My First Book

                                                            50/50: What Are the Odds?

                                                                  December 16, 2024

The number 50 seems to be a recurring theme of late. I hesitate to delve too deeply into why that is the case, so I’ll just attribute its ubiquity to the most obvious. Myrna’s and my 50th wedding anniversary rolls around in August. This type of event is cause for reflection and reminiscence. Since the last few blogs have been a little heavier, I thought we might take a vacation to Germany, say 50 plus years ago or so. I was months away from my February discharge date from the Army and actively seeking ways to pass the time till then.

1972 bestowed Kitzingen, Germany with another cold winter. I cannot say whether it was especially cold by Teutonic standards, but it was as bad as the previous one, which was my only basis for comparison. . . well, that and being a desert rat. I was worlds away from the Sonoran Desert where the thermal mass of Metropolitan Phoenix is poured into the shallow bowl of the Salt River Valley. During the summer, one knew when it was nighttime because the heat had darkened slightly and the temperature dipped below the 100-degree mark, but not by much.

But here, now, in my present duty station, everything was white—the ground, the sky, one’s breath. Everything. There were shades of grey, and the portion normally thought of as sky would lighten during the hours historically deemed daytime. The summer months, when it rained or was foggy, brought that same sky grey. Without weather, the heavens were blue. The ground was green—a verdant, fecund shade sometimes low-crawled upon by boys clad in olive drab. The one shade lacking in that umlaut-laden land was brown. Germans apparently had not invented dirt.

In Arizona, beige was ubiquitous. And it came in many forms: granular and wind-blown, clotted and quite throwable, desiccated and cement-like. Sadly, I could find none of it around the Army base. What bare patches existed sans shrubbery were dark and loamy. I really missed seeing dirt. It got to the point that I checked the company roster for anyone named Claude. Alas, ‘twas not to be.

In the midst of this melancholy, I noticed that a movie called Brewster McCloud was playing at the enlisted men’s theater. “That sounds like a Western!” thought I. “There will be dirt in that movie!” That’s all it took. Plans were made. A few pals came along, admittance fee in hand. I can’t remember the exact amount, so let’s say it cost 50 cents. That makes sense, right? Right. Pictured on the poster outside the theater was the Houston Astrodome. OK. We will be out west, just not the Wild West.

On-screen, no tumbleweeds were ever seen; there was scarcely any dirt, for the bulk of the movie took place inside the Astrodome. There was concrete and Astroturf. It grew less John Ford/John Wayne from the opening credits on. This was a Robert Altman film released in December of 1970. That means that everybody involved had the entire Sixties to prime themselves for the serious drug abuse of the Seventies. I loved this movie.

It was quirky and off-beat to be sure. The lead was Bud Cort who was Harold in Harold and Maude. Shelley Duvall, who was born to play Olive Oyl (and did in Popeye), was a sort of love interest. Sally Kellerman, who played Hot Lips Hoolihan in the movie version of M.A.S.H., portrayed a wingless guardian angel to Brewster (Bud Cort). Though it was never explained, Sally Kellerman had two savage-looking scars on her back delineating where her wings had once been. This was as far from the Alamo as one could get and still be in the Lone Star State.

But, we had already paid our half buck, buckeroo, so we were going nowhere. As mentioned, I did not want to go anywhere. The on-screen silliness held me rapt. Not sure what kept my compatriots there, but they passed the time in the darkness with only the occasional interruption. That was until the movie ended, and the lights came up.

“That was the stooooooopidest movie I ever saw,” Larry volunteered, lighting up a Pall Mall.

“The guy wanted to fly around the Astrodome, so they kill him?” Ken was incredulous.

And who was the chick with the wicked stitches?” asked Larry, sounding vaguely poetic.

“Wish she’da turned around,” snickered Ken.

“That mighta made up for the bird professor. What was with him eating bird seed off the eraser tray on the chalkboard?” Larry exhaled a cloud of nicotine.

“Oh, I know the answer to that!” Ken proudly proffered.

“You do?”

“Yeah, we couldn’t see the babe’s boobs because they showed us a big pecker!” Ken and Larry both spit out mouthfuls of popcorn.

“Pecker!” they blurted in near unison.

“That’s why chickens can’t pee,” Larry interjected. “Because their pecker’s on their face!”

This went on for a while as we marched back to our barracks.

“Hey, Chilese!”

“Yes?”

“You’ve been strangely quiet.”

“Don’t you know any chicken jokes?” Larry queried. Popcorn-flecked spittle flew again into the frigid night air.

“I know a few; some that are actually funny. And, I am with you on wanting more information, but I really liked it.”

“You liked it? The people getting splatted with bird poop just before they got killed? You liked that?"

“I think the point is that the movie is over and we’re still talking about it.”

“No,” Ken noted. “You’re talking about it. We’re just making fun of it.”

I agreed. They pressed me to explain. I obliged.

“Brewster was an innocent with a beautiful unearthly dream to break gravity’s bonds and fly to the heavens. His fallen guardian angel had that ability and lost it. Why? We’ll never know, but it’s important to her that Brewster remains true to that celestial pursuit, and she somehow kills the people throughout the movie who get in his way. He doesn’t know any of that because he is singularly focused on his mission. But there is temptation in Paradise. Brewster loses his lofty goal when he gets down and dirty with the girl. His lust loosens his tongue, and he tells his earthly angel more than he should. She tells the police that the homicides are tied into this whole enterprise; when he tries to fly, he dies. He lost his purity and with it, his divine guidance and the other-worldly strength to power his wings. To sever all ties with Earth, a person must be pure. Then, one can fly free, or attain salvation, or enter heaven. You know, become a spiritual being. The movie’s allegorical.”

“Wait! What? You got all that from THAT?” Larry huffed, pointing in the direction of the theater.

I shrugged. “Oh darn! Are we home already? Well, good night.”

“Was it?” Ken shook his head. “Was it really?”

“So, next week, then?” I offered.

“And do what? Go to a cock fight and be condemned to Hell?”

Everybody laughed. Finally, a decent chicken joke.

Whether it has been the dearth of opportunities to attend a cock fight or mere dumb cluck, er, luck, I have since avoided going to Hell, at least in the eternal sense. There have been occasions that, at the time, seemed to qualify, but the scent of sulfur would waft away, leaving me in reverie at a Baptist funeral.

The Brewster McCloud story sticks in my mind for many reasons. One was our shared incredulity. My pals could not believe the ridiculous parade of images that had flickered before their eyes. I could not believe they missed what was as plain as the red rubber nose on a clown’s face. Yet, we experienced this befuddlement together. . . and laughed about it. . . heartily.

Larry, Ken and I shared many Army moments, each surrealistic in its own way. Some were explicitly military. Those, by definition, were other-worldly. There was no civilian equivalency, so we newly minted adults struggled to wedge those into our lives. Events with antecedents, like movie-going, were easier to process. But they too had an odd fit. We were sharing our lives with strangers from far-flung lands, people whose circles on Life’s Venn diagram would never overlap. Still, here we were. Fate’s mission for us was to keep those pesky Russians on their side of the Iron Curtain. Ours was to navigate this military microcosm and return to civilization—to our “real” lives.

But, barracks living and bad chow was then our life. It was very real though, in a Robert Altman sort of way. We shared unique situations and bonded deeply because of that. We strangers were now brothers. We could face anything together, good or bad, funny or sad, literal or allegorical. Then came February, and POOF! Adios Army. Bye-bye buddies.

Naturally, all departing pals promise to stay in touch and intend to do so. A few months into civilian life, I drove to California for that very reason. Larry and I reminisced about the two of us simultaneously playing one guitar because he had severely injured his hand setting a boobytrap. The training charge that prematurely exploded necessitated hand surgery. We had jammed together so frequently that we literally played as one. Now, in Los Angeles, we were two. After we said good-bye, we were memories. For me they are happy ones that would be Hell to forget. 

The Pathetic Peripatetic

The What? 

The PP. 

Excuse me! 

I know! It's so puerile!

So what?

Puerile? From the Latin, puer, meaning child. In English, the word means silly, childlike, immature. Let's skip the pronunciation because you are reading the word. Oh, you might want to use it aloud to impress your friends or intimidate your enemies? No? You would simply like to "pronounce" it in your head if you come across it in your reading (as you just did!). [pyoorəl] There. Now, we can both say it. 

With that out of the way, we can begin to explain the name of this blog. Here goes: Pathetic is used in the sense of having or being full of pathos. I am thinking of its ancient Greek meaning of feelings and emotions, not that of pity and suffering. For Peripatetic, we harken back to those Athenians again--Aristotle and his ambulating students strolling around the grounds, thinking out loud and pondering the questions of the day. Yeah, those guys. They were collectively known as the peripatetic philosophers. 

I put those concepts together because we are all walking around philosophizing--trying to make sense of the world by learning things about it. It's that learning that this blog will be about. Confession: I also put those words together because they are alliterative and playing with language is fun. Yes, it is. No, it is not puerile. Puns possibly are puerile, but not alliteration. Tsk! Tsk! 

With that, I beg you to read a blog or two. They will explain more than merely the title. Get your two cents ready. You will soon be sought to add your thoughts to this blog. Won't that be edifying? And fun!!