Psyched Out

Funny how you always remember your first time.

Hearing a certain word, that is.

Where I grew up, kids didn’t go to summer camp. Our mothers would shoo us out the back door after breakfast, with instructions to come back when the firehouse whistle blew at noon for lunch, and again when it blasted at six for dinner.

One summer, there must have been a secret meeting among the Moms where it was decided their offspring could be doing something more constructive than tearing up the neighborhood, so we were all herded into a different station wagon every morning and driven to a local park where we took part in arts and sports activities. To this day, I remember the park counselors, a group of college students who probably thought messing around with a bunch of kids in the great outdoors was a pretty sweet gig.

One of them especially stood out, not only for his blonde good looks (he made quite a stir among girls of all ages) and his black belt in the exotic discipline of Ju Jitsu, but also his predilection for the esoteric.

One day, he handed another counselor the astrological profile of a co-worker. She began reading it and exclaimed, “This is uncanny!”

At the time, I had no idea what uncanny meant but it sounded pretty cool so I put it in my back pocket until I could investigate further.

For those needing a primer, “uncanny” is something that’s eerie or mysterious or, more to the point, an instance that is familiar yet foreign at the same time. A great example is the theory of the “Uncanny Valley,” proposed by Japanese roboticist Mashiro Mori in 1978. Mori found that the more humanlike robots became, the more people were attracted to them, but only up to a point. Fifty percent is fine, ninety percent even better, ninety-five percent the ultimate. But tip the scale to ninety-six percent or higher, and humans become repulsed, focusing on the parts of the robot that aren’t human. Think of an animated corpse like Frankenstein’s monster or the zombies in “Night of the Living Dead.”

This is where things get weird.

Recently, I was sipping a cocktail in a bar/restaurant, waiting for some friends to join me for dinner, when I saw an advertisement on the wall sporting the face of someone who looked vaguely familiar. Sliding off my stool for a closer look, I read the name that went with the face and realized this was the same great looking, martial arts master who mentored us at the park. The hair had gone gray and the lines had deepened but, no doubt, it was him. Here’s the kicker: The former counselor is now a psychic medium whose extraordinary “gift” allows him to “reconnect with the Other Side.” In other words, one could say he reanimates the dead.

I could call this collision of coincidence “eerie” or “mysterious” but “uncanny” will do it for me.

This is a First

Sometimes, it’s the things you vow never to do that turn out the best.

When I first became one of the great, unwashed unemployed of the Great Recession, many career experts were urging former professionals like me (so that’s what I was) to raise our career profiles by writing a blog. Not only did they cost zero to launch and maintain, the reasoning went, but you can share your expertise with the world, thus garnering potential customers for your small business or impressing future employers with your industry knowledge and expertise.

There’s just one small point they left out – it sure as hell helps if you can write.

I can’t tell you how many networking events I attended where I was handed a business card that featured a dreaded WordPress or, dare I write it, Blogspot address only to have the other party breathlessly announce, “Oh, and that’s my blog.”

Out of sheer curiosity (which, I swear, someday will kill me) and a small streak of masochism (ditto), I checked out a number of these blogs.

If I mixed two parts disgust with one part outrage, added a dash of depression and a twist of Schadenfreude, that’s the cocktail of discontent I’d serve with this sub-par fare. By then, I figured the blogosphere was already cluttered with enough debris and promised myself (and anyone within earshot) that I would never add to the world wide waste of space.

So why, you may wonder, did I?

Certainly the most overriding reason was the sheer act of writing itself. Until the job market picks up, or hangs out a permanent “Gone Fishing” sign, I make my coin through freelance writing, which is a “feast or famine” business even in the best of times. Writing is like any other physical or mental muscle. If you don’t use it, you lose it.

Following a close second was the liberating thought that, for once in 27 years, I could write whatever the hell I wanted without having it vetted by one of the “Eight Types of Bad Creative Critics.” (A future blog article, for sure.)

Resurrecting a name and logo created for a previous freelance venture that went nowhere, the Bite Size Copy blog was born on November 20, 2009.

Although I devote more time thinking, researching and writing for Bite Size than I do for any paid project without getting one thin dime, it’s the most enjoyable gig I’ve ever had. I can only hope my readers get as much of a charge perusing it as I do writing it.

To mark the occasion of Bite Size’s first anniversary, I’ll be imbibing another cocktail, this one made up of two parts appreciation, one part gratitude, a dash of thankfulness and a twist of “ta!”

This one’s for you. Cheers!

Cat(calls) Got Your Tongue?

My Dad was one of eight kids born into a Depression-era family. His youngest brother, Charlie, contracted polio and although it stunted his growth and put him in leg braces for the rest of his life, he was luckier than most victims of that once-dreaded disease.

One day, when my Old Man came out of school and saw the local rich kid on his bicycle (an unheard of luxury in those hard times) trying to run down Charlie, he didn’t hesitate to haul the little bastard off his bike, throw him to the ground, and beat the tar out of him.

Later that evening, during the family meal, “Mrs. Rich” showed up at the Brady back door with her black and blue tyrant in tow demanding an apology. My Grandfather bellowed for my Dad and was ready to take the rod to him, until my Father quickly explained what caused him to deliver the earlier ass-whoopin.’ Without hesitation, my Grandfather grabbed the broom that was always just outside the back door and with it ran both mother and son down the driveway and off his property, swearing a blue streak along the way.

I bring up this bit of family lore because “bullying” is a word that’s recently grabbed national headlines. After several young people have committed suicide because of extreme hounding by their peers, both government and educational institutions have taken steps to stem the tide of what they call an epidemic of childhood abuse.

However, Manhattan’s City Council has decided that bullying ain’t just kid stuff anymore and is considering legislation that would make whistles, cat-calls or lewd come-ons illegal. Apparently, there’s a movement afoot in cities from New York to Cairo to make street harassment a crime. Spearheaded by women’s groups such as Hollaback, their stance is that this is gender-based violence that threatens public safety.

Here’s my stance: Since when have we, the decent members of society, forgotten how to say the words “fuck off”? Or, “You’re an asshole”? How about, “Why don’t you shut the hell up”? Here’s the beauty part – they can be texted, too!

Fact is, bullies aren’t only found in cafeterias or playgrounds, but on street corners, corporate hallways and global corridors of power. You can’t make them back down through legislation, nor can you depend on law enforcement to be there when the baiting takes place.

Not everyone has the physical strength or Irish temper to put a bully in his rightful place which, by the way, is splayed out on the pavement, but administering a loud, angry tongue-lashing is a damned good start.