So, You’re One of Those…

Tommy Trojan - USC mascot -
surveys readers at Festival of Books

In the summer before I turned ten director George Pal cast a novice Australian actor named Rod Taylor as George, the time traveler in the screen adaptation of H.G. Wells classic novel, The Time Machine. George travels from his place in time at the turn of the twentieth century past our place at the start of the twenty-first and a few thousand years further to find the eloi. Looking very much like a utopian world with all the residents basking in the sun, wearing white fabric that billows in the wind, the most memorable scene is when George discovers they have a room full of books but when he reaches to take one off the shelf it disintegrates, and when he reaches further for books about this society all of them turn to dust.

As brilliant as Wells was I guess he just failed to see electronic books with Kindles and iPads as an alternative to the leather bound paper variety common to the two centuries he straddled. Certainly, I never saw it coming. With television and cinema growing at the speed of light more and more people I knew were heard to say when a new book arrived in the bookstores that they would simply wait until the movie came out, or failing that, until it became a weekly television series. Not too surprisingly the bookstore has gone the way of the milkman and dials on phones.

An actual reader talking to an actual writer.

A couple years before I arrived in Southern California, the Los Angles Times and USC decided to put together an annual event called The Festival of Books. When a few friends who didn’t always wait for the latest novel to become a hit movie found out I still read books, they recommended I attend. Maybe I wanted to be as cool as those who read this blog, or I just didn’t want people thinking, so you’re one of those. Then, this year it dawned on me; I don’t have to be regarded as one of those because now I’m a writer. All right, so my novel hasn’t been published, yet. My writing teacher at the University of Wisconsin told me I was a writer when I received my first rejection; I’ve received plenty of those…so, now if anyone asks I’m one of those.

Blurry photo (taken with my iPhone)
 of Pat Morrison (with hat) moderating
talk with Joyce Carol Oates

Clear photo of author, writer and teacher
Joyce Carol Oates

Last Sunday, I was unable to convince Debbie, who reads many more books than I do, to get up and go with me, but I did manage to get a seat to hear Joyce Carol Oates, one of the most prolific authors who, as Pat Morrison who moderated the presentation reminded us, is constantly on everyone’s best seller list. While authors are generally known for being dull speakers, Oates turned out to be quite witty and lively. She claimed her latest novel, which is set in 1905 near the Princeton campus had a president at the time who boasted the school offered no new ideas. It probably would have horrified parents to realize the vanguard of polite society would allow women on their campus in only slightly more than a half century. Worse still would be the nightmarish thought that a wide-eyed liberal thinker, such as Oates, would be teaching their a few years later.

David Francis talks with Elinor Lipman
(photo taken with my iPhone)

Before walking around the USC campus and surveying the tents filled with vendors and exhibitors of a wide range of books and literary materials, I attended a panel discussion moderated by author David Francis. The writers: Elinor Lipman, Christina Schwarz, Lisa See and Tatjana Soli, talked about their books, what it was like to be a writer and an author, and their process. When I got up to leave I realized, yep, I’m one of those.

Willy Got His Gun

Back in 1971 Dalton Trumbo wrote and directed one of the most powerful cinematic journeys anyone has ever perpetrated on the American public. Based on his 1938 novel, Johnny Got His Gun is the story of a soldier hit by a mortar shell the last day of World War I. As he lies in his hospital bed, a quadruple amputee with his bandaged face completely missing, the audience is obliged to watch this sightless, mutant body recall the events leading to his tragic existence. Only a pinko, commie lunatic like Trumbo, a notorious member of the Hollywood 10, could craft such anti-war filth (All right, so he also wrote A Guy Named Joe and Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo, but it was patriotic dribble meant to cover up his true subversive intent.)

Let Freedom Ring - Guns for Everyone

Rallying around the tragic loss of lives last December in suburban Connecticut, these same insidious leftist love-mongers attempted yesterday to derail the second amendment with a law to expand background checks to include purchases at gun shows and on the Internet. It seems perfectly irrational to want to stretch an overly aggressive regulation of firearms into commercial venues reserved for outstanding and honest American citizens. Only truly patriotic individuals with a love of country western music and apple pie would ever dream of attending a gun show. As for the Internet, I am sure all of you blog readers will agree with me when I say it is the kind of complex commercial outlet too difficult for any idiot or mentally ill individual to traverse. Such laws are merely socialist liberal tools to remove us from our last line of defense, our guns.

My youngest daughter preserving liberty
with her rifle in a school play.

To illustrate my point I thought I would introduce a scenario regarding my own neighborhood in Orange County, California. Willy (not his actual name) is my neighbor. His family lives a few doors away in a corner of our quiet cul de sac. They are one of only two original owners who purchased their newly constructed home in 1970; about the time Willy was born I would guess. While I’ve rarely seen Willy’s parents, he was always around 15 years ago when we moved here. He would come by and tell me about his love of airplanes, especially vintage World War II aircraft like those he saw at March Air Force Base in Riverside, and how he missed the girls who used to live across the way. Then, in his high-pitched voice he confided he didn’t want to get in trouble with the police again, so he better stop talking about girls. A rumor that accompanied this story was that he pilfered a pair of panties from a dryer in the garage where they used to live. Most of the time I saw him walking around with his baseball cap firmly in place carrying on a fairly animated conversation with nobody in particular. Although I raised two daughters in this home I never worried about Willy causing any problems, and actually considered his presence sitting on the curb a deterrent to those who might.

Someone who may or may not be
 Willy (a fictitious name).

A few years ago I saw Willy on his bicycle, and he stopped to tell me how much he enjoyed going to Hooters because the waitresses were always so nice. Being a true believer in the free market I was impressed with the way our capitalistic society can remedy social issues so effectively. That’s when it hit me how important it is to protect someone like Willy’s rights. Needless to say, someone who can ride several miles on his bicycle to eat a few Buffalo wings and enjoy the camaraderie of young ladies with specially fitted brassieres, should be able, if he wants, to go to some gun show and purchase a firearm without the hassle of filling out impertinent paperwork. Now, if there is a chance the reason I haven’t seen Willy lately is because he has taken the time to learn how to use the Internet I still stand with those who think it is a pinko plot to interfere with his right to purchase his gun online. He’d probably select a vintage World War II pistol anyway.    

There’s Nobody Quite Like Jim

When we last met Deb and I were hanging around Tampa attempting to figure out the advantages to living in a place with high humidity about ten months of the year. About all we could come up with for an answer was an endless supply of drinking water can be wrung out of your t-shirt. So, it was probably a good thing when we finished a wonderful Cuban dinner last Friday and headed for Savannah on Saturday.

Yours truly, Deb, Judy and Jim in front of the fountain
at Forsythe Park in Savannah.

Riverboats along dock in Savannah.

Now, when you leave Jacksonville and head north on I-95 with a zillion Spring Breakers returning to places like New York, New Jersey, Vermont and Pennsylvania, you’re glad that you really do have Georgia on your mind as the state’s welcoming sign says. As we made our way across a corner of Savannah and onto Tybee Island I could feel my pulse race with the excitement of seeing my oldest and dearest friend. All right, so Jim is actually family. His paternal grandmother and my maternal grandmother were sisters, making us second cousins. But, when you grow up around the corner from each other,  hang out on the playground and carpool to school together, you’re more like close friends than ordinary cousins.

Old cotton mills are now shops and
cafes along the River Walk in Savannah.

 As I remember it, Jim was a little heavier, rounder and slower than me growing up. His response was always a bit slower, too. A mutual friend and I would always count the seconds after everyone had laughed before Jim would announce with a smile, “Oh, now I get it.” It was always with his inimitable smile.

Somewhere along the road of life a change took place. Jim was the first to get married, and he and Judy have remained married for 40 years. He left the cold north woods first, too, and built a thriving business as a photographer. When we would get together he was the faster one on the tennis court leaving me breathless as he cruised to victory. A dozen years ago, after raising two beautiful children, he became a teacher and moved to Tybee. Five years later Judy and he built the house we pulled up to last Saturday.

We're still the same kids who played on the
playground at Grantosa Drive Elementary.

His eyes reflected the joy I felt when he opened the door and greeted us with his inimitable smile. No doubt his measured pace had long prepared him for the immense battle he faces each day. Debbie said she forgot how funny he is when he delivered one of those punch lines he had trained us over the years to patiently wait for him to deliver. Even the bobbing head and twitching fingers that were not present on Saturday, but would return on Sunday, so much a part of what we associate with Parkinson’s, seemed to fit with his rhythmic movement. “It is what it is,” he would say. Those more astute than me, like our maître de at Huey’s, the café along the River Walk where we had lunch, added his smile and moved along with Jim in his dance of life.

I told Jim this blog is satirical, but within the satire there is always some element of truth. The truth is it took me a long time to understand what my younger cousin—he’s six months younger—and dearest friend understood all along. So, while I will never be able to get the smile quite right, it gives me great pleasure to say, “Oh, now I get it.”

From the Road...Florida

It's not a bearded tree. Spanish Moss makes you feel Southern.

We have been retired for nine months and we needed a vacation from all the excitement.  It had been six years since our last visit to the Sunshine State. Leaving sunny and warm California for Florida was enhanced by the prospect of staying with Deb's brother who has a home on the water in Tampa. Turns out they're in the 10th week of a 6 week remodel that looks like it might take another 6 to 10 months.

My Great-Nephew Isaac

Fortunately we are able to stay with our niece, her husband and our 6 month old great-nephew, Isaac. They live a half hour away in Valrico. Really the main difference between California and Florida is it's flat here and the trees are covered with Spanish Moss. When the wind blows you hear the trees whisper "como esta usted" and other phrases to help Anglos like me. Some members of the Spanish community have petitioned to have English Moss placed on some of the other foliage.

Please abide by notice on Men's Room wall.

We have luckily been able to go out on the bay in Rick's boat a couple times in the last few days. We made a stop at one bar yesterday that had an informative poster in the men's room. Please be sure to read and abide by its wise message.
A few more days here and we head to the enlightened world of Georgia.