Replies to My Spam

My spam folder gets more mail than I do. It amazes me what strange comments are offered up from “readers” with names like “best trash removal” and sharing dodgy links to YouTube and Polish websites. Most of them are not worth reading and a few are downright unreadable, as if a dictionary had gotten hideously drunk and puked up random words.

But once in a while there’s something that is almost worth sharing, despite the non-name name and dodgy links. So I’ve collected the highlights from my spam folder for the past few months and will reply to them here.

Hi! I know this is somewhat off topic but I was wondering which blog platform are you using for this site? I’m getting sick and tired of WordPress because I’ve had problems with hackers and I’m looking at options for another platform. I would be great if you could point me in the direction of a good platform.

I’m happy to oblige. This is a WordPress site.

First of all I want to say great blog! I had a quick question that I’d like to ask if you don’t mind. I was interested to find out how you center yourself and clear your head prior to writing. I’ve had a tough time clearing my thoughts in getting my thoughts out. I truly do enjoy writing but it just seems like the first 10 to 15 minutes are lost simply just trying to figure out how to begin. Any ideas or tips? Continue reading

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We Said “No” (for Vikki)

It was the last day of classes that semester, only finals remaining, and for us that was a light load. Vikki was a fashion design major, so her grades would mostly be determined by sketches and garments created during the semester. As an English major, most of my grades would be based on term papers (we still typed on paper back then), and if I hadn’t done the reading assignments necessary to pass the finals, it was too late to cram.

So we celebrated by going into town for dinner. Nothing fancy, just some pasta and enough wine to make us happy and talkative.

As our tongues loosened, Vikki grew serious for a moment and said, “Somebody asked me to join the Nazi party.”

I gulped my wine.

“She asked…” “I was so shocked…” “Me too!” “I couldn’t believe…” “…thought it was a joke.” “…didn’t know what to say.”

Our words tumbled together. If you’d been sitting at the next table you might have overheard and thought we were discussing some hot gossip, but it was more serious than gossip.

Finally, in unison: “My father was in World War II!”

We took deep breaths, laughed with nervous relief, calmed down, and compared stories. Both were the same, more or less: the same woman had approached each of us when we were alone, spoke disparagingly of other races, and invited us to join the Nazi party. Apparently her family were members.

Vikki and I both responded the same way, too. Shock, disbelief, then stammering out “N-no.”

Don’t we all like to think that if we were some day faced with an important ethical choice we would respond with eloquence? Well, Vikki and I did not. We were taken by surprise and barely able to speak. We were horrified. But we said the one word that mattered most: No!

Our fathers had both served in World War II, both in the Navy, though neither did any fighting. Vikki’s Dad served on an aircraft carrier. My Dad, slightly younger, enlisted after high school when he was still 17. By a fluke of timing, he boarded a troop train out of New York’s old Penn Station on V-E Day, and spent his time in the Philippines. But, yes, both had joined the United States military intending to fight against Nazism.

Four decades later, their daughters were asked to become Nazis.

I have thought about that dinner conversation many times in the years since we graduated, but most of all since last year’s election, when white supremacists and the “alt-right” have revived both the Confederate battle flag and the swastika as symbols. Now, when all our choices seem to matter a little more, I want to hold on to that time when Vikki and I said “no” to bigotry and hate.

How many people recently have faced the question that so shocked Vikki and me? How many have stammered out a bewildered “N-no”?

Alas, I cannot ask Vikki how she feels. We had a falling out a couple of years after graduation and lost touch. From time to time I’ve tried Googling her, but it seems she didn’t use social media or have a website in her name. Her name, in fact, was a problem: Victoria is her middle name, and in the five semesters we were in college together she went by Vicky, Vicki and Vikki. (I’ve chosen to use the spelling she used when last we were in touch.)

In early 2016 I tried Googling again, using her full first, middle and last names. What I found was an obituary. She died late in 2015, much too young. I’m sorry we don’t have an opportunity to find each other again. She would have been outraged by the events of 2016 and early 2017 and we would have remembered that conversation of long ago.

This post, then, is my memorial to Vikki, on what would have been her birthday. Our friendship had its ups and downs, but I know that when we faced the most important moral decision of our college years, we both said “no.” And for that I will always respect her.

M*A*S*H: An Appreciation for 2017

One evening when I was in college I was hanging out with friends in their suite. Someone suggested we watch a re-run of M*A*S*H on television, but one friend, Mark, objected. He thought the show was crass, too many references to drinking and sex.

Fortunately the “yea” votes won out, and even more fortunately it chanced to be the episode titled “The Interview.” If you don’t remember the show, “The Interview” is filmed in black and white, a mock documentary in which a correspondent interviews the members of M*A*S*H 4077. (M*A*S*H,  by the way, stands for Mobile Army Surgical Hospital.) Interestingly, it was not fully scripted: the actors answered the reporter’s questions in character.

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Image via Wikimedia Commons

“The Interview” is my favorite of all M*A*S*H episodes, and I might as well make full disclosure right now that I will argue here that M*A*S*H is the best television series of all time. Near the end of the documentary, the reporter asks each of the interviewees if he or she has anything to say to the folks back home. They do, and when B. J. Hunnicutt tells his wife and baby daughter that he misses them, my tears start to flow–every time.

And so they did, sitting in that dormitory suite. I glanced around the room hoping nobody would notice, but instead I saw Mark, the guy who’d objected to watching, brushing a hand at his eye. So did some others. Continue reading

Crafting a Positive Protest

Since the Inauguration there has been protest in the air: in the streets, on social media, on the news. You can hardly avoid it, and for some of us it’s difficult not to feel angry or frustrated.

As a college friend used to say, I’d like to be an optimist but I doubt it would work out.

And then an acquaintance e-mailed me about a genius idea: let’s send Valentine’s Day cards to some of our elected officials, telling them how we feel, but in a positive and friendly way. It wasn’t her idea; she heard about it from someone else. That’s how these things grow.

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Getting crafty: a table cluttered with art supplies.

Continue reading