Category: etc.

Your Brain’s Pattern

Your mind is a firestorm – full of intensity and drama. Your thoughts may seem scattered to you most of the time… But they often seem strong and passionate to those around you. You are a natural influencer. The thoughts you share are very powerful and persuading.

…. BUT I’m not sleeping so I just wrote this instead. It’s 2:10 a.m. and I needed to dump out some thoughts. It’s entirely stream of consciousness, really. So it’s probably completely incoherent.

It’s about my first day … on my new job. Today. Part 2 will be the post, I guess, that shows how I got from where I was to where I am.

There is little to no punctuation in this. There is no capitalization. Oh — and there are probably mortifying spelling errors! I’m usually more careful, but I wrote it in a frenzy on a document page elsewhere and pasted it here. It might be a little trying to get through it the way it’s written, but I’ve spent a large part of the evening crying and then just wrote this off the top. I did not censor myself. I wrote what came. For those offended by the “s” word, stop now, I guess. I’m sorry. That word comes too easily to me sometimes. But these are my ramblings and here, I guess, you see some of who I really am:

i felt like i wasn’t even made of solid today i did not feel i was there i was almost sure i wasn’t – yes, employees were interacting with me but i was able to pass it off as some secret club in my mind — almost — just us — until i dropped a stack of coffee lids on the floor and a customer nearby said well that didn’t turn out the way you planned. and it’s silly, but i thought — he saw me — he SEES me i am here i’m not a vapor or a cloud or something that belongs to the air and flight no i am here and he sees me and recognizes me as someone who works here i want to cry my job isn’t coming back to me i can’t believe ive thought that for so long that i actually was treating it like it was – say – a boy i loved and we were perfect for each other and he broke up with me and i spend the breakup – months and months – thinking we’re perfect for each other he didn’t mean it he’ll be back he’ll call me. i know. how can he not call me the one who’s perfect for him? but he doesn’t call and he doesn’t call and i realize i am this child this grownup child thinking this shit as i stack plastic coffee lids and drop them on the ground i am nervous and i show up in a mint green polo shirt and the uniform of black pants and black service job shoes and the shirt is green because she called and said if you look like an easter egg you’re okay wear pastels i remember thinking that didn’t sound right but i went out and bought several pastel polo shirts because i own zero pastel polo shirts because i don’t like pastel polo shirts or polo shirts in general. so i show up a perfect easter egg i feel like a moron i don’t wear this color – who wears this color – she looks aghast at me as i stand there between the two other trainees dressed in head to toe black they are the perfect heavily disassociated artist type guys and i am an easter egg with black sturdy soled service shoes. the whole day they call me the easter egg — easter egg will be the first to go — haha little shits — im almost old enough to be the little one’s mother. i ask him if he’s nervous he looks disdainfully at me no, what for? it’s no big deal but i am nervous i feel i am going backwards in my life i feel i am at my first job like i am 16 and yet i’m not, so i’ve no excuse and i went out and bought a pair of new black service job shoes to help me go backwards in my life and as i stand in them in their newness they feel wrong on my feet and it makes me wrong all over and they stand in the cool darkness blending in and i am the easter egg in the shirt i hate more with each passing moment. with a name tag on it – a name tag for crapsake. one of the guys says will you EVER wear that shirt again, i mean, REALLY? its high school i’m in high school, wearing the wrong thing and paying the price for it. she’s cool about it admits it’s her fault she miscommunicated duh and i can order a shirt and have it deducted from my check cheap place won’t pay for a damn shirt it’s all of 6 dollars i’m very excited about it. as the day wears on the mint color of my easter egginess doesn’t combine well with my nerves i notice i have growing sweat stains on the under arms of my minted egg shirt i am an all grownup woman in an easter egg shirt and sturdy soled shoes with sweat stains under her arms. i try not to move my arms much so no one will see i make sure not to drop anything else i clean the toilet in the bathroom and that is the best part because i can lock the door and no one can see me i am not there. at one point we’re outside on the patio with our free coffees – the three of us and her – and she gives the big harassment lecture how she has no tolerance for any harassment based on gender, age, race, sexual orientation, religion. she is adamant forceful zero tolerance for that. she leaves us to read the riveting handbook which i actually DO read while the guys talk. they are open about being gay i interact with them, we’re laughing etc and i go back to reading. they sit there. we’re being paid actually to read the damn thing so i figure i should read it “are you guys done” no, well, we skimmed it. oh. so the little one says out of the blue – so tracey let’s get this out in the open – he sounds all mocking, like it’s a big joke he can’t wait to get us all in on – what religion are you? religion — i HATE that word and i am stunned he’s asking me this and the other guy suddenly leans forward in his seat and no wonder i’m sweating they are both smiling and i can’t believe the question after her big speech and all-so i try to make a lame joke wow going for the hot button issues right off the bat are we? well come ON he says we want to know. and i sit there with so many thoughts that i swear minutes must have ticked by but it’s not that long and in my peasized brain at that moment i can think of no other light deflection and their eyes are weirdly looking at me and i have to say that i am scared to answer the question. in this neighborhood with its certain cultural sensibilities which don’t work in my favor on this particular question. and i feel as much as gay people are afraid – and SO often rightly so – of christians and judgment and mistreatment, that i feel that same fear right now, as he asks that question I don’t want to be misjudged I don’t want assumptions made about me either. and STILL i cannot think of how to change the subject. it felt inside like some bizarre spiritual battle raging – in those brief seconds while i fumbled for thought and they didn’t let me off the hook, either one of them. i didn’t want to say too much because it’s work and all – right – and it’s the freaking FIRST day and i don’t know you and i don’t want to be judged either BUT my mind would not let me be a sort of peter either. i could not deny what i believe. the only words my mind could think and say were well, i’ll tell you this: i’m a believer. and later on i cried and cried about this because i thought i’d said too much and i thought i’d said too little and i worried that i’d denied my God. i mean, i didn’t say i’m a christian so maybe i was a coward. now i think i was a coward – and i also think he had no right to ask – and i also think i shouldn’t have answered – and i think many things it is useless think now because it’s done. i looked in their faces though as i said it and the eager glow had disappeared. they had wanted to share a joke with me, that was the sure vibe. i know it. and i guess i ruined the joke clumsily but to me it wasn’t a joke it is part of me – and truly not enough of me. their faces almost fell and i felt awful like well can we be friends or did i just ruin it? nothing brings down a room like religion and politics, right? but he really put me on the spot and i am ashamed that i froze like i did. i had asked nothing of them – just hoped to be given a chance, just hoped to fit in on my first day. just didn’t want to seem too big an ass. and after that all i wanted was to clean the bathroom again, lock the door.

I’m still working on part 2. Didn’t have any time for it today.

Just enough time to tell you that I didn’t have enough time.

(This is terribly hard for me to write about. If it’s rambling, just know I tried to make some sense of it, but cried a good bit while doing so.)

As some of you know, a while back, I lost my job. Not my dream job, but the closest I’d ever come to it: teaching performing arts to 300 grade school children at a private school.

And right from the start, it was an almost impossible task.

Two weeks before the school year started, the principal called to tell me that space was at a premium; I would not have a classroom.

I was silent for a long moment.

“Where will I teach?”

“Well, come up to school tomorrow. I think I have a space you can use.”

She had a space, a ridiculous space: a tiny trailer packed with desks and chairs that could not be pushed out of the way, becase there WAS no out of the way. There was no room for 20 plus kids to even stand, much less do all the big, expansive, crazy things creative drama requires. She showed it to me sheepishly. I was irritated that I was finding out this minor detail at virtually the last minute.

I looked her straight in the eye. No time to be diplomatic.

“I can’t use this.”

I knew she knew that. I drove home, room-less, space-less, and began to frantically revamp my whole program.

The first three weeks of school, I taught my classes outside, practically yelling, trying to manage my own personal “Lord of the Flies.”

It wasn’t working. I went to the principal.

“I need to be inside, somewhere. Please.”

After that, I become the roving performing arts teacher, peddling my wares from classroom to classroom, teaching each class of each grade level one session per week. To cope with the space problem, the teachers and students would shove the desks out of the way to make some space before I arrived. Then the teacher would leave for a welcome break while I taught class.

Some teachers were more generous than others with the space they created. But even with the best efforts, the spaces were still very small. Laughably small, really. I could tell who liked me and who didn’t by how big the spaces were. Huge resentment made for tiny spaces.

Still, it pushed my creativity to the limits. I had to create a program from scratch that was portable and fun and small, but with big impact. I still don’t know how I did it, but I DID IT. I am unashamed to say it. The kids loved my classes and I loved them.

At the end of every day, as I walked down the hill to my car, kids would appear at my side, gather ’round me, calling my name, grabbing me, until I felt like the mushy middle of a frantic hug donut. Many days, I’d drive away with tears in my eyes. Do they really like me? How is that possible? I felt sure someone was putting them up to these mass huggings, that they’d tire of having to do that day after day, that they’d discover I wasn’t hiding candy in my pockets. My heart wouldn’t let me believe it. But day after day, the hug donut happened, unabated, even got bigger.

“I love you, Mrs. Tracey.”

My heart was exploding.

I’d had so many bad jobs, been laid off too many times from too many failing ventures. It was uncanny, actually. And yet here I was. Actually succeeding. Fitting in. Not out of step. Not ill at ease. No one more surprised than I.

And I just knew — this was my job for the rest of my life.

There was one teacher, though. She taught 5th grade. I loved her students; they were always willing to push the barriers in performing arts class. They were game for anything, unafraid to play, sold out to the silly. Sometimes, we’d all just howl with laughter at the things they came up with. That class was one of my favorites, just the chemistry those kids had together. Magic.

But their teacher. Let’s call her Donna. She made me uncomfortable right off the bat. Donna was probably in her late 50’s, with a phony regal bearing. It seemed stiff, practiced, in strange contrast to her dumpy form and always brown clothes. Her admitted favorite color. Her kids — those crazy shining lights — noticeably dimmed whenever she was around. Frequently, she wouldn’t leave the room when I conducted class. She knew she was supposed to leave; the principal had actually requested that of all the teachers on my behalf. Nevertheless, there she’d be, plopped in the corner at her desk, looking so casually busy, that I was almost certain there was nothing casual or busy about it. Her presence felt disrespectful, defiant even, and it made it harder for me to assert my authority with the kids.

Finally, I talked to her about it. Made it sound like my problem. That she wasn’t doing anything wrong. Her voice was all honey:

“Oh, okaay, Tracey. If that’s what you feel you NEED.”

I ignored the phony tone. “Great. Thank you.”

When the Christmas show rolled around, she was assigned to assist me. Turns out, she’d done the previous year’s show — all 90 butt-numbing minutes’ worth. But on this one, she was no help at all. AT. ALL.

She sat in meetings with me and the principal and said absolutely NOTHING. The principal, fortunately, gushed over my rather untraditional ideas. But Donna just sat there, smiling benignly. When the secretary showed me a mock-up of the program I’d written, Donna’s name was magically included as Co-Director. That was certainly NOT what I’d given her. In my version, Donna’s name had been under the “Special Thanks” (for nothing) category.

“Uh, what’s this?” I said.

“Well, Donna’s helping you, right?”

“Um, well, you know, she’s not really the director.”

“Well, she should be in there as SOMETHING.”

“Okay. Um ….. how about ‘Technical Director’?”

Well, I guess she HAD given me the name of the guy who did lights the year before. Grudgingly.

Anyway, the show itself was a triumph — a multimedia triumph, owing so much more to My Beloved and his talents as a video producer than smiling, useless Donna. It was daring and unconventional for a Christmas show; there was not a towel-headed shepherd or 6-year-old virgin Mary in sight.

Because I don’t really like that.

Instead, we filmed kids being kid crazy — cartwheeling, running, trampolining, waving streamers; then, on show night, all 300 kids sang “Joy to the World” as this video romped across the giant screen. We filmed kids answering, sometimes HILARIOUSLY, my off-camera questions about the true meaning of Christmas. We filmed kids reciting, sometimes poignantly, sometimes hesistantly, their assigned verses of the Christmas story. We scanned colorful, spindly Christmas drawings by the shyest kids, editing them together for the big screen, while the kids sang, live again, songs to accompany the drawings.

And, oh! We had the MOST wonderful angel drawings! Just my favorites. I still have them. Some angels looked like bees; some like butterflies, some were triangles with wings, some were squares with wings. But up on that huge screen, in their 20-foot glory, those crooked colored pen drawings CAME TO BLAZING LIFE!

And as the pictures sprang to the screen one by one, all 300 kids were yowling “Angels We Have Heard on High” at the top of their lungs, like this:

GLO-O-o-o-o-O-

O-o-o-o-O

O-o-o-o-O

RIAAA!!

IN EXCELSIS DAY-OHHHHH!!

I could hardly keep conducting them, my eyes were tearing so badly.

But my absolute favorite video was for a song called “What Can I Give Him?”
I selected about 20 kids and asked them one question:

What is something special of yours that you would give to baby Jesus, if you could?

I made sure to tell them they would keep their “gift,” of course; just bring it to the shoot to be filmed.

The kids brought just the sweetest, funniest things:

a toy car
a shell
a snow globe
a porcelain angel
a Doug Flutie jersey
a pacifier
a pumpkin
some rocks — from a little 1st grade girl who’d just lost her dad. Her big brown eyes on that big huge screen said everything she didn’t have the words to say. Those little rocks. Those huge lost eyes.
a sign that said “My Life” — one 1st grade boy stood there so proudly holding his handmade sign. He would give Jesus his life. He looked like he would. He was nearly choking up, but he seemed brave, too. He would give Jesus his life.

My Beloved is, frankly, brilliant with a camera and filmed each kid separately, carefully. He’s easygoing, so the kids relaxed. He’s funny, too, so he made them laugh. And he likes the phrase “less is more,” so he made it easy for them. He had them simply stand, holding their “gift,” as he very slowly panned in — to the gift — to their excited, open faces — and slowly out again, to capture the whole moment.

You’ve never seen such beautiful kids. Even the unkempt little boy with the glasses and the cowlick and the crooked collar looked RADIANT and PERFECT through My Beloved’s lens. It was breathtaking.

Later, during that shoot, I gathered the kids together, gave them each a blown-up white helium balloon and an indelible red pen. I just said, “Write a note to Jesus — whatever you want to say. We’re going to send it to Him.”

My Beloved filmed this — beautiful, heartbreaking closeups of little faces bent so earnestly over their balloons. Drawing hearts. Stick figures. Flowers. Their name. “I love you, Jesus.”

When they were done with their notes, they stood together and on the count of three, released them into the perfect blue heavens of that day. That moment on film — those little, honest notes to God — was sheer innocence and joy.

So as the parents watched this video that night, all 300 kids sang this, live:

What can I give Him
Poor as I am
If I were a shepherd
I would give a lamb
If I were a wise man
I would do my part
But what I can,
I give Him
I give Him my heart

It’s a perfect, simple song. But the kids BLURTED it out with all their hearts, as if it were the only thing they cared about in the whole wide world. And as they sang, “I give Him my heart,” the balloons floated heavenward on that giant screen.

The whole show was a series of miraculous, perfect moments. I was literally stunned. People came up to us afterwards, crying — CRYING:

“Thank you. Thank you for using Michaela. She’s been so sad.”
“Thank you for using Dale’s artwork. He’s so shy, but he got to have a part in this.”
“Thank you for just letting the kids be kids.”

I couldn’t believe it. I’d never felt more proud. I was bursting. So proud of those kids. So proud of My Beloved, who brought all my ideas to LIFE. And so proud of myself, too. Because I was sure I couldn’t pull it off. Because just weeks before, I’d been panicking, not sleeping, because I had NO idea what I was going to do for this show.

Donna came up afterwards, mumured tepid praise. We just stood there looking at each other, clutching the giant bouquets of roses the headmaster had presented to BOTH of us at the end of the show, acknowledging us as equals in front of the thousand people in attendance.

I accepted her tepid praise tepidly.

The next day, I said out of the blue to My Beloved, “If there’s any threat to my job, it’s Donna.”

“Why on EARTH would you say that NOW?” he asked.

“Just a feeling is all,” I replied.

Guess who has my job now?

(part 2 to come)

I am a football fan. Diehard. I grew up with it. It was a way to get closer to my dad which met with mostly dubious success. But still, this robust and manly game got in my blood.

I am, however, still a woman. With woman’s concerns about football. And, no, not the “he just sits there on that damn sofa in front of that damn tv all Sunday long” concerns — because I do that, too — but the “what the heck is WRONG with some of these nebulous, nancy team names” type of concerns.

Serious concerns for a serious problem.

Witness these names:

The Green Bay Packers

The Houston Texans

The Arizona Cardinals

The Seattle Seahawks

The Cleveland Browns

Now I’m of the opinion that a football team’s name should bode ill, promise mayhem, strike fear in the hearts of all who dare oppose. When fans hear their team’s name, they should tremble with relief and gratitude that they’re with them and not against them. Because woe betide those who are against them.

So let’s look at these names I’ve listed, shall we, and see how they do on what I’ll dub The Mayhemometer.

The Green Bay Packers — I know. I’m messing with history here. Oldest team name around, dates back to 1919. Blahdie Blah. The name was originally The Indian Packers because ol’ Curly Lambeau received money from his employer, The Indian Packing Co., for uniforms and equipment. In exchange, a name was born. (It was originally “The Indian Packers.”)

Lotsa history there.

BUT …. ill and menace and fear? No. I mean, what’s a Packer? (ahem.) No. They were apparently simple, hardworking fellas who packed a lot of useful things back in the early 20th century. Not scary. Not even close. Mayhemometer — well, 1. Because maybe the occasional rowdydow broke out while they were packing things.

And, if not, there IS this. THIS is nightmare scary:

They could significantly raise their score on the Mayhemometer by simply changing their name to The Green Bay Cheese Bras.

Yes, I know. It is absolutely the wrong kind of scary.

But it IS scary. Just gouge-your-own-eyes-out-it’s better-this-way SCARY.

(And, oh, those genuwine gold chains really class up the cheese.)

The Houston Texans — Please. They were once The Houston Oilers and what was wrong with that? Seemed kinda macho somehow. Was it too greasy and slimy, too Bush and Cheney, WHAT? And how embarrassingly lazy is this name? What’s next? “The Oakland Californians”? “The New York New Yorkers”?? A name that awful could only have been decided by committee. I imagine a gaggle of tight-suited, tassle-shoed executives with sour coffee breath and feeble comb-overs. I imagine it took just hours and HOURS to come up with this one. Oh, and I imagine they were probably “very pleased to announce” the birth of their cleverly named baby.
Mayhemometer — 0.

The Arizonal Cardinals and The Seattle Seahawks — A cardinal is a tiny, red singing finch. A sea hawk is a gull. Finches and gulls, people. Mayhemometer — less than 0. So much less it can’t even be calculated.

The Cleveland Browns — This one …. disturbs me. It reminds me too much of the brown pants joke I spoke of in this post. It’s got a tinge of the incontinent about it. It makes me think of diapers — for babies, for kiddies, for oldies, for EVERYBODY! It’s just ….. blech. I know The Browns are “dawgs” and all, but what kind of dawg?

Are they the ratty, gooey-eyed shakes kind of dawg:

Or are they the faithful, warm-eyed pal kind of dawg:

I mean, you tell me, Browns. You’re “dawgs” of some kind. So naturally, your helmet is a plain, dog-free, neon orange. Because nothing says “Browns” better than orange and nothing says “dawgs” better than nothing. Mayhemometer — 0. Paint that on your helmet, dawgs.

To me, menace comes with names like the Lions, the Bears, the Raiders, the freakin’ RAIDERS! (And I HATE the Raiders.) But the name is great. It bodes ill and strikes fear and promises heaps of mayhem. It scores a 10 on the Mayhemometer. Plus, their helmets leave no doubt they’re Raiders, for God’s sake!

So I propose some new NFL team names. Names that might strike more universal chords of menace and fear. Because ….. “Browns”?

Something simply must be done.

(Using other NFL cities here, not just the ones I’ve complained about.)

So …… how be …. maybe …. the menace of:

The Cleveland Carbohydrates

The Seattle Soccer Moms

The Cincinnati Smokers

The Baltimore Bird Flu

For scary cult action, I prefer:

The Tennessee Thetans (L. Ron would be thrilled)

The Miami Magicks

The Dallas J Dubs

Celebrities, of course, offer endless potential. How be:

The Carolina TomKats

The Jacksonville J-Los

The Denver O’Donnells

I don’t know …. have fun ….. do your own.

But for me, personally, the name sure to shiver me timbers, to portend doom and nightmares and tears and hurling would be …..

The Baltimore Beets.

The name that turns the world purple-dark and dirt flavored and forces all to partake.

OH. SWEET. LORD.

24! 24! 24!

TWENTY-FOUR!!

Starts TONIGHT.

And somehow, magically, my chocolate bear is STILL on the show. He’s not the President anymore. He wasn’t last season, either. I don’t know HOW they’re rationalizing his presence this year.

AND I DON’T CARE.

I’m reposting this one because I like it. And it’s pretty rare that I feel that way about what I write here. I know it’s just right over there in the sidebar under “Favorite Tales,” and that most of you have probably seen it already and all, but I just wanted to put it up here again.

I dunno. Who can say why?

Not me. I’m just rageful and bloaty right now.

So I’m just gonna go ahead and relive this wee, triumphant moment.

IS THAT SO WRONNG?!!?

So I’m at Costco the other day.  We all know Costco, right?  Basically a hangar-sized building filled to the brim with enough bulk items to satisfy any shopper’s greedy, grabby consumer lust.  In other words, a place that fills me weepy, sloppy love.  And I still love Costco even though I worked there in high school, which should have had a lifelong repellent effect.  Not for me.  When I’m at Costco, I know Jesus loves me.

So … I’m at Costco the other day.  Somehow I managed to subdue my pounding desire for that 10-pound bag of potato chips, that silo full of Red Vines, that moon-sized pizza.  Smug with my utter dominance over The Sirens’ Call of Costco, I approached the checkout with only 5 — yep, count ’em, 5 — items.  I did, however, succumb to some practical items, like The Raft o’ Toilet Paper.  Hey, get yourself enough of those and you have what I call the guest bed.

Surprisingly, the line wasn’t that long.  And trust me, I know what a long line at Costco is.   As I stood there,  4 or 5 more people fell in line behind me.  Moments later, my turn, and I was quite giddy about it, frankly.  But just then, on the brink of my precious turn, up strolled Duchess McSnooty Voice. 

Stepping in front of me, she clipped, "May I cut in front of you?  I only have a few things."

Quickly, I glanced and counted.  Well, okay.  She did have only a few things.  Seven, to be precise.  I heard The Lady Behind Me breathe one of those lingering, huffy breaths. 

Now, I’m not opposed to letting someone in front of me who has fewer items than I do.  I’ll even offer, because, by golly, I’m just that wonderful.  But when there are other people in line behind me, I find things get … fuzzy. 

Because, really, aren’t you asking to go in front of everyone in line, Duchess? 

I was entering a weird area.  Duchess McSnooty Voice was waiting and staring at me, The Lady Behind Me was waiting and huffing at me, and I just wanted to go home to peace and quiet and the blessed security of my glorious Raft o’ Toilet Paper!

(Plus, I wanted one of themthere yummy Costco hot dogs as a reward for all the temptation I had resisted.)

Crumbling under the weight of all that staring and huffing, I looked at Duchess McSnooty Voice and said, with a sagacity far beyond my years:

"Well,  I don’t have a problem with it" (just a wee Pinocchio),"but why don’t you ask the people behind me if it’s okay with them, too?"

This, to me, seemed utterly sane and reasonable.  I was quite taken with myself.

Instantly, The Lady Behind Me stopped huffing.  Duchess McSnooty Voice, however, kept staring.  At me, like I was crazy.  Then I did the unpardonable, I guess.  I smiled at her.  And she just stomped away.  Huffing. 

I guess it was contagious.

Was it something I said?

UPDATE: If someone can make me a mutt of these two, problem solved, right?

Another image of a Wheaten Terrier:

And a Boxer:

All right. I’m done.

I am. I swear.

My Beloved was rummaging around the archives again. He wanted me to put this one up. Actually, I’d forgotten I’d written this.

************************************

“Come,” says The Harvester.

“And see the olive, crushed for the purest oil.”

“Come,” He says again.

“And see the grape, crushed for the sweetest wine.”

“Come,” says The Harvester, at last.

“And see the heart, crushed, for the fine things inside.”

“Not for naught. For the fineness inside.”

For some time now, I’ve been both fascinated and horrified by the story of grizzly bear crusader Timothy Treadwell.

Treadwell was the self-proclaimed “protector” of the grizzly bears in Alaska’s Katmai National Park. There, he spent 13 summers living amongst them, falling “in love” with them, until one of them killed him — and his girlfriend — in the fall of 2003. All that was left of him was a head with backbone attached, and an arm and hand with its wristwatch still running. The killer bear was then killed. Four garbage bags of “people” were removed from his stomach.

It’s chilling, yes, but, still, I was eager to see Werner Herzog’s documentary on Treadwell, “Grizzly Man,” which MB and I rented the other night.

The film was put together from some 90 hours of video that Treadwell himself shot. He had quite an eye, actually, and the film is breathtaking and terrifying to watch, but, really, the star of this show, upstaging even all that WILD, is Treadwell himself. He is wild, too. Tromping around that wilderness with his ridiculous Prince Valiant hair, he seems consumed and crazed by his love for these bears, believing it’s his duty to protect them, despite that fact that this is, after all, a wildlife reserve. The bears were protected anyway, but not well enough to suit Treadwell.

He seems loony, yes, but innocent, too. A mad, lovesick king utterly unconcerned that the queen he so loves just may kill him one day. Or a delighted, silly child romping carefree in a vast and violent playground.

He calls himself a “kind warrior.”

Okay.

But a “kind warrior” who also reminds you just a little bit of Corky St. Clair in “Waiting for Guffman.”

So you root for him. You do. He’s a complete loon, but a likeable loon. He got to me. He really BELIEVED he was doing good. He really BELIEVED the bears needed him and understood him and bonded with him. He gave them cute little names like Rowdy and Satin and Mr. Chocolate. And as you watch him, biting your nails and screaming at his foolishness — he touches the bears, swims with the bears, camps right amongst them — you are virtually hypnotized into rooting for his lunacy. You almost start to BELIEVE, too.

But then he DRIVES YOU CRAZY when he babytalks the bears with things like, “He’s a big bear. Oh, yeah. He’s a big bear. A very big bear.”

Or when a bear attempts to swipe at him and Treadwell just gushes, “I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU!”

(Man — No wonder they killed you. I’m sorry, but I wanted to kill you right then. You were unhinged — like some silly, gooey-eyed suitor, screaming your serenade to a wilderness of embarrassed beasts.)

There are also interviews with friends, family, and others. One helicopter pilot says, “He acted like he was working with people in bear costumes.” And you do get that sense. He talks well enough about the dangers of the bears — “they will take me out, they will decapitate me, they will chop me up into bits and pieces” — but he doesn’t ACT as if it’s true. They are more human than humans to him.

That same pilot says, “The bears probably thought he was mentally retarded.”

Sometimes, it DOES seem that way. He cries a bit too much for my taste. And he’s filming himself so it’s a kind of messy, self-conscious melodrama.

At one point he’s sobbing into the camera, saying, “I am SO in love with them and they are SO f***ed and it SO sucks.”

Then THIS, rejoicing over a bear’s poop: “Here’s her POOP! It’s warm, I can feel it! It just came from her butt! Let’s touch it! It was just inside her! I know it seems weird, me touching her poop, but IT’S HER LIFE!”

Or this, to one of his little fox friends: “You are the star for ALL the children! I love you SO MUCH! THANK YOU for being my friend!”

(Actually, the footage of the foxes is enchanting, utterly magical. Their beauty and playfulness tug at your heart.)

But one of my favorite moments doesn’t even involve a bear. There’s a dead bumblebee on a leaf and Treadwell, of course, must commentate through his ready tears: “Oh, isn’t this so sad? This little bumblebee was just working and …. it just expired …. working busy as a bee … it’s just touched me to no end. I LOVVVE that bee! OH!! …. the bee moved!!”

It’s true! The dead bee moved, people!

I mean, it’s hysterical — because it’s so RETARDED!

Later in the film, Treadwell, hunkered in his tent, rails at God for the piddling amount of rain they’re getting: “Let’s have some water, Jesus Boy! Let’s have some water, Christ Man! Let’s have some water, little HINDU FLOATY THING!!”

He’s just hilarious and moving and infuriating. One minute, you’re sure he’s acting; the next minute, he seems authentic. That the camera is his constant companion is both good and bad. You’re witness to moments of wild and poetic beauty, but also of sad and silly histrionics. Treadwell is a guy who’d be fascinating to talk to, but impossible to live with. Still, you’re drawn in because he’s a character, in every sense of the word.

His death was horrifying. His video camera was on, but so was the lens cap. The audio, though, recorded everything, his death AND his girlfriend’s, who was terrified of grizzly bears. It will never be released into public domain. In the movie, Herzog, the director, is shown listening to the audio. One of Treadwell’s good friends, in possession of the tape, watches Herzog’s face. It’s an awful moment, made almost more awful because we’re not allowed to hear it, just to imagine it. Done listening, Herzog says to the woman, “You must never listen to this. You should not keep it. You should destroy it because it will be like the white elephant in your room all your life.”

Treadwell says more than once in the film that he would die for these animals. His friends say he died doing what he loved.

I wonder if he thought that at the last.

A magnificent, maddening film.

See it.