BEING EARNEST

Rodney Dangerfield referred to it in his monologue. Aretha Franklin spelled it out in a song and suggested we sock it to her. And in order to receive it you needed to earn it. Yep – "Tensegrity." What the hell did you think I was referring to? Trust me, I’m not "dissing" you intentionally; there’s a line of thought with this, a string of coincidental tie-ins (pardon the accidental pun).

A few years back I discovered "Tensegrity," a word R. Buckminster Fuller created by combining "Tension" and "Integrity" to describe the durability of his prefabricated home called The Dymaxion House. A mock real estate agent walked me through it at the Henry Ford Museum once. Anyway, I wrote a short-story aptly titled "Tensegrity" and sent it off to The Furnace at Corktown Press. In retrospect, the story wasn’t polished, and if, in the words of Cher, I could turn back time, I would have. That’s neither here nor there; water under the bridge as they say. The fiction editor enjoyed the story and passed it on to the main editor for final approval.

Here’s the first coincident: The main editor, a civil engineer by day, emailed me, claiming to be a big fan of R. Buckminster Fuller even though her ex-boyfriend helped assemble The Dymaxion House when it arrived in Dearborn. I didn’t know of any of this prior to sending the story out – honest – I have no reason to lie to you, I am not much of a risk taker, and I am certainly not a corrupt, immoral man.

The next circumstance is even more bizarre (maybe internally on my part). The editors wanted to include an illustration, so they had a former student from The Center of Creative Studies in Detroit (and guitar player for The Twistin’ Tarantulas) do the artwork. I had never met him (what is psychobilly music anyway?), nor did I know of him during that time, and vice-versa. If you take a look at the illustration you might see a slight resemblance to someone. What do you think? Not only do I feel that I wrote a mediocre story, but I also feel like I’m looking at the clown nose of Dorian Gray. I’m telling you, I get no respect – inadvertently, of course -- and self-inflicted perhaps.