Rants: Online Essays by E. G. Fabricant

RANTS

E. G. Fabricant

Published by E. G. Fabricant at Smashwords

Copyright 2005-2012 by E. G. Fabricant

Discover other stories by E. G. Fabricant at Smashwords.com.

Smashwords Edition—License Notes

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

A Word from E. G.

and ANOTHER Thing!

J. C. = GOD I

J. C. = GOD II

Doctor King I

Doctor King II

Teww Sssssaxxy fer Mysssssaaalf

Why They Hate Us I

Why They Hate Us II

Olympians I

Olympians II

Missing the Point I

Missing the Point II

Our Flabby Language I

Our Flabby Language II

Our Flabby Language III

Our Flabby Language IV

Our Flabby Language V

Our Flabby Language VI

Sweet Jesus I

Sweet Jesus II

Sweet Jesus III

Sweet Jesus IV

Jesus—Ecce Homo?—I

Jesus—Ecce Homo?—II

Autoerotic I

Autoerotic II

Autoerotic III

Wheels I

Wheels II

Wheels III

Wheels IV

Placekickers I

Placekickers II

Here We Go Again

How Green is My Footprint?

Sick of Politics?

What About E. G?

A Word from E. G.

What you’ve bought into here are a series of 35 blog entries I posted to my website between the end of 2005 and just before the November 2010 election. Most of the first 32 were published weekly throughout 2006 and are organized around 13 distinct themes; the last three were random, and later. I decided to compose and post Rants for these reasons, from least to most important:

• All the web design sources I consulted said you’re supposed to;

• As explained in the first post, I’m a big fan of the classic essay form;

• I’d pretty much finished my dozen short stories for Matters Familiar and wanted to mess around with something different; and

• Excepting the last two, to keep the domestic peace and my sanity during the last three years of the Bush Administration.

Obviously, some references will be dated. (You’ll learn that most of them are obscure, at best, anyway.) I’ve updated hyperlinks where referenced information is still available online.

Enjoy.

…and ANOTHER Thing!

Posted by E. G. Fabricant on Friday, December 30, 2005

My older son likes to say that opinions are like assholes; everyone has one, and they all stink.

So, I’m thinkin’: HEY! I’ve got opinions—and an asshole! Hell—some even say I am an asshole! There you have it!

Seriously, folks. As the links on my Stuff page represent, I’m almost as big a fan of essays as I am of short fiction and my biases are similar. Some of the blogs I frequent approach essay quality; not coincidentally, it’s usually where frequent posts are short or longer ones are not. A little reflection goes a long way, as far as I’m concerned. (Besides, the point of this exercise is to focus on fiction, and I may already be too lazy and undisciplined to compete with younger bloggers, anyway. The of the Week part is more of a guideline than a rule. We’ll see, won’t we?)

Two guiding principles here: This is intended to be catharsis for me and rescue for the wife and kids. Red and I are empty-nesters and they’re full-grown, so she bears the brunt of my curmudgeonly household wrath. Judging by the amount of sighing and eye-rolling I detect whilst opening my mouth in their company any more, my continued health may be riding on it.

Ground Rules: These are (1) opinions that are (2) mine alone and (3) freely given; as such they are worth every penny invested. Any implication that they are superior in any way to yours, if different, is unintentional. If my logic is flawed, my syllogism incomplete, or I otherwise err, please feel free to write. If we merely disagree—and especially if yours is the personality type that requires that miscreants like me be brought to heel with harsh words—please don’t squander your time. Just write me off as another waste of a carbon-based life form that, if you’re lucky, you’ll never have to actually meet.

Next week: Let us begin…

J. C. = GOD I

Posted by E. G. Fabricant on Friday, January 6, 2006

Hm? No—not Him; that’s obvious. I mean Jon Carroll, venerable and, I contend, veneratable columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle.

We interrupt this service for the following announcements:

Hedge No. 1: If you are a humorless and voluble evangelical, I hasten to add I don’t mean the God, as in Thou Shalt Have No Other Gods Before Me; oh my no that would be blasphemous. I mean a minor but nonetheless supramortal and respectable diety—of the secular human or outright pagan variety, like Bacchus, if that better suits your belief system.

Hedge No. 2: Okay—this isn’t technically a rant; it’s more of a paean (or idolatry, keeping with the theme). I’m paying service up front to the mandatory maternal admonition—you know, If you can’t say something nice…—so’s I can rip into the next guy/issue/oeuvre with abandon.

We now resume our shameless sycophancy. Thank you for your attention. A voluntary offering after the complimentary coffee and doughnuts will be appreciated.

Has this ever happened to you? You’re at a monstrous, boring cocktail party where you know no one—made that much worse by the fact that your husband/wife/spouse/life partner/significant other/pelvicial associate (check as many as apply) who, as is his or her presumptuous wont, RSVP’d for you both but now is sick and ergo absent. (Honey, this is key to my future at Wibblefidget Industries! Arnold Veeblefester is my boss! We can’t both not be there!) Whilst animating the last, unobtainable drop in your plastic pseudo-stemware with your wrist, you’ve noticed a pleasingly inoffensive gentleman of upper-middle years picking and muttering at the same strange buffet items that you did. He is not sucking down the unidentifiable Chablis against his will, like you and everyone else, which makes you mildly curious. A large person backs into you, knocking him out of your head.

Okay, this really sucks. One more lap around the room; kiss Veeblefester’s ass; make excuses; and I’m outta here!

You start your circuit in earnest but your rheumatic ex-athlete’s knee and pinching brogans push you to the curb. You scan the terrain for a place to sit. Your eyes land on a half-empty loveseat; That’stheguy is at the other end, studying the embossing on the paper napkin under his soft drink. Your annoyance causes you to shrug psychologically and take the risk.

Comehereoften? HahHahHah.

You clear your throat to begin the dreaded embarrassed silence. He strokes his well-groomed beard for a moment. Instead of hawking his own pipes or issuing a perfunctory reply in kind, however, he touches your hand gently and softly says something engaging and witty. You’re disarmed; grown-up conversation ensues.

He listens to me and thinks before responding. Remarkable!

Everything he says is always well-considered and often wise. All is reparteé and riposte; you laugh and occasionally jostle like true comrades. The room spins away; suddenly, it’s wrecked and desolate, and one of the caterer’s surly teens is prying the cups from your hands.

So, has it? Of course not! That’s why you must read Jon Carroll. Open five days a week, rain or shine! (Unless he’s out idly burning paid leave; traveling; or otherwise distracted by the lovely, mysterious Tracy, their progeny, or the World’s Most Perfect Grandchild–formerly, WMPG; now, whimsically, Alice—in which case he’ll write about it later, anyway!) Risk free! Just add eyeballs and gray matter! All necessary questions, observations, and responses cheerfully anticipated and supplied! Not so much as an appreciative nod required!

How do I love thee, Jon? Let me count the ways:

Ability. The dude can flat-out write, knowumsayn? Two bits from My Friend, Alexander McIntire, a reminiscence about a cyberfriend who manifested himself and dematerialized suddenly, published May 14, 1999. Act I is where Alex and Jon meet on-line:

CYBERSPACE IS A good place for people who look different from standard-issue humans. For once, they do not have to deal with strangers immediately reacting to their height or weight or scars or disability. They can be the person they are in their minds…

Act II is when they meet in the flesh:

Alex shattered my stereotypes about very fat people. He is not indolent or even sedentary. When he came out here, we walked to the tip of Limantour Spit and back, and he did not labor noticeably. It was his gift to me, one of many; he allowed me to break through several layers of prejudice I did not know I had.

Act III is when Alex vanishes:

"It is a total mystery. I believe that he is still alive somewhere; it is not a rational belief, necessarily, but it is nevertheless entirely sincere. He used to read my column on the Web; maybe wherever he is, he still does. That last night in Miami, he played me a moving piece of music, a collaboration between Gavin Bryars and Tom Waits. The words are simple; imagine Waits singing them: ‘There’s one thing I know, for he loved me so, Jesus’ blood never failed me yet.’ We watched each other listen to it in the warm night; we said nothing at all.

Hi, pal. Come home soon.

Charity. His favorite? The self-invented "Untied Way, wherein you, the philanthropist, withdraw as much in crisp Twenties as will cause you bearable discomfort and shower indiscreetly on whomever appears in your eye to be needy, until gone. (That’s needy, not worthy. As you might hear John Cleese as Python say it, Judgment don’t enter into it.") Attention, true believers: This is what Jesus would do.

Clarity. This guy gets it. An opinion is both fungible and perishable; its value is measured by the integrity of the truth and logic supporting it and the manner of its delivery. Invoking the Pythons again, argument is not to be confused with mere disputation. Tolerance, equanimity, and respect are mandatory for discourse to be valid. A dash of humility, a dollop of modesty, and a soupçon of self-effacement season a point of view nicely, when stirred in with personal experience. You will accept his premise if he earns it, and he does. How do you spell relief, dear reader? P-E-R-S-P-E-C-T-I-V-E.

Next Week: The rest of the ways…

J. C. = GOD II

Posted by E. G. Fabricant on Friday, January 13, 2006

How do I love thee, Jon Carroll? Let me pick up the count from last week:

Community. The importance of living wherein one dwells is emphasized, by notice and example. From Grand Bay Area theater to street performance art, hospice to the Pickle Family Circus, causes great and small are made equally worthy because they touch things within us that are at once deep and fleeting. No salesman will call; Mr. Carroll finds these veins, mines them for us, and invites us to join in bearing the burden with good humor.

Consanguinity. Jon has grown children who do personally and occupationally interesting things; as it happens, so do I. Bragging, even implicitly, is a real buzz-killer, so Jon sticks scrupulously to the mere retelling. What he identifies, though, is the really good stuff that hovers just outside context. Something happens, is said or done, that reveals another facet of the most stupefying of humankind’s several pleasurable relationships: being friends and social partners with somebody you helped make. Examples: As a parent you are both paladin and pupil, nurturer and dependent. Hard to relate, but he does surpassing well. Close encounters of the WMPG/Alice kind orbit the notion that, outside of keeping it safe and integrated, adults are minor luminaries in the complex parallel universe that is childhood and—more important—if we are to remain competent and functional, we should go back there as observers as frequently as we can manage.