Rob Roy O'Keefe's Blog: Green eggs and spam, page 4
August 25, 2022
Gravity Hill
I promised the occasional story, so here’s one.
Gravity Hill
There were worse places to be a teenager than New Jersey.
Teenagers, like vampires, are creatures of the night, sharing the same pallor, inward focus, and questionable fashion sense. Unlike the vampires of old, who lived their undead nights under dark, occasionally moonlit skies, your average New Jersey 18-year-old reveled in the neon glow of street lights and store fronts. Both, however, had to be true to their natures, which meant constantly being on the prowl to quench an insatiable thirst.
While vampires were focused on one objective, human blood, the Garden State teenager was much more democratic, attracted to anything that triggered the release of dopamine. The bigger the blast, the better.
There was a time when New Jersey was the dopamine release center of the world. A world of muscle cars, hook-ups, rumbles (or more likely, pantomimes of conflict), the call of the boardwalk, and the immutable presence of the unexplained. All of these were the provenance of New Jersey and the birthright of every resident teen.
Each night, when the pizzerias closed, GTOs, Mustangs, and Camaros were loaded up – beer stacked high in the back seat – for a midnight run to the shore, searching to find the mythology of the evening. Often, it was Gravity Hill.
Gravity Hill was impossible. It was proof that rules didn’t matter, laws were transient, and defiance wasn’t a choice, but an expectation. Explanations of its mystical powers were infinite and insufficient. It was everything we wanted the world to be.
Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, the world changed. We changed, marked more by a continuous series of small decisions than by any big passage of time. Eventually, the neon was less alluring, the magic not as important, and the night became something that happened “out there.”
All of these thoughts were going through my head as I drove down Route 35 for the first time in decades. I was no longer teenager, vampire, or other unholy being. I was something common, blended, and universal. I was here on business.
I had quite a bit of time before I could check-in at my hotel, so I spent it trying to find familiar landmarks that once dotted the road of my adolescence. The diner we would frequent, arriving at 2 a.m., leaving at 5 a.m. The pool hall, where we lost more money than we would ever win. The factory with the giant Dixie Cup displayed outside, signaling that Gravity Hill was just around the corner.
All of those places were gone, leaving something starkly unfamiliar. Eventually, I broke through my melancholy and found a side road where I could safely turn around. It was a rental car, so I couldn’t risk getting even a scratch.
I stopped at the end of the road, checking to make sure no one was in the vicinity, then attempted to shift the transmission into reverse, but could only get as far as neutral. This was a new model, one of those cars that was too technical for my liking, the kind that didn’t respond without engaging an app or speaking instructions out loud. I tried to get the vehicle to give control back to its flawed human driver, but I was still stuck in neutral. Frustrated, dispirited, and feeling stupid, I managed to open the door and I got out.
The car rolled uphill.
Gravity Hill
There were worse places to be a teenager than New Jersey.
Teenagers, like vampires, are creatures of the night, sharing the same pallor, inward focus, and questionable fashion sense. Unlike the vampires of old, who lived their undead nights under dark, occasionally moonlit skies, your average New Jersey 18-year-old reveled in the neon glow of street lights and store fronts. Both, however, had to be true to their natures, which meant constantly being on the prowl to quench an insatiable thirst.
While vampires were focused on one objective, human blood, the Garden State teenager was much more democratic, attracted to anything that triggered the release of dopamine. The bigger the blast, the better.
There was a time when New Jersey was the dopamine release center of the world. A world of muscle cars, hook-ups, rumbles (or more likely, pantomimes of conflict), the call of the boardwalk, and the immutable presence of the unexplained. All of these were the provenance of New Jersey and the birthright of every resident teen.
Each night, when the pizzerias closed, GTOs, Mustangs, and Camaros were loaded up – beer stacked high in the back seat – for a midnight run to the shore, searching to find the mythology of the evening. Often, it was Gravity Hill.
Gravity Hill was impossible. It was proof that rules didn’t matter, laws were transient, and defiance wasn’t a choice, but an expectation. Explanations of its mystical powers were infinite and insufficient. It was everything we wanted the world to be.
Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, the world changed. We changed, marked more by a continuous series of small decisions than by any big passage of time. Eventually, the neon was less alluring, the magic not as important, and the night became something that happened “out there.”
All of these thoughts were going through my head as I drove down Route 35 for the first time in decades. I was no longer teenager, vampire, or other unholy being. I was something common, blended, and universal. I was here on business.
I had quite a bit of time before I could check-in at my hotel, so I spent it trying to find familiar landmarks that once dotted the road of my adolescence. The diner we would frequent, arriving at 2 a.m., leaving at 5 a.m. The pool hall, where we lost more money than we would ever win. The factory with the giant Dixie Cup displayed outside, signaling that Gravity Hill was just around the corner.
All of those places were gone, leaving something starkly unfamiliar. Eventually, I broke through my melancholy and found a side road where I could safely turn around. It was a rental car, so I couldn’t risk getting even a scratch.
I stopped at the end of the road, checking to make sure no one was in the vicinity, then attempted to shift the transmission into reverse, but could only get as far as neutral. This was a new model, one of those cars that was too technical for my liking, the kind that didn’t respond without engaging an app or speaking instructions out loud. I tried to get the vehicle to give control back to its flawed human driver, but I was still stuck in neutral. Frustrated, dispirited, and feeling stupid, I managed to open the door and I got out.
The car rolled uphill.
August 5, 2022
New giveaway
There's a new giveaway going on that will continue until August 25. Here's the link:
https://www.librarything.com/ner/deta...
Good luck.
https://www.librarything.com/ner/deta...
Good luck.
July 30, 2022
Winners
Congratulations to the twelve winners of the July eBook giveaway. I hope you enjoy the book.
July 20, 2022
Giveaway
Just a few more days left to enter to win a free ebook copy of Small Stories: A Perfectly Absurd Novel. Last day for entry is July 25. Here's the link:
https://www.librarything.com/ner/deta...
https://www.librarything.com/ner/deta...
July 5, 2022
Chaucer, bears, and BBQ sauce
“Now certeinly he was a fair prelaat;
His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.”
Unless you’re familiar with Middle English or The Canterbury Tales, you may have a difficult time understanding those two lines. What’s a palfrey? What’s a beyre?
The English language has changed a lot since 1392, the year Chaucer wrote his story, so while we may have a hard time understanding what he said 600 years ago, surely we should have no problem understanding what we say to each other today, especially with over 170,000 words at our disposal if we’re talking about modern-day English.
So with so much to work with, why is it so hard to get our ideas across?
Sometimes it’s simply the lack of common experience.
Imagine we’re camping in the woods. Suddenly I stop what I’m doing and whisper, “Don’t move. There’s a grizzly bear over by that tree.”
Your first response is “which tree?”
I reply: “The river birch, right next to the western red cedar.”
Your next words are a bit more urgent: “This is my first time away from the Bronx, so unless you can tell me something that doesn’t require me to be an arborist, I’m just going to bet I’m faster than you. And just in case I’m not, I poured honey BBQ sauce on your shoes.”
It seems to me, that when introducing readers to new places, people, and events, the trick is to find the balance between technically precise description, and when to simply yell “run!”
By the way, it turns out a palfrey was a horse, but I still don’t know what a beyre is.
“Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable,
And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel heere
Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere
And eek as loude as dooth the chapel belle
Ther as this lord was kepere of the celle.
I seigh his sleves purfiled at the hond
With grys, and that the fyneste of a lond;
And for to festne his hood under his chyn,
He hadde of gold ywroght a ful curious pyn;
A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was.
His bootes souple, his hors in greet estaat.
Now certeinly he was a fair prelaat;
His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.”
From The Monk’s Tale in The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer.
- r
His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.”
Unless you’re familiar with Middle English or The Canterbury Tales, you may have a difficult time understanding those two lines. What’s a palfrey? What’s a beyre?
The English language has changed a lot since 1392, the year Chaucer wrote his story, so while we may have a hard time understanding what he said 600 years ago, surely we should have no problem understanding what we say to each other today, especially with over 170,000 words at our disposal if we’re talking about modern-day English.
So with so much to work with, why is it so hard to get our ideas across?
Sometimes it’s simply the lack of common experience.
Imagine we’re camping in the woods. Suddenly I stop what I’m doing and whisper, “Don’t move. There’s a grizzly bear over by that tree.”
Your first response is “which tree?”
I reply: “The river birch, right next to the western red cedar.”
Your next words are a bit more urgent: “This is my first time away from the Bronx, so unless you can tell me something that doesn’t require me to be an arborist, I’m just going to bet I’m faster than you. And just in case I’m not, I poured honey BBQ sauce on your shoes.”
It seems to me, that when introducing readers to new places, people, and events, the trick is to find the balance between technically precise description, and when to simply yell “run!”
By the way, it turns out a palfrey was a horse, but I still don’t know what a beyre is.
“Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable,
And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel heere
Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere
And eek as loude as dooth the chapel belle
Ther as this lord was kepere of the celle.
I seigh his sleves purfiled at the hond
With grys, and that the fyneste of a lond;
And for to festne his hood under his chyn,
He hadde of gold ywroght a ful curious pyn;
A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was.
His bootes souple, his hors in greet estaat.
Now certeinly he was a fair prelaat;
His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.”
From The Monk’s Tale in The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer.
- r
June 30, 2022
Be warned
I don’t know about other writers, but I fluctuate between creative conceit and shallow self-indulgence – conceit in the sense there are times I’m convinced that what I have to say is something others should hear.
Fortunately for all concerned, those instances don’t last too long and I quickly revert to shallow self-interest, writing what I like with little regard as to its appeal or relevance to anyone else in the world.
I don’t expect this blog to be any different.
- r
Fortunately for all concerned, those instances don’t last too long and I quickly revert to shallow self-interest, writing what I like with little regard as to its appeal or relevance to anyone else in the world.
I don’t expect this blog to be any different.
- r
Green eggs and spam
Blatant self-promotion, unfounded opinions, and a story or two
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