Grim Repercussions

Grim Repercussions

I think I met Dino when I was still a route rep. for Domestic Uniform; he being hired on as a service manager and “officially” becoming one of my bosses after I’d been working there for at least a year or so already. We hit it off right away so the typical master/slave dynamics typical for the Reagan-era workplace never manifested themselves with us. Still, we didn’t really got to know each other all that well until I promoted myself, with Dino’s encouragement, to service manager as well. He became my trainer for the position, allowing the two of us to become co-conspirators at Domestic, along with good friends.

We hung out quite a bit after work, often catching meals together, grabbing coffees, and attending gigs. The latter featuring mostly Americana/alt.country bands in small bars, located in bad neighborhoods on the north side of Chicago. One of our favorite bands was “The Blacks.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2g7H4KmR-8I

Dino had a thing for the tall, willowy female bass player, which meant he was my go-to guy whenever I needed a sidekick for one of their shows. He was also help in case there was any trouble in the bar or outside of it.

I remember one incident occurring before we made it into the Double Door (http://chicago.metromix.com/venues/mmxchi-double-door-venue), a punk-friendly club located in what was then a rough Wicker Park. I was about to back into a prime marking space on Milwaukee Avenue, when a yuppie asshole in a pricey SUV pulled into the spot my car was obviously going to occupy. As soon as the guy parked, he jumped out, gave us the finger, and rather hurriedly headed up the street.

I was furious. So was Dino. We vowed revenge. So after finding a less-desirable spot down and around on a poorly lit sidestreet, Dino and I returned to the scene of the crime. Still angry, I ended up taking the knife I carried and slit and stabbed each of the SUV’s tires, producing a wonderful hissing sound. Satisfied, we headed for the gig, only to discover that the bouncer/ticket-taker was the owner of the SUV I had just damaged! Sure, we felt a little guilty; but as far as we were concerned, the guy had it coming.

Before too long, I started hearing about Dino’s marriage. Turned out that he had recently married a woman of Mexican descent, who was very tight with her family, most of which still lived south of the border. Her name was Irma, and seemed to always be in Mexico. Supposedly visiting. Thus I think I met her twice during the couple of years that Dino and I remained friends. She was petite, pretty, and not very friendly. None of that changed when he and her ended up moving into the same building as me over in Lincoln Square either. They lived directly downstairs but I rarely saw them around. In fact, once we began sharing the same address, I rarely saw Dino outside of work. It was as if his wife had deemed me an unfit friend. Of course Dino denied any of this, but I knew something wasn’t right. Then I got thinking. And I soon realized that the only times Dino and I hung out were when Irma was visiting family and friends in Mexico. Says a lot, I thought.

Well, much more to their relationship was to be revealed later.

My Catholicism was a constant topic of conversation for us. I soon learned that Irma was also Catholic and that her faith, along with my devotion to mine, was leading Dino to seriously consider converting. He was raised Greek Orthodox but wasn’t a follower. He was, however, an avid listener to “Catholic Family Radio,” a long-defunct radio station in Chicago that featured Catholic-friendly programming for most of the day. He and I both loved the station and often discussed various programs that were offered there.

http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2000-05-27/business/0005270092_1_catholic-family-radio-format-talk

After Dino’s conversion, it seemed like I began to see the two of them together more often, in and around the neighborhood. While clearly close, I also noticed that they bickered a lot. And both of them seemed to have pretty nasty tempers, which would occasionally lead to hallway gossiping about the yelling and screaming that came from their place the night before. This, I discovered, was caused by jealousy on both of their parts. Neither trusted the other; and both assumed that the other was constantly flirting or coming-on to a member of the opposite sex — with little or no evidence to support the claim. On the one of perhaps two occasions that the three of us hung out, Dino nearly got into a fist fight with some young dude whom he had accused of giving Irma the “once over” on Lincoln Avenue, just down the block from our building. It was ridiculous.

Eventually I ended up moving out of the building to live with my soon-to-be wife, and Dino ended up quitting his job at Domestic. This meant we saw very little of each other. But after about a year and a half, I received a phone call from Dino, asking me if I would be a sponsor for the adoption of two Russian children that he and Irma wanted. I was immediately hesitant. Not because I thought Dino would be a poor parent, but because I knew so little about Irma. And, quite frankly, what I did know did not impress me. So despite a LOT of pressure, I politely and regretfully declined the offer, telling him that I could not in good conscience vouch for Irma’s character, parenting abilities, etc., which, as one might imagine, led to a complete and utter falling out between us.

Somehow, someway, however, the couple adopted two very young Russian children, a boy and a girl. Must have cost them a fortune. Must have been frustrating. And while I’m sure Dino grew to be a very good father, Irma, unfortunately, had some difficulty with becoming a mother. In fact, her lack of mothering skills made news:

http://abcnews.go.com/International/US/story?id=755137

What a tragedy. What a horrible tragedy. I’ve never felt better about a decision; nor have I ever felt worst about discovering its aftermath.

I haven’t heard from Dino since, although I would welcome an opportunity to. I think I may have tried tracking him down once, but to no avail. He’d left the company I last recalled him working at; neither of the two phone numbers I had for him were in service anymore either. I only pray that he’s somehow found a modicum of peace by now, and that his faith hasn’t let him down.

“Don’t Worry. I’m Impotent.”

John Jankowski

·

So it happened again. A “Harry Met Sally” lite possibility goes off the rails because of a woman’s prejudices. This time I asked a young woman whom I’d gotten friendly with to help me with the grooming of two of my birds. She’s studying to be a beautician at a community college, so I figured that she’d be a natural for trimming nails and beaks. The last time I saw her, she had all but agreed to at least take a shot at it. I even told her that I’d pay her. Saw her this past Saturday and asked when she might be available. “Sorry.” Won’t do it because she’s afraid of harming the birds. Or so she said.

Did a little asking around. Turns out that she wasn’t so much afraid of injuring the birds, but afraid that I was hitting on her. Or maybe the boyfriend was. Who knows?

Okay, I’d be at least mildly shocked — she’s MUCH younger than I am, has a boyfriend, and a little weak in the wits department — if this hadn’t happened before. But it has. A bunch of times. I had one woman I met through a bird rescue want to travel out here from Chicago to drop off a Russian tortoise that I’d agreed to adopt from her. This, mind you, after I had already agreed to meet her in the city. She insisted that she and her son come my way. Fine, I said. Or so I thought. Unfortunately, after a few attempts on my part to be friendly via email (i.e., asking about her son’s interests, what they liked to eat, etc.) — all in the spirit of making the two of them feel comfortable — , on the day before their departure, she sends me an indignant email, wanting to make it ABUNDANTLY CLEAR that she had no interest in me beyond the tortoise. In fact, she was quite happy with her life, had no interest in a relationship (least of all with me!), so I should NOT be trying to make any moves on her. Needless to say. I was more than a little taken aback by all of this; but once I recovered, I shot her back an email, telling her to forget it. Which she did. But soon after followed another (last) email, with her demanding that I have ZERO contact with her, any time… for any thing…any where. That did not require much on my part. Although I did feel bad for the tortoise.

Then there was a woman whom I met via Facebook that had a shared interest in birds. We also became friendly but, again, I had no interest in a relationship beyond the platonic. Not only was she not pretty, but not my type in terms of body size either. To say that she was “rubenesque” would be more than charitable. Also, I’m Catholic. She, pagan. I’m conservative and monogamous. She, a former stripper and a lot less fussy. In other words, not a hell of a lot in common between us. But she, too, insisted on visiting me. This time, all the way from northeast Indiana. I kept telling her no and telling her no, and giving her one good reason after another for why it was a bad idea, including that I had no feelings for her. But she kept insisting. Finally, I just had to cut her off completely. But not before she had decided that I had a lot of nerve thinking she was interested in me sexually(!), and that I should stop thinking with my penis.

That was three out of probably a dozen more.

Nothing irks me more than when people make assumptions based on paltry evidence, or premised on how they would like the world to be. For instance, I wear a leather jacket. People keep their distance because they think I’m a biker — which I am — but my hog is equipped with pedals and a basket in the back. Or because I work with my hands and get them pretty dirty, they assume that I’m not book-smart. You’d think that the fact I wear glasses would counter that notion, even if it is as equally idiotic.

It’s gotten to the point where I feel as if I need to either start embracing stereotypes or maybe self-identify and advertise. I mean, come on, guys, at least give me a chance to PROVE that I’m the asshole you think I am. And perhaps for the ladies, I’d could begin to wear a t-shirt, saying: “Don’t worry: I’m impotent. Nothing to be afraid of here,” with an arrow pointing to my crotch.

(Just to clarify…. All of my organs are in fine, working condition. I’ve just decided to put certain ones in storage for awhile.)

Relationships

Friendship

Sex

Male Female Energies

Kicking a Fetus to Cross the Rainbow Bridge

John Jankowski

·

This is a tough one for me. As an unequivocal animal lover and Catholic, I have often felt divided loyalties. An occasional columnist for a local paper writes lovingly about her “companion animals” and those of friends and relatives, but would never question the the “right” of a woman to kill her baby. Academic minds such as Peter Singer take the argument a step further and locate the moral wherewithal to justify the killing of a “non-sentient” human, particularly if it were deemed necessary to save the life of an animal. I can’t see where this situation would ever play itself out, so we’re talking hypotheticals here, but I suppose it could be applied to cases where animals are harmed or killed while being used in testing the efficacy or safety of pharmaceuticals to be used by humans.

By the same token, there are few in the religious community who have taken the welfare, let alone the rights, of animals very seriously. This is especially the case for farm animals, particularly those we have classified as livestock and often make meals out of. Probably a matter of out of sight, out of mind; but as increased evidence is revealed, the plight of “confined” animals is becoming much more difficult to ignore. Factory farms are a living hell for these “humble beasts,” where the primary concern is the bottom-line, not the care of animals that “we’re all gonna eat anyways.” (And it should also be noted that humans aren’t treated very well in these facilities either.) The intelligence and even empathy that scientists find in a growing number of animal species is perhaps adding to the moral complexity of this issue as well.

I’ll weigh in on this a little more in the future, but in the meantime I’d like to turn your attention to an article that is part of an ongoing dialogue/debate on the subject. I’m finding both sides to be proffering engaging/ convincing/compelling arguments for their particular position.

http://www.thepublicdiscourse.com/2014/02/12114/?utm_source=The+Witherspoon+Institute&utm_campaign=43eea2e052-RSS_EMAIL_CAMPAIGN&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_15ce6af37b-43eea2e052-84098317

In a related article that appeared in an issue of the magazine, The Latin Mass, a devout Catholic has meditated very movingly on the death of her beloved dog, Coalman. She expresses frustration with the well-meaning but often “sloppily sentimental” or “infuriating” attempts at condolences by friends and family: “Well, he’s on the Rainbow Bridge now; you’ll see him there someday!” “Too bad — did you see that hilarious show on television last night?” “Oh well, he was only a dog.” Like myself, she’s reached the point where she prefers to keep her losses mostly to herself, and shares her grief with but a select few. Coalman was not “only a dog” to the writer, but her “protector, constant companion, and best friend for all those years, and his departure leaves a gap that can never be adequately filled. There will be other dear dogs, but none like this one.”

Who hasn’t felt similarly about a pet? And it need not be a dog. I’m still mourning the loss of a starling that shared many of the qualities Coalman had. I know that there will never be another Loki; and when she died, friends made their best efforts to console me. Those with birds got it; those without, probably not but they tried. The “cult of the Rainbow Bridge” was of the least help, even as it offered the greatest number of sympathy shares on Facebook. I still fail to understand how unbelievers somehow manage to believe in a bridge to Heaven.

But if I differ with Church teaching, it is on the matter of souls for animals. Loki was one of the most soulful creatures I’ve ever encountered, including humans — with so many of us seeming spiritually dead these days. In her own way, her little body seemed overwhelmed by what she truly was. And to know her was to love her. I can’t say that about too many people I’ve met lately.

All this being said, you’ll sooner see me on an anti-abortion picket line than on a march for animals; praying for an end to abortion before offering grieving friends or family members free passes on the Rainbow Bridge.

One last thought, which the Latin Mass article raises: If we never see our pets again — if they lack immortal souls — is it any wonder why the death of a beloved animal can be much more difficult to bear than the death of many humans, whose souls are at least somewhere and can be prayed for? Wouldn’t this also compel us to treat any animal more compassionately, if only because that animal could be our beloved animal?

“If fortune drives the master forth an outcast in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him to guard against danger, to fight against his enemies, and when the last scene of all comes, and death takes the master in its embrace and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by his graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true even to death.”
— Senator Vest’s Eulogy for a Dog

Faith And Life

Animal Rights

Animal Rescue

Catholicism

Another Hollywood Ending

John Jankowski

·

I knew nothing about Philip Seymour Hoffman’s personal life until he passed. Was I surprised to discover that he had died from a drug overdose? Not really. That he had died at all? Certainly. So young. But the cause of death shouldn’t surprise anyone. Heath Ledger was another actor whose career seemed to be peaking when his habit of choice killed him. Again, the death itself was the only surprise.

By all accounts, Hoffman was an actor’s actor, not a celebrity. He took the craft very seriously; the limelight, less so. Did that duality help feed his addiction? Were the drugs the means by which he was able to bracket the trappings of Hollywood, enabling him to embody whatever character or role he played? Or maybe that process became too difficult for him to sustain anymore, and he wanted out?

God will have to sort that out, I suppose.

A liberal acquaintance of mine once caught me reading a novel by Edward Abbey, the hard-drinking “environmentalist” (he hated that word) writer who arguably hadn’t lived a full life, at least in terms of years. Abbey had just died, and this guy suggested that Abbey’s contributions would have been much greater if he hadn’t been so self-abusive. In quantity? Perhaps. Quality? Not so sure. Who’s to say what or how much of Abbey’s lived life generated the creative flow that produced the likes of The Monkey Wrench Gang? How do you parse that sort of inspiration out? I don’t think you can.

Would Hoffman have been a better actor without the drugs? Would he have been an actor at all? Or might the culture of celebrity have just swallowed him whole?

One reaction to Hoffman’s death was printed in the “Voice of the People” section of The Chicago Tribune, Feb. 7th, under the heading, “An Actor’s Death.”

“So much has been written and televised about the ‘tragedy’ of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s early demise. My idea of tragedy is when a tsunami wipes out thousands of people in a remote village, or when a police officer is killed in the line of duty, or an innocent young person is shot to death simply because he or she happened to live in the wrong neighborhood.

“A man who has been blessed with the good luck of fame, fortune, offspring and the adulation of millions of people and has chosen the route of infusing chemicals into his body rather than deal with life on its own terms is not a tragedian. In my opinion he is an ingrate.

“I realize that addictions can and do take over people’s lives, and that mastering one’s fate under such circumstances is difficult.

“However, Hoffman was a man with the intelligence and resources to deal with the monkeys he had on his back. More important, he left behind three young children who will be scarred for life by someone, so blessed, who would choose heroin over loved ones.”
— Mel Novit, Morton Grove, IL

Suicide

Philip Seymour Hoffman

Edward Abbey