A Parade, and an Unbridgeable Chasm
This past weekend was not only Memorial Day, but Ski-to-Sea, a multi-leg race from Mt. Baker to the harbor at Fairhaven in Bellingham, Washington. The annual parade was Saturday afternoon.
It was led by a tottering squad of Legionnaires, veterans of the Second World War-- there are five of them now. I wondered about the inverse relationship between a veteran's proximity to deadly combat and the later glorification of prior military service. I am making inferences, of course, but they are based on my reading of those with experience (cf. Paul Fussell, Eugene Sledge, etc.).
The Legionnaires were followed by a detachment of Washington State Police, in military formation, carrying M-1 rifles. Oddly, they also wore pistols in shiny holsters, despite the fact that in military formation one carries either a rifle or a pistol, never both. Some in the audience stood as they passed. There was something vaguely fascistic in the presentation, and I thought briefly that an SS troop would have been preferable, if only for the consistency and honesty of presentation. When asked by a young son why he stood up when they passed, a father answered, "it's to show respect." I rather got the impression that his action was rather more an expression of identity than a sign of respect, which the marchers probably were unaware of in any event. It enabled him to say to those around him, "I identify with armed order, and associate myself with authority."
Rapidly on their heels came a high school marching band, perfectly out of step. They were followed by veterans of the United States Merchant Marine ("Highest Death Rate in World War II"). One wonders whether that is actually true in light of the experiences of the US Marine Corps in the Pacific, but no doubt they paid a high price. Yet the continued reference to the Second World War seemed odd, coming as it did in the same month when John Demjanjuk was deported to Germany to face charges of "war crimes" 64 years almost to the day that the war in Europe ended. One begins to wonder if the Second World War will ever be over.
Later, two girls marched by with a banner proclaiming that their organization had been proclaimed "Best Equestrian, First Place"... yet there was no horse in sight. Later came a "funky" (read, African-American) high school band, imported all the way from Seattle. The marchers moved gracefully despite the pathetic, failing efforts of the obese white drummer.
Another presence was something calling itself the "Whatcom Art Guild" (Art Show & Sale Today!). That such a shamelessly commercial organization could pass itself off as purveying art rather than peddling decoration is a testament to the ignorance of the audience. Art takes account of its environment and, ultimately, takes or suggests a stance on an issue. People have different opinions. Because of that, people will not agree on Art. Ergo, Art is controversial. If it ain't controversial, it ain't Art. Note to "Whatcom Art Guild": save this for your future reference.
Next came a group holding a banner announcing "VetRetreat.com." I checked the website just now and, as I suspected during the parade, its purpose (I am quoting) is "to connect everyone and anyone to the soldiers returning or involved in war." Marching proudly (and fraudulently) beside this banner was a character who has been banned from several Bellingham bars for obnoxious, crass, drunken behavior. I have had the misfortune of dealing with him when he has been in that condition. He was in the Marine Corps, but he was never in any war. Again, the inverse relationship between proximity to actual combat and later glorification of the military. This guy was passing himself off as having been a soldier who was involved in a war, and to that extent he is a fraud and a liar.
Soon came a truck loaded with smiling and waving JROTC cadets (high school freshmen), while the obese woman on the curb to my right shouted "Thank you for your service" while also managing to say "I am completely retarded" at the same time.
Next came Bellingham Mountain Rescue, with a very competent, serious-looking dog barking out the window. He comported himself with confidence and authority, and I imagine he was trying to tell people a thing or two about life. His barking was constant, but it wasn't nervous on the one hand, or frivolous on the other. His bark could be the most welcome sound in the world, when he was deployed as trained.
After that were the inevitable Harley-Davidson motorcycles, with their riders in look-alike prole get-up.
Everyone loves the fire department, myself included.
And along came the Bellingham Roller Betties, the local incarnation of a surging national theatrical craze. I was reminded of the Roller Betty name I came up with last year, "Miss Aligned."
Next, The Gays. There was an odd recursive element of a middle-aged drag queen marching in a parade carrying a banner announcing... the forthcoming Gay Pride Parade.
There was rampant commercialism, from the street level drug pusher "Lo Dy" (phonetic) making his way up and down the street, to the marchers with the Banner extolling the virtues of the International House of Pancakes ("Two IHOPS! [in Bellingham]").
Soon came the eternal Shriners. Many in the crowd stood as they passed, evincing an admiration much like that earlier shown for authority figures. Shriners are always old. Ancient. And they always have been. I remember riding past a Shrine with my parents when I was a child and asking about it. It was some kind of secret society, with Cadillacs, always Cadillacs, in the parking lot on a weekend night. There was an old man (ancient) in my neighborhood who was a Shriner, and he had the same vaguely Asiatic, sinister look that the old men in this parade had, a look disarmed of some of its ominousness by charitable works. Some of it...
Alongside all of this were the hawkers pushing carts overflowing with the most cynical plastic crap imaginable: inflatable Simpsons characters, cotton candy, plastic Norwegian flags (why?). They moved their carts to the beat of high school marching bands, the drummers ending their flourishes with triplets followed by rhythmic cadence-keeping rim shots. The drum beats reminded me of the great distances drums can travel. I remember lying in bed as a child, amazed that I could clearly hear drums from the High School football games, which took place many miles from my house.
Towards the end of the parade came a (marked) sports car of the Nevada State Police. I have yet to figure that one out.
***
At a party later in the weekend, I found myself supremely annoyed by a couple of the other guests. There was something about them that sums it up: an improper, over-reliance on Anglo-Saxon.
Because Anglo-Saxon is a dead language and only a few (mostly so-called "four letter") words remain accessible to most English speakers, Anglo-Saxon is best used for emphasis. It is the spoken equivalent of the written exclamation mark! If every sentence were punctuated with an exclamation point, the it would soon lose its effect and become tiresome and, in short order, annoying! Thus, someone fluent in English will from time to time-- and only from time to time-- use the vulgar Anglo-Saxon gerund as a meaningless fucking intensifier, never, ever dropping the "g." In fact, it is the full, measured pronunciation of fucking that carries so much weight, and has such effect. Pronounced correctly, fucking is deliberate, conscious, and intentional; it's a voiced velar plosive that refuses to blend into the word following it, thereby setting itself apart from and calling attention to both itself and the word it is intensifying.
There is an unbridgeable gulf between those who pronounce fucking properly and those who drop the "g," rendering it fuckin or worse, fockin or even, if sufficiently illiterate, fehkin. Those who drop the "g" do so out of expediency, for they are in a hurry. They use the word as a mere place-holder, a method of holding onto their audience while the mind gropes desperately for some cohesive completion to what is almost inevitably a half-baked idea. Those who drop the "g" use fuckin so often as to drain it of all meaning and effect, leaving only its offensiveness intact (and its offensiveness, to those who do not drop the "g" is the utter lack of meaning assigned to it by those who do, rather than the middle class notion of linguistic propriety that some might imagine).
The gulf between those who drop the "g" and those who retain it isn't about that mere fact alone. No, there is a chasm of differences that stretches from the height of the intellect to the depth of the soul, on both sides. While the social difference between the two might appear to be slight, the distance-- like the distance between what seem to be the closest points of an omega-- is in fact enormous. I'd wager that there are no two people from those opposing linguistic groups, one of whom drops the "g" and the other of whom emphasizes it, who understand each other. At best, each will view the other as quaint.
Ultimately, however, disdain will eclipse forbearance if the two attempt to mix socially. Such was my experience with two juvenile ass wipes at a Memorial Day party. They drank recursively, which is to say they talked about fuckin drinking while they drank beer after fuckin beer. Now that's an interesting topic of conversation... isn't it, Corporal Fucking Clueless? One of them took an inappropriate interest in the meat I brought to grill (he brought none), at one point going so far as to say (about a roast, cooking in foil on low heat), "you might as well go ahead and fuckin flip it." I replied, "I'm not going to do that," but subtlety being a foreign concept, he didn't get my drift. A few minutes later while opening the grill he knocked a silver fork onto the ground, picked it up, and threw it into the garbage can. I got up and asked him what happened to the fork and he replied, "it fuckin fell." I fished it out of the trash. After an afternoon spent drinking other people's beers and eating other people's food, the two "g"-droppers descended, as if on cue, into infantile grab-assing, beer-spilling and, ultimately, attempted vandalism.
I saw that coming as soon as I fucking saw them.
It was led by a tottering squad of Legionnaires, veterans of the Second World War-- there are five of them now. I wondered about the inverse relationship between a veteran's proximity to deadly combat and the later glorification of prior military service. I am making inferences, of course, but they are based on my reading of those with experience (cf. Paul Fussell, Eugene Sledge, etc.).
The Legionnaires were followed by a detachment of Washington State Police, in military formation, carrying M-1 rifles. Oddly, they also wore pistols in shiny holsters, despite the fact that in military formation one carries either a rifle or a pistol, never both. Some in the audience stood as they passed. There was something vaguely fascistic in the presentation, and I thought briefly that an SS troop would have been preferable, if only for the consistency and honesty of presentation. When asked by a young son why he stood up when they passed, a father answered, "it's to show respect." I rather got the impression that his action was rather more an expression of identity than a sign of respect, which the marchers probably were unaware of in any event. It enabled him to say to those around him, "I identify with armed order, and associate myself with authority."
Rapidly on their heels came a high school marching band, perfectly out of step. They were followed by veterans of the United States Merchant Marine ("Highest Death Rate in World War II"). One wonders whether that is actually true in light of the experiences of the US Marine Corps in the Pacific, but no doubt they paid a high price. Yet the continued reference to the Second World War seemed odd, coming as it did in the same month when John Demjanjuk was deported to Germany to face charges of "war crimes" 64 years almost to the day that the war in Europe ended. One begins to wonder if the Second World War will ever be over.
Later, two girls marched by with a banner proclaiming that their organization had been proclaimed "Best Equestrian, First Place"... yet there was no horse in sight. Later came a "funky" (read, African-American) high school band, imported all the way from Seattle. The marchers moved gracefully despite the pathetic, failing efforts of the obese white drummer.
Another presence was something calling itself the "Whatcom Art Guild" (Art Show & Sale Today!). That such a shamelessly commercial organization could pass itself off as purveying art rather than peddling decoration is a testament to the ignorance of the audience. Art takes account of its environment and, ultimately, takes or suggests a stance on an issue. People have different opinions. Because of that, people will not agree on Art. Ergo, Art is controversial. If it ain't controversial, it ain't Art. Note to "Whatcom Art Guild": save this for your future reference.
Next came a group holding a banner announcing "VetRetreat.com." I checked the website just now and, as I suspected during the parade, its purpose (I am quoting) is "to connect everyone and anyone to the soldiers returning or involved in war." Marching proudly (and fraudulently) beside this banner was a character who has been banned from several Bellingham bars for obnoxious, crass, drunken behavior. I have had the misfortune of dealing with him when he has been in that condition. He was in the Marine Corps, but he was never in any war. Again, the inverse relationship between proximity to actual combat and later glorification of the military. This guy was passing himself off as having been a soldier who was involved in a war, and to that extent he is a fraud and a liar.
Soon came a truck loaded with smiling and waving JROTC cadets (high school freshmen), while the obese woman on the curb to my right shouted "Thank you for your service" while also managing to say "I am completely retarded" at the same time.
Next came Bellingham Mountain Rescue, with a very competent, serious-looking dog barking out the window. He comported himself with confidence and authority, and I imagine he was trying to tell people a thing or two about life. His barking was constant, but it wasn't nervous on the one hand, or frivolous on the other. His bark could be the most welcome sound in the world, when he was deployed as trained.
After that were the inevitable Harley-Davidson motorcycles, with their riders in look-alike prole get-up.
Everyone loves the fire department, myself included.
And along came the Bellingham Roller Betties, the local incarnation of a surging national theatrical craze. I was reminded of the Roller Betty name I came up with last year, "Miss Aligned."
Next, The Gays. There was an odd recursive element of a middle-aged drag queen marching in a parade carrying a banner announcing... the forthcoming Gay Pride Parade.
There was rampant commercialism, from the street level drug pusher "Lo Dy" (phonetic) making his way up and down the street, to the marchers with the Banner extolling the virtues of the International House of Pancakes ("Two IHOPS! [in Bellingham]").
Soon came the eternal Shriners. Many in the crowd stood as they passed, evincing an admiration much like that earlier shown for authority figures. Shriners are always old. Ancient. And they always have been. I remember riding past a Shrine with my parents when I was a child and asking about it. It was some kind of secret society, with Cadillacs, always Cadillacs, in the parking lot on a weekend night. There was an old man (ancient) in my neighborhood who was a Shriner, and he had the same vaguely Asiatic, sinister look that the old men in this parade had, a look disarmed of some of its ominousness by charitable works. Some of it...
Alongside all of this were the hawkers pushing carts overflowing with the most cynical plastic crap imaginable: inflatable Simpsons characters, cotton candy, plastic Norwegian flags (why?). They moved their carts to the beat of high school marching bands, the drummers ending their flourishes with triplets followed by rhythmic cadence-keeping rim shots. The drum beats reminded me of the great distances drums can travel. I remember lying in bed as a child, amazed that I could clearly hear drums from the High School football games, which took place many miles from my house.
Towards the end of the parade came a (marked) sports car of the Nevada State Police. I have yet to figure that one out.
***
At a party later in the weekend, I found myself supremely annoyed by a couple of the other guests. There was something about them that sums it up: an improper, over-reliance on Anglo-Saxon.
Because Anglo-Saxon is a dead language and only a few (mostly so-called "four letter") words remain accessible to most English speakers, Anglo-Saxon is best used for emphasis. It is the spoken equivalent of the written exclamation mark! If every sentence were punctuated with an exclamation point, the it would soon lose its effect and become tiresome and, in short order, annoying! Thus, someone fluent in English will from time to time-- and only from time to time-- use the vulgar Anglo-Saxon gerund as a meaningless fucking intensifier, never, ever dropping the "g." In fact, it is the full, measured pronunciation of fucking that carries so much weight, and has such effect. Pronounced correctly, fucking is deliberate, conscious, and intentional; it's a voiced velar plosive that refuses to blend into the word following it, thereby setting itself apart from and calling attention to both itself and the word it is intensifying.
There is an unbridgeable gulf between those who pronounce fucking properly and those who drop the "g," rendering it fuckin or worse, fockin or even, if sufficiently illiterate, fehkin. Those who drop the "g" do so out of expediency, for they are in a hurry. They use the word as a mere place-holder, a method of holding onto their audience while the mind gropes desperately for some cohesive completion to what is almost inevitably a half-baked idea. Those who drop the "g" use fuckin so often as to drain it of all meaning and effect, leaving only its offensiveness intact (and its offensiveness, to those who do not drop the "g" is the utter lack of meaning assigned to it by those who do, rather than the middle class notion of linguistic propriety that some might imagine).
The gulf between those who drop the "g" and those who retain it isn't about that mere fact alone. No, there is a chasm of differences that stretches from the height of the intellect to the depth of the soul, on both sides. While the social difference between the two might appear to be slight, the distance-- like the distance between what seem to be the closest points of an omega-- is in fact enormous. I'd wager that there are no two people from those opposing linguistic groups, one of whom drops the "g" and the other of whom emphasizes it, who understand each other. At best, each will view the other as quaint.
Ultimately, however, disdain will eclipse forbearance if the two attempt to mix socially. Such was my experience with two juvenile ass wipes at a Memorial Day party. They drank recursively, which is to say they talked about fuckin drinking while they drank beer after fuckin beer. Now that's an interesting topic of conversation... isn't it, Corporal Fucking Clueless? One of them took an inappropriate interest in the meat I brought to grill (he brought none), at one point going so far as to say (about a roast, cooking in foil on low heat), "you might as well go ahead and fuckin flip it." I replied, "I'm not going to do that," but subtlety being a foreign concept, he didn't get my drift. A few minutes later while opening the grill he knocked a silver fork onto the ground, picked it up, and threw it into the garbage can. I got up and asked him what happened to the fork and he replied, "it fuckin fell." I fished it out of the trash. After an afternoon spent drinking other people's beers and eating other people's food, the two "g"-droppers descended, as if on cue, into infantile grab-assing, beer-spilling and, ultimately, attempted vandalism.
I saw that coming as soon as I fucking saw them.