I'm posting this site in response to a surprisingly steady trickle of email about my old column. I won't be posting anything new; just thought it might be easier to respond with this link when someone asks me for "a copy of that bit about the thing with whatchahoozy that one time." I do post regularly on Boxing the Octopus, a blog about the writing life, which I share with my friend Colleen Thompson. Comments are enabled here but no attention will be paid. If you need to rattle my cage or would like permission to reprint or quote, contact me through my website, www.jonirodgers.com.
Thanks for stopping by. I hope this finds everything well and groovy in your world.
Shalom and best ~
Joni
Monday, May 5, 2008
Sunday, July 6, 2003
Casualties of the Culture War
All quiet on the Western wear front
Good evening Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea! I've decided to become a Culture War correspondent.
You know, the Culture War? It was declared last week by Justice Antonin Scalia, after the Supreme Court ruled that what's legal for 95% of people can't be illegal for the remaining 5%, just because they were easy to torment in tenth grade. Scalia complained the court had signed on to the "homosexual agendas" and "taken sides in the culture war."
Now, I've worked, volunteered, and attended church with many gay people. Their agenda is full of riveting stuff like track lighting, a nice paella, and singing "Town Without Pity" on karaoke night. The Culture War is a lot more interesting, so in the words of Walter Winchell, "Let's go to press!"
The triumph of boxers over briefs has been confirmed, but bell bottoms--thought to be defeated in the late 1970s--have flared up again and are proving difficult to unseat.
Paper and plastic skirmish daily in the checkout lane. "Decimate the rain forest or perpetuate the landfill?" you ask. "Bring canvas totes," say the greens, but many of those are made in Micronesian sweat shops and the rest smell like halibut. "For the love of St. Basil, pick one!" says the lady behind you, "I've got perishables!" The Battle of the Bags could go any direction from here.
Spam (luncheon meat) remains stubbornly entrenched in the cultural, well, trenches. Meanwhile, spam (unsolicited ads for unmentionable enhancements and inspirational stories that tell you to "forward this to ten people unless you are ashamed of Jesus!") threatens to overrun our entire electronic communications network, conspiring with phone solicitors to claim your life as their advertising space.
Anorexia and self-loathing advanced with the recent revision of the Body Mass Index. The new "normal" standard (a BMI under 25) makes most of us, including Michael Jordan, officially fat. You'd think the majority is by definition normal, but the Culture War Department has declared body weight a character flaw, not a physical trait. Any woman appearing in glossy print or on screen must starve herself to Nancy Reagan proportions or risk being described as "spunky" in TV Guide.
The same dynamic extends to white people. You'd think since we're the majority, we'd be the cool ones, but no. MTV has no plans for a Def Polka Jam. Bollywood and the Buena Vista Social Club are in. Western wear and a "Very Brady" anything are out. So is Eminem. This is not a bad thing.
Last week's ruling was another Culture War double-eye-poke for Texas, a state peppered with PR landmines from Jasper to the Anna Nicole show. When Houston's DA argued before the Supreme Court that cops busting into your private middle-of-the-night business is "a state's rights issue," I backpedaled like mad. Houston has a wonderful Museum of Fine Arts. Really! And a fantastic Grand Opera. And just about everybody has front teeth. Even that guy who married his fifteen-year-old cousin!
If there is a Culture War, we're waging it on ourselves. Weapons include duct tape propaganda, Calvin Klein commercials, political correctness, and our own greed. Among the casualties are family vacations to France, self esteem for teens, peace of mind for the elderly; a middle school orchestra here, an acre of old growth there. The big winners so far are WalMart, subdivisions, cell phones, and porn. Independent book stores, homegrown tomatoes, and adequate sleep are under siege. As in any war, children are most profoundly affected.
Key conflicts rage on. Will the quest for excellence be overwhelmed by the quest for excess? Will fear win out over reason? Grasping over generosity? Sexiness over substance? How many seasons of "Joe Millionaire" will we endure before writers rise up and take back television? How many self-help books will we consume before realizing true fulfillment comes from helping others?
"Keep the faith," Chet Huntly used to sign off. "There will be better and happier news, one day, if we work at it."
War is hell, but I remain hopeful.
Copyright©Joni Rodgers/Diversified Words & Voices, 2002
Good evening Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea! I've decided to become a Culture War correspondent.
You know, the Culture War? It was declared last week by Justice Antonin Scalia, after the Supreme Court ruled that what's legal for 95% of people can't be illegal for the remaining 5%, just because they were easy to torment in tenth grade. Scalia complained the court had signed on to the "homosexual agendas" and "taken sides in the culture war."
Now, I've worked, volunteered, and attended church with many gay people. Their agenda is full of riveting stuff like track lighting, a nice paella, and singing "Town Without Pity" on karaoke night. The Culture War is a lot more interesting, so in the words of Walter Winchell, "Let's go to press!"
The triumph of boxers over briefs has been confirmed, but bell bottoms--thought to be defeated in the late 1970s--have flared up again and are proving difficult to unseat.
Paper and plastic skirmish daily in the checkout lane. "Decimate the rain forest or perpetuate the landfill?" you ask. "Bring canvas totes," say the greens, but many of those are made in Micronesian sweat shops and the rest smell like halibut. "For the love of St. Basil, pick one!" says the lady behind you, "I've got perishables!" The Battle of the Bags could go any direction from here.
Spam (luncheon meat) remains stubbornly entrenched in the cultural, well, trenches. Meanwhile, spam (unsolicited ads for unmentionable enhancements and inspirational stories that tell you to "forward this to ten people unless you are ashamed of Jesus!") threatens to overrun our entire electronic communications network, conspiring with phone solicitors to claim your life as their advertising space.
Anorexia and self-loathing advanced with the recent revision of the Body Mass Index. The new "normal" standard (a BMI under 25) makes most of us, including Michael Jordan, officially fat. You'd think the majority is by definition normal, but the Culture War Department has declared body weight a character flaw, not a physical trait. Any woman appearing in glossy print or on screen must starve herself to Nancy Reagan proportions or risk being described as "spunky" in TV Guide.
The same dynamic extends to white people. You'd think since we're the majority, we'd be the cool ones, but no. MTV has no plans for a Def Polka Jam. Bollywood and the Buena Vista Social Club are in. Western wear and a "Very Brady" anything are out. So is Eminem. This is not a bad thing.
Last week's ruling was another Culture War double-eye-poke for Texas, a state peppered with PR landmines from Jasper to the Anna Nicole show. When Houston's DA argued before the Supreme Court that cops busting into your private middle-of-the-night business is "a state's rights issue," I backpedaled like mad. Houston has a wonderful Museum of Fine Arts. Really! And a fantastic Grand Opera. And just about everybody has front teeth. Even that guy who married his fifteen-year-old cousin!
If there is a Culture War, we're waging it on ourselves. Weapons include duct tape propaganda, Calvin Klein commercials, political correctness, and our own greed. Among the casualties are family vacations to France, self esteem for teens, peace of mind for the elderly; a middle school orchestra here, an acre of old growth there. The big winners so far are WalMart, subdivisions, cell phones, and porn. Independent book stores, homegrown tomatoes, and adequate sleep are under siege. As in any war, children are most profoundly affected.
Key conflicts rage on. Will the quest for excellence be overwhelmed by the quest for excess? Will fear win out over reason? Grasping over generosity? Sexiness over substance? How many seasons of "Joe Millionaire" will we endure before writers rise up and take back television? How many self-help books will we consume before realizing true fulfillment comes from helping others?
"Keep the faith," Chet Huntly used to sign off. "There will be better and happier news, one day, if we work at it."
War is hell, but I remain hopeful.
Copyright©Joni Rodgers/Diversified Words & Voices, 2002
Sunday, June 1, 2003
Working It
Entry-level employment offers spiritual perks
With his sixteenth birthday approaching, Malachi has a list of upgrades essential to his survival. Gary and I have a list of our own, however, including the goose to our car insurance the day Ike becomes a licensed driver. We started dropping subtle hints. Like asking "Would you like fries with that?" and singing "Get a job, sha-na-na-na" every time he requested money.
Trouble is, while he's more than willing to work as a video game tester or movie stunt person, Malachi just doesn't see himself daily grinding for minimum wage. I finally had to bring in the big artillery. After reminding him his grandfather once had a job baling cock roaches, I launched into lecture #1432: "Mom's Checkered Employment History."
Doo wop singer, dishwasher, answering service operator, funeral home receptionist, butcher, baker, candlestick maker--you name it. As a recovering theatre major I had to grab a paycheck wherever I could, but those odd jobs blessed me with more than money. In fact, the lowest paying positions were often the most enriching.
Working the bar rush shift at the Embers Restaurant instilled a lifelong respect for those who serve and taught me the difference between humility and humiliation. Even at fifteen I recognized that serving the drunks in the corner booth was more dignified than being one.
The following summer, I worked at the Deltronics factory. As my hands evolved from soft to sore to strong, I began to understand how real life textures a person. The assembly line became a ballet, and the women around me started to look more wise than weary.
Every grocery checker knows that need is the common denominator that levels us all. Two famous athletes occasionally came through my line; so did single moms on food stamps. As a purveyor of life's staples, I came face to face with folks from both sides of the tracks, all needing--and all entitled to--the same things: sustenance, courtesy, and the occasional Snickers bar.
Performing with the Vigilante Players and other theatre companies taught me to dodge slings and arrows. The same critic who praised my "comedic genius" in one show, compared me to "a lumbering wapiti" four months later. On the flip side, a reviewer who trashed my first novel was later employed by my publisher as a copy writer and forced to write glowing propaganda--a veritable Joni-palooza--for the dust jacket of my third book. I've been purposefully ignoring the monkey chorus ever since. If you buy into the accolades, you get buried by the sludge.
Dispatching bull semen for Tri-State Breeders taught me more than I wanted to know about nature. Being a forest fire lookout in the Trinity Wilderness taught me a fraction of what I want to know about God. As an all-night disc jockey, I learned the power of invisibility. As Dulci the Singing Clown, I learned that people really hate singing clowns. As do dogs.
Teaching creative drama was my favorite part-time job. I don't know if kids are the clients or the product, but being a caretaker human taught me (among a thousand other things) that a moment spent giving bears greater and sweeter fruit than a decade spent in pursuit. More than any other, that gig disciplined me for self-employment, inspired me to attempt the high-diving horse trick of making a living in the arts, and brought a ministry-over-manufacturing philosophy to my professional life, making it possible for me to find joy in my work, come feast or famine. When the feast happens, I'm grateful, but I've already been blessed by the day's labor, and that's what gets me through the dry spells.
"Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed," said Emily Dickinson. But it's counted bitterest by those who never learn its true meaning. "We work to become," said Elbert Hubbard, "not to acquire."
I hope Malachi finds more than money when he finds his first job. Fast food or Fortune 500, becoming a better self is the best possible perk.
Copyright©Joni Rodgers/Diversified Words & Voices, 2002
With his sixteenth birthday approaching, Malachi has a list of upgrades essential to his survival. Gary and I have a list of our own, however, including the goose to our car insurance the day Ike becomes a licensed driver. We started dropping subtle hints. Like asking "Would you like fries with that?" and singing "Get a job, sha-na-na-na" every time he requested money.
Trouble is, while he's more than willing to work as a video game tester or movie stunt person, Malachi just doesn't see himself daily grinding for minimum wage. I finally had to bring in the big artillery. After reminding him his grandfather once had a job baling cock roaches, I launched into lecture #1432: "Mom's Checkered Employment History."
Doo wop singer, dishwasher, answering service operator, funeral home receptionist, butcher, baker, candlestick maker--you name it. As a recovering theatre major I had to grab a paycheck wherever I could, but those odd jobs blessed me with more than money. In fact, the lowest paying positions were often the most enriching.
Working the bar rush shift at the Embers Restaurant instilled a lifelong respect for those who serve and taught me the difference between humility and humiliation. Even at fifteen I recognized that serving the drunks in the corner booth was more dignified than being one.
The following summer, I worked at the Deltronics factory. As my hands evolved from soft to sore to strong, I began to understand how real life textures a person. The assembly line became a ballet, and the women around me started to look more wise than weary.
Every grocery checker knows that need is the common denominator that levels us all. Two famous athletes occasionally came through my line; so did single moms on food stamps. As a purveyor of life's staples, I came face to face with folks from both sides of the tracks, all needing--and all entitled to--the same things: sustenance, courtesy, and the occasional Snickers bar.
Performing with the Vigilante Players and other theatre companies taught me to dodge slings and arrows. The same critic who praised my "comedic genius" in one show, compared me to "a lumbering wapiti" four months later. On the flip side, a reviewer who trashed my first novel was later employed by my publisher as a copy writer and forced to write glowing propaganda--a veritable Joni-palooza--for the dust jacket of my third book. I've been purposefully ignoring the monkey chorus ever since. If you buy into the accolades, you get buried by the sludge.
Dispatching bull semen for Tri-State Breeders taught me more than I wanted to know about nature. Being a forest fire lookout in the Trinity Wilderness taught me a fraction of what I want to know about God. As an all-night disc jockey, I learned the power of invisibility. As Dulci the Singing Clown, I learned that people really hate singing clowns. As do dogs.
Teaching creative drama was my favorite part-time job. I don't know if kids are the clients or the product, but being a caretaker human taught me (among a thousand other things) that a moment spent giving bears greater and sweeter fruit than a decade spent in pursuit. More than any other, that gig disciplined me for self-employment, inspired me to attempt the high-diving horse trick of making a living in the arts, and brought a ministry-over-manufacturing philosophy to my professional life, making it possible for me to find joy in my work, come feast or famine. When the feast happens, I'm grateful, but I've already been blessed by the day's labor, and that's what gets me through the dry spells.
"Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed," said Emily Dickinson. But it's counted bitterest by those who never learn its true meaning. "We work to become," said Elbert Hubbard, "not to acquire."
I hope Malachi finds more than money when he finds his first job. Fast food or Fortune 500, becoming a better self is the best possible perk.
Copyright©Joni Rodgers/Diversified Words & Voices, 2002
Sunday, April 20, 2003
That's Gotta Hurt
Searching for perspective in the House of Pain
I'm not a masochist, but I don't entirely hate pain. There's something mouth-wateringly alive about it. It's visceral, it's animal. It transcends the grinding norm, transporting us to an adrenaline-soaked plane of existence where we suddenly see with crystal clarity the true value of our temple bodies.
Oddly enough, when I shared this insight with Gary on the way to the minor emergency clinic, he was less than receptive. He'd somehow managed to trip over his own shoe (face it, honey, some people are not meant to walk backwards) and was certain his wrist was "utterly shattered."
"On a scale of one to five, how bad does it hurt?" asked the triage nurse. Gary's face reflected a struggle between the need to not sound wimpy and a desire for the big drugs. A manly response would be, "Ah, 'twarn't nuthin' but a two, little lady." But shrieking "Seven! Seven! Hit me in the head with a croquet mallet, for the love of mercy!" might better convey an immediate need for Darvon.
It's really not a fair question. Pain, emotional or physical, is relative.
For example, pain incurred without a good story is definitely worse than pain associated with a clever anecdote. Last year I fractured my instep, and because my foot was swollen up like a Buick, they immobilized it with an extra large boot, which meant I had to walk around like Ronald McDonald for five weeks. When anyone (and everyone) asked me what was up with the giant blue platypus attached to my ankle, I had to pile insult upon injury by telling the clunky truth. Somehow the "paratrooping into a nest of Qaida operatives" fracture gets a lot more props than the "stepped funny on the church playground" fracture.
I don't even try to match pain stories with my father. In the Pain Hall of Fame, Dad is firmly ensconced between Evel Knievel and that coyote in the Roadrunner cartoons. He's fallen from various tall places, been sat on by a horse, survived a triple bypass, and received high voltage electric shocks. He's crashed, careened, and catapulted off every mode of transportation imaginable, from a pop-up camper to my son's rollerblades. And he's always very jovial about his current injury, which makes it all the more tragic and brave.
"What, this? Oh, I hit a deer on my motorcycle. And what that deer was doing on my motorcycle I'll never know! Har-har!"
Fortunately for Mom, he still can't top the pain of giving birth. A man could be set upon by flaming wolverines and dragged off the Hoover Dam viewing platform--a woman still trumps him with childbirth. And mom did labor-times-six. Pain resulting from a selfless act is far more painful than pain resulting from general shenanigans. It's a fundamental truth: you will never experience the depth of agony your mother went through to bring you into this world. (And still, you forget to take out the garbage. But--as long as you're happy. That's all that matters.)
To Gary's chagrin, his wrist wasn't broken. It's badly sprained, which is so unfair. All the torment with none of the drama. He's getting plenty of mileage out of the torn ligaments, though. I feel his pain. Especially when I think of all the yard work I'm going to be doing.
"I feel your pain" has become something comedians say when they're sending up Bill Clinton, but we do literally hurt for each other. We cringe when we hear about the root canal, the stubbed toe, the star-spangled migraine. I defy you to refrain from crossing your legs when I tell you my friend Brad once jumped out a kitchen window and landed with one leg inside a barrel and the other leg out. Pain is something every human understands. That understanding provides a root system for compassion, and in our best moments, its fruit is mercy.
A world without it would be excruciating.
Copyright©Joni Rodgers/Diversified Words & Voices, 2002
I'm not a masochist, but I don't entirely hate pain. There's something mouth-wateringly alive about it. It's visceral, it's animal. It transcends the grinding norm, transporting us to an adrenaline-soaked plane of existence where we suddenly see with crystal clarity the true value of our temple bodies.
Oddly enough, when I shared this insight with Gary on the way to the minor emergency clinic, he was less than receptive. He'd somehow managed to trip over his own shoe (face it, honey, some people are not meant to walk backwards) and was certain his wrist was "utterly shattered."
"On a scale of one to five, how bad does it hurt?" asked the triage nurse. Gary's face reflected a struggle between the need to not sound wimpy and a desire for the big drugs. A manly response would be, "Ah, 'twarn't nuthin' but a two, little lady." But shrieking "Seven! Seven! Hit me in the head with a croquet mallet, for the love of mercy!" might better convey an immediate need for Darvon.
It's really not a fair question. Pain, emotional or physical, is relative.
For example, pain incurred without a good story is definitely worse than pain associated with a clever anecdote. Last year I fractured my instep, and because my foot was swollen up like a Buick, they immobilized it with an extra large boot, which meant I had to walk around like Ronald McDonald for five weeks. When anyone (and everyone) asked me what was up with the giant blue platypus attached to my ankle, I had to pile insult upon injury by telling the clunky truth. Somehow the "paratrooping into a nest of Qaida operatives" fracture gets a lot more props than the "stepped funny on the church playground" fracture.
I don't even try to match pain stories with my father. In the Pain Hall of Fame, Dad is firmly ensconced between Evel Knievel and that coyote in the Roadrunner cartoons. He's fallen from various tall places, been sat on by a horse, survived a triple bypass, and received high voltage electric shocks. He's crashed, careened, and catapulted off every mode of transportation imaginable, from a pop-up camper to my son's rollerblades. And he's always very jovial about his current injury, which makes it all the more tragic and brave.
"What, this? Oh, I hit a deer on my motorcycle. And what that deer was doing on my motorcycle I'll never know! Har-har!"
Fortunately for Mom, he still can't top the pain of giving birth. A man could be set upon by flaming wolverines and dragged off the Hoover Dam viewing platform--a woman still trumps him with childbirth. And mom did labor-times-six. Pain resulting from a selfless act is far more painful than pain resulting from general shenanigans. It's a fundamental truth: you will never experience the depth of agony your mother went through to bring you into this world. (And still, you forget to take out the garbage. But--as long as you're happy. That's all that matters.)
To Gary's chagrin, his wrist wasn't broken. It's badly sprained, which is so unfair. All the torment with none of the drama. He's getting plenty of mileage out of the torn ligaments, though. I feel his pain. Especially when I think of all the yard work I'm going to be doing.
"I feel your pain" has become something comedians say when they're sending up Bill Clinton, but we do literally hurt for each other. We cringe when we hear about the root canal, the stubbed toe, the star-spangled migraine. I defy you to refrain from crossing your legs when I tell you my friend Brad once jumped out a kitchen window and landed with one leg inside a barrel and the other leg out. Pain is something every human understands. That understanding provides a root system for compassion, and in our best moments, its fruit is mercy.
A world without it would be excruciating.
Copyright©Joni Rodgers/Diversified Words & Voices, 2002
Sunday, April 6, 2003
Just Another Manic Monday
Have you ever had one of those days?
Who knows what mysterious cosmic forces were in play? Planetary alignment, April Fools pre-show, sinners in the hands of an angry God. Whatever the catalyst, Pandemonium reigned last Monday and life turned into a Chevy Chase movie.
Actually, it started Sunday night. Jerusha's desperate yearning for a cell phone had long been foiled by the least cool parents in Christendom, but on her fourteenth birthday, we decided being able to call her anywhere, anytime, meshed well with our sacred duty to ruin her life, so we got her one. Thrilled to flinders, she planted the bright red techno-accessory upside of her head and hardly surfaced to inhale for two weeks.
Sunday night at the church youth dance, I found her sobbing. She'd put the phone in a friend's purse, the friend left the purse in the ladies room, and some young lady, whose yearning momentarily outweighed her conscience, took it.
Around midnight, I called Gary at work and told him. Disgruntled, he jammed his flashlight in his hip pocket, which apparently stressed the fabric on the seat of his pants beyond the manufacturer's recommended limits. Around two, someone called out, "Hey, Rodgers! Ya got an access panel open!" The mechanics enjoyed a belly laugh at the boss's expense, and mothers who advise clean underwear in case of accidents were vindicated yet again.
I got up Monday morning with a pounding headache. By the time Gary got home, my office was such a whirling vortex of confusion, mishaps actually began to cancel each other out. Thrashing through a pile of papers for a lost contract, I found a note. "J'ru ortho Tues 10:30." I raced over and got her, but realized on the way to the orthodontist's office this was Monday. Since I already had her out of school, I called to see if they could work her in.
"Hi, this is Cherish!" Their chirpy little receptionist is so cute you just want to smack the Smurf out of her, but what's really frightening is that Cherish is apparently smarter than me. Turns out, the appointment was Thursday, not Tuesday, with the oral surgeon, not the orthodontist, and the note was from last month.
As for Malachi's role in Disaster Day…well, let me just say: If you ever become a super market checker, do not put things on that little post they provide as a small check-writing surface, because anything you put there--a chocolate sheet cake with yellow roses and multi-colored icing froo-froos, for example--would be so precariously balanced, the perfectly innocent elbow of a perfectly nice boy pushing his mother's grocery cart could easily render it ker-plunken.
Mortified and profusely apologetic, Malachi tipped the cake right side up and handed it gingerly to the checker.
"Oh...geez...I'm sorry! I--I think it's okay," he said. Frosting was smeared inside the clear plastic cover, but you could still sort of make out "Happy 40th Bufkday Szrmgrun!" Malachi's face was scorched and fallen. Lacking any useful wisdom for the moment, I put my arm around him.
As the kids unloaded the groceries at home, I remembered the china platter on which we'd taken treats to the church dance the night before. In a snit over the cell phone, I'd left it in the car.
"Hey, Spike," I called, "could you please--"
There was a loud shattering against the garage floor.
"Never mind."
I sat down and dialed Jerusha's cell phone for the fortieth time in 24 hours. Someone answered, but didn't say anything.
"Hi," I said. "It's me again. Before they disconnect the service, I just wanted to let you know we don't hate you. I'm sad that you traded a piece of your soul for a stupid cell phone, but you know what, sweetie? Everybody messes up. Things slip through your fingers. Mistakes multiply like gerbils. And the mistakes that deliberately hurt people--those are the only ones you can't laugh about later. The thing is, I know you're not a terrible person. I know you can do better. And tomorrow...well, Lord help us, tomorrow is another day."
Copyright©Joni Rodgers/Diversified Words & Voices, 2002
Who knows what mysterious cosmic forces were in play? Planetary alignment, April Fools pre-show, sinners in the hands of an angry God. Whatever the catalyst, Pandemonium reigned last Monday and life turned into a Chevy Chase movie.
Actually, it started Sunday night. Jerusha's desperate yearning for a cell phone had long been foiled by the least cool parents in Christendom, but on her fourteenth birthday, we decided being able to call her anywhere, anytime, meshed well with our sacred duty to ruin her life, so we got her one. Thrilled to flinders, she planted the bright red techno-accessory upside of her head and hardly surfaced to inhale for two weeks.
Sunday night at the church youth dance, I found her sobbing. She'd put the phone in a friend's purse, the friend left the purse in the ladies room, and some young lady, whose yearning momentarily outweighed her conscience, took it.
Around midnight, I called Gary at work and told him. Disgruntled, he jammed his flashlight in his hip pocket, which apparently stressed the fabric on the seat of his pants beyond the manufacturer's recommended limits. Around two, someone called out, "Hey, Rodgers! Ya got an access panel open!" The mechanics enjoyed a belly laugh at the boss's expense, and mothers who advise clean underwear in case of accidents were vindicated yet again.
I got up Monday morning with a pounding headache. By the time Gary got home, my office was such a whirling vortex of confusion, mishaps actually began to cancel each other out. Thrashing through a pile of papers for a lost contract, I found a note. "J'ru ortho Tues 10:30." I raced over and got her, but realized on the way to the orthodontist's office this was Monday. Since I already had her out of school, I called to see if they could work her in.
"Hi, this is Cherish!" Their chirpy little receptionist is so cute you just want to smack the Smurf out of her, but what's really frightening is that Cherish is apparently smarter than me. Turns out, the appointment was Thursday, not Tuesday, with the oral surgeon, not the orthodontist, and the note was from last month.
As for Malachi's role in Disaster Day…well, let me just say: If you ever become a super market checker, do not put things on that little post they provide as a small check-writing surface, because anything you put there--a chocolate sheet cake with yellow roses and multi-colored icing froo-froos, for example--would be so precariously balanced, the perfectly innocent elbow of a perfectly nice boy pushing his mother's grocery cart could easily render it ker-plunken.
Mortified and profusely apologetic, Malachi tipped the cake right side up and handed it gingerly to the checker.
"Oh...geez...I'm sorry! I--I think it's okay," he said. Frosting was smeared inside the clear plastic cover, but you could still sort of make out "Happy 40th Bufkday Szrmgrun!" Malachi's face was scorched and fallen. Lacking any useful wisdom for the moment, I put my arm around him.
As the kids unloaded the groceries at home, I remembered the china platter on which we'd taken treats to the church dance the night before. In a snit over the cell phone, I'd left it in the car.
"Hey, Spike," I called, "could you please--"
There was a loud shattering against the garage floor.
"Never mind."
I sat down and dialed Jerusha's cell phone for the fortieth time in 24 hours. Someone answered, but didn't say anything.
"Hi," I said. "It's me again. Before they disconnect the service, I just wanted to let you know we don't hate you. I'm sad that you traded a piece of your soul for a stupid cell phone, but you know what, sweetie? Everybody messes up. Things slip through your fingers. Mistakes multiply like gerbils. And the mistakes that deliberately hurt people--those are the only ones you can't laugh about later. The thing is, I know you're not a terrible person. I know you can do better. And tomorrow...well, Lord help us, tomorrow is another day."
Copyright©Joni Rodgers/Diversified Words & Voices, 2002
Sunday, March 2, 2003
Mad Dogs and Englishmen
Story of civilization etched on London's Tower walls
Do you think there's a nice way we might tell the British their food is swill? We wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but near as I could tell during my brief visit to London last week, most of their recipes include passages like "baste in grease until rubbery" or "slather with nameless muck and serve lukewarm." British cuisine is the last vestige of the barbarism that marked their early history.
The Tower of London is thick with ghosts of that empire-making, head-piking heritage, and Yeoman Warders known as "Beefeaters" relish conjuring them for appreciative tourists.
"A great many met their end here on the Tower Green," our guide told us. "You'll not soon forget the story of James Scott, illegitimate son of Charles II, who was brought to Traitor's Gate on charges of treason. Now, it so happens the executioner of the moment was also the town butcher and the town drunk, and sadly, James Scott got a taste of all three that day. It took the man no less than five strokes of the axe to carry out his duty, and even then he had to finish the job with his pocket knife. Having severed those last contumacious tendons, he finally hoisted the head aloft, displaying it to the crowd at the four corners of the platform as was called for by custom, place it on a pike, and off it was to London Bridge with old James."
But Scott's troubles weren't over yet, our guide told us. It was discovered later that afternoon that no portrait of James Scott existed. It simply wasn't civilized to lop the head off a person of royal blood--whatever the dubious circumstances of his birth--without a proper portrait. The royal surgeon was dispatched, along with the royal portrait artist. The first was given several yards of stout thread and a sharp needle. The second was given twenty-four hours, as the head was getting a bit ripe.
"He wears a high ruffled collar in the painting," said the Beefeater, "but his expression is a bit detached."
He directed us next to the chapel where Anne Boleyn and several other notables are entombed. When the building was renovated by order of Queen Victoria, more than fifteen hundred bodies were exhumed and moved elsewhere.
"Being a God-fearing people," explained our host, "we English would never deny a body, headless or otherwise, a proper Christian burial."
His attitude toward the bloody legacy of the place was pragmatic; more amused than apologetic. He was proud to be among the select Yeoman Warders living in and guarding Her Majesty's Tower. Proud of his fussy red uniform and enormous hat. Proud to be English. Proud of the fact that history is written by the winners, and his people have written theirs for well over a thousand years. While that "to the victors belong the spoils" attitude flies in the face of my quasi-Buddhist pacifism and innate WASP chagrin, I secretly envied it. From the beginning of history, politics have entangled people and dragged them to their deaths. A kinder, more politically correct America has spent far too much time mired in both guilt and grudges about it.
I wandered upper rooms where prisoners like Lady Jane Grey spent their last desperate hours etching names, crests, and declarations of innocence into the stone walls. When it all started getting too morose, I made my way downstairs. My request for a "restroom" was met with a withering glance, but I was directed to nicely modernized "facilities."
Above the sink, on the same stone wall that once echoed the cries of the tortured and the howls of the executioner, now hangs a "Loo of the Year" Award. Sponsored by the English Tourism Council and Cannon Hygiene, whose slogan "Raising Washroom Standards" is emblazoned on a red ribbon beneath five gold stars.
There's an old saying: When elephants argue, the grass is trampled. But history tells us the rest of the story. Elephants die and decompose. And the grass grows over them.
Copyright©Joni Rodgers/Diversified Words & Voices, 2002
Do you think there's a nice way we might tell the British their food is swill? We wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but near as I could tell during my brief visit to London last week, most of their recipes include passages like "baste in grease until rubbery" or "slather with nameless muck and serve lukewarm." British cuisine is the last vestige of the barbarism that marked their early history.
The Tower of London is thick with ghosts of that empire-making, head-piking heritage, and Yeoman Warders known as "Beefeaters" relish conjuring them for appreciative tourists.
"A great many met their end here on the Tower Green," our guide told us. "You'll not soon forget the story of James Scott, illegitimate son of Charles II, who was brought to Traitor's Gate on charges of treason. Now, it so happens the executioner of the moment was also the town butcher and the town drunk, and sadly, James Scott got a taste of all three that day. It took the man no less than five strokes of the axe to carry out his duty, and even then he had to finish the job with his pocket knife. Having severed those last contumacious tendons, he finally hoisted the head aloft, displaying it to the crowd at the four corners of the platform as was called for by custom, place it on a pike, and off it was to London Bridge with old James."
But Scott's troubles weren't over yet, our guide told us. It was discovered later that afternoon that no portrait of James Scott existed. It simply wasn't civilized to lop the head off a person of royal blood--whatever the dubious circumstances of his birth--without a proper portrait. The royal surgeon was dispatched, along with the royal portrait artist. The first was given several yards of stout thread and a sharp needle. The second was given twenty-four hours, as the head was getting a bit ripe.
"He wears a high ruffled collar in the painting," said the Beefeater, "but his expression is a bit detached."
He directed us next to the chapel where Anne Boleyn and several other notables are entombed. When the building was renovated by order of Queen Victoria, more than fifteen hundred bodies were exhumed and moved elsewhere.
"Being a God-fearing people," explained our host, "we English would never deny a body, headless or otherwise, a proper Christian burial."
His attitude toward the bloody legacy of the place was pragmatic; more amused than apologetic. He was proud to be among the select Yeoman Warders living in and guarding Her Majesty's Tower. Proud of his fussy red uniform and enormous hat. Proud to be English. Proud of the fact that history is written by the winners, and his people have written theirs for well over a thousand years. While that "to the victors belong the spoils" attitude flies in the face of my quasi-Buddhist pacifism and innate WASP chagrin, I secretly envied it. From the beginning of history, politics have entangled people and dragged them to their deaths. A kinder, more politically correct America has spent far too much time mired in both guilt and grudges about it.
I wandered upper rooms where prisoners like Lady Jane Grey spent their last desperate hours etching names, crests, and declarations of innocence into the stone walls. When it all started getting too morose, I made my way downstairs. My request for a "restroom" was met with a withering glance, but I was directed to nicely modernized "facilities."
Above the sink, on the same stone wall that once echoed the cries of the tortured and the howls of the executioner, now hangs a "Loo of the Year" Award. Sponsored by the English Tourism Council and Cannon Hygiene, whose slogan "Raising Washroom Standards" is emblazoned on a red ribbon beneath five gold stars.
There's an old saying: When elephants argue, the grass is trampled. But history tells us the rest of the story. Elephants die and decompose. And the grass grows over them.
Copyright©Joni Rodgers/Diversified Words & Voices, 2002
Sunday, February 23, 2003
Duct and Cover
The only thing we have to fear is…
On April Fools Day, 1987, I accidentally perpetrated a terrorist attack on the city of Helena, Montana.
As a DJ at a local radio station, I often created cleverly edited bits for my show. My boss eating an exploding Twinkie. Richard Nixon begging me for a date. Stuff like that. This particular morning, I facetiously announced, "The phone company will be cleaning their wires with electromagnetic blowers today. Please bag your telephone to prevent a puff of phone dust into your home."
I expected listeners to say, "Huh?", then immediately connect this ludicrous idea with the fact that it was APRIL FOOLS DAY, chuckle, shrug, and move on. Instead, they gridlocked the phone company, police, and health department switchboards with calls. Several official types were unamused. So was my boss. More importantly, a lot of nice folks were needlessly distressed, and that was uncool.
Fast forward to September 11, 2001. Gary and I sat drop-jawed in front of the TV as the second tower fell. About three minutes later, our power went off. Sirens began wailing in the distance. We sat there in stunned silence.
"Okay…" Gary said carefully. "This doesn't necessarily mean anything. But just in case...let's go fill our gas tanks."
He took the truck. I drove the car. On the way to the gas station, I heard something on the radio about bombs at area high schools, including my son's. I slammed on the brakes and leaped out of the car, forgetting to put it in "park." It clubbed into the curb as I ran after the truck, shrieking for Gary to stop. Realizing the car was now up on the grass, I dove back in, badly spraining my thumb, and drove like a maniac to the high school. The parking lot was cluttered with police cars. But officers weren't managing evacuations. They were admonishing hysterical parents to get a grip.
"But--but on the radio," I stammered. And then it hit me. I was a phone-bagger. There was no bomb. Or even a bomb threat. There was a rumor, and unnerved as we were by the events of the day, that's all it took.
Terrorism is an attack on the mind. But tell that to my throbbing thumb! With misinformation as the propellant, panic can be as lethal as a chemical plume.
Which brings us to Code Orange.
Be afraid! Be very afraid! But don't ask what you're afraid of. That's classified. Flame-fanning and bun-covering, officials urged us last week to "take it seriously." They offered Worst Case Scenario Handbook instructions about duct tape and plastic sheeting in lieu of actual information. Naturally, the media inflated this load of snarp, jazzing it up with scenes of skittish Home Depot customers and "expert" talking heads. People aren't stupid (well okay, some people are stupid), but the collective angst is currently such that a lot of ordinarily reasonable folks would have placed plastic bags over their heads if instructed to do so by Tom Ridge.
Such gratuitous chain-jerking is nothing new. Remember Y2K? The end is near! What? Oh. Never mind. Hope you enjoy the ten cases of Spam.
As a child in Cold War Texas, my friend arrived home from school one day to find a backhoe digging an enormous hole in his yard. He was thrilled to flinders, thinking his family was getting a pool. No such luck. It was a bomb shelter. Duck and cover. Profiteers capitalizing on politically motivated "warnings" have bled gullible Americans for millions.
Moral of the story? Don't waste a perfectly good panic attack. When faced with the daily choice between living in joy or living in fear, dig the pool instead of the bomb shelter. Use the building materials to create expedient shelter for your homegrown tomatoes, and if you want to safeguard your home and family more proactively, lend your voice to the growing peace movement.
Oh--and as a precaution against further terrorist attacks, simply take a piece of non-transparent plastic, cover your television, and secure it firmly with duct tape.
Copyright©Joni Rodgers/Diversified Words & Voices, 2002
On April Fools Day, 1987, I accidentally perpetrated a terrorist attack on the city of Helena, Montana.
As a DJ at a local radio station, I often created cleverly edited bits for my show. My boss eating an exploding Twinkie. Richard Nixon begging me for a date. Stuff like that. This particular morning, I facetiously announced, "The phone company will be cleaning their wires with electromagnetic blowers today. Please bag your telephone to prevent a puff of phone dust into your home."
I expected listeners to say, "Huh?", then immediately connect this ludicrous idea with the fact that it was APRIL FOOLS DAY, chuckle, shrug, and move on. Instead, they gridlocked the phone company, police, and health department switchboards with calls. Several official types were unamused. So was my boss. More importantly, a lot of nice folks were needlessly distressed, and that was uncool.
Fast forward to September 11, 2001. Gary and I sat drop-jawed in front of the TV as the second tower fell. About three minutes later, our power went off. Sirens began wailing in the distance. We sat there in stunned silence.
"Okay…" Gary said carefully. "This doesn't necessarily mean anything. But just in case...let's go fill our gas tanks."
He took the truck. I drove the car. On the way to the gas station, I heard something on the radio about bombs at area high schools, including my son's. I slammed on the brakes and leaped out of the car, forgetting to put it in "park." It clubbed into the curb as I ran after the truck, shrieking for Gary to stop. Realizing the car was now up on the grass, I dove back in, badly spraining my thumb, and drove like a maniac to the high school. The parking lot was cluttered with police cars. But officers weren't managing evacuations. They were admonishing hysterical parents to get a grip.
"But--but on the radio," I stammered. And then it hit me. I was a phone-bagger. There was no bomb. Or even a bomb threat. There was a rumor, and unnerved as we were by the events of the day, that's all it took.
Terrorism is an attack on the mind. But tell that to my throbbing thumb! With misinformation as the propellant, panic can be as lethal as a chemical plume.
Which brings us to Code Orange.
Be afraid! Be very afraid! But don't ask what you're afraid of. That's classified. Flame-fanning and bun-covering, officials urged us last week to "take it seriously." They offered Worst Case Scenario Handbook instructions about duct tape and plastic sheeting in lieu of actual information. Naturally, the media inflated this load of snarp, jazzing it up with scenes of skittish Home Depot customers and "expert" talking heads. People aren't stupid (well okay, some people are stupid), but the collective angst is currently such that a lot of ordinarily reasonable folks would have placed plastic bags over their heads if instructed to do so by Tom Ridge.
Such gratuitous chain-jerking is nothing new. Remember Y2K? The end is near! What? Oh. Never mind. Hope you enjoy the ten cases of Spam.
As a child in Cold War Texas, my friend arrived home from school one day to find a backhoe digging an enormous hole in his yard. He was thrilled to flinders, thinking his family was getting a pool. No such luck. It was a bomb shelter. Duck and cover. Profiteers capitalizing on politically motivated "warnings" have bled gullible Americans for millions.
Moral of the story? Don't waste a perfectly good panic attack. When faced with the daily choice between living in joy or living in fear, dig the pool instead of the bomb shelter. Use the building materials to create expedient shelter for your homegrown tomatoes, and if you want to safeguard your home and family more proactively, lend your voice to the growing peace movement.
Oh--and as a precaution against further terrorist attacks, simply take a piece of non-transparent plastic, cover your television, and secure it firmly with duct tape.
Copyright©Joni Rodgers/Diversified Words & Voices, 2002
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