Wisenheimer, Offend Thyself

So, I snapped out a crappy pun which played upon the obvious religious heresy of the stranger in the story being told. However, the pun was received as a hint toward sexual deviancy.

My head emptied. My mouth hung open, flapping gently on one hinge. There was a dry, gurgle in my throat. I could hear blood rushing past my ears to flush my face. My blinking was slow, and deliberate. Fog swirled around empty skull. Lightning was sure to strike me any second. As the topic was expounded a little, my gut twisted, and I began to sweat under my too-too jaunty cap. The pun's connection to sex was SO obvious! How come I didn't catch it before I said anything!?!

People will always say they have a sense of humor, and listen to a variety of music, and are not easily offended. People think a lot of themselves. Me, too. It has been awhile since I've been offended. I mean, I listen to Lily Allen: See! Sense of humor, musical variety, and not offended all in one!

It has been a long time since I remember being offended. But, in this case, had I REALLY been offended? What is being offended? What happens? I mean, I got over it. I don't think anybody in the room was out to get me, or any such nonsense. Everyone was very nice. I just felt very uncomfortable.

So, I got to thinking (I really ought to stick to knitting, though). Maybe feeling comfortable all the time is a bad thing. And, that's a wild thing for a meat sack of neuroses like me to be thinking. What is soooooo bad about being uncomfortable? Maybe I could pay very close attention to the uncomfort, and try to pin down just what it IS. Kind of an inner adventure. Or, just plain get over it and move on. Why dwell? If I get too uncomfortable, I can always grab a Guinness, my knitting, and an old movie.

And, to anyone who was in that room for my REALLY bad pun: Yeah, I thought it was a stupid pun, too.

The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

My artist friend, Kathy, was over the other day and told me to update my blog, or else she would have to stop reading the same paragraph over and over again.

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My favorite thing to do is to knit and watch old movies. TCM was celebrating Humphrey Bogart's birthday (Don't we all?) on Dec. 25, and I got to Tivo The Maltese Falcon. FANTASTIC movie, although I don't know if I'd let the kids watch it. I think it's rated PG-13 just for all the smoking.

Anyhoo-- Near the beginning of the film, Spade (Bogart) returns to his room at about four in the morning after visiting the crime scene. I can't remember exactly what he did just then--pour himself a drink, I think. I do remember what he DIDN'T do:

He didn't check his email. Spade didn't update his Facebook status, "Sam is having a rough night." He didn't blog about the clues at the murder scene. He didn't delete his partner's photo off the Spade and Archer web site. He didn't search the bay area Craig's List for a bird statue. He didn't flip on CNN for the day's headlines. He didn't even play a game on his cell phone.

I couldn't get over how quiet his apartment was. Simple. Some pictures of horses. Tidy. Nearest thing to an urban Walden Pond you'd be able to get now days. What would you do if you lived in Sam Spade's apartment? Go nuts from all the clear-headed, uninterrupted thinking? Get lonely, and see what type of, um, phone "service" was available in 40s San Francisco? Get a cat?

Late in the movie, all the main characters are in Spade's apartment overnight (slumber party!). When the final scene begins, Gutman is holding some sort of bulky thing in his lap. (Not a PC!) Watch for it. It might give you some ideas.

Happy to be back blogging, though. Needed a little break. Thanks for the kick in the butt, Kathy.

Droodle me this.

I've always liked optical illusions.

I've liked this one with the visible gray dots that aren't really there. I stared at these for hours as a kid.


Here's a whole page of them.

But the best optical illusions were the ones I could tell were screwing with my brain, not just the various weaknesses of the human eye.

Droodles. They've been around a very long time. I've since lost my copies of the little books. I used to carry them to school, study them during lunch, make up my own answers. I'll be getting the new copies very soon and showing them to my kid.

My favorite ones were the ones with multiple answers. My favorite (Watch your brain, now.) :


I think the official caption is:

An Olive Sticking Out Its Pimento.
Or, A Tennis Racket Needing to be Restrung.
Oh, and A Hairbrush for a Bald Man.

And, then turn it this way:

An Egg with a Mohawk.

And, turn it this way:

A Nickel Jumps the Third Rail.
or, A Beheaded Cotton Swab

Hmmm. This is turning a little dark. Maybe I can make a little adjustment:

Jiffy the High Diving Horse's View of the Swimming Pool.
Or, A French Fry Hula-hooping.

Anyway, time for the point.

I love the trick the Droodles play on my brain. It all happens in my brain!

How well do you know the people you meet? Isn't there just the finest of fine lines between what is an aquaintance, and what is a friend? How much time? How many hugs? Is "A stranger just a friend you haven't met"? Where is the line YOU draw between friend and enemy? Does it switch back from enemy to friend? How much of it is in your head?

What if, just, what if you could look at people like they were a Droodle? Let go of who they are in your head, and watch it change in your head moment by moment.

Get back to me on this, will you?

Could, would, what, when, where--go ask your mother.

Here it comes. My son will start the Ask all the questions Daddy can't answer without a Wikipedia. And ask about 3 dozen of them at a time.

"Daddy. What do sand dollars eat?"

"Um, I dunno. Loose change?"

Why doesn't he ask me something I know, like Emily Gilmore's code to her panic room.

Did you know a jiffy is 1/100th of a second? Keep that little nugget tucked away in case you meet my boy.

Give me an essay! I wanna know!

Have you ever woke up, and just for an instant, had no idea who you were?

Not so much after some all-night drinking binge, but if it happened that way, so be it. "Whatever gets you through the night. It's alright." J. Lennon

And, when realizing you don't know who you are, you start to feel the pieces sliding into place in your self-being-consciousness-- like your vertebrae adjusting one-by-one as you slooooowly stand upright from touching your toes (or, in my case, aiming my fingers at my toes). Name-click. Occupation-click. Do I own pants?-click

Have you ever sat very quietly and dumped your identity? Then, realize you're closer to who you are than when you were keeping track of who you are?

I want to know. I know this makes sense to someone out there.