Power to the Sleeple

I tried one of those 20-day power naps I read about online, and I have to say, it really worked. I woke up with the worst case of bed head I'd ever heard of, but a hot shower, a hearty breakfast, a pot of coffee, an hour in the bathroom, and I was raring to go. 

Then my wife said I got it wrong. So I found my mistake, and surprisingly, the 20-hour power nap was still very enjoyable and effective. I was well rested, although I did have a bit of a too-much-sleep hangover.

But Shellie said I was still missing the point, so I went back to the drawing board. I tracked down the original article that got me interested in power naps in the first place. Studies clearly showed that a short sleep taken during the workday restored mental alertness, boosted memory, improved cognitive and problem solving skills, enhanced creativity, and increased the overall energy level.

I can understand why some people find power naps beneficial, but I have to admit, 20 seconds just doesn't seem worth the bother.

The Bard of Avon - and I Ain't Talking Cosmetics

"Ah, there's the rub..." and I still ain't talking cosmetics.

There can be little doubt a man named William Shakespeare is the greatest writer of all time. Even people who may claim they never heard of him, or couldn't name one of his plays, recognize and often use his words in everyday conversation without even knowing it.

We do not know the exact date of Shakespeare's birth in Stratford-upon-Avon, England, but church records indicate the month of April, 1564. We do know the date of his death - today's date 1616. Shakespeare was fifty-two years old when he died. He would have been 400!

It has also been perniciously suggested that Shakespeare was not a real person, or some other or others wrote the plays. Hokum and bunk. Documents clearly show Shakespeare had a wife, and children, although the bloodline has long been lost. Further, the body of work attributed to Shakespeare is stylistically that of one mind - the phrasing, word choice, sentence structure, etc. are the work of a single individual.

The words sound funny to us today, and Shakespeare is every high school and college student's bane. But that was the way they talked back then. His writing was as easy to understand as these words are to you. (I hope.) Yet, the plays are performed and enjoyed on a daily basis around the world in the original language.

Four hundred years later, who cannot conjure up a Halloween vision of three witches stirring a large, black cauldron, chanting, "Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble." You can almost smell the eye of newt, toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog, simmering in the pot.

Just Shakespeare's most famous quotations could fill a book on their own. Take for example: "To be, or not to be: that is the question," "Neither a borrower nor a lender be," "To thine own self be true," "And it must follow, as the night the day," are all from one play - Hamlet.

Hamlet is widely considered to be Shakespeare's greatest work. I'd be hard pressed to dispute that contention. The part of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark is one of acting's most coveted roles. Over the years in films and on the stage, Prince Hamlet has been played by such disparate actors as John Wilkes Booth (murderer of Abraham Lincoln), the great John Barrymore, Sir Laurence Olivier, Maurice Evans (who played Samantha Stephens' father in Bewitched), Sir Richard Burton, and just off his fame as Mad Max, Mel Gibson.

Some of my personal favorite Shakespeare quotes come from this play. Who can disagree with Hamlet's caustic and cynical assessment:

"What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!"

Or the helpful observation, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

And of course, my working hypothesis of the world, "Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't."

We must take into account, however, Shakespeare was a writer working for a living in a medium that today would be akin to television. People came to be entertained and distracted for a few hours from the reality of their existence. The crowds were loud, bawdy, and often drunk.

He had to write them good, and he had to write them fast. I consider myself, rightly or wrongly, to be a pretty fair writer, and I am not easily impressed, but this guy blows me away. To even think my writing will be read, discussed, and popularly quoted four centuries from now is beyond comprehension and all expectation. That my words would form the archetypes of English literature, and influence popular culture in ways that cannot be measured, is the stuff of dreams. Even in my wheelchair I stand in awe of his achievement.

I will not keep you much longer. There are easily accessible sites online that list Shakespeare's quotes by play, act, and scene, and indeed, all his formidable work is available on the internet. But I cannot help quoting a few more.

"All the world 's a stage, and all the men and women merely players." - from As You Like It

"A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" - from King Richard III

"What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun." - from Romeo and Juliet

“A coward dies a thousand times before his death, but the valiant taste of death but once." - from Julius Caesar

This is my dad's (an attorney of sixty years standing) favorite quote: "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers." - from King Henry the Sixth, Part II

And lastly, what I feel is Shakespeare's most profound insight - from The Tempest:

"We are such stuff

As dreams are made on; and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep."

His was the stuff of history and fantasy. Shakespeare possessed the skill to elicit laughter and tears from an audience with his writing. He was endowed with the ability to touch mankind's deepest hopes and fears in words that ring true today as much to the soul as the ear.

Get On the Canna Bus

I don't think the nurse at my doctor's office likes me.

I went in today, and once I maneuvered into an examination room, she said, "I just need to get some basic information first."

"Fine," I said cordially.

"On the form you filled out, where it asks how much coffee you drink a day, you wrote down 'two.' Would that be two cups?" she asked.

"Two cups!" I laughed. "No. Two POTS."

"Oh," she said somewhat taken aback. "Well, how many cups are in each pot?"

"One," I said. "It's a very small pot."

She cleared her throat. "Under alcohol consumption you put 'one shot.' What did you mean by 'one shot'? One shot a day, a week?"

"One shot at a time," I replied helpfully.

"One shot at a time?" she repeated. "How many shots do you do?"

"I'm not sure," I answered as truthfully as possible, "I never learned to count over twenty-one."

"What?" the nurse exclaimed. "You can only count to twenty-one?"

I held up one hand. "Five," I said. I held up the other hand. "Ten," I indicated. I reached down as far as I could and removed a sock and shoe. "Fifteen," I said panting. I bent over one more time and tugged off the other footwear. "Twenty," I gasped. I leaned back in my wheelchair.

"But what about twenty-one?" she said. She saw my hands reach toward my lap. Her eyes got big, and she stammered out, "I'll take your word for it."

We quickly moved on. "Next to 'Do you smoke?' you wrote 'yes,' but next to 'How many packs a day?' you wrote 'none.'"

"That's correct," I said, glad we were finally on the same page.

"So do you smoke tobacco or don't you?" she asked with a hint of exasperation, although I could not fathom where her discomfort arose from.

"No!" I said emphatically. "Never took up the habit. Nasty stuff."

"What do you smoke?" she asked almost hesitantly.

"Cannabis," I cheerily told her.

"Wait a minute. You lied," she said as if she had me dead to rights. "You said right here that you don't use recreational drugs."

"That's right," I said. "I'm a qualifying patient for medical cannabis under the state's Compassionate Care Act."

"That'll be all," she said. She closed her laptop brusquely and stood to leave the room. "The doctor will be in to see you shortly."

I'm still waiting . . . .

Happy 4/20!

Pandit

It was a little after five, plenty of time I thought. I walked across the hall to Joe and Bob B's dorm room, and stuck my head in the open door. "They're on their way," I said.

But that was over two hours ago. Granted, making good time, the drive was a solid hour, and allowing for the usual folderol in everyone getting their shit together, it was still getting late. I made sure for the hundredth time that I had my ticket and student ID. I looked at the alarm clock on my desk just as there was a knock on my door. I called,"Come in."

"Anything?" Bob B asked.

I shook my head no. Bob B came in and sat down on my desk chair with a sigh. A few minutes later, Joe came in, followed by a few other friends from the floor. We waited anxiously. Time was passing quickly.

The concert started at eight. Bob B and I had reserved seats, and the Student Center was only ten minutes away if we hoofed it, but we'd be cutting it close.

Weeks ago we had camped out overnight with a few dozen other kids on the green in front of the Student Center to be first in line for tickets. No one pretended to get much sleep, so we sat wrapped in blankets, and passed around joints and a bottle of peppermint schnapps. In the morning we roused ourselves, and when the building opened and tickets went on sale, we were rewarded with two seats third row center.

Bob B and I had put away one small bud, maybe two bongs each, just in case we couldn't score before the concert. Everyone else was dry, and my buddy Bob from Chicago, and a party of favorites, were, theoretically, on their way with smoke and MDA.

We all faced the realization that they weren't going to make it in time. Bob B got up dejectedly, but we heard a loud banging. Bob B hustled out of the room and down the hall. He pushed open the bar on the crash door, and Bob, Jack, Vito, and Vito's cousin Sully who I didn't know, piled in. In something out of a slapstick comedy, with arms flying in all directions, money and drugs changed hands.

Everyone scurried out of the room, and I left my buddies to fend for themselves and make their own way to the Student Center to buy last minute tickets at the box office.

Bob B and I rushed into his room. Joe was long gone. We carefully unfolded tiny squares of paper, and inside was a small amount of a plain white powder. We tilted back our heads and poured the contents onto our tongues and washed it down with a swig of water. The powder had an astringent chemical taste.

Bob B took out the bud we had saved, and we each rifled down two quick bongs. We stepped out into a brisk, late October evening. It was Saturday night and there were a lot of people out. We made our way up front (down front?) and excused ourselves past people in our row. We got settled in our seats, and I became aware that we were surrounded by professors, administrators, and other adults who had arranged for VIP seating. They were wearing suits and ties, and most of the women were in gowns. I wore my typical concert attire of gym shoes, blue jeans, and a Blue Oyster Cult T-shirt, topped with my bushy, reddish-brown hair.

The stage, close enough to touch, did not display the usual jumble of drum kits, microphones, amplifiers, and electrical cords. A beautiful, Oriental rug covered the floor. The scent of jasmine, and maybe roses, far more pleasant than the sandalwood we burned in the dorms, wafted up from large, brass incense burners on both sides of the stage.

I was feeling a little strange. The din of the crowd grated in my ears. I felt trapped in my seat, surrounded by an impenetrable ring of hostile strangers. I turned to Bob B and said, "If I have to leave will you go with me?"

"Sure," he said. He whispered, "I'm really getting buzzed."

His simple reassurance allowed me to relax. An announcer stepped on stage and said, "It is the great honor of the NIU Faculty Concert Committee to introduce from India, the world famous sitar master, Ravi Shankar."

The audience clapped enthusiastically. Two small barefoot men and one woman wearing sandals took the stage. They were all wrapped in white linen and reminded me of pictures I'd seen of Mahatma Gandhi. They formed a wide triangle and sat on the rug. The man on my left held a set of bongo-looking things in his lap, that I would later find out are called a tabla. The woman sat to my right. She was young and pretty in an exotic sort of way. She bore the ubiquitous dot in the middle of her forehead. Her thick raven hair was tied back in a ponytail. She held a tambura, a lute-like instrument with a long, thin, tapering neck. The man in the middle plucked lightly at the strings of an instrument that looked like a mandolin with the neck of a giraffe.

Ravi Shankar was well-known, well-respected, and well-credentialed. He had appeared at the Monterey Pop Festival and at Woodstock. He had played with the likes of Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, and the Beatles. This was the kind of esoteric experience I reveled in. He looked out to the audience and spoke in a soft voice. "We have one request this evening. We ask that you refrain from smoking hashish during the performance. We have nothing against it, but when you are doing that you are not listening to the music, and it is distracting to us. Thank you and enjoy the show."

The lights went down. He turned his head to the left and right and mumbled something to his band mates. A rhythmic tapping began, then a bass-like drone picked up the rhythm. A sweet, sharp twang flowed from the stage as Shankar plucked the strings of his sitar. I was mesmerized, the music lifted me to higher planes of existence. The drugs may have helped. Then I had a frightening thought. I quickly whispered in Bob B's ear, "Am I floating out of my seat!?"

"No, you're fine," he whispered back.

That took a load off my mind.

The rest of the concert was dream-like. The music and the trip blended magically. Waves of positive energy washed over me. Shankar used his sitar as the means to take me to the farthest edge of conscious existence, then send my spirit soaring to the farthest reaches of the cosmos. It was like that.

I remember turning around once and seeing Bob, Jack, Vito, and Cousin Sully horsing around in the back of the theater.

I still have vivid impressions from that night. I think it's the closest I've ever gotten to bliss.

Happy Birthday Pandit.

Ravi Shankar performing at Woodstock, 1969 (AP)

Ravi Shankar at the Monterey Pop Festival: youtube.com/watch?v=lk60ObnbIOk