Life of Hardin Vol. V, No. 4

Vultures Everywhere

“Wherever there is a carcass, there the vultures will gather.” They have gathered around me. I have felt the dark wind from their feathers, smelt the putrid stench of rotting flesh from their hooked beaks, for over a week as they circle above me.

Okay, so not real vultures. But a reasonable facsimile. I am leaving this country, Paraguay, and moving back to the U.S. Like any moving day, my wife and I are having a sale. Or were having a sale. It is over. It is all gone. Still the vultures gather.

We ran an ad in the paper for six days. For sale: washer and dryer, stereo, treadmill, television, DVD player. Priced to sell. And how. We got calls before the paper hit the streets. The first day it ran, a man called for the television. He came by, paid cash for it, then bought the DVD player and stereo at the urging of what we thought was his daughter (turns out she was his concubine). The next day we sold the treadmill and the washer/dryer. That’s it. Nothing left. Yet the calls still came in a flood.

“I’m calling about the advertisement in the paper.”

“The one with the t.v. and all?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, it’s all sold.”

“All of it.”

“Every bit of it.”

And then, every single call continued in some way similar to this.

Caller: “That’s a shame. I wanted the belt (meaning treadmill).”

“Yep, it’s gone.”

“Was it nice? Was it clean?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, was it new? Was it a deal?”

“What do you care? It’s sold!”

Then some of them continued this way.

“Well, do you have anything else?”

“What?”

“Do you have anything else to sell? Don’t you have another stereo? Or television? Housewares? How about home decorations? (A man asked that one.)”

The men who came to buy the treadmill saw the television ready for delivery. “That’s already sold?”

“Yep. All gone. Hundred and fifty dollars.”

“What a deal! It’s gorgeous. What a shame. You don’t want to sell it to me? What about that other stereo there? Want to sell it?”

“Nope.”

“What a shame? You sure?”

And so on. We cancelled the ad after the second day, then fled the house. We returned after six hours. Our caller ID showed 36 calls. We got a buzz on the apartment phone. Someone was downstairs. She wanted the washer. “How did you get this address?”

“Señor Alfonso gave it to me.” (The guy who bought the t.v.)

“We told him the washer was sold.”

“Can’t I just come up and look at it? Don’t you have something else to sell?”

“NO!”

I started to get ugly about it. People called. I told them it was all gone. They asked, “Was it pretty?”

I said: “Oh, man, it was beautiful. Used maybe twice. Had all the paperwork. Not a speck of dust on it. I would have lowered the price for you. And it was already a deal! What a shame!”

People called. They asked: “Don’t you have anything else for sale?”

I said: “Well, I’ve got a couple of commodes. Got some used light bulbs I won’t be taking with me. Half of an overripe banana I didn’t eat. I guess I could sell you the paint on the walls.”

I actually didn’t say that. Somebody would have taken me up on it. But I did think about running another add: ALL SOLD--the washer and dryer, stereo, treadmill, television, DVD player. All great deals. Too bad. So sad. Don’t call this number anymore.

But I didn’t. And the calls have stopped. So if you want any of that stuff IT’S ALL GONE SO LEAVE ME ALONE!

Life of Hardin Vol. V, No. 3

On and Off-Broadway

As a rule, I do not care for musicals. I can’t put my finger on just one little thing about them that turns me off. Is it the air of artsyness? The disjointed necessity of breaking into song at various intervals? The annoying mediocrity of the songs themselves, which are rarely catchy, have hard to remember melodies, and lyrics forced to conform to the story whether they are good and rhyme or not?

Oh, no! I’ve lost my ring!

--You’ve lost your ring?

Yes, lost my ring.

--He’s lost his ring! He’s lost his ring!

I do not know where I may find it! My wits have come up to their brink--

--Perhaps you dropped it in the . . . commode.

So on and so forth. I can’t put my finger on just one thing. Whatever it is, I am not a fan of musicals. Oh, there are exceptions to every rule. Astaire-Rogers. Singing in the Rain. The Sound of Music, although I have seen it through once in 25 years. But I tend to know whether I will like one or not if I hum the tune to one of the songs later, or if I can make up new lyrics to the song.

For instance, this little classic from Annie (“I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here”): “Cecille will pick out all your clothes,” becomes, “Cecille, be sure to pick your nose,” or possibly, “Cecille will take off all her clothes.”

From The Sound of Music (“Maria”): “How do you solve a problem like Maria? How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?” turns into, “How do you catch a (insert euphemism for gas) and paint it green?”

Those are the types of things that make a musical more enjoyable for me. Now, on to a comparative review of two recent musical productions to which I had tickets. One is a little show called Into the Woods, a Tony® Award winner by Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine. The other is Spamalot, a current Broadway show based on the comedy of Monty Python.

The production I saw of Into the Woods was performed in a small municipal theatre in Paraguay sponsored in part by the Embassy of the United States. The performers were Spanish-speaking English students from a local English school. Understandably, I did not expect much. However, the performance was enjoyable. The sets were adequate. The performers had very little accent (except for Little Red Riding Hood, who, while very energetic, could not carry a tune in her little basket, and whose main function in the show was to jump around while not bursting out of her dress. She could not sing, but was very entertaining). The direction was excellent. The acting was not good enough to win awards, but not bad enough to notice it being bad. Although I did think the play was over after Act I, I must admit a pleasant time was had by all, and the performers received a standing ovation. (But for the life of me I can’t recall a tune from any song in the show.)

Production number two was to take place on Broadway, in Manhattan, the capital of stage musicals. I never saw it. The doors to this musical and all musicals on Broadway were closed because of some argument over how many people it takes to raise a curtain.

So, when I compare both musicals side by side, the winner is Spamalot. The producers were kind enough to close the doors and not let me see it at all, which is the best thing a musical has ever done for me. That, plus I received a refund for two tickets, which I will use instead to pay my entrance fee to DisneyWorld. Mickey does not go on strike.

Life of Hardin Vol. V, No. 2

My True Love Gave to Me . . .

Christmas grows each year. The dinners increase in size and number. The presents increase in expense. The number of trees in a house goes from one to two to three or more. Likewise the aftermath--the flotsam and jetsam of wrinkled wrapping papers and ribbons, the broken ornaments, the wring of evergreen needles pooled beneath the tree, the cascade of elation and excitement--mushrooms each year. We are left like the child on Christmas morn, sprawled on the floor amongst the bright remnants of toys and boxes and paper, stuffed to the full with Christmas cheer and Christmas ham, to recover from it all. Sometimes it takes an afternoon nap. Sometimes it takes weeks of convalescence.

However, though it may seem Christmas revelries grow larger each year, that is not necessarily so. Once upon a time, the actual Christmas festivities were not held only on December 24th and 25th. They began on the 25th and ran all the way to Twelfth Night, January 6th. Imagine what it would be like if we had to celebrate Christmas every one of those 12 days.

We need look no further than the popular song to see what we would have to put up with.

• The 1st day - a partridge in a pear tree. Nice enough, and a gift that keeps on giving in the form of a fruit-bearing plant.

• The 2nd day - turtle doves. Hopefully they come with a cage.

• The 3rd day - French hens. Why are French hens better than any others?

• The 4th day - calling birds. Already a dangerous trend emerges. Must each successive gift be larger than the last?

• The 5th day - gold (or golden) rings. My wife has pointed out that any time a man sings, it is “golden” rings, and any time a woman sings the rings are actually gold. Although I’m not sure “golden” precluded the rings being pure gold, I can see the necessity of conserving resources to buy presents for all these twelve days.

• The 6th and 7th days - geese a-laying and swans a-swimming. More fowl. One of these true loves certainly has a fowl fetish. It is a foul fetish for fowl, and one of the two true loves needs to put a stop to it. The girl has collected a barnyard full of cackling birds, and I would not want to spend my 12 days of Christmas anywhere near, what with the poop and feathers and calling birds and all.

• The 8th day - maids a-milking. It makes no mention of the cows, so the question is, what are they milking, or are they simply deranged?

• The 9th day - ladies dancing. Precursor to the modern dance troop, now popular at sporting events. Probably the earliest cited example of a gift giver giving something they actually want for themselves.

• The 10th day - lords a-leaping. More deranged people. Obviously running out of ideas. Today when we run out of ideas we give gifts from the “executive line” that Penney’s and Sears have on their Christmas display tables, like AM/FM letter openers and universal remote/corkscrews.

• The 11th and 12th days - pipers piping and drummers drumming. I have no doubt these were given to drown out the sound of the birds.
There is also some debate as to whether the true love gave one set of each gift, or a new set each new day. Either way it sounds exhausting.

So you see, we have it not so bad as it seems nowadays. It could be much worse. Though I am just now recovered enough to look back and reflect on my holiday frivolity, I do not have to worry about throttling a lord a-leaping or wringing the neck of a goose a-laying or a calling bird for supper. My turkey leftovers are long gone.

Life of Hardin Vol. V, No. 1

Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot

The power went off this afternoon. There was no storm. There was no lightning. No giant albatross crashed into a transformer. No atomic sea monster (e.g., Godzilla) arose from the Paraguay River to chew the power lines.

It just went off. Poof.

Back home this would not be a big deal. Go outside if it is daytime. If it is night, light a candle. Read a book. Go to bed at 9 o’clock.

Not here. Not in Paraguay. Not in a country often called the “Green Hell.” When the power goes off here in the middle of January, you sit, in the dark, and be very, very still.

Just this week I left the frigid 40 degree weather of Tennessee and stepped off a plane into the 105 degree, 90% humidity of Asuncion. That was in the airport. That was before I even peeked my head out of the shade to test the sizzle of the sun. I rushed to a car and turned the air conditioner on. I rushed from the car to my apartment and turned on the wall-mounted A/C. It’s a good one. It can bring the temperature in my living room down to 72 degrees--if it is after 8 at night and I close the doors to the other rooms.

The only fault of this air conditioner is that it doesn’t work when the power goes out. The indoor temperature climbs five degrees in the next five minutes. In thirty minutes 80 degrees will be a memory. In an hour the mercury scrapes ninety, and I will be in a shirtless pool on the tile floor.

How does anyone get anything done in this? It is impossible to eat. Food loses flavor. Stomachs lose their appetites. I choked down my supper just to give me the energy and will to make it through the night. But I didn’t enjoy it.

No one moves. The barefoot beggar children never venture from their shady trees next to the road. Coins are molten at that temperature. Pedestrians linger in traffic, walk in the road if there is more shade, immune to the imminent threat of death. Better a few moments of cool respite before eternity than a languishing torture before. I myself, in the dark at my dinner table, try to breathe as slowly as possible for fear I might work up a sweat. I don’t blink at all.

It is too hot to think. That is evident. No thoughts occur here between the months of December and March. I am not even sure I am writing this at the moment, or if I only imagine it in the waking stupor of heat stroke.

It is too hot to bathe. Pool water smolders like a boiling pot. Cold showers are a sauna. I watered a plant on my balcony and watched it wither and die the moment the water scalded its roots.

It is too hot to have children. It is too hot to conceive children. But that gets done here anyway.

Now if you will excuse me I must go and mop the kitchen floor. It seems my wife just melted. I hope the freezer is still cold enough to solidify her again.

Life of Hardin Vol. IV, No. 27

A Foot By Any Other Name

We are smack dab in the middle of football season yet again. Both of them. American football has had the teams of the National Collegiate Athletic Association raving out of control for over two months now, with no ranked team safe from an upset. The NFL is up in arms arguing over whether a team can still complete a season undefeated. And South American soccer--better known as football in every country in the world besides the U.S.--is, as usual, playing every game with a complete regiment of police in riot gear guarding the gates.

Yes, I know. Another article about soccer. But I still wrestle with this phenomenon. It is so bound up in South American culture it is impossible to escape. I gave it every chance to grow on me. Like watching Citizen Kane a second time. Like eating an extra piece of cantaloupe. Like buying another goldfish when the first dies in two days. I just can’t do it.

There really is not much to it. Twenty-two people run up and down a huge, well-groomed pasture and try to boot a ball into a net so huge it should be impossible to guard, and yet score maybe once a game. It is an exercise in practiced futility. It is like eating tapioca pudding with a fork. White rice with chop sticks. Gruel with a coffee stirrer. I think that is why they need S.W.A.T. teams at every contest. Eventually you get tired of sucking gruel and stick your face down in it, then sling it all over the kitchen until someone older and more mature comes in to restore order with force.

Not that they don’t try to spice it up. They say they have plays, but they are all variations of two things: 1) Pass the ball to me and I’ll kick it in, or 2) Kick the ball in when I pass it to you. They make up arbitrary rules like don’t run in front of the other players, don’t use your hands, and don’t kick people. None of this fools me. I know a track meet when I see it, even if the runners have to kick a ball, can’t decide which way to run, and never get to the finish line.

Of course soccer players say the same things about football and basketball and baseball. Basketball I agree. The only wrinkle there is the dribble and the hoop, but it is mainly soccer for tall, coordinated people. Baseball is in a league of its own, and is not bad-mouthed so much as it is gaped at and held in awe. Football, however, receives much of the criticism, mainly because it carries the same name.

It should not be called football, so I have been told on many occasions. You don’t even have to kick the ball with your feet. Soccer you can only kick the ball with your feet. That is real football.

To anyone who says this, I quote this scripture: “Cast out the beam out of thine own eye.” Football was popularized and named in England. And though the word “foot” has zero meaning in Spanish, they continue to say “football.” This is the same thing as if an American were to call baseball “phblat.” It signifies nothing, therefore Spanish speakers have no grounds for arguing for the moniker of football. If they called it piebol, then I could see it. (Pie means foot in Spanish, but is pronounced pee-yeah).

Here is my wisdom. We cut the name in half, kill it so that neither game can have it, and rename both with more apt descriptions. We’ll call American football throwball, or catchball, or runball.

And we’ll call soccer boring.

Life of Hardin Vol. IV, No. 26

Does a Body Good

It’s funny, the things you take for granted when you do without them for a while. Usually it’s a little thing. Take, for instance, milk. I love milk. I used to drink milk like some people drink water. I could go through a gallon myself in a couple of days. Strong bones. Strong teeth. Good for you.

Now I’m not talking about that skim milk mess. That is not milk. It’s nothing more than white colored water. I’m at least halfway convinced they just fill the jug from the tap and add a little white coloring, then make a fortune off of it. You won’t find any calves drinking that watery knock-off. They’d spew it from their mouths. No, I’m talking about good ol’ two percent. Real cow juice. Stuff that coats as it goes down. Sticks to the glass. Got enough body to it to wash down about anything. I can’t see how we don’t have more choking deaths each year, people trying to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and washing them down with skim. It’s a health hazard.

It’s also funny the little things that really get under your skin. Those little things that are okay at first, but they’re just ever so slightly different. After a while they just drive you completely mad. Take, for instance, milk. The milk situation in Paraguay is in a sad state of affairs. First off, there is no two percent. You have a choice of whole, or skim. Now I am not against whole, but I can’t drink it often. It’s a treat once in a while, when there’s a swallow left after making ice cream. And my views on skim have already been made public.

Second--and this is the worst part--the milk does not come in a jug. It comes in bags. Bags! One liter bags. You have to cut the top corners of the bags and pour them into a pitcher. I can go through a liter by myself in a day if the urge hits me. I am sick of pouring a new bag ever time I turn around. I don’t want to have to clip the edges of a sack of milk every time I want a drink. I want to peel off that little plastic rim, take off the top and drink.

I am not sure why they insist on putting the milk in bags. My only guess is that a bag is closer to an udder and makes you think the milk is fresher. They even have big, huge billboard advertisements with cows on them, standing up showing their udders. The caption reads: “The most fun part of the cow.” (I have recreated the advertisement below. Really. This is exactly what they look like.)

I like milk, but I am not ready to belly up to an udder. That may be fine for young cows, but not for me. I just am not to that point. Nor do I want to have that sensation, which is the only good reason for these udder-bags. I do not want my milk straight from an udder. I do not want the sensation of having my milk straight from an udder. Although it may very well be the most fun part of a cow, I do not want the chore of milking an udder (or an udder-bag) every time I eat a chocolate chip cookie, or a piece of chocolate cake, or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I just want my milk in a nice, two gallon plastic jug. It’s just a small thing. But you know how these small things can wear on you.

Life of Hardin Vol. IV, No. 25

If I Was a Poor Man

I never gave much thought to the idea that I might be homeless one day. I never had to worry about it, or ever doubted that I would have a roof over my head, food to eat, and a good pair of fingernail clippers. Lately, however, I have given myself over to a fair amount of worry about it.

There are many people in Paraguay who live with little or no shelter from the elements. Their meager income results from either begging at street corners or washing car windshields with dirty rags. I see them every day, scores of them. I never knew so many destitute existed in the world. My hometown had a total of one that I ever knew. No one knew for certain his real name. Some guessed it was Douglas Kirkpatrick, but we all called him Cool Breeze. He refused to take any handout. If you offered him a ride, he would curse at you and say if he wanted to ride, he would buy a car. It is a wonderful country where the homeless can buy cars if they want.

However, after leaving that environment for this, I began to see just how easy it might be to become homeless. I got worried. I looked up numbers. Some estimates put the homeless rate in South America at 50%. Statistically, either I or my wife should be homeless. I also began to worry just what caused homelessness. Was it genetic? My father at one time wanted to be a hobo. Though he claims he idolized the freedom and travel of a hobo, I still say it is a fancy way to say “bum.” Might I one day be seized by this same urge to ride rail cars and smoke the stubs of cigars with a toothpick?

At this point the circumstance feels too possible to ignore. Accordingly, I have given much deliberation to what I would do. First, I think I would live in South America. The United States has too many job opportunities, and homelessness is given a bad name because of it. South America is not that way. It is much more respectable. Also the climate in South America is more conducive to being homeless. Without a house it would be difficult to find warmth in times of cold, and therefore I would find the warmest climate around, maybe right on top of the equator. Many homeless, I believe, have already discovered this, as indicated by the large numbers of them on the southern continent.

Next, I would prioritize my life. Warmth being taken care of, food would come next. I have heard a number of people complain about the hygiene habits of the homeless-- they don’t take baths, they don’t use deodorant, they have bad teeth, they just don’t take care of themselves. I feel it is not so much a question of self-hygiene or self-respect as it is one of priorities. With limited funds, food is priority one. You can’t eat a stick of Old Spice deodorant, and I would rather be smelly than hungry. Along with the food I would buy hand sanitizer. I have to eat, and I can’t do that if my hands are grubby. Any money I had left over would then go to a toothbrush and toothpaste so that I could continue to eat, then to toilet paper, then to clothing when needed (although my ingenious decision to live in the tropics lessens the need for much clothing), and so on, down the list of hygiene articles.

That’s about it. Pretty simple. But I do think I would take Cool Breeze’s suggestion and buy a car. I think I’d get tired of walking, and it would keep my shoes from wearing out.