Trees and Noises

Dedicated to all those with a philosophical bent of mind...

George Berkeley was the one that screwed everything up for Naturalists. Berkeley, for some strange reason, is the first philosopher to link the question of existence and perception to trees. I know, right? Trees? Regardless, at this point, all of you know what I am talking about...

"If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" 

Often used in the wrong context, mostly by people that have run out of party tricks or by douches (myself included) trying to convince a girl that he is really smart, and this means that they should sleep together. Girl in question laughs at said line most times, while simultaneously revealing a vacant glaze that indicates she has no idea what you are talking about. No action for me tonight. 

We are straying. 

Anyhoo, Naturalists. If I was Steve Irwin (may his soul rest in peace) during his more excitable days as a up and coming man-of-nature, and I heard this line at a social do, I would flip my shit. I would be like, "George, mate, are you trying to say not only that, you like Fosters, but that the freakin trees I spend most of my life around, don't make a noise when they fall down, if I am not around at that particular point, waiting with ears wide open?" The lead singer of Creed is lurking around this particular grouping of people, listening in, when he thinks to himself, "that could be a really good song!". A few wise suggestions from the producer and they have a no.1 single on the Christian Rock charts. It wasn't that hard, really. Change the "ears" to "arms" and get rid of the question mark at the end. That could also have been a great song though: "With arms wide open?". 

No focus. Onwards. 

Steve Irwin is really getting worked up at this point and is about to punch old George in the face, when tah-dah, your's truly, steps in and saves the day.

I say, "George...If someone takes a shit in a forest and no one is around to see it, can you still step in it later?"

Stunned silence...

Rapturous applause followed by much ROFL'ing while finger pointing at George Berkeley. People are holding their stomachs and tears are coming out of their eyes. Steve Irwin is hoisting me up on to his shoulders. The roof is about to fall down. Time slows down. I look around me and realise I am king, if I want to be. All I have to do is deliver the final punch. Something like, 

"What's the matter, George? Stepped in this time, haven't ya?" or "This trees and noises business is some serious shit, eh George?". 

But I cant. I look over at him, and I feel guilty. How can I humiliate this man, when I have myself, used the 'tree noise line' on so many a occasion. I owe him some respect. I tell Steve to take it down a notch and the party quietens. I say,  

"George, if it's any consolation, I only know that trees make a noise when they fall, regardless, of whether someone is around to hear, because I have stepped in too much shit over my lifetime, shit that I had no inkling to see, hear, or feel." The self-deprecating humor works like a charm. A few "awws" and "oos" later and the party is back to normal. With any luck, maybe me and George will get lucky tonight. With separate partners of course. Nothing against George, he's a handsome man. It's just that I imagine the pillow talk might get a little heavy. 

Men With Beards

I have always been under the impression that men with beards share a special bond with one another. As I recently found out, this is not the case; there is, in fact, no honor amongst wearers of facial hair. One would imagine that the number of painstakingly long hours the one has put into the grooming and maintenance of said beard would warrant membership into a special club, a club where shaving cream and razors are unwelcome, a club where one could revel in the discovery of bits of past meals logged away secretly in the vast nest upon one’s face, a club where there were no awkward silences and beard-related topics served as perfect ice-breakers that could thaw even the most frigid of social settings, a club where men held their heads up high and still managed to conceal their unsightly double-chins. Unfortunately, as much as it breaks my heart to say so, I have now come to dismiss any and all previously-held romantic notions associated with the honor of wearing a beard. I am now clean-shaven.   

So how did all of this come to pass? Well, therein lies a series of incidents and events that have inspired the telling of this hairy tale. For starters let me say that, as a child, I was a veritable fuzzball. I had hair coming out of every nook and cranny where hair generally tends to grow as well as a few places where it generally does not. Now, do not misunderstand, I was no wolf-man or circus freak-show...but I was close. The ‘gift’ of facial hair was endowed upon me far before most of my peers. As such, I was never short of a comeback to a taunt or an insult. I could simply end an argument by playing the wondrous post-pubescent facial hair card, “Yeah, yeah! Why don’t you go away for a few years and talk to me when you have replaced the pubic growth on your face with some really hair!! Hahahaha”. Worked like a charm, every-time. Additionally, it was always me that was pushed to the front of the cowering herd when the illicit buying of alcohol or contraband was on the table. Certainly, this was something that did not have a negative effect on one’s popularity in certain rebellious social circles. An interesting thought on that note, is the notion that there is a direct correlation between between facial hair and the choices and avenues that are available to the person in question during their lifetime. I use ‘their’ intentionally in the previous instance as it occurred to me just now that this correlation might apply not only to men, but to the fairer sex as well, although in an entirely different way altogether! 

Be that as it may, let us not digress from the main point of our story. We find ourselves located at a a bar in the burbs of Bombay. It is well past most decent people’s bed-times. I have come out this night with a group of friends to celebrate the departure of one of our compatriots for Portugal. Oddly enough, said compatriot is not at the get-together in question. Even odder, is the fact that no-one really seems to notice or care about this fact. Said compatriot is in fact, a bit garish, overbearing, and quite stupid. Case in point, compatriot’s usage of phrases such as “Let us go out and paint the town yellow”, to which I once responded, “You mean you want to get really drunk and pee everywhere?”. An eye for an eye I suppose, but back to the story at hand. Said compatriot finally arrives at bar where frivolity and dark rum have both been had in good measure. However, it is now closing time and said compatriot is not even afforded the opportunity to have one last beer on native soil. This is a fact that is particularly distressing to flight-bound compatriot, especially in light of my subsequent comments reviewing the recent spate of international aviation incidents. 

After much straggling, we find ourselves outside the bar, trying to kill some time before we can parcel off said compatriot to the airport in a taxi. The topic at hand is the numerous options available to us if we wished to procure one last round of drinks. After a few minutes of this, I begin to feel as though sharp pencils are being poked ever so slightly further into my ear, and thus decided to raise my voice and yell “This conversation is retarded!”. At this juncture, a fellow beard-wearing man not previously affiliated with our group did a one-eighty and yelled in our general direction, “Ehhh! Who is this retarded?”. Fellow beard-wearing man was of the turban’d variety and seemed to be testing the renowned ‘twelve-o-clock madness’ theory. Said turban'd and bearded individual was now clearly upset and decided to place his face perilously close to mine and demanded an explanation for my aforementioned statement. I calmly replied that I was not in fact, talking about anything related to him and that he had no cause to be offended. However, clearly this was merely the ostensible reason for which he had chosen to pick a fight. Granted, he was struggling to stay on his feet on account of excessive liquids having passed through his gob, and also seemed to be bleeding from one or more locations, albeit gently. The turbanator in question then proceeded to inform me that I needed to “remember where I was” because here “no one is retarded...I am not retarded...you are not retarded...nothing...retarded...is”. Turbanator finally decided that I had learnt my lesson with regards to using politically correct language and proceeded to end his sermonizing, climb into a rickshaw, and be driven off into the dark, cold night. 

Suffice it to say, the incident has forever left an indelible imprint upon me. I still suspect that the curious incident of the bearded man after midnight was inspired by nothing more than beard-related rivalry. The very notion that bearded men become competitive with one another is certainly not something with which I began my idealistic beard-growing endeavor. The whole event left a sore taste in my mouth (although this could also be ascribed to the turbanator’s bad breath and close proximity to my face) and forced me to dismiss any and all previously-held romantic notions associated with the honor of wearing a beard. I am now clean-shaven.