blogging – If there is something

Things “Heard” in The Great Gatsby

In The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald cultivates a tension between an individual’s authenticity, the perception they project and the perception floated by others via rumor and gossip. No means of deriving the truth about someone is presented as any more reliable, all convey elements of truth and falsehood. Gatsby projects an image of himself that appears entirely constructed, but as Nick finds out, the construct itself and the motivation behind it reveal a lot about the authentic Jay Gatsby.

Early in the story, characters discover truth and authenticity by believing what they “heard.” When Nick goes to visit his cousin Daisy, she tells him, “We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.” Nick quashes the rumor, but Daisy persists. “But we heard it….We heard it from three people so it must be true.”

In his thoughts, Nick sarcastically equates these rumors with an official notice of engagement, but maintains he won’t be “rumored into marriage.” It’s an acknowledgement of the power of rumor and public perception to make things true that have virtually no basis in reality. Gatsby himself wields this power to mesmerize and enchant Long Island society folk while trying to capture the object of his desire, Daisy.

Nick gets an earful of things heard from his hosts, Daisy and Tom, who lay bare the dysfunction present in their lives. First Daisy fills him in on the “family secret” concerning the butler’s nose. Then Nick is thrown off guard by Jordan’s prying into the secrets of Tom and Daisy’s marriage. While Tom can be heard inside the house taking a call from his mistress, Jordan eavesdrops, leaning “forward, unashamed, trying to hear….’Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens,’” she says. The whole scene culminates in an anxious and uncomfortable moment when the truth of what is known, the illusion of what is portrayed, and the confusion of rumor become entangled and loom over the party like a neurotic gloom.

Regarding his meeting Jordan, Nick remembers he “had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.” This unpleasant story will shape the way Nick thinks of Jordan for the rest of their time together, preventing him from committing to her, even as he appears to fall for her.

In the next chapter, Tom invites Nick along to partake in his secret life, treating Nick’s inclusion like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and rendering the whole charade with Daisy and Jordan a mere fact of married life. Like Gatsby, Tom maintains his own outward illusion, exhibiting a life of wealth, privilege and domesticity while concealing a tawdry affair with the mechanic’s wife and slumming it with her friends in the city.

Then there are the things people have heard about Gatsby, that he is a bootlegger and that he had once killed a man. It becomes clear to Nick that among the elites of Long Island it is assumed that the image one puts forward is a false representation, and the real truth can be found in the rumors whispered at parties or laid out in scandal rags. Few people are who they seem and Gatsby represents the biggest mystery of them all. At some level, it is assumed by the inhabitants of this world that wealth can buy virtue, so the virtue put on display must constitute a fiction. Gatsby represents a new force emerging in this society that holds a mirror up to the false virtue of the old world money elite and exposes it as a fiction. His background as an outsider and an interloper reveals that all these old world social customs are just a pretense, a posturing the old money elites engage in to claim moral superiority over those who represent a threat to their status.

Halloween undergoes months of intense whiteboarding

On the eve of Halloween, a group of youngsters in Munster feel they are finally ready for the festivities to get underway after months of intense whiteboarding and strategizing.

Topics of concern for the myriad whiteboard sessions included costume selection and preparation, neighborhood selection and route scouting, a comprehensive review of previous trick or treat experiences, and development of a candy rating system designed to maximize accumulation of the most desirable treats.

“We really whiteboarded the shit out this Halloween,” said ten-year-old Preston Metcalfe. “Halloween only comes once a year, so our approach has been that we cannot afford to leave a single stone unturned when it comes to raking in a candy harvest that is second to none. I mean, I need this Halloween booty to get me through until Christmas.”

Metcalfe explained that in the past too much time has been wasted in neighborhoods where there is low participation and trick or treaters are forced to cover too much distance between participating households. So Metcalfe and his team identified five “hotzones” in town where they feel the candy is most plentiful and accessible.

Additionally, the team’s rating system has prioritized houses that have traditionally handed out the biggest and tastiest treats while downgrading dwellings that put an emphasis on healthy or eco-friendly snacks.

“We spent months poring over data to come up with our map. Additionally, we’ve already walked the route several times, identifying areas of concern and making appropriate adjustments. If all goes well, this will be the most bountiful Halloween ever,” Metcalfe said.

Parallel Parking Crisis

Among the many things we as a society should be concerned about regarding the younger generation is their inability to parallel park. Student loan debt, AI, social isolation, mental health and a lack of affordable housing are all things young people are going to struggle with going forward. But the chief indicator that these kids are not ready for the future is their inability to parallel park.

As I sat on my front porch the other day, I witnessed the neighbor kid spend 20 minutes trying to parallel park his car. I’m not sure who was more lame in this situation – the guy who struggled to park his car, or the old timer who had nothing better to do than watch the whole wretched scene unfold. I fought mightily against the urge to run to his aid and impart my four decades of experience and wisdom. No doubt, he would have welcomed the neighbor standing on the sidewalk, making hand signals and shouting instructions. But this felt like a lesson he had to learn on his own. In the end, he succeeded in getting the little Toyota in the space with only two wheels up on the sidewalk.

Helpful hint: If you hit the curb with your rear wheel before you get a chance to cut the front end into the space, you’re fucked. Pull out and start again. You’re not going to succeed in forwarding and reversing into the space. Unless your idea of success is parking halfway onto the sidewalk. You have to start cutting the front end into the space when you still have at least six inches of space between the rear wheel and the curb. Today’s back up cameras make this maneuver a little easier, but I’m old school, so I just use The Force.

Sometimes when you’ve cut the front end halfway into the space and you feel like your rear wheel could hit the curb, you can make some midstream adjustments. But this is some next level parallel parking and should only be attempted once you get the basics down.

I’m aware that a bad parallel parker has options. Self-parking cars are already a thing, and I’ve even heard there’s an app that, for a small fee, sends out a distress signal to master level parallel parkers who will come park your car for you. Most of these guys are Uber drivers and off-duty valets. So, don’t despair, impress that special someone and learn how to parallel park.

Bookstore (No Books)

Recently the fam and I spent the weekend back in my old college town. Despite the fact that my wife and kids love it when dad shows them his old haunts and regales them with stories of his college days, I found myself alone again while the family unit was off making candles.

With football season right around the corner, and me still rocking fashion from a previous millennium, it felt like I was due for an update to my university athletic apparel. Pretty much every retailer close to campus sells it, but I thought in order to get the real goods maybe I should visit the campus bookstore for the officially licensed merch. Despite having three floors of t-shirts, hats, hoodies, sweats, jerseys, golf apparel, banners and bedding, nothing really stood out as a must have, so I decided to stick with my crummy old outdated shirts and sweat stained ball caps and left the bookstore empty handed.

However, after walking for about ten minutes, reflecting on how much the bookstore had changed in the last thirty years, it dawned on me that the university bookstore didn’t contain any books. In the olden days, the lowest level was entirely devoted to stocking texts for the current semester, while the upper levels featured merch and apparel. Now, the whole place was a massive gift shop superstore, yet they still called it a bookstore.

So where the hell do students get their books these days if not the campus bookstore? Do they even use books? When was the last time I saw a kid with a book in his hands? After all, that would necessitate prying the smartphone from fingers palsied by a constant and unrelenting grip on a smart device. “From my cold dead hands,” is the response I got last time I attempted to extract a smartphone from a young person.

Clearly, they have no need for books. They probably just sit down in class and the professor says, “Okay, class, open the internet to page blah, blah, blah,” and they go from there. Of course these days even looking stuff up on the internet has become so much of an imposition that we now have several versions of artificial impersonators that will do the research for us, summarize findings, and even produce scholarly works.

I know, there he goes again, the old man yelling at technology. Fact is, they probably download class materials onto tablets and computers, and it undoubtedly costs them a small fortune, as it always has.

Anyway, I could get to the bottom of this Bookstore (No Books) situation simply by asking a powerful computer brain for help, but I’d rather just ask a student when I get a chance. As for the brainiacs down there at the University of Science Bookstore, you probably ought to think about changing the name to Gift Shop.

Artificial Impersonators

Used to be you’d turn on the old boob tube and watch some comedian like Rich Little, Dana Carvey or Darrell Hammond do impressions of famous figures that were so spot on they sounded like the real thing. Only they obviously weren’t because the voice was clearly coming out of a different person and the content was entirely farcical.

Recently, I was consuming content on the internet’s most prominent boob tube channel when I realized I was being taken for a ride by one of its artificial impersonators. I’ve been watching Bishop Robert Barron’s channel since way back when he was only Father Barron and his content featured movie reviews in which he’d insert some relevant christian theology. The other day I’m listening to one of his messages on a channel I’d never heard of before when I became curious about the YouTube account and the channel’s background. The thumbnail featured Bishop Barron’s image and the audio sounded like a message or sermon he’d possibly recorded privately or perhaps spoken publicly at some time or another. Here’s a direct quote from the video’s description:

“In this 21-minute morning message, Bishop Robert Barron reflects on the power of morning prayer, gratitude, and surrender to God’s plan.

“Through Scripture, prayer, and reflection, Bishop Barron reminds us that when we start our day with thankfulness and intention, we align our hearts with divine peace and purpose.”

I immediately wondered if this channel represented some new offering from Bishop Barron’s Word on Fire Ministries, so I read on. After scrolling through chapter titles, hashtags and descriptions of what I would learn from “Bishop Robert Barron’s Catholic insights,” I finally arrived at this disclaimer:

“This message includes public theological reflections and prayers inspired by Bishop Robert Barron.”

Because I’m not super bright, and I’m old and not very clever when it comes to the ways of technology, the internet and social media, I still did not get the hint.

The message included “public theological reflections and prayers.” So, Bishop Barron spoke these words publicly and someone recorded it and here it is, right?

If, at that moment, someone would have smacked me upside the head and said, “Do I need to spell it out for you?” I would have deserved it. Instead, there is this:

“Altered or synthetic content: Sound or visuals were significantly edited or digitally generated.”

As much as I wanted to believe that I hadn’t been duped by an artificial impersonator, it became abundantly clear that I had. Apparently, many others had been as well, because there were lots of comments thanking Bishop Barron for the message.

The channel is called “The Divine Motivation,” it’s on YouTube and it’s fake. It is not Bishop Barron, and it doesn’t matter if it has some ambiguous disclaimer buried deep within the show notes, it is deliberately deceptive. Some additional searching immediately revealed two other artificial impersonator channels: “Bishop Barron’s Motivations” and “The Faith Journey.”

I know I sound like an old man yelling at technology. I can imagine someone countering, “Where have you been, old timer? This is the world we live in.” Fair enough. But this old man can’t abide while dull-witted content creators harness technology to impersonate authentic, exceptional, thoughtful and inspiring human beings.

Using someone else’s name, likeness and voice to create artificial messages without being upfront about it is massively deceptive. And you can never motivate, inspire, reveal truth or instill hope through fakery and deceit.

Terror In The Shrubbery

Jack Hayward is reeling today following a report by his insurance company that his landscaping presents a clear and present danger to his home and property.

Up until today, Jack thought he was pretty much crushing it, and then in one brief moment his whole life was turned upside down when a group of insurance underwriters informed him that among his shrubbery lurk heretofore unimagined terrors.

Apparently, a seemingly innocent shrub, situated under a window, can serve as a launching pad for a criminal caper that could potentially undo everything Jack’s ever worked for.

While it’s true that neighborhood kids like to utilize his shrubs to hide and seek, and on at least one occasion some homeless person may have spent the night curled up behind his lilac bush, it never occurred to Jack that shrubs are especially useful for concealing nefarious deeds.

Nevermind the alarm system and security cameras Jack installed to thwart potential break ins, an accomplished second story man can utilize a pyramidal arb to launch himself like a pole vaulter onto a lower roof and quickly gain access to upper story windows.

Apparently, the thieves take advantage of the shrub cover to cart off your 55 inch television and exercise equipment, because the whole point of the danger shrubs pose is that the bad guys can do all this without attracting the attention of neighbors or passersby.

A skilled burglar disguised as a juniper bush can enter and exit a house undetected by cloaking stolen merchandise in bush clippings.

Tree limbs, too, are nothing to trifle with, according to the underwriters. A tree limb, it seems, is nothing more than a bony hand reaching out to dismantle a house one shingle at a time.

One never knows when an angry oak will lower a wooden fist and severely scratch or dent one’s guttering.

The news filled Jack with such revulsion and dread that he immediately climbed out on his roof and stood atop the peak risking life and limb in an attempt to prune away all tree limbs encroaching on his home’s airspace.

With bushes yanked and tree limbs tamed, Jack was finally able to rest easy, at least until the next alert of impending catastrophe comes along.

Local dad has everything under control

Herb Gluck was enjoying reading a book on a quiet Sunday afternoon when he suddenly recalled that a number of things on his weekend to-do list had yet to be addressed. Realizing his daughter needed to pack a lunch for school the next day, he wondered if the family pantry contained all the necessary food items. Picking up his phone, Herb immediately called his wife and learned she and his daughter were already at the supermarket making all the necessary purchases. Emergency avoided, Herb returned to his book, content that he’d successfully managed that near miss. Herb had only completed a few more paragraphs of his engrossing spy novel when he remembered that tomorrow was trash day and he had not yet rolled the garbage bin out to the curb. He texted his son to get a status update. Herb’s son texted back that he took out the garbage when he left the house to meet his girlfriend for a study date. Satisfied and mildly surprised to learn that his son had a girlfriend, Herb enjoyed a sip of his Arnold Palmer and again returned to his spy thriller, pleased that he’d put out yet another fire. Moments later, however, he had a start when it struck him that he was supposed to pick up a pizza for dinner that evening. But before he could grab his phone, it buzzed with a notification that a pizza had been delivered and was currently sitting on his front porch. He wasn’t sure who placed the order, but he nonetheless left the delivery person a generous tip. Once again, Herb returned to his book, at last relaxed and satisfied that he finally had everything under control, yet still mildly perturbed that he had to do everything himself.

Local man cool with kids walking across his lawn

It was one of those delightful summer Saturdays with cloudless blue skies, buckets of sunshine and comfortable warm temperatures. Due to recent severe weather activity with accompanying high winds, many in the neighborhood were out gathering fallen branches and debris and stacking it out by the curb for the street department to pick up. Traffic was scarce with the locals opting to walk or ride bikes. Children played on the sidewalk and groups of aimless teenagers slunked around the neighborhood.

As I worked in the yard, one such group of foot-draggers emerged from the alley next to my house. Unused to performing ninety degree right turns, this cohort opted instead for a softer forty-five degree angle across my front lawn. From my vantage point in the bushes where I was pulling weeds and gathering debris, I could have barked at them to “Get off my lawn!” and scared the living daylights out of them. However, as tempting as that was, it’s just not my style and it just wasn’t one of those days.

It was a day for taking it slow, for hearing laughter in the wind, for observing streaks of sunlight flickering through the trees, for unexpectedly intercepting the aroma of a distant backyard grill. There is truly something surreal about days like these. Time slows. Space is deep-focused and static. Noticeably absent is the relentless barrage of stimuli that mark most afternoons. Even the temperamental teens had pocketed their phones and were just enjoying each other’s company. It could have been 25 years ago. It could have been 50 years ago. Hell, if there weren’t a bunch of shiny metal boxes sitting in the street, it could have been over a hundred years ago.

However, somewhere beyond the tranquil scene lay an unseen realm. If at that moment I could observe it, I’d probably notice unremitting algorithms passing over my head, demanding care and attention. I would hear sniping voices, users getting ‘owned’ and people presuming the worst and often getting it from one another. An illusory world casting a dark shadow over our psyches, while increasingly vomiting its madness into the real world.

Thankfully, I was far away from that chaotic place, and all I could think about was how remarkable and strange it is to be alive and standing beneath the sun and these trees in this perfect moment of stillness and peace, while a group of foot-dragging teenagers walked across my lawn.

Strange scenes in the alley 3

Anyone familiar with Strange scenes in the alley 2 might remember that a few months back I had to run off a couple of amorous young people attempting to have sexual relations in my driveway. Why they wouldn’t realize that parking in someone’s driveway is bound to catch the attention of the property owner and prompt an immediate inquiry is a detail I still can’t wrap my head around. However, lucky for them, I’m one of those “cool” cranky old guys, so instead of calling the cops as my wife had urged, I just knocked on their car window and berated the shit out of the lovestruck pair, causing them to go from on fire with passion to frightened scattering rabbits in a couple of milliseconds.

So, a few nights ago, I woke up at 3:30 in the morning to use the bathroom, because I’m 56 years old and that’s the way I roll, and what do I see out my back window but a car parked in front of my garage. This time I didn’t need to investigate to have a pretty good idea what was going on back there: that randy young ram was again tupping his fair ewe. Doubtless, he was in the car bragging to the young lady, “I’ll show that grouchy old sack of excrement that I can screw in his driveway any time I feel like it.”

It being 3:30 in the morning, I was in no mood to go outside and interrupt their carnal congress. Defeated, I went back to bed, resolving that if by daybreak they were still back there humping in the dawn, then I’d go out and give them a bit of the old ultra remonstration.

Of course, I laid in bed thoroughly vexed. What do I have to do to keep a couple of young people from copulating in my driveway? And why my driveway? It’s a tiny patch of cement, between my garage and the alley, barely big enough for one vehicle. There are like three other garages back there with much better park and hump options than mine. Why of all the places in this city to pull over and make the beast with two backs did they choose my drive? I wondered if this was a topic of discussion on the neighborhood Facebook group: How to keep young people from having intimate relations on your property.

Perhaps I should cut the younger generation some slack. From what I’m reading about Gen-Z, out of control intimacy is not a big problem with that cohort. Instead of being the cranky old man yelling at clouds, telling kids to get off my lawn, and shooing highly amorous young folk off of my property, maybe I should try being a little more understanding and accommodating. I just don’t want my tiny driveway to turn into a Gen-Z shag pad.

Foul brew

On a recent morning, I decided to grab a cup of dark roast coffee at a Starbucks I often stop at on my way to work. A great group of young people work there and they nearly always serve up a fine brew with kindness and courtesy. On this particular morning, however, things started going south shortly after I pulled up to the drive-through window. I gave the young man $2.85 for my $2.84 order, and he handed me the cup of coffee. Almost immediately, the 85 cents in coins seemed to confuse the young gentleman. Granted, I had fished around in my change drawer to come up with a quarter, five dimes and two nickels, and the combination of coins seemed to present quite a challenge to his powers of arithmetic. Eventually, he had to pull out a calculator to finish the job. In the meantime, I’m sitting there feeling like the lord of all tightwads while waiting for my penny in change, but I didn’t want to just drive off because sometimes I screw up and hand over the wrong amount. As I waited, however, a foul odor that can only be described as the smell of decomposition began to fill the inside of my car. Penny in hand, I began to pull away as the odor of dead, decaying animal carcass grew in power and potency. Thinking perhaps some varmint had crawled up under the hood and died, and the vent was blowing the smell into the cab, I quickly turned off the fan. But this did nothing to stifle the inescapable smell of death that now surrounded me. Then my attention turned to the cup of coffee. I picked it up and took a sniff. The horror! From what ancient crypt did this foul brew flow? Quickly, I weighed my options. There was no way I was going to drink this roadkill roast that currently sat in my cup holder. But I couldn’t survive a morning of work without a cup of joe. Fortunately, another coffee shop lay up ahead and I swerved into their lot. After pouring the java of death into a sewer grate, I went inside and explained my predicament to the young ladies behind the counter. They set me up with a fresh cup of brew for which I tipped them generously. I held the steaming cup to my nose and took a big whiff. Ahh, it smelled like charred wood and fresh dirt, just the way I like it.