How Learning a New Language Improves One’s Life, and other Trivia

Some things are inexplicable. For example, my desire to teach myself a second language at age fifty-two. And what, pray tell, was that second language I selected nearly four years ago, you ask? Living in Texas, you’d think that second language would be Spanish, right? Certainly the most practical language a Texan could learn. A language I’d be guaranteed willing participants with whom to practice speaking. Such Spanish speakers would be flattered, as would most in similar circumstances, that someone who isn’t of their nationality nonetheless struggles to communicate in their native tongue, one who strives to roll his R’s and fold his L’s, one who appreciates different languages and cultures.

But no. Instead, I selected what I’d later discover is one of the most difficult languages, if not the most difficult language, for a Westerner to learn. It’s certainly the fastest spoken language on Earth, Spanish supposedly being the second fastest spoken language. Never mind my odds of meeting a Japanese speaker in Central Texas. But that’s me – an unpredictable, impractical, albeit self-motivated, and ultimately whimsical autodidact.

Were we to explore my motivations, I can point to a few clues, indicators of what would unfold. I’d already enjoyed a private fascination with the East for as long as I can recall. Its fanciful myths, what little I knew of its culture, cuisine, customs, costumes, and written language, kanji. All eluded to an ancient past full of wonder. Whether in my mind’s eye or on an elaborate tapestry, I could see the vast image – a lush landscape of rolling hills, mountains drenched in fog, orange pagodas peeking through wispy tendrils of mist. Martial arts, architecture, the whole tai chi vibe had intrigued me over the years. But, honestly, only in my periphery. Until I became a half century old, I didn’t imbibe, didn’t take the plunge, didn’t doff my shoes (as is the custom), slide the shoji aside to step into the pillowed room to sit on the floor at table, and dine on what would become my favorite food in the whole wide world, namely sushi, or in kanji, as it’s known in Japan, 寿司.  

Unfortunately, though I instinctively want to justify, defend, and otherwise legitimize my passions and preferences, I can’t rationalize everything. One could say I suffer from various afflictions – a love for Asian women, a distaste for steak (too dense; upsets my stomach), an urge to honk incessantly in traffic just for the hateful looks, a penchant for single malt scotch.

I suppose I could stop frequenting those Vietnamese massage parlors, stop eating fish and start grilling steaks, switch from bourbon to beer, abandon the sneakers and start wearing sandals, but I suspect neither my heart nor my exquisitely fine tastes would appreciate those changes.

Not to suggest I’ve arrived. Far from it. But when you reach a certain plateau, shall we say, in which your vocabulary exceeds that of the average Joe, and your knowledge base and interests renders you a social pariah, you recognize you’ve already reached what constitutes The Fringe. It’s time to then hoist your sails, position your prow toward deeper waters, and embrace whatever tickles your fancy, society be damned.

Hence how I perhaps found myself inadvertently embarking upon a course for the land of the rising sun. Another reason I wanted to teach myself to read, write, and speak a second language was because I’d read that such an exercise utilized parts of the brain we don’t normally use. I also read that this exercise helped to postpone early onset of dementia and Alzheimer’s decease.

I’d already denounced television, the kiss of death for the brain. And the mind, for that matter. I’d already taken other steps to improve myself by reading hundreds of books, and while that may sound irrelevant here, remember, as I’ve written elsewhere, books tend to “… increase vocabulary, evoke thought and emotion, stimulate mental activity and imagination, encourage reflection, nurture patience, improve memory, and cultivate tastes and discernment.” 

Studies bear this out. Likewise, studies show improved mental focus for both bilinguals and polyglots. Regardless whether these polyglots learned another language at 17 or 70 years of age, they better themselves in multiple ways, not least of which involves enhancing their cognition.

I assure you I have nothing to gain by claiming my memory overall has improved by hops, skips, jumps, leaps, and bounds. Not to mention that while I used to crack the whip when I saw how poorly English speakers wrote and texted and commented online, I now give them a pass, convinced that many are not native English speakers. Essentially, exploring a new language has made me a bit more merciful. I’m no longer part of the Grammar Gestapo.

After all, I still struggle to roll my R’s as I practice speaking Spanish. I’m still my own source of amusement when testing out certain syllables in Mandarin. One caveat, however: when I discover native English speakers who still can’t spell tomorrow or confuse then with than or mistake there for they’re and for their, the posh smug snob in me wants to have them sterilized. God forgive me. It’s nothing personal. I simply know that if I can better myself, so can anyone. And so no one has an excuse to be stupid. Few things annoy me more than indifference.

But this post isn’t about my study or progress learning a second or third language, dabbling in Korean and Spanish and Mandarin. Instead, I just wanted to clarify a few misunderstandings we in the West have regarding Eastern languages, or more specifically the Japanese language as I’ve managed to comprehend it thus far.

In all honesty, I simply wish to clear up what today we might categorize as misinformation. For example, when I was a Protestant, my Protestant pastor, youth pastor, and parents told me all kinds of nonsense about Catholics and Catholicism, none of which (I would discover decades later doing my own research) turned out to be true.

The same is the case for all sorts of Japanese expressions, pronunciations, and words we in the West misconstrue. Take, for example, the word sayonara. Remember the 1955 hit by Kay Cee Jones entitled “The Japanese Farewell Song”?

The time has come for us to say sayonara …

Sayounara, the romaji form of the Japanese hiragana さようなら, is comparable to farewell. That much is true. It's a term reserved for when you don’t expect to see that person for either an especially long time or perhaps never again. It’s not a substitute for see you later or goodbye.

But Japanese people don’t pronounce the word the way the singer does in the song. The stress is on the second syllable, not the third, and the r is enunciated like Spanish speakers enunciate their r in the name Maria. Not ma ree ah, but rather ma dee ah, with the r voiced like a soft d. Like gracias is more like gada see is, not grah see us, as the Japanese word for thanks (ありがとう; arigatou) is pronounced ah dee gah tow, not ah ree gah tow.

Ages ago, a much younger version of me, who knew nothing about Japanese language or culture, ate with a friend in an amazing sushi bar. I asked my friend what the alcoholic beverage in the decorative porcelain bottle was. He pronounced the noun as sah key. (Note: the Japanese あ (or a) will always sound like the English a in father, never the a in the month of April or the a sound in the fruit apple.)

Many years later I would learn that the Japanese お酒 (osake in romaji) means alcohol in general, not rice wine specifically. This includes beer, whiskey, bourbon, etc. All of that is 酒 (sake). Also, barring the vowel お (o) which makes the word more polite, お酒 isn’t pronounced like English speakers would pronounce sah key, but rather more like sah kay, only here I must clarify something crucial to Japanese speech.

I’ve thought about the best way to convey sound exclusively through words, without the aid of audio, and I think I’ve come up with a decent metaphor. If we think of spoken English syllables as a string of musical notes, connected to one another, almost permanently sustained, then Japanese syllables, in contrast, are like musical notes played staccato. Think of it this way: each connecting syllable in spoken English is like a kind of continuous melody relative to Japanese speech which is more like a series of disconnected, truncated bursts.

For this reason, you won’t hear Japanese people, particularly adults, extend the length of syllables (or moras) beyond their allowed length. So words like お酒 (osake), will sound more like oh sah kay (with the English kay sound cut short). Note that in romaji, the ke best rhymes with the English word kay as in the Cayman Islands. The Japanese vowel え is represented in romaji as e. But this is not the long e sound in English, as in the words easy, queasy, or sleazy. Rather it’s the a sound in the English words stay, play, nay, but cut short.

Think of the sounds, in romaji, for ke (け), re (れ), ne (ね), and te (て) clenched midstride. Utter the word say just like you’d utter the English word say (or せ in hiragana), but midway through it, slap your palm over your mouth to prevent yourself from running out the clock. Never reach the end of the word, the letter y, for instance. So not say, but rather sa (slap)! Again, to be clear, not sa as in saw or father, but sa as in a shortened version of the English words say, pay, day, may, gay, ray, only with the mute button slamming down in the middle of the a’s.) 

This will go a long way to sounding more like a native Japanese (or 日本人) speaker. Side note: 日本 is Japanese kanji for the word Japan. Whereas 日本語 is the kanji for anything Japanese (cuisine, architecture, customs, language) except for Japanese people, since person in Japanese is the simple, two-stroke kanji 人 (in romaji hito by itself; jin when paired; nin when persons are being counted). Hence, while always meaning person, the three ways 人 is pronounced depends on context. Much like the English letter c is pronounced like see and sea, in both the words celery and when going over the letter in the alphabet. Whereas when pronouncing the word cat, the letter has a kay sound. Examples:

“I have two brothers.”

“私は兄弟が二人います.”

Watashi wa kyoudai ga futanin imasu. 

(Note: in romaji, particles such as wa, ga, and ka rhyme with English words such as blaw, thaw, and claw.)

“That person is tall.”

“その人は背が高い.”

Sono hito wa segatakai.

“Do you speak Japanese?”

“日本語が話せますか”

nihongo ga hanase masu ka 

(Note: pronouns such as you and I are omitted in Japanese speech. In fact, あなた, you in Japanese, is considered rude, perhaps the Western equivalent to pointing in public.

“Are you Japanese?”

“日本人ですか”

nihonjin desu ka

Side note: I find it fascinating that the kanji for man’s best friend, a dog (or 犬) is similar to the kanji for person. Just two additional strokes. I suppose it doesn’t take much to impress me sometimes, but this resemblance serves as a beautiful connection between Americans and another nationality on the other side of the planet as to how we both view the canine.  

Since we’re nearing the midway mark in the year of our Lord 2022, I wanted to offer an update on my New Year’s Resolutions. For a summary of those resolutions, refer to my blog post here. My progress thus far, depending on the category, has both exceeded my expectations and been a source of grief.

To wit, I’ve managed to save far more money already than I anticipated. I progressed further into my language learning studies than I intended. I tackled my minimalism with abandon – clearing my apartment of stuff in boxes and closet shelves I never used or referenced. Gone are the clothes either out of fashion or that no longer fit me, receipts as well as manuals for items and appliances I no longer own.

However, in part due to my additional shifts at work (for which I’m grateful), my reading and writing efforts have suffered. In addition, I’ve only recently returned to near normalcy physically. As a result, my projected, annual weight loss program was thwarted because of an unforeseen affliction of chronic knee pain for a good quarter of the year.

Happily, after visiting my doctor, I’ve since found a manageable intake of pain meds and a knee brace to combat this only recently diminished crutch, but it’s worth noting that while my doctor and I can only speculate as to the cause or causes, I’m convinced that much of this knee pain was due to a severe case of sleep deprivation and the accompanying stress and anxiety about my current living arrangement (sleep deprivation due to an upstairs neighbor’s elephant nursery, an indifferent and hence negligent apartment management refusing to enforce its lease regarding noise, and the growing fear that nothing short of committing murder would resolve the issue). In fact, a little over a month ago, my boss asked me how I was coping with my upstairs tenant problem, and I quipped, “Well, the noise has finally ceased. However, the body is beginning to smell.” 

Lastly, I’ve still yet to make a friend. Oh, I’ve had opportunities. I’ve gotten invitations to all kinds of events – a shooting range, a dinner party, a night out where I can break in my new tobacco pipe. But I’ve found that when I’m not at work, all I want to do is either curl up with my language learning apps or listen to some jazz or Japanese rock, a lowball glass of Laphroaig in hand, and a web browser open to recent litters in Texas. I’m currently on the prowl for a Blue Lacy pup. 

I can’t explain why I prefer the comfort of my couch over a noisy crowd in a public venue, why I opt for kicking off my shoes, slipping into my jimjams, and watching a YouTube video of a bilingual Chinese teacher going over colloquialisms in Mandarin for which I’m ill prepared.    

On the bright side, and, again, a surprising, unforeseen blessing, it looks as if I’ll be buying a house within a year’s time. No kidding. We shall see. So not all news is grim, and much of it is cause for glee.

I’m going to stop here because I’m trying to cut down on the length of my posts. God bless and always remember that telling the truth makes you a better person; lying makes you worse by the hour. Something Zarathustra should’ve said if he didn’t. And I don’t think he ever did. Though only Nietzsche would know for sure. 

The COVID Scare (Before and After My Recovery)

I should preface my testimony with a brief character sketch. Yours truly has always been the curious type. Inquisitive, no less. In fact, suspicious and skeptical might be better descriptors. Today I find this ironic, since as a child I was more obedient than my parents deserved. Though I frequently fell into disfavor because of my desire to know how and why and where and when. Asking questions for clarification struck my elders as exploiting their good nature.

Due to my experiences as an older teen with the public school system, Protestantism, and authority in general, my talent for recognizing duplicity, deceit, and ineptitude caused me to question and scrutinize so much that I’d formulate independent ideas frighteningly akin to conspiracy theories.

From raising a brow over claims strangers made and squinting over accounts witnesses provided, to grimacing at ads marketers produced and scowling at headlines found most anywhere, my talent for skepticism not only developed beyond my desires. This talent appeared to exceed that of my peers to such a degree that I became increasingly mortified by the gullibility these same peers enjoyed.

But it was most notably during my stint in the U.S. NAVY that my faith in institutional power was most shaken. I discovered that those at the top of the hierarchy, those responsible for defending a nation against foreign and domestic attack, rarely fired on all cylinders and were frequently complete and utter morons. It was then that I began to seriously question the trust we ascribe to those holding positions of high station or office.

Today, as an older gentleman, as I increasingly lose faith in most human institutions, the public’s trust in authority and frightening willingness to submit baffles me. I admit that to be young and cynical isn’t healthy. But cynicism at my age is indicative of wisdom. My caution and wariness are benefits. The point is, and this is where I’m bound to offend, I generally feel either pity or scorn for those naïve enough to unquestioningly obey or comply.

Two years ago, when COVID struck our shores and the government – unprepared and unequipped to deal with the pandemic – first insisted on closing businesses, I cringed, realizing our liberties were already jeopardized. When some defied such tyranny, police throughout various states arrived to arrest those entrepreneurs. Imagine. An American citizen led out in cuffs for wanting to feed his family. I remember gazing Heavenward and daydreamed about the logistics of overturning a government. (But that’s just between you and me.)

I’d like to think today the public is complying begrudgingly. But I know some Americans are still convinced mask mandates will preserve us all. Protests periodically sprout up to criticize governors who’ve dropped the mask mandates in their states. It’s a sad commentary, but many are more than willing to relinquish their liberties in exchange for a false sense of security, an implied guarantee of supposed protection. Unfortunately, they likewise insist everyone else follow suit.

Because many of us feel helpless about things we’re convinced we can neither change nor prevent, we, tragically, resign ourselves to defer to others. But this quite often leads to all sorts of disasters. I’d argue that in some sense this group fits the traits found in victims of Stockholm Syndrome. Government oppresses its citizens. And yet some of those citizens, rather than becoming indignant, are inspired, perhaps by a sense of loyalty to king and country and the motherland, to instead regard the abuse with a sort of resolve. Such power, however brutal, commands their reverence, or at the very least their fear. The strong arm of government is almost comforting. It’s good to be obedient, they tell themselves. Compliance is healthy.

It’s the pattern found in those abused who blame themselves for the abuse they receive. As a government relentlessly abuses the trust of its people, some of those people simply capitulate. Like the battered housewife who declines to leave her abusive husband. Instead, she weighs the benefits of a familiar monster to something she regards as worse – potentially living alone for the rest of her life.

Withstanding such oppression likewise increases one’s sense of virtue. Perhaps lacking confidence in their own autonomy and potential, such people view government as religious people might misconstrue God as a surrogate father whose wrath they wish to avoid, convinced that to respond with outrage requires too much effort, needless conflict, and is ultimately futile. Such people, preferring to be coddled rather than truly liberated, are lured into the more attractive posture of conformity, subservience, and the collective.  

Still. To extend an olive branch to the docile and the timorous, I acknowledge that leaving important things to the experts is frequently well advised. I can’t perform my own surgery, for example. If you drive to work every day, you rely on mechanics and engineers to have manufactured your vehicle to spec. You trust you’re in compliance with state and federal standards, road ordinances, and own a reliable enough engine to get you from point A to point B without mishap (even if you’re an awful driver and never use your turn signal).

However, deferring to the experts, while frequently necessary, perhaps even natural, shouldn’t extend to governmental officials or politicians. And it certainly shouldn’t apply to the mask mandates which numerous, often censored, medical doctors have insisted (for over a year) that children and healthy adults should abandon.  

While our representative democracy is the best form of government on the planet, it’s still appalling, inefficiently operated by the incompetent, the ignorant, and the corrupt. If you’ve ever gotten bored enough to waste time watching CSPAN, you’ll know these tired old fools in Congress are oblivious. They’re not qualified to vote on, much less compose, legislation for the entire country. Yet they do.

Moreover (a word I haven’t used in quite some time), these politicians know little more than the public. Yet they’ve insisted on things that, as the months have elapsed, science has either disproved or contradicted. Meanwhile, these same clowns refuse to acknowledge that their edicts have made matters only worse. And despite the damage done by their buffoonery, they face no repercussions whatsoever, partially because not enough people capable of voting them out of office are paying attention.

Over the past year alone, I’ve watched as doctors whose research showed results contrary to either Dr. Fauci’s claims or to the CDC’s ordained wisdom were either systematically removed from social media or invited on only those programs predisposed, or narrative-aligned, to exposing government corruption. For example, as far back as early 2020, when Fauci and other duplicitous authorities were insisting that the Coronavirus could be traced to Chinese people eating bats, a Chinese virologist was invited on Tucker Carlson’s Fox News show to caution against that narrative, insisting instead that the virus originated in a lab.

She wasn’t invited on NPR, CNN, MSNBC, or ABC. Those government sponsored cable networks don’t cover stories counter to their narrative. Whereas whenever Fauci wishes to issue guidelines or lie again to the American people, he is given carte blanche with these same networks, not to mention an entire channel on YouTube devoted to his propaganda, plus interviews hosted by likeminded people on additional YouTube channels via a digital cross pollination process.

It doesn’t matter that email and other correspondence, now public, show Fauci and others conspiring to malign and impugn the credentials of those specialists with whom they disagree, only because these independent specialists refused to toe the line. Depending on one’s predisposition or political sympathies, one is inclined to either acknowledge the sources or the reports themselves, or instead deny or relegate such stories to irrelevancy.

Not to harken back too far, but as I expounded at some length in a previous post entitled Why Atheism Fails, our personal sentiments and individual presumptions determine our premises about the world and human nature. This view of the world pre-establishes which press and media sources we're prone to believe. Ultimately, our own echo chambers and circular philosophies predispose us to either trust or renounce those in the press who make claims that we regard as comporting with our world view.

I’m aware of this in myself. My default mode is to doubt government and to instead honor the individual. Humanity, for all its faults, has value. Whereas government is beyond redemption – wasteful, corrupt, inefficient, incompetent, and ultimately unaccountable.

Of course, I realize my philosophy is in direct contrast to my political rivals who appear predisposed to trust government and relegate the individual to its value as measured by its contribution. This is most pronounced in that rival’s insistence that our principle pressing issues are manmade – global warming, overpopulation, exhausting resources. Whereas my argument is that only by looking inward and changing ourselves, not outward and demanding change from others, will we repair the damage and potentially make the world a better place.   

It’s a curiosity embedded in human nature to appreciate concern, despite the ineffectual nature of that concern. Case in point, one state governor imposes mask and vaccine mandates. Over the course of six months, that state produces X number of COVID patients per capita. Meanwhile, DeSantis, the state governor of Florida, disregards mask and vaccine mandates, has either the same or fewer COVID patients per capita (keep in mind he has a greater number of elderly than any other state), but is nonetheless castigated by some as reckless or indifferent because he refuses to impose such oppressive policy.

I’d argue he instead honored the liberties and individual choices of Floridians regarding their medical decisions while those who pushed policies to reflect their concern caused far more harm than good. We’ve seen this play out throughout history. When government tries to remedy a problem, it typically only exacerbates that problem.

We’ve had more COVID deaths under the Biden Administration than under the Trump Administration. And yet because the Biden Administration has imposed both mask and vaccine mandates throughout, no one in legacy media has accused Biden of these COVID deaths under his watch. Whereas more than one of these same press sources has suggested that the deaths under the Trump Administration essentially make Trump a murderer. Because despite Biden’s ineffectual mandates, their existence implies effort, action. While those who might know better than to impose ineffectual policy – closing schools and businesses, imposing mask mandates – are regarded by some as either foolish or heartless or both.    

Over the past year, against my better judgement, and admittedly only within my periphery, I’ve watched as CNN, MSNBC, and ABC, who, by the way, were (and are still) sponsored by Pfizer throughout these entire vaccine mandates, echoed the democrat party’s edicts unquestioningly (vax, boosters, masks indefinitely) and mocked those who expressed doubt or dissent.

I also watched as other news organizations learned of Dr. Fauci’s duplicity. We the People eventually saw the emails and other exchanges showing that Fauci’s self-interests led him to lie to the nation about his own knowledge of the NIH’s efforts to fund the Wuhan Institute of Virology’s research that led to the gain of function of SARS-CoV-2 and the subsequent COVID-19 virus, consequently ending in the virus spilling out into the public sphere and contaminating the world, resulting in an avoidable pandemic.

Fauci committed perjury. At the very least, the cad should be imprisoned for conspiracy to deceive the public and withhold his knowledge of experimental modifications on an exceedingly dangerous pathogen without concern for humanity’s welfare or safety. Instead, he maintains both his position and his salary, while his apologists in the press insist on redefining gain of function to defend him.

The average IQ is 100. Only 1% of the world’s population has an IQ of 145 or above. Some functioning adults have an IQ of around 90. They’re eligible to vote, by the way. Many hold positions in government. Many are voters who can’t locate the Atlantic Ocean on a world map. Yet they’re going to vote for or against a candidate (without even cracking open a single book on pediatrics or the latest peer reviewed research on the psychological ramifications of masking children) based on that candidate’s stance on things he or she knows nothing about.

No published report justifies policies to mask or vax children. And yet Pfizer, as I compose this post, is manufacturing a vaccine for children between six months and four years of age. Why? Because the government is funding it. Big Brother wants you to know it cares. To target an untapped demographic, regardless the social consequence, is lucrative.  

Both the government’s tyranny and the public’s fear of the pandemic has created a perfect storm for a reimagining of Orwell’s novel 1984. As Michael Malice, an anarchist, has pointed out: half the country is so cowardly, so inept, and so prone to place their faith in anyone or anything that assures them they’ll be taken care of, that if our Zombie in Chief President Biden issued an edict today claiming that consuming dog urine would immunize us against the COVID virus, tens of millions of Americans would flood the web searching for the best dog urine available for sale. “Oh! Both Wikipedia and Vox claim it’s the urine of a dachshund!? Shop. Go to cart. Buy!”

So when I caught COVID this past January (on the 25^th), my first reaction wasn’t to listen to Anthony Fauci or Xavier Becerra (the latter being the United States Secretary of Health and Human Services and a duplicitous ass who committed perjury when questioned by Rand Paul under oath in the Senate). Instead, my first reaction was to seek out those who, rather than say anything to preserve their positions of power, instead investigate and question those in power – the Joe Rogans (a self-professed far leftist) of the world, the Tim Pools (libertarian), the Ben Shapiros (right wing), and the Jimmy Dores (leftist).

Likewise, I didn’t unquestioningly quarantine myself in my apartment for two weeks and hope my flu-like symptoms didn’t include my lungs filling up with liquid and drowning in my own pneumonia. (Should your symptoms include respiratory complications, doctors do recommend checking yourself into hospital and being placed on a ventilator.)

Instead, I considered the fact that I’m not just as important as the President of the United States. On the contrary. I’m far more important than that septuagenarian who, as Vice President during the Obama Administration, would, on camera, loom over children from behind with his wrinkled claws on their shoulders, and creepily stoop to sniff their hair.

That pervert’s private doctors will do far more than advise against going out in public for two weeks. Indeed, those doctors will throw everything but the kitchen sink, both FDA approved and experimental stuff, at the symptoms, as they did for our knuckle-dragging troglodyte President Trump when he contracted the virus. Yes. Neither major political party is of any use to me. They’re comprised of foul, below average thinkers, as well as reckless abusers not only of the English language but of the power and authority with which they’re invested. With rare exception, every politician is an incorrigible scoundrel.

But enough pontificating. Back to my testimony. As I say, it began on January 25^th, on a cold Tuesday morning at three a.m. I awoke feeling like a shell of my former self, not me but rather my ghost. I showered like an automaton. Dressed like an invalid. Could hardly tie my shoelaces. Could barely lift my arms. I was a black hole at the stage of supreme implosion, drawing into myself, ever shrinking and condensing. Sore all over.

My boss sent me home. I drove in a haze, all the while assuming I had a hellish case of the flu. Once home, I took Naproxen Sodium, Mucinex, Vitamin C, sprinkled salt over my left shoulder for luck, and passed out in bed. I hibernated until that afternoon when I had to run my afternoon route since no one else could. Barely made it home afterwards to immediately crash again.

I lost track of time, of my surroundings, of my identity. Had no appetite. By Friday, four days later, having missed two morning routes (which marked the first time I’d missed a day of work in nearly five years), I managed to drive myself to the VA in town and ask to see a doctor.

I was refused admittance. Told that instead I had to get tested for COVID. Less than 24 hours later, over the phone, a VA nurse at the emergency branch in Temple gave me the news. The news was followed by instruction.

I was reluctant to bow to her expertise. Instead, I stressed a hypothetical. “Suppose I can’t take off work entirely. Suppose I’m indispensable, at least for my afternoon shift.” The nurse only reiterated her earlier instruction. She advised against work, assured me she couldn’t prevent it, but that I should take every precaution to avoid any more interaction with others than necessary, that I instead required isolation and rest.

Keep in mind I already knew the prescribed policy, a policy handed down not from a consensus of epidemiologists, economists, virologists, and geo-political theorists locked in a room to seriously address this issue like our perhaps more astute elders who attended the Manhattan Project had, but rather from the corrupt WHO, the lying NIH, the duplicitous Fauci, and a certain government administration helmed by a dazed corpse who escaped his sarcophagus.

Their panic policy? Shut down businesses (killing the economy), indefinitely barricade the public in their homes (which only spread it more rapidly among family) and tell the now unemployed public to await further instruction (instruction which likewise proved detrimental to their livelihoods). Carry out this policy until tens of millions of Americans get fed up and refuse. Then call those frustrated citizens white supremacists to discredit their criticism.

So, dissatisfied with my nurse’s generic prognosis, I steered the topic toward that exclusive club to which only the privileged, the elite, have access. Celebrities, athletes, and politicians were allowed to cut in line. They were given what I call The Platinum Membership Treatment. They’re no better than me, so, I asked (having done a little homework) about taking Prednisone, z-pack, monoclonal antibodies, and the controversial Ivermectin.

While the nurse (and later a VA doctor) said she could officially authorize most of that stuff, supplies were limited. The only thing she could guarantee me was Prednisone. Instead, she returned to the official policy – rest and wait it out. If your heartbeat becomes irregular or you find that you can’t breathe, go to emergency. Otherwise, abstain from work, drink plenty of water, and quarantine yourself for two weeks.

After that phone conversation, I rolled my eyes and began to scheme. “I’m not missing any more work,” I told myself. “I make good money, and I’m saving for a mail order bride, preferably from South Korea. Also, side note, I need to learn the Korean language.”

Without naming names, I phoned a savvy acquaintance and explained my plan. To protect his identity, let’s call this savvy acquaintance Wilberforce. “Wilberforce,” I rasped, due to my COVID condition. “You, like me, served in the U.S. military. Unlike me, you climbed the ranks and led operations. You’ve had access to secrets few of us will ever know. Rubbed shoulders with uncouth brass and bawdy officials. Know the meaning of the word propaganda. Privy to the latest government sponsored lies of both other nations as well as our very own government. How am I doing so far?”

Wilberforce’s deep voice inspired reverence. “A slanted, if not cynical, spin on my resumé. By the way, for the record, I deny all of it. But to what do I owe the pleasure of this military montage?”

“Just wanted you to know that I know you’re qualified, as far as I’m concerned, to wax eloquent on the corrupt underbelly of this otherwise pristine landscape dubbed America. Plus, you have access to what, for lack of a better term, we’ll refer to as contraband.”

“Fair enough. But where’s this coming from? Are you in the neighborhood for a spare bunker? Or wait. You need a tank? You sound terrible, by the way. As in possessed. Like that tragic teen in The Exorcist movie. Are you ill?”

“Steady, general. No, no bunker. If it comes to that, it’ll be us against the zombies when we emerge from our underground lair smelling of filth and brandishing a rusty can opener. And, yes. I’m so sick I feel as if I could levitate. As far as tanks go, are you asking me whether I need something comparable to a Sherman or a Tiger? Or do you mean an iron lung of some descript?”

“Well, I’d say judging from what sounds like Mephistopheles speaking on your behalf, an iron lung might be in order.”

“No, nothing like that, my good man. Set all ordnance and anachronistic hospital appliances aside. Rather let us place a fresh pale canvass upon the easel. Imagine, if you will. I’m the suzerain of my demesne, for what it is.”

“And a fine demesne it is.”

“Thanks. You should see my demesne at dawn. It’s spectacular.”

“Are we still talking territory? An estate? Land?”

“Let’s evaluate my circs, shall we? Or shall I say survey my estate, to maintain the metaphor? I, as it were, am in the soup, old boy. I have the dreaded pandemic squirming throughout my sexy body. Or, again, for the sake of a consistent metaphor, you might say I have moles in my fields.”

“I refuse to say that. Sounds disgusting.”

“No. Not moles. Moles.”

“What did I say?”

“The mammal that digs. Related to the marmot, I think. Not the skin –”  

“I get it, David Attenborough. Anyway. It just so happens that I can help with your current malady.”

“Then you’ve anticipated the reason for my call. Frown at your ceiling, and rub your chin as if in deep thought, general. My question is as follows. Have you access to the things forbidden? The drugs that – including the COVID vaccine until quite recently – aren’t FDA approved? Because I want the lot, 友達.”

“Tomodachi?”

“Yes, 友達. Means friend in Japanese.”

“Of course, it does.”

“Perhaps even both the detergent and the bleach. Everything including the kitchen sink, the Tuscany styled tiles, the monogrammed dish towels, and the frilled apron.” 

“Meet me for lunch.”

“As soon as tomorrow, per chance?”

“Today.”

Wilberforce provided me with the controversial Ivermectin, as well as a few other essentials I can’t disclose for reasons associated with a certain American rogue agency prone to illegally applying battering rams to the doors of private residences on either frequently false pretenses or ironically the wrong address.

That was a little over a month ago today, the first two weeks of which I had no appetite. I lost 18 lbs. I’m practically at one hundred percent now and twenty pounds lighter, but my sense of taste and smell only recently returned. Hearing in my right ear was significantly diminished, too, which is only now reinstalled. The medical professionals assure me such side effects are common and usually temporary for many who survive the virus, which is most people, by the way.

Consider: after two years, of the roughly seven billion people on the planet, there’s been about 403 million COVID cases worldwide now. Of those 403 million cases, 5.7 million have ended in deaths. That, at the risk of sounding callous, is a very small percentage. Various estimates place the mortality rate at about 1%. One percent!

Look. This pandemic isn’t comparable to burning popcorn in your microwave and opening the windows for half an hour to air out your house. COVID, as one of my nurses assured me, is here to stay. So might I inquire as to why the hell we’re still wearing masks?

Instead, we should doff these absurd muzzles and, if we can, immunize ourselves against the virus. Not by coercion or by force or by fiat. Not by way of tyranny. Not by having our civil liberties trampled. No. But rather by choosing to vax and booster or, if, like me, you’d prefer, abstain from the vaccine (as did I), contract the virus unprotected (as did I), survive it (say it with me, as did I), and consequently build the subsequent antibodies to withstand yet another strain or attack. Because, to reiterate what my nurse said, COVID is here to stay.

Which is why I’ve been saying since day one, doff the mask. You can’t live your entire life bubble wrapped. Or you can, but as for me, to quote Emiliano Zapata, “I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees.” And if you’re masking your otherwise healthy children, well, there should be a special spot reserved for you in one of Dante’s nine circles of Hell, because that’s child abuse, pure and simple. The chance of a child dying from COVID is estimated at one to two in one million. Not to be morbid, but the odds of a child dying in a car accident are much higher. Should we not allow kids in cars anymore? Many of us seem to have forgotten that navigating our way through life requires risk assessment.

If you’re still masking yourself and you’re not either elderly or have a compromised immune system, then you’re applying lipstick to a warthog. Because even if you plan to don a mask every day for the rest of your life, you could still (as with those who’ve been immunized) contract the virus. And if you do contract the virus, you’re going to either die from it (unlikely) or survive it (highly likely). And then you’re effectively in the clear. Equipped to survive possible future strains.

Otherwise, you’re merely postponing the inevitable while sporting the early twenty-first century’s fashion I’ve dubbed the poor man’s version of a HASMAT suit – vaxes, boosters, gloves, masks. Think about that. Even if you never contract the virus and live to the ripe old age of 114, you will have worn that poor man’s version of a HASMAT suit for Every Day for the Rest of Your Entire Life. And probably drinking dachshund piss, too.

I realize it’s easier to abandon personal responsibility and leave our fates in the hands of government, but when has that ever benefitted us? Thanks to the funding that led to gain of function, our government indirectly created this pandemic. As other specialists have noted, our government wasn’t adequately prepared for it. Our government further failed to protect our shores against it, failed to contain it, failed to prevent our current inflation resulting from its subsequent imposed lockdowns.

Speaking of which, remember when our leaders told us the lockdowns would last for only a few weeks to allow hospitals to prepare for the predicted influx of COVID patients which, by the way, never came? Remember when our leaders promised we could doff the masks once we got the vaccine? And yet the vaxxed are still mandated to mask, right? At least we were told we could instead doff the mask once we got the booster, right? Oops, again.

I remember when the rule of distance in public was measured six feet indoors. For those who may not know, without providing details, I live in Texas. Our governor lifted the mask mandate statewide roughly a year ago. However, this state policy doesn’t extend to federal operations or property. As a result, I have a federal client who, until only four days ago, insisted you mask when alone, in your vehicle, outside, driving on a paved expanse the size of about four football stadiums toward the dock doors, with no one else around for at least 600 yards if that.

That’s paranoia in policy form. Anti-science. Cowardice. And stupidity. In short, government. The sooner this nation recognizes and defies the gaslighting villains in this narrative, the better for this nation’s physical, mental, and economic health.

My New Year’s Resolutions for 2022

I’m a phenomenally fortunate fellow. While I don’t deny that life’s obstacles sometimes come barreling my way – noisy neighbors, horrid drivers, telemarketers, beautiful women, a scuffed shoe, STOP signs, my spam folder – these aggravations are first world problems, infrequent and relatively inane (knock on wood).

In fact, so much wonderful stuff has happened over the course of these past two months in particular that blessed is the term that leaps to mind when I consider my circumstances. This isn’t to say I’ve always had it this good. Ah, contraire, my fine dandelion. I’ve walked through a furnace or two, slogged through that valley of the shadow of death more than once. Yet these things have tempered me like molten, hammered steel. I’ve likewise been drenched in cool, quiet waters. This sword, though still flawed, now gleams brightly.  

Indeed, I’ve no doubt part of the reason for my joy and gratitude stems from my experiences crossing that ring of fire. Only Brunhilde is not my reward. Nay. That Valkyrie in the Norse myth seeks not my arrival or rescue through that fabled sheet of flame. She’s a mere metaphor for what awaits me on the other side – peace and contentment. Though my brows are singed, I’m enveloped in an appreciation for all that has gone before.

I now have three wonderful jobs, two of which pay well (the third is writing, which pays nothing). Granted, this means less free time. However, I’m trading in some of my free time for making, saving, and (admittedly) spending more money.

Despite the additional work hours, I still manage to read and write and go over my languages. Got to keep my brain active with more than the ubiquitous tedium of hygiene habits, work schedules, household chores, and laundry days.

To keep myself on track with my lifelong passions and otherwise noble pursuits, this year I made some New Year’s Resolutions, something I’d neglected doing for the past few years. But before you roll your eyes and dismiss my resolve as nothing more than naïve, empty promises, I would ask that you note this isn’t my first pool party. I’m pretty good about keeping resolutions or at the very least getting close enough to the goal to warrant the effort. My New Year’s spread for this year is as follows:

1.   Be Nice.

I’m a great guy. Once you convince me you’re worth my time, I’m one of the warmest, kindest, most insightful, conversational, brilliant, giving guys you could hope for (at least that’s what I’ve plugged into my dating app bios). A genius no less. And yet I remain so humble. But yes; I know. I’m smug, demanding, and far too sexy for most of you Earthlings. I’ve no interest in investing or sharing time with those with whom I have little to nothing in common. 

But back to my New Year’s Resolution. To be nice. So far, this effort has taken the form of charity and gift giving, a practice that pairs well with my recent adoption of the lifestyle known as Minimalism. Thus, as I abnegate possessions that I stored in boxes ages ago and haven’t touched since, I find myself assuming the role of Father Christmas (sans the costume and false beard) well into January. I’ve limited this gift giving to fellow guys primarily so that women don’t think I’m either flirting or fishing for favors. The rest I’m donating to Goodwill.

My ideal charity work would be to read to the elderly or the blind. I suspect this role isn’t as sought after as it once was, however, before the invention of the television (or, as my grandmother was fond of calling it, The Idiot Box), but sitting at their bedside and reading either the classics or something comparable aloud would give me great pleasure. I know I should be thinking about what would instead give the recipient pleasure, but I’m still a work in progress, so back off.

2.   Read 40 Books.

Twenty of them must be important works. For example, one would be Man’s Search for Meaning by Victor Frankl. True, I read this book many years ago, but I want to read it again. I’ve read more than 50 books in a year before, but that’s nearly a book a week, and I wasn’t as busy back then as I am today. I recently visited a site that listed 100 of the so-called Great Classics of Literature. I was disappointed in myself when I discovered I’d read only about 23 of them. I’ve got my work cut out for me.

I realize 40 books in a year isn’t particularly impressive for a writer. It’s certainly not as many as some, but let’s be wicked for a moment; it’s far more than most read throughout their entire, vapid lives. 

3.   Save Eight Grand.

This won’t be difficult since I use a wonderful app called EveryDollar.com. The app allows you to punch in your earnings and expenses and then shows you in pie chart form where your money is going and how much of it you have left at the end of each month. It’s a great way to plan, economize, and save. Been using it for the past several years and have already managed to save quite a bit of moolah, more than enough to purchase several life-improving upgrades, including an assortment of affectations – walking canes, monocles, bowties – and Pikachu plushy collectibles to replace my throw pillows on my couch made entirely of lynx fur.

4.   Finish all my Duolingo and LingoDeer App Lessons in the Japanese Language.

This isn’t an unreasonable goal. After two years, I’m already nearly halfway there. It’ll require more time than I’ve set aside in the past, but I’ve found that the more I learn, the faster the subsequent stuff clicks. Best example I might provide is when tackling a musical instrument. Initially, everything is new. Take guitar, for instance. Just pressing your fingers against the fretboard’s strings can cause pain. Shaping chords is a challenge. But over time, after learning a few chord progressions and scales, building up those calluses, developing those finger muscles and that motor memory, learning new pieces of music is far easier than the first basic etudes you were taught only a few weeks or months into your studies. Now you’re playing along to recordings, impressing friends, and perhaps even composing your own music.

5.   Lose 30 Pounds.

All right. Fine! 40 lbs. As I mentioned in a previous post, I’ve already returned to the gym. I’m already fitting into the clothes from a few years back before I gained weight and before the pandemic that kept us indoors. Also, as I get older, I find the need for keeping fit ever more important. Essential, even. For minimizing aches and pains, tightness of limbs, etc., it’s imperative to stretch and to do cardio regularly (Mark reminds himself as much as he reminds anyone else). If for no other reason than to remain limber and energetic, to maintain your metabolism and overall mental well-being, you should work your body to pursue the best version of your physical self.

6.   Make a friend.

This might be the greatest challenge of my life. As an introspective introvert, I tend to keep to myself. The only time I interact with people is either when at work or when dealing with those in professional services – cashiers, rent managers, clerks, exotic dancers, arresting officers, inmates, bail bondsman, my parole officer, and my priest. That’s a joke. I’m a good boy. The last time I saw an exotic dancer was 15 years ago on a dare, and it broke my heart.

True. I enjoy making people laugh, but apart from the few times I’m required to step out of doors, I’m in my apartment, alone with my passion projects. That sounds naughty as I chance a glance at my wording, but I assure you if you could watch from a distance, you’d assume I’m either a college student cramming for my final exams or some industrialist working from home on an impossibly tight deadline.

I wouldn’t call myself a misanthrope. It’s just that my social needs are practically nonexistent. For one thing, I don’t get lonely. This tends to surprise people. We’re social creatures after all, and, as the cliché goes, no man is an island. But since life is short and we have only so many hours in a day, beyond my jobs which afford me the luxury of donning my Victorian top hat, puffing on my tobacco pipe, listening to Patrick O’Hearn’s “Milan to Alessio top down,” dressed in my corduroy three piece, and daydreaming about saving for a 2022 Triumph Bonneville Bobber …

I tend to engage in only those things that provide me with ample bliss to sustain my psyche. Anything else is essentially extraneous. 

My kryptonite is a power outage. I’m regularly writing on either my desktop or my laptop, connected to the internet, reading on my Kindle app, occasionally watching YouTube or Netflix, listening to music, and using various language learning apps to study. All of which requires an active grid. Or at the very least phone battery life.

I suppose, worst case scenario, America becomes overrun by environmental crazies who dictate that heretofore we must ride in horse drawn buggies and attach solar panels to our roofs. I’d consequently be forced to make friends with strangers and pretend I required their company if only for the chance for some (fingers crossed) opportunity to practice a foreign language with a native speaker or (dare to hope) witty repartee in English. Otherwise, I’m content surrounded by my apps.

Granted, getting to know someone, understanding their perspective, appreciating their value and what they contribute to the relationship – these are noble ambitions and worthy of pursuit. Indubitably. It simply doesn’t come naturally for me.

In practical terms, I’m a hermit on the grid. Ironically, in print or post form, I’m a social butterfly. In person, I’m the guy in the back, observing, quipping, and searching for the perfect punch line. Whereas on this blog, I’m a gregarious maniac assuming various personas.

My heart goes out to those who need social interaction, who get lonesome, who require someone else be in the same room or apartment or house with them. I’m not knocking it; I just find it optional, not essential. I’d rather be alone to either dance in my unmentionables or read and write without interruption.

However, as I hope I’ve made clear, I recognize this isn’t normal. Thus, I’ve taken steps to address my disposition. In my recent effort to become more social, I founded The Single Malt Scotch Club. It’s an informal group instituted for the sole purpose of gathering scotch fans to sip and chat and listen to either jazz, symphony, ambient, or some other style or genre of music pending my approval. Currently I’m its only member. But I’m accepting applications. These are essentially oral interviews, conducted in public, and accompanied by either coffee or Jello shots.  

In a year we’ll see how close I came to fulfilling these resolutions and just how much more my life is enriched because of it. Granted, these are ancillary things insofar as they're supportive of the body and mind. They've little to do with the soul or with everlasting joy. I agree. That’s what prayer and faith and fellowship is for and about. No doubt. Though I'd argue such cerebral pursuits do nourish the spirit. Nonetheless, these are worthy goals for improving one’s life in addition to being a great reminder of just how much better I am than most everyone else.