The Left Fielder

It's April....no, May. April's too wet. That's what she said.

It's May, a perfect 79 degrees Fahrenheit at the old ball park of Anytown USA, with not a cloud in the sky. Today is the day that the little league fans have been waiting for with anticipation all year: The good ol' crosstown rivalry between the Yankees (in blue) and the Reds (well, lets not be redundant). The Yankees, by far the crowd favorite (parents of the Reds live across town and prefer making meth, bail, and more children than necessary to finding a ride to the affluent side of town to watch their kids lose and get gawked at by the other parents) take the field. As the five foot scrappers in blue make their way out to their positions, the crowd lets out many excited cheers.

This town has got something to be proud of in these kids, these heroes of America. The first baseman is reliable, with exceptional hand eye coordination and a foot that won't leave the bag on a stretch. The second baseman is quite lovable, a little goofy, but he knows how to be a team player. Shortstop is the position of the most handsome 9 year old to ever play the game. He's gonna break a lot of hearts someday (not to mention a lot of hy.... I'll keep it PG). Third base is played by the bad boy, who won't hesitate to bust a kid in the mouth with his glove if necessary. The pitcher does have a problem with hookers, but the crowd loves him just the same. Cathcer is played by an immigrant boy, whom the team cherishes as a wonderful example of the American can-do spirit. In right field is ol' gangly boy. Already standing at 5'4", nothing gets past him. In center field the contemplative one takes a firm stand of reliance and solitude. Did I mention he's also never dropped a ball? The odds of winning the pennant this year are likely, as this team has everything going for it, and all of them are exceptional at bat. That is, except for the F*&king left fielder.

Way out in left field, where no one ever looks, especialy if a ball is hit that way, stands the one weakness in the team. Stunted at 4'5", he's a sickly looking boy with brown teeth, bottlecap glasses, limp arms, and an affinity for facing the back gate of the field and picking away at his wedgie. Poorly coordinated and with a terrible work ethic, this boy was placed out in left for a reason: These nine year-olds seldom hit the ball that far. His parents, at the suggestion of their friends who thought he needed to make friends, signed him up for this. To make an excuse for the coach who chose him, no one knew this kid would be so bad. I mean he's real bad. Can't even field a grounder without falling over bad. God, he sucks.

The team tries their best to make up for their weakness by shoving him in the back corner and moving the center fielder over to compensate. But still, every now and then someone is going to hit the ball right at him. You can literally count how many times the ball was hit his way by the number of team errors posted after each game. To make things worse, he has no social skills. During the times the team sits in the dugout, he wanders off to talk to the opponents in the middle of the game. The coach is even beginning to get suspicious about his wandering off to talk with the other team. Did the other coaches plant a spy in his team. I'll bet they did. Oh no! He's talking to the left fielder of the Reds right now. This kid is a double for sure, nothing else explains how bad he is. The worst thing is, there's no way to get rid of him. This isn't like Nam, where you can send him into a tunnel where Charlie is waiting, telling him its already been cleared for explosives.

Way out there in left field, he stands tired and depressed. The pitcher's mom picked him up for the game, and he squints to see if either of his parents made it and are sitting in the stands. Probably not. The sun is high and getting into his glasses. It burns. He's sweating and uncomfortable, wishing he was home with his book, or visiting his grandparents. He knows good and well what his other teammates think of him. Its not like they try to hide it. When he tries to make friends with the only people who might not judge him, the other team, the coach yells at him and makes him run laps after the game. "Why am I out here?" he asks the sky. "Why can't I be doing something that makes me happy? Why don't I have any friends?"

As he ponders these complexities of life and hoping the victory hot dog at the end of the game doesn't make him sick again, he hears a loud *CRACK* behind him. He turns around just in time to see the ball soar sky high his way. The crowd lets out a cry of anguish. He tries to track the ball, but the sun catches his glasses and he's blinded. He trips on something and lands on his knees, no longer able to follow the ball. He closes his eyes and wishes "please just this once", as he reaches his open glove as far as he can above his head. He hears a *THWAP*. His hand closes around something firm. He looks. It's the ball. A girlish scream of ecstasy is emitted by the coach. The crowd follows.

Its the top of the 5th (as I recall they don't play the full 9 until later in life), and his catch has just saved the team from the Reds hitting a grand slam. They've won the game, no need to bat again. USA! USA! USA! How in the hell did he catch that ball?

The left fielder stands alone in the field, bewildered at the turn of events. He's now a hero. The team wants to take him up on their shoulders and later feed him a bunch of gross ass hot dogs. But he's just standing there staring at the ball in his glove, way out in left field. He thinks about how they've all treated him, and how they'll likely treat him again after a couple more practices reassure it was just a fluke. He knows that he's about to receive one hour of the emotion and inclusion he has yearned for his whole life. But after that it will be gone forever. Is it worth it to be hero for a day, only to be placed at the bottom again? Won't it just hurt more to have appreciation and lose it again, than to have never had it at all? There's a lot of deep questions this kid is asking himself. He looks back at the fence. There's a small gate at the back, and he could easily leave the field and walk home to his sweet isolation. He begins to take his left hand to his glove to grab the ball and throw it back, but he stops himself. "Should I even throw it back?", he wonders. He looks at the ball.

Should he even throw it back?
 

Here's to the kings and queens of summer.

Shoot Gandhi - Hitler, when approached by Lord Halifax in 1937, who wished to seek his advice on the matter of India's protest to British Rule.

An End to Wind

DISCLAIMER: Being a person who has moved frequently, I have always characterized geographical locations not by their true nature, but purely by my own existential experiences. I imagine these experiences can be replicated in any place, given the proper life perspective of the person at that time, so this doesn't mean my judgment is one of consensus in the least, nor should it. With this understanding, it will be easier for you to write off everything you read in the next 5 minutes. Ahem...

Chicago, you are officially 235 pounds lighter.

It been a long time coming that I would write this goodbye letter to you. I have known of my leaving for the past two months, planning it for the past year, and yet it took me awhile to find the right words to say. Lets start with you.

You, Chicago, are a city with no comparison. Your stunning architecture and cultural history are only outmatched by your food (and kung-fu treachery). Millions have flocked to your promise, and while you have turned away many, multitudes have found solace at your teat. You are truly a city with a rough past, incredible milestones in human achievement, and a rough future.

For me, I will always look back on the past and think fondly of you. A certain picture with my Dad in Grant Park when I was two will always symbolize a simpler time for me, and perhaps for much of the world to come. Upon returning from my year abroad, I was riddled with uncertainty concerning the modernity surrounding me. You were the city that gave me desires to rekindle my love for the United States. Most of the women I have loved have been involved with you in some way, and have painted their personalities into your winds, your waves, and your noise. My time living inside of you on both occasions signifies much inner development and growth. You were the place I decided that I could live my life with someone forever, the place I began to realize how much harder it is to change another person than it is to change ones' self, and the place where I enjoyed being hung over the most. And if it weren't for all of this, then I would write you off in a new york minute.

Chicago, now I know when it comes to peoples' problems with you, the line stretches to Springfield. All the complaining about the corruption, segregation, poverty, and presence of that ghastly red blemish of a building in the skyline (my personal pet peeve) can make you resistant to listen. But I implore you to hear me out, to listen to my measure of you, and where I have found you wanting.

Now I am not a perfect person, by individual nor community standards. When it comes to life's lessons, I learn the hard way, and I prefer it that way. Maybe in this, Chicago, we have much in common. Returning to you to spend two more years of my life was a no-brainer at the time. I was still very excited with the offers and opportunities you had. I felt called to learn about social justice more deeply, and in your setting, I felt that I would benefit greatly. Sadly I was mistaken.

See, you as a city have been characterized by your windiness. The tourists thinks it means not to visit in the winter season (September-June). The locals, too dense to leave in the winter, believe the meaning to be indicative of the time honored political behavior of the city. But I believe there is more. I sat for two years in a very old and very pretty building, across from a Bentley dealership, in the richest zip code in the U.S. of A. In that building, I sat for hours, listening, lets be honest, sometimes listening to what people my senior had to say about this situation "out there" and how to change it. When I wasn't in this building, I was in another building further downtown with people even more my senior, scheming and paying lip-service to an organizational zeitgeist. I would follow in public displays of advocacy and protest, all the time watching and looking to learn from these experiences. Occasionally, I would have a meal, maybe a little ripple, with a friend affiliated with Chicago's social justice movements, and every time exhaustion, frustration, and a growing sense of apathy led the conversation. I watched as white liberals, in efforts to stifle corporate growth, stifled black liberals instead. I watched lost people speak as if they had ever actually had an answer in their life (myself included). I watched a surprisingly visible wind engulf the city in its fleeting hope, its torrential capriciousness, its malice and pain.

Chicago, if anything can be said of you, its that you can make a fool out of the wisest of all of us. The promise of change is there, then gone with the wind. The promise of an enjoyable life is there; gone, with the wind. Again and again what seems achievable is only a mirage, and one slowly begins to understand why so many are so attracted to your siren call, and dashed onto your rocks. Again, many love you Chicago and will never consider leaving you, which for those kind of people is a fitting fate (not talking about everyone, simmer). But I'm not here to hate. I am just as foolish and lost. But the only difference now is that I know differently, and I've decided to search elsewhere for an answer.

With this, I must take my leave. I am likely to be back time and again, and though much good comes from your existence, the evil and death of dreams was choking me. Even though I feel my destiny in leaving will be much like that of Roland the Gunslinger, this is my path. As I end my words to you, let me give you a glimmer of hope about returning to the center of my heart: I will always love you more than Ft. Collins, CO. Not saying much, but that's the best I can do for now. Until next time, mon ami.



Richard, I'd like to agree, in that the existence of God is not probable. But why, exactly, if there is no God, and human and universal chaos run the show, do I have a single reason to stop worrying?

If there is no God, then everything is lawful - Ivan Fyodorovich Karamazov

An Open Letter to Humanity on the Meaning of Easter, by Charon (the FERRYman).

Dear world,

You know who I am, and I'm damned sure(heh heh)that I'll know all of you eventually. I gotta say though, that eventuality isn't really a positive. I've been around quite awhile, and one thing that I can tell certainly about all you overworlders is that your manners are getting progressively worse. It used to be quite a contemplative thing for you people to die, and that usually meant that you'd be respectful and shut up for most of the ride. But somehow its changed into this "I'm dead, now I guess I can do whatever I want", and you've been coming down here acting like you own the place. I'll tell you this, being dead ain't no pleasure cruise. This river stinks. Like shit!

I think it all started with Hercules, when he got away with bending me over my own stern (don't laugh) on his way to have words with Hades. Then there was that Jesus character. First time he came to me he had nothin', not even a lousy coin. When I asked him just how he was gonna pay, he told me my reward would be in heaven. Now I'm no pushover, but I believed him, especially if it meant taking him across would get me outta here. The next day I was beginning to regret my decision when he just happened to show up again and ask me for a ride back over. I asked him about that payment from last time and he just shrugged his shoulders and walked, WALKED across the river! What a specimen of human "holier than thou" that guy was (more on him later). I thought it wouldn't get any worse with you all until Peter the Great showed up. Lit my beard on fire and kicked me in the ass that one did. Bertrand Russell? Flipped his shit and flipped my boat in the process. But the worst by far was that no good lousy Rodney Dangerfield. I could hear him from a mile away, and as soon as he made it down here, he goes "Hey hey hey, who are you? You look more miserable than a chinaman in a crypt" (which I've seen and I can tell you this is not the case. That's pretty miserable looking). I said, no sir I'm Charon the Ferryman and I provide the service of crossing this river into the underworld, for a nominal fee of course. The fat bozo says "Fairyman eh, where I come from they call you people lady-boys! Heh, you got a drink on this sinkhole?". So now I've got to go around making sure everyone understands that I'm a ferry man, not a fairy man. It just keeps getting worse. I get no respect!

I mean I really can't stand you people. And if it weren't for your deaths providing the only attainable meaning my life, I'd do away with this whole agreement altogether. What, do you think I even need coins? Where am I going to spend them, huh!?! On my paid holiday in Boca?!?! I don't know if you noticed, but my body is literally fused to the ship. There is no leaving. Even if there was, have you met my boss? He gets cantankerous enough when you ask for a smoke break, and you should see what he does to the people down here who try to unionize. I don't even know who got this idea that all I like is coins, as if I were some miserable Jewish stereotype. Actually, my mother was second cousins to Abraham, and my father was Armenian, but were getting off topic. Alls I'm saying is that flowers would be nice every once in a while, maybe even a thank you card, one with a audio message maybe?

Back to the whole "your dying providing me with a job part". This is what I wanted to talk about in the first place. SO sorry i took an opportunity to get MY opinion out about life, and you had to read it. Where was I? You see, back to this Jesus fella, he started something that is really going screw things up for me. This is a perfect example of you humans and the insensitivity towards those you don't see every day. Think about this: what will happen if what Jesus did on Easter actually comes about to occur to everyone? Happiness? Fulfillment? For you, not so much you, but you ma'am, yes for you. Not for me though. Do you have any idea what having everyone cross this river back to overworld, then most of them back again, only to end the occurrence of human death is going to do to me!!!!! Think of all the infrastructure preparation alone, only to have it come crashing down. And its not like I can build a snack stand down here to provide any retirement cushion. All I've got down here is rocks!!! And shit!!!

To think some of you actually pray for this outcome. It enough to make me bust a rivet! And as if it couldn't get worse, scientists are planning to one up ol' river skipper by eliminating death within' the next hundred years. Hundred years! That's like a nap for me. You really need to start thinking about what you want as an end goal for life. I know I've though about it plenty, and as much as I hate shouldering you sacks of gas, I need a job!!! Is it worth what you want to put me out of work and meaning. I'd be forced to become a nihilist. I might even get daring enough to sail down the river in search for something else. Not a better alternative when you remember that I live in Greece, where you know your close to civilization when the air smells of meat closets. As bad as this already is, please don't doom me to such a fate.

What did I ever do to you to deserve such an outcome? Never did I make you swim. I even would make a couple of unnecessary turns in my route to prolong the trip for those who were really sad about having died. I guess I couldn't ask you to stop trying to live forever, could I? Death isn't so bad. Its actually quite beautiful in some ways, and for those who long for permanence, well this is as permanent as it gets. All I'm asking is you consider it. Don't leave me here all by myself in the dark. I need you.

-Charon

P.S.- by the way, thanks for naming a moon after me, especially one that revolves around an non-planet. You people really are the worst.

Who Christens a Shipwreck?

Ummm, I'm kinda nervous about this whole blog thing, but Mom says I shouldn't be because I'm a good writer. Welp, here goes.
*or*
If you are a LIBERAL PROGRESSIVE, then you can LEAVE this blog IMMEDIATELY!!!
*or*
Omigosh could you imagine what would happen if Orlando Bloom was to be the new Batman? Stop my beating heart!

I know what you're thinking: 'Bout time that J.P. Smith started his first blog and let us really know what he thin...... That's not what you were thinking?
.......
dammit.
...........
ah, dammit.

Well what were you thinking? I'd sure like to know, now that my ego has been teased like a pubescent boy at a lyrical dance recital. You know what? Save it. If I was in the listenin' business, the I would've bought a telephone. Yeah. Wouldn't have made much sense to have started this blog if I was in the listenin' business. Since you're already here, you might as well stay. Let's see if we can assemble a flotsam and swim on out of this mess. This is my blog (applause).

What do you want to know about this doomed voyage? Let's consider the sham title. Après Moi, le Déluge. Is it pretentious enough? I knew you'd love it. I used this a the title, not because I identify with Louis XV (though he is a snappy dresser), but because I think what he was implying way back in the 17whenevers also applies to our current state of affairs around the world. For tea party enthusiasts, or tea baggers, it's Après Obama, Thé Deluge. For environmentalists, it's Après le Déluge, Que? QUE?!? For the scientists at CERN, it's Après l'accélérateur de particule travaille enfin, obtenons-nous un parti de mousse (yes, they did)? You get the point, right? Things are changing fast, and it seems that Bob Dylan wrote his iconic song too early. Now someone has got to arise to the challenge of ringing the town bell after some ass hat already cried wolf, or after the British had already come, surprisingly with pleasant intentions, mostly wanted to catch up, eat decent food, and now I'm lost. CONCERNED READER: But J.P., doesn't your title's foreboding message and ominous red wave allude to negative feelings about coming changes? Slow down, Missy (Only women would have the patience to read all this air). You're getting way ahead of me here.

So in a nutshell, this will be my first public venture into my take on social issues (J.P., you've been anything but private). In hoping that I don't make any enemies (J.P., you've assuredly done that by now), my message will be laced with my charming and delectable plain speak (I give up). Three things I will promise you:
1. I will do my very best to not waste your time, though this is probably what you were looking to do in the first place.
2. No black jokes.
3. If after all my attempts to be interesting I fail, at least scroll to the bottom of my post for inspirational and insightful picture and quote that I will be adding to each of my weekly failures in public notoriety.

Welcome on the maiden voyage of this journey into death, life, and more platitudes. Please check back every so often. I really do appreciate your involvement. INQUISITIVE BUSYBODY: But wait, J.P. There's so much more you haven't told us! Like, why did you choose a Times New Roman font for your layout? Mister, now you're being pushy (there's a man reading my blog?!?!?!).


Above: Graphic concept of London's 2012 Olympic Tower. The architect of the project says the tower is meant to be giant rendering of London's Heathrow Airport

Quote of the week: “The true measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do him absolutely no good.” -Samuel Johnson