Tony Bertauski's Blog, page 18
July 1, 2011
A Real Man
Sometimes a book is so good, you just got to share. Here's my review of Eric Greitens's The Heart and the Fist.
Too often a real man is defined by the baser elements of machismo. By his ability to annihilate his enemy. By the number of notches on his bedpost.
Eric Greitens clarifies the litmus test of a real man.
His story starts out in a liberal attempt to help humankind, detailing humanitarian trips to third-world countries when he was 19 years old to aid the abandoned, the hungry, the homeless. While we were spending summer on the beach, he was helping the people in this world with a shattered past and a hopeless future.
Greitens's epiphany is a result of these selfless acts. People need food and shelter, yes, but they also need protection from tyranny.
His journey leads him to the military's most challenging test, the Navy SEALS. He details the unimaginable training where cadets are drowned and driven into the sand. Where even the most physically fit human is often happy to quit. But Greitens does so without egotistic style, without chest-thumping. His journey is spiritual. "Hell Week tests the soul, it doesn't clean it."
The writing is good. And why not, he's a graduate of Oxford, given the option to live a life of academic freedom and comfort. A life he eschewed for a higher calling that wasn't necessarily religious. The dialogue keeps the scenes from becoming overly dry, but often reads clunky and contrived. Unnatural. Sometimes reads like a squeaky clean sitcom, more Beaver Cleaver than Nickelodeon.
However, Greitens changes the perspective of a kill-first military. Some soldiers are on a spiritual journey. They are real men. Real women.
Real warriors.
June 18, 2011
Light
I stood outside a back room. Hands folded over my stomach.
The door opened. I stepped inside next to another student, we both did a full bow to an altar. It was basically a small table with a vase of flowers. We placed our foreheads to the carpet, raised our hands near our ears, palms up. The silence made the awkwardness palpable. Clothes rustling. Breath slightly labored standing up.
At that moment, I was having a thought. This is stupid.
The student left. I turned to face an elderly woman sitting on a meditation bench. Her hair short and void of color. She wore big round glasses that old people often wear. I started to do a full bow to her and she stopped me. "No, no," she said. "Not to me."
I didn't know what I was doing. So I did a short standing bow to her, more of a respectful greeting, then seated myself on the floor in front of her. I opened my mouth to say my name. She beat me to it.
"Hi, Tony."
[image error]
There is a power in the universe, some say, that is immense. Obi-wan Kenobi called it the Force. Zen teachers call it joriki. Whatever it's called, it was in that room. It filled it. Blew through me like an exploding star. It had texture. Luminescence.
I came to the San Diego Zen Center when I was 23 years old with no expectations. If I had any, I still wouldn't have seen that moment coming.
I don't remember what Joko and I talked about. I remember smiling, a lot.
When she rang the little bell at her side and I let the next student in, doing full bows to the table/altar of flowers, I remember knowing something. I remember knowing, at the moment, that there is light in the world.
Charlotte Joko Beck died this week. It was June 15. She was 94 years old. I don't think she would remember me since she worked with so many people. But I'll say it anyway.
Thank you, Joko.
The door opened. I stepped inside next to another student, we both did a full bow to an altar. It was basically a small table with a vase of flowers. We placed our foreheads to the carpet, raised our hands near our ears, palms up. The silence made the awkwardness palpable. Clothes rustling. Breath slightly labored standing up.
At that moment, I was having a thought. This is stupid.
The student left. I turned to face an elderly woman sitting on a meditation bench. Her hair short and void of color. She wore big round glasses that old people often wear. I started to do a full bow to her and she stopped me. "No, no," she said. "Not to me."
I didn't know what I was doing. So I did a short standing bow to her, more of a respectful greeting, then seated myself on the floor in front of her. I opened my mouth to say my name. She beat me to it.
"Hi, Tony."
[image error]
There is a power in the universe, some say, that is immense. Obi-wan Kenobi called it the Force. Zen teachers call it joriki. Whatever it's called, it was in that room. It filled it. Blew through me like an exploding star. It had texture. Luminescence.
I came to the San Diego Zen Center when I was 23 years old with no expectations. If I had any, I still wouldn't have seen that moment coming.
I don't remember what Joko and I talked about. I remember smiling, a lot.
When she rang the little bell at her side and I let the next student in, doing full bows to the table/altar of flowers, I remember knowing something. I remember knowing, at the moment, that there is light in the world.
Charlotte Joko Beck died this week. It was June 15. She was 94 years old. I don't think she would remember me since she worked with so many people. But I'll say it anyway.
Thank you, Joko.
June 11, 2011
Tweet This
I missed a joke on Tosh, or maybe it was John Stewart. Something about the fail whale. My 13 year old daughter explained it to me. Had something to do with Twitter.
It's about time I catch up with Twitter. I got Facebook, got a blog, a website. Hell, I even watch Randy Jackson's America's Best Dance Crew with my kids. I know who JabbaWockeeZ is, son.
So I log onto Twitter. Look at a couple people to follow, read the comments in 127 characters or less (140, 204, or however the hell many it is) about eating at diners or being stuck in traffic. 10 seconds later, I log off. Forever.
Twitter. I still don't get it.
It's about time I catch up with Twitter. I got Facebook, got a blog, a website. Hell, I even watch Randy Jackson's America's Best Dance Crew with my kids. I know who JabbaWockeeZ is, son.
So I log onto Twitter. Look at a couple people to follow, read the comments in 127 characters or less (140, 204, or however the hell many it is) about eating at diners or being stuck in traffic. 10 seconds later, I log off. Forever.
Twitter. I still don't get it.
June 4, 2011
Reader Email: The End is Near
I get a handful of emails from folks that read my column in the Post and Courier. Mostly questions about dying plants. This one started out no different. The reader wanted some info on why her hydrangea wasn't blooming. My answer was short, to the point with a little humor at the end.
I wrote,
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This is what she wrote back:
At least she thanked me.
I wrote,
The growth produced this year will set flower buds that will open in 2012. According to the movie, that's the end of the world, so that may be the least of your problems.I smacked that out of the park. Crushed it.
[image error]
This is what she wrote back:
Since you brought it up....2012....here is my take on that. I am tired of right wing stupid people trying to manipulate my every move, day to day, by their out the ass rantings based on little fact and/or merely some warped interpretation of The Book. I am not nor ever was a fan of Chicken Little nor Henny Penny and think there heads should have been wrung, figuratively speaking, long ago.
Some things there is no control over and this is one. It would not surprise me to learn that some ploy by government to keep people stirred up and thus easier to control is behind all the hype. A house divided is a house easy to conquer. So to that moron Stamping and all his right wing experts, I say, ' bite me'.
Thanks for your input about the hydrangeas.
At least she thanked me.
May 28, 2011
Traffic Brings Out the Crazies
My wife stopped at a red light.
While she waited, she answered a text from our son. She noticed someone waving. The lady in the van next to her was giving the universal sign for "roll down the window". Only it seemed more like "roll down the window, bitch."
"That's illegal!" Veins bulged in her neck. "I've got your license number, I'm reporting you!"
This goes on. And on. My wife, too stunned to respond, rolls up the window. The lady's eyes begin to pop out of her face that's about to catch fire. Fortunately, they went different directions. And the texting police never showed up.
Traffic brings out the crazies.
Case in point. High school. Three of us are catching a ride home with two high school seniors. They yell at a car in front of them. Apparently, it contains a Marine that has decided to show these high school punks some respect. Some honor.
(I don't know if he was a Marine, but you get the picture.)
We pull over in a neighborhood. Marine saunters over. The seniors -- well-versed in fighting -- meet him halfway. Then they clown this guy. Bad. They take his keys and throw them over a house. We pull away while he stands in someone's front yard watching.
Here he was going to improve the lives of some whipper-snapping punks with some tough love. Now he was touching his lip and looking at the blood on his finger.
Yeah, you never know who's in traffic.
While she waited, she answered a text from our son. She noticed someone waving. The lady in the van next to her was giving the universal sign for "roll down the window". Only it seemed more like "roll down the window, bitch."
"That's illegal!" Veins bulged in her neck. "I've got your license number, I'm reporting you!"
This goes on. And on. My wife, too stunned to respond, rolls up the window. The lady's eyes begin to pop out of her face that's about to catch fire. Fortunately, they went different directions. And the texting police never showed up.
Traffic brings out the crazies.
Case in point. High school. Three of us are catching a ride home with two high school seniors. They yell at a car in front of them. Apparently, it contains a Marine that has decided to show these high school punks some respect. Some honor.
(I don't know if he was a Marine, but you get the picture.)
We pull over in a neighborhood. Marine saunters over. The seniors -- well-versed in fighting -- meet him halfway. Then they clown this guy. Bad. They take his keys and throw them over a house. We pull away while he stands in someone's front yard watching.
Here he was going to improve the lives of some whipper-snapping punks with some tough love. Now he was touching his lip and looking at the blood on his finger.
Yeah, you never know who's in traffic.
May 22, 2011
Nature is Dirty
First, roll on deodorant. Then Joe Camel.
Now this.
Nature has a sense of humor.
Now this.
Nature has a sense of humor.
May 18, 2011
Humans Rule
Squirrels are rodents. Fact.
These bushy tailed rats have been gangbanging the bird feeder for the last two months. It started out innocent enough, every once in awhile one would hang upside down from a branch shoveling seed into its pointy mouth. Thing would eyeball me while I watched from the kitchen. What you going to do about it, son?
So I put hot sauce on the branch, see if they like a few Scovilles with their seeds. But my daughter didn't like it. Their lips would burn. Besides, they were cute. Who wants to hurt cute animals? She'll eat hamburger because cows are dumb and ugly, but not deer. Too cute. And rabbit? That's like eating our dog.
The hot sauce trick didn't work. I think they liked it. I took canes from the Alphonse Karr bamboo growing in our backyard, made a three-pole teepee and hung the birdfeeder in the center. Took about half a day for one of those bushy tailed bastards to shimmy up one of the poles and start shoveling, eyeballing while he did it.
So I greased the poles with globs of engine grease. Next morning, I stood in the kitchen drinking coffee as one of those furry pigs made the climb. When he reached the top, he began to slide. He was probably squeezing that pole with everything he had, but he went down with a stupid look on his face. He saw me in the kitchen, eyeballing him all the way to the bottom. I could see defeat in his eyes. It was over.
Humans rule.
These bushy tailed rats have been gangbanging the bird feeder for the last two months. It started out innocent enough, every once in awhile one would hang upside down from a branch shoveling seed into its pointy mouth. Thing would eyeball me while I watched from the kitchen. What you going to do about it, son?
So I put hot sauce on the branch, see if they like a few Scovilles with their seeds. But my daughter didn't like it. Their lips would burn. Besides, they were cute. Who wants to hurt cute animals? She'll eat hamburger because cows are dumb and ugly, but not deer. Too cute. And rabbit? That's like eating our dog.
The hot sauce trick didn't work. I think they liked it. I took canes from the Alphonse Karr bamboo growing in our backyard, made a three-pole teepee and hung the birdfeeder in the center. Took about half a day for one of those bushy tailed bastards to shimmy up one of the poles and start shoveling, eyeballing while he did it.
So I greased the poles with globs of engine grease. Next morning, I stood in the kitchen drinking coffee as one of those furry pigs made the climb. When he reached the top, he began to slide. He was probably squeezing that pole with everything he had, but he went down with a stupid look on his face. He saw me in the kitchen, eyeballing him all the way to the bottom. I could see defeat in his eyes. It was over.
Humans rule.
May 1, 2011
Chinese Doppleganger: T. Bertone Chomsky
A Chinese delegation came to Trident Technical College last spring.
I was asked to join the group at Jim 'n Nick's BBQ. Oh, and bring the Chinese translation of your landscape design textbook. There were 12 of us. Four spoke English. I did a lot of vacant nodding.
The delegates were university presidents and vice presidents. Educational elite. At some point, I was introduced and asked to tell them about our horticulture program and, of course, the book. I whipped out the textbook, and they ooh. They ahh. One gentleman was from an agricultural school. He flipped through the pages with purpose while the translator transformed my words into Chinese.
Five minutes later, the agriculture man passed me a pen and then motioned with his hand. He wanted me to sign it. He wanted my signature on the textbook. Why would I give him the only Chinese-translated book I possess without signing it? That would be stupid.
So I signed it. I gave away the coolest coffee table book in my house.
Later, he spoke to me and I nodded, repeating over and over, "I don't understand. I don't understand." I thought he wanted to go outside for a smoke. So I went, what the hell. Instead, we went out to Jim 'n Nick's parking lot for a picture. While someone pointed a camera and counted to three in Chinese, he put his arm around my shoulders and displayed my signed textbook. We took two pictures because he wanted more of Tanger Outlet in the background.
And then he left with my Chinese textbook.
When I got my March royalty check, I noticed an additional line item. The publisher sold 2000 copies of my Chinese translation last fall. And my name had been translated.
T. Bertone Chomsky.
Winner, winner. Chicken dinner.
I was asked to join the group at Jim 'n Nick's BBQ. Oh, and bring the Chinese translation of your landscape design textbook. There were 12 of us. Four spoke English. I did a lot of vacant nodding.
The delegates were university presidents and vice presidents. Educational elite. At some point, I was introduced and asked to tell them about our horticulture program and, of course, the book. I whipped out the textbook, and they ooh. They ahh. One gentleman was from an agricultural school. He flipped through the pages with purpose while the translator transformed my words into Chinese.
Five minutes later, the agriculture man passed me a pen and then motioned with his hand. He wanted me to sign it. He wanted my signature on the textbook. Why would I give him the only Chinese-translated book I possess without signing it? That would be stupid.
So I signed it. I gave away the coolest coffee table book in my house.
Later, he spoke to me and I nodded, repeating over and over, "I don't understand. I don't understand." I thought he wanted to go outside for a smoke. So I went, what the hell. Instead, we went out to Jim 'n Nick's parking lot for a picture. While someone pointed a camera and counted to three in Chinese, he put his arm around my shoulders and displayed my signed textbook. We took two pictures because he wanted more of Tanger Outlet in the background.
And then he left with my Chinese textbook.
When I got my March royalty check, I noticed an additional line item. The publisher sold 2000 copies of my Chinese translation last fall. And my name had been translated.
T. Bertone Chomsky.
Winner, winner. Chicken dinner.
April 23, 2011
Eat me, Hermione
I left my camera.
I was across campus, taking measurements for a proposed Japanese garden. Once done, I started back for my office when I realized I left my camera on one of the tables, so I sprinted back for it.
I rounded a corner, ran around some students dressed in robes and carrying wands. Assumed they were going to Drama class. One of the girls shouted, "Run, Forrest. Run."
[image error]
I didn't bother responding. I was staring at the empty spot where my camera had been only ten minutes ago. I could feel the money leaving my wallet. Meanwhile, Harry Potter and friends were laughing. I caught up to one of the maintenance crew, asked him about the camera. He found it, just gave it to Lost and Found.
I hadn't forgotten about the friendly wizards. My mind kept replaying the scene, trying out different responses. The portion of my brain that still resides in 5th grade was helping. Here's what I got.
Response #1: [Turn around quickly.] "What the hell'd you just say?"
Response #2: [Awkward laugh. Smile.]
Response #3: "Eat me, Hermione. Shut up."
[image error]
I tried to drop it. Such a non-event. But then I found myself still going back to it. 5:00 AM, I was laying in bed, about to get up. There I was again, rounding the corner. Run, Forrest. This time I turn.
Response #4: [Warm smile.] "How'd you know my name was Forrest?"
Boom. Nailed it. Yeah, I'll go with that. Next time that happens, I'll say that.
Yeah.
I was across campus, taking measurements for a proposed Japanese garden. Once done, I started back for my office when I realized I left my camera on one of the tables, so I sprinted back for it.
I rounded a corner, ran around some students dressed in robes and carrying wands. Assumed they were going to Drama class. One of the girls shouted, "Run, Forrest. Run."
[image error]
I didn't bother responding. I was staring at the empty spot where my camera had been only ten minutes ago. I could feel the money leaving my wallet. Meanwhile, Harry Potter and friends were laughing. I caught up to one of the maintenance crew, asked him about the camera. He found it, just gave it to Lost and Found.
I hadn't forgotten about the friendly wizards. My mind kept replaying the scene, trying out different responses. The portion of my brain that still resides in 5th grade was helping. Here's what I got.
Response #1: [Turn around quickly.] "What the hell'd you just say?"
Response #2: [Awkward laugh. Smile.]
Response #3: "Eat me, Hermione. Shut up."
[image error]
I tried to drop it. Such a non-event. But then I found myself still going back to it. 5:00 AM, I was laying in bed, about to get up. There I was again, rounding the corner. Run, Forrest. This time I turn.
Response #4: [Warm smile.] "How'd you know my name was Forrest?"
Boom. Nailed it. Yeah, I'll go with that. Next time that happens, I'll say that.
Yeah.
April 16, 2011
Sitting: The Black Hole
I sit in meditation and watch my mind desperately trying to protect me. I watch how thoughts solidify. How scenarios form and pull me inside like the undeniable force of a black hole. I watch myself give in to the thoughts that create every possible scenario that might harm me, how I might avoid criticism, how I revel in the things I may or may not do.
Thoughts. I cling to them like a junkie.
And then I wonder who my thoughts are protecting. I ask the unspeakable, the unanswerable: Who am I?
And then return to the present moment. The sound of birds outside my bedroom window. The tickle in my nose. I stay present in a seamless moment of awareness. The thoughtless, eternal now. Until the thoughts return. And I go with them. Again. Like I have a million times.
And I return a million more.
Sitting is thus.
Thoughts. I cling to them like a junkie.
And then I wonder who my thoughts are protecting. I ask the unspeakable, the unanswerable: Who am I?
And then return to the present moment. The sound of birds outside my bedroom window. The tickle in my nose. I stay present in a seamless moment of awareness. The thoughtless, eternal now. Until the thoughts return. And I go with them. Again. Like I have a million times.
And I return a million more.
Sitting is thus.
