Real Life

wild rabbitEarly in high school, a friend of mine asked if I would like to shoot soda cans and bottles in his back yard. Having been born with a heterogametic chromosome configuration but into a world without the sanitized war of Halo (1-4) or Call of Duty (1-10) or Battlefield (1-11, plus 12 expansion packs), I said yes. My friend had a pneumatic, pump BB gun. We walked into the woods where he had obviously done this before, based on the aluminum debris littering the area and various shards of different colored, broken glass beside a fallen tree. We lined up cans and bottles (sometimes only the bottoms of bottles whose tops had been shattered) on the fallen tree. Because there was only one gun, we took turns shooting at the cans and bottles. And while every boy considers himself an expert marksman, fashioned after the likes of John Wayne or Dirty Harry, actually hitting the can or bottle proved a little more difficult, no matter the distance we stood from the targets. Real life is funny.

We laid down on a bed of dead tree leaves, twigs and the odd clumps of grass determined to grow despite the lack of sunlight and peat-like soil. Lying prostrate on the ground improved our aim a little and I actually hit a can or two. It was while we were on the ground that, beyond the fallen tree holding our targets, we saw a rabbit emerge from behind a thin, switch-like pine. My friend, holding the gun, quietly loaded and pumped the gun, giggled and took aim at the rabbit. Instantly, my stomach went to ice. Time slowed down as my eyes locked on to the little rabbit and competing thoughts fought to make it to my paralyzed tongue. Should I yell at my friend not to shoot, or scream at the rabbit to run? I jumped when the shot went off, and so too did the rabbit. Unlike the movies where bad guy falls instantly dead, the little rabbit jumped repeatedly into the air, never making a sound, but wounded and in extreme pain. To this day, writing this, the events are before me in Technicolor. My friend, equally silent, watched the wounded rabbit, smiled, got up, reloaded the gun, walked over to the panting, confused, bleeding and exhausted rabbit and shot it again, killing it. Real life.

I could go on and on about how America is awash in guns, desensitized by violence and more knowledgeable about the Kardashian’s and sports than Orwell or Shakespeare, but that’s for another day. Suffice it to say that it seems bravado and showmanship have eclipsed education and empathy in America.

I share all of this because I am again haunted. Driving home from the supermarket Sunday, I was in the left lane of a four lane divided road. In front of me and in the right lane (having just passed me on the right) was an enormous white Suburban. Ahead of us, on the grassy median strip was a small squirrel. Apparently frightened by the sounds of the oncoming vehicles, the squirrel attempted to seek shelter in the trees across the street. Again, time slowed down and I will forever have it in Technicolor horror. The squirrel darted across my path about thirty feet in front of me as I slowed down, somehow knowing the squirrel’s intentions. The Suburban, oblivious and in a hurry did not. The squirrel somehow managed to cross under the truck after the front left wheel and before the left rear wheel. There, it momentarily froze under the train car-length automobile, pulling in its bushy tail and almost holding its front and rear paws together in an attempt to make itself smaller. I can imagine the thunderous noise in the animal’s ears.  Unfortunately, this life saving maneuver was held only fleetingly. The squirrel tried to make it to the curb, grass and trees barely two feet away, only to be hit by the right rear tire. As if hitting play on a long paused nightmare, the squirrel jumped repeatedly into the air, grievously wounded, then it hit the ground one last time, fell on its side and moved no more; the rabbit’s death years ago drowning my thoughts. Screaming and swearing, I made my way home, parked in the garage and cried. Real life hurts.

Real life is neither a movie, nor a video game. And while it can be beautiful, inspirational and compassionate, sometimes it is ugly, painful, unfair and hurts.

Summertime Thoughts

And now for a few thoughts:

I always wonder what my dog is thinking when he gets inside an elevator. We go into a small room, he looks out at the room we just left, watches the strange doors close and sees a completely different world when the strange doors open. What happened to the other world? What happened?

Is there anything better than a home grown tomato?

Nothing says summer better than hydrangeas in bloom.

In a perfect world, everything would smell like gardenias.

I love how time dissolves when I’m gardening.

Too bad I rarely get the chance.

Too bad it’s 150 degrees outside when I do get the chance.

Summer is going by too fast.

2013 is going by too fast.

My life is going by too fast. I still have a to-do list from when I was six that I can’t seem to get to.

I can’t think of anything so profound I would have to have it as a tattoo. And I can’t imagine any tattoo that isn’t an Oscar Wilde quote. Or George Orwell.

I love driving.

I hate other drivers.

I love to watch airplanes. I always wonder where they are going or from where they have come. What vacation stories are waiting to be discovered or retold. Take me with you.

I feel like my dog in an elevator when I fly. I go to the airport, sit in an aluminum tube for a few hours and exit into a totally different culture. Wonderful!

The older I get, the more I love my wife.

The older my children get, the more I love my wife.

The older my wife gets, the more I love life.

What’s next?

BlinkerMan!

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Is this the hand of BlinkerMan?

This is the story of one Lionel Moore, accountant, pizza aficionado and, who, on a cold March morning, became the hero/vigilante known as BlinkerMan.

Where he came from and where he lives now does not matter. The car he drives is known only in whispers and hushed tones, based on the unreliable reports of witnesses and passersby. Some claim it to be an old Mercury Grand Marquis, the color of which is debated as grey, tan or white. Others claim it is either a Honda CR-V or a Toyota RAV4. Still others claim it is not a car at all, but a blue 1964 Vespa. His actions have taken place in areas as widespread as Middletown, Rhode Island and Storrs, Connecticut to Burke, Virginia and Houston, Texas. It seems the only thing people can agree on, whether supporters or detractors, is that he was there and he made a difference.

The first reported incident occurred in Rhode Island in March of 1983 in the town neighboring that picturesque seaside tourist destination, Newport. Witnesses claim that following one particularly long red light on West Main Road, a disadvantaged late model red Ford Explorer, devoid of the once ubiquitous directional stem coming off of the steering column changed lanes without notice. According to eyewitnesses, what followed is reported here:

“All I did was change lanes,” claims Bob (whose last name was withheld at his request).

“It’s true,” said 86 year old Mary P. of Bristol, “I was behind him when he suddenly pulled in front of me. There was no warning, no directional light, nothing!”
Thanks to the cat-like reflexes of Mary P. she was able to swerve onto the sidewalk and avoid an accident only to mow down the prized rose bush of Middletown resident Sadie McQwerty and come to a stop only after pinning her rose bush and mailbox to Ms. McQwerty’s garage door.

“It’s sad,” said Ms. McQwerty, “Where is the governmental oversight? How can we, as law abiding citizens, be forced to purchase automobiles without the directional stem being required on all cars? There was a time once, when all cars had blinkers. Not now. I can’t believe we have to endure this. I miss that rose bush. You know, I tried to prune it back after the accident to see if it could be saved, but her rear tire snapped the bud union and there was no saving it.”

Which leaves this reporter to wonder, was Ms. McQwerty’s rose bush the first fatality caused by the automobile manufacturer’s assembly line malfeasance? Of course, what happened next caused a statewide stir and generated newspaper headlines and letters to the editor for weeks afterward.

According to Bob (whose last name is still being withheld at his request), unaware of the rose bush murder taking place behind him, he continued northward on West Main Road when:

“All of a sudden, this car came up on the right side of my Explorer and, out of the corner of my eye I saw his driver’s side window going down. The next thing I knew my passenger side window exploded inward, covering the Big Mac I was eating while driving in shards of broken glass, and lying next to my fries, covered in special sauce was a directional stem! I took the stem, wiped the special sauce on my shirt and stuck it in the hole on the steering column in which I used to keep my lit cigarette while I was texting and driving. It fit like a charm! I clicked it down and the left blinker blinked! I clicked it up and the right blinker blinked! I don’t know who that person was but they’re a hero to me!”

And so it was that reports started to surface, first in Rhode Island and then further out into Connecticut of windows being smashed and directional stems appearing. In one particularly strange occurrence, outside of a Panera north of Houston, Texas last week, a patron who had arrived at the restaurant earlier in the afternoon found a directional stem tucked under the windshield wiper of their pickup truck.

“What struck me odd, in addition to the stem, which I had never seen before, was how BlinkerMan was able to get it up under the windshield wiper of my truck. As you can see, my truck is a good twelve feet off the ground.”

As if to prove the point, eighteen year old Austin Bibble removed the specially constructed stepladder assembly from under his truck’s chassis and leaned it against the open driver’s side door in order to climb up into his vehicle.

“See, it’s not easy! I don’t know how he did it. Oh, look, I can see Oklahoma from up here!”

Reports of this kind now seem commonplace across America. It seems that BlinkerMan continues to traverse the roadways of our nation, constantly on the prowl for cars not equipped with directionals, smashing windows and leaving their startled drivers with a safety device once under consideration by many in Washington, D.C. as mandatory and in the public’s best interest, but whose existence was snuffed out by the ever behemoth NRA who claimed back in 2006 that the requirement of these implements was an infringement of the Second Amendment.

“We fought to have that particular piece of legislation struck down because it was only created by misinformed and uneducated liberals who sought to penalize the good law abiding people of this country by requiring this so-called “safety” device. We saw it for what it was, a backdoor attempt to extend this to a national gun registry and the first steps toward a run up to a national Day of Confiscation of all guns,” replied Wayne LaPierre while clutching his custom red, white and blue leather wrapped AR-15 with a particularly fetching American flag wrapped silencer.

When asked if he ever personally used the directional in his car, Mr. LaPierre replied, “I have told my driver to NEVER use that symbol of an overreaching Obamastan tyrannical government, or I would shoot him.”

Attempts to reach BlinkerMan have failed repeatedly. Requests posted on his Facebook page and Twitter accounts have gone unanswered. Unconfirmed reports out of Hollywood claim that a movie version is being planned with Woody Allen in the lead role and Lon Chaney in full Phantom of the Opera makeup as Wayne LaPierre. According to Mr. Allen, “Hey, it can’t be worse than the Hulk.”

Phantom Wayne
Phantom Wayne

Here is a How-To link for those unfamiliar with the concept. More on this story as it develops. Until then, drive safely.