The Wombury Watches a Movie

I'm watching Dr. Zhivago today. It's all about the Russian Revolution. I'm only about an hour into the movie, to the beginning of World War I, three years before the Revolution begins. The narrator (Alec Guinness), has just explained to the audience that from the conventional Bourgeoisie point of view, the war is between Germany and Russia but from the Bolshevik point of view it is between the German upper classes and the Russian upper classes. The Bolsheviks instructed ol' Alec to enlist in order to sabotage the war effort. Why would the Bolsheviks want to lose? Because a loss in the Great War abroad would mean victory at home for the Bolsheviks. The peasants who comprised the bulk of the army would turn against the command and revolt once the supplies ran out. This is historically accurate, by the way. The Wombury got something out of teaching world history for two years.

The thing is, there hasn't been much face time for the character of Dr. Zhivago. We know he's a doctor (very good work detective) and a poet and he just got engaged and he hates this sleazy dude (Rod Steiger) who was his father's executor of will and who callously discarded Lara (Julie Christie). He's sympathetic to the Revolutionaries as he is sympathetic to the downtrodden in general.

So here's the existential aspect role-playing aspect of viewing Dr. Zhivago, or any movie for that matter. You ask yourself: what character would I be? What choices would I make? What would the feckin' Wombury do? Would he be like Pasha and join the Revolution? Would he be like Yuri, or the Rich Dude? So many choices. What would Jesus do? Would Jesus join the Revolution? Would he be a healer like Yuri?

If you say "no" you're a Republican. Republicans don't understand Jesus, but liberals don't understand Christianity. Didn't Jesus say, "As you do to the least among us, you do to me."

There are no Revolutions without Jesus,

Until Then,

The Wombury

Thanksgiving Day

(Don't you look sweet, smiling like that? I'll be smiling too after I eat your marbled loins.)

Hello Dear Readers,

There's a lot on my mind on this blustery snowy morning in Colorado. Snow has blanketed the land for as far as the eye can see, and the mountains, normally visible, are shrouded behind an impenetrable veil of total whiteness. Later today David and Elizabeth are leaving for Buena Vista, a town 150 miles up in the Rockies. Once again, the Wombury will find himself alone on the farm, and we know what happened last time. Quick, get the boy his meds! Wellbutrin, Paxil, Where are you? Oh my heavens, jokes about psychotropic drugs never get old, do they? Now, now, hold on, I know what you're saying. You're saying, hey Wombury, having a pharmaceutical condition is no laughing matter. You're right, you, it's not. Unless you need Cialis.

But tomorrow all will be well. The Wombury is heading to Cousin Tyler's for the Thanksgiving, where he will break bread with Cousin Tyler and little Alison and the neighbors Tom and Marsha. For the main feast Cousin Tyler is preparing the Pheasant we whacked on Saturday. Four of them. The only drawback looming on the horizon is the slightly unpleasant notion that the Wombury is on Cousin Tyler's Shit List. What? How did that happen, you ask, knowing the Wombury is not one known for getting on other's Lists of Dung.

Well, it's simple really. Remember George? The guy who was deeply disappointed in the Wombury's unannounced escapade to NYC? Well, on Monday morning George extended the olive branch to the Wombury by inviting him to Thanksgiving Dinner. The Wombury genuinely appreciated the fine peacemaking gesture on the part of trusty ol' George, but respectfully declined as he is wont to do. But then George got to describing the tasty vittles that would be on the menu. There would be turkey, of course, squash from the garden, and lamb. Freshly butchered lamb, a meat near and dear to the Wombury's heart and stomach. (As you may know, the blood of the Arabian Peoples-they invented the Lamb-and the number zero-runs through the Wombury's veins, and as such it carries a deep and abiding affection for the rich taste of baby sheep).

Just hearing the word Lamb spurred the Wombury's fevered brain into action, resulting in this thought: what if Tyler and Alison came to the farm? One big happy Thanksgiving feast!

First the Wombury sent an email to Cousin Tyler, a well-written missive describing the bountiful pleasures of sharing Thanksgiving Day with George, complete with the caveat that Alison would have a playmate in Olivia, George's quasi-offspring. Then the Wombury phoned up George to ask permission to invite Cousin Tyler and little Alison. George said he had twelve coming to the table. Then he asked me how old Alison was. Little Alison is a six-year-old, George. George said, huh. Same age as Olivia. Sounded pleased to think he could make his lady Kim happy by making Olivia happy. Everyone seemed to be lining up for the happy dance. George said he'd call me back, but that something could surely be worked out.

Except it couldn't. Cousin Tyler sent me a one-sentence reply two hours later. If I would rather stay on the farm that was cool; he just preferred to stay at his own place. Oh boy. The Wombury should've known better. Cousin Tyler is a Papa bear and his home is his cave, his lair. Papa Bears leave their caves for two reasons only, to find food and to find Mama Bears. Papa Bears don't travel to farms for Thanksgiving. Not only that, but it was clear Cousin Tyler doubted the Wombury's desire to spend Thanksgiving with him. But the Wombury just wanted Lamb. It wasn't his fault, he didn't make himself be descended from the Peoples of the Fertile Crescent. That was the Wombury's Mother and Father's fault. His Mick dad could've mated with someone less likely to pass on a craving for slaughtered Ewe babies, someone Japanese or Swedish.

Suddenly his predilection for all things sheep felt less like a blessing and more like a curse. But the Wombury couldn't tell Cousin Tyler the truth, the truth that he was willing to rock the boat of Family Harmony for a well roasted piece of lamb flesh, however tender and delicious it most likely will be.

And of course, two hours later George calls back with the good news that he and Kim would just love to invite Cousin Tyler and Little Ali to dinner. Oh really, George, that's terrific, the Wombury is totally thrilled, can't wait to ask Cousin Tyler. The Wombury pretended he had to run the idea by Cousin Tyler, and called George back ten minutes later to inform him Tyler couldn't make it. The day ended with plans being exactly as they were that morning, only now George and Tyler are sore at the Wombury, put out with the Wombury. Can you believe it, dear readers? This is what it is to be me.

Until Then,

The W.

The Wombury Responds to a Complaint

(Have you ever been to Africa?)

Did you know the Wombury was a DJ at two different periods in his life? It's true. In college he trained to be a Wedding DJ for three months, which is 2 months and 2 weeks too long, before finally having the reins turned over to him in April of 1999. His first and only gig was held on the outskirts of Madison in the basement of a small Catholic church. The results were disastrous from the standpoint of everyone involved. The bride was in tears, which made the father of the bride furious, and the groom wouldn't look the Wombury in the face. For nearly 5 years the memory of the Wedding DJ Disaster haunted the Wombury, post-traumatic images of angry wedding guests seared on his mind's eye. His friends tried to placate him, even going so far as to hire Robin Williams to recreate his role as Dr. Sean for one personal therapy session. "It's not your fault, it's not your fault, it's not your fault."

It wasn't until the summer of 2004, the Wombury's first summer at a school called Bread Loaf, that he dared to touch the mixing board once more. Once more to the lighthouse, I say. What? Whatever, no one likes you. See, Bread Loaf is like a mating camp for English teachers, mostly from boarding school. As a teacher, you spend nine months working with children of various ages and rarely see other adults. Relationships are difficult. Enter the 'Loaf. 6 weeks in the verdant pastures of Vermont, stuck on a mountainside, and plenty of free alcohol. Every Saturday night there is a barn dance held, literally, in a fuckin' barn, complete with two kegs of Otter's Creek beer. It was customary to ask a student to DJ at least three of the six dances. So they asked the Wombury. He was a presence okay? Someone to reckon with in those days, okay? Lay off, you don't know me. I'm taking boxing lessons; I'll punch you in the neck.

So I DJ-ed. It was a success. Here's what I learned. To entertain people, to get them to dance, you have to suspend judgment and personal preference. Put the crowd first. I understood the crowd because I went to school with them, was familiar with their backgrounds. That's the Wombury's thing you know? He generalizes what people like to listen to based on who they are, and generalizes who people are based on what they like to listen to. I knew the formula. Input: Northeastern Boarding School English Teachers. Output: My Sharona, Like a Virgin, It's the End of the World, Bust a Groove, Baby Got Back, Hey Ya', and finish the night with Sweet Child of Mine and everyone goes away with a smile on their face, a buzz in their ears, and sweet lovin' on their mind.

Did I like the music I played? No. But is the Wombury about to play Wilco and John Coltrane at the Barn Dance? No, he is not. In fact, when another student DJ insisted on imposing his love of early 70s funk on the hapless crowd of Boarding School Teachers it truly pissed off the Wombury. What are you doin', dude? No one's dancing for a reason. Give the people what they want.

Okay, so what's the moral of the story? Well, some readers have asked me not to write about things like Resistance, the Underground, or Consumption. The posts aren't interesting, he's told. They have a point. No denying it. The Wombury sees merit in the complaint that he's alienating his reader base. It was all fun and games and laughter and now he's talking about the Buddha and the economy. Nobody wants to read about about Buddha and the economy, and what's the point of the blog if one reads it, right?

I think it comes back to DJ-ing, but instead of playing songs, I'm telling stories. The Wombury doesn't have the option of dishing up the obviously big tasty servings of Madonna and REM and Billy Joel and AC/DC so everyone will go on having a good time. He's got to go further. Now it's time to explain why the less obviously tasty bands like Wilco are delicious too, even if they're not so popular and why Wilco is worth listening to even if takes patience to realize that.

Is that a confusing and lazy analogy? Maybe. I like Wilco, though, so I really don't care if the message is lost. Is it lost? Please no. Mommy.

Until then,

The Wombury

The Wombury Get Serious About Economics and Buddha

(This is Buddha. He's dreamy. So are you. Give me a call sometime. I'm kidding. No I'm not.)

Hello Dear Readers,

You're probably sick of this string of posts by now, I imagine. Maybe you saying, What happened to funny stories about going to the Gym in underwear and black socks? These posts sound like the Wombury is taking himself seriously. Don't worry. I'm still an asshole with the emotional maturity of a child. But if I'm ever going to finish this book I need to wrestle with these ideas, either with myself or with other people. Right now the only person who will wrestle with me is a 65 year-old doctor who runs marathons. And BrettFavre. Where, oh, where are you BFMP? You stop by, tease us with your intelligence and then split? I'll keep a light on waiting for you to come back.

So Elizabeth and I are talking at the breakfast table, having our coffee. We're discussing the economy. Society. Elizabeth is an investor. A savvy investor, and she's rewarded for it handsomely. I know because I had to file her papers for two hours. She has connections. These connections tell her a recession is 1-2 years off. Now the Republicans who read this will scoff because Republicans are naturally very patriotic about America and America is all about Economic Power. So telling Republicans that America's economy is slowing down, weakening, even, is like telling some macho dude he can't get it up anymore. What, they say, the market isn't up? Who told you? That's not true. It's always up. ALWAYS.

But here's the deal. The writing is on the wall. The Wombury reads it. And the Wombury is not happy about this. The Wombury has NO JOB. All he has is his opinions. Regardless, it's important to know what the hell is going on out there on the Street, so the Wombury listens.

And here's what the smart dudes are saying. We are a "consumer-based" economy. No argument from the Wombury. As long as the dude down the street has a job and and is willing and able to spend his hard-earned dollar to buy cars, sunglasses, and homes then shit is copacetic. Again, this is ringing true. Buying stuff is good. Especially homes. It takes a lot of people and material to build a home. The more homes built the more wealth and jobs are created. Win-win.

But look what happened. A bunch of predatory lending cocksuckers got a little too greedy and scared and lied to Joe Schmo about the cost of homes. Made them seem affordable. They weren't. Joe Schmo defaults on the mortgage. Bank takes house. The system is hurt. The system is cut. The cut doesn' t heal. The it gets infected, and now the smart dudes are saying the infection is spreading. Now we have a national situation where thousands of Joe Schmos and even a few Middle Class Miltons are losing their number one economic asset-their homes. Pretty soon they stop spending as much money. Hold those dollars closer to the vest. Maybe this X-mas the wife doesn't get that fur coat and junior only gets one video game and no X-box. More people lose their jobs, and the economic forecast isn't sunny, get ready for some recessional rain. Are we on the same page? Has the Wombury ignored some exceptionally hard-core fact that unravels the thread? If not, let's keep talking.

See, there's something about all this Consumer Economy that doesn't sit right with the Wombury. It's a riddle wrapped in puzzle surrounded by Goat Cheese.

Take a moment and consider all the warm and fuzzy Buddhism you remember from school. Remember the part about unhappiness and desire? Desire is never-ending. You'll never have enough because you'll always want more. (Jesus sort of said the same thing. The only difference is that he set himself up as the one acceptable thing to want). Okay, let's assume the motherfucking Enlightened One is correct. Consumption will never make us happy. Granted. But on the other hand, we also know that struggling for food and survival severely handicaps any chance of experiencing self-actualization. What's a poor boy to do?

So, we know buying shit in and of itself will never make us spiritually happy, but without buying shit we'll never have the jobs that are a necessary pre-requisite for survival. People who sell us crap know this true, so they work very diligently to convince us otherwise.

That's all for now. For our next post we'll consider how we got into this mess.

The Wombury Responds to a Reader

(Drink the Kool-Aid)

It's Sunday morning: the Weekend is coming to a close. I went away, as the Wombury is wont to do, gallivanting around, off on another one of my zany adventures, which is merely part of my ongoing quest to understand the underlying nature of this inexorable march toward death we call life. This time my quest took me 130 miles east of Denver to Laybourn Farms. Actually Cousin Tyler's pick up truck ferried us (two friends of Tyler, Kevin and Roger accompanied us, along with Kevin's lady friend Christine) to Laybourn farms, where we spent the day hunting pheasants. Out of the 10 "planted" for us, we "harvested" 4. So see, it isn't senseless, gratuitous destruction of God's creatures-it's Harvesting. Harvesting is good. Americans harvest amber waves of grain, corn, sometimes internal organs if you believe the one about the guy who partied in Las Vegas, which you don't because your smart.

When I returned from Hunting I checked the blog and read a very intelligent critique of some recent postings, to which I thought I would respond.

In recent postings, the Wombury attempted to clarify a few things. What is the Grid, what is Off the Grid, what is the central question at the heart of his quest. One blog featured a minor epiphany regarding the desire to seek out the underground (examples of major epiphanies: Exile on Main Street is better than Abbey Road; You're not that Special; I'm Ruggedly Handsome). Once detailing my desire to know the identity, if one exists, of the Underground Resistance, I considered what the Underground would Resist against. And while I refrained from going so far as to name it, I did imply there was in fact something out there happening.

BrettFavreandtheMerryPackers responded by saying my language was "lazy" and "confused," which is appropos since those adjectives also apply to my personality. I was asked to clarify if "Revolution" or the "Underground, " is the prize I seek. I was told that the Revolution against myself is the True Revolution.

I'll be the first to admit that my pre-occupation with the idea of "Resistance" and the "Underground" contain hints of personal struggles. The opposite of Resistance is Commitment. We can commit ourselves or be committed, as in my friends and family recently had me committed to Bellvue's psych ward. The monks from St. Isaac's commit their lives and chastity to the monastery. Men and women commit to each other in marriage. I'm intrigued by anyone who commits to anything. I think commitment makes us larger than ourselves, but ultimately there's an article of faith involved, a placebo effect, if you will, regarding the ameliorating consequences of committing for commitment's sake. Just make a choice and stick with it.

I've never committed to anything. Why would I? Once "God is dead" what's the point? It's all shit we invent to make ourselves feel better. Once I left Catholic school I lost my faith in Catholicism. Catholicism was important to me because it provided a useful guideline for action and behavior. Also, I rejected a call to the Priesthood. Couldn't stomach the idea of living without family. Who would want to live in a world bereft of Wombury Juniors scampering about?

In other words, if I may be so bold to impose a narrative on the past, since I've been 18 years old I've struggled to fill the "God-shaped Hole" with an viable substitute. For a few years it was Judaism, then it was teaching, then it was piano lessons, then it was theater, then it was Bread Loaf, then it was comedy, then it was a mate, then it was this project. Do I really believe there is no point to commitment? No. Do I believe that true meaning can be found outside of ourselves? No, I don't. If you ever have a cup of coffee with the Wombury he will sit with you and tell you how commitment isn't a prison, it's a path. The Wombury will dispense wisdom with the best of them, dear readers.

Let me finish this post by sharing a ongoing habit of the Wombury. Over the years I've been fascinated by the idea of worship and losing oneself in the act of worship. What does it feel like? Is it real? So, whenever the Wombury takes in a movie or attends a religious service he likes to turn and watch the audience or the congregation as they watch or worship. Something inside the Wombury won't surrender his being. Something inside keeps resisting, and he's resisting out of faith, faith that he'll stop resisting when the time is right. Someday he'll drink the kool-aid. What's he waiting for?

Until Then,

The Wombury