Bubbles

If you are old enough to remember the Ed Sullivan show, you will recall that it was a variety show on television way back when, 50’s and early 60’s I believe. Black and white, of course, with all sorts of strange and wonderful acts and guest star singers and comedians. The lesser acts were either animal acts, magicians, ventriloquists, etc., more suited to a circus I think, but Ed had an hour to fill so he hired them all. As a young boy, I became fascinated with the etcetera acts, the ones who came up with some ludicrous skill, like sliding down a wire, lifting heavy things with their teeth, or putting flaming swords down their mouths. Young as I was, I nevertheless became aware that these people had spent countless hours learning how to do a ridiculous activity, and do it perfectly, just so they could be in a circus or on TV. As far as I could see, the skills served no other useful purpose.

One of my favorites was the guy who balanced on his hand on top of a chair that was balanced on one leg, and he would continually add another chair in some impossible to imagine way until he was perched upside down on a column of chairs all on one leg. Then he would dismantle the whole thing while coming down. Where does a person go to get an idea for an act like that? Or there was another who would build two parallel towers of wooden blocks, alternating standing on one hand on each tower while he add blocks to the other one. Did I mention that these blocks were thrown to him by his lovely assistant, and he caught them, all while perched upside down on one hand? Then there was another guy (who knows, maybe the same guy with a different stage name so he could work more often) who would balance on one finger on top of a cane while he twirled rings on his remaining three appendages. With my mouth open, I wondered aloud “How does he do that?” My mother, as I recall, smugly informed me that there was a brace in the finger of his glove, like that was all one needed to do the act – if you could keep your finger straight, the rest was a piece of cake. I’m not sure but I think he would also balance something on his upraised head – maybe it was a piece of cake.

I don’t know what those people, or their children who might have taken up the family business, are doing now. I suppose the best gigs these days are the malls and boardwalks where they do their thing, and then pass the hat. There is one guy I see quite often on the Santa Monica 3rd street Promenade. He blows incredibly huge bubbles that lift off oh so slowly from his lips, and since they are not very visible at night, he fills each with cigarette smoke as he blows them, and then shines a light on them that must have once lit the deck of an aircraft carrier. He powers the light from batteries he wears on a belt around his waist. He is remarkable and his bubbles a thing of wonder for all, especially the children. Of course, you try not to think that you are watching a chain smoker, filling bubbles with cancer for the little children to pop and inhale. Hmm, I wonder if he isn’t secretly bankrolled by the R.J.Reynolds Company.

So I’m back in my childhood living room in Miami Beach, watching television one evening. My favorite Western was on, “The Lone Ranger.” That particular night, at the crescendo of a chase or fight scene, just as The Lone Ranger and Tonto were about to get the crap kicked out of them, my mother asked, of no one in particular but I was the only other person in the room, “Why don’t the musicians help them?” The first time she asked this, I said, “WHAT?” Only it came out of me as “Whhaaaaat” slow and long and deep like time itself was doing a double take. There was our 17 inch black and white RCA television, with the remote control that actually turned the channel selector with a loud “chunk, chunk” sound for every channel it passed. It wasn’t chunking right then, and it did appear as if the actors fighting on screen also stopped fighting and turned to hear her response. I became aware that the imitation bamboo naugahyde that I was sitting on was embossing its pattern on my legs below my shorts as I sat there with my mouth open staring at my mother. She had on a little smile, like she knew exactly what she was doing and liked it very much. “The musicians playing all the music during the fight,” she said. “They must be there so why don’t they put down their instruments and go help the Lone Ranger?” “Because the musicians are not there in the old West, they are in some studio out in California making the show,” I shouted. She smiled even more because by that time, my mother had accomplished what she wanted, which was to wrest my attention off what I was really into, and onto her. She did that a lot. From that first time forever more she would ask that same question in the same circumstances, and damn it if it didn’t have the same effect. Though I tried to ignore her, there was always part of me that got sucked into her reality and pulled the rest of my attention with it. It might just be for one brief moment, but the damage was done and my willing disbelief was unwillingly unsuspended.

There were other times like that. I’m ten years old, and they have been advertising for weeks about the coming of the Bell Telephone Science Hour. The first installment was to be “Hemo the Magnificent,” a special about the body’s wondrous circulatory system, using live actors and cartoon characters. Not that it meant anything to me then, but it was directed by Frank Capra, no less, with the cartoon characters voiced by Mel Blank. What did mean something to me was that I couldn’t wait to see it. Even my teacher at school was excited about it, and suggested that we all see it. I counted the days.

On the Thursday night that it was to be broadcast at 8:00 PM, I was very tired for some reason. My mother suggested that I take a nap after dinner, and promised (remember that word) that she would wake me up just before eight so I could watch the show. She knew how important it was to me, as I must have told her at least ten times. So I lay down and fell asleep, and instantly woke with a startle in my darkened room, heart pounding, flailing away with arms and legs to get untangled from my blanket and sheets. I rushed out of my room screaming, “What time is it, what time is it?” and saw the time of the clock on our mantle. It was 9:17. I had missed “Hemo,” and I would never get to see it. I was near tears and rapidly building a rage. I found my mother, calmly sitting by the TV in the living room. “You were supposed to wake me up! You promised! Why didn’t you wake me up?” I was screaming at her. In a calm voice without any trace of guilt or sympathy even, she explained, “Well, you were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t have the heart to wake you. I thought you’d sleep through the night.”

I’ve told that story many times and no one has ever taken her side, as if she had a side to take. You see, you make a promise to your child, you don’t break it. You bring your child into a world of way too much stark reality, and to make up for the selfishness and/or momentary lust that caused you to do such a thing, you put him or her in a bubble where they float in gentle bliss. It’s a large bubble to be sure, full of love, comfort, and tasty treats, toys and fairytales, and no cigarette smoke, for God sakes. Eventually that bubble starts to leak because, as we all know, reality sucks – and one day, as they grow up they will find themselves standing on their own, down here with the rest of us. But until that day, you should never, and I mean never, willingly spear that bubble and let your child fall and be hurt.

So, that’s how I remember my mother, smiling and carrying that cruel pin of hers, which she used at every opportunity to bring me down, prick by prick, where the Lone Ranger is just an actor, and Hemo the Magnificent is just another television show.

She is long gone, my mother, and I have forgiven her for most of her shortcomings as a parent . . . but not this one.

The Weekend

One was crushed by betrayal. One, lost in a world of women, had never known the friendship of men. A young one had the courage to show himself in front of his girlfriend’s father, and the father had the wisdom to invite him in. Another one brought his wounded soul that had sent him to the company of prostitutes where he could hide from relationships. Two were brothers, with rage and resentment stacked up like so much cordwood till they could no longer see each other on the other side.

So off I went to a BetterMen Retreat.

One was funny. He knew how to tell a joke, but had lost his joy in a fog of endless regrets.

Backing up a minute, you should know that I recently joined a men’s group. I did it when I realized that after a lifetime enjoying the company of men, I no longer had any men friends left. We had grown separate and otherwise occupied with families, work, and geographic challenges -- the too infrequent poker games unable to fill the gaps.

One had a small penis, or so he thought, even without the internet telling him so, insecure in the extreme, and yet he had the balls to speak his fear. Who feels the same? All raised their hands.

On the surface the group is a small bunch of men (but certainly not a bunch of small men), starting out as strangers, who meet once a week under the guidance of a facilitator to give each other support, advice, counsel, and straight talk. Along the way, some camaraderie and friendship develop. The weekend was just like the group, only a whole lot more. I mean A WHOLE LOT MORE. For one thing, instead of eight men, there would be thirty-five or so, spending the better part of three days in a camp in the woods.

Architect, lawyer, caterer, cab driver, executive, teacher, builder, filmmaker, writer, actor, computer geek, fitness instructor and more. Men of the arts, men of business, men who worked with their minds, and men who worked with their hands. Men.

I couldn’t believe I was going to do this. Of the first-timers there, at 61, I was the oldest. The youngest was 19. We would all spend the weekend together doing . . . uh, I had no idea what we would be doing, but I knew I would be sleeping in a sleeping bag on a bunk bed. Terrific. The 22 year old kid who was my “buddy” for the duration asked if I wanted the bottom or the top bunk. “Are you kidding me?” He gave me the bottom.

A father and son, separated by generations, and separated by the silence that grows between too many fathers and sons. Fathers and sons. My father, my sons.

The first night we arrived, we began by walking to a lodge for a sort of orientation and introduction. We were instructed to walk in silence. As we were walking, I realized that, not having been in the army, and not being a hunter, and having been in the Boy Scouts in Miami Beach, where we got merit badges in such things as beach towel folding, I had never walked silently through the woods as part of a group of men. The only sound was the shuffling and crunching of our footsteps (any animals we might have been hunting were probably falling down laughing at our stealthlessness.) But something inside me started to awaken, as I felt for the first time the feeling of being part of a group, a cadre, a tribe of men, come together for some unknown manly purpose and/or ritual. I wasn’t an old guy, I was an elder among these men, and I felt pretty cool.

One was a sage, who spoke so little and said so much.

Later, we sat in a large circle around a huge campfire. Our leader read us a most inspiring poem*, and we listened and talked and smoked . . . . . . . cigars. (I bet you thought I was going to say “a peace pipe,” didn’t you?) Yes, cigars were passed around for any and all, and no one commented on the smell or the health risks. Shit, we were men, and this is what men do. (Note to self: pick up some Febreze.)

So many husbands and fathers who couldn’t find a way to show their wives and children how much they loved them. And way too many broken marriages and open wounds that wouldn’t heal.

And so it went for three days. You want details? Here they are: we ate, we smoked, we kidded and we cried, we felt our pain, vented our rage, and we played and celebrated, but above all, we laughed -- such laughter that I have shared only in the company of men -- laughter that I haven’t known for way too many years, that primal expression of joy at being alive and secure among friends. And in this congregation I found, as did many others, a refuge from the Four Horsemen of the Lost Nuts-- Worry, Doubt, Fear and Regret.

Men. Isolated and disconnected, holding on to and hiding such anger and grief, the depths of which their women have no inkling.

I’m sorry. I won’t give you my ironic spin, my cynical eye, my perspective as an outsider looking in at life around me, as I usually do. Not this time. This time I was in the thick of it, and it felt good. Also, I won’t spill the beans on what went on in the lodge, while we walked, in our groups, and around our fires. You see, next time, and there will definitely be a next time, I hope to bring some other men, perhaps my boys, and have them discover in unknown territory, the men that they are and the better men they could become.

“You are perfect,” he said, as I poured out my grief on his shoulder. No man, or woman for that matter, has ever told me I was perfect. And so I was, and so I am.
Aho.

That was my weekend. How was yours?

(* The poem that was read on the first evening is called The Invitation, by Oriah Mountain Dreamer. You can find it at http://kalimunro.com/invitation.html. If it doesn’t move you, you are either not breathing or can’t find your glasses.)