Random Thoughts from a Nonlinear Mind: Volume 2: The Athena Chapters,
Chapter Six:
Nuggets of “Wisoom”
Don’t tell me he was a good writer; he had the worst penmanship I ever saw in my life.
Mel Brooks, as the 2000-year-old man, commenting on the writing ability of William Shakespeare
I have the collected works of Gary Larson sitting right on top of one of my bookshelves. Vonnegut’s novels, Gould’s essays, and Athena’s CDs are to be found on the shelf directly below the two massive volumes that contain Larson’s brilliant work. The Far Side is, hands down, my favorite comic strip of all time. Ask anyone with even a cursory interest in science what their favorite strip is, and you will get a similar answer. I can practically guarantee that.
I, of course, loved reading The Far Side before Larson’s retirement because of the scientific themes that permeated the strip. Many of my family and friends also loved The Far Side but for a much different reason. Larson was fond of calling the dimwit rubes that populated his strips by a certain name, one that happens to be the same as one of my friends. This particular name appeared in lots and lots of strips. Sigh, he liked to name these poor slobs “Warren.” I can’t tell you how many of those strips were cut out and sent to my friend by various smart-asses from across the country. They knew damn well he already would have seen it, but they just couldn’t help themselves. OK, I admit that I was the major perpetrator.
Once again, as I sit at my computer and look over at the CDs and the Larson books, I find myself reminiscing about my time at Harvard. Maybe my incident in the swamp has something to do with it even though I have been thinking more and more about that special place the last few years. Maybe as I approach 50, I am just getting old. Who knows? I think I need to get back there for a visit. The problem is I am sure I will not want to leave.
Back when I was living in my small basement apartment outside of Cambridge, the Boston Herald and The Boston Globe both published The Far Side. Larson took a sabbatical year in 1988, and I have just recently recovered from the cold turkey shock of no new strips of The Far Side that year. It was always a highlight of the day to see what Larson came up with. One day, though, disaster struck; I found myself in the middle of a very bad episode of The Twilight Zone. I picked up the paper, looked at the strip, looked at it again, and then set the paper down. I thought and thought and thought some more before I picked up my copy of The Boston Globe again. I tossed the paperback down as my pulse raced, and my blood pressure spiked. Guess what? Horror of horrors, I had no idea what the hell the strip meant! For the life of me, I was confused beyond all recognition.
I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t believe that Larson had outsmarted me. How could that happen? There had to be another explanation, and I had to find it. Sure, his strips confused people all the time, but I had never had such a problem. In fact, I was the go-to guy whenever someone else didn’t get a strip. I can’t tell you how many times I found myself explaining what an ichthyologist or an ornithologist is to glass-eyed people who had no idea what Larson was talking about when they opened their daily paper. It was clear to me that Larson, in this case, had obviously made some kind of grievous error.
I can’t remember exactly what happened next, but I am sure I stewed about my dilemma for weeks, maybe longer. Search engines were a few years off, and my IBM PS/1 with its little black and white screen (and no hard drive) wasn’t going to help me at all. I was stuck.
I eventually found out what the strip meant, and I will tell that story in a bit. Right now, I am excited because I get to mention Umberto Eco. He wrote The Name of the Rose, a book that was adapted into one of my favorite movies. I mention Eco because he has a library at his house reputed to contain about 30,000 volumes. As a master of the obvious, I can say that is one big private library. Eco, as you might imagine, is constantly asked a certain question by his house guests, and I am sure you have guessed what it is. The query is something along the lines of “Damn son, have you read all of those?”
In Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s The Black Swan, a book I highly recommend to everyone, Taleb talks about Eco’s unread books. He refers to them as his antilibrary. They are there for reference, you just never know when you might need one of them. Taleb goes on to argue that everyone needs as big an antilibrary as they can afford.
Well, guess what? I just went to my library/antilibrary and took down Volume 2 of The Complete Far Side. Of course, I did this to find the strip that caused such a big ruckus all those years ago. I made a guess as to what year the strip appeared, and I found it in ten or fifteen minutes. I would have found it sooner, but I couldn’t help reading nearly every strip as I leafed through the big book. I discovered that my nemesis strip appeared on 12/21/92. Thank you for letting me know an antilibrary is a good idea Taleb, I must admit that it never occurred to me that I would one day need Larson’s strips for research purposes. We can add that to the long and growing list of things that have never occurred to me.
The strip in question was not one with a scientific theme, that was the big reason why I didn’t get it. The panel had four guys with pocket protectors, briefcases, and pencils doing all kinds of fancy horseback riding. The caption simply read “Cossack accountants.” I had no idea at all what the hell that was supposed to mean. Do you have a clue?
I can now tell the story of how I was able to solve the riddle of this mysterious strip. I remember one day sitting in the office of a Harvard research professor. His name is Don, and he is a very good guy. And luckily for me, he also has a Ph.D. in history.
I had asked many people what the strip was all about, and no one knew, I mean no one had a clue until I asked Don. He immediately said that the Cossacks were known as excellent horsemen. Of course, I remember him telling me, they could rape and pillage with the best of them, but they mainly went down in history for their mastery of horseback riding. Huh, really? I asked Don if there was any way I could have or should have known that. He shrugged his shoulders, and I felt a sense of relief because I then knew that I was not the only poor soul who didn’t get that somewhat obscure reference. I knew I could get some sleep that night.
So, Don had solved my problem, and I was grateful. After his explanation, he handed me a copy of a paper he was writing. He asked me to look it over and tell him what I thought. I was more than happy to do that. I’m sure you can all understand that when a Harvard faculty member asks for your opinion, that is a pretty big deal. I leafed through the paper in his office as he told me what it was about. It was a paper about Shakespeare; Don was trying to pin down his true identity. The true identity of Shakespeare has been a question addressed by scholars for a long time. To this day, there is quite a debate about who Shakespeare really was. Many people think that there is no reasonable way that the historical Shakespeare was capable of having the inside knowledge necessary to produce all those great works. Many scholars think that, of all people, the famous philosopher Francis Bacon is a very good candidate for being the true author. Go ahead and google something about Shakespeare, Bacon, and true identity, and you will get a sense of the gravity of the problem. It is quite interesting. I don’t remember the conclusion to Don’s paper, but I do remember that he thought that there was no reasonable way that Bacon was actually Shakespeare. Now that I give it more thought, I am pretty sure that Don argued that the historical Shakespeare was indeed the real Shakespeare. Imagine that.
The epigraph of this essay is a line about Shakespeare from Mel Brooks’ and Carl Reiner’s 2000-year-old man sketch. It is pretty damn funny. I included it here simply because of the joke about Shakespeare having terrible penmanship, and that, by definition, makes him a terrible writer. That strikes me as funny; that type of joke is right in my wheelhouse. It is even funnier because the title of this essay should have been “Nuggets of Wisdom,” but my buddy Boss (like Shakespeare) is not a very good writer, at least by the standards of the 2000-year-old man. In fact, his penmanship is nearly as bad as mine. We can get to that story now.
For years I have been shaking my head and complaining to anyone who will listen about how bad our conversations are when I head out with the boys for a few beers. All my friends are apparently, like me, masters of the obvious. I often comment that their stellar observations should be documented to inform and educate future generations of deep thinkers. I long ago decided that I needed to carry around a book so that I could record all their “nuggets of wisdom.”
Remarkably, one day Boss shows up at my house with a little spiral notebook labeled, in Shakespeare-like handwriting, “Nuggets of Wisoom.” He swears up and down that is actually says “Nuggets of Wisdom,” but I see what I see. If he gets really upset, he can type out his own damn essay. Ha!
I just realized that I have once again reached a new low. I am in the middle of an essay that, at least at some level, links Boss and Shakespeare. I talked to my brother Terry the other day, and I told him that, believe it or not, I am finishing up an essay on Boss and Shakespeare. He immediately said, “That was inevitable. It was only a matter of time before that happened. I know every time I look at Boss, I think of Shakespeare.” That is really funny. You might guess it is because both Boss and Shakespeare have both been known to wear pantaloons, but that is not the reason. You see, Terry is one of those random smart-asses I write about now and then. The only reasonable thing Boss and Shakespeare have in common is that they are both in this essay. Trust me, you all would be very hard-pressed to find any other type of connection.
Now we can move along to the actual entries in my book of “wisoom.” It will quickly become clear why I felt it was necessary to document and write about these friends of mine and their brilliant witticisms. As you are about to see, these guys bring it strong. Also, what follows gives rare insight into the quality of my social life here in lovely Iroquois County. Of course, as many of you have already imagined, I have had to edit the material heavily. I can’t even mention a large portion of it. Those spicy entries are not included in this or any other chapter.
11 10 10 7:34 PM We were at BW3’s watching the Cavs play the Nets. “Anthony Morrow (a player for the Nets) should have a nickname. It should be Anthony “Bone” Morrow.” Boss.
11 10 10 7:46 PM “The other Cavs must step up in Lebron’s absence.” Mobe. I am totally speechless; I can’t think of a single thing to say about that.
11 10 10 8:56 PM “Twenty-year-old girls are hot.” Mobe.
11 26 10 4:23 PM Once again at BW3’s. This time we were watching Nebraska play Colorado in a football game. “That guy has a big ass.” Mobe. Sigh and sigh again.
12 11 10 12:02 AM “Your pen name should be J. Owen Sheep.” Boss. I have no idea where that came from.
3 4 11 10:24PM Ryan-Tyler is a @#$%&. A great big ^%&*#@@ with a $#%%^&*&^% and a %^^&$#$#$ that &%%^**@@#$@. Boss. That comment speaks for itself.
3 4 11 10:25 PM My book says that I said that “Shawna is so pretty and amazingly perfect.” Uh, it appears to be written in a young woman’s handwriting. Those things happen when I forget to take my “Nuggets of Wisoom” book with me to the bathroom. Interestingly enough, the previous comment by Boss is not in my handwriting either.
Those are the types of entries that populate my little spiral notebook. I can feel the anticipation, can’t you? We all know that the interesting stuff is coming up next, right? It is time to take a look at all the advice I have received about Athena. Most statements are not going to be attributed to a specific person. The reasons for that might become apparent after you read the following little “nuggets of wisoom” spewed forth by various friends, acquaintances, and drunk strangers who wonder what the hell I am writing about in a dive bar at a table all by myself. Prepare yourself for what follows even though I bet you all have a very good idea about what comes next.
“Uh, if she were interested, she would call you.”
“Give up; it is time to move on.”
“You are wasting a lot of time on a woman who isn’t even real.” I really have no idea what that means.
“You are crazy. You have lost your mind.” I completely understand what that means.
“Give it up.” I understand that, too.
“You should have given up yesterday, five months ago, a year ago.” I was told that when I hadn’t even known Athena for a year. I must admit that I am willing to listen to those who would argue that I don’t know Athena at all. That sounds reasonable enough to me.
One woman, one of those random drunks that I mentioned earlier, looked at me for a long time without saying anything when I asked her what I should do. Eventually, she gave up the following little gem: “Has it ever occurred to you that there might be something wrong with you?” Let me tell you how I met this person. I was working on this essay at a local bar when a waiter walked over to my table with a check that wasn’t mine. Two women from across the bar sent me their dinner bill. Sigh and pffttt! I went over to their table to ask them exactly why I should buy them their dinner. Of course, they had no good answer. I think they just wanted to know what I was doing all by myself with a pen and notebook. Eventually, Phil (the same Phil from a previous essay) showed up, and we all sat together. I told them that if they wanted me to buy their dinner, they had to eat it with me. They were both done eating, so I got off easy. I haven’t seen either of them since.
“It is time to give up. She can be your muse. Don’t dedicate your life to someone who is not reciprocating.” My only reaction to this little nugget is a question, one posed rhetorically and hopefully answered for themselves by every single reader.1 Have you ever heard of anything more pitiful than a person who has a muse who refuses to even acknowledge them? Feel free to let me know if you come up with something. I am not going to hold my breath while I wait on the responses.
The most curious thing I heard was, “Your eyes are attached to your brain.” I must admit that confuses the hell out of me. I am at a total loss for any type of reasonable explanation.
The best response I received to my “So, is it time for me to give up?” question came from Sarah, a server at a local restaurant. I asked her, and she said, “sure.” Believe it or not, that response is probably close to perfect. I learned long ago that most people are way too caught up in their own lives to worry about another person’s nonsense. That is probably the way it should be.
It would appear that not a single person believes that I am doing myself any good by tapping out essay after essay about a person who doesn’t seem to want to even speak to me. Their message is clear, but I bet you can all guess what my response is, can’t you?
I briefly mentioned in a previous essay that there are downsides to those powerful and inexplicable instant connections that some people are capable of experiencing. For me, the upside is far greater than any downside I can imagine. I am changed, I am inspired, I am in shape, and I am very tired. Those are all good things, and they are all a direct result of me meeting Athena. As for all the writing I have been doing, I am compelled to continue, I simply don’t have a choice. For reasons I will never understand she continues to inspire me in a way that I never imagined possible.
Now for the bad news, and it is pretty bad. Meeting Athena only reconfirms all the beliefs I have had about waiting for the right person. I’m certainly not saying that Athena is the right person because it sure appears that she is not. I would think that the right person for me would want to talk to me. But exactly how am I supposed to settle for someone who does not inspire me or is not on the same wavelength as me when I know what the possibilities are? I hate to say this, but deep down, everyone reading this essay will agree with me if they give it some thought. We all know people who settled because they didn’t want to be alone. I know lots of broke guys who don’t go out much anymore because their child support payments are so high. How on earth did that happen? Hell, I remember one conversation I had with a woman who admitted she had settled when she married her husband. Incredibly, he was sitting right beside her when she said it. I hear they are now divorced. I am shocked to my core, how in the name of humanity did that marriage break up?
The sad bottom line is that once any person experienced what I did with Athena, it does not seem reasonable or even possible to just pick someone because they don’t smell too bad or because you are not looking forward to dying alone. Being alone strikes me as the only reasonable alternative. I am thinking that if everyone experienced exactly what I did when Athena introduced herself, they would all find nothing but inspiration in these essays. Criticisms would fade to subtle admiration as they came to understand that giving up is an unimaginable, as well as a reprehensible, impossibility. Also, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
Once again, we are back to that wavelength stuff. I became convinced long ago that I was living in a very different world from the one everyone else was waking up in. The thing is, I instantly knew Athena was occupying the same planet I was. If she doesn’t realize that or just doesn’t care, then there isn’t any more I can do about it. I am satisfied that I have made my position clear. I would rest my case, but I have no idea if I am the prosecution or the defense. Maybe I should just work toward a plea bargain while the jury is still out.
Postscript
I have been studying the mathematics behind coincidences for some time now. There are some events that we, as human beings, think are rare occurrences that really are not. These events are found to be quite commonplace when viewed through a mathematical lens. Many of the essays that I write deal with this counter-intuitive nature of reality. Look over Volume One of Random Thoughts from a Nonlinear Mind, and you will see what I mean.
Initially, I was going to end this essay without a postscript, but something just happened that we will all find curious. I often work on these essays while listening to music or watching TV. On this occasion, I happened to have my TV on. An episode of the old Batman show starring Adam West was just shown. They ended the show with a tease about the next guest villain. I am so glad that I DVR these old episodes because the next show features a guest that I have never seen. The next “bad guy” that tries to doom Batman and Robin is none other than Olga, Queen of the Cossacks. They just showed a glimpse of her on her horse. I am completely astonished.
I have never heard of this villain, but she certainly exists; at least she does in the fictional world of Batman’s Gotham City. In the next episode of Batman, she will try to “do away” with the Caped Crusaders, but we all know she will fail miserably. I will admit that it is quite a coincidence that this episode was previewed as I was finishing the final draft of this essay. In my mind, though, it doesn’t come close to what happened when a certain dude met a particular chick at a punk rock show. I am still trying to work out the mathematics of that deal. I will be sure to let everyone know precisely when I come up with something, but I don’t think you all should be holding your breath while waiting.
Notes
Note 1. The eighth episode of The Simpson’s seventh season is entitled “Mother Simpson.” I had to mention it because of the following scene between Homer, his mother, and Lisa.
Mother Simpson (singing Bob Dylan’s Blowin’ in the Wind): How many roads must a man walk down? Before you can call him a man.
Homer: 7.
Lisa: No, dad, it’s a rhetorical question.
Homer: OK, 8.
Lisa: Dad, do you even know what “rhetorical” means?
Homer: Do I know what “rhetorical” means?
