Bastard

My family recently gathered to celebrate my father's 80th birthday. My sister asked each of  us to put together stories about our dad to share at the party. All the reminiscences reminded me of this story I wrote many years ago. I have refrained from publishing it because it is so vicious. But I think the writing is good, and the story should be included in the overall body of my work. Be FOREWARNED: this piece is NOT for everybody!

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HATRED. PURE HATRED. Hatred that darkly fired darkly fired eyes. Hatred that shattered along every nerve of a very nervous nervous system. High tension wire hatred. Hatred with a plan.

He had the pipe, he had the rope, he had the carving knife, patiently honed.

He sat quiet in the shadows behind a hedge across the street down the block. He sat quiet as the last light upstairs went dark. He sat quiet and listened to the night noises as they tripped off to dreamland, secure in their suburban fortress, with the deadbolt thrown and the chain on the door.

“Let's go! It's time to hit the road. Get moving. Get your lazy ass in gear. Get the show on the road. Half the day's gone. You should be out pounding the bricks for 10 hours a day until you land a job. You're not going to school, you're not working. Life isn't one big vacation. What are you going to do with yourself!?”

Bastard!

Oh so quietly he fit the key in the lock. Oh so quietly he took the bolt cutters from his pocket and snipped the chain. Oh so quietly he slipped inside, shut and relocked the door. The house seemed tomb-like. He quietly entered his sister's room, the moon casting a wraith-light through the yellow lace curtains. Stuffed animals plotted evil in the night. Their glass eyes burned, reflecting the moonlight, or did they merely reflect the cold fire that burned in his eyes? That cool quiet fire that would soon turn their universe to cinders.

He looked down at his sister in her canopied bed, half covered by the yellow comforter, curly red hair splayed about the pillow sham, breathing gently. The knife ran deep and clean across her throat. The blood spattered on the wall like the freckles on his sister's face. The stuffed animals nodded in acknowledgement as he left the room.

“This is my house. When you're in my house you either abide by the house rules or you can pack your things and leave. You come in when I tell you. You go to bed when I say it's time. You shut that goddamn hi-fi off when I say it's too loud.”

Bastard!

Quietly he entered his brother's room. The shades were drawn and the only light glowed faintly orange from the digital clock on the desk. A wooden shelving unit next to the desk was filled with Little League trophies. Sports equipment lay scattered about the room. His brother lay on his side, blue blanket around his waist, snoring lightly.

The pipe came down hard and fast. He felt no pain. His dream had simply ended. The gold and silver-plated figures on the trophies turned to watch, and one let the little silver bat fall from its grasp to the floor.

“When I was your age I was walking two miles to school every day and getting good grades, working part-time, and I gave all my earnings to my father. You kids today expect everything handed to you on a silver platter. You've got it too damned soft. Your generation is a generation of quitters!”

Bastard!

Quietly he entered his parent's room. He closed the door behind him and turned the lock. He leaned back against the door and drew a deep breath. He snapped on the light. His parents snapped awake as instantly as the ceiling fixture. The electricity was thick in that room.

What the hell!” his father started.

“Fuck you,” he said smiling.

His father got up from the bed wearing only a pair of white boxer shorts with little coats of arms. “What the hell do you think you're doing!?!”

“I'm taking over this house,” he said still smiling, leaning against the door.

“The hell you are you two-bit punk!” said his father grabbing the belt off the dresser.

The smile left his face. He moved his hands from behind his back, revealing the bloodied lead pipe and knife. His old man saw the pipe, but not in time. Straight to the gut hard. His father crumpled in his tracks, eyes straining in their sockets, unable to draw in air, doubled over on the floor.

“You goddamn mother-fucker. The only reason I don't kill you now's because I expect you to suffer first.”

Thrusting himself forward, he planted a savage kick to the side of his father's head. His father's moans gurgled as blood filled his mouth. Watching his father's blood trickle into the gold shag carpeting, he shot a glance at his mother still in bed, the covers pulled up above her nose, eyes wide and white with fear. He had special plans for her. Without saying a word, he tied his old man roughly, the raw hemp burning flesh, cutting off circulation. He took a dirty sock from the foot of the bed and jammed it in his father's mouth.

Bastard!

The Old Man

My beloved sister Debbie hates when I call our dad, "the old man." But that's what he is. Our family gathered this weekend to celebrate my old man's 80th birthday. My brother-in-law Mitch put together a montage beginning with old News Reel clips of events and notable births from 1935, then segueing into pictures of my old man from birth through the births of all his grandchildren. The pictures of my parents were heartwarming. They actually were and are a very cute couple.

Debbie asked me to put together a funny story about my dad. Wow, try to pick just one!

Like the time my dad took me up to Mayo Clinic when I was twelve. I was recovering from surgery, and he stepped into my hospital room one morning, and saw a large group of doctors surrounding my bed, staring down at me in total concentration. His heart fell, thinking the worst, and he hurried over, only to find I was soundly beating the greatest medical minds in the country in a game of chess.

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Or the time he got called into school by my art teacher. By the time I was a junior in high school, I had resigned myself to the fact I had no talent for art. Consequently, I put little effort into the class. One afternoon, I sat off to the side of the room reading, while the other students busied themselves with their projects. Our teacher, Mr. Buchwald, came up to my desk and asked me why I wasn't working on my assignment. I told him I had no interest in it. He asked me what I did have an interest in. I told him “writing.” He said he wanted me to write a theme.

I took out a sheet of paper, and my friends around me started to give me long words at random, which I used in ridiculous and meaningless sentences. I turned in the paper at the end of class, which precipitated the summons for my dad to come in.

Mr. Buchwald, whose first name was Wesley, but I called him "Art" as in Art Buchwald, explained the situation to my dad, emphasizing how serious this was, and handed my paper to him to read. My dad quickly scanned the page and turned to look at me. I could tell he was thinking, “I got called away from work for this crap?” We both looked at Mr. Buchwald, expecting him to say he was flunking me, or how disrespectful I was, turning in such a paper. But instead, he launched into a spiel about how great the theme was; it was one of the best written pieces he had ever seen in all his years teaching; and he would be remiss as an educator if he didn't call my parents in to insist I pursue a career in creative writing.

Again my dad looked at me, and I shrugged a shoulder, as if to say, “it's not my fault.” We took our leave of Mr. Buchwald. I headed back to class, and my dad headed back to work. No further word was ever said about my brilliant theme.

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This oft told story is a Dunn family legend. I need only say two words: Pinewood Derby. On the eve of the greatest and most anticipated Cub Scout event of the year, my dad would come rushing in from work, wolf down some dinner, and help me and Bunce with our entries. The basic kits came with a block of soft wood and four small, rubber wheels. He would take a steak knife, hack away a little of the corners, nail the tires onto the body, and smear half a jar of Vaseline around the rims. Bunce and I had slapped on some leftover house paint earlier in the day, but they were still tacky to the touch.

We arrived at the shopping mall where the race was held. The long, undulating, wooden track was waxed to a reflective shine. We held our cars behind our backs until race time, when we would set them up next to the aerodynamically-sculpted, high-gloss varnished entries of our buddies. Many had finely-painted pin-stripes and detailing, and plastic cockpits with little drivers behind handmade steering wheels. They obviously showed weeks of careful construction, using state of the art woodworking tools, by father and son teams determined to win.

When the gates were released, we would all run alongside, as our cars sped down the track. Cries of “Foul!” followed when our monstrosities crossed the finish line first. The other fathers, who had put heart and soul, not to mention hours of work, into their sons' miniature roadsters, snatched up our cars to inspect for hidden lead weights and other violations, which would explain this fluke. But they would come away with nothing more than greasy hands for their efforts. Nowhere in the rules did it mention my dad's secret weapon – Vaseline.

Once again, the judges had no alternative but to reluctantly award us the trophy, although they clearly felt the entire derby demeaned in doing so. We beat a hasty retreat, and my dad had the good sense to wait till we got outside before laughing demonically.

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For several years, when Nik and Ben were growing up, we took vacations with my mom and dad, backroading around western and central Illinois.

My dad was always skeptical when I said, “Just follow me,” leading him down roads so small they didn't have names, or, in some cases, even pavement. One time we went to the Amish area around Arcola. I had booked us rooms at a nearby Hampton Inn.

Earlier in the year, Shellie and I had attended a bluegrass festival, and we had stayed at the local Hampton Inn. Hampton Inn published a hotel magazine that was placed in every room in the chain. In the back of the magazine was a feature article where guests could share their experiences about staying at the hotels. I wrote up a story about our trip and submitted it.

A few months later, I got a call saying my piece was selected for inclusion and we had won a free weekend package. That was why I had booked our rooms at the Hampton Inn near Arcola. We hadn't said anything to my parents about my article appearing in the magazine, but as soon as we checked in, I opened our copy and there it was, my article and a very nice color picture of me and Shellie.

A few minutes later, my mom called to say my dad was in the bathroom yelling about some kind of picture in a magazine. We had a hard time making him understand the feature was in every Hampton Inn room in the country, not just that specific hotel.

We were in the area to attend a bluegrass festival at Rockome Gardens, a sort of Amish amusement theme park. I led the way down country lanes, and we got to see quaint Amish families, right out of Little House on the Prairie, working on their farms, bonneted girls tilling in the gardens.

In this same way we happened upon a rodeo. There were my folks, propped upon the bleachers, munching on popcorn, peanuts, and candy apples. Bright lights illuminated the ring, and my parents were as big-eyed as their grandchildren, thrilling to the bucking broncos, leaping bulls, horses, cowboys, and clowns.

We were given a brochure at the front desk of our hotel for a barn tour. Historic barns that allowed tourists to stop and take pictures were marked on a map. We pulled up to one location, but the barn was at the end of a long gravel driveway. We proceeded slowly ahead, taking in a magnificent old wooden structure. I got out to take a picture, then we slowly backed out. I was riding shotgun so I could navigate. I glanced out the windshield, and an old man was running towards our car waving his arms. My first impulse was to tell Shellie to floor it, but common sense prevailed. Shellie stopped and rolled down the window as the man came up. “Are you here for the barn tour?” he said.

We told him we were, and he told us to come on out. We learned that for many years he operated an antiques shop out of the barn, and turned it into a museum when he retired. He showed us his displays of old time farm equipment and household appliances, then took us into the loft to demonstrate how the barn was constructed. We climbed down and went back outside after this informative tour, and were preparing to leave, but he said, “Would you like to come inside and see my personal collection?”

How do you say no to an offer like that, especially when you have the love and appreciation of collectibles that we do? The house was stuffed to the rafters – literally – with rare pieces. I can only guess as to the value, based on years of watching Antiques Roadshow, but one room was all dolls, another model trains, yet another folk art, pottery, clocks, quilts, and on and on, all of it arranged on handmade furniture. When he asked us to stay for lunch, we felt we had worn out our welcome, and headed on our way.

I had the address for a ceramics shop. We cruised around the small town, but couldn't find it. I asked a couple of farmers outside the general store, and they said the address was way out in the country. We followed our grid-map, and at last came upon a mailbox with the correct address. Only there was no shop, just a farmhouse. But we'd come this far and I was not to be deterred. “I'm gonna knock on the door and ask,” I said. “No, no, you can't just go up to the door and knock!” said my dad.

Shellie and I got out and I knocked on the door. A woman answered, no hesitation in opening her door to strangers, and I explained about looking for a ceramics shop. “Yes!” she exclaimed, “You're at the right place.” I waved to my folks, and they got out with the boys, and we all followed the woman around back, where she let us into a ceramics shop and studio. Providentially, there was a small water closet attached to the shop, which we all availed ourselves upon one after the other.

Once that business was out of the way, we got down to the business of exploring the shop. There were pieces in various stages of preparation and it was fascinating to learn about the different steps involved. My mom found a few pieces she liked, and Shellie and I bought a festive red, green, and white, Christmas candlestick. But the real treasure was a wild turkey with bright red wattle, and shimmering blue breast feathers. But what made this piece unique, instead of the typical, fanned, tail plumage, this turkey was in a natural standing pose. It is now the centerpiece of our Thanksgiving collection.

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On a bright Florida morning, brimming with anticipation, we boarded the shuttle bus in front of our hotel at the Caribbean Beach Resort in Walt Disney World. Nik and I, my mom and sisters were sitting up front. My dad and three-year-old Ben were in back. We made a couple of stops throughout the six villages of the resort. At the third stop, Old Port Royale, the hub of the complex, we listened to people exiting through the rear, and watched people boarding up the front steps. All of a sudden, here comes my dad, with this sheepish grin, holding Ben's hand. My mom and I are looking at each other, and my sisters started laughing. My dad waits till he's passing right next to us in the aisle, looks down at Ben's upturned face, innocent smile, and bright, orange hair, and says, “That's the last time I'm listening to you.”

Only my old man.

Keeping the Customer Happy. Very Happy.

My dad promised when my brother Bunce, younger than me by sixteen months, turned 21, he would take us to Las Vegas. I had never been there before, and actually had no interest to go. I didn't know the first thing about gambling, and I had no desire to add to the coffers of the Mob. But I was always up for a new adventure.

We got to O'Hare Airport, checked our bags, and walked to our departure gate. My dad said we should hit the john before boarding the plane. We headed into the public washroom, and my dad was saying, "The one thing you have to watch out for in these public bathrooms is the dirty, old perverts." Then he pointed to some poor schlub standing by himself at the row of urinals, and shouts out, "Like that guy!"

I thought, "Oh my God! We're gonna get in a fight before we even leave the ground."

The guy whipped his head around, and my dad started to laugh like a hyena. It was our good friend Harold Lieberman, the father of classmates of ours from Congregation Beth Jacob. Hal started calling my dad names, but I was trying to figure out how my dad had recognized him.

A few hours later, we arrived in Las Vegas, took a cab to the Stardust hotel, and left our bags at the front desk. Even before checking in, my dad needed to try his luck at the craps tables. He staked me and Bunce with twenty bucks and we started to go with him, but he said, "No!" We couldn't watch him play, like we would jinx him or something. So Bunce and I got some chips and some tokens for the slots and headed off on our own.

We were just getting settled down at a blackjack table, and Bunce was explaining the basics of the game, when my dad came up and said, "Let's go." Bunce and I shrugged. We retrieved our bags, and a bellhop led us out of the main casino and hotel complex to a row of rundown, shabby units behind the building, lovingly referred to as "the barracks," although any soldier placed in such quarters would have immediately shot his superior officer.

My dad said we had to meet his friend Tony. We went out to dinner with Tony, a nice enough fellow, but after dinner, instead of heading back to the Strip for some more gambling, we headed into a dingy area called North Las Vegas. We pulled up in front of this sleazy dive named the Palomino Club.

The inside was raunchy, smoky, and crowded. A hostess seated the four of us around a tiny, sticky table. A few minutes later, a waitress came up and informed us that there was a three drink minimum. We ordered our drinks, I asked for a 7 & 7 - a Seagram's Seven and 7-Up. A short time later, the waitress came back and placed our entire order in front of us. So now there were twelve glasses on this wobbly, little, round table. I took a sip of my drink. The pop was flat, the whiskey was watered, and the drink was warm because there was no ice.

A bargain-basement, Don Rickles wannabe took the stage. A cheap hairpiece had slid to one side of his head, and he wore a tux that looked like it had come off a corpse that had been underground for a while. He started banging on the microphone and said, "Good evening ladies and gentiles, I'm Artie King."

Now, I had been joking with Bunce the whole time out there that I wanted to see the worst comic in Vegas. The old phrase, be careful what you wish for, proved prophetic that night. I can't remember a single joke he told, but the act quickly deteriorated into heckling back and forth with the crowd, and insulting people who got up to leave. Needless to say, my dad laughed like a jackass at every bon mot.

Finally the estimable Mr. King left the stage, punctuating his class act by flipping off the audience. Next, a series of bare breasted women, accompanied by hoots, whistles, banging feet, and catcalls, swayed desultorily across the stage, their faces displaying a range of emotions from boredom to outright hostility. I looked at my dad, I looked at the glassy-eyed faces around the room, I looked at the dozen untouched glasses on the table, I looked at Bunce, and said, "I'm outta here."

My dad wanted me to stay, but I was 23, not 13, and I'd seen enough. I went outside and got in a waiting cab. I told the driver “the Stardust,” and he started to pull away, but he said, "Do you know this guy?" I glanced out the window, and there was Bunce running for the cab.

Back at the hotel, Bunce walked me through the various games, and a couple of hours later, my dad came into the casino, and suggested we get a few hours sleep. Saturday morning we hopped a cab farther down the Strip to the famous Caesar's Palace - far too pricey to stay at, but worth splurging on for a breakfast. We finished up, after being served by some spectacular looking women in Romanesque costumes that would make a centurion fall on his sword. I happened to sport a mustache at the time, and in the hallway, an artist was displaying some black velvet paintings, several of which portrayed Wayne Newton.

Sure enough, my dad called out, "Hey, those pictures look like Steve. Steve looks like Wayne Newton. Hey, Wayne Newton's over here. It's Wayne Newton!"

In a matter of moments, a large crowd formed, jostling for a chance to see Mr. Las Vegas in person. The elation and excitement quickly turned to disappointment. "That ain't Wayne Newton," the crowd grumbled, shooting me dirty looks. An old lady approached me and said, "You should be ashamed of yourself young man," and whacked me on the arm with an autograph book.

I was going, "Hummida, hummida, hummida," and again my dad was off in the corner laughing himself silly.

Our vacation was a Mr. Travel, no-frills, weekend junket - fly in on Friday afternoon and fly out Sunday morning. Bunce and I were ready to get down to some serious gambling, but my dad suggested we go "casino hopping." The thing is, the Strip is miles long. The hotel/casinos are gigantic properties. It takes more than half an hour to walk from one to another, and it's too expensive to keep getting in and out of cabs. So off we went, only spending a short amount of time at each casino. We noticed my dad was not gambling.

As the afternoon passed, my dad said we needed to meet Tony again. But Bunce and I put our feet down. The amazing time Bunce and I had gambling downtown, and then at Circus Circus, where I parlayed my twenty dollar stake into a five-hundred dollar poke playing craps all night was the stuff of legend, but best saved for another story.

Sunday morning, we stumbled back to the barracks at the Stardust to get ready to catch our flight. We figured my dad would be sleeping, but the room was empty. My dad had made arrangements for Tony to drive us to the airport. We packed our bags, including our dad's stuff because of the early check-out time. We left our suitcases at the desk. The room was already paid for, so we grabbed something to eat, I spent some of my winnings on souvenirs, and we played around at the tables. But pretty soon we retrieved our luggage and met Tony out front. There was still no sign of our dad.

It was well past the time we needed to leave, and we were getting desperate. Tony, Bunce, and I resigned ourselves to making the flight without him, and just as the valet pulled up with Tony's car, here came our dad running down the Strip with this devilish grin on his face.

(I later learned from Bunce that my dad's strange behavior in Vegas was due to the fact he had lost all his money in the first fifteen minutes of arriving at the hotel. He had a small reserve he dipped into Sunday morning and got on a hot streak he didn't want to break.)

We made the plane with seconds to spare. I plopped down in the window seat with my dad next to me on the aisle. Bunce was a couple of rows ahead. All I wanted to do was sleep. The stewardess (they were not flight-attendants yet) was coming down the aisle doing a pre-takeoff head count. As she got closer, counting off forty-one, forty-two, forty-three to herself, my dad spouted out fifty-four, thirty-seven, sixty-six. All at once she got this startled expression, then stared directly at my dad, and if there was ever an embodiment of "looks could kill," that was it.

Nowadays, he would have been escorted off the plane in handcuffs, arrested for interfering with a flight crew in the performance of their duties, and held indefinitely as a domestic terrorist. Instead, she turned sharply around and stormed back to the front of the cabin to restart her head count. As tired as I was, I got up and moved to an empty seat as far away as I could get. If I ordered a drink, I wanted to make reasonably sure it wasn't poisoned.

We finally lifted off and meals were served. My dad had made prior arrangements for him, me, and Bunce to have kosher dinners. I don't know what Bunce did, but I ordered off the menu. I had no sooner taken a bite, when I heard my dad blabber so the whole plane could hear, "Wow, this kosher food is fantastic. It's way better than what the rest of you are eating. You should all order kosher meals next time!"

Suffice it to say that when my dad deplaned, the stewardesses did not say thank you for flying with us and please fly with us again.

There are schmucks in the world. There are biggie schmucks. But my dad is the biggiest schmuck of all.

By the way, just for kicks, I googled the Palomino Club, and it's still there and going strong. Artie King is still performing nightly, and I think I recognized some of the same dancers.

Keeping the Customer Happy. Very Happy.

I Think This Might Make A Good Blog

I can't really say exactly what catches my eye when scrolling through my news feed that makes me click on a link to read a story. I'm interested in politics, science, sociology, humor, and especially anything that I think might make good material for my blog.

I saw an article on Slate.com that showed a picture of a pretty, young woman (that in itself usually enough to pique my interest) with a nose ring, and under that, the caption, "A woman tweets #KillAllWhiteMen and the Internet explodes."

The page opened up to a story by Amanda Hess about a college student who was quoted out of context and vilified in the troll-ridden webosphere. It sounded like another of the never-ending "people gonna hate" episodes that turns the Internet from a free and open forum of differing thoughts and opinions into a no-man's- land (no pun intended) of violence and vitriol.

I myself constantly worry in the back of my mind about what I may post that triggers a backlash of hate mail and death threats. Before I started my blog, my family held a discussion in regard to the possible ramifications of putting myself out there, and we came to the decision that I shouldn't be intimidated into silence.

Actually, I wasn't even going to comment on this story until I read to the end and found this paragraph, "This is the time we live in: Thousands of people have signed a petition to unseat a woman they’ve never heard of from a position they don’t understand at a school they’ve never visited over a tweet they’ve never seen."

"Nutshell," I thought. This explains what the Net has become.

The story itself involves a student named Bahar Mustafa, a self-proclaimed “queer, anti-racist, feminist killjoy.”

Mustafa holds a Master's degree in gender and media studies from Goldsmiths, University of London, where she just won re-election to her post as welfare and diversity officer for Goldsmiths’ student union. Mustafa was organizing a protest over upwardly spiraling tuition costs, and in a Facebook message to her friends to help spread the word, she wrote tongue-in-cheek, “If you’re a man and/or white PLEASE DON’T COME. [But] don’t worry lads we will give you and allies things to do.”

A recipient of the message published the comment on a student news site, where it was quickly picked up by the local tabloids who in short order stated that Mustafa had used the hashtag, "#KillAllWhiteMen," on her personal twitter account.

As the story spread out of control, a Change.org petition emerged demanding that Mustafa be arrested on charges of hate speech and terrorism.

Among the elegantly phrased suggestions (from, presumably, a white male in fear for his life from the hedge-clipper wielding, lesbian hordes), was to “rape her in the cunt with a chainsaw.”

In view of this and other such comments, you would think the police would take an interest in this situation, and indeed they did, although not in the way you might suppose.

"This week Scotland Yard told reporters that after receiving a tip, its officers had launched an investigation into Mustafa’s social media activities, searching for evidence of a 'racially motivated malicious communication.'”

As opposed to the Internet itself.

Imitation is the Sincerest Form of Flattery

The Allies were losing the war. England was starving. Vital food shipments from the U.S. were being sent to the bottom of the Atlantic by German U-boats. Men, women, and children scurried underground as sirens blared, mere moments before the Luftwaffe rained down terror from the skies. Country after country in Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa fell before the advancing panzer blitzkrieg. Jews, Poles, Gypsies, homosexuals, the mentally ill, and the physically disabled were being rounded up, and shipped in cattle cars to the horrors of the concentration camps.

Orders and messages from the German high command were relayed through the Enigma, a machine whose encrypted codes could not be broken. A daring operation succeeded in England getting their hands on one of the machines. Now all they had to do was crack the encryption.

In stepped Alan Mathison Turing (the 'Math' in Mathison foreshadowing his destiny at birth), born 23 June 1912. Turing was a mathematician, logician, cryptanalyst, philosopher, mathematical biologist, and a Cambridge and Princeton University scholar. He quickly came to understand that only another machine, faster, nimbler, more powerful could defeat the Enigma. He conceived of and built the first digital computer, a huge conglomeration of rotating cylinders and wires.

I am bisexual. Anyone who knows me, or has read any of my writing, knows this. Had I not been born this way, I would still be outraged and heartbroken over what happened to Alan Turing.

We finally got around to watching The Imitation Game last evening. I took note of the film when it was released late last year, but it was not a movie I wanted to see in the theater. Due to my limited mobility, I usually reserve my theater-going to big budget, special effects laden, pyrotechnic, action adventures, preferably in 3D.

Benedict Cumberbatch, who I enjoy in all his roles - Sherlock Holmes, Khan, Smaug - portrayed Turing, the father of the computer. The plot centers around Turing's work in England during WWII where he headed a small unit of men - and one woman - tasked with breaking Germany's coded messages. The key was breaking the "Enigma" machine which encrypted the code.

Cryptologists (code-breakers, not tomb raiders) of the day, approached the problem through traditional, human based analysis using mathematical algorithms. However, the Enigma possessed a possible 159-million-million (!) possible combination keys, which the Germans changed every twenty-four hours.

It is estimated that the successful cracking of the Enigma, which went undetected by the Germans, shortened the war by two to four years, and saved an estimated 14 million lives. Had the war dragged on, it is conceivable that Germany would have developed atomic weapons before we did. England would have had no choice but to quickly capitulate to Hitler's demands. Russia would have fought on, even as Germany blasted Moscow and Saint Petersburg back to the stone age. Germany certainly would have supplied Japan with the bomb, and Pearl Harbor, San Francisco, and San Diego would have disappeared in an atomic conflagration. From bases in England, German aircraft carriers would have laid waste to our eastern seaboard.

In 1951 England, homosexuality was a criminal offense, punishable by imprisonment. After the war, Turing continued his research in computer science, developing the concept of artificial intelligence, but he was arrested and subsequently convicted of "gross indecency" for having a brief affair with another adult man. He was given the choice of serving two years in jail, or voluntarily undergoing chemical castration.

This highly controversial practice consisted of a series of injections of synthetic hormones which rendered him impotent and artificially repressed his sex drive. It did nothing, of course, to "convert" him to heterosexuality, it merely suppressed this aspect of his psyche.

The conviction also resulted in Turing losing his security clearance, and he was thereafter barred from his work for the government.

Turing was discovered dead in his bed, by his housekeeper, on 8 June 1954. His death was ruled as a suicide by cyanide poisoning. A half-eaten apple was discovered near his body, and it was thought that he had ingested the poison thereby. One biographer, David Leavitt, even went so far as to suggest that Turing was re-enacting a scene from the 1937 Walt Disney film Snow White, Touring's favorite fairy tale. Leavitt stated that Turing took "an especially keen pleasure in the scene where the Wicked Queen immerses her apple in the poisonous brew."

An alternate theory proposed that the death was accidental, because Turing kept a supply of cyanide in his small apartment as part of his experiments. But the romantic notion that Turing took his own life, a broken and despondent genius, has won out.

After his conviction, Turing became an outspoken advocate of lesbian and homosexual rights, and traveled to other countries that were more open and tolerant, although he was denied permission to enter the United States. The recognition that Turing's work during WWII saved countless American lives was never taken into account. The theory that Turing was "silenced" by British Intelligence which considered him to be a security risk was never pursued.

Turing was shy as a boy, and was ostracized by his schoolmates. He formed a romantic relationship with a classmate who died from tuberculosis, and Turing named his first code-breaking computer, Christopher, in honor of his lost love.

One of Turing's legacies is the so-called, "Turing Test," the benchmark for Artificial Intelligence. According to Turing's philosophy, true AI could only be reached when a machine was capable of "thinking" so that a human could carry on a conversation, not knowing if he was speaking to man or machine. Turing called this test, "The Imitation Game."

60 years after his death, Turing received a royal pardon of his "crime" by Queen Elizabeth II. Turing has become a folk-hero of sorts. Numerous awards have been bestowed on him posthumously. Historic landmarks, plaques, and statues have sprung up in his honor, and celebrations are held in his name. He has become a rallying point for LGBT rights.

This short blog does not, and cannot, explore in-depth the issues raised within it. The Turing Test, chemical castration, the Enigma machine, "Christopher," and the life of Turing himself are subjects worthy of heavily researched books and academic papers. I entreat you to explore these areas of interest further online or at your local library.

Turing was also a marathon and ultra-distance runner of Olympic caliber. In fact, Benedict Cumberbatch trained before filming to make the running sequences believable. Turing remarked that hard running so freed his mind that his brain would fill with computational ideas. More than anything else, this pushing of mind and body beyond human endurance, best sums up his life.

When asked why he punished himself so, Turing said, "It’s the only way I can get some release."

A Tale of Two Shitties

Boy, did I get two strange phone calls yesterday afternoon.

I posted the other day about taking one of our cats into the vet to have her spayed. As part of her follow-up, the doctor wanted a stool sample brought back to the clinic.

Also last week, I had an office visit with my primary care physician. He sent me home with a test kit to check for prostate cancer and other colon health issues.

You guessed it.

Our cat has hemorrhoids, and my doctor wants to know why I've been using a litterbox.

Thank You For Choosing Our Service

I picked up the phone yesterday morning at 11:00 sharp to wish my Mom a happy Mother's Day. I punched in the number, the phone rang once, then switched to an automated voice message which said:

"Ha, ha, you schmuck. Every idiot on earth is trying to reach their mothers at this time, so due to unusually heavy call volume all our circuits are busy. You should have sent a card. Please try your call again later."