February 2021 – Deep Dark Thoughts

Confession of a Grammar Nazi

I have a confession to make. It’s not something I generally share or even like to say out loud, but I believe I’ve kept silent about this part of myself long enough. It’s time to tell the world and expose my shameful dark secret. I may lose a few friends over it, but that is risk I suppose I must take.

I am a grammar Nazi.

Yes, it’s true. I know the difference between “then” and “than,” I know when to say “I” instead of “me,” and I can even use “who” and “whom” in the proper order. When friends, loved ones, and family speak improperly, I just smile and nod my head, but deep down I am judging them. I am judging them hard and without mercy.

When I hear the word “supposebly” instead of supposedly, I flinch. If I hear the phrase “for all intensive purposes” uttered, I have to cry silently in the dark for a while. And when someone tells me, “I could care less,” I think I actually die a little inside.

Some of my family members already know this fact about me. My wife in particular has made it quite clear if I correct her speech one more time, that she will bury my body so deep “they won’t find it until long after the statue of limitations has run out for the murder.”

To which I replied, “It’s supposed to be ‘statute’ of limitations.” But I said it very quietly because I don’t want her to poison my food.

My kids have also been the recipients of my grammatical attentions during their lifetimes. The results have been mixed as one of them has become a grammar Nazi herself, while the other is functionally illiterate. I won’t say which is which, but if you ever meet them you can probably figure it out for yourselves.

So, how does one become a grammar Nazi? I’m not sure. I suppose it’s already one strike against you when you are raised by a mother who is a high school English teacher. I cannot remember a time in my life that my writing and my speech weren’t constantly scrutinized and corrected. It started when I was three and I used a set of wooden alphabet blocks to spell “KAT.” When I went to my mom to show her my accomplishment, she shook her head, picked up the “K” block and threw it in the garbage.

Okay, it wasn’t really that bad, but it was close. I recall writing essays for school that my mother would read before I turned them in. (Mind you, I never gave them to her to proof-read; she just always managed to find them.) She would return them to me marked in red pen, and tell me, “You can do better. Turn off the cartoons and fix it.”

While my writing and my grades did improve, my relationship with my mother did not. My relationships with my friends also suffered noticeably. I figured out very quickly that telling your best friend that “irregardless” is not a real word will not be as appreciated as you might think. And, if you happen to mention to that same friend that “doing a complete 360 degree turn” means you’re actually still facing in the exact same direction, that is a good way to get a thorough beating in the parking lot after school.

I learned to keep my mouth shut (mostly) and my opinions to myself (sometimes), but the urge to correct the slightest verbal slipup has never gone away. It’s like any addiction, and I find myself falling off the wagon constantly. If there were group meetings for this, I would happily attend.

“Hello. My name is Gary, and I am a grammar Nazi. I try to nip it in the butt, but in this doggie-dog world we’re all just biting our time while looking for an escape goat to make ourselves feel like we pass mustard. I can only take it for granite that It’s a mute point.”

I think I got that all out of my system.

My own writing and speech is not perfect by any means. I know that. I am constantly learning about things I say or write incorrectly. It can be embarrassing, but in the long run I think it makes me better. It certainly makes me more humble and understanding of other’s mistakes. In fact, if anyone reading this happens to notice a few errors, feel free to call me out in the comment section below. I will accept my lumps with do diligence.

See what I did there?

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Friendly Rivalry

For as far back as I can remember, the fire departments and police departments have had an ongoing rivalry. It isn’t heated or vicious by any means, but whenever members of both agencies get together there are always good natured (and a few not so good natured) comments made about the effectiveness of one agency or the other.

For example, fire fighters refer to police as “blue canaries.” This is a reference to the fact that police officers typically arrive at emergency calls first since there are more of us and we are already in our vehicles driving around when the calls come out. When fire fighters arrive at the scene, they look for the cops. If the blue canaries are still alive and walking around, they know that it is safe for them to come in.

Why does this rivalry exist? I’m not sure, but I think it’s because fire fighters feel emotionally insecure around cops. They know that if they had only scored a few more points on their civil service exams, they too could have been employed in law enforcement.

But despite this give and take, I have to admit that when fire and police are working together, we can accomplish some really great things.

I am reminded of a specific incident that occurred over a decade ago while I was working for the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Office. I was on patrol and I was dispatched to an apartment complex because a man had brandished a knife at a fire fighter.

Apparently, someone living in the apartment complex had stopped taking his medication against his doctor’s recommendations. The man had begun to hallucinate and hear voices and, realizing what was happening to him, he called 9-1-1 and asked for the fire department to come get him and transport him to the hospital where he could get some help. Unfortunately, when medical personnel arrived at his house, he was in the middle of a full psychotic break and he attacked the first fire fighter at his door with a knife.

The fire department called and requested that police respond to assist.

When I arrived, I was met by the Fire Captain on scene, a tall, fit looking gentleman who appeared camera ready for next year’s fire department wall calendar. He smiled at me at like a tolerant sibling whose kid brother has just showed up uninvited to a gathering of friends.

“Dude pulled a knife on me,” he said without any preamble.

When I asked where the suspect was, the captain told me he was still in his apartment.

“He still has the knife?” I asked.

“No.” The captain then held up a rather large chef’s knife.

“He gave it to you?” I said, surprised at this unexpected turn of events.

“When I punched him in the face, he dropped it,” the captain explained. “I picked it up.”

“Do you want me to arrest him for the knife,” I asked, wondering if I had any evidence bags big enough for the blade he was holding.

The fire captain gave me a look like I was being particularly slow on the uptake that day.

“The guy is off his meds. He needs to go to the hospital, not to prison.”

“So, why am I here?” I was starting to feel a bit slow now as well.

“He needs to go to the hospital,” the captain said, enunciating each word very carefully.

“Take him to the hospital,” I said, helpfully.

“He is refusing to go.”

“And…?”

“And he needs to go.”

The lightbulb finally clicked on for me. When somebody refuses to receive any medical care, fire fighters and paramedics do not have the authority to force that person to get help. Police officers, in specific situations, do. This was one of those situations. The captain wanted me to make sure the guy in the apartment went to get that much needed help.

“Where is he?” I asked.

The captain pointed to a ground floor apartment several yards away. The front door was standing open, and through the open doorway, I could see a young man sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding his head in his hands and rocking slowly back and forth. “His name is Kevin,” said the captain before sending me on my way.

I approached “Kevin,” and found him crying in the living room of his apartment. He glanced up at me when I walked into the room and I could see his nose was bleeding. Apparently, the fire captain had a really mean right jab.

“He hit me,” said Kevin.

“You threatened him with a knife,” I said, knowing he was referring to the captain.

Kevin nodded and started to cry again.

I quickly but carefully checked Kevin’s pockets and waistband to make sure he did not have any more weapons and found nothing in his possession.

“You called us for help,” I told him. “The fire department wants to take you to the hospital. Will you go with them and get that help you wanted?”

Kevin shook his head.

“I can make you go, if I have to, Kevin. You know that, right? I don’t want to do that. I think it would be better for you and everyone else if you went voluntarily.”

He shook his head again.

“Why don’t you want to go?”

“I don’t want him to hit me again,” Kevin told me, pointing at the fire captain standing outside.

I almost laughed but I didn’t think that response would be totally appropriate given the circumstances. The only reason Kevin wasn’t already on his way to the hospital was he was afraid the captain was going to punch him. Again.

I asked, “If I make him promise not to hit you again, will you go to the hospital?”

Kevin nodded.

Thirty seconds later, Kevin was in the ambulance and on his way to the hospital, smiling and joking with the paramedics.

“You’re welcome,” I told the fire captain, although nobody had bothered to thank me at that point.

The captain smiled at me, then said, “Hey, Gary. What does a cop and a fire fighter have in common?”

I shook my head, knowing I probably didn’t want to hear the answer.

“When they were little boys, they both wanted to grow up to be firemen.”

And the rivalry continues.

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Saturday Night Fever

My wife and I decided that we were going to use the recent three-day weekend as an opportunity to take a vacation and escape the kids for a bit. Since any real travel is still a questionable proposition, we went to our old standby: camping. After loading the truck with every manner of unhealthy snacks and junk food, we hooked up to the trailer and headed out to a nearby RV park to pass a few days by ourselves and enjoy the peace and quiet.

Or so we thought.

We arrived after dark on the first night. After unpacking, settling in, and eating a dinner of cold pizza and Doritos, we crawled into bed anticipating a leisurely morning the next day of lounging in bed and listening to the birds calling out to each other in the surrounding trees.

Instead of birds, we got disco music.

At about seven o’clock in the morning, I was awakened by the not-so-gentle refrains of “Play that Funky Music, White Boy,” by Wild Cherry. This was followed by “Rock the Boat,” “That’s the Way,” and an assortment of other overly loud classics that went on all morning.

After several unsuccessful attempts to go back to sleep, I finally got up and turned on the television set in our trailer in an attempt to drown out the cacophony pretending to be music outside.

I have been to several RV parks in my days, and I have experienced many varieties of inconsiderate, loud neighbors while camping, but this was one of the worst I have encountered. Disco? Really? The song selection told me that not only was this group rude and uncaring about the people around them, but that they also had terrible taste in music, and they were all old enough that they should have known better. More than old enough, actually.

I don’t believe it was twenty somethings blaring “Boogie Oogie Oogie,” throughout the campgrounds.

Anyway, the geriatric dance party finally shut down about three o’clock in the afternoon, but it was soon replaced by a gathering of ten or so people in a campsite three trailers away from our own. This group did not play loud music, but instead elected to annoy everyone around them by shouting at the top their voices in order to be heard over their compatriots who were also shouting at the top of their voices to be heard over the two small dogs yapping their fuzzy heads off. And all the barking and shouting was periodically drowned out by one woman who kept laughing at a decibel level capable of knocking an F-14 fighter jet out of the air.

I think anyone who goes camping has experienced that gathering of people who don’t understand that being outside does not mean nobody is close enough to hear you. I’m sure we have all been sitting around a campfire, anticipating a night of quietly roasting marshmallows, when suddenly we are listening to a group of voices blaring through the trees and discussing how funny it was when Bill got so drunk he lost one of his shoes in the outhouse.

If you frequently go camping but have never been annoyed by a group like this, it is very possible that you are actually a member of that very group. If so, please do us all a favor and take up a different hobby.

The drunken discussions, barking dogs, and seemingly impossibly pitched laughter continued long into the night. It was extremely difficult to sleep, especially since every time I started to drift off, the group would initiate a new F-bomb laden argument about whose turn it was to get more beer out of the truck.

It was not a pleasant evening for either me or my wife. Although, I will admit that things did get rather interesting at about 3:30 in the morning. By this time, most of the group had finally turned in, but a few diehard drinkers were still at it. I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling of my trailer when I heard the death throws of a struggling relationship.

I think a marriage died that night.

While listening to a male voice rambling on about how difficult things were at work and at home for him at that moment, a trailer door creaked open and slammed shut. A woman’s voice then filled the air. She spoke in a whisper that most career stage actors work for years trying to perfect. It was the kind of voice that will carry for miles and startle crows out of a tree.

“What the f**k is wrong with you?” she asked, in a kind and deeply caring manner. “You’re embarrassing yourself out here. You need to get the f**k back inside and go the f**k to sleep right f**king now!”

This was followed by the trailer door slamming again and a silence that made me believe the ordeal had finally come to an end.

Almost, but not quite.

A few minutes later, a truck door slammed. The engine of said truck roared to life and revved up several times before the vehicle headlights lit up every window in my trailer. The sound of tires chirping on pavement filled the air, and the truck sped out of the RV park at speeds that I would argue were unsuitable for the current surroundings.

This time it really was over. Both the noise, and whatever had been left of that relationship.

Still wondering what the hell had just happened, I was finally able to close my eyes and drift off to a well-deserved rest.

Until seven o’clock, which was when the disco D.J. started his next shift.

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A Bridge Too Far

As I sit at home bemoaning the fact that any travel plans I may have had over the past year have all been canceled, and any new trips I am currently considering may suffer the same fate, I find myself thinking wistfully back to the good old days when I could travel to other countries and the worst that might happen is that I get kidnapped and murdered.

Those were simpler times.

I was recently reminded of a trip I took many years ago when I was but a lad of 17. My school was sponsoring a trip to Europe. Five staff members from the school were assigned to escort 20 high school aged children through eight countries in fourteen days. My parents thought the trip sounded like an amazing opportunity for me to experience foreign cultures and new people, so they immediately signed me up for the journey.

This was only one of the many mistakes my parents made raising children, but it was probably near the top of their list.

In Summer of 1983, I packed my bags and flew to London, England. From there we boarded a hovercraft to get us across the English Channel and charter a bus to tour France, Belgium, Switzerland, Germany, Italy, and two other countries I can’t remember because I am a common product of the American school systems.

Throughout our travels, minor tragedies occurred that constantly interfered with the adults well-planned itinerary: A few students were sneaking alcohol into the hotel rooms at night, two were caught with drugs and shipped back home, and one of our chaperones fell ill and had to fly back to the states. I steered clear of (most of) it.

My turn, however, came while we were visiting Italy. The tour group was staying in a hotel in Venice, enjoying the garbage laden streets, rats, countless alley cats, black market thugs in dark doorways, and endless snide remarks in broken English from Italian citizens that took a less than stellar view of foreigners.

During the day, we had placed all our luggage in our rooms and gone out sightseeing. When we returned, several of the rooms had been broken into and the luggage stolen. Our bags had been thrown out a window and were found in the streets below, broken open and ransacked. Money, cameras, and other small items of value were taken.

That night, after it got dark and most of the other tourists in our group had settled back into their rooms, I went out. To commemorate our ill-fortuned stay in the city, another student and I decided to go out on our own and get drunk.

The other student (let’s call him Joe, since his parents might still be alive and they don’t need to know about any of this) told me that there was no legal drinking age in Italy. As long as you were tall enough to look over the counter at the liquor store clerk, you could buy booze.

I said, “Prove it.”

He did.

We ended up buying something cheap and high octane since our budget was limited. The guy working the register didn’t bat an eye as he sold us the bottle of brown poison we had selected. We raced outside and cracked it open without delay.

An hour or so later, we were both standing at the top of one of the many tiny bridges overlooking the canals of Venice. I like to think that we were comporting ourselves with dignity and silent decorum, but I don’t think that was actually true as we immediately drew the attention of a local police officer.

The Italian polizia waved at us and said something I didn’t understand. I said, “What?”

He nodded as though realizing something he should have already known, and responded, “Ah, American.”

He then pointed at the alcohol bottle in my hand and told us that the legal drinking age in Italy was 18. I looked at Joe, who merely shrugged as if to say, “I was wrong. What are you gonna do?”

The officer then asked if we were 18.

My first thought was to run. The AK-47 assault weapon slung over the officer’s back made that thought dissipate as fast as it had occurred. Next, I glanced down at the canal below me, wondering if I could swim for safety. I spied a large rat, about the size of my head, dogpaddling along the edge of the canal looking for a good place to climb ashore. Plan B also faded from my thoughts.

I went with Plan C, and said, “Yes?”

The officer scowled. He clearly knew I was lying but for some reason he decided to let it slide.

“Do you have a hotel room?”

I nodded, and Joe reached into his pocket to pull out our hotel room key. He flashed the officer the name of the hotel on the plastic tag attached to the key.

The polizia told us, “Go straight there. If I see you again, you sleep in jail tonight. Yes?”

Then he pointed at the bottle still in my hand and indicated a nearby garbage can. I took the hint.

At a full run, we were back at our hotel about thirty seconds later, in our rooms and pretending nothing abnormal had just happened.

This is why I love travel. You never know what’s going to happen, and the stories you get to tell later always sound better when they start somewhere away from home.

Let’s be honest. Which story would you rather hear?

The one that starts out, “I was standing in the bathroom at home and the toilet started to overflow…”

“Me and my buddy were drunk and standing on top of a bridge in the middle of Venice…”

Because, honestly, I could tell either one of those tales, and I think I chose the correct one for today.

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