How I Became A Pacifist

Many years ago, when I was but a callow youth, our well-traveled neighbor returned from a sightseeing trip to Australia wth a gift for me. It was a boomerang, obviously, and my inner snob, which was maturing much faster than the rest of me, was somewhat bored by its predictability. At least it's not a stuffed Koala bear, I concluded, or a Sydney Opera House snow-globe. What I really wanted, of course, was a huge Crocodile Dundee style 'bush' knife. Something that I could use to threaten the local kids. They would only laugh at the boomerang, knowing that if I tried to throw the damn thing it would neither find its target nor return to me when concluding its round-trip journey through the air.

And, indeed, that's exactly what happened. Although I never discovered if in fact the boomerang would have come spinning back to me, as it crashed through the window of our well-traveled neighbor's garden shed mid-flight. Fortunately, he was away at the time, visiting Istanbul for business reasons, so I was able to clandestinely retrieve the boomerang while denying any culpability for the incident. It might have been the local kids playing baseball, I volunteered, when asked if I knew anything about the damage. 

After being so completely unhelpful, I recall standing there for several minutes, a brazenly innocent yet greedily expectant expression on my face, glancing at the well-traveled neighbor's luggage, wondering if he'd brought me back a souvenir from Istanbul. I had no idea what kind of weapons were wielded in the shadows of the Topkapi Palace, but was pretty sure they would be far more frightening and effective than a dumb boomerang. I was thinking possibly a curved blade, similar to a scimitar, or maybe even a double-headed axe. Both could usefully spark terror in the hearts of local kids in playgrounds everywhere.

Alas, my well-traveled neighbor merely produced a bag of tourist quality Turkish Delight from his suitcase. He seemed to believe I'd be excited by these unappetizing lumps of powdery confection, but the only people who needed to live in fear of them were my dentist and his hygienist. Let's be frank, Turkish Delight wouldn't even hurt if you threw it pointblank at your enemy's eye. Between this innocuous bag of candy and the unreliable boomerang, my well-traveled neighbor's gifts had left me defenseless, at the mercy of vindictive local kids, whose cap guns their neighbors had given them after day trips to the Alamo or Tombstone. Is Turkish Delight pellet proof? What if I glued together a suit of armor for myself from all those tiny cubes of starch and sugar? To be honest, I'd be better protected by a marzipan nose guard and a licorice jockstrap. I was screwed.

The white flag of surrender was not an option, but since my uncle had just returned from a guided tour of the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, the pipe of peace was. Although he hadn't actually presented me with such a pragmatic souvenir, my uncle did smoke Virginia leaf, so I was able to borrow one of his more elaborately designed regular tobacco pipes, claiming it was hand carved by a Lakota medicine man. I even drew a few buffalo around the bowl with an erasable marker pen just to reinforce the effect. The local kids would never fathom the depths of my deception. They were far too ignorant and easily impressed by Wild West nonsense, which was partly why I'd been at war with them in the first place. But sometimes discretion is the better part of valor, especially when inconsiderate adults won't help you assemble a lethal arsenal of your own.

SR936SW

I would rather risk dismantling and reassembling a Fabergé egg than attempt to replace my wristwatch battery. Even simply removing the back of the watch is a complex operation requiring a steady hand and nerves of steel. One small slip and the entire case will be irrevocably damaged. And if I can remove the back without incident, I'm faced with an intricate set of cogs, wheels and springs that makes the inner workings of H. G. Wells' Time Machine look like the engine of a Honda Civic. Then the battery must be eased away from its mooring with surgical precision. Removing the detonator from an unexploded bomb in a densely populated area is child's play by comparison. I swear the asylums of the world are full of quivering, wild-eyed wrecks who tried to replace their own watch batteries. So, for sanity's sake, I pay a local jeweler a princely sum to do it for me.

Methuselah is a million years old, slightly hunchbacked, came from some European country that no longer exists, and is disgusted by modern chronometry. He knows more about Swiss movement than the Rothschilds know about Swiss banking, and whenever I visit his workshop he tries selling me an antique Rolex that is even more ancient than himself. After failing to make that sale, he offers me a selection of vintage lizard skin watch straps, so antediluvian they possibly came from a flayed Tyrannosaurus Rex. Nothing doing, so he resorts to insulting my watch because it was built in Russia, by Vostok. I actually own another Russian watch, made by Raketa, that he would really despise. But fortunately that one is mechanical and doesn't require a battery. 

Considering his great age, I'm surprised Methuselah doesn't need a battery himself, just to keep going. Perhaps he does. Perhaps his wife must take him to the watch-repairman repair shop every six months to keep the old man ticking over. And perhaps the watch-repairman repairman insults her for still being married to such an archaic model from a vanquished motherland. He's a dying breed, no doubt, and they'll run out of spare parts for him one of these days, which means Methuselah Jewelers will sadly pull down its storefront shutters for the final time. Who will replace my watch battery then? Can I trust an American jeweler with a magnifying glass and flash light strapped to his forehead? I'm not sure. Maybe I'll be forced to retire my Vostok an buy a Timex or, God forbid, an Apple watch or Fitbit that you simply 'charge' with the appropriate USB cable. That will be the end of Time for me.

Mysteries of the Foot, Part Ten

There are toenail clippers hidden deep in the back of the bathroom closet, sunk at the bottom of my toiletries bag, abandoned on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, sprawling carelessly on the marble sink counter-top beside the toothbrush holder. It's even possible there are toenail clippers still hanging off the end of my toenails that I completely forgot about mid clip. So many toenail clippers, so little actual toenail growth.

The thing is, I don't remember ever buying a single pair. So how did I accrue this record-breaking collection of toenail clipper? I suppose they could have been left in my house by absent-minded house guests. But I don't think I'd invite the sort of person who cuts their toenails in other people's homes. That's an ablution you perform in the privacy of your own domestic sanctuary. 

Perhaps they were a promotional give-away free from my podiatrist; or included gratis with every six-pack purchase of extra-fine and very fragile silk socks. I certainly never paid money for any of these toenail clippers that now create so much clutter in my bathroom. Just another mystery of the foot, one amongst so many. 

The Theosophist's Spring Break

Alas, the wise man sighed as we waited at the departure gate, we are surrounded by literal-minded people with remote-control drones where their brains should be. Never take anything literally, not even facts, especially not data, and never statistics. Graphs are not worth the graph paper they are printed on. Charts and maps will lead you astray and Venn diagrams just go around in circles. 

But don't believe me, either, the wise man added. I'm merely a secondhand encyclopedia salesman disguised as a spiritual guru. Just remember one thing: your objective should always be subjective and vice versa, or else you'll end up with lots of invective. I guess we can board now.

Like most wise men, he had once sat cross-legged in the ruins of an ancient temple, projecting an air of well-rehearsed inscrutability that was really a ruse to avoid meaningful conversation. But now he was speaking from seat B1 on the red-eye to Cancun, enjoying the extra leg room and in-flight entertainment system. A member of the cabin crew passed him another complimentary miniature bottle of vodka. 

All you can drink trolley service in the air followed by all you can eat buffet on the ground when you arrive at the resort. This is the life, he said. It doesn't get better than this. Then the wise man emptied his glass with a single gulp, covered his face with a sleep mask, and switched off his overhead light. Nirvana, he murmured. 

I encountered the wise man again two days later, while walking along the beach at sunset. He was standing waist deep in the waves, staring fixedly into the middle distance, but waved when he saw me. I didn't mean to disturb your meditation, I said apologetically. 

No worries, the wise man replied. I was actually just taking a discreet piss. Too many cocktails at lunch on top of the bottomless cappuccino this morning. My soul might be saved but my bladder is very definitely doomed. Speaking of, it's almost time for the dinner gong if you care to join me. I reserved a table at the tiki bar. They serve anything you want but I'm a huge fan of their Piña colada and crab cakes combo.

Observe the stars at night, the wise man told me as we waited for our dessert. See how they twinkle like the twinkle in the eye of some mischief-maker planning a practical joke. Imagine Jesus successfully walking on water for fifteen paces and then he suddenly steps on a banana skin that's floating on the surface. The whole Zodiac rocks with laughter. Well, that's how I became Enlightened wandering out in the wilderness, clad in nothing but my grubby loin cloth cum diaper, Lady Godiva length hair and an unkempt, flea infested beard. He gestured at the waiter. Order me a Caribbean Zombie, but with the dark rum and no orange slice. I've got to siphon the python again. 

I'm going to need a vacation to recover from my vacation, the wise man grunted when he returned from relieving himself. Fortunately, my job is emerging from a cloud of incense to spout counter-intuitive parables at credulous hippies, so it's not that taxing. And this is my souvenir, he said, slapping his bulging, over-stuffed belly. Tomorrow it's back to vegetarianism and holy water until Midsummer. Although I'll sneak in few mixers now and then, he added, indicating the two tiny bottles of airplane booze stashed in his pocket.

Shod

In the shoe store, I've never been a loafer guy. Especially not the casual, virtually shapeless canvas kinds worn without socks. And definitely not those velvet, so-called Venetian, slipper sorts that seem ridiculously impractical for negotiating canals and gondolas. Both are more appropriate for a Turkish brothel rather than city streets in the USA.

And speaking of houses of ill-repute, what depths of professional and aesthetic depravity were plumbed by the cobbler's workshop that first stitched decorative tassels on a client's loafer? Tassels belong on a Vegas showgirl's costume and nowhere else. That shoemaker was obviously aided by the wrong sort of elves.

As for penny loafers, well, even the name sounds cheap. 'Golden doubloon' loafers I might consider, but only for wearing around the house pretending to be a pirate. I'd never allow myself to be seen outside in such an insult to proper footwear. In fact, if you ask me, any shoe that lacks laces can be classified as resort-wear. 

But, for me, such rigid rule-making ends below the ankle. I'm happy to clothe the rest of myself in sporty socks, blue jeans, open-necked shirts and chore coats. I've even been known to opt for a pair of Bermuda shorts if the weather is unbearably hot and humid. So I'm not sure how or why I became a draconian tyrant about shoes. Draco himself surely wore open-toed sandals, which always leaves me wondering how any self-respecting Athenian could have taken him and his tedious laws seriously. 

I suppose we can make an exception for Italians wearing loafers, but only in the south and when lounging beside the sea. 'Dolce far niente' is a very good excuse, after all, and only a fool would argue with its wisdom. Besides, it would be rude and unseemly to impede your neighborhood passeggiata by kneeling down in the middle of the sidewalk to re-tie a shoelace that's come undone. 

On second thoughts, perhaps I should begin envisaging myself as a loafer guy. When all is said and done, it seems that sitting at cafe tables in the sun while talking nonsense and pontificating is all I'm good for in these days of enforced retirement. And that's the loafer lifestyle in a slip-on nutshell. Thank you for letting me talk this out with you. I'm thankful for your time.

The Star Gazer's Almanack

I'm a very poor planner. My daily 'To Do' list may as well be written in invisible ink and blueprints for my future fade as soon as they're unfolded. And I'm pretty much legally blind when it comes to Vision Boards or manifestation maps. 

Going forward, I'm just stumbling around in the dark with a faulty flashlight. Someone who shall remain nameless always neglects to replace the dead batteries. There are sleepwalkers with a better sense of direction than me.

Fortunately, I have a lucky star to follow. It's named Unsirius and sits in an obscure constellation called The Leprechaun, forming the tip of his long beard and illuminating that proverbial pot of gold. 

How do I know it's my star? Well, it's only visible by observing the night sky through the wrong end of a telescope, from the middle of the Bermuda Triangle, and only when it's raining. I'm the only person who does that, as far as I know. 

And how do I know it's also lucky? I don't get wet when I'm following it, that's how, even though I obviously didn't plan to bring an umbrella with me.

So I go here and there, wherever my star leads me. I do this and that whenever my star winks. And I remind myself, as Ralph Waldo Emerson claimed, that life is a journey and not a destination. 

Being about mid-journey now, I've accumulated many pictures of roadside attractions along the many circuitous routes I've taken: memorable people I've met; breathtaking buildings I've visited; beautiful landscapes I've walked through; out of focus snapshots of good times I can't quite remember.

But mostly there's a scrapbook filled with selfies of me imitating a Mediterranean wayfarer disembarking from his private yacht. Perhaps that's who I've always wanted to be: the Sailor from Gibraltar approaching the Port of Shadows. 

But ambition lost at sea, dream overboard, castaway on a desert island of what might have been. I lack the energy and motivation to maintain that kind of A-list lifestyle. I'm certainly a man of leisure these days. I just don't own a boat and couldn't afford to pay the crew anyway.

It's Spring now. The season of new beginnings. My star is shining on Erewhon Avenue, as usual, directly above the alfresco tables of the French cafe about halfway down the street.

Take a seat, the starlight seems to indicate, you've done enough already. The only plan you need to make this evening is when to move inside to the bistro after finishing your apéritif.

Machiavelli The Scrivener

"If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—forever." So wrote George Orwell in his novel, 1984.' 

Reading in my safe, terror-free teenage bedroom, I often used to wonder what kind of boot it would be.

A traditional Nazi jackboot? 

Or a trendy desert boot designed to conceal the threat to our republic behind an aura of nonchalant hipsterism?

A muddy hiking boot maybe, for intimidating rural insurgents in the mountains? 

Or perhaps a furry Ugg boot worn in feminist controlled dictatorships? 

An authoritarian astronaut's anti-gravity boot to future-proof any nascent Stalin's off-Earth autocracy? 

Wellington boot for history buff tyrants who conduct their brutal repressions via live action re-enactments of the Battle of Waterloo? 

Thigh-high river wader for reigns of terror focused around the Venetian lagoon? 

And what about a Das Boot, for confused German film students with a poor command of remedial English? 

Submarines aside, I guess it doesn't matter what type of boot it is, as long as we're talking about a size twelve with steel toe inserts.

But Orwell was ever so slightly incorrect, of course. It isn't a boot we need to fear but a bot. An internet bot, from Russia or China or even Arizona. 

And it won't be stamping on a human face. No, it will be doing the informational equivalent: posting on social media.

In other words: "If you want a picture of the future, imagine an AI bot commentating on a human Facebook feed —forever."

To be fair, the blog post you're currently reading can't claim to provide much better content than the imminent AI bot dystopia. 

All I've done is waste your valuable time with a list of whimsical boot possibilities for 21st Century Caesar's shopping list.

Mind you, if any 21st Century Caesar is reading this, please consider me for a role in your propaganda department. I need a job.