Wednesday, August 19, 2015

The Banality of Romantic Gestures

A florist truck pulls up to the building as Belinda and I stand at the window watching with interest. It’s curious because a delivery of a dozen red roses was made only yesterday to Megan, who is no stranger to clichéd gestures of romance from good looking, eager young men trying to get her in the sack. But even so, 2 days in a row? For the rest of us even a single incident of an unexpected flower delivery is an impossible fantasy spurred on by Megan’s life.

Belinda, for example, is not as successful as Megan in the suitor department and lets out a derisive "whatever" when the flower delivery boy disappears from sight. Belinda has no problem with Megan, a warm, outgoing girl who everyone likes, but it isn't right that she (Megan) should get all the flowers in the world while Belinda gets what? The last gift she got from a guy was a bulk sized package of 4-ply toilet paper. He thought she'd be impressed with all the plies. She was not.

But this is the way it goes for Belinda. 

The men who take a fancy to her are usually flawed in some socially identifiable or physically unappealing way. Like Megan, albeit a slightly older version, Belinda is a warm, inviting person with a pretty face. Unlike most people, however, Belinda possesses that exceedingly rare quality of actually listening without interruption when others speak. She is both inquisitive and humanitarian by nature and all of these qualities combine to create a woman who is irresistible to the marginalized amongst us, whether they be mentally "unique" individuals, people with a lot of ailments and complaints no one else wants to hear about, or inappropriate men. 

Their inappropriateness is drawn to her like insects to a light bulb. This is unfortunate because while Belinda wouldn't hurt a fly, she has no desire to kiss one.

She also does not want to kiss a dog, which is where the problem began with a man named Rufus. 

She worked with Rufus at a second part-time job she picked up to bring in some extra cash, and an easy flirtation developed between them, as tends to happen when the sexes work closely together. For her part, Belinda was in no way physically attracted to Rufus, but she enjoyed his quirky personality – always a precarious situation with the potential for misunderstandings and mixed signals. 

As such, it seemed inevitable that there would come a day when Rufus would attempt to transition from workplace friend to boyfriend material. Belinda, however, was so uninterested in him in any romantic sense that she couldn’t even get his name straight. 

She had always associated the name “Rufus” with a dog and when she thought of a dog she immediately thought of Clifford the Big Red Dog, a favorite fictional character from her childhood. As a consequence, the two names somehow got interchanged in her subconscious and every time she addressed Rufus it came out as “Clifford”.  She never realized she was doing it and oddly Rufus never corrected her. 

Eventually she altogether forgot his name was Rufus and referred to him exclusively as Clifford. By the time we had heard the last of Rufus, anyone who knew of Rufus strictly through Belinda talking about him had no idea his name wasn't Clifford.

Things came to a head one day when I recognized Rufus in the grocery store from a picture Belinda had shown me at some point on her iPhone. I had spoken to him on the phone before, but this was the first time I had seen him in the flesh. I called out his name. 

He completely ignored me. 

He must not have heard me, I reasoned, and called his name a little louder. 

He still ignored me, so I went up to him, touched his shoulder and said, "Hi Clifford, I'm a friend of Belinda's. We've spoken on the phone before".

He looked at me baffled and not a little scared, as if I was an insane woman who had escaped the asylum and the voices in my head had wrongly identified him as some poor slob named Clifford.

"You have the wrong person. I'm not Clifford," he told me as he inched away. 

When I reported back to Belinda what happened, she laughed at what she thought was MY mistake, "His name isn't Clifford, you buffoon! It's Rufus!"

I glared at her. Was it possible she didn't know SHE was the one who kept calling him Clifford? 

Yes, it was possible. 

It took some convincing and I had to invite a couple witnesses into the conversation to confirm that she had indeed been talking a lot about a guy named Clifford, not Rufus, before she'd believe me. The"Clifford the Big Red Dog/Rufus" mix-up in her subconscious theory only seemed obvious after that.

She sat down, stunned. "Well, that's it," she said, "I can't have anything to do with a guy who just accepts me calling him by the wrong name without correcting me. I don't think I'll be returning Clifford's calls any time soon!"

"You see? You did it again," I pointed out.

Belinda shook her head, "What are you talking about?"

"You called him Clifford again. His name is Rufus."

"I can't stand it!" Belinda clutched her head, "I hate this!!"

"On the bright side," I offered, "at least now you can stop feeling so guilty about rejecting his advances".

Rufus has since gone to the dogs of obscurity, but to this day when we refer to his memory we snidely, with full awareness, call him Clifford. 

Belinda's latest unwanted acquisition in the male insect department is an insect named Paul who likes her significantly more than she likes him. She finds him incredibly irritating, in the same way a fly buzzing around your ear that you can't get at is irritating. I don't know why she can't get rid of him. Flyswatters are cheap.

But Belinda rejects my fly analogy. She doesn't see him as a fly so much as a potato

"He never wants to do anything and he NEVER does anything nice for me. I do all the giving. He's never given me so much as a blade of grass, never mind roses! All he does is lie around all day watching TV like a big, fat, hairy couch potato, expecting me to serve him".

I used to encourage Belinda she could do better than these weirdos and parasitic assholes that tend towards her, and that she should walk away from tag-a-longs like Paul -- life is too short to waste it on so much bullshit. But I have since come to realize she is addicted to the role of martyr and saviour. So now I listen in amusement to her litany of complaints. I'll leave her to do her own self-reflections and arrive at her own life-changing epiphanies in her own time.

Thus, rather than once again tell her she should kick Paul to the curb, I suggested we christen him "Potato Paul" in honor of his potato couch proclivities. I have my own proclivity towards alliteration. I don't know why but I find it infinitely funny. My children think I'm ridiculous.

But Belinda didn't think my suggestion was ridiculous: "Yes, he is a potato! He should be called Potato Paul!"

We've been calling him Potato Paul ever since, unbeknowst, of course, to Paul, although Belinda lives in mortal fear she will call him Potato Paul to his face, particularly after the whole Rufus/Clifford fiasco. She has already caught herself a couple of times, which didn't escape Potato Paul's notice. But he isn't the brightest guy so she was able to redirect his attention easily enough. She doesn't know how long she's going to be able to do that, though. He's gross, dumb and boring (the character triad of a bad man as opposed to the enigma of a good one) but he still has some fraction of a brain in his potato head.

Getting back to the florist's truck outside our window, I turn to Belinda now and ask, "What would you do if the flower delivery was for you from Potato Paul? Would you like him more or drop dead in shock?"

"It would depend on the flower," she replied, "but I highly doubt Potato Paul knows my favorite flower is the Stargazer lily even though I've told him."

I agree that he probably doesn't know even though he has been told. Imagine how much richer life would be if more of us were paying attention.

"If he did send you flowers," I muse, "guaranteed they'd be red roses. Not that there's anything wrong with roses, except it shows a complete lack of imagination. Personally, I'd be more impressed by a thoughtful dandelion picked from my front yard. At least that's helpful. My lawnmower is broken. A dozen roses though? We've seen the documentary, we've read the articles. We are both aware of the damage the cut flower trade has on the planet." 

I have to stop myself before I launch into a full-blown soapbox condemnation of why it's wrong for the developed world to exploit the developing world's resources. 

Roses are the prized trophies of the slave trade in the flower world. All the other flowers, who are otherwise envious of the Rose's superior beauty, are glad they weren't born roses. Even the beautiful have an ugly burden to carry in a world where greed is the dominant driving force.

Somebody needs to save the roses!

Good God.

I also have to stop myself because the annoyed look of "here we go again with the dramatics" flashing across Belinda's face does not escape my notice. Nobody likes to listen to me. Sometimes it feels like I will burst.

"I don't know about dandelions," Belinda says, happy I've put a cap on the save the roses speech, "but my favorite roses are yellow ones. It's my next favorite flower after lilies."

Before I can say what my favorite flower is, we are interrupted by a knock on the door. We look up and in walks the flower delivery boy. He has a delivery for Belinda.

We are taken aback at first and then start giggling as she opens the box and unwraps tissue to reveal, you guessed it, a dozen red roses courtesy of Potato Paul. Despite our earlier cynicism, we are both delighted by the surprise and I run to grab a vase from down the hall. 

When I return, Belinda is bent over in her chair in convulsions. It's impossible to tell if she's laughing, sobbing or having a seizure until I get up close to her and see sitting on her desk a bouquet of 12 thorny stems devoid of all but 5 of their heads. 

Belinda is laughing so hard she can't speak. All she can do is point at the flower box still on the floor at her feet. In it are seven decapitated red rose heads. 



When she calms down enough to speak in coherent sentences, she explains that as she lifted the bouquet out of the box, one by one 7 of the heads popped clean off like the tops of dandelions. 

"Mama had a baby and it's head popped off," I say without thinking, my voice trailing off, which causes Belinda to erupt into renewed laughter.

It is so strange, almost like the flower traffickers were sending us (or perhaps just me since I'm the one who will rant about it if given half a chance) a cryptic message that we better shut up with all this derision of dopey men and talk of red roses or else. Or else what, I don't know, and it occurs to me not for the first time in my life or even on this very day, how absurd is this thing called life.

Monday, August 3, 2015

The Ruling Celebrity Class

People are transfixed by beauty, wealth and celebrity,
They need a handsome devil to worship when God isn’t free.
Like goslings who imprint on the first big life force they see,
They’re easily led with no leash or worry they’ll flee.

They believe this is their Providence, their leader,
A giant personality, a glitter-filled bottle-feeder.
An attractive fowl without substance and a painted-on wing,
A kite that defies gravity, a ruse, a replica thing.

But kites don’t defy the law of gravity and replica birds can’t fly,
Eventually kites retreat from the sun, descend and fall from the sky.
And model objects that take flight suspended from a wire,
Are nothing more than the manipulations of a liar.

This world where mortals are elevated as gods is a world of illusion,
Where imprinted masses follow, pulled by need and misled by delusion.
Where tricksters guide, driven by every lust and every greed,
Smirking stewards who cash in as others starve, suffer and bleed.

They neither care nor appreciate the weight of their charge,
Egos that concern themselves with material splendor and living large.
Exploiters of a basic desire for purpose and connection,
Parasites of Spirit whose true intent avoids detection.

But how can they ascend when they’re mannequins with unmovable parts?
Fixed expressions and mechanical hearts?
Embalmed in silicone and plastic, they never look old,
They attend morticians of plasty and gorge on bricks of gold.

It’s where “superficial and shallow” are physical traits of the perfect T&A,
Where respectful language is considered crass and passé.
A bizarro place where up is down and down is “whaddup”,
And demons masquerading as saviors slurp from a footed-cup.

Where eloquence of speech and precision of wit is considered a bore,
And intelligent women assume the disguise of a whore.
Where sociopaths practice the size of their smile in a mirror of lies,
And heavy-breathing psychopaths plot for the day everyone dies.

Where sophisticated psychiatrists consult horoscopes for direction,
And a dumb reality TV billionaire wins a presidential election.
Where a white-veneered dentist named Walter is a lion slayer,
And a sitcom star who drugs and rapes women is a good ol’ player.

Where Harvard graduates give dissertations on the Real Housewives of whatever,
And if you’re rich, philandering is as an honorable endeavor.
Where if you’re a beloved Sinatra-imitator it’s fine to body shame,
And the Wizard of Oz is a celebrity doctor with a fraudulent claim.

They peddle heaven for a price and will tell you The Secret for a fee,
Pretenders who adapt so wholly to their role they believe it religiously.
It’s where from mega cathedrals the worst of men advise and preach,
A place where anti-vaccine Playmates without a clue babble and teach.

They model despicable behavior and say don’t worry about hell,
They dangle an American dream and the herd drools at the ring of their bell.
Viewers tune in to watch politicians perform like jesters on late night,
And a significant number don’t understand the difference between wrong and right.

It’s a controlled narrative that must be hand-fed to be believed,
Where few consider not all is as it’s given or as it’s perceived.
But if the devil can invade the churches, seduce the chosen and make angels fall,
Then Virtue too can infiltrate the enemy’s den and from there answer its call.

Watch now as weapons of cultural destruction become tools of transformation,
Where tragedy compels a trainwreck actress to address a gun-toting nation.
Where a slayed lion named Cecil is carved into a global symbol of action,
And novel ideas that can change the state of the world gain traction.

Watch as a lying Pinocchio converts from what is wooden and hollow,
Into a real boy with a beating heart and a virtuous command to follow.
Watch as mannequins begin to move of their own volition,
And psychopaths master the urges of their condition.

Watch as the practised smile of a sociopath reaches his eyes,
And prostitutes reveal the truth and discard their disguise.
Watch as replicas become what they replicate and break from their tether,
And diverse birds of every feather unite and finally flock together.