Vacuum sweeping the carpet is a matter of great theological importance to me, as it turns out. You see, I have to apologize to the Almighty every time I take the great electric creature into my hands.
It seems a minor thing, housework. But even aside from Martin Luther’s assertion that there’s divine purpose in even the most mundane task when done to the glory of God, I still have a problem with using the vacuum cleaner.
For one thing there’s the cord.
I hate that cord.
I’m convinced the thing is alive – and not just in the metaphoric sense. It’s actually in cahoots with the machine itself to defy the laws of physics and crash into every piece of nice furniture I own (the crappy ones it misses with the dexterity of a Russian ballerina). Despite expertly guided thrusts of the operator, it consistently navigates awry to suck up rogue twine or a heretofore invisible screw that clanks around for 45 seconds before getting ejected into the drywall like a scud missile.
Then there’s the evident paradox of a suction ability isn’t quite enough to get a large dust bunny along the side of the wall, but IS substantial enough to suck in toile drapes from nine yards away and nearly burn out the motor.
And that’s not even mentioning the fact it seems mathematically engineered to just miss fitting between the width between chair legs so the chairs actually have to be moved.
Then there’s the stairs.
Have you every tried to vacuum clean a stair step measuring six inches wide with an upright? It’s a bit like trying to pick up a hair with a screw wrench. I realize there are inventions called “attachments” for this sort of work, but mine were lost within minutes of opening the box.
I’m always sweating and puffing at the end of a wrestling match with my vacuum cleaner, and feeling a bit sheepish over the creative epithets which came involuntarily (although most satisfactorily) from my mouth in between the grunts and sighs.
“God, I hate this thing!” is one of the milder examples, and unfortunately, an instance where I was using the Lord’s name quite in vain. Had I actually repaired to Him, I’m sure I wouldn’t have followed by damning the poor inanimate object to the seventh circle of Hell.
I’m afraid the dust from my clay feet was showing.
In reality, the vacuum cleaner is my friend. Without it my home would be a gobbled whole under a dark gray cloak. Well, that and it would look very dusty.
Yes, the vacuum cleaner is a friend – but somewhat like the friend who reminds you of your diet as you reach for a chocolate chip cookie. It’s definitely one with whom I share a love-hate relationship.
As a matter of fact, the thing may even have a spiritual purpose in my life after all. Philosopher Blaise Pascal did say we all have a God-shaped vacuum.
But surely he didn’t mean my Dirt Devil.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Ah, Brother Ass
We’ve lost the art of insulting well.
It goes with the territory of language deterioration in general. I mean, if you use a word like “loquacious” instead of “talkative,” people stare at you blankly and then start to back away slowly.
By the same token no one bothers to be creative or thoughtful when deigning to describe a bore, for example. We could say something like “He spoke at length in vain confidence of his imagined eloquence,” or even, “He’s clearly an emotionally constipated individual.” You’d feel pretty thoroughly put in your place if you were the brunt of either comment, wouldn’t you?
No so with more generic terms. Most of the time folks simply resort to a general catchall, like: “that guy’s an ass.” Which, actually, if you think about it, is rather more accurate than not. It was 12th century monk St. Francis of Assisi who called his own body “brother ass,” and Christian writer and language critic C.S. Lewis took such a fancy to the term that he dusted off the old phrase and used it for himself.
“Brother ass.” Ass, of course, meaning a donkey.
Once when I was a young radio copywriter, our station did a promo involving donkey basketball. I had been an employee for exactly three hours before I was told I would have to ride a donkey and play basketball – at the same time – and in front of a whole gym full of people.
Number one, despite some rather impressive height, I don’t do basketball. Never have. Never will. I grew up in a houseful of sisters wielding curling irons and pom pons, but never, ever any athletic equipment.
Number two, I had never ridden a donkey. I had, however, ridden a horse. I figured, “how different can it be?”
HA!
Despite the double handicap, however, I bravely got on that donkey and proceeded to join in the game. Actually, I got on that donkey and proceeded to join the game several times, as the wretched beast would suddenly stop, drop, and I would roll. Not once. Not twice. But several times – and with no warning.
Ass, indeed, was one of the kinder terms I remember thinking at the time.
But on the other hand, I was laughing so hard I could hardly stand up anyway. And that was my picture of a donkey when I read this passage by C.S. Lewis: “No one in his senses can either revere or hate a donkey. It’s a useful, sturdy, lazy, obstinate, patient, lovable and infuriating beast; deserving now the stick and now a carrot; both pathetically and absurdly beautiful. So the body. There’s no living with it till we recognize that one of its functions in our lives is to play the part of buffoon.”
So maybe it’s not an insult at all, really. But that’s not the point. The point is – creative elocution (insulting or otherwise) is becoming a lost art and I just had to put in my cliché-ridden two cents on the matter. While I admit I’ve peppered this piece with some atypical vocabulary, it was with a sincere lack of pernicious intent.
Aw, the thing is – I love words. I love ’em to the rather strange extent that I have a “favorite word” list. Yet, I am guilty as charged for occasionally sliding down the slippery slope of lazy speech. But who among us can cast the first stone?? One of my guilty pleasures is a repertoire of clichés (I seem to have one for any occasion), and falling victim to today’s slang, I have actually used the word “disrespect” as a verb.
Alas, there are just too many other things to worry about. (Like ending a sentence with a preposition or achieving world peace.) So, I’ll just end this diatribe by blaming the president (if not him, who?) and then be on to my next opinion.
><>
It goes with the territory of language deterioration in general. I mean, if you use a word like “loquacious” instead of “talkative,” people stare at you blankly and then start to back away slowly.
By the same token no one bothers to be creative or thoughtful when deigning to describe a bore, for example. We could say something like “He spoke at length in vain confidence of his imagined eloquence,” or even, “He’s clearly an emotionally constipated individual.” You’d feel pretty thoroughly put in your place if you were the brunt of either comment, wouldn’t you?
No so with more generic terms. Most of the time folks simply resort to a general catchall, like: “that guy’s an ass.” Which, actually, if you think about it, is rather more accurate than not. It was 12th century monk St. Francis of Assisi who called his own body “brother ass,” and Christian writer and language critic C.S. Lewis took such a fancy to the term that he dusted off the old phrase and used it for himself.
“Brother ass.” Ass, of course, meaning a donkey.
Once when I was a young radio copywriter, our station did a promo involving donkey basketball. I had been an employee for exactly three hours before I was told I would have to ride a donkey and play basketball – at the same time – and in front of a whole gym full of people.
Number one, despite some rather impressive height, I don’t do basketball. Never have. Never will. I grew up in a houseful of sisters wielding curling irons and pom pons, but never, ever any athletic equipment.
Number two, I had never ridden a donkey. I had, however, ridden a horse. I figured, “how different can it be?”
HA!
Despite the double handicap, however, I bravely got on that donkey and proceeded to join in the game. Actually, I got on that donkey and proceeded to join the game several times, as the wretched beast would suddenly stop, drop, and I would roll. Not once. Not twice. But several times – and with no warning.
Ass, indeed, was one of the kinder terms I remember thinking at the time.
But on the other hand, I was laughing so hard I could hardly stand up anyway. And that was my picture of a donkey when I read this passage by C.S. Lewis: “No one in his senses can either revere or hate a donkey. It’s a useful, sturdy, lazy, obstinate, patient, lovable and infuriating beast; deserving now the stick and now a carrot; both pathetically and absurdly beautiful. So the body. There’s no living with it till we recognize that one of its functions in our lives is to play the part of buffoon.”
So maybe it’s not an insult at all, really. But that’s not the point. The point is – creative elocution (insulting or otherwise) is becoming a lost art and I just had to put in my cliché-ridden two cents on the matter. While I admit I’ve peppered this piece with some atypical vocabulary, it was with a sincere lack of pernicious intent.
Aw, the thing is – I love words. I love ’em to the rather strange extent that I have a “favorite word” list. Yet, I am guilty as charged for occasionally sliding down the slippery slope of lazy speech. But who among us can cast the first stone?? One of my guilty pleasures is a repertoire of clichés (I seem to have one for any occasion), and falling victim to today’s slang, I have actually used the word “disrespect” as a verb.
Alas, there are just too many other things to worry about. (Like ending a sentence with a preposition or achieving world peace.) So, I’ll just end this diatribe by blaming the president (if not him, who?) and then be on to my next opinion.
><>
Monday, August 20, 2007
My musical Journey
At first I was kind of jazzed when my teenage daughter discovered 70s style rock music.
At first.
Before going on I should say my musical taste has evolved over the years – and NOT in the direction of Justin Timberlake. However, I will take even his little vanilla ghetto sound over the harsh street rap that throws down disrespect with every yo yo syllabo. All that bass may be woofer-worthy, but to me it’s also as agonizingly repetitive as Chinese water torture.
But I digress.
I came of age in the late 70s and early 80s – after the Beatles and before the mall hair bands. Car radios were blasting Boston, Jethro Tull, the Babys, ELO and Steve Miller. In those days Peter Frampton had long golden curls, Elton John was considered eccentric for his wild eyeglasses, and no one knew why the band Queen was named Queen. (Just for the record, I knew EVERY word to “Bohemian Rhapsody” and still do.)
In my humble opinion, it was the golden age of guitar rock music. The Doobie Brothers and Bob Seger were filling sports arenas. People would even pay to watch a guy like Meatloaf. There were no music videos on TV. It was a kinder, gentler, uglier time. (Hair and dental technology have come a long way.)
When I grew up I put away my childish things - primarily because no one made vinyl records anymore. And while the world was making the transition from tapes to CDs, I was busy with being married and rearing children. For a long time my music repertoire was more along the lines of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and whatever that stupid purple dinosaur was singing.
As I matured I grew to appreciate jazz and classical music. But along with high school, we remain imprinted with the music of our youth. When I would hear certain songs on the “retro” stations I would be transported to another place – another time – the lithe, hip years B.B. (Before Barney).
Such was the case when the aforementioned daughter first discovered “my” music. It was rather a novelty to have a connection with this person who’d looked at me blankly for the last three years – a period during which we seemed to have nothing in common aside from some aggravatingly familiar genetic traits.
But then, the light shone at the end of the tunnel. The generation gap was being bridged and we were no longer estranged creatures.
We both loved Journey!
Journey was perhaps the most commercially successful of the super groups of that era, selling 40 million albums (more than Jimi Hendrix and The Who combined). I was rather surprised to realize that the long locks and distinctive voice of crooner Steve Perry had caught the fancy of a new audience – mostly feminine, but also more accepted by a generation of young men weaned on Emo indie groups like Fall Out Boy and (ugh) Justin Timberlake.
What I didn’t foresee was the potential for damage.
When I first started hearing the familiar strains of “Open Arms” and “Wheel in the Sky” I welcomed the rush of nostalgia. I was transported! Inside I was again reliving the feeling of über coolness I enjoyed in my ignorant youth.
And I continued to enjoy that pleasant sensation – the first dozen or so times I heard the songs played.
In the same day.
Folks, after that – there’s a point of diminishing returns.
And after that – the brink of madness.
If I’ve heard that “Greatest Hits” CD once, I’ve heard it a thousand times. I never thought it would happen, but I’m beginning to get nauseated at the opening thumps of “Lovin’ Touchin’ Squeezin’” My Journey code is being overwritten. It no longer evokes the same yearning passion in my breast. It has become, for me, passé.
Sigh.
Oh, what can I say? My daughter and her friends love the band. I like for my daughter and her friends to hang around our house. Therefore, I shall gladly endure the loss of my taste for a band that helped write the score of my youth.
All things, it seems, must eventually go the way of the dinosaur.
At first I was kind of jazzed when my teenage daughter discovered 70s style rock music.
At first.
Before going on I should say my musical taste has evolved over the years – and NOT in the direction of Justin Timberlake. However, I will take even his little vanilla ghetto sound over the harsh street rap that throws down disrespect with every yo yo syllabo. All that bass may be woofer-worthy, but to me it’s also as agonizingly repetitive as Chinese water torture.
But I digress.
I came of age in the late 70s and early 80s – after the Beatles and before the mall hair bands. Car radios were blasting Boston, Jethro Tull, the Babys, ELO and Steve Miller. In those days Peter Frampton had long golden curls, Elton John was considered eccentric for his wild eyeglasses, and no one knew why the band Queen was named Queen. (Just for the record, I knew EVERY word to “Bohemian Rhapsody” and still do.)
In my humble opinion, it was the golden age of guitar rock music. The Doobie Brothers and Bob Seger were filling sports arenas. People would even pay to watch a guy like Meatloaf. There were no music videos on TV. It was a kinder, gentler, uglier time. (Hair and dental technology have come a long way.)
When I grew up I put away my childish things - primarily because no one made vinyl records anymore. And while the world was making the transition from tapes to CDs, I was busy with being married and rearing children. For a long time my music repertoire was more along the lines of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and whatever that stupid purple dinosaur was singing.
As I matured I grew to appreciate jazz and classical music. But along with high school, we remain imprinted with the music of our youth. When I would hear certain songs on the “retro” stations I would be transported to another place – another time – the lithe, hip years B.B. (Before Barney).
Such was the case when the aforementioned daughter first discovered “my” music. It was rather a novelty to have a connection with this person who’d looked at me blankly for the last three years – a period during which we seemed to have nothing in common aside from some aggravatingly familiar genetic traits.
But then, the light shone at the end of the tunnel. The generation gap was being bridged and we were no longer estranged creatures.
We both loved Journey!
Journey was perhaps the most commercially successful of the super groups of that era, selling 40 million albums (more than Jimi Hendrix and The Who combined). I was rather surprised to realize that the long locks and distinctive voice of crooner Steve Perry had caught the fancy of a new audience – mostly feminine, but also more accepted by a generation of young men weaned on Emo indie groups like Fall Out Boy and (ugh) Justin Timberlake.
What I didn’t foresee was the potential for damage.
When I first started hearing the familiar strains of “Open Arms” and “Wheel in the Sky” I welcomed the rush of nostalgia. I was transported! Inside I was again reliving the feeling of über coolness I enjoyed in my ignorant youth.
And I continued to enjoy that pleasant sensation – the first dozen or so times I heard the songs played.
In the same day.
Folks, after that – there’s a point of diminishing returns.
And after that – the brink of madness.
If I’ve heard that “Greatest Hits” CD once, I’ve heard it a thousand times. I never thought it would happen, but I’m beginning to get nauseated at the opening thumps of “Lovin’ Touchin’ Squeezin’” My Journey code is being overwritten. It no longer evokes the same yearning passion in my breast. It has become, for me, passé.
Sigh.
Oh, what can I say? My daughter and her friends love the band. I like for my daughter and her friends to hang around our house. Therefore, I shall gladly endure the loss of my taste for a band that helped write the score of my youth.
All things, it seems, must eventually go the way of the dinosaur.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
