Bill Lenoir

Freed from desire, then you can see the hidden mystery.

All that is wrong with American food culture can be traced to the recipe. I am suffering under its tyranny.

Never trust a skinny chef or a fat priest.

I am not a phone call kind of a guy. To me, they should be short and sweet:

"Honey, I'm on my way."

"OK, see you soon."

Anything more complicated than that and we'll need more than just voice in order to grok what we're truly trying to communicate. It frustrates me, sometimes, to not know if I'm getting my point across.

But even more than that, I hate being forced to listen to someone else's conversation. This happens frequently on the metro into work. Why would you want strangers to know that you got wicked drunk last night? I don't need to hear that. But there is an even greater abomination: The Public Bathroom Phone Call. It is not unusual for me to encounter someone relieving himself while on what is an obviously important call. Are both actions of such immediate importance that you cannot put off one until you're done with the other? Even the physics of it confound me, I need both hands to take a leak. (While I'd like to leave you with an impression of impressive machinery, I'm just paranoid about errant streams.) Anyways...

So, the other day, while positioned at a urinal, a gentleman steps up to the one next to me and then answers an incoming call. A deep discussion about some sort of project plan ensues. Now, in such situations, the devil on my left shoulder takes control and I attempt to make as much noise as possible. In this case, however, the timing of my digestive tract is impeccable. I let loose with a blast of sufficient voltage and amperage that the person on the other end of the line could not have been in doubt as to what had happened. The guy flinches.

I'm washing my hands while the guy wraps up both tasks. He precedes to berate me for being so rude. His harangue was lengthy and loud. The unbelievability of this left me speechless. He stops, perhaps un-nerved by my silence, his mouth slightly open.

That's when the aftershock struck with a trembler of equal Richter. I turn and walk out.

Let that be a lesson to you: If you make a call during a concert, you should expect to hear music in the background.

:flick:

It's a simple act, turning on a light.

"What are you doing? Turn that off!"

"Why? It's dark in here, I can't see."

"See how high up that light is?"

I've lived in this house for years, walked through this foyer countless times.

I look.

"We don't have a ladder high enough to reach it. If that bulb burns out, we'll never get it changed."

"If that's the case, why don't we use it until it does burn out?"

She looks at me like I'm a stupid child, one that may not make it past the 6th grade.

I turn off the light.

This was a year for me that would have spurred Winston Churchill to oratorical heights. My mother passed away. I was not particularly close to her, we had our issues. But her death has struck me hard. We set our greivances aside towards the end. It wasn't a reconciliation, more of a cease-fire. I alternate between feeling angry at and sorry for her. Things I have learned:

1. I will appreciate what I have in life, no matter how dark it gets. And I do. Although this year was a tough for me, I'm glad I lived it. I got to spend more time with my wife and kids than I normally do.
2. Document everything you have and make sure people know where it is. It is NOT enough to have a will.
3. Just be honest. Enough of the games and stupid manipulations. Don't fear rejection or the idea you might owe someone if you ask for something outright. Life is too short to keep track of such an intricate web.

I've been volunteering a lot at my daughters' elementary school. Nothing too intellectually strenuous: making photocopies, assembling handouts, and cutting out shapes. School has definitely changed in the decades since I attended. The school makes excellent use of computers. They are using machines that are 5+ years old, but they do exactly what the students need and, I imagine, are so much cheaper to maintain. The cafeteria food has changed as well. OK, we're not talking haute cuisine, but it doesn't taste bad and it is good for you. It's heartening to see that they've moved beyond the days when ketchup was considered a vegetable.

But something strange happened to me one day. I'm waiting in The Office. For what, I don't remember. The chair I'm sitting in is about 4 inches too short. I'm waiting. The clock audibly clicks with each passing minute. And I'm waiting. I feel as if 30 years of personal history have just vanished and I'm about to account for some scholastic sin to my principal who is 10 times my height and talks in a deep, booming Texas drawl. My knees begin to shake. I'm glad I'm not in school any more.