Later on this week I’m going to talk about the disaster that was True Detective Season 2. I’m going to do it because The Last Psychiatrist covered season 1 but he (or she) has not returned to discuss this year’s episodes. I will, therefore, take that burden upon myself. And I will show you why the show was not a complete disaster.
Before we can do that, however, we need to talk about the trip my son and I took to Cedar Point two weeks ago. As unlikely as it seems, the two topics, of True Detective and our day at the coaster park, are closely connected by the idea of Chekhov’s Gun.
Some of you already know the concept of Chekhov’s Gun:
“If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it’s not going to be fired, it shouldn’t be hanging there.”
This is one of the most important tools by which story is created. You can think of an author as a funnel. Sometimes, as with Ulysses, the funnel isn’t very narrow. Most of the experience or imagination that enters at the top exits at the bottom. Yet even stream-of-consciousness fiction isn’t entirely without a funnel. James Joyce doesn’t bother to enumerate every stair or describe everything that happens in full detail. The funnel is still there, it’s just relatively wide.
Other writers, such as the authorial team behind a high-school history textbook, use a very narrow funnel in which the experiences of millions of people over the course of hundreds of years can be reduced to a single paragraph. As children we’re repeatedly exposed to narrow-funnel sources out of necessity, which perhaps explains our fondness for single-sentence explanations of complex issues later on in life. Having been fed sound bites from infancy, it’s no wonder we retain the taste for them. If The War of 1812 can be explained in five sentences, why can’t the War On Terrorism — or, you know, the War On Drugs — be explained the same way?
The broken funnel, which omits important details while including trivialities, is the universal characteristic of the inept storyteller. It is the bane of the creative-writing class, which typically features floors littered with Chekhov’s Guns that never go off or a gun that appears at the moment it is fired and not before. It is the reason that George R.R. Martin’s later novels are so vomitously long: he describes every tree that Tyrion’s barge floats by but completely neglects to mention major characters in Westeros, or even entire parts of Westeros until they enter the action. The parts of his books that focus on Essos are even worse, to the point that you can easily parody them:
“My lady,” Jonah said to the Khaleesi, “your dragon was stolen by the Lords Of The Purple Desert, who are the most powerful men in Essos and command a million men under arms.”
“Then why,” Danaerys responded, “hasn’t anybody seen or heard from them in years, or even known of their existence?”
“It wasn’t relevant until now,” Jonah responded, while at the same time thinking of the decade he spent in exile working for Maester Dingledong, who was about to appear and cast a magic spell.
So without further ado, here’s the story I’d like to tell about when John and I went to Cedar Point. Having just sprouted through the forty-eight-inch height requirement a few weeks previous, John was now ready to abandon the kiddie rides for meatier fare. Yet I was worried about the way the adult-sized restraints would batter his head and fragile six-year-old neck around. I was also concerned that we’d ride something that would terrify him to the point that he’d never want to ride a roller coaster again.
We entered the park a few minutes after they opened on Saturday and boarded a lime-green cable Skycar. (I mention the color of the Skycar for readers who know of my lime-green Neon race car and custom Audi S5.) From our vantage point a hundred or so feet above the park, John could see the Corkscrew below. He was immediately interested. So we walked the rest of the way to the place where the track loops twice over the walkway and he liked the idea of riding it. I was nervous, and when I saw that his head didn’t even peek above the pull-down restraint I became more so. But he enjoyed himself quite a bit. It was his first real roller coaster, and given the terror that the Corkscrew inspired in full-grown adults thirty years ago I was proud of him.
Later on in the day, we got in line for the Iron Dragon. Ahead of us, there was a burly Chicano fellow who had a nightmare skull tattooed on the back of his shaved head. The eye sockets were bleeding. Like the rest of his ink, it was clearly prison work; I recognized the cigarette-ash ink color that had been augmented afterwards with red and black highlights.
(Now let’s take a break for a moment. Can you, the reader, have any doubt that this person is going to be significant in the story to come? Do you see the kind of trap that I, the writer, find myself in? If I mention this fellow and he doesn’t reappear, I’ve wasted your time. But I can’t use him later without bringing your attention to him now, which reduces the suspense of the story to come. You know he’s going to be involved.)
I watched this fellow, watched his expression, and thought about the kind of life he’d led. You don’t get that much prison tat work without spending years, maybe decades, behind bars. He was muscular in a way that suggested he lifted weights for strength, not definition. Men like that are dangerous in a fight. My personal experience suggests that big, strong Mexicans with prison ink are people to be feared, because they’ve spent a lot of their life exercising physical force against people. Most people are not used to actual violence, even people who bluster and threaten and shove and yell. It takes a certain mindset to simply walk up and hurt someone without the psychological work-up of a major argument. Humans aren’t built for it. Our genetic program favors ape-like display over leopard-like silent murder. But some people carry violence in their bones. This guy was one of those people. I found myself reflexively standing between John and him, though we’d have no reason to interact that I could foresee.
Twenty minutes later, John and I finagled our way past a bunch of people who were milling around on the loading platform and snagged a seat in the second row of the first train. The Iron Dragon, a close relative of the original Arrow Dynamics Bat at King’s Island, was widely considered to be a letdown when it opened three decades ago, but John thought it was great. We clambered out of the car and walked down the stairs…
…and I realized my phone had come out of my pocket. We ran back up the stairs, but the coaster train was in the process of pulling out. John and I waited five minutes for the Iron Dragon to complete its run. When it came back, I saw the big Mexican sitting in my spot, with an empty seat next to him. He waved at me, with my phone in his hand.
Of course it’s him, I thought. I fished twenty bucks out of my wallet. I didn’t think he needed the money, but it would be a token of respect for his time and for his decision not to just toss the phone into the lake for his own amusement. He climbed out of the train. I didn’t see any kids or girlfriend with him. Is he really here alone? He walked up to me. I’m not a particularly small person, although I’ve never been able to build any bulk in my arms. He was a few inches shorter than me but far wider. I noticed two tears tattooed beneath one eye and an incomprehensible rune on his cheek. We faced each other. He smiled.
“Thank you,” I said, careful to stand between him and John, and extended the twenty with the same hand I planned to use to take the phone.
“No money,” he said. “No money. It’s a nice day.” The phone was in his left hand. He extended his right and looked me in the eye as we shook hands. He neither squeezed my hand nor failed to squeeze it. Then, when he was satisfied as to my character, he handed over the phone. Turned his face down to John, smiled and winked. Then he stepped away. John and I descended the stairs.
I don’t frighten too easy but I was frightened of that guy. Every motion he made radiated menace. I was happy to have met him on those terms and no other. In a county jail, as the last tray slid through the bars to a group of underfed men, he’d be an unpleasant enemy, a pain-resistant grappler with a strong core and very little sense of restraint.
“Let’s get a cookie,” I said to John, and I picked him up and twirled him around. Happy that both my Mexican friend and I were far away from prison, out in the open air of an amusement park, my perfect, wonderful and wonderous son with me, free from his own prison of the plastic box into which he’d been delivered six years ago. Happy to have money and time and options and the ability to spend all day running behind John, happy to see the park through his eyes, happy to watch him experience it. Happy to drive home later to our warm home and clean water and untroubled dreams. And may it ever be thus, although I know it cannot be, although I know that I won’t live to see him be even my age, may it ever be thus, forever and ever, Amen.
There goes the plot for 3rd season of True Detective.
‘I watched this fellow, watched his expression, and thought about the kind of life he’d led. You don’t get that much prison tat work without spending years, maybe decades, behind bars. He was muscular in a way that suggested he lifted weights for strength, not definition. Men like that are dangerous in a fight. My personal experience suggests that big, strong Mexicans with prison ink are people to be feared, because they’ve spent a lot of their life exercising physical force against people. Most people are not used to actual violence, even people who bluster and threaten and shove and yell. It takes a certain mindset to simply walk up and hurt someone without the psychological work-up of a major argument. Humans aren’t built for it. Our genetic program favors ape-like display over leopard-like silent murder. But some people carry violence in their bones. This guy was one of those people. I found myself reflexively standing between John and him, though we’d have no reason to interact that I could foresee.’
I’ve attempted to explain this to people so many times, yet I constantly see them mistaking the loud, boisterous dude as a threat, when all the dudes that I’ve ever been around that actually follow through, they’re seriously sick fucks and they want to fight. Because they really want to bash someone’s head in. I never sweat the loud dudes, it’s the guy who doesn’t say anything when being threatened, because he’s calm, he wants you to allow him to pummel you.
I was driving through Sac one day and went past an apartment driveway where there was some sort of disagreement going on. I watched while everyone was screaming, this one dude was walking slow as Frankenstein but with real purpose and his eyes fixated on the dude in front of him. As soon as he got close enough, he punched the dude right on the button and the dude crumbled like a sack of potatoes. Then his focus immediately shifted to the guy’s friend. He just really wanted to knock some fools out.
For some reason I’ve attracted violent personalities into my life far too often. Maybe it’s because I understand or something? I don’t fucking know. This one guy who ‘made’ me his friend was a 6’5″, 230 pound black dude totally out of his mind on meth. The dude was sharp as shit, had a degree from UC Davis and spoke with eloquence, even if it was a little forced. But the dude had a serious problem on top of his meth addiction: he loved beating the shit out of people. He would ask me all the time if certain pretexts were enough to bash someone’s head in. The most excited I ever saw him, and one of the last (he went to jail), was when he showed up smiling from ear to ear. He then told me this story about some guy who had owed him money and how he had tried to be understanding but it had reached a point where he needed to teach the guy a lesson. Then his beam grew infinitely wider as he relayed to me the wonders of the beating he laid on this guy.
I never once saw him scream or yell.
That’s not something we like to think about; we’d all like to pretend we’re Eloi. But you’re right.
I can almost see him.
Kinda interesting how the guy’s decisions regarding who to beat up followed a code, and were not arbitrary.
Most violent criminals operate by a code of some sort…just not one that anyone else understands. I’ll return to eye contact as an example. I know of a case where a juvenile took a piece of rebar and bashed an older man to death with it in the street because the older man looked him in the eye. In the juvenile’s world that was a direct challenge and he was not about to allow this guy to “bitch him out.” That is often labeled as “senseless” violence in the media, but it was not senseless to the person wielding the rebar as a weapon. An employee of a Dollar General who was being robbed at gunpoint, in a bewildered state, tried to plead with the robber “you wouldn’t really shoot me” meaning “you would not really shoot me over something like this, right?”
The robber took that as a direct challenge to his courage and promptly shot her. When questioned later he said “You don’t tell somebody that’s got a gun pointed at you that you’re not going to shoot them.”
@carrya1911 - Just curious, based on your handle, I gather you carry a gun.
While I have never owned, carried, or even fired a gun, I have nothing against guns, gun owners, or conceal and carry.
Just the same, doesn’t it get annoying to carry a heavy chunk of metal around with you in public just in case you need it one day? I ditched my cell phone for another model because the thing was too big. Different strokes.
Although a 1911 isn’t, some of them are pretty light
My kid carries a Glock 22 around 12 hours a day while on duty, and she’s only 125 pounds but manages fine. Off the clock, her Ruger LC9-S is small and light enough to hide under even a cocktail dress. My Chechov’s Gun of late has been the G26. While I’m big enough to ccw my Springfield 1911 without printing, it is a bit on the large and heavy side for all-day concealed carry, though some people do. Just the sight of the Yankee Fist and a look down its big bore is enough to shock sense into a crazy berserker and stop the fight.
It definitely can be annoying from an every day perspective. Simple things become more complicated…like going to a public bathroom.
I have actually *needed* the handgun I carry, though, so that lessens my perspective of the burden considerably.
There is often plenty of display in the lead-up to somebody becoming violent and that in and of itself should be recognized and respected. When people begin exhibiting signs like making ape like gestures with the arms, becoming red in the face, speaking in a more guttural, primal fashion…these are all valuable cues that violence is likely. You can literally watch as a human being’s brain shrinks to the amygdala as they become enraged or afraid and there’s no amount of reason that will work on someone who enters that state. As the work-up is happening, a calm display of competence and resolve will often diffuse it…but not always. Watch enough dashcam video of shootouts and you will see plenty of examples where obvious agitation progresses to lethal violence.
Some people, however, can be lethally violent without that sort of buildup. They essentially walk around on “go” at all times and it takes little of what a normal person would perceive as provocation to start the show…but that is usually because the proverbial normal person does not understand that those individuals see the world very differently. Eye contact, for instance, is a high provocation in some cultures. Making eye contact will literally trigger a fight to the death because to them it is a challenge. Jesus Deniz Mendoza believes he was fully in the right to execute two people and narrowly miss murdering their daughter because of poor accuracy because HE says that he was “tired of waiting around” and that the daughter “laughed at him.” It’s highly probable that no “normal” person witnessing their interaction would have seen anything like that, or if any laughter occurred would have believed that people there to help a stranger would in any way intend to denigrate the person they were motivated to help. Sr. Mendoza, on the other hand, was deeply offended on a personal level and is the sort of man who responds to that level of offense with unhesitating use of lethal violence.
To personalities like Sr. Mendoza, the people he killed were the evil ones. They were the bad guys. Because they made him wait and they “laughed at” him. So clearly they deserved to die.
Jack’s offer of a token of his appreciation, for example, could well have been perceived as an insult by the other party and something any “normal” person would see as a thankful gesture could trigger a lethal fight. Especially if the insulted party perceives you as weaker.
Note that many apex predators are loners by nature and view one another with suspicion. Bears, for instance, are not terribly social with one another until it comes time to mate. Even then it’s done with great care. To the apex predator everybody except another apex predator is food…and if sufficiently hungry even other apex predators are on the menu if they are vulnerable. There are apex predators among human beings. Some embrace principles “normal” people understand and abide by, serving as protectors and defenders of “normal” people. Some do not, and will only back down when convinced that they are looking at another apex predator. The principles and codes of “normal” people are irrelevant to them.
The traits of an apex predator are difficult to conceal past anything more than the most cursory glance. Some of them are blatantly obvious and so even the most casual and mundane of behaviors are perceived as threatening. In this case, the tats combined with the reasonably deduced physical prowess were all visible cues advertising apex status. Encountering someone like that in mundane daily life prompts the same sort of reaction as encountering a bear…and for the same reasons. The bear may not be bored or hungry and may have no interest in you whatsoever. Or it could be hungry. Or territorial. Or just bored enough to think that mauling you is good sport. You do not know the mind of the bear.
It is best when the bear looks at you that he sees another bear…another apex predator that will inflict as terrible a penalty as possible upon any act of aggression.
“Hey, man.” with a confident head nod, when vocalized correctly by the correct sort of individual, looks to a “normal” person like a perfectly reasonable acknowledgement of a stranger. In reality that acknowledgement vocalized correctly from the correct sort of individual is apex predator language for “I’m not food.”
It’s not as simple as quiet vs. loud people. Violence is often preceded by loudness and inflating display about as often as loudness and display are a gambit to avoid any real violence. Sometimes bears will “pop” their jaws and stand to make themselves larger. Sometimes these are gambits to prevent a fight the bear cannot win otherwise, but they are also used as a legit reminder of “You’re screwing with a bear, mothersucker.”
It’s really more of a question of who is a predator and who is not. Any man sufficiently provoked can become violent, and usually there is ample evidence that the man is being pushed to that point. To a real predator, though, violence is a tool he wields for a purpose (instrumental violence) or as a means of expression of their personality. (Expressive violence)
A genuine apex predator often scares the bejeezus out of people even when he is doing something casual and mundane with absolutely no malevolent intent…like handing back a cell phone someone left on a ride. He is scary because, as I said before, you do not know the mind of the bear. The capacity is instinctively understood. Similarly, someone who is not a predator does not inspire that kind of reaction for the same reason that a teacup Yorkie does not inspire the same sort of respect as a mastiff or a Kodiak grizzly.
Jack’s described reactions are instinctual…a feature of human evolution. Survival used to depend on that kind of recognition and to be perfectly frank, it still does. No matter how many people would like to pretend that we shouldn’t judge people’s appearance the fact is that a load of useful information can be gleaned by just looking at someone. Apex predators know this and use it all the time. There have even been studies done of violent criminals who (often unknowingly) focus on details as fine as someone’s gait to determine their suitability as a potential victim. Human beings are constantly streaming information about themselves out into the universe…the apex predator understands this on an almost instinctual level (on the criminal side often because their formative years are surrounded by violence) and carefully manages the message he streams out to the world.
Mr. Bleeding Skulls read just as much about Jack in this interaction as Jack did about him. Bet on that.
‘A genuine apex predator often scares the bejeezus out of people even when he is doing something casual and mundane with absolutely no malevolent intent…like handing back a cell phone someone left on a ride. He is scary because, as I said before, you do not know the mind of the bear.’
‘Bear’ is a metaphor, not a real description of the man Jack dealt with. The dude wasn’t a bear or some other type of animal, he’s a man like you and I. It’s not that difficult to understand. But it sure sounds like you’ve done a great job of convincing yourself to never leave the house because you never know when you might make eye contact with an ‘apex predator’ at the Dollar General.
I will say that if you are going to get shot at *any* grocery store, it’s going to be a Dollar General.
Hahaha! Maybe so, I’m a Grocery Outlet man myself so I can’t really say.
They are very popular targets for holdup artists…I believe in Memphis TN (a pretty violent town…their hospitals averaged treating 9 gunshot wounds per day) the Dollar General stores are second only to the convenience stores as a target for armed robberies.
At one Dollar General, I felt like it could’ve been the cashier who might’ve shot me.
If you believe that violent criminals are “a man like you or I” then you have little experience dealing with violent criminals. It is highly unlikely your formative years bear even the slightest resemblance to his, that your life experience is anything like his, or that your understanding of the world is anything close to his. You are both human in the broadest sense of the term but your mindsets, experience, and approach to life are so fundamentally different that the other guy might as well be a completely different species.
Guys like that don’t make me any less inclined to go outside in the world than the existence of bears keeps me out of the woods. Understanding how the predators operate, how to read the signs of their presence…and being fully prepared to deal with them should it come to that…is all that is required.
I doubt your formative years looked anything like this:
http://libertyfirstnews.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/Screen-Shot-2015-07-12-at-6.18.31-PM.jpg
I’ve been wondering
* whether I should write about that incident
* what there is to say besides the usual expressions of outrage
Note that “Roissy”, the guy behind Chateau Heartiste, got banned from Twitter for posting that image even though the woman who posted it initially wasn’t banned from social media.
I stopped going by Heartiste. Some useful information there but too many folks with Jews on the brain. Not quite sure how learning how to bed women ended up in the racial purity camp, but that’s how it is over there. Bad craziness.
Skip the comments section on Heartiste, for sure. Although a decent amount of his more recent stuff has also taken a pretty odd neoreactionary turn as well
Also, if you can think of something unique to say about the incredibly fucked up background of that, please write about it
I have always operated on a simple principle that has seen me safely through random interactions with some interesting and potentially lethal people.
That principle is that I treat everyone as a basically decent person who I respect, but neither fear nor act superior to. And I iproject an energy of willingness to be your friend, coupled with willingness and a total indifference to having to throw down, should circumstances warrant it.
Though the following is far from my only example of this principle carrying me through potentially dangerous encounters, it will serve to illustrate.
I was formerly married to a NYC probation officer. She worked with a male PO who was married to a woman who was a Social Services worker. We were all friends, arising out of my wife and the male PO being on the same team at work.
Once slow hot rainy and steamy Monday night in August, a night when the famous former music venue CBGB’s was open but without a live act, we decided to walk over after dinner and shoot a few games of pool. When we arrived, there were less than a half dozen people in the place, including the bartender and cocktail waitress.
We were the only pool players for about a half hour. Then three Hell’s Angels, wearing their colors, walked in. They appeared to have tuned themselves up a bit before arriving, but were not particularly loaded. One of them walked over and put a quarter on the ledge of the table, right after the last of ours.
I was not worried in the least for our safety, because I knew that I could act normally around them, and that that was all that would be needed to avoid offending them and creating a situation.
But I held the table at the time the first Angel quarter was up. We began playing, and I walked over to the bar where my beer was, just in time to see and hear my three companions whispering.
They were concerned, and wondered what they should do.
My reply was that I was going to play pool with them, the same way that we had been playing. But that if they couldn’t do so without projecting an attitude of something not being right, that we should leave. Otherwise, it would be business as usual.
Though they were skeptical, they didn’t want to appear to be weak, especially since two of them were authorized to conceal carry, while I was not.
Within fifteen minutes, we were all on a first name basis, and after I bought a round, and included them in the round, they reciprocated.
While we didn’t exchange email addresses or business cards, or whatever, the evening ended on a positive and friendly note.
After, they (my friends) wanted to know how I knew that there wouldn’t be any trouble. My reply was simple “They were not hyper and agitated, and they were just doing the same thing we were…looking for something to do on a hot rainy Monday night. So I knew if I treated them with respect, neither to be afraid of nor to act as if I was better than them, they would sense that vibe and reciprocate.”
Which was exactly what happened.
I also once met John Gotti, before he was capo di tutti capo, introduced by a combat photographer drinking buddy who played in his blackjack club on a regular basis. I had heard that he was like the tenth of thirteen children, and that he had tested with a very high IQ when he did his first bid. In vouching for me to get in after hours, my friend mentioned that I was a grad student in math and comp sci at NYU, which was nearby in the Village.
He came over and very politely introduced himself, and told me I was welcome in his club anytime, and even gave us our drinks for free. The count system in blackjack was very new at that time, and he asked me if I knew anything about it. It so happened that my mentor (RIP) had been a personal friend and colleaque of the man who literally wrote the first book, Edwin Thorpe. And my mentor had taught the system to me. So I was able to explain it to John Gotti.
But the striking part of the whole evening and the conversation was that he easily followed the ideas behind the system, and asked a number of very intelligent questions about the system, anticipating casino countermeasures, and steps and methods to try to overcome those countermeasures.
Had I had an attitude that he was just some meatball goombah bar owner who was clearly inferior to me, I would never have had one of the best math discussions I ever had, and would not have had a very interesting and true life story to share with, among others, my son, in an attempt to teach him to never judgei a person until you have sufficient information to make a sound judgment.
Like many people like him and like the three HA’s, they could be your best friend or your worst enemy, depending on the nature of the dealings you had with them. I was glad that he was my friend.
One other brief one…I got to know a black cook with a lot of street cred in his hood in Philly, in a well-known neighborhood. We became as tight as brothers, in spite of our difference in age and race, as the result of a spontaneous incident.
He had fired a kitchen worker for showing up to work drunk. The drunk said he was going to get two of his friends and come back to F Kenyatta up. He told me that he didn’t think the guy would come back.
All of a sudden the guy was in the alley, calling out my friend. We didn’t know at the time that the guy was by himself. Kenyatta didn’t want trouble in his restaurant, so he went out into the alley.
Since I thought at the time that there might be three people out there, and possibly armed, I instinctively picked up a kitchen knife, thinking that would make it three against three in one sense, and went out the door right behind him, just on the strength that I thought he was a standup guy.
The other guy was bluffing and too drunk to do anything but yell, and we ended up going back inside as the guy left when he saw us both come out.
Kenyatta wanted to know why I would go out the door when we could have been outnumbered, and it wasn’t my beef. I told him that he was my friend, and I always have my firends’ backs.
From that time on, we were extremely close friends, because he knew that I instinctively would take a chance just to be sure that he wouldn’t be outnumbered in the alley.
Friendship and animosity often have little to do with common backgrounds or appearance, and everything to do with how one acts and carries themself in the moment. I was a white collar IT mamager in a hospital at the time, and he was an ex-con cook, but everyone knew we were like brothers, though not too many people knew why.
But again, it arises out of seeing beyond color and skin art, and being able to discern who is real and can be trusted, regardless of any external threat.
I always treat people I meet as just people, til the show me enough to know what kind of a person they are. And I make it a point to be there for my friends, no matter where that might take me, and what might happen.
The risks I have been exposed to have more than been offset by the friendships I have made, and the quality and strength of those bonds.
But it all starts out of neither fearing nor scorning or despiising anyone, until they have clearly revealed themselves as to who they are and what their agenda is.
This is at the heart of the philosophy and teaching of Zen Buddhism, and traditional Japanese martial arts. And it has proven to be overall the safest and best way to deal with everyone from the feeble and helpless to multiple apex predators.
A bit long, but it would be hard to convey that these ideas translate to reality and aren’t just theory, without some actual data points. And while it may seem like I am bragging, first none of us, as far as I know, hang out in real life so I gain nothing by the telling of “war stories”.
But I will wager that there are at least a couple of people who will second my idea that treating everyone as neither dangerous or worthy of scorn is the best way to avoid confrontation even with the scariest of people.
Of course, if the other party is totally jacked up and determined to throw down, you won’t have a choice, but you wouldn’t have anyway, so nothing is gained, and much is lost, when you approach anyone with either fear or scorn.
YMMV, but these are road signs on the highway of life that reference reality as I have seen it and known it.
Right there with you Mr. Bajo! You’ve put into words what I’ve done my whole life, which has worked 99.5% of the time! Great stuff!
Volando :
” I always treat people I meet as just people, til they show me enough to know what kind of a person they are. And I make it a point to be there for my friends, no matter where that might take me, and what might happen. ”
_THIS_ .
And it why and how I realized that I have no need to carry a sidearm .
I live in the middle of ‘ 100 days , 100 nights ‘ (Google it) ~ there’s a widely shared map with a blue (for the crips) border and I’m smack in the middle of it , I don’t worry much .
Not because I’m a tough guy ’cause I’m not ~ I’m an old crippled white geezer who needs a cane to get ’round but I don’t strut because i think I’m better than anyone else .
Sadly so few seem to grasp the very simple principals of a pleasant & well ordered life being explained right here .
-Nate
(now , about those ASSHOLES who cut across the lawn and kick over SWMBO’s solar nightlights……)
Glad you had a great day with your son, it’s days like that that makes a Father’s worry and sacrifice worth it! Although, there are many, many other smaller days that are satisfying that do not involve roller coasters or a $65 park pass. Your story reminded me of a time when I was on Boston’s MBTA and there was two confused Asian tourists also in the car. A big, scary looking dude (also looked a little “slow”) tried to talk to them and help them out. They completely freaked and shut down, and he walked away muttering about how he was trying to help and everybody takes him the wrong way.
Chekov’s Gun is the main reason most Hollywood movies suck. Even the ones that don’t suck are usually painfully predictable.
They insult the audience by practically screaming certain plot points so far in advance that you just roll your eyes when it inevitably comes to pass.
Back on track, though, it’s a good thing your new friend was having a nice day. Otherwise what can you do but chalk it up to bad luck and report the phone as stolen…
It’s the music in movies that’s Chekhov’s Gun, to me. The signposting and emotional manipulation is obnoxious. I certainly don’t need a swelling orchestra to tell me that when someone dies that I should be sad. It’s rather insulting actually.
Well written as usual Jack .
No one mentioned the important unsaid life lesson your Son got that day……
Kids are usually more aware of what’s going on around them than Adults realize .
I wish my Son was still little ~ cherish these moments Jack , they’re so damn fleeting .
I get to take him to dinner to - morrow after work , maybe we’ll work on one of his races cars , I don’t care , we could plumb toilets to - gether and I’d be pleased .
-Nate
As the phrase goes, I feel you, Nate. My one and only son turned 21 this year.
He has decided he doesn’t want to spend money on college I(and especially not run up student loan debt) until he knows for sure what he would want to go to college for. He has decided working in a grocery store is pretty boring, and has decided to start his own lawncare business. He had no idea where to start, except for the actual cutting and trimming part. So I have become his operations and marketing manager, and I get to teach him how to handle all the other aspects of having his own business. And I have more fun working with him than I ever did working as an IT consultant.
But a sidenote to Jack…you say you doubt you will get to see John at the age you are now. But I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Anyone who knew me at thirty would have gladly bet I wouldn’t make it to Social Security age, yet I clearly did.And I asked my doctor at my annual checkup what my chances were to still be alert and active at ninety. He said that since all my labs were good and I was physically active, I had an excellent chance.
I became a father at a later age than you. But if I make it to niney with a clear mind and the ability to walk arund, I welll get to see m y son at about your age, when I hit ninety. And since you had your son when you were younger than I was when I had mine, you will be younger than ninety when he hits an age that approximates yours today.
But Nate is especially spot-on about one thing…the years go by so fast. And while I love seeing him learning to function as a “grown *ss man”, I also miss seeing him first exploring and discovering the world. He skipped the baby food stage entirely, and went straight from combined breastfeeding and bottle feeding, to real adult food/
One of my fondest memories is Father and Son Seafood nights, when he was about eighteen months old, and my wife had a class in college the night the seafood place ran its special. He loved and still loves crasdads, as do I. And I would peel them one at a time…one for you, Matt, and one for Dad. Another for Matt, another for Dad.. And he learned to run running up and down a wooden ramp they had from the driveway to the dining room.
Good memories…he still learns and shares with me now, but those first days were special times. Every day with him and his mother is precious, and as I get older, I value the days even more than before.
I’m sorry for you, Jack, that your relationship didn’t make it. But it doesn’t change the fact that the times with John will be golden now, and golden when he is grown, if you do it right.
Never lie to hm, and admit when he is wrong. Encourage him to differ with you and to explain his reasoning…sometimes it will amaze you and broaden your perspective. Matt has amazed me by the things he reasons out and the positions he takes. But he had to be reassured that it was ok to have his own ideas and his own viewpoint. I think that may have been the key to our never ever having had a serious disagreement.
Once in a while, if one or both are tired, we can get our nose out of joint for a short while. But we really roll with each other’s viewpoints. He and his mother are my best friends, and as Ray Davies wrote in his song “O, Lucky Man”, “if you have a friend on whom you can rely, you are a lucky man.”
You are smart, and you clearly love your son with all your heart. It is almost inevitabe that John will grow up to be that friend to you, even while is passing through the normally rebellious teen years.
Keep sharing those stories…I’m sure many of us enjoy them, and man of us can learn from your stories how to bond with our sons.
Showing him that you could interact with a supposedly scary person, just by being real, was one of those valuable lessons you teach him. Believe me, he may articulate a bit, but he will always be watching, absorbing what goes on around him, and studying what his father does and how his father handles situationsl. I am sure you will be a good teacher for him, teaching him things that no one else will be able to, but always remember to be aware of how much you will be influencing him. He will not telegraph it, but it will be happening, and you will be able to see it, if you watch closely.
It is one of the greatest things that ever happened to me, and I am sure that raising John will be the same for you. Be sure to remember that he loves his mother too, and you must learn to always treat her in a positive light, or he will start compartmentalizing his feelings. He can know and process that it didn’t work for you two, but he needs to know that Mom and Dad can still be on the same page, at least as far as his world goes, and at least as much as possible.
Please keep telling us stories of your journey…for people like Nate and myself, it will help us to rmember how it was in an earlier time for us and our sons. Golden times, really…
I’m encouraged to read this… I’ve always figured I would die from something embarrassing, like cancer of the colon or a chopsticks accident. 🙂
Beyond Golden , Volando ~
I had ‘ empty nest syndrome ‘ worse than any Mother I ever met when he left out @ 18 but I also made a point to raise him to be self sufficient as I didn’t know if I’d always be there .
Good Parents are their Children’s _PARENT_ first last and always , not their friends as his Mother always told him she was .
He’s 36 and well on his way , smarter and further ahead than I was at that age or ever will be .
He often tells me the conclusion of my tech stories before I get to it as we both use linear , mathmatic problem solving skills , not feel good B.S. .
We had dinner last night and as always he taught me something new , then his Wife called and said she was home early so I invited her and my Grand Daughter over to join us at dinner…..
Sometimes life is just perfect , last night with my Grand daughter bouncing around and telling me what she’d done that day , was better than any ‘ zipless fuck ‘ I’ve ever had .
Jack , just keep plodding along , either you’ll bounce Grand Kids on your knee or not , either way your Son will grow up strong and independent and always remember you fondly .
Hijo says we’re riding Motos to dinner in the Angeles national Forest next week , all because I was waiting there when he rode home from work on his new Ducati , life indeed is very good for me .
-Nate
My favorite take on Chekhov’s gun was on Justified. All season long, the bad guy kept threatening people with a gun hidden up a sleeve. At the climactic scene, he tries to use it on the hero, and a secondary character, a butcher who has been brandishing a cleaver in many scenes, finally uses it, to, ahem, disarm the villain. In this case Chekhov’s gun was a knife.
Between that and the piggy bank, I was enthralled.
I’ve always thought you were a good father, but are you really raising that poor kid as a Browns fan?
His mother dressed him that morning. I don’t follow football…
Looks can be deceiving sometimes. Case in point; I’m a member of a motorcycle club, so folks tend to avoid you when you are wearing a club patch ( except for drunk stupid folks). They don’t know that it’s my company that might be the ones that were in their industrial facility doing repairs the previous week/month, or that I’m the one that takes them to lunch on occasion. They just see the big scary guy on the motorcycle. They do seem puzzled tho when they see me on one of my BMW’s as opposed to one of my Harleys.
About 8 years ago, I was heading out for a ride on Easter Sunday. Stopped at a corner store to gas up and noticed an older car, mid 80’s Ford as best I can remember, sitting off to the side with steam coming out from under the hood. Older couple, probably early 70’s, with a maybe 8-10 year old girl ( turned out she was the granddaughter). Car had split a fitting in the heater hose assembly and they were stranded. They were heading to their daughters house to take the granddaughter back and to have Easter dinner. I offered to help and the man popped the hood. I knew there were no parts stores open, but figured I could cobble it enough to get them the 20 miles they needed to go. I bought a couple of hose clamps and a can of Coke. Pulled out the bad fitting, cut up the Coke can and cobbled up a fitting. Wrapped it in duct tape, told them to leave the radiator cap loose and if it got hot to add some water. It was pretty obvious these were not well to do folks so when the man was trying to give me $10 for getting them going I told him to keep it and use it to get the correct part for the car..
A year or so later my girlfriend and I were in a little restaurant when a lady came walking over and told me the story about someone from my club helping get her fathers car patched up enough to get to her house for Easter dinner. She asked me to tell whoever it was that helped that she, and her father, both appreciated the help, as I was the only one that offered to help and they had been there about 15 minutes before I pulled in.
I told her I would certainly find out who it was that helped and extend her gratitude.
Done like a true knight of the road, Dingus. Well played…
Chekhov’s gun is kinda premeditated Deus ex machina.
“The eye sockets were bleeding.” Or wherever.
Allow me to paraphrase Jack’s story & add a truism:
Never judge a book by its cover.
I’d counter that with a statement a homicide investigator once made to me:
Someone who has taken the time to carve a swastika in their forehead has gone to much effort to communicate very important information about themselves to the world and you’d be a fool to ignore it.
Nice article, nice comments.
Manuel got 20, but was released after 15 for good behavior. While inside, he immediately made it known to fellow inmates he was not to be messed with, and that he was entitled to whatever he wanted. Several savage beat-downs of would-be prison alpha inmates established his prison yard and cell block leadership.
It was during a dry spell, when the guards had searched every cell and found nearly every hiding place for drugs and alcohol that Manuel felt weakness. The withdrawal symptoms were crippling. He trembled, his skin crawled, he couldn’t sleep, bugs and spiders seemed to move across the floor. He broke down and wept.
An old man, a lifer, sat beside him at dinner as Manuel squeezed his hands into fists so no one could see him suffering from the DTs. Nobody had ever dared sit with Manuel — ever — but this old man did. He told Manuel about the program, and that they met every day. He invited Manuel to come, just once. Skip the weights and the yard.
And so it came to pass that Manuel, clean, sober, and in submission to a higher power he found in Jesus Christ, found a phone on a ride called the Iron Dragon. He smiled to himself, remembering how his old self would have kept and then sold the expensive smartphone to buy drugs and alcohol. But the clean, sober, and saved Manuel reached over to shake the hand of the phone’s owner, and felt the respect he always craved. Respect for himself.
Great prolog, Domestic Hearse.
Many a story has begun something like that. Heard a man speak once. He had been sentenced to life without parole for a DUI that ended in the death of a child. After years in prison, hee decided to throw himself off the top tier. That day for the first time, the doors to the cells stayed locked.
He decided he had to change his life. He started attending meetings in the prison. Eventually, he was given permission to buy a small piece of land, although prisoners normally weren’t allowed to own land. But the warden let him petition the governor, and he was given permission.
Later it was a chance to marry a Christian lady who used to visit the prisoners. Same thing…not allowed but you can petition the governor. Permssion granted. Told his wife she was crazy to marry him, he’d never be able to live with her. She told him to keep praying.
Long story short, he was eventually pardoned by the governor. Got a job with the phone company, moved in to the cabin they built on the land he had bought.
Several years later, Corrections calls him. He starts to worry….did they make a mistake? Would he have to go back? No they said. Relax, we want you to interview for a job. “A job?” he said. “Do you know who I am? Do you know what I did?” Yes, they did, and they wanted him to interview for the job as head of the Department of Corrections. “Why”” he asked.
Seems they had had a lot of prison suicides, and the governor wanted someone who understood the penal system and knew what it would take to improve it.
He took the job, and evenually retired as the head of the Dept of Corrections for the same state he had been sentenced to “natural life”.
That was the title of the talk he gave when I heard him tell his story, at a weekend convention, about a year after I found my way into those same rooms, at a time when I thought the odds were just too long for me to have any hope for anything except not ending up with cirrhosis.
But when nI heard his story, I began to hope that I might have a chance at a new life, starting in my forties.
About a year later, I met the love of my life, now my wife and best freind. And I ended up with a son, after I thought I had partied away my chances. to ever be a father and to have a family of my own.
It works, It worked for Manuel, who may or may not be a true story. It worked for me, and it IS a TRUE STORY.
And it can work for anyone who thinks they might need to make such a change, whether it is because you want to be free of the need for things, or if you just want to give your life a chance to take a different direction.
“Natural Life” was the man’s story. It was the legalese for his sentence to life without parole. And it was the title of the talk he gave the day I heard him. His life had become a natural life. And as a result of my following that path, I now have a natural life. And so could you. All you have to do is what we do, if you want what we have.
Sounds corny, but it is not.. It is the most real thing I had ever done up to that point. Every one who does this has a different, unique story. But they are all stories with a good ending.
Every once in a while I miss a cold beer, a shot of rum in a Coke, or smething similar. But then I remember how, even though my life hadn’t gotten that bad, that I had so many things that were missing, and so many things I wanted to have in my life, but that I was never able to figure out how to achieve them.
And today, I have more than I dreamed possible back then. It may not be for everyone, but it might well be for you. It was for Manuel, it was for the man sentenced to natural life, and it is for me.
Great stuff you guys!
I really wish I hadn’t used the word ‘sick fucks’ up above because the guys that use violence get into it the same way we get into anything: they got a sense of importance from it. I meant that the guys willing to use it are more likely to just do it, rather than posture because they’re a) not scared and b) it’s a great opportunity for further glory.
Really looking forward to your piece on TD Season 2, Jack. I think the Chekhov’s gun in the form of the Mexicans was a little too on-the-nose, but in other areas Pizzolatto unpacks important plot developments in brief conversations, as you pointed out. Too many secondary characters, too many red herrings, too little incomprehensible choices by the mains.
And why are the Corkscrew’s trains red, white and blue? Was it a gift from France?
Sorry, that should read “too many incomprehensible”
” And why are the Corkscrew’s trains red, white and blue? Was it a gift from France?”
Uh , hello ? built in 1976 , America’s Bicentennial ? .
No one else remembers ? .
Jeeze .
-Nate
Sorry Nate, I thought my sarcasm was evident. Gifts from France are usually an oxidized greenish color, like the Statue of Liberty, or Gerard Depardieu.
These United States of America would never have existed without the French.
Or the Indians, or the Scots-Irish, or Africans, etc. Your point?
Or the Mexicans…let us not forget Manuel and his brothers and sisters, Contrary to Donald Trump’s rhetoric, they are not a nation of drug addicts,
Jack Said : ” I’m encouraged to read this… I’ve always figured I would die from something embarrassing, like cancer of the colon or a chopsticks accident. 🙂 ” .
Just so Jack ~ many told me ‘ Nate if you don’t slow down on that old Moto , you’re going to die ‘ .
As it turned out , the fatal Moto accident I survived , occurred as I was waiting for a red light @ 04:15 on a clear , breezy morning .
That I survived is far beyond anything I did or could have done so I never worry about that , I’m ready to go as I sit here .
My (and your) Son will be fine if I never come home one day .
-Nate
Hi Nate…there is nothing like a near death experience to really bring life into perspective.
The Japanese warrior class held to a belief that a man must accept his death in order to live fully, without fear of dying.
Sounds like your Moto incident brought you into that realm.
I have never regretted mine…and in fact I have a life that was beyond my ability to imagine happening for me, until it happened.
And I know that my son will be fine after I am gone, the last and greatest duty I had as a father, to see him come to that point. I know he will miss me, though, and like the Lion King (the movie of his childhood), he will “remember!” whenever faced with life’s difficulties.
So from here on out, every day we have together is just gravy, times to share and hang out and work together. He is starting his own business, and he uses me heavily to help him with his business decisions, so we have gone from an old man-to-young man relationship, to two “grown*ss” men dealing with each other. And it is a pleasant surprise to discover that not only can I teach him things, but now that he has developed as much as he has, he has found things that he can teach me. A strange change, but one that just reassures me that he has all the resources that he will need to make it in this world even after I am gone.
But I am truly glad that I got to stick around til we got to that point. I would have hated for him to have to grow up without me there, for all the things that transpired between us, especially between his ages of about 15 to 21. So I understand when Jack worries a bit more, as John is considerably younger than that, and less mature. Hence he has not yet arrived at certain points in his life where a father could definitely ease the transitions.
Like the knight in the movie “Seventh Seal”, we may find that Death lurks around the next corner, but Jack seems to combine a good dose of reasonable safety and caution with his Type T competition orientation, so from where I sit, I believe he is likely to reach the point with John where his outlook then will be more like mine is now. Certainly I wish that for him, liking him for the wisdom and insights that he drops, as well as for the personality with which he carries himself.
In reality, I worry more about my wife after I am gone, even though she has three successful (to varying degrees) younger brothers, and a successful grown daughter, as she is almost twenty years younger than me (sorry for not issuing a humblebrag warning in advance), as well as being able to rely on our son being a good son to her even after I am gone. She seems like she would be more lost trying to face life without me than my son does, by a mile. Couple that with the fact that women in her family tend to live into their late eighties or nineties, and I can see why it seems like a long time on her own. If indded she were to stay alone, as the women in her family also look (another humblebrag coming, cover your eyes if you don’t want to see it) … the women in her family tend to look very beautiful and fit even up into advanced years. Her grandmother was in her late eighties when I met her, and she looked like she was in her fifties at most.
But she seems more like someone who would be more lost, without someone to rely on for help in many areas. My son, on the other hand, will rise to whatever occasion, and has already show both a lot of wisdom for his age, and a lot of resourcefulness and ambition.
That is, I realize, another humblebrag, but I do have a lot in my life to be grateful for. And not the least of these is to know, as you do, Nate, that my son will be fine after I am gone. It takes a lot of the sting out of growing old.
But the muscles and bones, though they still work, don’t have the same strength, and ache a good bit more, more easily and for a longer while.
In fact, it is time for me to rest my aching body now, so I will say good night to all of my friends (yes, all three or four of you) and the rest of you visitors to cyber-Riverside-Green.
Yes Volando ;
I came to grips with my mortality long ago , i don’t recall the first time but watching the muzzle flash of a .410 shotgun going off in my face was a real eye opener .
I try to learn from experiences .
My Son I’m sure will be fine .
My Sweet lady (still striking lightning after all these years) is quite independent , I prefer Women who allow me to be in their lives , not _need_ any Man to be complete .
I’m going to ride my Moto to Newcomb’s Ranch for dinner with my Son this week ! SWEET .
-Nate
This is the difference between “real life” and “fiction” — in most fiction, if Chekhov’s gun is observed, it must later play a greater role. In real life, we see many “Chekhov’s guns” for which we do not know if they will fulfill some ominous portent, or if they are merely a gun hanging on the wall of a man who, for example, likes to hunt, but who will either not die or kill, or will come to such a fate by a means other than that gun.
While knowing that that gun hanging on the wall will play a part in the further development of the plot may serve to heighten our curiosity, anxiety, or powers of observation, in real life we may place a role of importance on such a gun, but it may merely be a red herring, one which causes us to miss another vehicle which turns out to be the real instrument of some sort of denouement.
it is almost as if a boxer keeps threatening to throw a knockout right cross, and having lured his opponent into excessively guarding against it, throws a sudden unexpected left hook, taking his opponent at least down, if not out.
A truly dangerous adversary will seek to telegraph what is usually not his real intention, will seed to discern what his adversary signals he makes of it, and will then either do something different, or occasionally (especially if his adversary has a “tell” that he knows to expect something else), he will do the obvious, just because his adversary thinks he is clever enough to discern that the move will not be the telegraphed one…in that case — BOOM! — go to the obvious move, which became the suspected false move.
Only fiction that ignores the Chekhov’s gun rule can fully present and explore the subtleties that can go into willful feinting and thrusting, in an attempt to lure an opponent into suspecting what will not happen, and hence ignoring what actually will hapen.
The movie “Usual Suspects” is one of the few works of recent decades that skillfully captured such willful mispresentation of fake signals designed to misdirect the recipients of those signals.
Still, if fiction consistently ignored the Chekhov’s gun role, or deliberately tried to play against it, fiction would be as predictable as it is when the Chekhov’s gun rule is too siimplistically followed.
My $0.02 worth. YMMV. Just felt like tossing that one out there..
Hi Nate,
That .410t story must have some interesting details associated with it.
I am pleasantly surprised to find another person in you who thinks so much like I do.
Besides our philosophies about accepting mortality in order to be free to live, there is the matter of your taste in ladies, and specifically your main one…very much like my preferences and my special lady, who also keeps me fascinated beyond my previous imagination.
I would like to wish that you have a great life, but it seems a bit superfluous, as it seems you already are.
I have found fairly few people during a relatively long lifetime who think and feel as I do. But you are obviously one.
Keep on keeping on, brother…
Volando
The .410 deal was not only scary like all get out , it was very disappointing as it involved my two best Friends who I’d made a point of teaching Firearms safety to , it *instantly* became clear they were not very good friends after all because they violated rules # 1 & 2 :
# 1. : a firearm is always loaded no matter what you think .
# 2. drugs / alcohol & firearms do not mix , not ever .
I’m sure everyone here remember the Three Stooges gag where Larry and Curly are fighting over who’ll show Moe their new shotgun , arms around Moe tugging on the weapon whilst Moe is dancing around the muzzle in his face , unable to get away because the two idiots arms are around him and neither idiot will let go…..
Looks very funny in the screen , much less so when you’re trapped in a narrow hallway that’s so tight I couldn’t even buckle my knees and drop down and they refused to quit struggling over the damned gun ~ when I saw the flash I thought I was a goner but I didn’t even get powder burns ~ the closet , wall and ceiling , they took the entire blast , I left and never went back .
Truly stupid would have been ever trusting those idiots again and it was I suppose my own fault for allowing them to trap me like that , I’d just wanted to take a piss & they trapped me in the hallway leading to the bathroom .
A word about life :
Will Rogers once said ” most people are about as happy as they allow themselves to be ” .
I heard that when I was 8 ~ 10 years old and it stuck with me ~ as a Child I had little choice in anything & my Childhood was miserable so I decided to enjoy every precious moment of life I had left , one never knows if one will see to - morrow .
Life , she’s pretty sweet to me =8-) .
-Nate