a dozen times.  It is an intriguing story, but knowing the history of segues still doesn’t help me create smoother transitions.

I am about done, and I am going for a run.  There is a good chance an idea or two will pop into my head about new essay topics.  As for transitions, I think I need to bury my head into a book or two to learn more about how the masters do it.  I am sure it is more of a mechanical than an inspirational issue, and I certainly have work to do.  Of course, it also has occurred to me that Scott might just be full of crap.

A Few Choice Words

The other day, Sen. Martha McSally (R-AZ) went on television to put the smackdown on young people who are not practicing social distancing.  She made the point that “asymmetric” people are spreaders of COVID-19, the virus that is doing so much damage worldwide.  It is clear she meant to say “asymptomatic.”  She made a reasonable mistake, she simply misspoke.  There isn’t much of a story there.

I am banging on my keyboard because Sen. McSally’s misstep reminded me of something that happened a few years ago.  It is one thing to misplace one word with another when speaking; it is quite another when the mistake is made in print.  Consider this:

In June of 2015, the East Oregonian, an otherwise fine newspaper, published THAT headline about ambidextrous pitcher Pat Venditte.  I saw it then, and I am still laughing about it now.  I am glad the editors were overworked on that day.

I don’t have a lot more to say about this other than I never thought I would encounter an amphibious human, let alone one who is a major league pitcher.  As for Venditte, the last I heard, he lost a tough outing.  He was outdueled, outclassed, and outpitched by Aquaman.

Random Thoughts from a Nonlinear Mind, Volume 2 The Athena Chapters,
Chapter Two:
Can you Hear me now? The End of One Long Strange Trip (and what a long, strange trip it’s been)

 

I prefer counting from the emergence of one integral anomaly to the emergence of the next, in which case this is the sixth version.

The Architect, The Matrix Reloaded

 

I was never a big Grateful Dead fan; my tastes tend to veer more toward punk and classical.  When I was younger, I would hear The Dead’s music from time to time, usually during a long run.  This was in an era when there were no mp3 players, the best any of us could do would be to wear a big headset with a built-in FM radio.  Through the years, I went through dozens of those things.

In those days, the only thing I could do was to pick a station and hope for the best.  Usually, there were only a few choices, and the stations played what they wanted to play, not necessarily what I wanted to hear. I’ll bet most of my exposure to Grateful Dead music happened this way.  This being the case, it will not come as much of a surprise to know that I do indeed have a favorite Dead song, it was their only single that ever got any airplay.  Touch of Grey gets that prize, and I am sure that any Deadheads out there are totally unimpressed with my selection.  I do have one friend who is a Deadhead, and I am sure she is very disappointed in me. I’m sorry, The Lovely Mara, what can I say?  At least after I heard that song, I wouldn’t turn to a different station whenever another Dead song came on.

There is one artist from the same era as The Grateful Dead that I do admire.  Pete Townshend, while being the creative force behind The Who, also did solo work that I like very much.  The thing about Townshend is that he took big swings.  He was always taking risks and trying to see how far he could push himself.  If you haven’t heard about it, take a look at his Lifehouse project and the devastation to his personal life that came about because of the project’s failure.  The band did get Who’s Next out of the ashes of Lifehouse, and that is not a bad thing at all. Who’s Next is generally considered one of the greatest rock albums ever made.

I’ll bet Townshend still isn’t satisfied.  I get the impression that he is unfulfilled as an artist.  I am sure that he has done a couple of things that he is happy with, but he always had such great expectations.  I mean, really, what good is creating one of the greatest rock albums in history if you were looking to change the direction of modern music itself?  For my money, characters like Townshend are the most interesting.  I much admire people who don’t care how successful they are by anyone else’s standards; they are out to impress themselves.

It is slightly unusual for me to get off on a tangent at the beginning of a chapter, but I’m confident this particular trajectory will work its way back into the central theme of this essay in due time.  This essay is about epiphanies in general and one epiphany in particular.  As I move on to the quote from The Architect, you can all guess who is responsible for this big personal revelation.  The fact that these essays are in a book entitled The Athena Chapters might give a clue or two.

The Architect from The Matrix leads off this essay because his view of time is quite similar to mine.  The big difference is he chooses integral anomalies to mark time, and I tend to lean toward personal epiphanies.  Is there anything cooler than an epiphany, a sudden realization that the world you are living in is a vastly different place than what you thought it was?  Granted, all epiphanies are not made the same, some are profound, and most are not.  Some can change the world, and others are simply flashes of insight that don’t amount to much.  I remember the first one I ever had, even though it happened decades ago.

When I was a kid, I loved Saturday morning cartoons.  Looney Toons was always a favorite.  Who doesn’t love Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Porky Pig, and the rest of the gang?  I am sure you all remember Yosemite Sam, and of all the things on earth, it was Yosemite Sam who gave me my first epiphany, my first ah-ha experience.

For reasons that are beyond me, I thought his name was pronounced “Yo’s – Might Sam.” If you remember, they would always list the stars of the show at the beginning without ever uttering the character’s name.  One day I was watching, and Sam busted into a saloon and yelled something like, “I’m Yosemite Sam, the rootenist, tootenist….” I remember sitting on the floor, absolutely stunned by what I had just heard.  I knew of the park of the same name, and it all came together in that one moment.  The word was spelled one way and pronounced another.  Apparently, it was a pretty big deal because here I am 40 years later, still talking about it.

There is one other aspect to this inaugural epiphany that I find most interesting.  Shortly after I learned Sam’s real name, I was sitting in class when my teacher asked us all to see how many holidays we could name.  I don’t remember my teacher’s name, but I do remember the look she gave me when I told her that Saturdays were a holiday because I got to watch cartoons.  That was the very first “What in the hell are you talking about Ryan-Tyler?” look I ever remember receiving in my life.  The first of many to be sure, but that one holds a special place in my heart.

The second epiphany has to do with a young woman, no make that girl; I met as an undergrad.  I was sitting in the back of a biology class when she walked in.  I got the whole deal; the walk in slow motion, birds singing, and a little voice telling me, “breathe stupid, you need to take breaths.” Up until now, my experience with her was the most bizarre thing that has ever happened to me. You’ll notice I said nothing about it also being wonderful.

I learned about the bad boy phase and that even (maybe especially?) little prom queens can be intentionally mean just to prove they can do it.  I learned about manipulation and an assumption about personality types that many people make to this day.  As a general rule, I think that people equate kindness and generosity with weakness.  I know more than one woman who has made that mistake with me.  They felt that if I was kind, then I must also be weak and easy to push around.  All I can say is they don’t think that now.

The third flash happened around this same time in my life.  Have you ever felt you were out of place or maybe somehow displaced in time like something was wrong? Possibly that you were supposed to be someplace else and doing something other than what you were wasting your time doing?  I am sure most people have felt this way, at least I guess so.

I had always known there was some sort of problem with me; I just had no idea what it was.  One day, out of left field, I had a huge epiphany; I realized that my issue was that I was operating on a different wavelength than everyone I had ever known, especially my professors.  The amplitudes I was surfing were not the same waves everyone around me was navigating.  It had never occurred to me that was my issue, and the sudden flash of insight I received while reading an unrelated book on 16th-century Spanish mysticism (don’t ask) came as a great surprise.

The fourth epiphany has to do with jello and crotchless bunny suits.  I kid you not.  In the summer of 1986, I found myself on the campus of Harvard University. Don’t ever let anyone tell you there is no real difference in universities, that you get out of it whatever you put in.  That is a bunch of nonsense.  That campus is filled with world-class people who don’t talk about how important their work is, they put their heads down and get to it.  Inspiration is everywhere, and just like the Red Queen from Alice in Wonderland, you have to run as fast as you can just to keep from going backward.

That summer, I took two classes, and I must admit I was in completely over my head.  This is where the jello comes in.  There was a guy taking the same classes as me, I can’t remember his name, but I sure remember him.  He was constantly asking questions in class, stupid questions.  In all seriousness, this guy was totally inept; he certainly wasn’t dazzling anyone with what he thought was his insightful commentary.  One day a couple of guys walked up to him after class and told him to shut up.  They said they paid to hear a world-class scholar, not a dumbass bumpkin.  The bumpkin said he would try to quiet down, but, of course, he didn’t.  A few days later, the class groaned as he raised his hand.  What he said next changed my life. “Professor, is there any philosophy or system of knowledge anywhere in the world that is not based on a foundation of jello?” The professor answered, “Well, that is for you to decide.” That one question led to me staying on that campus for another five years.  Ultimately, I was trying to find an answer, and eventually, I did.

I know no one wants to hear about that particular journey; I can sense the thoughts of the readers. “Dude, get to the bunny suit, hurry up.” So, here is the rest of the story, and, yes, it includes a bunny suit with a trap door.

In 1986 the libraries on Harvard’s campus were not open 24 hours, and after a quick internet search, it looks like that is still true today.  Back then, as I am sure is true now, no one paid any attention to the hours anyway.  People could be seen bringing coffee pots and sleeping bags into the main entrance of Widener Library at all hours.  The library would close, but they never did a sweep to make sure the place was empty.  All you had to do was be willing to be locked in all night, and you could stay.  One night I decided to stay.

I guess it was about 3:00 in the morning when some guy approached me at the empty study carrel I had called home for the night.  He asked me something like, “Hey, do you want to see something you have never seen before?” Now on that campus, that statement can mean anything.  I initially thought he was hitting on me, and I knew I didn’t want to see what I thought he wanted to show me.  He said I would really want to see this, and curiosity got the best of me.  We walked over a couple of aisles, and there he was, the same guy who was asking all the questions in class.  He was sitting in a chair, but the interesting thing is that there was a young woman in a crotchless bunny suit using him as a jungle gym.  My first thought was, “well damn; I guess he finally impressed someone. “My second thought was, “Did she wear that thing into the library?” There you have it; I have an epiphany in my past that has to do with jello and a crotchless bunny suit. Isn’t life good?

The fifth epiphany occurred on a lazy Saturday afternoon in my basement apartment outside of Cambridge.  I was dozing off and on when I happened to wake up right when a PBS reporter was interviewing a British philosopher named Karl Popper.  He talked about some technical things that make science different from all other types of knowledge, and that changed everything for me.  His philosophy is big on falsifiability, and listening to him talk about the demarcation between science and other academic disciplines changed my life.  I finally understood, I had the answer to my jello problem.

The engaged reader will note that there is no bunny suit in the story about epiphany number five.  Believe it or not, the same is not true for number six.  The woman responsible for the next epiphany has absolutely been known to don rabbit gear.  With that in mind, we can finally get to it; we can look at the next big flash of insight that has changed my life.

This essay is about an epiphany, a big one, one much bigger than realizing that a cartoon character has more syllables in his name than I thought he did.  This one is the epiphany of a lifetime, one that took much longer than I would have liked, but I feel sure that it finally arrived.  It is one that has to do with the mystery of voice; the understanding of precisely what it is, and the importance that goes along with finally finding it.

When I was an undergrad, I had a professor tell me I needed to find my voice.  I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. “Hey, read these articles, memorize Strunk and White, and then go find your voice. “”Yeah, uh, OK, I’ll get right on that. “When it comes to education, you definitely get what you pay for, and state universities in Ohio were cheap in the 1980s for a reason.

When I was at Harvard, I had a couple of famous professors tell me I needed to find my voice.  They made it clear how important it was that I find it, but they didn’t offer up a clear road map on how to get there.  At least I didn’t find their suggestions very accessible.  When I moved on to another university in Pennsylvania, I had a very influential and important philosopher tell me that I needed to find my voice.  By that point, I was getting a better idea of what these people meant, but it still wasn’t clear to me what I had to do to find it.

What exactly is a person supposed to do when they are looking for something as elusive and nondescript as a voice?  The problem is infinitely compounded when you have no idea what you are looking for, where it might be found, or even what it is.  How are you to even know it when you see it?  Can you even see it, or is it something you feel?  A quest, perhaps the most important one imaginable, with no path to walk on and no hints along the way.  Also, the people who tell you that you need to find it don’t have a clue as to how you are supposed to get there.  Study, study, study is about all you can get, at least that is what I kept hearing.  Well, I learned that there is a point where your head will actually buzz from studying too hard.  You can sleep, if you can, and the buzzing will still be there in the morning.

There is one little known story about me that relates directly to this section of the essay.  It will become evident by the end, I hope, as to why I am including it.  I took an archaeology class one semester in the late ’80s or early ’90s.  It was taught by my adviser, and it was essential that I aced the class.  I wasn’t going to allow myself the possibility of missing even a single question on the exams.  I was making my way through Harvard Yard to the museum complex, where I was to take the test.  I had been up for days, and my head was buzzing, I mean really ringing.  I looked over to my left, and I saw a giant Arab guy walking beside me with his 200-foot tall camel. “Well, damn” was the only thought that came to mind.  I looked at him and said, “I don’t have time for this crap,” and off I went.  Call it a mirage, an illusion, a sleep-starved brain looking for some relaxation; I have no idea.  I forgot all about the guy and his camel, and I went and took the test.

So, studying to the point of exhaustion apparently wasn’t going to help me find my voice.  I was left to deal with the consequences of having no voice and all the problems it created for me.  The big problem was that there was something important trying to get out of me, but it could never find its way.  I knew this, but I had no idea what to do about it.

I can give you a hint as to what it feels like to have something clawing at your insides while having no voice to let it out.  Can you imagine someone with the soul of a poet and yet have a total disdain for poetry?  I have felt that way for decades.  I don’t think I necessarily have the soul of a poet; I just know I hated the process of trying to let out what wanted to get out.  That is all used to be, past tense talk about a dude I can hardly remember.

How about a musician who can play the notes but can’t make the music?  A passion-filled individual with all heart and no talent.  Someone who can move to the rhythm but isn’t moved by it.  What a sad thing.

The analogies of the poet and the musician shed some light on what I like to call “watch this” moments. “Watch this” moments put a fine point on those times in our lives when we become convinced that we are actors in a cosmic blooper reel.  A “watch this” moment is a slice of time where a grand cosmic entity, The Supreme Fascist, as he was called by the great mathematician Paul Erdos, gets bored and decides it needs some amusement. “Hey,” he tells his buddies, “see that newborn over there?  I am going to give him a love of baseball and the vision of a mole.  Wait until this poor kid grows up and realizes he can’t possibly do the only thing he wants to do, hit a baseball.  This is going to be great.  Watch this!”

“Watch this” moments are, hopefully, a distant memory for me now, and I bet you know why.  I have finally found my voice.  It is resonating within me as I type.  I offer the last essay as evidence.

I return now to what I refer to as the famous Chapter 1.  That is the first thing I have ever written that satisfied me.  I have told a few people that I almost impressed myself with those 3000 words.  Ultimately, I have always written for an audience of one; I never really cared what others thought of how I wrote or what topics I addressed.  I felt that if I could impress myself, then the rest would take care of itself.  Finally, I believe I have done that.  It took about 25 years longer than I wanted or expected, but at 48, I finally found my voice.  I would never have believed it would have taken a nudge from a young woman to point me toward it, especially when she had no idea what she was doing.  She said, “I’m Athena,” and those two little words changed me in unimaginable ways.  I don’t know if she can truly appreciate what she has done for me because she found her voice at a very early age, and anyone who has heard her music understands exactly what I am talking about.  Her voice is strong, endearing, and electric.  I just hope some of that magnetic essence rubbed off on me.  No worries here, I guarantee she has plenty to spare.

Those two little words turned the inner workings of my mind inside out.  In less than a second, I was transported from Dorothy’s black and white dirt farm to Oz.  I can not even begin to relate to you how strange I find that to be.  Change is everywhere, but the biggest difference is one I never could have imagined (as if I could have imagined any of this).  The upper shelf of my first bookcase, the one with all the Vonnegut and Gould books, now has 3 CDs sitting right in front.  The most important shelf I have has been forever altered in a most mysterious way.  I am not complaining one bit; I am more stunned than anything else.  I am a guy who spends an awful lot of time thinking about this and that, and I must admit that it never even entered my mind that my special shelf would ever have something else on it.  Not in a million years.

As I look over at my most important shelf, I am inspired to try to put into words the difference I feel.  Maybe I can put it this way.  My voice, such as it existed in the time before my grand epiphany, was a juvenile sloth, lost in the woods, trying to figure out just how lazy he could be.  Lethargic and uninspired, hanging from a limb, grabbing a leaf or two, and then taking a nap.  Now it is a mischievous badger; a schwervy mammal filled with extraterrestrial mojo, constantly on the prowl, kicking butt, and taking names.¹  That might just sum it up nicely.

It looks like I am finally done with this section.  My newly found voice is nudging me in a particular direction again.  I know, I really do, but I can’t help myself….it is letter time.

Hi again Athena,

I can never repay you.  I have no idea what you did, and I bet you have no clue either. I’ll just keep on Truckin’ and pay it forward as best I can.  Just like Neo at the end of The Matrix, I see the code, and that is all due to you.  You made something click inside me, you turned a knob from off to on, and I remain totally, completely, and utterly undone. Thank you.

I want to tell you a little about the code that I can see now.  I remember the exact moment I started to see it, and that is the reason I introduced myself to you.  As weird as all this is, I think that this is the strangest, most inexplicable part of my long, strange trip.

Your band took the stage, and I didn’t bother to pay much attention.  I was trying to get my buddy’s daughter Emily to get up the courage to introduce herself to a young guitar player from the band that was on stage right before you.²  I would guess about halfway through your set I started to really notice you.  Why?  Well, the answer to that is a bit bizarre.  I happened to look up at the stage, and I saw what I initially thought was an elaborate prop.  I started to poke Emily to ask her if she was seeing what I was, but before I could tap her on the shoulder, I figured out that what I was seeing was not something a roadie placed around you.

I still don’t know what to say about what I saw, but I sure did see it, so here goes.  I looked up to see a large pulsating heart surrounding you.  The heart intersected the neck of your guitar about halfway up.  As the phantom heart changed color from white to pink to red and then back to white, the only thing I could think of is, “why isn’t it covering the guitar?” I know the answer to that now, but I find it really interesting that my initial reaction wasn’t about the strangeness of seeing the heart but more about its size.  I really don’t know what else to say other than that is what compelled me to meet you.  Can you imagine seeing that and then not introducing myself?  Good grief, that would be even more ridiculous than what actually happened, and as you are about to see, what really happened is beyond bizarre.

Hey Athena, ready to hear something else absolutely incredible?  I am now going to tell you about the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me; it is one and the same, I think, as me finding my voice.  I introduced myself to you, and you simply said: “I’m Athena.” Within half a second, I got a vibe, one unique to my experience, a message that was unambiguous, clear, and transparent.  A simple and powerful message that left me listing to one side. “Dude –  I know you, I see you, I get you, I understand you.” Uh, that was more than a little unexpected.  I mean, really, can you imagine?  As I proofread this, I find myself shaking my head back and forth, trying to convince myself that this really happened.

Whoever or whatever was responsible for delivering the message then added a little tweak just for me.  It said something like, “Hey stupid, I see you just like in the movie Avatar.” I don’t need anyone to tell me all this is beyond weird.  I am well aware of that.

After I heard that Avatar line, I tried to maintain my balance as I said, uh oh to myself.  Much later on that night, the uh oh turned to oh no, I am doomed.  I must admit, for a doomed guy, I have done nothing but smile for the last few months.  That is a bargain I will gladly make, not that I had a choice anyway.

You know Athena, there was one small part of Chapter 1 that was presumptuous as hell and, trust me, I thought a lot about it before I decided to include it.  When I wrote about two people really seeing each other, I said that because I certainly saw you and I got an instant vibe that you saw me.  I don’t want you to think I was speaking for you; I was just telling a story about a clear (albeit unusual) message that I have never received from anyone before.  Remember that wavelength stuff I wrote about earlier in this essay?  Well, guess what?  How very, very unexpected and strange.

There is one other thing I feel compelled (there is that word again) to say.  Usually, I do research about bands I am going to see.  I just like to know a little about them before I see them.  In your case, I didn’t do that.  I had no idea who you were, and while I had heard of your band, I certainly had never heard any of your music.  Also, and I know you understand exactly what I mean, I couldn’t care less how you earn your living.  I am a fan of sparks, and yours is a big one.  If you decide you want us to get to know each other, that is one of the things we can talk about, that spark of yours.  You said something to me on the night I met you about that spark that I am very curious about.  I will now offer up a few more words about my epiphany in the hope that it will inspire you to tell me a thing or two about your spark.

My sixth epiphany has produced a series of little epiphanies these last few months.  I have learned that it is possible to meet someone only once and to keep smiling for months afterward.  I have also discovered that you can meet someone only once and miss the hell out of them.  It is the strangest thing, isn’t it?

Believe it or not, Athena, I do have some perspective on all this nonsense.  I can begin by telling you that there are a couple of things I know for sure.  I have been around long enough and pay enough attention to the world I live in to know that short, frilly skirts are not sniper rifles; they are machine guns, effective and indiscriminate.  I also know that most people bend over backward to try to find meaning and purpose in their lives.  If something extraordinary happens, then it is a sign from beyond the moon.  I don’t subscribe to any of that; it has been my experience that strange and random things happens because that is the nature of our existence; it is the nature of the universe itself.

Well Athena, I better finish before this essay turns into a novella.  I will leave you with a series of thoughts; please consider them as pleas to the only person I have ever known who is on the same wavelength as me.  If you don’t have any idea what I am talking about, then you can and should chuck this essay, it is going to be the last one anyway (I wrote this one after I pounded out Chapter 3).  My brain is caffeinated, and I need a break.  If, on the other hand, you have some idea what I am talking about, then please let me know.

If you find it strange at all that the story of two of the biggest moments in my life include women in bunny suits, one crotchless and the other not (there I go being presumptuous again!), then please tell me.  If you believe that there is sincerity in what I have written, and I have my suspicions, then send me a note.  If you think it is really cool that your CDs are on my special shelf; if Chapter 3 makes you smile; if you figured out why I included Pete Townshend in this essay; if you know why the heart didn’t cover your guitar; if it tickles you, even a little, when I say that I am still reeling from the hypnotic effects of a stun gun lullaby; if you have any idea what I am talking about at all then you know where I am.  If you find it at all unusual that I just wrote the last chapter and the epilogue of a novel I started over 25 years ago and the only reason I was able to finish finally is that I met you then you know what to do.  If you believe I am genuine when I tell you that the little “vibe voice” told me, in no uncertain terms, that you are the most exceptional person I have ever met, then you can find me sitting on my front porch.  My phone is always on the chair beside me.

It is time to go, and I will leave you with… wait, that mysterious voice just sent me another message.  I am supposed to tell you that if, right now at this very moment, you are thinking of nothing other than a veggie taco garnished with Oreos being eaten by a purple gorilla with the head of a giraffe then you are to take that as a sign from beyond the moon and call me.  Hmmmm, that is if you are thinking of that very thing right now.  You know, the hungry giraffe with the purple gorilla body. You’re thinking of it, aren’t you?  Athena?  Hello?!

In a very fundamental way, all this is totally out of my hands; either you understand what I am talking about or you don’t.  You have my number, and I should probably let you know I have finally joined the smartphone set.  I am on the network that used to ask, “Can you hear me now?” I sure hope the answer is yes because, for the first time in my life, I have something to say.  I accept veggie dog, whiskey, and chocolate induced phone calls and texts at all hours.  That is just how the newest version of me rolls.

Signed,

Ryan-Tyler 6.0

 

P.S.  I have a special napkin hidden away.  I am not a big souvenir guy, but I made an exception in this case.  It is the one I wrote on and then handed to you.  I only mention this because after you wrote on it and handed it back to me, you said something, a small phrase I will never forget.  That was the sexiest, most charming, and most heartwarming thing any woman has ever said to me.  A person’s deepest character can show itself in the most unusual ways, and your words revealed a sweetness that is way beyond anything in my experience.  That little act and those few simple words are the things I have been smiling about the most.

NOTES:

NOTE 1. Anyone who has seen the outtakes at the end of Talladega Nights knows where the phrase “mischievous badger” comes from.  What you don’t know is why I am including it here.  My friend Mobe and his son Michael came over a while ago and brought that movie.  For whatever reason, we kept watching through the outtakes, and that is when all hell broke loose.  I have turned blue from laughing a handful of times in my life, the last time it happened was when Cal looked at Ricky Bobby and told him that he liked to picture Jesus as a “mischievous badger.” I was caught completely off guard, and I could not stop laughing.  Mobe, as has been the case for the last 37 years, proved to be a tremendous help.  As my hue leaned more and more toward that of a newly christened smurf, he kept yelling, “Stop laughing dick, you’re turning blue.” Now, I can say with all confidence that if you ever see me turning blue from laughter and if you have murder in your heart, then, by all means, yell, “Stop laughing dick, you’re turning blue.” That will surely kill me, as it nearly did that night.

NOTE 2. Emily is Mobe’s fifteen-year-old daughter, and I can say in all sincerity that the genes responsible for smart-alecky behavior were passed down through her paternal line with cunning precision.  I was talking to Athena through most of the show Mobe, Emily, and I went to see.  I, apparently, was conspicuous by my absence, and Emily found out where I was.  When it was time to go, I said goodbye to Athena and made my way back to Emily and Mobe.  I was pulling out the three CDs I just scored when I looked at Emily and said: “Guess what I got?” She looked at me and immediately said, “A restraining order?!” Once again, sigh.

 

 

Boaty McBoatface

Not long ago, I came across a piece of news that severely tickled my funny bone.  It was my kind of story, a tale that doesn’t come across my desk nearly as often as I would like.

A few years back, England built a new scientific research vessel, a fantastic ship designed to cruise the Antarctic.  Oh, the things this ship can do.  My, my, my…you can only imagine.  So, what’s the big deal?

As with any ship, it had to be named.  The powers that be, in a nearly unprecedented lack of modern-day savvy, decided to conduct a poll, an internet poll, to name this state of the art vessel.  They offered suggestions, all of which were summarily ignored.  How about naming the vessel after Isaac Newton?  What better way to honor Stephen Hawking?  You get the idea.  Much to my delight, the name Boaty McBoatface won the day.  I didn’t have a vote, but I can assure you I was, and still am, all about #teamboatymcboatface.

When this fiasco made the news, I started getting calls from all around the country.  Friends of mine knew this was my kind of story, and they needed to make sure I was wired in.  Was I ever.

The intrigue began when The Minister for Universities and Science, Jo Johnson, refused to honor the poll results.  Clearly, he could not allow a $300,000,000 piece of equipment to be disrespected in such a fashion.  After all, this is serious business.

In 2018, the RRS Sir David Attenborough set sail to make the world a better place.  It carries with it an autonomous underwater vehicle named Boaty Mcboatface.  That was the compromise, we didn’t get the vessel, we got an autosub that is stored onboard, ready in the off chance it is ever needed.

What to do?  In a severely under-reported stroke of genius, team Boaty McBoatface did not give up when the official announcement came that the ship would be named after Sir David Attenborough.  Meetings were held, attorneys consulted, and a plan was formulated.   If the government bodies responsible for naming the ship insisted on honoring Sir David Attenborough, then the logical course of action was clear.  Can you guess what happened next?  In a brilliant counter to bureaucratic arrogance, a petition was started to get Attenborough to officially change his name to Boaty McBoatface.  As Mr. Burns from The Simpsons would say – “Hi – larious!”

The petition was presented to Attenborough and met with silence, eerie silence.  I don’t know about you, but if I happened upon such a request, the last thing I would do is clam up.  I imagine I would give the whole thing serious consideration.  All I have to do now is accomplish something so extraordinary that someone would want to name a ship after me.  I have been thinking about it, I’ll let everyone know when I come up with something.

 

Random Thoughts From a Nonlinear Mind, Volume 2: The Athena Chapters, Chapter One:
Athena From Athens

 

I am sure that every mom in this country learns early on to check the pockets of her kid’s clothes when she is doing laundry.  I am confident that the same holds for all the dads out there, even though my guess is they forget to check more than the moms do.  As for us single guys who do our laundry, well… that might just be a different story.  I must admit that until today I had done a stellar job of making sure that anything that wasn’t supposed to find its way into my washing machine didn’t end up wet and ruined.  The key phrase in that sentence is “until today.”

My story begins in my living room; the plot began a few days ago.  I recently learned that there is a big difference between story and plot; they aren’t nearly the same thing.  A few weeks ago, I took a course on how to be a more thoughtful reader (yes, that is pretty much indicative of the state of my existence these days), and I am happy I can apply a little of what I learned.  A story is simply a bunch of events recorded chronologically; the plot is something altogether different.  A thoughtful author can go backward and forward through time for dramatic effect.  Maybe one author will do it to create mystery, and another will offer up a nonlinear story to develop an emotional context for the reader.  Perhaps another author simply isn’t paying attention because he is too drunk to remember what he wrote five minutes ago.  The possibilities are nearly endless.

E.M. Forster described the difference between story and plot in the following way in his classic 1927 work entitled Aspects of the Novel.  I recently discovered this book, and it is highly recommended for anyone who wants to be a better writer.  The following example is taken directly from Forster.  The first line is an example of story, and the second one is an example of plot:

1. The king died, and then the queen died.
2. The king died, and then the queen died of grief.

I think that Forster’s distinction is sublime, and there is no reason to try to improve on it.  His insightful example is simple and clear.  In the first instance, we are only told of two deaths; in the second, we are given a context.  I do think this nicely sums up the difference between story and plot.

I am feeling in a bit of a Quentin Tarantino mood (there is a phrase I never thought I would use to describe myself), so I guess I will be nonlinear and start somewhere in the middle of my incredible tale.  I don’t know where in the middle of the rollercoaster ride I am, as the old cliché goes, only time will tell.  My guess is that because of extreme circumstances; I am already near the end.

The other day I had just finished watching a few music videos on the internet when I decided that I should go into my laundry room and get to work.  OK, I have decided to be honest, it was one particular video that I found myself watching again and again.  As the images from the video began to make permanent etchings in my memory, I made my way into my laundry room, the same one that Natalie Portman was living in, at least in a dream of mine she was.  While I was sleeping, she told me that she sold my washing machine because she didn’t like it.  I asked her if she got me another one, and she just stood there smiling at me.  I woke up before she answered. (Sidetracked by a Natalie Portman story, what are the odds?  Anyone who knows me will immediately know that those odds are pretty high.  Some might be shocked that she wasn‘t in bunk beds with Danica Patrick.)

Back in the real world, I took off the sweatshirt I was wearing, a big, bulky hoody with one of those pseudo – marsupial pouches, and topped off the load.  I then proceeded to do one of the jobs that I hate; I folded and put away the clothes that were already dried.

Folding laundry and putting away groceries are jobs that require a partner; they simply were designed to be done by more than one person.  Ask most any single person, and they will tell you that.  There just seems to be something unnatural about folding laundry by yourself.  When you also consider that there is no chance of finding something novel and exciting in the load, then you get a sense of the extent of my dilemma.  If I see women’s clothes in my laundry, then I know I have more significant issues than I am prepared to handle, and I had better call on a professional.  Groceries are not quite as bad simply because I eat out nearly every meal.  When you live alone, and you don’t like throwing out half the food you buy, it’s just easier that way.

After I put away the laundry, I decided to go to my favorite Chinese restaurant.  I collected all my stuff; reading material, wallet, phone, and keys and headed out to my car.  I didn’t see my mp3 player, but I thought I might have left it on the shelf under the dash of my Honda.  It wasn’t there, so I went back to the house.  There are only a few places it could be, and I didn’t find it at any of its usual resting places.  I immediately attempted to clear the fog from my brain, a complicated process in these highly erratic times.  It was then that I realized that my three-year-old mp3 player, the one that had never failed me, was already out of the washing machine and was in the dryer.  I just started laughing because I immediately knew how it ended up in there—an unusual occurrence with a simple explanation, one that we will get to in a bit.

In most of these essays, I try to weave two or three themes together into a coherent story that hopefully sheds some light on an evolutionary process or illuminates some point or topic, obscure or overt, that I am interested in at the time.  When I realized I destroyed the mp3 player, I knew instantly why it happened, and that got me thinking about the circumstances that led to my apparent lack of attention to detail.  The next section of this essay will address those issues.

Many years ago, I ran into an old college friend of mine, and we caught up with each other.  You know how it can be with some old friends, even if you haven’t seen each other in years you just pick up right where you left off.  That is what happened to us.  One of the things he told me that I found incredibly insightful was his reasoning as to why he hadn’t experienced more success in his life.  He thought he would be in a different place at 40.  He said he loved his wife and family, but he wished his wife had pushed him more, that she had inspired him more, that she had expected more from him.  I knew exactly what he meant.  I told him he was looking for wind beneath his wings, and he immediately agreed.  I told him that the major theme of my life, despite everything else, was the fact that I never found someone, that I had never been married.  We talked for a while more, and then we went our separate ways.  I am sure I will see him again sometime in the future, and we will pick it up right where we left off.

As I talked to my friend, I remember thinking of Kurt Vonnegut, my favorite novelist.  Vonnegut wrote a lot about relationships and the human need for companionship.  He wrote about alienation and the needs all humans have as social animals.  Vonnegut, my buddy, and I have different takes on this, but I would guess that having a little wind beneath your wings is better than none at all.

I have read everything Vonnegut wrote.  His books are in the upper left-hand corner of my first bookcase.  Most of the other books are classified by subject and then alphabetized by author.  Vonnegut and Stephen Jay Gould are the exceptions.  It just doesn’t seem right to me to throw them in with all the others.  They have influenced me and inspired me way too much for me not to immediately know where any single volume is.  There are times I need them for reference, and I guess that extra 30 seconds of searching is the difference between a readable essay and one that even my friends and relatives can’t make their way through.  At least, that is my working hypothesis.

So, I guess I have finally made my way back to my mp3 player, the one that is exceptionally clean and totally useless (I have a few friends like that even though they tend not to stay clean for long).  A busted electronic device is not something that would usually inspire me to write, but these are rare times, and I am living under exceptional circumstances.  What I am getting at is that I found inspiration recently in a most unusual place and in a most unexpected way.  The particulars aren’t essential, if they mattered, I would include them.  The point is the muse wasn’t an old guy who appeared to me in the form of words on a page.  This one was real flesh and blood, at least that is my recollection.  There is a remote possibility, I guess, that the whole thing was a dream.  I say this even though I have witnesses and physical evidence to back up my story.  Deep down, I suspect all those people might be an illusion too, but that is a different essay for a separate volume.

I have thought about it, and I can’t remember when I have had a better or more confusing night than the one I had a couple days ago.  Inexplicable, bizarre, amazing, incredible, and totally unexpected are just a few of the qualifiers I can use to describe what happened.  I know that other people have been hit by freight trains just like I was, and, therefore, I probably need to find a support group.  Maybe I should google “guys who were just minding their own business when out of nowhere an ethereal being came up beside them and hit them in the head with a hammer (some kind of Thor – esque hammer, not one of those carpenter or ball-peen things) and then the poor slob becomes undone and remains that way for who the hell knows how long.”  I don’t think Google’s algorithms are yet up to the task, but hope springs.  Actually, I just tried it, and I couldn’t muster a single result of any intelligible significance.  Who would have guessed?

I have decided that additional disclosure is necessary on my part to make this essay more personal, if not a little less intelligible.  I wasn’t entirely honest when I said there was just one ethereal being; actually, there were two.  One was a working woman who was busy doing her job, and the other one was a woman from Athens who is educated, funny, smart as a fox, and charming as hell.  She is the one that hit me over the head; the other one, the one busy working, couldn’t possibly carry such a hammer because her hands are full, it would severely interfere with her work, and it would cramp her style in a most unusual way.  The one who was simply a woman from Athens floored me with what is between her ears, not the contours on the outside that connected them.  Ultimately, it was a most unusual experience, one that I will file away in a unique cabinet.  The fact that I have written about it speaks for itself. I tend to need cyclonic wind beneath my wings for that to happen.

I don’t enjoy writing; I find it tremendously difficult.  I pretty much hate it; it is the hardest thing I do.  I struggle and search for the exact word or phrase I need, and when I think everything is just so, I suddenly decide it is terrible, and I throw everything away and start over.  My guess is I toss 75% of what I write.  The fact that I have nearly a million words down between this book of essays and the novels (three are nearly finished) is a testament to… actually, I have no idea what that is a testament to.  My only point is my need for that cyclonic wind that I referred to in the last paragraph.

Since these are my essays, and ultimately, I am responsible for all the content, I feel I have the right to include a personal message.  Now that I think about it, this whole essay is more or less a private message, written with only one specific person in mind and indeed written especially just for her.  I doubt any random reader will feel betrayed or disappointed because I bet most of us have experienced the same type of thing from time to time.  At least I hope we have all met people who blew us away, who seemed to be not of the earth, who floated into our lives for however long and then hopped away.  I hope we all have felt that bizarre connection, the one that is so exceedingly rare and powerful that it can destroy electronics.  It is my wish that everyone could be able to experience, at least once, the raw energy that two people can create just by talking to each other and seeing, really seeing, each other.  I have rambled on for long enough, all the setup is done, now we can get on with my message.

Hey, Athena from Athens,

Meeting you was an amazing experience, one that I will never forget, and I am going to save lots of money on shoes because of it.  I have only known a couple people in my life who made me smile from the inside out, and now I know one more.  I would never have believed it if someone told me I was going to find myself thunderstruck in the way I was, especially when and where it happened.

We got to talk about a lot of different things, but there is so much more I want to know.  What is your favorite novel?  Do you even have time to read?  Are there any painters or schools of painting that move you?  I have been thinking how awesome (not a word I would normally choose) it would be for me to see my favorite painting through your eyes.  Do you see the same things I do when I settle in for a long viewing of a Monet?  Do you even like Monet?

What is the greatest cover song you have ever heard?  Until a few days ago, I thought it was Johnny Cash’s version of Hurt.  I have changed my mind due mainly to a very particular earworm that is working its way from one side of my brain to the other.  It is a supercharged meme, both destructive and uplifting; its cultural DNA encouraging mutations wherever it lands.¹  The video that accompanies this remake is the one directly responsible for the tragic and untimely demise of my mp3 player.  I bet you already know the complete morphology of this creepy-crawly, don’t you?

Did you get to take stats classes?  Do you know any foreign languages?  Why did you choose your particular major?  Are you aware of what has been happening in the field of epigenetics since you graduated?  These are all compelling questions that I have for Athena from Athens.  The answers would help turn what is now a short story into a novel, a novel with a potentially transcendent plot.

The sad part, and there always are downsides to this sort of thing, is that any money I am saving on shoes, and I imagine it is going to be substantial, is a total wash.  I am off to the mall right now, and I am using part of my savings to buy myself a new mp3 player.

You and I both know what is getting loaded first.  I want to tell you it is not because I have a new favorite band or because I am intrigued by a distinctive voice or an inspiring musical message I had not heard before.  Those particular CDs are going on first (and into heavy rotation) because they will always remind me of a woman named Athena, she tells me she is from Athens, and I have no reason to doubt her.

After twenty or so revisions and the passage of some time, I remain undone; totally and utterly hopeless; doomed to my core.  My only chance at deliverance, my only shining light under a dark sky, is that if I look real hard, I just might be able to find a waterproof mp3 player.

NOTES

Note 1. I always get interested when I see an asterisk or a footnote in an essay.  They are usually inserted because the author wants to make a tangential point and doesn’t want to break the flow of the text.  I sometimes find that the notation is there because the author wasn’t clever enough to figure out a way to put the point in the body of the paper.  I’ll take a deep breath and then tell you why I have included one here.  I was in the woods today, it was hot, and I was near a swamp.  I was getting thirsty, and I was starting to get attacked by bugs.  I reached into my vest pocket, pulled out the bug spray, and started to shoot it into my mouth.  Sigh, I guess my mind was elsewhere.

Quin Houff is Causing Problems!

This is a short post about the relationship between practice times and average green flag speeds for drivers in The NASCAR Cup Series.  The question is: Do practice times translate to the race?  Can you predict how fast a car will be during the race based on 10 lap practice averages?  And finally, if there appears to be a correlation, is it statistically valid?

On March 1, 2020, the Auto Club 400 was held in Fontana, California.  30 cars took at least 10 practice laps, below is a Stem and Leaf Plot of those speeds.

163  6
164
165
166
167
168
169  8
170
170  6
171  04
171  55
172  1244
172   788
173  11
176  556677888999
174  1
174
175  3

At the very top of the plot (representing the slowest speed) is Quin Houff at 163.6 mph.  Below is a Box Plot of the same data.  Notice the circle way off to the left.  Once again, our friend Quin Houff insists on being apart from the group.  What does that mean?  He was slow, very slow, problematically slow, and, most importantly, statistically slow. More on that in a bit…

 

 

Now that the preliminaries are out of the way, we can get to it.  Perhaps the easiest and, coincidentally, the most powerful way to see if practice times translate to race speed is through linear regression.  The figure below shows the relationship between 10 lap practice speed and average green flag race speed.  The data shows that about 82% of the average green flag race speed can be explained as a function of 10 lap practice speed.  Not bad, not bad at all.  This analysis suggests that there is a pretty strong predictive relationship between practice speeds and how fast a driver’s car will be in the race.

 

 

As you study the above figure, can you guess who the blue diamond in the lower left-hand corner represents?  You guessed it, our good friend Quin Houff.  I included the Stem and Leaf Plot and the Box Plot earlier for a specific reason.  Both figures suggest that Houff’s data should be eliminated from the study because he was so much slower than all the other drivers.  This is a common practice in Exploratory Data Analysis, the area of statistics I was trained in.  So, in that spirit, I have included another regression analysis.  This one ignores Houff and his statistically irrelevant car.

 

 

I have to admit, this surprised me.  When Houff’s times are eliminated, the explanatory value of the model goes way down.  Now the 10 lap practice averages only explain about 57% of the variability found in the green flag speeds.  Very curious.

So, where do we stand?  Are 10 lap practice averages predictive of race performance?  Clearly, more data is needed, data from lots more races.  Once all that is gathered up, the numbers would have to be broken down by type of track.  My guess is that the relationship would not be the same for short tracks and superspeedways, nor would there necessarily be a correlation between flat tracks and those with high banks.  And, of course, we would have to break the data down by the type of package being run by NASCAR at the time.

In this post, I didn’t intend to answer any big questions, I only wanted to offer a path toward better understanding.  It would be quite a job to gather all the necessary information and do a suitable study.  But, adequately armed, I do believe a useful answer to the question could be achieved.  I know some people who would be very interested in that information…for recreational purposes only.  :-)

 

NOTES:

On October 18, 2019, I published an essay called 1:59:40.2.  That post has more information about linear regression and how it can be used.  I also write about the discovery of regression analysis and the fight for who deserved credit for developing one of the most powerful statistical tools known.

If you are unfamiliar with Stem and Leaf Plots, I talk about them in my post from 2/21/20 entitled An Average Tennis Essay.