He enjoys universal celebrity throughout the English speaking world. He may be better known than Dos Equi’s latin, “man for all seasons”. No one is sure when he came to such prominence but personally, even though I don’t enjoy his acquaintance, I’ve known about him for at least 50 years. Legendary and yet mystical as he is, I’ve found that to be true for a large number of us.
We don’t know Jack Schitt ! And that truth knows no boundaries. He’s a subjective fellow. I’d like to think I shared that trait in common with him. There are a lot of subjects about which I know Jack Schitt and the same is true about many of which I don’t know Jack Schitt.
A universal condition, it exists in varying degrees. There are lots of politicians affected and one of the best examples would be our President, who obviously doesn’t know much about Jack, in the real world.
I have it on good authority that Jack knows a lot about a Piece of Shit, however. And why wouldn’t he as a character with one of the most unique perspectives on Earth? My source refreshes my own perspective as to the nature of a piece of shit by reminding me that it is all-encompassing : animal, mineral, plant, and free energy. Objects and subjects ad infinitum.
Just the other day, while stopped at a traffic light, a surly, unshaven, raggedy haired, piece of shit, with his ball cap on backwards, pulled up beside me in his lifted piece of shit. Pipes rattling – no mufflers. Bed hanging onto frame by a metallic thread. And Travis Tritt vibrating from the rusted door speakers at 50 plus decibels of bass.
The side windows were so high that he couldn’t see me without leaning over, but I could see him in the clouded side-view mirror. When he wasn’t looking, I gave him the finger.
As with Jack, indulging and recognizing those objects that by definition qualify for labelling as pieces of shit, are familiar to all of us. There may be a handful that don’t know what they have, but never-the-less they qualify as pieces of shit.
I’m sure we get the picture now. In closing let me share one last thought. If I were to ask you if you knew Jack Schitt, your answer would reveal a lot about you.
I find myself circling back to this line of thought frequently these days. . . . . death, ever shortening years, and flitting lapses of recall. I just had a birthday. My mom will be 93 on Monday. I can tell her age because she’s not in the room, but my inclination is cantankerous about going on re: mine. Hint: I was born in 1942. When I went in the Navy 17 years later, they still had wooden ships in the fleet. I digress. I can go on about this subject forever. Or so it seems to those whose brief attention I might gain for 20 seconds or so, before they bolt.
Last Sunday the Tampa Bay Times carried an excerpt from an essay in the New Yorker by Roger Angell, which expounds beautifully on aging and life’s vagaries re: same. If you’re over 60 you’ll enjoy Mr. Angell’s take on the subject. He’s a well known writer and is still going strong at 94 years!
It’s a long read but, at 94 you don’t get the opportunity to hold people’s attention for long.
Follow this link: http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2014/02/17/140217fa_fact_angell?currentPage= -all
All my life I’ve had a fiery love for good music. My preferences lean to the blues, Delta and the like. In the bigger picture I go with what swells my heart and sets my biological metronome in motion. There, almost all genres get a vote. Thought I’d share something different with you. Also, the website is one of my favorites. It was partially responsible for my unfulfilled decision to move to Costa Rica. Hang around for a few minutes. There’s a lot of interesting stuff here and gorgeous scenery. Search “Steve Kesterson” and read my articles, too. Enjoy. Hasta La Vista!