Decal

Decal: (n) a specially prepared paper bearing a design for transfer to wood, metal, glass, etc.

 The extra-large was not quite big enough.

It was the story of my adolescent life.

I was always just a little bigger than the size chart proposed, and the clothes-makers made available.

But the guys in the group had their hearts set on these bright yellow-gold, open-front sweaters that we could wear onstage whenever we actually found ourselves onstage, playing our music.

Like most high school bands, we talked and planned more than we set up and performed.

We practiced twice a week—for no gigs.

And every once in a while, we got the itch to buy a stage outfit—for no stages.

I had to admit that the sweater was absolutely one of the coolest things I’d ever seen in my life. It looked great on everybody else—whose bodies aligned in the righteous station of normal.

But it was small on me.

I didn’t care.

I decided to buy it along with the rest of my friends.

And suddenly we were the possessors of the coolest outfit to wear if a stage were ever made available.

Black pants. Black banlon turtlenecks. Gold sweaters.

A mother of one of the guys suggested that we needed some sort of decal on the sweater to set it apart as unique to us.

We didn’t know exactly what she meant, but we nodded in respect. Sensing our confusion, she gathered up the sweaters and said, “Give me a week and I’ll give you a surprise.”

We had no capacity to object.

Two weeks later, she handed us back our golden sweaters—except on the top left panel, near the shoulder, there was a B and a Q decal, which she had embroidered into the cloth.

Since we were called “The Blessings Quartet” it was pretty cool.

Actually, we were all shocked at how neat it looked and how groovy it was, considering it had been made by an adult.

It did not make my sweater fit better.

But to this day I believe that we started getting opportunities to perform because word of our gorgeous sweaters, with the decal, quickly spread throughout the surrounding masses.

 

Decaf

Decaf: (n) decaffeinated coffee or tea.

Having had a showdown with caffeine in my early years, when taking too much No-Doze in an attempt to stay awake, I have been reluctant to drink regular coffee.

Actually, it’s much sillier than that.

I don’t like coffee at all.

But I will occasionally hold a cup in my hand when I’m forced to be with grown-ups so that I can appear to be one of them.

When I do that, I request decaf.

No matter now long I live on this Earth, it will continue to astound me how there are some people who can take the simplest, little piece of information and turn it into a full diatribe, discussing their superiority and my inadequacy.

It never fails.

If I’m at a party and request decaf, there’s always someone—who has been practicing blowing hard—who explains to me that I am drinking “kid stuff,” “brown water” or “the nursing home special.”

They go on to explain that they only drink “the real stuff,” with just as much caffeine as it possibly can hold and still remain liquid.

I stay quiet, admitting my frailty and conceding that this may eliminate me from ever being considered studly.

I don’t know why we human beings turn everything into a competition.

I am not an expert on coffee in the first place.

So truthfully, I’m not in the mood to discuss brews, roasts and grinding.

But if you are, I wish you God speed.

God speed away from me.

 

Decadence

Decadence: (n) moral degeneration or decay; turpitude.

“Congratulations. We have a new country.”

“So where should we start?”

“I guess we should get organized.”

“Now by organized, do you mean the Robert’s Rules? Or Parliamentary Procedure?”

“Somebody needs to be in charge.”

“How should we pick him?”

“Well… we could have them campaign for the job.”

“Okay. But no insults, right?”

“Maybe insults, but just not personal.”

“Well, leave them alone and let it play out.”

“Well—now what’s next?”

“We need an organized government.”

“What should the government do?”

“Govern—according to the will of the people.”

“Unless the people are wrong.”

“Then what?”

“Govern them, letting them think they’re in charge.”

“Isn’t that a lie?”

“It’s politics. There will be lies.”

“I see. I forgot.”

“Don’t let it happen again. We need to be able to lie—to get our message across.”

“But what if we get caught in a lie?”

“Deny.”

“Why would they believe us?”

“Because they don’t really care what we do—just as long as we don’t make their lives difficult.”

“You act like you think people are stupid.”

“No, just less informed.”

“Well, since they’re less informed, maybe we should take some chances.”

“Or open the door to some possibilities.”

“But isn’t that illegal?”

“You mean by the Constitution?”

“Yes—the Constitution.”

“Everybody interprets that differently.”

“But it seems we’ve left our original plan—a government of the people, for the people and by the people.”

“It’s still of the people. We let them vote.”

“By the people because we are coming from the population.”

“The only question would be for the people.”

“Do they really know what they need?”

“And do they care what’s happening in other countries?”

“It’s like my Grandpappy once said. ‘It takes a lot of money to be honest.’”

“What do you think he meant by that?”

“He meant, ‘do what you do to get as much as you can so what you say makes a difference.’”

And then, all at once, we had decadence instead of a government.

 

Decade

Decade: (n) a period of ten years

I guess if we’re working with averages, most of us get to live in seven decades.

The first ten years are so out of our control that it would be difficult to know if the time period and the circumstances really mean that much to us. I do remember things from my first decade, but it’s more like a motion picture being played in the background or a series of fast trains speeding by.

My second decade was mostly about sex.

It was the discovery of it, the curiosity about it, the pursuit of it, masturbation and finally ending up in the arms of a woman, completely hapless.

My third decade was based around having children and figuring out how to pay bills, while still honoring my occupational dream. As you can tell by the conglomeration, I didn’t end up doing any of them particularly well.

Now, in my fourth decade, I started gaining some solvency.

What that meant to me was, when the electric bill showed up, I paid it instead of negotiating it. It was a pleasant step. Unfortunately, simultaneously I was dealing with children—some of whom were watching life whizz by and others, completely occupied with their groins.

The next decade I did a lot of traveling, performing and writing, at a time in my life when I was not in as good shape as ten years earlier. But contrary to popular opinion, life gives you a hamburger but really does not ask you what you want on it.

Now that I’m in my sixth decade, I don’t really care if people agree with me. I’m not out to impress anyone, I have enough money to get by and still buy a treat or two, and I have fun acting much more mentally spry than people believe I should be.

I have no idea how much further I will go in the decade pursuit.

Maybe some—maybe not.

But I will tell you, as long as you can go to bed at night, laugh at your mistakes, and get up the next morning believing you can do better, you will survive the war.

Debut

Debut: (n) a first public appearance on a stage, on television, etc.

During my midnight curtain call at the end of the day, when I take my bows (or lumps) over the events surrounding that given twenty-four hours, I begin to ruminate.

By two o’clock in the morning, when I briefly stir, my brain is already trying to invent, produce and cast my next debut, which should begin six hours later, at eight o’clock.

What do I envision?

What do I think a debut should include?

New and improved? Most certainly.

Excitement?

A specific energy toward the practical and the general sense of goodness?

By the time I stir again, around five, my brain has enlarged this plan, and suddenly it all seems plausible. I not only believe I can fund it, gather the energy to perform it, but also that there should be a great market for the debut of my new self.

  • Less eating.
  • More mercy.
  • Thoughtfulness.
  • Humor.
  • A “clever” here and there.
  • And exercising my body as I exorcise my bad memories.

As I doze off to finish my night, I am enraptured with the possibility of being recreated—so transformed that others will notice, be thrilled for me and challenged to do the same for themselves.

When I awaken at eight and begin the cleaning, brushing and dressing, I try to dredge up memories of my nighttime plan.

They seem fragile—as if touching them or even moving toward them causes them to crumble in my grasp.

Yet as I begin the day, I try one thing–then another.

Something I remember from my stage-planning the night before.

By noon the debut is over, and unfortunately, it resembles the previous day’s performance.

I know I can do better. I know “better” is in me.

It’s just nerve-wracking to stage a debut.

Debunk

Debunk: (v) to expose as being false

Perhaps the easiest job in the world would be to debunk the Bible.

After all, there aren’t many big fish swallowing men, talking serpents, fishermen walking on the water, or seas pulling back so people can stroll on dry land nowadays.

Sometimes, simply reciting the Bible’s claims is enough to make a room full of mature adults giggle.

And then, all the debunkers and those devotees who’ve enjoyed their exploits can gather at the local pub and pat each other on the back for exposing the superstition of holy scripture.

But eventually, all of them have to leave the party and go home, where they climb into a bed by themselves and realize they feel just a little more alone.

 

Debug

Debug: (v) to detect and remove errors

Our protagonist quietly walks into a room, using hand gestures to signify to his close companion to be quiet.

After our hero searches the room for about forty-five seconds, he discovers several listening devices, which he removes so that  conversation can return, and they can discuss where these bugs might have come from and why it was important to debug the room.

It is a staple of American movie folklore.

For after all, no one wants to believe they’re being overheard and therefore manipulated into doing what someone else wishes.

Yesterday I asked myself a very valuable question.

How much further along would we be in overcoming this present pandemic of Covid-19 if the media was not covering it?

What if there wasn’t a camera in every corner, a microphone for every politician and a running death toll displayed to the side as a constant reminder of the horror which is afoot?

What if we had to solve this problem in silence?

In other words, let the experts talk among themselves, come up with ideas on how to battle the disease, and then, as in olden times, print flyers and distribute them from house to house, explaining what is expected of each citizen in pursuing and maintaining a solution.

If the arguments were removed, the politics were squashed, commentators silenced, and people with jobs just did their bit and passed along terse but well-worded demands to the general public—who would have to believe the reports because they were the only insights available…

Well, would it be better if America were debugged of the electronic albatross that listens in to see what frightens us, so more fear can be delivered?

Debt

Debt: (n) something that is owed or that one is bound to pay to or perform for another

I am trying to determine if I remember if there was any measurable amount of sincerity in me at all.

I’m talking about that first moment, when I was nineteen years old and sat down in a car dealership to buy a five-hundred-dollar, old, beat-up van that formerly was used by the telephone company.

I was so anxious to get this vehicle that I probably would have sacrificed four days in heaven.

I know there was a salesman who was explaining payments, rates of interest—and also that the green-monster-wagon was being sold “As Is.”

I vaguely recall seeing his lips move as my glazed eyes peered over his shoulder at the prize.

I think maybe I was somewhat aware that since I put no money down, that my payments were going to be sixty dollars or so a month for the next year-and-a-half.

Yet I cannot swear to you that any awareness of these factors was actually registered by me, but instead, were later thrown up to me by the collection agency when it taunted me about my promise to make monthly payments.

I think there was a part of me that really thought I was going to try to make good on the debt.

I don’t know how.

I had no visible income.

I was negotiating my quarters and nickels to buy a pound of bologna a day with a loaf of bread and an apple.

I drove fifteen miles every other day to get free day-old doughnuts from my buddy who worked at the “Dunkin’ Something-or-Other.”

But there must have been some little piece of hopeful legitimacy that envisioned sixty dollars being made available for a monthly installment—even if I believed that a bird was going to fly it in from the Bank of Heaven.

Of course, it’s also possible that I was just an irresponsible teenager who couldn’t look beyond the temptation and couldn’t care less about my responsibilities.

Yet I sure do like that bird idea.

 

Debris

Debris: (n) the remains of anything left over

It’s a matter of getting the right mind-set. If you don’t, you may find yourself going through life feeling cheated—angered at being passed over.

The bottom line is that ninety percent of us never get a chance to work with something that’s brand new.

The folks who handle the new shit have to have so much money that you and I could never achieve such garish amounts.

What we end up with are left-overs.

  • Abandoned projects.
  • Broken pieces.
  • And ideas that have already been deemed worthless.

Yet it is completely possible to get rich off of poor results—to have money because someone else failed to see a way to turn the material into something viable.

This is why a carpenter once mused that “the meek will inherit the Earth.”

In other words, once the rich people get bored or can’t remember why they bought something in the first place or have broken it just a little bit and don’t want to mess with it anymore—well, these spoiled-rotten humans will walk away and leave it behind, making it, shall we say, public domain.

I, myself, am a piece of debris.

I probably am not handsome enough for a fancy woman.

I’m not slender enough for an athletic one.

My talent is obvious but diversified and might confuse those who are looking for the strait and narrow.

I don’t have enough money to impress you.

And I don’t have the desire to overwhelm you with my silver tongue.

I pick up what’s usable and make it better. In making it better, I end up with the full usage of the discarded, and the possibility that someone might just want my little piece of renovated debris.

What is the old saying?

One man’s treasure is another man’s junk?

Also, one man’s junk, if treasured, can delight the world.

 

Debrief

Debrief: (v) to interrogate on return from a mission 

If we knew for sure that we were paranoid, we could consider stifling our fear. But the power of paranoia is that it permeates our thinking with just enough factual information that we’re never quite able to dispel the myth from the truth.

I felt this when I was a father working with my small children.

I had two goals:

  1. I wanted to see them educated.
  2. I did not want that education to make them heartless and stupid.

You might think that receiving learning from a school would naturally remove all cynicism or indifference. You might even consider that sending them to a Sunday School class at a church could do nothing but enhance their potential for generosity.

Unfortunately, I think you would be wrong.

And here’s where the paranoia comes in.

I found that my sons often returned from school or church with a bit of twisted thinking, which they were convinced was true because someone with an education or a grease board had told them.

I could have left it alone.

I could have hoped they would annul such falsehoods out of the basic training they received in our home.

But their lives were too important, their minds too valuable to the planet, and their spirits too powerful to be left to chance.

So I did.

I often debriefed my children after they returned from school or church.

I am willing to take criticism for such a maneuver, and you can feel free to condemn the practice.

But I demanded that when they arrived at adulthood, they were aware that the Civil War was a struggle over slavery, not a misunderstanding concerning states’ rights.

I wanted them to understand that the theory of evolution was happening all around us, and it was all right to question it—as long as you didn’t insist that God created everything in six twenty-four-hour periods.

And I wanted them to know that there are no “chosen people,” no third-world countries, and no races and cultures that are beyond our understanding and affection, but instead, that we are eight billion people with more in common than difference.

I debriefed my children—and I would do it again.

Because their lives are more valuable than wearing matching uniforms and marching in step with their class.