More Than True

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Love, Rejected (from the book “Tragic Stories Disguised as Jokes”)

March 29, 2015 Books Links My books Writing

My petition for love was denied by the central authority which handles such petitions.
It used to be that these standard rejections came by certified mail and were printed in ornate script on fine paper. Today they all come by text message. Still, they carry with them the same tradition. They are summary rejections. And they are form letters.

If someone were to travel forward from 100 years in the past they would recognize them immediately. “That is a standard rejection of a petition for love, sent by the bureau which handles such,” they would say. But then they would add, “Where is the ornate script and fine paper?” And they would look sad. Because 100 years ago we were a more tactile people appreciative of ornate flourishes. Even if there was, as today, a shortage of love.
A traveler from 500 years earlier would not recognize either rejection. Modern love had not yet been invented. It is a bittersweet fact.

At least in the electronic age one need not stand in the terrible lines at the petition office. As early as a decade ago people still had to queue up in line for hours to qualify for the chance at rejection. People did this, as today, for the slim hope that their petition would be granted.

The form rejection lists a reason. The reason is never revealed outright but instead a reference is made to a number. The number corresponds to a large reference which holds all the reasons rejection may be made. There are 100 volumes in question. The reasons for rejection are, some say, innumerable, but in reality they mostly break down to endless variations on three reasons which no one likes to discuss. Most people do not bother to look up the reference number listed in their rejection.
Mine was V.21.12.91. “Rejected for tendency to look up and contemplate facts and figures.”

We all know people whose petitions for love have been, or seem to have been, granted. It is commonly thought that some petitions are granted only to make the system seem viable. In fact, these successful petitions have a high failure rate. There is a complaint bureau. It is housed on the top floor of the tallest building in the world. There is no elevator. When you arrive at the single window you find it empty with a sign which says: “No Returns.”

There has always been a shortage of love and that is why a system of rationing has been set up. To preserve love by careful denial.
The truth is there has been no new love manufactured since 1992. All the love in the world is used. And second-hand love has a resale value which can only be classified as pitiful.

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Representations of Muhammad [for Charlie Hebdo]

January 7, 2015 Books My books Personal Writing

in, out, and about the box [for Charlie Hebdo]

If a cartoonist draws Muhammad, he or she invariably will frame that drawing between four straight lines, a graphic representation of a box. Herein lies a problem: Nobody puts Muhammad in a box.

The Muhammad in a Box was a toy popular in the fifties. You turned the crank and it played a tune. But Muhammad never popped out. Angry parents would take the toy to the manufacturer and complain. The manufacturer invariably told them that Muhammad does not “pop out.” Such would be unseemly.

Some asked if Muhammad was really in the box. Here the manufacturer had to be clever. He said that Muhammad was, in fact, simultaneously in the box and not in the box at the same time. Possibly with, or without, a cat. “Is he or isn’t he?” they would ask. And he would reply “It depends on whether you want him to be. Do you want him to be? Are you looking? What are your expectations? Would you know him if you saw him? Would you know him from Jack? Perhaps you and your questioning are really the issue here.”

In this way, while there was never a no-return policy, the lack of returns was assured.
Sometimes people would journey to the manufacturer and ask, “If Muhammad is in the box, what is he doing in there?” and associated questions like, “How did he come to be in the box, if that is where he is?” and “Is there possibly anyone else in there?” sometimes followed by “and how do they get along?” Occasionally a traveler looking for answers would become clever and ask, “Are we even talking about the same Muhammad? It is a very common name.”

The manufacturer would say, “No one knows” “It is matter for the scholars” “How is it any of your business?” “With the utmost hospitality, as is the custom” and “Look in your own heart.”

The fast food outlet Muhammad in the Box makes the best falafel, granted the locations are difficult to find. They neither advertise or have a logo. But their falafel is the best, or at least that’s what they keep telling me.
——
From the upcoming book Tragic Stories Disguised as Jokes by David Raffin
***

And also an excerpt from Viva Chapeau
from the book Rhyme or Treason (the hard fought illusion of choice) by David Raffin :

Now, Islam is the youngest of the three faiths descended from Judaism.
Muslims pray on a schedule five times a day. Five Times. I am amazed you can get any suicide killings planned and carried out on that kind of a schedule.

In this country a lot of people believe “Moslem” is synonymous with “terrorist.”
This is probably unfair. Like all the Jews who don’t run people over with bulldozers, and all the Christians who don’t torture people, there are all those Moslems who defy categorization by not blowing anything up. In mathematics there is a phrase for all of these people in all three groups: they are individuals who fall outside the standard deviation.

It should be pointed out that men wearing turbans are more than likely not Moslems but Sikhs. I have nothing disparaging to say about the turban. The turban is a perfectly fine piece of headgear. In fact, I like to think the turban is a great mystery box that may hold many fascinating things.

In the 1970s, in the Saturday morning cartoon starring the Harlem Globetrotters, there was a character (“Sweet Lou” Dunbar) who could at any point reach into his giant Afro and pull out whatever was needed. I like to think this about the turban.
It may not be true, but that has never stopped the propagation of any belief.

Why a Dog Barks, a poem

December 5, 2014 Books My books Writing

When a dog hears another dog it responds with a hearty round of reciprocal barking.
This is an unbroken chain, as long as there is a dog to answer the call and response.
It is akin to the human game of telephone.
One message is passed on continuously, dog to dog to dog.
The message starts in China, like the flu.
In the fall one dog barks.
It is heard ’round the world.
It is understood only by dogs.
It is an urgent message, spread urgently.
When it gets to the end, it no longer has any meaning.

True Blue

September 15, 2014 Books My books Writing

Some jokes are designated by color. Some jokes are funny because they are blue. Some people think it more funny if that blue joke is true.

Witness the kitty cat

May 18, 2014 My books Writing

A Hapgood and Fowler erotic adventure

Hapgood stared at the crime scene. Actually, he stood at the crime scene, his back to the area of the actual crime. In front of him sat a black house cat. The cat stared to the left of the actual crime scene. Hapgood carefully observed every  subtle move the cat made. Behind him a small group of lower-level detectives scoured the scene for evidence.

Fowler walked over and stood at Hapgood’s right. “Ball Peen Hammer,” said Fowler with the tone of one who is discussing the weather. “Rusty.”
“Mildly interesting,” replied Hapgood. “But this cat. This cat undoubtably knows something.”
“Undoubtably,” replied Fowler.

The lower-level detectives paused activity and watched Hapgood and Fowler. “I think Hapgood and Fowler are on to something,” one of them whispered to another.
“Undoubtably,” said the other.
***
In the law offices of Clark and Frederik, Clark entered Frederik’s office and sat down. There was blood splatter all over his suit, heaviest on the right side.
“Did you use the rusty ball peen hammer?” asked Frederik.
“Yes,” said Clark.
“Good. Did anyone see you?”
“Just a cat.”
“That’s probably all right.”
***
Back in their office at the station Fowler held the cat in his arms, slowly stroking it. “Have you seen this?” he asked. He tugged at the collar around the cat’s neck. Attached to it was a name tag.
“No,” said Hapgood. “I have, until now, concentrated wholly on the behavior of the cat.”
Emblazoned on the tag was one word: “Witness.”
“A name?” asked Fowler.
“A description,” said Hapgood.
“At least he is a friendly witness,” said Fowler.
“Yes,” said Hapgood. “Not like the badger.”
***

“Ball Peen Hammer,” said Fowler.
“Rusty?” asked Hapgood.
“Yes,” said Fowler. “I feel like I’m repeating myself.”
“Two could be a coincidence,” said Hapgood. “I wouldn’t put a lot of weight on it yet.”
“Slow and steady wins the race,” Fowler said.
Hapgood was watching a hamster run on a wheel. Fowler joined him. Behind them detectives worked on a second crime scene involving a rusty hammer.

“This rodent was in a perfect position to see everything,” said Hapgood.
“That is true,” replied Fowler. “He could not have left the scene. But I would like to point out that doesn’t mean he was watching. He could have been looking the other way. He could have had his eyes closed. He could have been blinking.”
“Can you murder a man in the blink of an eye?” asked Hapgood. “What do hamsters dream about? Was there something more interesting to look at in the room at the time?”

“Those are some intriguing questions,” said Fowler. “I’m not sure how we can get answers from the hamster.”
The younger detectives stopped detecting and looked toward Fowler and Hapgood in wonder.
***
Frederik walked into Clark’s office at the firm and sat. Blood splatter covered the left side of his suit, as he was left handed. “Volley,” he said. “Your turn.”
***
In the office of Hapgood and Fowler sat a very happy cat.
“The cat ate the witness,” said Fowler.
“One witness ate the other witness,” said Hapgood. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it in the end.”
***
‘The press are calling these the ball peen hammer killings,” said Clark.
“What about the fact that the hammer is rusty?” asked Frederik.
“Papers are rife with inaccuracy, I’m afraid,” said Clark.
“They are missing the whole point,” Frederik said.
***
“A cat is curious,” said Hapgood. “A hamster is perfectly positioned to see everything in a room. But a bird can talk.”

In front of Hapgood and Fowler stood a grand cage, and in that cage a parrot.
“Extraordinary,” said the rookie detectives gathered in their wake. “Tremendously exciting. All senses aroused.”
The bird looked directly at Fowler and said “Murderer.”
Hapgood asked, “Did you commit all these crimes?”
“I am afraid,” said Fowler, “That the eyewitness testimony is strong.”
“You’ll need a lawyer. Luckily, these cards have been at every scene.”

At the existential sandwich shop, your sandwich calls you

April 9, 2014 My books Writing

At the existential sandwich shop your sandwich talks to you. It is unclear if the power of speech and thought is conveyed by the quality ingredients or by the artisan construction. The sandwich philosopher behind the counter, when asked, shrugs her shoulders and says, “Who can say?”
Still, you eat it. What else can you do? When confronted with a talking sandwich in an existential sandwich shop it is a simple equation of eat or be eaten.
Still, you know it is wrong.

If I like you I will write you a poem. If not you will live the rest of your life without poetry.

 

He’s not a bear doctor

March 15, 2014 My books Writing

Doctor: This is really quite serious. Your anxiety is now causing physical symptoms.
Me: I see. Will it break free all those emotions I jailed inside a cardboard box all those years ago?
Doctor: Perhaps. Wait, you did what?
Me: Confined all my emotions to a cardboard box and taped it up.
Doctor: I’m pretty sure you’re never supposed to do that.
Me: Yes, cardboard was a very poor choice. But, in my defense, it held a lot longer than you would think.
Doctor: When you look outside the window do you see something resembling Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream?
Me: Yes. Yes, that is exactly what I see. Isn’t that what everybody sees when they look outside the window?
Doctor: No.
Me: I also see a pack of wolves attacking a clown.
Doctor: Oh, I’m afraid that is very real. Wolves have to eat.

Doctor: I’m going to put you on an anti- anxiety drug.
Me: My fear is that I need my anxiety. I mean, what if an anti-anxiety drug dulls my ability to fight off a confrontation with a bear?
Doctor: When was the last time you had a confrontation with a bear?
Me: Oh Doctor, you know so little about bears. It is the readiness, at all times, to deal with a bear incursion that wards off bears.