• Just as bad times never last, in all honesty…..neither do good times. Everything in life is perpetually in a state of random flux.  Change is the only real constant in this universe of ours.  Hence, if your life seems too good to be true at the moment, it probably is, and change of the negative variety is in the offing.  This is inevitable, no different than the arc of a pendulum.  But always remember:  The opposite is likewise true, so don’t get too dejected and quickly give up hope when the pendulum swings once more to the left and sinister clouds move in overhead and take up temporary residence, as I guarantee will ineluctably happen.  This condition is temporary as well; the pendulum won’t remain stuck in that position permanently; life is structured in such a way for no apparent reason…..

• Let go of the past, for God’s sake!!! Let go of it already!!!  It’s nothing more than yesterday’s news—LITERALLY!!!  Focus on what’s in front of you, not on what’s behind you!  The past is sand in the bottom of the hourglass.  It’s a ship that’s sailed.  It’s a used condom.  Who really gives a shit about those insipid, dated things?  The present is unquestionably most important, the future—provided one is granted the divine luxury of entering that uncharted wilderness—is easily next most important on the spectrum of life, and the past?  Well, the past is not important at all.  Nothing can be changed about the past, hence why should anyone find solace in constantly revisiting that vast wasteland which lies forlorn and irretrievable in one’s rear-view mirror?  The answer is there is no reason.  The past is the province of professional historians, glory day enthusiasts, and Monday morning quarterbacks, but no one else has any real use for it.  Leave it behind where it belongs and set your sights on the present, for sure, but also on the future to a lesser extent.  Today matters; yesterday no longer does; tomorrow is purely a promissory note from the gods of destiny with no assurance that it will ever be cashed.  The moment.  Live for the moment.  Yes, live for the moment!  That is all you really have, both right now as you read this and then stretching into perpetuity too…..for as long (or short) as that might last…..

Note:  The following passage is excerpted from the book “Leftovers from the Feast”, a compilation of non-fiction stories written or edited by Fred Blahnik.

 

So Carolyn, Larry, and I were sitting outside our tent at a campsite picnic table next to a pristinely beautiful lake in way northern Minnesota one evening–casually talking among ourselves, listening to the enigmatic loons chortling their haunting messages out on the open lake, and savoring a cold beverage.

The only drawback to an otherwise thoroughly enchanting evening?

The mosquitoes that summer were horrible and wouldn’t leave us alone for even an instant.  Larry in particular was growing ever more exasperated with the persistent insects and his increasingly profane language reflected this fact, although quite possibly the overabundance of beer he was drinking also contributed heavily to his ornery, pugnacious attitude.

Anyway, an especially annoying mosquito wouldn’t leave Larry alone, so he finally took one last violent swat at the buzzing insect with his left hand.  I don’t remember what the hell ever happened to that opprobrious mosquito, but I will never forget what happened next to Larry’s expensive golden wedding band:  It raced off his ring finger not unlike a starving dog being called to supper.  The glimmering orb skipped perfectly off the surface of the wooden picnic table we were sitting at and proceeded to fly speedily into the tall weeds nearby.

Well, the situation we were facing at that moment wasn’t really so bad at first blush.  The thick weeds were taller than some NBA basketball players and an army of famished mosquitoes was no doubt eagerly awaiting the arrival of their smorgasbord meal back in that miniature jungle–True!–but the three of us “southeasterners” nonetheless figured it shouldn’t take too long to find the delinquent ring.  After all, we had pretty much seen the exact trajectory it had taken and also where it had alighted in the weeds.

Or so we thought……

Accordingly, Carolyn, Larry, and I ventured off into the thick foliage adjoining our campsite in search of Larry’s errant ring.  We looked……and we looked……and we looked some more.…..and yet we still couldn’t locate that damned piece of jewelry in those egregiously tall weeds!

Meanwhile, we three modern-day stooges were naturally and personally embodying the primary source of nourishment for half the mosquito population which inhabited the sprawling Arrowhead Region of northeastern Minnesota at the time.  And let me assure you right now, also, the plight we were facing that vexing evening was every as bit as frustrating as being locked in a tiny room with a know-it-all asshole for twenty four hours straight, because all three of us had very distinctly seen where Larry’s ring had sailed into the lush vegetation, but mere minutes later it was as though the mischievous little son-of-a-bitch had somehow achieved invisibility and disappeared from the face of the earth.

In the midst of my searching, however, serendipity at least showed enough kindness to pay me a visit; I happened to run across something of lingering interest lying on the moist soil back in the dense weeds.  This object was white in nature and not very big, so I picked it up in order to more closely examine it.  The riddle I held in my hand was soft in texture, cylindrical in shape, and unlike anything I had ever seen before in my young sheltered life.  I lifted it up right next to my face for a good visual inspection in the diminishing sunlight, squeezed it tightly to get a good feel for its composition, but I must confess my curiosity did obey certain bounds:  I may have smelled the strange entity in passing, but I can hereby guarantee you that I did not submit the inscrutable object to a taste test!

But, y’know, even after all that squeezing and ogling and inspecting I still quite frankly did not know what in tarnation  I was holding in my hand, therefore I finally beckoned Carolyn to come over to where I stood to see if she could help me identify the cryptic thing.

My older sister immediately sidled over and glanced down at the item I was clutching in my hand as though it was some sort of valuable door prize.  And then in the next fraction of a second her eyes exploded to the size of hula hoops and she cut loose with an instantaneous, otherworldly shriek of laughter that would have killed head lice.  I obviously didn’t know what to make of Carolyn’s weird reaction, so I just stood staring at her dumbly while continuing to stake proud ownership to the strange cylindrical entity.

But when she finally stopped laughing long enough to catch her breath, Carolyn pointed down in the direction of my hand and screeched, “THAT’S A TAMPON!!!!!”

A tampon….?

Did you say A TAMPON, Carolyn?!

What on Earth is a tampon anyway?!?! 

I was a gifted speller in elementary school who very seldom misspelled any assigned words, yet I could never remember seeing this particular word on any of the spelling lists my elderly, predominately female teachers had handed out to me………

As you might imagine, I was totally clueless and didn’t know what to make of the situation or Carolyn’s uproarious appraisal of the unknown object either, but I sensed from her reaction that it must not be anything good at the exact instant I instinctively felt my face turning redder than an overripe tomato, therefore I hastily tossed the peculiar white thing further back into the weeds and slunk back to our campsite to commiserate and lick my emotional wounds.

Truthfully, I don’t think Carolyn stopped laughing for the next ten minutes, meaning I was still no closer to knowing exactly what it was I had been protecting so vigilantly in my hand.  And feeling acutely embarrassed by Carolyn’s bizarre, unexpected reaction, I never bothered to follow up on the issue with her either, meaning the word “tampon” would not join my personal vocabulary with any degree of familiarity for a long time thereafter.

Incidentally—despite an exhaustive search—the three of us vacationers never did find Larry’s oversized wedding band that rankling evening in the wilds of beautiful northern Minnesota.

• Life, and by extension wisdom, is all about timing: “Intuitively” sensing when the time is optimal for doing something, and subsequently following through with that premonition in an expeditious manner.   I know, I know:  It sounds a lot easier than it actually is!   Almost everyone ultimately arrives at the proper conclusion as more and more details become available, but kudos go out to those few who can discern that conclusion’s general outline well before the abstract entity becomes obvious to the masses.  This ability defines wisdom; preternatural TIMING defines wisdom.  The ability to anticipate potential rewards and, more importantly—adverse consequences—well in advance is what sets smart individuals apart from dumb ones.  No more complicated than this succinct summation, yet said is a sacred plateau of savviness only a select few ever achieve while the preponderance of others get tripped up and fall to the wayside on the journey there.

• He who blissfully waits for everything in his life to turn out just peachy without actually contributing any meaningful effort to achieve that heavenly goal better be blessed with unlimited patience, zero self-esteem, and, perhaps most importantly—a nearby bathroom…..cuz he’ll be needing to use that elfin chamber more than a few times in this ridiculously unrealistic quest. Life never comes running to you like a trained puppy dog, slavering and salivating and just dying to accommodate your every wish.  Contrarily, you have to commit to go face it determinedly on its arbitrary, oftentimes harsh terms.

• …..they talked about the importance of solidarity—talked about it A LOT while emphasizing its criticality—yet when the rubber hit the road they all scattered wildly not unlike a flock of terrified prairie chickens ambushed by a coyote, each looking out exclusively for his/her own self-interest and a group consensus no more likely to be found amongst this pack of angst-ridden recreants at that chaotic juncture than would be the likelihood of discovering nutritious milk in the breasts of a hermaphrodite. Solidarity???  Well, yeah, solidarity—–Hell!!!!!  Who gives a flying fuck about solidarity when it’s your head, not theirs, that is squarely positioned on the chopping block?! Solidarity is about as important at that stage as a Death Row inmate remembering to brush his teeth on the morning he is to be executed…..

She Worshipped Bob Dylan

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

 

She worshipped Bob Dylan.

What more can I say? 

She loved me, on some occasions probably even a lot, but she worshipped Bob Dylan.

She absolutely revered him, adored him, venerated him, worshipped the very ground the Rock and Roll demigod trod upon.

So is it any surprise then that our marriage didn’t last very long?

The biggest surprise of all may be that the sham lasted as long as it did.  Five years of marriage may not sound like a lot to geriatric dinosaurs who have been conjoined at the emotional hip for forty and fifty and even sixty years, but for every single day of those five years I had to put up with her Bob Dylan idolatry.  Every single fuckin’ day, I swear to you, and I ain’t exaggerating one bit here either!!!  I know it probably sounds like I’m making myself out to be some sort of martyr as I write this but, to be perfectly honest, that is a spot-on description of Yours Truly’s situation throughout those five soul-wrenching years which seemed uncannily closer to fifty.

Five whole years, and nothing ever changed from Day One.

Not a thing, I tell you…..

She worshipped Bob Dylan.

She thought he was the Second Coming of Jesus Christ.

She would gladly have kissed his ass if he had dropped his drawers and bent over in front of her.

She thought he was a deity.

She would have cut out her own heart with a dull butcher knife and offered it up as a sacrifice to the guy had he so requested.

And when I pointed out to her that she shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t hold another human being in such hallowed esteem, that it wasn’t normal or healthy—that Bob Dylan was a mere mortal, constructed of flesh and blood like everyone else, inflected with faults and foibles just like every other creature condemned to an arbitrary beginning and an arbitrary ending, eternally damned with the exact same clutch of oftentimes disloyal emotions as Joe and Jane Schmoe—she just rolled her eyes, shrugged her shoulders, and pronounced her undying fealty to the curly-haired  music legend all over again.

Long story short, I thought I could change her following our wedding, but she refused to be changed.

Just stubborn as hell—ridiculously stubborn, irrationally stubborn; she utterly refused to change!

She worshipped Bob Dylan, worshipped the very ground he trod upon.

In light of that, is it any wonder our so-called marriage only lasted five years?

I tell ya, the fact it lasted even that long is a huge wonder bordering on a miracle and a testament to my undying tolerance and patience.

Here I must finally bare my soul and confess outright:  I screwed up big-time.  I should have pulled the plug months, if not years, earlier on our unworkable marriage.

In the face of impeccable reason and my fervent desire and loads of persuasive cajoling, she refused to ever change or even consider changing…..

And When I Flipped Over a Rotten Log…..

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

 

Consider me naïve, but I used to wonder and find myself perplexed at all the anger and animosity directed at Barack Obama when he was president of our country.  Now, admittedly, Obama was not a great president—not even close; average probably—but he invariably gave the impression of being a decent, altruistic individual and there was never even a whiff of scandal surrounding the guy, nothing to suggest that his character was anything other than admirable.  Yet so many conservatives clearly held great personable animosity toward the man, and naïve country bumpkin Fred Blahnik could never quite conjure a good reason for their disproportionate feelings of hatred.

Well…..now I know the answer, as I am sure every perceptive American has discovered since that horrible (the favorite word of someone we all know; irony intended), infamous day in November of 2016 when Donald Trump was “elected” (more on that later) president of the United States to succeed the aforementioned Obama.  The animosity I mentioned had nothing to do with Obama’s pedestrian performance in discharging the duties of president of the United States.  Rather, it had EVERYTHING to do with the color of his skin, a fact that has become abundantly clear since Trump “ascended” (How’s that for an oxymoron?!) to the presidency.

Donald Trump’s blatant racism and bigotry opened the floodgates for everyone in this country who agreed with him to vent their own objectionable opinions and prejudices, if not directly than with about as much subtlety as an elephant at a tea party.  For a certain grotesque subset of our national population, the Donald Trump presidency has been cathartic, inasmuch as they no longer have to go to great pains to conceal their underlying bigotry—bigotry that was of course lurking subterraneanously  all along but in a better, more enlightened society could not be made manifest.  Well…..now it can and unfortunately is.  Donald Trump has made it fashionable amongst this group of people to be overtly prejudiced and to judge people not on the content of their character but on any of a wealth of physical or cultural characteristics that distinguish Person A from Person B from Person C from Person D.  And not just to exercise this abominable behavior either, but to be smugly proud and demonstrative about it at the same time.

The election of Donald Trump was tantamount to when one flips over a rotten log in the woods, and then you immediately take note of a slew of creepy-crawly creatures scurrying about on the forest floor—woodlice, millipedes, fire ants, grub worms, crickets, and others of their ilk.  One quickly realizes that these loathsome creatures were there all along and probably have been since time immemorial, yet because they were not visible to the naked eye one didn’t appreciate their presence in our world.  Ditto for the legions of closet racists which Donald Trump’s illegitimate election foisted upon the general population of the United States.  These people have been amongst us all along—hiding in plain sight, if you will—but convention, basic compassion, and societal norms prevented them from trumpeting their true feelings to those around them, other than an occasional tantrum i.e. the aforementioned savaging of Barack Obama when he was honorably occupying the Oval Office.

Donald Trump’s “election” obliterated the previous norms, and those creepy-crawly creatures who have been hiding in closets throughout the prior years—understandably afraid to voice their true feelings owing to the societal blowback they would have rightfully received—now feel liberated and free to speak their minds just like the bigoted blowhard in the White House.  If he can freely express egregiously misguided thoughts from a pulpit as previously sacred as the White House without fear of meaningful retribution, well, they sure as hell can do the same around the evening dinner table or down at the bowling alley or when gathered with friends for a few beers at a local tavern or with family members at a holiday assemblage.  Donald Trump has made racism fashionable amongst this character-stunted segment of our country’s population, and these miscreants—who for so long had to hold their genuine feelings inside for fear of societal scorn—now frolic about unapologetically, secure in the knowledge that they are not doing anything different from the top office-holder in the United States.

Finally, about the so-called “election” in November of 2016.  I am frankly sick and tired of hearing about how Donald Trump “won” that presidential tilt.  He didn’t, so quit insisting that he did.  The contest was not particularly close, and I’m not saying this because I’m a big fan of Hilary Clinton (I absolutely cannot stomach her for other reasons and subsequently didn’t vote for either candidate).  The pathetic dotard Trump lost the popular vote—undisputedly the benchmark by which democratic governments should decide general elections–by three MILLION votes, more than the total population of “red states” Alaska, North Dakota, South Dakota, and Wyoming combined.  And I am not just referring to the voting populations of those red states either; said number is the TOTAL population of the aforementioned four highly conservative states whose populace as a whole now joyously celebrates American society’s U-turn back in time to a medieval milieu which promotes puritanical values, repulsively jingoistic nationalism, and gleefully ravaging the fragile environment which surrounds us.

Now, I am not suggesting the votes in any of those states should count for less just because they happen to be sparsely populated but, on the other hand, should they count for more?  Try explaining your rationale to a voter in California or New York or Illinois or other populous states—three million of them, in fact—whose vote DID ultimately and inarguably count for less than one in predominately rural states.  The Electoral College is an unfair, antiquated sham—anyone with half a brain (which admittedly excludes a throng of Donald Trump sycophants) knows that–but such is the undisputed vehicle which propelled Trump to the presidency in 2016 as an embarrassing minority “victor”.

Could it happen again?

Of course it could, for the simple reason nothing has been done in the interim to mitigate the foolish, disproportionate clout largely rural Western and Southern states wield over the remainder of our national population.  Our republic, as currently structured, is NOT democratic government—not even close.  Something must be done to rectify this onerous situation, obviously, yet it is already too late to level the playing field for the upcoming 2020 presidential election.  And that could doom us to another four years of disastrous, divisive Donald Trump policy-making, while at the same time set back the direction and momentum of United States society for a hundred years at the minimum.

Now back to square one. Barack Obama was not a good president, nor was he a bad one; he was just average—a decent but overly timid guy who was too afraid of offending anyone and someone who was held hostage to blind convention (Yes, strange I would say that, I know; these are the exact same qualities Donald Trump carries way past the acceptable threshold on the opposite side of the spectrum!), yet he was a person who unvaryingly did his best throughout his tenure and was refreshingly free from scandal and corruption.  But none of this mattered one whit to the phalanx of individuals who insisted on pillorying him during his two terms in office.  The only thing that mattered to them was the color of his skin.  The fact he was darkly complected made him unsuitable for the office of the presidency.  Simple as that.  No qualifiers; no valid reason to speak of.  I didn’t understand this fact at the time, but I surely do now.  The ensuing election of Donald Trump has rendered the dynamic our country presently faces crystal clear to me.  This ignorant despot has made bigotry and race-baiting avante gard, and for his surprisingly large horde of disciples—those slimy, creepy-crawly critters who were hiding out beneath rotting logs for all those years—the liberation and alacrity they feel at this moment in time must be downright exhilarating.

My advice to them?

Savor it while you can.

Thankfully, those malicious, specious feelings won’t last.  It may take five years, it may take fifty years, it may take five hundred years, it may take a thousand years, but given the DNA hardwired into human nature, history proves that democracy and basic compassion inveterately triumph in the end.  This era will be no exception.

Note:  The following passages are excerpted from the book “The Hardest Life I Could Ever Love” (pages 342-343), an autobiography penned by Mary Blahnik and extensively edited by Fred Blahnik.

 

A humongous meal consisting of a roast goose or two ducks, stuffed dressing, and all the other traditional trimmings generally had to be squeezed in sometime between the Rose Bowl Parade and a plethora of college football bowl games which ensued on the first day of a virgin year.

Prior to 1962, those festivities came to our family only via the radio. On New Year’s Eve, Dad inveterately played the card game “Whist” with our children in a determined effort to help them stay awake so they could dutifully “ring in” the New Year with panache and style—not mention a slew of high-calorie snacks!

One bitterly cold New Year’s Eve back at our Austin farm–as the children and Dad sat playing cards, laughing, and munching on food–they would occasionally hear strange sounds emanating from the outdoor porch adjoining our residence.  Dad reminded one of the youngsters to check whether the front door was locked; it was.  And then around midnight, there came a loud “RAP RAP RAP” on the front door.

A little bit frightening, huh?!!!!

An obviously inebriated man who had been out celebrating early apparently drove into a snow-clogged ditch and his vehicle had become stuck in it, and next the soused sybarite had wandered to the relative shelter of our front porch and encamped there.

Dad firmly demanded of the freezing wastrel, “Who is it?!!  WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM US ANYWAY?!!”

The stranger’s reply:  “All I want is to get inside from this freezing cold, sir.”

Dad informed him in no uncertain terms that he best go elsewhere or face grave consequences.  Eventually the drunk found his way over to Warner Haney’s place, our close neighbor just down the road.  But I must say this:  It was a trifle unnerving looking back for those individuals who had been sitting close to our front door–to eerily realize that some unknown, grossly intoxicated miscreant had been lurking on the opposite side of that thin wooden barrier throughout most of the festive evening.

And finally, there was the sinisterly stormy New Year’s Eve of 1968-69.  On that particular evening–much to Dad’s understandable dismay–Carolyn and Dorothy joined some of their friends on a trek up to Rochester to celebrate and usher in the New Year.  Dad and I grudgingly resigned ourselves to the folly and intransigence of youth, and then commenced the nerve-wracking task of awaiting the wayward pair’s return.

The northwest wind outside our door howled menacingly, endless snow fell from blackened skies and blew uninhibited, the temperature continued to nosedive into obscenely uncharted territory.…..and still no sign of the adventuresome twosome.  Meanwhile, the clock hanging on our kitchen wall just kept ticking and ticking away, and Dad and I felt like we were being subjected to a water torture session……..

A considerable spell after midnight, a snowplow forged southward through the preposterously clogged roadway…….and shortly thereafter a carful of young revelers swerved unevenly into our driveway…….

All of the occupants were in dire need of bathroom privileges, since they had been sitting in their car for an outrageously long period of time waiting for one snow plow to pull out another which had become hopelessly stuck in a Brobdingnagian snowdrift, and I am quite certain none of the youthful frolickers had abstained from drinking liquor that New Year’s Eve—horrible weather be damned!

My memory mostly centers on the torrent of questions the quizzical young people asked about a small number of milk cans brimming with baling twine we had sitting in our kitchen that winter.  Since we were desperately short of firewood that year, discarded hay twine would serve as the fuel for our woodstove in preparing our sumptuous New Year’s repast the following day.

After 1962, we enjoyed the luxury of watching the Rose Bowl parade and New Year’s Day football bowl games on our “new” black-and-white television.  What an extraordinary blessing it was for Dad to be able to watch and savor how most of the rest of the world lived, after all those years of virtual seclusion stuck on a primitive backwoods farmstead sans electricity…

Note:  The following dissertation was originally published in the book “The Changing Seasons of Life” (pages 355-356), authored by Fred Blahnik.

 

Heaven on Earth (Part 4)

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

December 31^st, 2009.  7:15 a.m.  Driving north along a gravel township road in Pleasant Valley Township, Mower County, Minnesota, United States of America, Planet Earth, Milky Way Galaxy, As Yet Unnamed Universe Because the Existence Of Alternative Universes Can Never Be Empirically Proven.  The road itself is a veritable skating rink, totally glazed over with residual ice left behind from the great Christmas Day meltdown, when an epic blizzard long forecast for that day degenerated into a rainy, soggy mess in the face of uncharacteristic, mid-thirties temperatures.

Just off to my left lies a great, majestic orb hanging in the New Year’s Eve day sky—a gargantuan “blue moon”, the second full moon of this December.  One stares at it—fully mesmerized—wondering with equal parts awe and bewilderment how something so typically small and self-effacing could now be this gigantic and overpowering.  The morning air is crisp and pregnant with the sounds of winter as I carefully glide down “325^th Street”–which in reality is nothing more than a narrow, nondescript, gravel township road–towards a “T” intersection with its big cousin, blacktopped Mower County Road #6.

And that spectacular blue moon continues to dangle low in the northwestern sky, barely clearing the flat horizon, seemingly begging everyone on Earth to indulge in her once-in-a-year pageantry.  And what a unique day Ms. Luna has chosen to spotlight!

For this is no ordinary day, not at all, not by any means…….

A new year awaits less than twenty four hours hence, and not merely a standard, run-of-the-mill year either……but a whole new decade!  If one hasn’t particularly liked how the past ten years have gone, you can now—with some small degree of luck—enthusiastically enlist in the dynamic new decade parked immediately in front of each of us and steer your life in a decidedly alternative direction.

New year……. 

New decade…… 

Same old issues and problems as before, you say…..???  

Well…..does it really matter in the big scheme of things??

Truly?!?!?!

Today is undeniably a day to look forward, NOT backwards! 

As I swing a right turn onto County Road #6 and head off toward another day of work in Rochester, I reluctantly bade the transcendent, once-in-a-lifetime blue moon farewell in my Elantra’s rear-view mirror.  And this curious thought strikes me as I drive south on the uncommonly lonely highway:  How many other wayward travelers have carried on a similar conversation with “Ms. Blue Moon” in centuries past—long before I was even born—and how many more will be asking the same existential questions as me in the distant future…..long after I am gone?  Will anyone even still be around to witness the sheer beauty and peculiar awesomeness of our Universe then?!?  Unlike the moon and the sun and the stars which are not saddled with organic vulnerabilities, will humankind overcome its intrinsic foibles and blunders and blatant stupidity to survive for near perpetuity as well?

Only time will tell, but today is not the day to worry about esoteric celestial matters.  No, today is a day to exalt in the advent of a brand new year and a brand new decade, if only owing to the fact so many other earthlings did not experience our same level of luck and last long enough.

Therefore…..let the partying and merry-making officially begin!!!!!