Trying to Rise Above the Torpor of Summer

My neglect of this blog (and any other type of writing, other than emails) is Exhibit A of my current lack of emotional, physical, and spiritual energy of late.  I’m beginning to think I may have the polar opposite of seasonal affective disorder–I become more sluggish and unproductive in the summer months, whereas most people with SAD completely shut down in the wintertime.  Columbus has been tropical this summer, and the relative humidity saps my energy.  I am sure that the months of 13-hour workdays has not helped, either.

We shall soon see.  At 4 p.m. yesterday, the summer quarter rush at Columbus State Community College ended, and with it my evening hours at the bookstore.  From now until fall, I will only be working 9 a.m. until 12 noon on Saturday mornings.  Susie is especially happy at this news, because it means I will be home with her more evenings, and we’ll be able to go to the pool, and we can eat dinner earlier.  (It’s been so damn hot that neither of us wants to cook, so we’ve eaten out most evenings.)

Susie worked as a Comfest volunteer for the first time this year.  She enjoyed the work, especially getting a free T-shirt and a pink Comfest mug, but she hated having to pick up so many cigarette butts.  She made quite liberal use of the hand sanitizers strategically located by the Porta-Potties.

I went to Comfest both Friday night and Saturday afternoon-evening.  I worked at the bookstore, during its extended rush hours, on Saturday from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.  I know I’ll be grateful for it once they hand me the paycheck in Human Resources, but I still had a being-kept-after-school feeling during the entire work day.

Comfest negatively affected me in only one way.  Susie and I waited on W. 5th Ave. and High St. for the 5 bus to Grandview for the monthly Return of Nite Owl Theater at the Grandview.  (The movie was The Terror, with Boris Karloff and Jack Nicholson.)  The exodus from Goodale Park snarled up traffic so much that the 5 never arrived.  It’s been my practice to walk to the theater on Fritz nights, but between the proliferation of drunks and the humidity, I told Susie this month we’d take the bus.  (The movie at the end of July will be Teenagers from Outer Space, which will go along wonderfully with Pulpfest ’11 at the Ramada Plaza.)

I did quite well at the Really, Really Free Market on the last Sunday in June.  Earlier tonight, I sent an email to the Webmaster of Notebook Stories bragging of my achievement.  Susie came away with some clothes, and I came away with five spiral-bound planners.  (Their dates range from 2006 to 2008, but if I ignore the pre-printed dates, they will be quite useful.)  Two were from Greek-letter organizations (Phi Delta Theta fraternity and Chi Omega sorority), and the other three were from St. Bonaventure University (where Thomas Merton taught English from 1940 until he resigned to join the Trappist monastery in Kentucky), Southern Methodist University (which houses George W. Bush’s Presidential library–I wonder if all the pictures have been colored in the books), and Seattle Pacific University.  (I found something amusing in the St. Bonaventure planner–under Saturday, February 2, 2008, one of the events in the schedule is 4:00 p.m. Pre-Super Bowl Mass and Reception.)

My cache of new notebooks, courtesy of the Really, Really Free Market on  June 26.

There was absolutely no way Susie or I were going anywhere near downtown on Friday night, when Red White and Boom was happening.  I am lukewarm at best about patriotic celebrations.  I think they–and the people who participate in them–are the (very!) secular equivalents of the ostentatiously pious folks that Jesus lambasted in the Sermon on the Mount.  (When you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; they love to say their prayers standing up in synagogue and at the street-corners, for everyone to see them.  I tell you this: they have their reward already.  Matthew 6:5, New English Bible.)

Susie and I went to First Friday, a potluck held at church on–when else?–the first Friday of every month.  The attendance was pretty sparse, between Red White and Boom and the congregation being scattered to the four winds for vacation.  We found some friends of ours.  Susie spent most of the time conspiring with talking to a kid who will be her lab partner for science classes at The Graham School come September.

I took her to Kafé Kerouac after we left First Friday, and this turned out to be quite the stroke of good timing.  She learned about their Wednesday night poetry slams, and she plans to go and read some of her poetry.  (I’ve always avoided poetry and writing groups, because listening to them discussing their poetry and their projects reminds me of teenage boys bragging about sex: The ones who are talking about it the most, are doing it the least.  I have never publicly read or participated in a slam because my voice is almost totally without affect–an Asperger’s symptom characteristic–and performance counts as much, if not more, than content.

While I was typing, my idiot neighbor has set off a string of fireworks and firecrackers.  There is a momentary lull at present, but I’m waiting for the noise to start up again, so I can call the police, and the dispatcher can hear the noise in the background.  (I have had minimal personal experience with shooting off fireworks and recreational explosives.  Since most of the jobs I’ve held in my 29 years in the workforce have involved typing, I realized that having hands is a good idea.  The only body parts I no longer have are my tonsils and gallbladder.  That’s enough.)

I never really how truly exhausted and sleep-deprived I was until yesterday.  After I left the bookstore, Susie and I took the bus to Graceland Shopping Center to pay the electric bill at Kroger, pick up dinner, and go to the hardware store.  She and I went to China Garden, a smorgasbord she and I both enjoy.  She and I both ate until we could barely move, and we were walking in major slow motion across the parking lot to Sears Hardware.

Once we got home, I told Susie I was going to take a brief nap before I did anything else.  I remember my bedside digital clock saying 8:20 when I lay down.  I didn’t even get undressed, not even my shoes.  When I felt rested enough to get out of bed and get on with the day, it was 8:30, as in a.m.  It was Sunday morning coming down.

Update: I called the police about the pyrotechnics next door.  I learned to use 911 for any time I call the Columbus Police Department, unless I’m in the mood to wade through their voice mail prompts and spend four minutes on hold.  The entire block smells like sulfur, and I hear the whistle of bottle rockets every few minutes, and no sign of the police.  If I had it to do over again, I would have called and reported gunshots.  (Hey, I’m no expert in ballistics–gunshots and firecrackers do sound alike to the untrained ear, don’t they?)

After breakfast this morning, Susie and I went to a yard sale on Medary Ave.  She bought a file folder, and I bought a pristine copy of The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway: The Finca Vigia Edition, a 1987 Book-of-the-Month Club edition.  It’ll reside on my shelf between my 1938 Modern Library edition of The Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway and Carlos Baker’s exhaustive biography.

It was “altogether fitting and proper,” as Lincoln would say, that I should buy this book.  (Susie brought it to my attention, and I happily ponied up the $.50 for it.)  Yesterday was the 50th anniversary of Hemingway’s death, by his own hand, in Ketchum, Idaho.  I haven’t read the obituaries that appeared, and I am sure it was front-page news all over the world.  However, through the many connections I’ve made in the old-time radio world, I found Harry Reasoner’s radio obituary, broadcast on CBS radio, where he tried–with iffy success–to emulate Hemingway’s prose style.

The Doo Dah Parade beckons tomorrow afternoon.  Neither Susie nor I are setting alarms, although after my megasleep yesterday into this morning, I am now quite wide awake.  Nonetheless, we’ll be awake in plenty of time to make it to the Short North for the parade.

Peaceably to Assemble…

Last Friday, I walked past the Convention Center en route home from work.  This past weekend, it hosted Ohayocon ’11, a convention celebrating Japanese pop culture (anime, manga, etc.).  A co-worker was waiting at the bus stop when I told him I was going to hoof it home, and he walked with me for a few blocks, until I turned east on E. Goodale by the Church of the Annunciation Greek Orthodox Cathedral.  We passed by quite a few people who were at Ohayocon (many of them Anglos) and they were all dressed in many different shades of bizarre.  (I always got a crack out of going past the Convention Center during Marcon–Multiple Alternative Realities Convention–when I saw Darth Vaders, Klingons, and C-3POs standing outside smoking.)

Bizarre as the costumes and hairstyles of the people from Ohayocon were, I’m glad that no one seemed to be hassling them or giving them a second glance.  There are usually no shortage of people who think the First Amendment’s “right of the people peaceably to assemble” only applies to their particular group, party, religion, or political philosophy.
Unless there is an out-of-the-building errand, I spend my lunch hours in the Bureau of Workers’ Compensation library on the third-floor mezzanine of the William Green Building where I work.  I either sit inside and read The Wall Street Journal or The Dispatch, or else I’ll sit at the little table outside the doors and read, write in my diary, or doze.  Two years ago this week, I was sitting at the table with my journal, and I heard a middle-aged guy on a cell phone, pacing the floor and obviously looking not very happy.  I heard his end of the conversation (whether I wanted to or not, and he wasn’t make any effort to conceal it), and found that he was on the phone to the Holiday Inn in Worthington.  He was complaining because the Holiday Inn was hosting the Winter Wickedness Perversion Fest.
He was an ordained minister, he said (at least twice), and kept asking if they would have hosted “the Kyoo [sic] Klux Klan” if they were wanting to hold an event.  He talked about how he was going to boycott the hotel in the future (an empty threat if you live in Central Ohio) and urge other people to do the same.  I felt sorry for the minimum-wage desk clerk unfortunate enough to have caught this call.
The fact that he mentioned that he was an ordained minister two or three times, and spoke loudly enough to be heard by the whole mezzanine made me wonder how much time he spent meditating on Matthew 6:1: “Be careful not to make a show of your religion before men; if you do, no reward awaits you in your Father’s house in heaven.”
The Winter Wickedness Perversion Fest was a gathering of people who realized that sex was for something other than procreation, and have quite varied ways of expressing sexuality.  I don’t personally know the man who was so irate about the hotel’s hosting this, but I played amateur psychiatrist and wondered if his displeasure boiled down to “and damn it, they didn’t invite me!”  (After all, if you need to locate a militant anti-gay rights crusader, the first place to look is usually in a Roadside Rest or public park men’s room.  And it requires a computer to chronicle all the Republican and fundamentalist Christian leaders who are serial adulterers and divorced multiple times.)
I’ve seen protests over movies.  The Colony Theater in Marietta, for many years, showed soft-core porn movies on Friday and Saturday nights, and when I was in high school, they inaugurated this with a showing of Oh! Calcutta!, wanting to launch the porn showing with an artistic bent, I suppose.  Naturally, a large contingent of religious fundamentalists were protesting, one guy bringing his German shepherd, carrying a sign that said, “I wouldn’t take a dog to see this movie!”  What I didn’t see was anyone pointing loaded weapons at them and forcing them to see the movie.  This was a precursor to the people who would protest The Last Temptation of Christ, mostly people who lacked the insight or literacy to actually read the novel or see the movie, and understand that it was/is a highly moral movie.  French fundamentalists showed their love of Jesus and his message in 1988 by throwing Molotov cocktails into a Paris movie house during a showing, injuring 13 people and severely burning four of them.  Who would Jesus bomb?
I’ve struggled with the issue myself.  In November 1982, I took my first vacation since moving to Boston, since The Crimson was on hiatus for the Thanksgiving holiday.  I took a Greyhound down to Washington, D.C. and stayed in the youth hostel on Eye St., NW.  I made my usual pilgrimages–Ford’s Theater, the house where Lincoln died, the graves of JFK and RFK, the Smithsonian, etc.  The hostel was in Franklin Square at that time, and I began seeing “DEATH TO THE KLAN” posters on walls, fences, and trash cans all over the District.  I gleaned from what I heard on the street and what appeared in The Washington Post there was supposed to be a Ku Klux Klan rally that Saturday.  (In case the person mentioned in the fourth paragraph reads this blog: Please note the pronunciation of the first word in their name!)
I went to be a part of the protest, although I didn’t go there with “death to the Klan” in mind.  Unlike the majority of the protesters, I never questioned the Klan’s right to be there and to march.  As despicable as they were, the law that allowed Vietnam War protests and the March on Washington to take place covered them as well.  I would be there to let them know what I thought of them.  (The march was the brainchild of pro-Soviet Trotskyist loudmouths known as the Sparticist League, a self-styled “revolutionary communist” group.) I was troubled when I saw one guy yammering on about how he was going to get a Klansman’s head stuffed and hung in his recreation room.
Since the Klan never appeared, the crowd who had arrived there loaded for bear, and spoiling for a fight, went wild, breaking shop windows around Lafayette Square and the White House, and charged across Pennsylvania Ave. into Lafayette Square.  Pennsylvania Ave. was still open to through traffic at that time; this changed after the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing.  I saw a man driving a car which contained his wife and two young children.  They were in Washington as tourists, and wondered just what the hell they had stumbled into.  The man turned his car from 17th St. NW onto Pennsylvania, near the Old Executive Office Building, and I saw a man very deliberately march over to their car and put his fist through their back window.
Crossing over into Lafayette Park, the protesters rioters went after the police, who had lined the streets with sawhorses and dressed in full riot gear.  I was not going to pick up any type of projectile, but I was barely in the park when I felt something whoosh past my right ear.  I realized just how bad the situation was when I noticed it was a chunk of cement the size of a softball.  Had it been one millimeter in the other direction, I would have been the recipient of some massive brain damage.
But I didn’t have the time to contemplate that, because the wind shifted and a massive cloud of tear gas blew right into my face.  For a second, it felt like my face was on fire.  My dad told me about basic training when he was in the Army, when he and his fellow privates were confined in a Quonset hut that was flooded with tear gas, before they were allowed to put on their gas masks.  Tear gas is made from the active ingredient in onions, and my first instinct was to wipe my eyes.  Two women pushed me onto a bench and made me sit on my hands until my eyes stopped burning.  They told me I’d be rubbing it into my eyes deeper.
The Sparticists (their official name is the International Communist League (Fourth Internationalist)) who were so eager to organize a riot against the KKK were too young to remember that it was not so long ago that membership in their organization meant no driver’s license, no government employment, no veteran’s benefits (even if honorably discharged), no bonding for jobs (which meant not even work flipping burgers, because you need to be bonded if you’re handling customers’ money), and other prohibitions.  Communist organizations were so heavily infiltrated by the FBI that several cities had cells comprised totally of agents!  (The running joke among leftists was, “How can you tell the FBI informant at a Communist Party meeting?  He’s the only one who ever pays dues.”)
I have zero interest in football, college or professional.  That doesn’t mean that I want the pre- and post-game craziness around High St. that happens on Saturdays all fall to stop.  I know better than to venture into that section of town after a game, especially if the Buckeyes were victorious, but I would never deny them the right to gather to celebrate a victory.  (During the 1970s, Columbus police dealt much more harshly with protesters against the Vietnam War than they did with football revelers, and the post-game crowds usually caused much more property damage.)