Travellinbaen

When TB LOST It

February 8, 2010 · 9 Comments

Quote of the Day:

“Reverie is when ideas float in our mind without reflection or regard of the understanding.” John Locke

Tracy Porter jumped the route and picked off Peyton Manning at approximately 8:45 p.m., c.s.t. on February 7, 2010. TB will never forget where I was when it happened–sitting in my chair with my feet propped up on the little Scamp’s chair. That’s the position from which the Saints seemed to be having the best luck so I was trying not to fidget. By the time he crossed midfield I had leaped the little chair, exhorting him to “go…Go…GO!” and when he crossed the goal I stood silently with my arms over my head in triumphant and grudging belief. It was as if an atomic bomb had gone off suddenly somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.

All in an instant I flashed back and recalled the whole day, one I will never forget. I rose at 9:oo a.m., well rested in spite of an hour of insomnia around 2:30 when I woke up in a sweat about my taxes that are due in April. After an hour of a rousing game of beach ball catch with the LS, I went on a brisk walk with the family. By 1:30 we were loading up for the trip back home so I could watch the Black and Gold Who Dat Geaux Saints Super Bowl and a few minutes of the pregame. At 3:30 we pulled over for the LS to teetee in the potty. She got a prize consisting of four M&M’s but after consuming those decided she would like me to “hand (her) some ice cream.” At 4:00 we pulled over for another LS pitstop and I adjusted my eta to just before kickoff. While waiting on the scamp to take care of her business I was treated to a smilin’ jazzy harmonica solo that had to be completed before other matters were addressed. At 5:03 I learned the Kroger was out of Velveeta. And at 5:28 the car was unloaded, the LS was laid out for a winter’s nap and the Saints won the toss and elected to receive. In just over three hours….the explosion.

I should have known something was up because I totally (mentally) called the onsides kick at the beginning of the second half. Anyway, at the moment of the explosion, I entered a lost world of multiple consciousness. In a parallel universe I was single and in Miami. I was on a boat with Cal and Fido giving man-hugs and losing my voice. Just like in my home universe I recalled my whole day in an instant. At 9:00 a.m I rose and had a drink of water and some ibuprofen and then stumbled back to bed. The last time I remembered seeing a clock the night before was 2:30 and I was pretty sure I was still going strong at that point.  After a rousing game of “what happened last night” I went for a brisk walk down to the hotel buffet to replenish my strength for the day. By 1:30 I was four beers in and loading up for the drive over to the stadium. At 3:30 I was taking shots with Desmond Howard. He was telling me all about striking the pose and I was thinking how some ice cream would be nice, but then at 4:00 he introduced me to Elizabeth Hurley. I had fun telling her about how lucky I always was in the teams I root for so I was sure the Saints would prevail. At 5:03 Kate Beckinsale joined us. We hit it off immediately and while she was telling me she would be shooting “Tom Sawyer” in Mississippi this spring she also happened to mention she had an extra ticket. On the fifty halfway up. (Hey, it’s MY alternate universe.) In just over three hours….the explosion.

In another universe I was running around Del Norte Circle with eight other dudes in their underwear. In yet another I was kissing a girl in Big Daddy’s on Bourbon, gratis.  In another I was skiing effortlessly down the Olympic slalom run at Whistler, oblivious of the fact of Super Bowl Sunday. All my alternate universes kick ass. Then again, my home universe is pretty good too and I woke this morning back where I belong, with the little scamp’s feet planted firmly in my back, tax issues weighing on my mind, and a still incredulous grin forming at the corner of my mouth. The world as I knew it before is no more. Hell has frozen over. Pigs have flown. The New Orleans Saints are Super Bowl Champions.

And p.s., no, I haven’t resolved just how I was able to experience consciousness on the boat and in the stadium at the same time but I wanted to pay homage to Cal and Fido and I figure JJ Abrams could make something like that happen so why not TB?

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I’ll Still Be Danged

February 7, 2010 · 4 Comments

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Haircut

February 4, 2010 · 11 Comments

Quote of the Day:

“Get a haircut and get a real job.” –George Thorogood

TB turns 40 this year. I always thought that by the time I was 40 I would no longer be constrained by childish behavior and concerns. I thought I would stop cussin by now. Fear of needles? Not for a 40 year old man. I never imagined myself still wearing t-shirts and tennis shoes at this age or still dreading my morning shave. And though I never really considered this one, if I had, I would have thought I’d be over hating to get a haircut.

A haircut is painless. It takes fifteen minutes, tops, out of my day. For that matter it only takes fifteen minutes out of my quarter–I go three months in between usually. But I hate it. I don’t like the way I look when I come out, I don’t like the way the hairs get stuck in the back of my shirt and I really don’t like the ever-increasing proportion of grays that come tumbling down while I sit helplessly and watch. The twenty bucks it costs to endure this galls me. The smells. The buzz. The questions. It’s all too much. How the hell do I know what you should do? Just trim it so I don’t need to come back for two months, can stretch it to three and I don’t look too ridiculous!

I am not certain of the root cause of my strange animosity toward barberism. Maybe its the memory of my brother being cut behind the ear when I was but a tot. Perhaps in a prior and more interesting existence I was offed by a scissor wielding assassin. I think the bowl cuts administered in childhood by my otherwise saintly Mother probably played a role.

There is another factor at play here. You see, TB has one of the most vicious cowlicks in history. Even Alfalfa would look upon it with pity, his saucer-sized eyes peeled wide with wonder. The funny thing is I have come to embrace the cowlick through the years. Barbers came and went and haplessly hacked around the offending spot. Cocky cosmetologists, stylists and hairdressers took their place and each in turn declared war on the cowlick, then inevitably surrendered and paid homage to its power. They hate the cowlick and thus I have come to embrace it. It is, I suppose, a measure of recompense at being subjected by society to the seasonal scissor-work. A silver lining of sorts; eh, I’m an optimist at heart.

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What I Meant to Say….

February 3, 2010 · 4 Comments

Quote of the Day:

“If you’ve heard this story before don’t stop me because I’d like to hear it again.” –Groucho Marx

It has been widely reported that U.S. Transportation Secretary Ray LaHood this morning advised drivers of Toyota vehicles that have been recalled due to sticking accelerators to “stop driving it.” This obviously didn’t sit well with Toyota so this afternoon he “clarified” his statement saying that what he meant to say was “I want to encourage owners of any recalled Toyota models to contact their local dealer and get their vehicles fixed as soon as possible.”

This brings to mind one of the best jokes of all time.

Two men are shooting the breeze around the water cooler one day when one of them says, “I have to tell you a funny thing that happened to me yesterday. I was changing a flight to get to Pittsburgh at the airport and while I was waiting in line I couldn’t help looking at the beautiful blonde in front of me and her, shall we say, well endowed chest. I tried not to stare, I swear, but my eyes just kept darting over at her. When I finally got to the front of the line I meant to say “I need two tickets to Pittsburgh,” but what came out of my mouth was, “I need two pickets to Tittsburgh.”

The other man chuckles politely and responds, “yeah, I’ve had that happen to me. In fact just yesterday I was having breakfast with my wife. What I meant to say was “Honey would you pass the Wheaties?”, but what came out of my mouth was “You fucking bitch you ruined my life.”

→ 4 CommentsCategories: Blank Stares · Humor · current events
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Wise Words For the Weekend

January 29, 2010 · 3 Comments

Sometimes writing this blog is easy. I get four or five ideas lined up and go to town for a week or two. TB is slightly ashamed to admit I get a little pleased with myself. Lately this has not been the case. There is water at the bottom of the well, but not enough to cover the ankles. But I hate to let the TBU go silent, so today I borrow the words of others. I might make this a regular weekend feature. Today I selected a few quotes and passages from books I read long ago. I keep an old red cardboard folder–the kind we used to use in junior high–with scraps of paper. On these scraps, going back to about 1989, I have written or torn from the newspaper or magazines, quotations that I thought were worth reading over and over again. And they are. Here are a few for your enjoyment over the weekend:

Two passages from This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald:

“For this is wisdom–to love and live,

To take what fate or the gods may give,

To ask no question, to make no prayer,

To kiss the lips and caress the hair,

Speed passions ebb as we greet its flow,

To hae and to hold, and in time–let go.”

————

“The idea, you know, is that the sentimental person thinks things will last–the romantic person has a desperate confidence that they won’t.”

————

And here’s one from Zelda:

“By the time a person has achieved years adequate for choosing a direction the die is cast and the moment has long passed which determined the future.”

————

“Very rich people–in all nations–can be divided into two categories: those with brains and those without. Those with brains make a great effort to hold on to every penny they have while preaching to the general population that freedom and dignity and patriotism are possible only under their protection; in this way they elicit the support of the very people they hold in subjection.”     –from Poland, James Michener

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“To the logician all things should be seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate one’s self is as much a departure from the truth as to exaggerate one’s own powers.”     –spoken by Sherlock Holmes in The Greek Interpreter, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

————

Here’s a couple for all you other armchair generals out there:

“My centre is giving way, my right is in retreat, situation excellent. I attack.”    -Marshal Foch, Battle of the Marne, September 8, 1914

“Plans made without allowance for the intentions of the enemy are liable to miscarry.”     –from The First World War, John Keegan

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And finally two passages from My Uncle Oswald, by Roald Dahl.

“”That”, I said to Yasmin as I polished off the last succulent lobster claw–and by the way, don’t you love it when you are able to draw the flesh of the claw out of the shell whole and pinky-red in one piece? There is some kind of tiny personal triumph in that. I may be childish, but I experience a similar triumph when I succeed in getting a walnut out of its shell without breaking it in two. As a matter of fact, I never approach a walnut without this particular ambition in mind. Life is more fun if you play games. But back to Yasmin–”

———-

“You are sitting, my boy, on the edge of the most famous piece of land in the whole world! Just look at it! Four and a half acres of flinty red clay! That’s all it is! But those grapes you can see them picking at this very moment will produce a wine that is a glory among wines. It is almost unobtainable because so little of it is made. This bottle we are drinking now came from here eleven years ago. Smell it! Inhale the bouquet! Taste it! Drink it! But never try to describe it! It is impossible to put such a flavour into words! To drink a Romanee-Conti is like having an orgasm in the mouth and the nose both at the same time.”

I loved it when my father got himself worked up like this. Listening to him during those early years, I began to realize how important it was to be an enthusiast in life. He taught me that if you are interested in something, no matter what it is, go at it full speed ahead. Embrace it with both arms, hug it, love it, and above all become passionate about it. Lukewarm is no good. Hot is no good, either. White hot and passionate is the only thing to be.”

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The Lost Letter

January 28, 2010 · 7 Comments

A friend told me a tale awhile back that captured my imagination. I’ve been turning it over in my head for months because I thought it had the makings of a great fictional story. I decided to write page one of my loose idea tonight. With great trepidation, here it is, hope you like it, but that’s just for my ego. The odds of getting to page two are pretty long.

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I guess you could have called it a suicide note, though I never really thought of it that way until this moment. For years I thought of it as more of a successor to the letters sent from Roman prisons by Paul or to Martin Luther King’s letter from a Birmingham jail. It was the finest, most insightful writing I have ever known. It brought me to tears when I read it and it brings me to tears now just thinking of it. There was more truth in those six torn notebook pages, front and back in increasingly dull pencil lead, than in all the newspapers I have read. I cannot tell you what it said because to summarize in my own words would do him injustice. I cannot show you what it said either. For twenty years I carried around that letter in my wallet. When I needed comfort or inspiration, or when I wanted to just remember my friend I would take it out of my pocket and read it. But I got drunk one night and tried to share it with a girl I thought had soul and the bitch took it from me and lost it. I’m usually not wrong about people like I was that girl. Damn, I wish I still had that letter to show you. And no I don’t know why I never copied it; I think maybe I couldn’t bear to see the handwriting reproduced, something would have been lost in the translation.

Suicide note….yeah, that’s pretty much what it was. We had already drifted apart before they caught him and I blame myself even though I know in my mind I was not to blame. The heart, more precisely the soul sometimes knows more than the brain, and though it cannot answer how, it insists to me to this day that I could have kept him near. But he wanted excitement on a level that far exceeded hopping freight trains and getting high on the roof of the courthouse and posing as journalists to interview the Stones backstage at the Superdome. It was not for the money either, or the drugs; he cared not for the one and had access to all the other he could stand. I was not the only one who wanted him around all the time by a long shot. He did it so he could understand the books he read, to live the experiences he did not trust his imagination to comprehend. For enlightenment. He did it with full awareness that it would kill the boy, the young man we thought we knew. The thing is, getting caught and thrown in jail did not kill him, so he wrote that one last letter, got released on a technicality or a bribe and then left his old life behind and disappeared. On second thought, maybe it was not a suicide note. Maybe it was a lifeline. Did he entrust me with that letter, beautiful true words he would no longer possess so part of what he had been would not die when he cut all ties but would be forever preserved as his masterpiece? Was there a reason he kept the single thread of his prior life attached when all the rest were blown to bits? Hell he’s got me thinking everything is all my fault again and now that I don’t have the damn letter any more and he might have been relying on me to get it back to him some time….. I guess I’m gonna have to try to find him.

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And Now For Something Completely Different

January 26, 2010 · 6 Comments

Quote of the Day:

“The past is never dead. It is not even past.” –William Faulkner

My Great-Grandmother, circa 1900

Great-Great Uncle, circa 1900

My Great Grandfather on the left, with his brothers

All I know is the people pre-date my Grandmother, who was born in 1902

A relation, not sure when this was taken

Receipt for a bale of cotton

My Grandmother's class, taken in the 1950's

And I had one final antique to include but for some reason the WordPress software is blocking it. But you know how a lot of families say they have “Indian blood” and you kind of buy into it if your family says it but you only half believe it. Well, this link is to a reproduction of a photo of my, best I can calculate, Great-great-great Grandfather probably taken around 1850. He was a product of a Cherokee mother and a Scotch-Irish-Huguenot father. He moved to Mississippi in 1818, two years before a treaty was to allow “white” settlement of the territory including Phoenix, Yazoo County, MS. Family lore is that he bought the property we still hold from the natives first, as a fellow Indian. My supposition is this is probably true because it allowed him to move over the treaty boundary early. Then, in 1820 he “became” a white man and got title through the government. Anyway, I’m pretty sure the claim that we have “Cherokee blood way back” is true, and if you feel like clicking the link I expect you will agree.

TB’s forefather

→ 6 CommentsCategories: History · Mississippi
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Excuse Me, I Think There Is Something In My Eye

January 24, 2010 · 21 Comments

Quote of the Day:

“When you go to Heaven after you die, tell St. Peter you’re a Saints fan. He’ll say, ‘C’mon in, I don’t care what else you done, you suffered enough.’” –Buddy Diliberto

Over and over the Vikings put the ball on the ground and yet the Saints were unable to fall on it. It was reminiscent of the old football follies clips of the early 1970’s Saints where the fumble gets kicked fifty yards downfield while Saint upon Saint clumsily attempts to fall upon it. Late in the game Brett Favre seemingly had the Vikes in position to win. They didn’t and I thought of how same ol’ Saint-like the inexcusable error was that cost them five on a penalty. Then the ghost of the s.o.s. rose in ironic revenge as Brett, scramblin just like Archie used to threw one to the wrong team, just like Archie used to do. On top of all that a series of official replay reviews went the Saints’ way; and as anyone who roots for a perennial loser knows, the refs are always out to get them. But not tonight.

I recalled today the Falcons and how they made the term “Big Ben” famous by using it to beat the Saints. I thought about how Tampa Bay got its first victory against New Orleans, how the new Cleveland Browns got their first, on a Hail Mary no less. I thought of Nolan Cromwell of the Rams keeping Archie’s best team out of the playoffs in ‘79 on a punt return. In just two years they were wearing bags over their heads in shame in the Dome. I remember the Saints drafting Russell Erxleben in the first round, trading away an entire draft for Ricky Williams another year. The Saints have been futility personified for my whole life. Until now, that is; even if they lose the big one, and I’m sure they will–not that I won’t be watching in case I’m wrong understand.

TB was near speechless after calling out to no one that “he made it!” I watched and listened. I wanted to be on the field, on Bourbon, at Sweet’s at least with all my asshole runnin buddies. Instead I just sat and thought about how the phrase “same ol’ Saints” must now be relegated to history. The Saints may never go to the Super Bowl again, but they are going this once. And so maybe we’ll complain that they are playing like the old time Saints, but this championship season forevermore will remain a bright dividing line between the same ol’ Saints and any future failures.

I imagine that somewhere Hap and Buddy D are hearing it from the squirrels. Lord how I wish they were here to put it all in perspective and to remind me of all the black and gold disasters that have merged and faded with the passing of years. Just thinking of the ones I recall off hand sort of overwhelms me. Um, excuse me, I think there’s something in my eye. I better stop now and go wash my face.

Bonus QOTD

“If the Saints ever go to the Super Bowl I’ll march down Bourbon Street in a dress.” Buddy D; as I understand it, Bobby Hebert will keep Buddy D’s promise, in memoriam

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The Good Ol’ Days vs The Here and Now

January 22, 2010 · 14 Comments

Quote of the Day:

“Don’t part with your illusions. When they are gone, you may still exist, but you have ceased to live.” –Mark Twain

Ever since Man’s eviction from Paradise, he’s been looking over his shoulder and pining for the old days. Things were always better in olden times to most folks, at least they often seem that way. In one way I think the clichéd sentiment is absolutely true. Who wouldn’t long for their youth, the constant in anyone’s trip down memory lane? In other ways, its less true. For instance the 1950’s are commonly seen by many as flush times for America. Victors in war, champions of commerce, with technological innovations and domestic stability; these were the hallmarks of that decade in popular memory. Less recalled, but all too real, are the civil rights restrictions of women and blacks of the era. Most of us wouldn’t trade our daughter’s right to sit on a jury or our friend’s right to vote in exchange for a Leave it to Beaver neighborhood.

Like a lot of my essays, this one was inspired by a convergence of stimuli upon TB’s roving noggin. I’ve been revisiting the adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn and reveling in the (surface) simplicity and innocence of a nineteenth century child’s life on the Mississippi. With Saints fever peaking I went you-tubing for old footage of the Chuck Muncie–Hokie Gajan–Guido Merkens era teams. Finally, and I know this is heresy to some of you, I picked up a throwback Pepsi yesterday. They are running a radical promotion using, of all things, sugar to sweeten the soda. It is dang good too. The point is, I started ruminatin’ on the relative virtues of the good ‘ol days vs the times we live in now. Here’s what I determined.

  • Old school sugar made soda vs new school corn syrup–Advantage old school–no contest
  • Kids today, with the Wii, year-round baseball and the internet vs Kids back in the day, with forts, sports and bikes–too close to call
  • Saints 1980 vs Saints 2009-10–The modern-day version–no contest
  • However NFL 1980 vs NFL 2009-10–Old school without a doubt
  • On television it’s also a mixed result: Young Letterman vs Old Letterman, give me the old school version over the old. I’ll take Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert over Johnny Carson. Give me Entourage over MASH, though if Henry and Trapper had stuck around the entire time I might have a tougher time with this one. I’ll take Hogan’s Heroes over The Office, Battle of the Network Stars over The Bachelor and Richard Dawson’s Family Feud over Deal or No Deal. And definitely Walter Cronkite over Anderson Cooper.  All that said, 150 channels beats the hell out of three to thirteen, even when nothing’s on, so the point goes to the present.
  • Non-steroidal baseball beats monster mash baseball, another point for the good ol’ days.
  • But don’t count out the here and now, because Iphones crush the rotary dial.
  • War on Terror vs Vietnam, Katrina vs Camille, Great Recession vs gas lines and inflation, Watergate vs the Broken Branch–call it a wash.

I don’t know. TB’s good ol’ days were good.  I think its true though, that overall things aren’t so bad nowadays. In fact, for my daughter and her generation, these are the good ‘ol days. I just keep coming back to that constant I mentioned at the top though. It’s the ultimate tiebreaker. We were soldiers once (and pirates, professional athletes, explorers, Duke boys) and young. So if I have to take sides, I’m going with the good ol’ days over the here and now. But when you break it down, it’s a closer contest than you might expect.

→ 14 CommentsCategories: Life · Philosobaen
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The Avid Skier

January 20, 2010 · 6 Comments

Quote of the Day:

“On the white below George dipped and rose and dipped out of sight. The rush and the sudden swoop as he dropped down a steep undulation in the mountainside plucked Nick’s mind out and left him only the wonderful flying, dropping sensation in his body. He rose to a slight up-run and then the snow seemed to drop out from under him as he went down, down, faster and faster in a rush down the last, long steep slope. Crouching so he was almost sitting back on his skis, trying to keep the center of gravity low, the snow driving like a sandstorm, he knew the pace was too much. But he held it. He would not let go and spill. Then a patch of soft snow, left in a hollow by the wind, spilled him and he went over and over in a clashing of skis, feeling like a shot rabbit, then stuck, his legs crossed, his skis sticking straight up and his nose and ears jammed full of snow.”     –Ernest Hemingway, “Cross Country Snow”

TB just finished booking one helluva nice deal on a ski trip to Lake Tahoe for February. It will be my 5th ski trip, if you count hillbilly skiing as a trip, and I do. We leave in just thirty days. I’m in terrible shape, I don’t know where my gloves are, and most importantly I’m an awful skier. Man, I can’t wait.

Thinking about it, skiing might be the only thing in the world at which I am inept yet still love doing. You ought to see ol’ TB lumberin down the mountain. I must look like a navy blue, alien-eyed Baloo (The Jungle Book bear–we’re watching it a lot these days) barrellin headlong toward my doom. The thing is, I am athletic enough to stay on my feet for the most part, but completely ignorant of technique to do so without leaning this way and that or waving my arms in the air for the save. Stopping is also an adventure and I think part of the thrill. As soon as I begin down a hill I immediately scout far ahead for an open area where I can go into a prolonged skid. And as bad as I am, you might expect me to be cautious. Hell I AM cautious but when you combine 225 pounds with skis and snow and the combo gets dragged downhill by gravity I’ll have you know the descent is taken in haste.

Ahh, but every now and then I strike the right balance. I quit thinking and start reacting. I go fast. And there is nothing else going on in my world beyond sight of the next bump, the sound of the turn, the sensation of speed. The mind focuses only on survival, and is delighted at the challenge. It achieves its highest state of vigilance, distracted only enough to send a devilish grin to my lips. I forget to breathe and then I reach the bottom with a cry of exaltation and come to a perfect stop at the lift line, ready to recapture the moment but clueless on how I did it in the first place.

I’m ready to go now. I wish I could stay on the mountain a whole season to learn the skill, but I cannot. So if you happen to go skiing in Lake Tahoe in late February and you see a bear-like streak of blue weaving in your direction, I’d appreciate it if you could give me some space to maneuver. Better yet, just pull over and laugh. I won’t even notice.

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Bonus QOTD from Cross-Country Snow

“There’s nothing really can touch skiing, is there?” Nick said.
“The way it feels when you first drop off on a long run.”
“Huh,” said George. “It’s too swell to talk about.”

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