I thought he said he was a deer!

So, Sven and Ole are out hunting one crisp, Fall day. Suddenly, from out of a copse of trees (I have always wanted to use that word) a man comes running holding his hands straight up and shouting, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, I’m not a deer!” Ole picks up his rifle and shoots the man dead. “Ole,” Sven cries, “Why did you shoot him? He said he wasn’t a deer!” “Oh, said Ole, “I thought he said he was a deer.”

I’ve been telling that joke to my friend Mitch for at least two years now, and each time we laugh as if it were a new joke. And I think each time I recount it, it is a new joke. Because, absurdly, the events of the day make it seem perpetually new. For example, right now final arguments are about to begin in the Michael Jackson child sex abuse case, and I am biting my nails worrying about the fate of the man who owns a fifty million dollar amusement park that he uses as his primary domicile. And I am very concerned about the judges who the Democrats once filibustered to prevent assuming judgeships and who now, with the Democrats’ approval, sit on their judicial benches. The weapons of mass destruction for which we went to war in Iraq are still missing, but the body count continues to increase daily. There are pictures of Saddam Hussein in his underwear, and pictures of every adolescent sans any. John Bolton, who hates the United Nations (and seemingly, not a few others who work with him), might soon become our representative to the United Nations, and there is a suspicion that Viagra and Cialis might cause blindness, which recovers the warning that doing it will make you blind. If only taking Viagra and Cialis would help hair atop the head grow!

This is not the world of 1984 where peace is war, and where the Ministry of Justice is in charge of torture. No, this is worse. Because Ole knew from the start that he was shooting a human being, and he shot him, regardless, and Ole did so despite what the man did or did not say. As if what the man actually said should bear any weight on Ole’s decision to shoot him. Ole’s logic is absurd, and won’t work in any circumstances, but nonetheless, the man is dead! Ole shot him! Whoops, says Ole, it wasn’t really my fault: I mean, this is hunting season, and he was in the woods, and I had a rifle legally licensed to me!

I know, I know, I’ve explained the joke away. It is no longer a joke, and it is no longer funny. I know, I know. Part of what makes a joke viable is its untranslatability into the logic of this world. Or rather, it cannot be explained and remain a joke: such explication leads the joke to lose its entire stance in the world. The joke must be a bit absurd for it to function as a joke, and the explanation renders the absurd logical.

How should a joke relate to the world? I suspect, a good joke treats the world with quite a bit of irony, to place the absurdity of human behavior in the world in irony. Hence, the remarkable success of late night talk show hosts, and Saturday Night Live, and other shows of similar styles. But the more absurd the world appears, the more absurd must be the joke. Until finally, the only good joke is a joke so absurd that it is no longer even funny. But when the world is as absurd as it now seems from the front pages of the newspapers and the sound bites of the radio and television/cable news, then jokes no longer view the world with irony, but become in their absurdity mere exemplars of the real. And as exemplars of the real, they cease being jokes.

Why do Mitch and I continue to laugh at this Sven and Ole joke? Because if we didn’t laugh, we’d have to cry.

“Ole,” Sven cries, “Why did you shoot him? He said he wasn’t a deer!” “Oh, said Ole, “Oh, I thought he said he was a deer.”

No Regrets

My father, Sidney David, would too often say, “If I knew then what I know now, I’d be a rich man!” Then he would shake his head with sorrow, and stare off through me and into some past. I think my father lived in regret. His yahrtzeit occurs next week, 23 Iyar in the Hebrew calendar, and I have been thinking of him more than usual. He died of lung cancer in 1999.

And so, I want to offer to my father two moments in today’s run. Recently, I bought myself an iPod, and last evening I loaded hundreds of songs onto it in anticipation of a five mile run, and then I set the controls on this wonder-toy to ‘shuffle.’ The songs came up in no certain order, but rather, they played randomly. I was pleasantly surprised by the mix, and very well occupied on this run. And I had much to think about over the distances.

Moment One (mile 1) occurred during Dylan’s song from The Basement Tapes, “Nothing Was Delivered:” Actually, it was the version performed by The Byrds, but the song and sentiment was certainly Dylan’s. “Nothing is better, nothing is best/Take care of yourself, and get plenty of rest.” And the Second Moment (mile 4) happened during “Ramble On Rose,” one of my favorite Grateful Dead songs. Here is what they said: “The grass ain’t greener, the wine ain’t sweeter, either side of the hill.”

I’d always known that philosophical affinities existed between Dylan and the Dead, but the serendipitous mixing of these two particular songs reminded me of one important thing I’d learned from both: If I live in the present fully, and if I do not measure myself in comparison with anyone else, then, perhaps I need have no regrets for my actions. It is not a hedonism or solipsism of which they speak, but a joyousness and acceptance of a life filled with purpose and contingency. The Dead describe the scene (another favorite song, "Scarlet Begonias") as “Strangers stopp[ing] strangers/just to shake their hand/Everybody’s playing in the Heart of Gold Band.” And Dylan will assert years after The Basement Tapes, “I’m not sorry I fought, I just wish we’d won.” No regrets here, and no resignation either. It’s a willing joy and acceptance of commitment here expressed.

I think I learned not to have regrets during my 1960’s, and this wisdom that I have accepted has sustained me through the good and the bad, the easy and the difficult, the wonderful and the banal. I think this is a wisdom my father never learned, and I think it led to a great unhappiness which lay at the center of his life.

For my father, may his memory be for a blessing. For myself, nothing is better, nothing is best. Take care of yourself and get plenty of rest.

Edges of Town and Their Darknesses

For a number of years now I’ve been listening regularly to Dan Bern. You’ll recall, I live in rural Wisconsin, and do not have much access to progressive radio, and for the most part, I don’t know what the hell is going on in contemporary music. Oh, I listen a lot to folk and acoustic music, and I continue to buy what I know, and even take occasional chances on the unfamiliar, but in general, well, I’m out of the alternative mainstream. But one year, at year’s end, I was at my office (probably reading student papers, sigh), and I was tuned into my favorite radio station, WFUV, which broadcasts from Fordham University, in New York. They had listed the 100 best records (I know, I know) of the year at year’s end. For the bottom seventy five albums or so, they played from each a significant cut or two. Then, for numbers twenty five to eleven, the station played an entire side of the album. Finally, for the top ten, the disc jockeys broadcast the entire album! Number three for the year (I think it was 2000), was Dan Bern’s New American Language. I sat and listened to the entire album, and then immediately went to Amazon.com and ordered it. And for the past five years, I’ve been listening to it, well, almost weekly.

The custom of playing these albums continues, but alas, whole albums are not permitted to be streamed in toto. I’ve fallen back into ignorance, but I am forever grateful to that single year when I sat in my office enthralled by Bern’s still magnificent production. Later, I read that his band is called the International Jewish Banking Conspiracy, and that Bern himself has re-identified himself as Jewish, joining Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen as boychiks in the studios. That’s important to me!

So today, I was running (again and still), listening still to Dan Bern’s New American Language. And for the first time, I heard this line in the song, “God Said No,” a bitter song about human hubris, vanity, incompetence and selfish pettiness. In the song Bern accuses that though we espouse good intentions, our humanity has not enough integrity and vision to accomplish much of anything. It is a bleak and dark song, which ends with the following lines: “God turned away/From the edge of town/I knew I was beaten/And that now was all I had.” But when God turns away from the edge of town, Bern is denied foolish access to a past he can’t (and won’t) change, and is condemned (?) to accomplish something in the present, and even on the edge of town.

And I was reminded of Springsteen’s paean to the darkness at the edge of town:

I'll be on that hill with everything I got
Lives on the line where dreams
are found and lost
I'll be there on time and I'll pay the cost
For wanting
things that can only be found
In the darkness on the edge of town

In Bern’s vision, that darkness is where God leaves humanity to itself. It’s not a comforting moment, but it is all for which one can hope. After all, when God walks away it is humanity which remains. I have learned earlier from Emmanuel Levinas that wht replaces the face of an absent God is the face of the human being. In Springsteen’s world, that darkness at the edge of town is where one confronts ones hopes and dreams, but it is also a place where no one looks too long in your face. It is as if to be in the darkness at the edge of town is the only and worst place to be. Perhaps in the darkness at the edge of town, we are the most vulnerable, and we are respectful of our failures and that of the others. I’ve loved Springsteen’s darkness at the edge of town, and I would add to it not light but human warmth and compassion. Maybe this is what Dan Bern brings to the edges of town.

I know the darkness at the edge of town is a lonely place, where one can meet, though expect nothing from God. But when God walks away, it is only humanity that is left. I would look them in the face, and have them see me face to face.

Wine and Cold

I think it is May. Today, the temperature did not go above 45 degrees, and the rain did not cease, and the wind blew blustery. It was miserable weather, even for Wisconsin. This is the kind of trick Nature plays usually in April. There is always a week in April where Spring arrives (well, for at least the fifteen years in which I have lived in Wisconsin!). Then, the sun beams warmly and the air moves gracefully, and soothingly and in moderate temperature. Everyone smiles and tunes their lawnmowers. Deck chairs are hauled out of their storage, and signs for thrift sales litter every street corner. And then a foot of snow falls! Just when you’ve let your guard down, just when you’ve begun to breathe freely, just when you relax and open yourself to the world, Nature comes along and slaps us right back down.

But in May? Unseasonably cold is hardly a description for today’s weather. No, today’s weather was an assault. Today’s weather was completely uncalled for, and unnecessary. I did not need this lesson. I ALREADY KNOW!!!

My friend Jane asked if this weather bothers my healing ankle. I assumed she was referring to the ache I might be experiencing from the effects of damp, cold weather on healing bones and ligaments and tendons. I assumed she was referring to the aches and pains experienced by people with joint problems, like sailors and older folks. I told her that my ankle bones did not ache at all as a result of this weather, but that whenever I walked past a bottle of wine which cost more than $15.00, my ankle twitched unmercifully.

Born to Run

Today, I went running on the Red Cedar Trail for the first time in almost eight weeks. It was a lovely Spring afternoon; the air was dry and warm, and the sun remained hidden. In front of me, a group of bikers pedaled happily conversing. They didn’t see me in their glee.

I had been running on the tread mill for the past week with the permission of my physical therapists. I have worked with three of them: Jeff, Lucas and Deb. Each of them brought their strengths to my rehabilitation, and I am grateful to each and all. On the tread mill—as per instructions—I walked two minutes and ran one. (Actually, I was instructed to walk four minutes and run one minute, but I tend to overdo things. For example, my doctor told me to take ½ aspirin every day to maintain my healthy heart, and I told him that since I already take mega-vitamins, would it be acceptable to take a full aspirin. He smiled knowingly, and nodded his head). But, I found the treadmill particularly boring; even listening to Bruce Springsteen sing “Born to Run,” I could not maintain much pace at all. With all of those beautiful bodies about me, I couldn’t sustain any enthusiasm. And I was fast running out of breath.

So, on Friday, at my regular appointment, I asked Luke if I could run on the trail. No, actually I didn’t ask Luke if I could run on the trail: I told Luke I wanted to begin running again outside. He smiled (knowingly), and nodded his head.

Thus it was that today I went running on the Red Cedar Trail for the first time in almost eight weeks. And while I was running, I listened to my MP3 player which I had programmed over eight weeks ago in the days just preceding the event. And as I uncertainly ran, with not a little dis-ease, suddenly there sang the Byrds through my mind. The song was “Wasn’t Born to Follow.” I’ve always loved that song; identified it of course, with the film, Easy Rider. And there occurs this incredible moment in the song—between verses two and three—which epitomizes for me my sense of the 1960’s which extended into the 1970’s. I loved those formative years, and though Wavy Gravy says that if you remember the ‘60s, then you weren’t there, I remember dearly those years. They live in me to this day.

The moment occurs immediately after the lines, “And if you think I’m ready/You may lead me to the chasm where the rivers of our vision/Flow into one another." Suddenly, two guitars (one I’ve always thought as the legendary sound of Roger McGuinn’s 12-String Rickenbacker), play against one another, and slowly, inexorably, between them a tension builds.

Alas, I am certain there is something technical I ought to know about what the musicians are doing, but alas, I don’t know enough to hazard even a naive description of their skill. It is a hard tension I experience in this break; it is about struggle, and growth, and hurt and pain. “Wasn’t Born to Follow” is, for me, a song about struggle and growth and hurt and pain. This was what I experienced during the 1960’s which extended into the 1970’s. I loved them and I hated them. I love them yet.

And then, suddenly, during this break, when the tension seems unbearable, there happens a resolution, and the disquiet between the guitars resolves into a harmony and flow and ease. Like the rivers of our vision, the guitars flow into one another, and there is calm. This, too, was what I experienced during the 1960’s which extended into the 1970’s. I loved them and I hated them. I love them yet.

In the end, she’ll surely know, I wasn’t born to follow.

Tomorrow, I run for two miles.

What in the World?

I was riding a stationary bike today at the Health and Fitness Center of my University, as I have done almost every day since last week, when my physical therapists (I have three!) advised me that I could do so in the course of my continued recovery from the ankle fracture. The day prior I had informed Lucas that I had ‘ridden’ the exercise bicycle, and he said I could use the machines for five minutes. “Five minutes?” I cried. “I rode for forty-five minutes today!” He shook his head. I thought that his attitude did not bode well for my future recovery.

It is very boring to sit atop that bicycle which goes nowhere. Nothing moves. Nothing changes. And so I sit on this very uncomfortable seat and play with the buttons of the machine. I increase the intensity level when I am feeling strong, and I decrease it when the pedaling becomes too strenuous. I check the time elapsed—it is always less that it seems. Time moves very slowly when you are going nowhere! I check the distance traveled, which seems to me the height of absurdity, actually. After all, it is a veritable distance. I have traveled not at all; even my mind’s eye has closed.

It is a very boring ride, and so I bring my CD player and I listen to music. Neil Young’s After the Gold Rush, of course. I have coasted with the new John Prine album (very nice, indeed), and pedaled to Bruce Springsteen’s Devils and Dust (provocative!). I have passed some miles with the new productions of Nanci Griffith, and Eliza Gilkyson (both delightful). I’ve thought about bringing the Grateful Dead into the Fitness Center, but I think even they would be hard pressed to move me on that stationary bike. But I like and require the exercise; I am returning after my fracture to my life of activity. And so I have agreed to endure the boredom.

Now, as an alternative, it is also possible to bring a radio and tune in to the television. In the Fitness Center, they are wired for cable, a luxury I do not enjoy at home. (This is a serious topic of conversation and critique in my home—the children cannot understand the neglect!!) And by some miracle of electronics, atop my stationary bicycle, I can tune my radio to a specific frequency and hear the television through my earphones. Originally, I was too embarrassed to be seen watching what I grew up knowing as the ‘idiot box,’ but boredom reduces me to desperate measures. Last week I screened an old episode of ER. I know it was an older episode because George Clooney appeared so young in it. Last week I also saw Quantum Leap, a show in which I took original delight when it first appeared in 1989, and gloried in again as I pedaled nowhere. There, on the screen, Scott Pakula couldn’t control his travel, and in the gym I couldn’t make mine happen.

And then today I listened to Dylan’s album Love and Theft and watched the television without listening to it. They supply close captioning, and for twenty minutes Fox television explored the intricacies of the news story which has come to be known as “the runaway bride.” (I cannot bear to go into the details (sordid) and subtleties (none) of this event.) For a considerable time the news network explored the end of the prosecution’s case, and they tortured themselves silly wondering if Michael Jackson would testify on his own behalf when the defense presents its case. I recalled that over the past month the news media has prominently and obsessively focused on the tragic situation of Terry Schiavo, and then on the condition of the dying John Paul II, and then on his elaborate (and very expensive) funeral, and finally on the election and installation of the new one. Benedict XVI. (To my mind, it is an open relief that they chose the one with a Nazi past. At least now, it is all out in the open!), Then we were besotted with the royal wedding of Charles and Camilla.

Atop my bike, pedaling for my life and going nowhere, I sigh with relief that nothing must be wrong with our world when this silliness is the total fare on the news. I am relieved that the war in Iraq is no longer of interest, and that the body count is of no consequence. It is a comfort to know that the continual decline of the economy is of no concern to the nation now that Martha Stewart has been released from minimum security prison. Watching the news, I am relieved that the press seems not at all interested in the accuracy of John Kerry’s accusation throughout the >campaign that Georgie Porgie had ignored the real threats of North Korea and Iran and nuclear proliferation for the personal vendetta against Iraq in a war dishonestly and even perhaps, illegally imposed on the nation and the world. I reflect that it is polite that no one mentions that the corporate scandals of the last several years occurred when George was President, and were led by his friends and business compatriots. I am thankful that the administration’s manufactured crisis concerning social security is of little concern to the Press, and that the difficult questions that need be posed to Bush are left unspoken by a cowardly media. I suppose it is a welcome sign of a civility that so many claim to have fled this country that no one will confront George Bush and his gang about these horrible fictions and lies.

I borrow the term ‘manufactured crisis’ from David Berliner and Bruce Biddle (1995) who used it as the title of their book to put the lie to the false accusations made against education in the heinous A Nation at Risk (1983) and during the propaganda-filled years following. The administration prevaricated then, and they are lying now. These deceptions continue in justifications for the horrific No Child Left Behind Act, which finally and thankfully seems under attack by some enlightened and beleaguered states, and by the NEA.

I think the state of affairs in which the press seems complicit is a shame, but no one seems ashamed. I am appalled. In the mean time, I sit atop the stationary bike and pedal for my life.