Damascus

Damascus: (n) the capital of Syria

I used to know this fellow who had a heart to do what’s right but no mind to sustain it.

He passed on the impression he desired to see things done well, and if necessary, to change some of his own ways to accomplish it.

When we began a project together, he always said, “Let me know if I’m doing something wrong so I don’t end up being the weak link.”

Sounded good.

And when we first labored together, I took him at his word. So if he occasionally missed a spot or failed to follow up on what we decided to do, I quietly pointed it out to him.

Then began the three-step process:

  1. He frowned at me, while wrinkling his brow.
  2. He walked over and looked carefully at the alleged mistake.
  3. And he always—and I mean always—concluded with the same verbiage: “I think it’s alright.”

Of course, you fine readers know there is no legitimate, kindly comeback to this conclusion unless you want to begin a huge fight.

So even though he pretended he favored improvement—because he thought that sounded open-minded and one of the attributes of a good leader—when “shove” knocked “push” to the ground, he stuck to his guns.

You and I have two choices:

  • We can make natural mistakes and naturally correct them.
  • Or we can make natural mistakes, fail to correct them and wait for supernatural intervention.

There was a man from Tarsus named Saul.

He thought killing Christians was a good idea because they were going against his religion. (It didn’t seem to bother him that killing was also against the tenets of his faith.) He was so invested in murdering Christians that no intervention worked—except to have his ass blown off a horse with him sprawled on the ground, blinded, waiting to be finished off by the rod of God.

Yet even at that point, the voice from heaven told him to go someplace—and just wait.

In other words, “Think long and hard about how close you came to being incinerated.”

After several days, a visitor arrived, who continued Saul’s reclamation by telling him what he needed to do:

Repent.

This happened in Damascus.

That’s why, in the old-time days of “speak,” we often referred to a “road to Damascus experience.”

It’s one of those occasions when sense, friends, failure and nature, itself, has spoken to you so many times that all that remains to deter your futility is a flash course in mortality, and a brush with elimination.

Damage Control

Damage control: (n) any efforts to curtail losses or counteract unfavorable publicity

Most really bad ideas are introduced through clever phrasings.

Such is the case with “damage control.”

Years ago, some executive sat down and tried to come up with a more palatable way to phrase “failure.”

Negating “we fucked up” and the insipid, “it’s not as bad as it looks,” he tried deception: “We were prepared for a possible setback all along, and even had a plan in place to address it.”

Oh, hogwash (if they actually do).

I am so tired of excuses, I refuse to make one (explaining my fatigue).

Politics is the birthing chamber for damage control.

Because every politician believes that he or she loses brownie points with the public by not being a “good scout.”

There is some sort of contention that if we don’t appear to be right even when it seems we’re wrong, that we will be court-martialed and not allowed to captain the ship anymore.

What makes it truly hilarious is that none of us really like people who think they’re perfect. The minute someone portrays to us that they are “incapable of errors or sin,” we immediately launch a campaign to find their sins and errors.

So what do we think we are going to achieve?

We can only outsmart people until we run up against somebody smarter. And if arrogance has taken such a hold on us that we don’t think we will ever come upon another human more intelligent than ourselves, then the real damage control is to quickly and comprehensively have our heads examined.

There is only one fruitful reply when it’s obvious that things have gone awry:

“We screwed up. So now, from that screw-up, with the help of good counsel and better ideas, we will try to screw it back down.”

Damage

Damage: (n) injury or harm that reduces value or usefulness

Hello, stranger.

Pardon me, I don’t know your name.

I’m not really trying to introduce myself. More or less, I just want you to understand my position.

I’m not sure if I would be gregarious even if the option were available to me. Since you are unfamiliar to my world, I feel compelled to go slowly—perhaps stop.

It’s nothing personal.

I see you’re a little put off and perhaps don’t understand my misgivings, but that’s because you haven’t lived in my world or my time, surrounded by a topsy-turvy environment, nurturing terror.

There are blessings.

But as people, both religious and secular, will concur, the trials and difficulties greatly outweigh the payoffs.

It may seem like a negative way of looking at one’s lifespan, but still, all in all, it is safer to embrace caution and to ignore any temptation to take a risk by pursuing new relationships, new friends, ethnicities or environments.

Understand?

Haven’t you been hurt?

Healed of the wound, the scar and internal blistering is still sensitive.

Is it not nature’s way—to give us a constant reminder of our foolishness, our sins and our naivete by leaving behind bruises and discoloration?

Perhaps you’re a fine person.

Let me rephrase that. I don’t know you’re a fine person. That’s why I must treat you as if you’re not. I simply can’t afford to take on any new conflicts.

I have damage.

It has been addressed, discussed and I suppose might seem covered by the grace of the Divine. But still, it quietly lies within me, warning me of the many troubles of those who wander too far from reclusion.

Perhaps there will be a day when you will be better known to me or my damage will once and for all be contained.

Perhaps not.

Here is what I see:

After meeting thousands of people, we eliminate all the comers to two or three we claim to hold dear, but still maintain our intimacy at arm’s length.

Dam

Dam: (n) a barrier constructed to hold back water and raise its level

I am often surprised at my own conceit.

Perhaps some folks would not consider it conceit—to relate every word, subject and category in life to one’s own limited experience. Even though I know there is a great Hoover Dam, and these barriers are often constructed by busy beavers, and without the concrete which holds water where we want it, many human beings would never get a drink of water, I persist.

Yes, I am fully aware of all this information.

But when I hear the word “dam,” I think of necking.

Making out.

Parking.

Or coming as close as possible to “going all the way.”

In my small village, one had to be careful on Friday or Saturday night to choose where to make out with your girlfriend or boyfriend.

There were eyes everywhere.

And even though all the grownups in the town knew, on good authority, that boys and girls did things that made them become men and women, they still chose to put off that metamorphosis for as long as possible, for their particular caterpillars.

So we had to have someplace to go, to find out how far we could go before falling off the edge of the Earth.

The spot favored by nearly everyone was a little dam outside our town. It was about eight miles away, located on what we referred to as the Hoover Reservoir. (As I write this article, I have no idea why they named it Hoover or how it “reservoired.”)

It was an amazing place.

There was a little roadside park, and right next to it was another road that careened down into another large parking area, which overlooked the overflow to the dam. (Forgive me if I overused the word “over.”)

On Friday and Saturday nights—and for brave souls who could slip away any night of the week, for that matter—the very young drove to the location just as nightfall was peeking around the corner. There they parked their cars and commenced to give one another tonsillectomies, followed by physical exams and searches for moles and blemishes.

Now, let me explain that there were two types of people—those who were dating, who went to the dam to do things which might make them end up damned, and those who had no significant other and chose, because of their insignificance, to go to that parking spot near the water, and flash headlights, honk horns and even get out of the car to pound on the hood of smoochers, disrupting their pleasure.

It was a nasty practice.

We called it “bushwacking.”

Truthfully, the only people in the world who thought it was humorous or clever were the few pathetic souls that found themselves doing the ugly deed out of frustration for not being able to participate in the competition.

Many a day I defended bushwackers for their light-hearted effort to have fun.

That is, until I met someone who was willing to go to the dam place and kiss me until I couldn’t breathe. Then I was infuriated for the interruption.

Now, I realize, as I warned you at the beginning, that this outlook on the word “dam” is very myopic and certainly foretells of an egocentric mindset.

Yet since I have not lied to you up to this point, I cannot do so on this day.

The word “dam” does and always will remind me of either the pursuit of happiness with my nimble fingers or being a loser, honking my horn with a giddy revenge.

Dalmatian

Dalmatian: (n) a breed of dog with short having a white coat marked with black or brown spots

Sandra Gunderson was a dog-breeder, though she hated the term. She preferred connector, love-birther or canine dating service.

She had a very successful business. She advertised all black dogs or pure white dogs.

There were no other markings on them—no little white bowties on the black ones or dark streaks streak on the nose of the white ones.

When people wanted a black dog or a white dog, Sister Gunderson was the lady to come to, and find your dream pet.

Then one day, strangeness took over, as it often does.

While delivering the latest litter, emerging from the loins of Mama Dog was a completely different creature:

A white dog with black splotches.

Or was it a black-splotched dog with a white background?

Ms. Gunderson was so shocked by the appearance of this mutant that she decided to take it away and nurse it on her own, far from the other puppies, and maybe keep it around the barn—to scare away strangers.

But lo and behold, before she could enact her plan, the McKenzies came with their eight-year-old daughter. She was in the throes of celebrating her birthday and they planned to purchase a puppy and saw the bespeckled creature with the white skin and black splotches.

The little girl immediately fell in love with this surprise visitor.

Word spread quickly, and before too long, folks who had wanted white dogs or black dogs suddenly demanded black and white dogs.

It was very tricky. Ms. Gunderson had to wait until a spotted male came out of the black and white dogs to mate with a female from the first batch. And then—no guarantees.

All sorts of configurations appeared.

In about the twelfth generation, the exact mix were birthed and ready for sale.

She sold so many that she couldn’t keep up with the demand. She had to link with some other nearby breeders and work as a team—to make more and more black on whites.

Dalmatians–that’s the name they came up with.

They were so cute that Walt Disney made a movie about a hundred and one of ’em.

After Sandra went to see the Disney movie, she remembered how it all began. She had been mighty close to doing away with that young pup, which appeared, refusing to be white or black.

She was shocked at its look and equally as stunned when the appearance of the dog ended up being a winner.

Just like Sister Gunderson, I, too, occasionally think of the things that have come into our human lives that were first startling—out of step—and seemed to be misfit for our cause.

And now they are celebrated.

So am I a white dog?

Am I a black dog?

Am I a Dalmatian?

Nah. I’m just a mutt.

Dally

Dally: (v) to waste time; loiter; delay

I, for one, have grown weary of the judgmental attitude of the New Oxford Dictionary.

First of all, what’s so new about it? It acts like my grandma the first time she saw me in a turtleneck. Or for that matter, the first time Grandma saw me in anything that wasn’t popular in 1950.

Let us understand—I believe in the power of “dally.”

So much am I a supporter that I have linked my dilly with my dally to form a meaningful experience: dillydally.

Mr. Oxford, I am not wasting time. I am preserving it, lengthening it and treasuring it by sitting down and relaxing instead of hustling along, trying to prove I am some sort of “great worker.”

It certainly is not loitering, as you suggest. I am not perched on a park bench feeding the pigeons, sticking out my tin cup to receive donations from the innocent park-walkers.

Wasting time? Hardly. How is it wasting time to try to elongate moments by creating a slower pace of a more pleasurable style?

Truthfully, I do not see that people who rally produce more than those who dally.

And when you add a good dilly in on top of it—that being the desire to find something humorous along the way—you set yourself up in a lifestyle that is sparkling and tries to accentuate every breath, squeezing potential out of each second as it goes by.

I would dare to say that Thomas Edison, arguably the greatest inventor of all time, uncovered the light bulb in the midst of a dally. Exhausted over failures, he slowed down and decided to just experiment, and in so doing, found the correct filament to light up his life—and yours and mine as well.

I think there are many Presidents that did more during their dally time than they ever did campaigning, pushing, shoving and attacking.

So here’s to the dally.

May we always be in the pursuit of a simpler way to do things, a happier way of accomplishing them and a sense of utter relaxation while pursuing.

Dalliance

Dalliance: (n) amorous toying; flirtation.

I was there for the death of dalliance.

It was recent, so you may have also been around.

For years and years, I fed my ego, enhanced my library of imagination for masturbation and granted myself a bit of prideful chest-thumping over the glory and beauty of flirtation.

It was very common at one time.

There was only one restriction—you needed to make sure that it was a mutual interaction. In other words, if you were joking around with a woman, as long as she was firing back her “blurt of flirt,” it was absolutely acceptable, invigorating, and released some of the pressure that often occurs in life over the attempt to suppress sexuality.

Granted, if dalliance was occurring from only one person, and the other individual was heading for cover as if there were bullets in the air, then it was certainly harassment and wrong-headed.

But for centuries, men and women have enjoyed teasing one another with false claims, silly innuendos and batting eyes, with stomachs held in and shoulders thrown back.

Then one day it all changed.

We began to believe that even if both parties were participating, it was possible that they were doing so because they feared for their job or they were so frightened by the circumstances that they remained mute, without objection.

I don’t know whether a woman on the job who is flirted with by her boss and returns some of the banter can then claim she was “too scared” to object.

I think we must decide if men and women are equals, or if they’re only equal when we’re talking about job opportunity and pay scale.

Are they equal in their responsibility to speak up for themselves and express their displeasure if they’re being made uncomfortable?

I don’t know how successful we’re going to be if we’re trying to make one person the conscience for two.

In other words, that aforementioned boss should realize the possibility that the employee is too terrified because of the fear of losing her job—so he should not generate any questionable approaches whatsoever.

The human race has survived in a splendid way, riding the wave of dalliance.

I just don’t know who we become if we can’t flirt with each other.

Can we maintain our self-worth if someone isn’t letting us know they think we’re attractive, clever and worth a back-and-forth repartee?

Sexual harassment is a bad thing.

But when does flirtation become sexual harassment?

It is the contention of this author that if an objection is not raised, a door remains open.

Dallas

Dallas: (n) a city in NE Texas.

If you want to lose your prejudice, travel.

I dare say it is impossible to refrain from some sort of stereotyping of other individuals and races as long as you remain in one locale, or only scuttle about a hundred miles or so.

Although you may try to be open-minded, black people seem ridiculous when you’re only around white people. And white people all look like slave owners when you are living in an urban area, surrounded by your identical color.

Travel is an amazing thing.  You immediately see two lies played out:

  1. People are different
  2. A region can reflect an attitude

In both cases, it’s just not so.

Although the South touts hospitality, it is only dribbled out based upon whether the Southern lass or gent deem you to fall into the realm of normalcy.

And people being people—possessing biological, mental, spiritual and emotional propensities—generally speaking ooze out favored sentiments.

The first time I went to Dallas, Texas, I was expecting cowboys, Southern jargon, big, thick steaks and beautiful women adorned with pumped-up hair and large smiles.

Don’t get me wrong—these are available.

The Chamber of Commerce, the churches and the politicians make sure they have representatives of this style of Dallas on call for the tourists.

But when you step a little deeper into the community, you find human beings. Most of these souls don’t have enough security, finance or agenda to be hateful or loving.

They’re just doing the best they can.

So these folks are not different at all and feel no compulsion to reflect the attitude of Dallas or any other metroplex they might need to represent.

Bigotry is kept alive by business, religion, politics and entertainment wishing to keep us separate.

We have certainly learned this year that when the same problems are thrown at people who are supposed to be different, those who survive stumble upon mutual solutions.

Dali, Salavador

Dali, Salvador: A twentieth-century Spanish surrealist painter

I’m always baffled by the word “surrealist.”

Probably if I shared my life and journey with you, you might find it surreal. So surrealism is a judgement rather than an actual thing.

Salvador Dali painted landscapes which were infused with melting clocks. For his efforts, we categorize him as surreal.

But perhaps his message was that time does not fly, time does not slip away, but instead, time, by its very nature, melts down into an image of the effort we have expended.

Much of my life has been the slow elimination of days, months and years.

But I don’t remember the clock.

I don’t recall the tick or the tock.

Instead, my time is marked by events, creations and even the children of my pursuits.

Time melts down into whatever we want it to be.

This is not surreal.

It is surreal to think that we can do nothing, ignore our gifts, sit back, wait—and that our time will still be meaningful.

I’m not saying that Dali was looking that deeply into it. Maybe there was just a sale on blue, green and yellow paint at the local store.

But I will tell you–whether it was a message from his heart or an accidental revelation, there is a beautiful warning to one and all:

Make sure your human clock melts in a meaningful way.

 

Daley, Richard

Daley, Richard:  (n) A mayor of Chicago in the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s. One of the last and toughest of the big-city political “bosses.”

’Tis a tale of the two Richards.

I could probably write an Almanac about it, but I shall keep it brief. Yes, I will make it short, if not sweet.

Richard Daley was the mayor of Chicago who believed in control by intimidation and using strength as a deterrent to protest.

So in 1968, when young people all over America headed to Chicago, Illinois, to make a stand against the Viet Nam War at the Democratic National Convention, Mayor Daley thought it was a good time to stop these punks and hoodlums, making an example of them by using his police force to push them, shove them, and often strike out.

America’s love generation—beaten and bloodied.

The television networks thought it good theater to cover this unfolding with a split screen—half of which broadcast speeches on the floor of the convention, and the other chronicling the struggle between college students and police officers.

It was a frightening, obtuse and mind-altering vision.

Meanwhile, another Richard, Nixon, sat back and watched the fiasco, ran for President and won in the midst of this turmoil over the Viet Nam War, which he promised to end.

Not only did he fail to cease the war, but he brought a level of corruption into the Presidency that had never been seen before, resigning in disgrace.

What would have happened if the one Richard—the Mayor of Chicago—had decided to treat the students as if they were the sons and daughters of America instead of crime bosses?

Would the other Richard–Nixon–have been able to capitalize on his second run at the chief position in the land and win?

A very interesting question. I’m sure it’s one that most people don’t care about anymore.

But since human beings have not come up with a new design for more than a hundred thousand years, it’s safe to assume that this kind of situation will rise again—where we need to be careful not to allow one Dick to make another dick.