How many fools does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

Fools always travel in ships.

There are the fools of Gotham.
There are Shakesperean fools.

There are people who are surrounded by fools.
Imbeciles.
Idiots.
Nincompoops.
Morons.
Incompetents.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Foolishness!

Today, I have the phrase for me:

I am a sad fool.

I cannot escape my own ignorance. I can choose many actions, and all of them seem foolish to me. No choice appears to be a wise one. There are times when this is so, situations when you cannot come out like a hero.

Not everyone is the hero. The rest of us are Rosencrantz and Gildenstern, bit parts, left confused and out of the major action.

I love that play, “Rosencrantz and Gildenstern are dead.” It brings up all kind of questions about what the HECK we are trying to accomplish in this big wide world that has big important things happening that WE CANNOT AFFECT very much.

Then there’s Billy Joel’s song “We didn’t Start the Fire.” We are left with the result of a history which, through hindsight, we would not have chosen.

And it doesn’t matter. Remember the Jeff Goldblum character in Jurrasic Park? Chaos theory…Just one drop of water can move across a person’s skin in different ways, moved by invisible, imperceptible pulls and tugs.

Choice is so powerful! That’s what Tony Robbins says! That’s what Viktor Frankl says.

And it is still not quite powerful enough. It is certainly not all-powerful.

So I, like King Lear, can rage against the storm and affirm the choices I have made. But that doesn’t mean they were right. And it doesn’t mean they affect as much as I want them to.

But that doesn’t excuse me from trying and trying. And trying and trying.

And that is what makes me a sad fool. Sad, as in pathetic. What hope, what importance have I, in the scheme of human history?

Just as much as anyone else. Maybe. And that isn’t very much.

But at the same time, it’s everything.

Every day is the day to get up, in spite of what seems to be futility. That drop of water might be affected by my striving, by my will.

And yet, it’s good for me to know that my choices are not that powerful. That I should be humble, knowing that I am a pathetic slob trying to make something of myself and leave a little scratch on the planet that makes it better, not worse.

And it’s good for me to know that I am a fool, so I can laugh at my foolishness, and have patience with the pitiful effects of my scratching.

For we know, from the beginning, what good does pride do anyone? never has. So, I’ll be the hopelessly hopeful. I’ll be the optimistic pessimist. And I’ll laugh and my sad foolishness, and in laughing, I’ll find the strength to keep on.

That’s what posted in the bus. It’s an ad for the bus itself. I don’t read Spanish, but I am pretty sure it means “The Metro Bus-For Flirting”

Must be in the air. Either that, or I’m pheremonal. Today, as I got off the bus, a young man jumped off with me and came up behind me. He asked me what my name was. He had a thick accent. I thought he said he was Roumanian. Turned out he was Armenian, and I mean REALLY Armenian. He had just gotten here in American from Armenia.

Through the course of our conversation, I discovered this. And I discovered his name was Artur, that he’s studied Russian language and Biology. He hoped to become a doctor, but was working as a jeweler in his family business until he could get his working papers.

That was all just an aside. What he really wanted to tell me, as we Manhattan-style powerwalked to my workplace, was that he was in love with me. He was quite persistent, and quite distressed that I did not return his love.

He asked how old I was. “31,” I said.

“21?”
“No, 31. How old are you?”
“I am 30.”

Yeah right.

So, a long conversation discussing love, and college and the status of my availability was carried on at high speed, in three languages I think. I understood some of his Russian. He understood some of my Russian, and both of us didn’t understand a lot of each other’s english.

I suspect he was throwing in some Armenian here and there.

He begged me to admit that I found him attractive…And that he was in love with me.

I told him there were many beautiful women in Los Angeles, and that if he fell in love so quickly, it would be quite easy to fall in love the next time. He followed me for about three blocks.

I had to accept his phone number before he would leave me.

“Tbi pozvonish? pozvonish menya?” [you’ll call? you’ll call me?]

“Povidyemsya.” [we’ll see]

“Abyezyatilno!” [you must!]

“Chastliva!” [Cheers!]

and I walked off. Must be something in the air. Last friday, when I was waiting at the bus stop, some guy in a toyota truck kept circling and waving and honking at me.

It makes me laugh. But maybe I should shop for some pepper spray.

Pepper Spray – Para Coquetar

Yesterday at last, I managed to get to Mexico. I have been ashamed of myself for never having been. What kind of traveller/adventurer can I claim to be if I haven’t even been to Mexico? It’s a short drive away. A day trip.

And so I took a day trip and went. My favorite traveling companion was most unwilling. Chris reads newspapers and has decided that Mexico is a place of unrelenting corruption and danger. People are stopped, and thrown into jail if they do not bribe the policemen properly.

“So, make sure to budget in some bribes,” was my response.

He objected to the idea, on moral grounds, of bribing a policeman.

“Hey, that’s their culture. It’s not great, but they are hardly the only country that does bribing. In fact, I think that Americans are at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to international business. We should require Bribing 101 for MBAs.”

He was not amused. So, with the threat of incarceration and the deep fear of Montezuma’s revenge, he drove us down to San Diego to catch the trolley to Tijuana.

He refused to drive , stay overnight, or eat while we were there.Honestly, I was sorry for him, that he had all these fears. But I was proud that he would accompany me anyway. He said someone had to keep me out of trouble.

I wanted to shop and have a Margarita. Actually, I wanted to try the other yummy foods, too. But I had some constraints with Mr. Worrywart at my side.

He was marvelous, though. We went in, and he kept track of where were were going and how to get out.

We got there about 2:30. It was hot and muggy as hell. I was very glad that we had not driven. Walking in took no time at all, and the line of cars out of TJ was enormous.

It was beautiful. It was so colorful, I liked it very much. I was pretty much focussed an the shopping, and it reminded me of all the other open-air Markets I’d been to- the Arbat in Moscow, the various markets I’d stumbled across in the UK and Ireland.

The Mexicans called out to you though, asing you to come into their stores. The men used their charm as liberally as they could, “Mija! Curly! Come inside to my store, I have beautiful purses and jewelry you will want.”

I was called curly rather frequently. It made me smile. Chris was not addressed at all. He had his arms around me, or was holding my hand the whole time.

“Half Price for the honeymooners!” they would call out to us.

You know, at the malls here, it is sort of amazing to get noticed at all, let alone with that kind of detail. I loved it.

The first man that called me Curly, I fell for. “Curly! Come look here! Mija! I have some earrings just like the ones you are wearing.”

I know it is a sales tactic, but it was very sweet to be called Mija at every turn.

“Your hair is so curly. Is that natural? It is so curly. You should give me some, I would keep it with me. Look at these bracelets…Do you like them? Here are some more for you. I got these at a discount, very good price for you.”

I should have bought something from him, just because he was so charming. Most of them were like that though. Imagine! A lock of my hair. Most men in America have probably never even heard of such a romantic favor.

It was nice.

Of course, like I said, Chris was entirely ignored. Which was fine with him.

There were a lot of pretty jewelry, although not as delicate as I usually like. So I passed on most of it. Then I was stopped by the beautiful pottery. They told me it was from Oaxaca, the black pottery they are famous for. I saw a cheerful skull of black pottery, it had lacy flower cut-ous and two slits for the nose.

I passed on it, but then I kept thinking about it. I have a friend who loves the day of the dead. It was perfect for her. I finally found another one and bought it for her.

The sales man told me it was meant to have a candle inside it, and that the light would flicker from the cutouts. That made me want one of my own. But not a skull. I just wanted a globe with the flower cuts.

I kept looking, thinking I might find leather or something I liked. I stumbled into a shop that sold the most beautiful lace. Bobbin lace as well as the crocheted type. I had been thinking I wanted a tablecloth. Those can be expensive.

But oh my, they had such lovely ones. Bobbin lace! And embroided with more cut outs (hmm…Is this a theme?) I found some beautiful things. THey got the majority of my TJ money there. I spent about fifty bucks on table cloths and napkins and lacey settings and doileys. A bargain, in my mind.

I then insisted that I stop and get a margarita. I could not leave without that. “It’s tequila. It can’t hold germs, it can’t make you sick.”

“The ice has water. Montezuma can still get me.”

I enjoyed my margarita, and half of his. Mine had too much salt in it, but his was okay.

That put me in a very sweet mood for a little while. We were sitting next to a brick wall, and some men in tight pants with designs up the side were singing to guitar music.

We looked over the map, and decided to take a look at the cathedral which was supposed to be nearby. It was respectably old, the map said, so I thought we should take a look. We got a little bit lost, but on the way I found a Churro vendor. Yum..I bought a bag of churros.

We found the cathedral, which looked much newer than we expected. We peeked in, but didn’t stay long. Outside there were a lot of vendors selling religious objects. There were also a lot of vans, and I think they were practicing santeria in the vans. They seemed to be offering services of some kind.

On the way back to the main shopping area, we passed a few rather bored looking prosititutes. I wouldn’t have thought they were prostitues, they were demure by my standards, except for the shoes.

We went on to try to find some black pottery from Oaxaca and maybe some jewelry. It was a very uncrowded day, really. It was hot and muggy, but at least we weren’t crushed.

We looked at everything, but we didn’t find my black pottery until the very end. And then I was still without new jewelry. I stopped at every stand on the long corridor out. I finally bought a small ring, then we made better time through to the border. Chris was getting hungry.

Basically, I had the best time. I would like to go back, maybe with some girlfriends. Chris was a little over concerned. But it was a romantic wonderful day trip, and I have at last been to Mexico.

On the trolley out, Chris said “Now you’ve been to two foriegn countries this year with me. Canada and Mexico”

I’ve been wondering about why America was so paranoid about communism. I have read about McCarthyism and couldn’t believe it was true. Why would America, a country based on trying out new political ideas, be so FREAKED about communism?

And McCarthy, by most accounts, was this cynical guy using communism as a political lever to get power.

I just couldn’t see how the lever worked. What was in the minds of the populace that gave this fear purchase? Why would people who had gone through the depression let someone’s political opinions keep them from having a job? A job was a precious commodity. But the blacklists did just that. It was almost the meanest thing that anyone could think of, during the context of that time period.

I just couldn’t get it. What was so threatening about communism that people came up with this idea that there were spies everywhere, and that a communist message could be hidden in a movie script that would INFECT the whole nation. The pen had to be ripped from the hands of people who even knew people who knew communists.

BAD BAD BAD communists.

And yet, when I read the communist manifesto, I never got why it was so scary. Sure, for monarchies, it seemed pretty harsh. But we were voters here. We were a democracy. And if the majority thought there were good principles in communist philosophy, then it was our policy to let those have their sway.

I just couldn’t get it.

But I was watching the History channel this Saturday. I usually can’t STAND the history channel. Chris loves it. I have to groan and complain whenever he turns it on. It’s a joke now.

But I turned on the TV, and it was on the history channel and they were talking about the BOMB. The A-bomb.

I remembered, I remembered reading and thinking about nuclear war. It was the scariest thing anyone could think of. My mom told me she had been taught to hide under her desk if a bomb was dropped.

I laughed “What good would a desk do against a nuclear weapon? How ridiculous is that?”

But this show said that the A-bomb was a puny little bomb compared to the Hydrogen bomb that was invented soon after. Maybe a desk might have helped with the A-bomb.

They showed clips of the films like the kind my mom must have watched. “Little Jimmy has dropped to the ground, and he is covering his neck. That way he will avoid being burned.”

Oh my God! How scary!

Of course, WW 2 was when America raced to complete the A-Bomb, thinking that Germany had one in the works too. Germany surrendered before we got a chance to use the bomb on them. Whew.

But Japan didn’t. And we got to use the bomb on them.

I cannot describe my horror and sadness at the destruction caused by the A-bomb. The show said that it caused two deaths a week for 20 years after it was dropped. That’s a long time to keep bringing death. I hope that keeps the warmongers in check.

And on one hand, it has. No one has used a nuclear weapon since.

But check it out…There were Russian Spies who leaked the information of how to make a nuclear weapon to the Russians!

The Russians were on our side in the war, but that means nothing in geo-politics. Russian spies had infiltrated our military research operations and gotten the secret.

And the Russians had the bomb. And the Russians were busy taking over Europe, which showed a will to expansion.

And the Russians had the bomb.

And two people a week kept dying in Japan.

And maybe we were next.

THAT’s when America made a bigger, nastier bomb: the H-Bomb.

and I suddenly understood why we were so afraid of the Russians, and what purchase McCarthy had on the fears of the people.

That was the scared senseless part of America that he tapped into, and used to his advantage. When you have the scariest Mother of all bombs hanging over your head, freedom to try out new political theories seems to drop in importance.

SO that’s where all this “Are you now or have you ever been a member of the communist party?” comes from.

But the strangest thing about it. The Rosenbergs were put to death for their role in the spying activity. THey were couriers. The guy who was on the inside, Fuchs, was in prison for nine years and then went on to lecture in East Germany.

Only nine years.

Stunning how things work out sometimes.

But the history channel gave me the last piece of the puzzle, despite my derision. I may watch it once in a while, now.