My "Dirty" Little Sectret

I know of only two people that understand, or even know, of my love of languages; it's not something that just "comes up" in conversation. Only two of my professors at Chico State ever got a "whiff" of it, and we had several very interesting conversations arrise about it. The first was my History of the English Language professor, as we were learning to read "Olde English". We were talking about a certain portion of Beyowulf in class, and I asked about the meaning of a certain phrase, and read it to her, as we were being instructed. I can still see the look on Harriett Speigel's face, and that's been a little while. She had me repeat it, and told the class that my reading was "perfect". After class, she asked me how it was possible for me to read words, words I was only beginning to understand, with such accented perfection. We talked for a long while.

The second was my Linguistics professor, whose name escapes me, at the moment... Johansen, Johanson, Yolly Yohnson, someting Nordic, anyway... he noted that my ability to reproduce the sounds of words was way above average. He wanted me to become a Linguist, and lobbied to the last, hoping I"d reconsider. He also used to tell us that if he ever saw us, his students, in Chico State Alunmi gear, he'd have us committed to an assylum, as we appeared to have a multiple-personality disorder. Huh? He explained that "alumni" was plural, "alumnus," or "alumnae" were singular. Well, Chico, California never has been known for it's humor.

I was fortunate, as a young man, to make three trips to the Mediteranean. The first could probably be called a "Pub Crawl" through Athens, Corfu, Palma de Majorca, and Spain, with a side "crawl" of Scotland. What can I say... the Navy was contributing to my alcoholism, but it was "OK" at that time. I did learn some very valuable lessons, though.

I saw the "Ugly American" in action. Thomas "Tex" Carlucci. We were on our first "liberty" in Athens, Greece. Tom was going to the NCO Club at the Air Force Base for dinner, and I tagged along. I had arrived on USS INDEPENDENCE while it was at anchor in Souda Bay, Crete. We weighed anchor a few hours later, so this would be my first experience outside the U.S. We waited in line, got on a utility boat, and sailed into a landing next to the Delta Club. We walked out to where there were numerous taxis, and Tom started shouting "Speak English?" He was pretty much ignored. After a minute, a cab driver approached me, quietly, saying that he spoke English, and asked me where we wanted to go. Lesson: Demanding the speaking of English in a European nation who's native language is not, is a good way to get ignored. It was simple, at first, but it ignited a desire to learn certain phrases in Greek, Italian, Turkish, and Spanish, so I could be respectful to my hosts. You'd be surprised, at least I was, at the number of people who speak English, throughout the world, if you learn enough of the native language to say, "I do not speak [language], do you speak English?"

When we got to Barcelona, Tom assured everyone that his Spanish was "passable," as he was, after all, "Tex". Come to find out, he was born in Massachusetts, raised, schooled, joined the Navy from somewhere outside of Boston. While he was in Boot Camp, his dad took the job of Chief of Police, in San Antonio, Texas. At that point, Tom became "Tex," listened to Country Music, and ONLY Country Music (none of that "Rock and Roll"). We were in the city, looking for a place to eat, and drink. Tex walks up to this nice-looking Senorita, and spouts, "El speak-o mooch-o Mexico, a don-de es la bar-o?" I wanted to crawl under a rock.

Enough. It's the sounds of the words that facinate me. It's like music being played in the background, all of the conversations we hear, and try to ignore. I don't care what the language may be, I really enjoy listening to people speak. It's unfortunate that our most polished orators are predominately politicians, but people who use their language well always have my attention. I learned stock-phrases phonetically. Don't spell it, show me how it is supposed to sound. I can make sounds, translating from one language to another...? Different story alltogether.

Anyway, that's it. That's my "dirty" little secret.

A Confession, of Sorts...

I have started to attend an AA-approved, LDS-oriented Twelve Step Program, every other week, as an assignment from my Bishop. It's really a terrific program, Mary and I were once the Missionaries assigned to be Group Leaders, and accepted other callings just as the Addiction Recovery Program (ARP) adopted a new, AA-approved book, that puts AA's program in a Mormon-friendly manner. When I was in AA, I had a lot of questions about spiritual things, but none of my sponsors ever wanted to go beyond "Higher Power," and delve into the religious implications of that concept.
But that's not why I was writing. The LDS program is great, but as it is designed to cover a variety of addictions, attendee's are asked not to go into the specifics of their addictions, and focus on their recovery. It's pretty general, unlike most of the AA meetings I've attended over the years. Almost everyone had a "story" that could get pretty graphic, and told them freely, as though it was their bonne fides for membership. Every once in a while, at a "speaker meeting," the guest speaker would talk about the nutty things he/she did to keep drinking, and those were always great for a laugh, but mostly it was serious people, who often felt compelled to confess some atrocity, or another.
I've never heard anyone talk about the "good times," when one indulged in his/her addiction, and didn't contribute to any disaster, or tragedy. My "confession" is that in all of the time I used drugs "recreationally," I can't remember having a bad time. Maybe that's a result of my drug use, but I just don't recall being involved in any trouble.
Like the first time I tried LSD. I was with the Chief of Police's son, going rollerskating at the rink in Fairfield with another friend. George was driving his dad's truck, and we "dropped the acid" on the way. I remember putting on the skates, and taking off, feeling like I was flying around the rink. In reality, I was barely moving. I stopped at the end of the rink opposite the back door, which, due to the day's heat, were opened to allow more air flow. I watched George skate through the wall at the end of the building, go past the open doors, and through the wall, back to where I was. "Wow! How'd you do that?" It got funnier after that.
Mostly, anymore, I marvel at the fact that so many of us survived the late-sixties. When I think of the times we raced up, or down, Gates Canyon, in a '50"s or '60's vintage "boat," stoned, drunk, or both, I can't believe we ever made it this far.

Something Uncharacteristic

I usually begin my mornings by reading the newspaper, and listening to the Bob and Tom Show on 104.1 FM. I particularly enjoy the OP/ED page, where the "From Our Readers" letters are highly informative, sometimes passionate, often humorous, and always an insight to the people in my community. Over the years, I've noticed that there are frequent contributors to these "letters," whose views of life are quite different than my own. I read them, often shaking my head at the extremes they go attempting to make a point. I've watched the growth of this town, from a "stop on the freeway" at 18,500 people, to a thriving city of nearly 100,000, but the biggest change is mainly political.
During the "housing boom" at the turn of the Century, people from all over the Bay Area sold "flats" in San Francisco, and bought huge homes (relatively) on the proceeds, outright. Something I've learned, over the years, is that people who live in metropolitan areas tend to be very liberal. Vacaville, in my youth, and well into my 30's, was a fairly conservative agricultural community. Today, it has taken on a considerably more liberal slant.
Of the frequent contributors to the OP/ED page is a flaming-liberal, mean spirited man named Harry Short. I've read a lot of his crap over the years, and know-without-looking when I am reading one of his letters. Apparently, he was abused by a Conservative, as a child, and still harbors a grudge against anything further right than Lennin. I don't know the man, personally, all I know is what he vomits onto the OP/ED pages as often as The Reporter allows. One character assassination after another; a cheap-shot here, maybe he thinks he's funny...
He wrote a piece, attempting to make light of the Tea Party-folks, that kind of "lit me up," and I wrote a response. I don't know... maybe it's just that I'm tired of people who focus on the "antics" of a protest group, rather than the issues that bring them together. It was the same thing in the 1960's, people made fun of the "drugged-out hippies," rather than focusing on an unfortunate and unpopular war. I guess I snapped.
I'm more of a moderate-conservative, recognizing the need for "programs," but abhor abuses and extravagances. I want a government that is efficient, and don't believe in creating more government. I believe that, according to the Constitution, the government should be representative of the will of the people, and never conduct deals "behind closed doors". So called "earmarks" should be abandoned, as a practice, and politicians need to realize that they represent a constituency, their seat is not the property of the individual, it belongs to the people who elect them. I have never voted for anyone on the assumption that they would vote their personal preference over the needs and will of the people who elected them. I guess I'm naieve that way.
Maybe it's the "liberal backlash," making the word "conservative" the butt of all jokes, and a repository for blame. I didn't agree with the tactic when conservatives were in charge, either. Making fun of people for their beliefs is just plain un-American.

April Fools Day

Listening to The Bob and Tom Show on the 'net. Thinking about April Fool's Day. Thinking about the time when the kids were young, and we made the first of April "Get Dad Day." Tyff was 12, or 13, and begining to blossom into her own person. We would trade "put-downs," pranks, and other "fun family things, all of the time. Tyff kept trying to "get" me, but I usually managed to turn the joke back on her, and I watched her get frustrated, trying to figure out a way to focus a joke on me. It was '87, or '88, when she finally pulled it off.
OK, she "got" me, it was funny, we all laughed, but she was so proud of herself, she began to try more often. Somewhere, along the line, her attempts to "get Dad" crossed from funny to disrespectful, and we had a talk about limits. She asked when it would be appropriate, and I said, April 1st. Hence, April Fool's Day became Get Dad Day for my family. We've had a lot of fun with it, over the years, and Tyff's gotten me more than once. Mary, too.
Once, when living on Federal Blvd, in San Diego, Mary left me a note on the door. I read about what amounted to a really bad day, little things that happen all the time. As it went on, it got worse, and worse, and then it went just a bit too far. I began to realize that it was a gag, probably right after my first stroke (hey, who knows? They couldn't tell me when the first one had been...).