A Universe Without Paper Bags

What if paper bags had never been invented and the idea of a pouch had never occurred to anyone?  What if the necessity of a container, a receptacle to carry “stuff” in, was beyond human comprehension?  If the discovery of pockets on trousers had been delayed to the next breath of Brahman, what would we do?   What if the fundamental laws of physics dictated that the common paper sack destroyed the delicate balance between gravity and inertia? 

If all this were to occur numerous burdens would befall us and keep us frustrated.  For instance money, both currency and coin would be in hand all day long.  There would be no place to store it.  We carry money to buy coffee or a snack, but our hands would turn black.  A brief case, a suit case would not exist anywhere.  No way to carry documents and no room to stow a book.  Anything of importance would have to be committed to memory.  Every record would have to be kept in our brain.  No wonder a hand shake once was suffice when entering into an agreement.  Guilds would grow up around the spoken word.  Elders would have apprentices whose only job would be to learn how to remember all the important events in the history of his clan.  All of this because the universe will not let us invent the paper sack!

There are similar instances in the universe as we know it.  The Inca Empire did not know or use the common wheel, yet a child's toy from that culture had wheels.  They didn't comprehend its use or perhaps they could not be bothered.  I'll bet they used bowls, gourds and pouches expertly.   Their empire would not have grown without them.  When Columbus first arrived in the new world the natives could not see three ships nearing their shores.  Native American awareness did not include the possibility of ocean going vessels.  If you don’t know then you don’t know to look.  Perhaps we would not miss a paper bag or acknowledge its form if we never knew what it was or how handy it could be.

So we stand on the sidewalk with computer manuals stuffed under our arms and maybe enough money for lunch clinched in our palms. The lap top would have to be pressed between our clutched fist and chest.  To have a conversation on a cell phone while we are walking would be impossible.  First, everything in hand would have to be put on the ground to free up finger space for the phone.   Where would we store this phone?   Well, between our butt cheeks?  That might render a conversation smelly.  But, wait!   Without a haversack to free up our pitiful life would we even have electronics at all?

If the concept of a receptacle was in the realm of the unknowable, how would we gauge our ability to fight?  Successfully fighting his way out of a paper sack is a milestone in a young man's life?  There are other limitations.  How very sad never to have a sack lunch.  There would be no way to hide a bottle of booze without a brown paper bag.  Indeed there would be no bottle to store the booze in.  Paper sacks are a known relief for hyperventilation, but not in a bagless society.  Passing out might be the only remedy.

Corn and potatoes would have to be in the ground and nearby because fresh produce does not transport well without containers. Little “victory” gardens would sprout up in back yards as in the days of WWII.  With care and a plan enough fruits and veggies could grow for the family.  In such a bizarre no-bag universe there would be no pots and pans for cooking.  Build a fire under a flat rock and cook in the back yard, I guess.  There would have to be a loophole in the cosmic rules somewhere for a plate, I hope.  Probably bowls would be impossible.

All this confusion about life with no bags is unsettling.  I’m going shopping.  We have sacks in this universe and I’m going to fill several full with whatever looks good.  I'll buy stacks of paper sacks.  I’m going to put them in a safe place, in case universal laws shift suddenly and the sack disappears from consciousness. 

Cokes and the Queen's Tea

We would drink cokes, several in a day, day after day.  That is what all caffeinated, heavily sugared, carbonated soft-drinks were called.  Coca Cola, Sprite, Mountain Dew, Pepsi, Tab, Mr. Pib.  To Joey and me all these products, all soft drinks, were cokes.  Mom would say, “I'm going to the store to get some cokes.”  “What kind of cokes,” we would ask.  "Oh Probably Dr. Pepper."  Yeah, we lived for the sweet carbonation and the caffeine hit.  "Let's go to Collin's drive in grocery and get some cokes," I'd say.  "What kind of cokes," daddy would ask.  "I guess some Barge Root Beer."  I would have my mouth set for a certain brand of soda-water.  We would think about it and talk about it all morning long until our mom would get tired of hearing us.  By noon she’d reach into her purse to give us a little money and shew us out of the house.  We'd walk the block and a half to Collin's convenience store.  I'd buy a package of cinnamon rolls and some Coca Colas, unless there was a sale on fountain drinks. Maybe I would get something colored blue or green.  After the first gulp it would taste pretty nasty, but a guy had to explore what was out there.  The cola frontier was constantly expanding.  It was important to keep abreast.

On the last day of school year 1969 Joey was ten and I was twelve. Summer was here and shoes were off for three whole months.  Bare feet against hot cement and asphalt took an adjustment in attitude. We lived in Goose Creek, a community of oil workers and refineries in East Texas.  The feet were tender for a week or two after the end of school.  With 95 degree days and humidity 85 percent, we'd run on gravel and shell driveways playing chase with neighborhood kids. Our feet would become hardened leather.  The toes would spread apart, like they were taking a deep breath after being bound by school shoes for nine months.

One afternoon in the middle of June Joey and I were drinking cokes on the front porch.  Strangers were moving into the house next door. Their arrival marked a huge change for Joey and me.   Like Columbus finding the new world, we were about to discover tea.

Fran was from England and she was our new neighbor next door. She was beautiful and a grownup.  Often we were invited over for tea and biscuits (usually short bread).  I guess she was a little lost, living in East Texas.  Her husband, Fred, was out on the oil platforms in the gulf for days at a time.  Thousands of miles of ocean was between her and home in Liverpool.  We would sit and sip tea, Darjeeling if you must know.  This wasn't like grabbing a bottle of coke out of a cooler at the drive in.  No, there was a proper way to make tea and Fran would educate us.   Imagine, two little hicks from East Texas learning the Queens way to sip tea.

Fran was particular about her tea.  We enjoyed the attention she gave the subject and the time she spent teaching us proper tea preparation.  This was a serious woman in our company and at 10 and 12 years of age, we were infatuated.   No, we were in love.  She smelled different, exotic and "yummy" with green eyes and blond hair.  She wore summer dresses with floral patterns and spaghetti straps over her shoulders.   She was shapely and smart.

So the lessons in proper English tea began.  “First the tea bag is placed gently leaning against the back of the cup, young gentlemen,” she would say with such kindness.  Two teaspoons of sugar dusted the bottom of the cup.  Most important, skim milk (just a table spoon) dripped in front of the bag and over the sugar.  Hot water from Fran's tea kettle flooded the entire concoction almost to the rim of the cup.  The tea would steep for a couple minutes.  Then we mashed the tea bag against the spoon and cup to drain the last drops of tea.  We were careful to mimic Fran's every move.  There were smiles in the room and sips of tea and bites of biscuits.  

As we learned about the Queen's tea Fran would ask about life in East Texas and America.  We would sit in Fran's parlor watching the news on her TV and talking about America.  There were demonstrations in the streets of Washington over Viet Nam and race riots in LA.  Men, Americans, were going to be on the moon in September.  Astronauts lived and worked just across Galveston Bay. The world was changing rapidly.  Joey and I watched a lot of those changes on the TV in Fran’s living room in the summer of ’69.  We sipped the Queens tea and told Fran anything she wanted to know about American.  If we didn't know about it we would make something up.  Fran and Fred were from Liverpool.   We had heard of Liverpool, the Beatles and the British invasion.  Our daddy listened to Hank Williams, George Jones and Merle Haggard.  Next door with Fran we could sneak a listen to the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and the Who on the radio.  1969 was the best summer of our young lives but it was about to end.

One morning in late August, Fran and Fred began packing there things in boxes and shipping them home to Liverpool.  The summer was over and Fran was leaving.  She gave us her kettle and cups, the Darjeeling tea and short bread biscuits.  We put it on the shelf suspended on our wall.  It became a shrine to Fran.  That’s where it stayed for many years.  We never sipped tea again.  We reverted back to East Texas ways, drinking cokes; lots of them.

Fran wrote to us often as we were growing up and we managed to write back (this is long before email).  Years went by with high school and college behind us.  I moved to San Francisco and wrote sometimes for Hollywood.   Joey migrated to Chicago where he counted beans for a living.

A special invitation appeared in the mail not long ago.  Joey and I met in New York and hopped a plane not long after the invitation arrived.  We were heading for Liverpool.  We had a date with Fran. 

Standing in front of her house in England, suddenly no time had passed.  We were knocking on Fran’s door like we were 10 and 12 years old again.  That evening we escorted Fran and Fred to dinner.  We sipped tea and spoke of America and our families but mostly we basked in the light of a fine woman who once lived next door to us in East Texas.  Life can be wonderful.

It's Friday and It's the 13th

Come on, admit it.  You are triskaideka'phobic.   What's more you are friggartriskaidekaphobic.  Both are phobias brought on by superstitions that trigger deep overwhelming fears.   In this case it is the fear of the number 13 (the first big word I accused you of being) and the uncontrollable fear of the date Friday 13^th (the second big word), which is today.  Take comfort in the fact that you are not alone. I'm the biggest scaredy cat of all.  We'll face this together, until I have to run and hide.  Friday the 13^th is only twenty-four hours long (I keep telling myself this).

Friday is a dark day for many reasons.  It was the day of the week when the Roman Empire executed the condemned.  Hence, it is the day when Jesus was crucified. Eve gave Adam the apple on Friday (so the story goes) and on a Friday they were expelled from Eden. The Great Flood started on a Friday, in Houston.  It rained torrents for 24 hours then the sewers backed up.  Terrible!   Noah and the Arc floated down Buffalo Bayou and the rest is history.

The number 13 is a fearsome number. Cities do not have a 13^th avenue, expressways do not have a 13^thth floor.  There are thirteen members in a witches' coven; very ominous.  It is incredibly unlucky to seat thirteen people at a table for dinner.  The belief is the last person to sit down and the first person to rise from the table will die in that calendar year.   This has roots in the story of the Last Supper. exit, highrises do not have a 13

Considering all of the above, when the thirteenth day of the month falls on a Friday it is not surprising there would be an uprising in anxiety.

Fearing Friday the 13^th may have something to do with the following story.  The Knights Templar, a monastic military order (founded in 1118 C.E.), was charged to guide and protect Christian pilgrims along the road from Europe to Jerusalem.  They also developed a monetary system that protected the pilgrim's finances on their long journey.  This monetary system was so successful that it spread throughout Europe.  Countries and kings would borrow from the Templars.  The Knights became very rich and powerful.

French King Philip IV amassed a huge debt with the Templars, too big to pay back.   Philip devised a plan to arrest all the Knights Templar and charge them with spitting on the cross, performing homosexual acts and worshiping the devil.   These were devastating accusations and no one had the courage to step forward in defense of the Knights.  So on Friday, October 13, 1307 King Philip ordered all Templars murdered in their sleep or burned at the stake.  Nice guy.

Anyway, there are only a few more hours left in this Friday 13^th.   I’m not going to step under any ladders and I won’t shatter any mirrors.  I don’t think I’ll go outside, that way I wont’ see any black cats.  Good Luck!

Desert Noir – Delusional Snapshot Of My Life

I own a large compound that includes several buildings surrounded by high walls.  The main structure has three floors which houses the bed rooms and living areas.  Multiple wives and children live here with me.  Unlike the famous compound in the news (bin Laden's demise is recent), mine is replete with internet and phone service.  We have a satellite dish.  Our refuse is burned only because we live in a remote area with no trash collection service.   Our neighbors are rattle snakes, coyotes and a few black ops helicopters.

My life is open to anyone with a computer.  Or just ask me.  I have credit cards and email addresses.  There is really nowhere for me to hide, unless I hike into the desert and encounter a UFO abduction.  I think a UFO is preferable to Navy Seals coming after me.

I don't need large numbers of virgins at my call when I die, because that would mean dying violently and for a Cause.   As it is, I'm not doing very well with the women already in my life.  I don't think I have delusions of being the Messiah or Mohamed but it would be nice to have several sources of good income.  If I'm lucky I may never live to see commandos breaking down my door to kill me and politicians telling stories about my cowardly death.  I'm not sure I have the courage to be so evil that armed forces worldwide are ordered to hunt me down and massacre me.

Well, the truth is, I have been telling lies.  Previous paragraphs are a fabrication.  No such grandiose compound exists in my possession.  But it is nice to daydream about such things.  Our living quarters consists of a 1,650 square foot townhouse.   We have three bedrooms, a kitchen and two bathrooms.  Since the economy tanked there have been five humans, a cockatiel and a cat living here.  The carpets are dingy and the walls need cleaning.  It smells like dogs live here because we have three dogs.  There's not much room for any of us.  No privacy.

I'm the only one in the household with a consistent income, if you can call $10.50 an hour an income.  My wife was laid off two years ago with no prospective employers anywhere.  She discovered a way to collect unemployment and go to school.  So with a Pell Grant in the bank and a script under her arm she went to film school.  Since graduation she's trying to make “a go” of a production company.  She works long hours and produces little money.  So goes the demanding hobby that I hope someday will pay.

James, my youngest son, studies Japanese in his bedroom.  He's been considering getting a job to buy Japanese books.  The more he considers working the more a possible job gets in the way of his grand scheme.  It has been suggested that James apply for scholarships to study in Japan.  That kind of study is too slow and boring for him.  James wants to earn a living translating Japanese computer games into English.  Living in Japan amongst the members of a Japanese family better suits him.  Learn the culture and live the language.  Good idea.

My daughter went to film school with her mother.  Jewel has expensive sticks and an HD digital camera.  Her lifestyle is far beneath the one she intends to live.  For Jewel there is a “disconnect” between what is and what will be, at least for now.  She wants to shoot movies and doesn't like the commercials and documentaries her mother's production company is making for a pittance.  Jewel is impatient.

Jacob wants to be an cosmologist.  My oldest boy has struggled to make enough money for school, food and a car.  Since his Jeta broke down his address is once again mine.  Because he has no funds for car repairs he drives one the family cars.  We have a van and a jeep.  Both guzzle gas and bleed Jacob’s checking account.  The aforementioned kitten living with us is his.  She spends most of her life living in his room, too afraid to venture out amongst the big dogs.  Occasionally the door is left ajar.  The dogs bolt for the bedroom in unison, competing for the chance to “play” with the cat.

I'm not sure there is a point to any of the above, except that it felt good saying it.  There are a few more points to make that would finish this missive and sum up the situation.

My wife has managed to find a part time job since her unemployment benefits ran out (she's a 99er).   If we are lucky it may replace the unemployment insurance she no longer receives.  This will give her fledgling production company a little more time to prosper.

With an Associates Degree under his belt, Jacob will be heading off to Tucson and the University of Arizona this September.  It's all about making enough money in the summer to pay for the transition.

Then there is Judy.  The oldest daughter (about 17 years senior to the rest of them) lives next door in the townhouse owned by my brother-in-law.   She too has been unemployed and collecting a government check, until she answered a question an odd way on her weekly claims submittal.   This sent her benefits into limbo for three months.  Finally, after hearings, denials of resumption of benefits and appeals, she has her unemployment pay restored.   Judy has had man trouble, woman trouble, government trouble, health trouble, etc., etc.   She is generous to a fault and by pooling our resources with hers we barely make ends meet.  The ends do meet.