“Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rage at closing of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” –Dylan Thomas
About six weeks ago TB woke up sore. You know that kind of sore you get when you’re in pretty good shape, or like when you’re a kid, and you exerted a lot of energy and you wake up the next day sore? Good sore? That ain’t at all what I felt.
Well, actually I DID feel that way. The only problem was, I hadn’t exerted any energy whatsoever the day before. Hell the entire month before, for that matter. I put it out of my head.
Until the next day. It was there again. Again and again, four or five days a week I’m feeling it. I’ve had to face the fact. I’m getting sore from sleeping. Holy crap, that pisses me off. I don’t even hit 4-0 for another month and a half. But long time readers know, I’m an anticipator. Apparently my whole being is, my physical baen as well as my accursed travellinbrain. My body decided to get a head start on the milestone.
It so happened that I was advised twice within the same week of the onset of soreness that I ought to start exercising again. I’m not getting any younger, you know? And coincidence continued to layer upon coincidence. After several years of generally declining or stable weight, I suddenly shot up ten pounds over the course of one gluttonous weekend. Ten freakin’ pounds? I didn’t do anything that bad. Yeah, there were do-nuts and pizza and a few beers even, but come on. Ten pounds? And they stuck? Yeah, that pissed me off too. But contrary to the opinion of almost everyone I’ve ever known, I listen to good advice, even take it sometimes.
And this was one of those times. Hey, forty ain’t dead, right? No need to take all these attacks from my aging bones lying down, right? So out into the hottest part of the day I charged, hundred degree temperatures and hundred percent humidities be damned. I was pissed, I wasn’t scared. I did run, true, but not out of fear–out of rage. For over a month now I’ve been out there struggling, fighting, suffering. What has it gotten me? Well, I’m a damn sight hungrier all the time, so I haven’t drop any pounds. I’m a little happier I guess, since I now attribute that morning soreness to my run the day before, though I still pause occasionally to consider how it makes my shoulders ache. And I was even beginning to make some real progress, feeling the strength in my ever-protesting legs, the tautness of my lungs.
Then last week my hip came disjointed as I tried to extend myself a little too far. I was irritated, but not totally pissed. I was due a few days off and I thought it would be nice to let the body recover. Then today I hit the course with gusto, and new shoes. I felt good, global heating be damned. I was going to easily hit that mark I’d been shooting for last week when the hip gave way. I was oblivious of the pain, the heat, the egg sucking, mentally planning my future, a lengthy, prosperous future, and humming a loop of a Hayes Carll tune I recently heard. When suddenly, a sharp pain shot up through my calf. I tried to walk it off, but it wasn’t a cramp. A pulled muscle, I guess. I stared blankly to the sky, but received only blankness in response. Boy oh boy, am I pissed.
But I’m not beaten. I’m not even dreading my 40th any more. It already came, calendar be damned, like a thief in the night some six weeks ago. What’s done is done. I’ve read on Facebook and heard from friends how great their birthdays are this year, so many I’ve known for so long turning 40 along with me in 2010. They are all handling it with graceful aplomb. They have embraced it, spoken of their joy, of their excitement, of their blessings. Not me, I’m fightin’ it. I’m pissed about it. I don’t like it. And I’m not scared of it any more either. No matter how much pain it continues to inflict. I’ll be back out there next week dammit.
In the meantime, I’m goin’ to Buffett with Little Boy. Take that, 40.
Your move.
Bonus Quote of the Day:
(laughing) “I never noticed how much gray you’ve got. Boy are you going gray! Well, at least you’re not losing it. Yet.” TB’s very old Dad, about three weeks ago, without any provocation or justification whatsoever
“He was a dreamer, a thinker, a speculative philosopher….or, as his wife would have it, an idiot.” –Douglas Adams
If by happenstance, or otherwise you should come into possession of a limited edition, heirloom quality Travellinbaen Universe official ball cap, there are a few responsibilities that go with it, to wit:
Wear it. In public.
Travel with it and send in a photo to the TBU, via my email. I want pictures from anywhere you think is cool, fun, funny or otherwise suitable for publication to the TBU. I want this hat to see the world, and me, in turn to see the hat seeing the world.
Bonus points if you are wearing goggles of some type. Shades will do in a pinch.
Now, one thing you should be prepared for if you (a) possess one of these caps and (b) wear it. In public. is that you will be queried by ignorant TBU aliens. For instance, someone may say, “that’s a dumb hat.” If this happens, you just say either (a) oh, yeah? Well the jerk store called and they’re running out of you; or (b) oh, yeah? Well I can take this off and be free of dumb whereas (you need to say whereas, it will make you look smarter) your stuck with being a dumbass your whole life.
More likely, you will get this question: what the hell is Travellinbaen Universe? This is the one I want you to be prepared for most. And (ahem) whereas that question is the most important one to respond appropriately to, I am providing a list of potential responses to such an uncouth, unsophisticated acquaintance. This list is by no means all inclusive, so if you want to posit another option for consideration by the citizenry, please do. Here we go, and remember, you must stare blankly at your interrogator, at all costs:
The first rule of Travellinbaen Universe is you don’t talk about Travellinbaen Universe.
I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill a beer.
Did Little Boy send you?
That’s a damn dubious question.
Hmphh (snort derisively–but maintain your blank stare) I guess you don’t know what Thursday Pickin is either. Do you?
Last week I happened to see a show about Emmitt Smith and his efforts to trace his genealogy. I was fascinated and it led me to dig out a stack of old xeroxed papers some distant cousin gave my Dad at family reunion many years ago. From those papers I went next to the internet where it so happens some other distant cousin in North Carolina has already done a lot of work on my family tree. Tracing through the line of my Great-grandfather, I read about some amazing exploits of ancestors in the late colonial and revolutionary eras.
The highlights include a direct descendant, Archibald who served as an interpreter for a treaty between the Cherokee nation and the President of the United States in 1794. That would be George Washington. This guy’s son, Archy, was a scout for American forces against the British in the War of 1812 in Georgia. Leading the ambush of a small British force, he personally captured their commanding officer. The officer was soon released, probably in an exchange, and came back to the site of the ambush to burn the town. In the process he captured Archy’s sister and spirited her off to Pensacola. Archy went to Pensacola alone where he saved her and engineered their escape. All of this was recorded in official reports and government records. Pretty cool.
Anyway, one of the chief sources of information for family researchers is the headstone of an ancestor. If you can find it, you can often confirm at least their date of birth and death, and often the names of their parents or even a note on their military service, occupation or social organizations (such as the Masons). I know that “my people” came to Mississippi by 1818 and settled around Yazoo County shortly after. And, I know the cemetery where all the recent generations rest. I’ve been there many times, but never to look for the early pioneers. So today, with not much going on at the office, I set out for Yazoo, travellin’ back in time to see what I could find.
It turned out the cemetery only dated back to 1866. I suspect the original church was burned in the War and the graves it hosted are now hidden in the woods, but who knows? I thought I could probably find some other graveyards, so I went explorin’. I took pictures of what I found. Unfortunately, I didn’t find the tombstones I was looking for, at least not today. But I had fun looking. Hope you enjoy.
“Most loathsome events become humorous tales with the passage of time.” –Jimmy Buffett, from “Tales From Margaritaville“
From the archives….
Six foot two, one hundred and twenty pounds, a permanent sneer, pale skinned, hair hanging down closer to his ass than his ears and one helluva beer drinker. Greekson had taken it easy for some reason that night, for reasons I’ve long since forgotten. Probably had a six-pack or so, just to have something to occupy his nervous hands while he waited on his opponent to shoot and miss so he could get back to sticking all the solids in those gently sloping, nearly worn cloth pockets that characterized the particular billiards room we frequented in those days. He was also the finest automobile operator I have ever known. Smily and me, we were drinkin’ a lot harder, so naturally, Greekson volunteered to drive. “I’m fine. Y’all get in.”
So we did. And fifteen minutes later we all saw the dizzying blue lights in the distance, the tell-tale signs of a roadblock. “Turn off Greekson,” we implored. There was a twenty minute detour we still had time to make to avoid the trouble ahead. “I’m fine,” said Greekson. “Y’all just sit still and shut up. And put those beers down.” And he was fine, least he was by our standards. But the law, well, the law sees things its own way. They took his skinny ass to jail. The cop just shrugged when I said, “you really want ME to drive the rest of the way?” They were getting their numbers, that’s all that really mattered.
Greekson had never been to jail before, not even the drunk tank. He wasn’t drunk either, so he was fully mindful of his predicament as he handed over his shoes and belt and looked over his shoulder at the half-dozen new roommates he was about to meet. There was one cot. Upon it lay a very large man, with tattoos and muscles and scars. He was holding his package with one hand, beneath his orange jumpsuit and snoring loudly. A couple of benches lined the walls but there was no room for him so Greekson sat off to the corner in the only space available, on the floor, right next to the toilet. It smelled bad. He tried not to see it. He sized everyone up and knew there was damn little he’d be able to accomplish among them, but Greekson was a philosophical sort, so he just stared blankly but alertly around the room and considered the folly of volunteering the good deed of driving us all, now several hours ago, and wondered what we were doing.
We were still drinking and toasting Greekson’s loyalty and working on these two girls we knew and trying to find out how to get Greekson out of the drunk tank as soon as possible because that was no place for him and scrounging up the hard cash to bail him out from all our friends at five a.m. ten bucks at a time.
His thoughts were interrupted when a tray of fried bologna and egg sandwiches were shoved through a slot in the door and everybody grabbed one. Except for Greekson. He had no appetite. And the big guy. He was still snoring.
By and by the next biggest dude in the room, an athletic black guy with an unkempt, out of style afro and a probable attitude problem (if looks were any indication) got up and shuffled toward Greekson. Or maybe the toilet. In the moment, Greekson couldn’t be sure. Either way, it was not a positive development. He stood over Greekson and looked down at him menacingly. Greekson just cut his eyes upward, defiantly, inquiringly. The dude turned his head toward the man on the cot. “He gonna wake up soon.” There was a pause while that probability sunk in. “You with him, or us?”
Greekson looked over at the scars and the tattoos and the muscles, then straight ahead and then back at the inquisitor. “I’m with y’all man.” What else could he say? He would later tell us there was a part of him curious if he’d have stood by that pledge if it came down to it.
“You gonna eat yo’ bologna?”
“Nah, man, its yours.”
An hour later or so, Smily and I stepped carefully over the threshold of the Starkville jail and triumphantly slammed down our hundred and eighty-five bucks, mostly in fives and ones, with about a dozen quarters. Greekson could hear us from the tank, but he showed no emotion or any other sign of recognition to his cellmates. Our slightly overloud, partially slurred demands that he be released immediately to our custody reached his ears and in spite of himself he had a little hope that the night would soon be over. At the very least he stood to pick up a little company. Then he heard the steel grating on steel and allowed his natural sneer to replace the blank stare as the jailer motioned for him to leave.
The big man began to stir with the commotion and Greekson noted the nervous looks of the remaining allies as he strutted out the door. “So long, suckers.” He flipped the hair away from his eyes and nodded crisply at the forlorn prisoners in his wake. He took one look at us when he emerged from the back and said “I’ll drive” and nothing else until he woke up many hours later and we admired the rising sun together and I wondered idly how we’d find beer money for the next week or two.
———————————————-
Johnny Cash, telling about and singing “Starkville City Jail”
A week ago Saturday the Little Scamp took a big spill. She split the skin open on her brow bone above her left eye. Her grandmothers were keeping her at the time, so they rushed her to the Emergency Room of a very well thought of hospital in an affluent, highly educated community to have the wound properly cleaned and closed. They didn’t have to wait very long, which was nice. And after providing TB’s insurance information and home address at least four different times (the bill must not be delayed), they saw a friendly young doctor. The friendly young doctor slapped some Dermabond (basically super glue) on the wound, admired the already blackening shiner and declared the child fit and fixed. Except that it turns out she was not fixed. He did a crappy job, otherwise known as “medical error” or sometimes the commission of “medical malpractice”. Two-thirds of the wound was not closed. But we DID get the bill for a hypothetical afternoon of proper treatment. They did, after all, have highly trained people with address-obtaining skills.
So yesterday we took the LS in to have the scabbing and scarring wound scraped out and re-treated. Basically she had to be re-wounded and stitched back up. It is the most routine of routine procedures, except with a frightened three-year old the doctors need to put her to sleep. The chances of anything terrible happening to a healthy child under anesthesia are remote. These odds did nothing to comfort me as I drove her to the doctor. I really can’t say anything more about that. Irrational, perhaps, but very real fears. They make me shudder even today as I reflect on how well everything went.
As we waited to be called back after the procedure was finished, I had an array of disconnected thoughts travellin’ through my brain:
How much I loathed all these medical personnel–docs and nurses–going about their day as if it was just another day at the office and not realizing they had the most important patient of their lives under their care for the next hour.
How much I loved and appreciated all these medical personnel–docs and nurses–for making the L.S. laugh and letting her listen to her own heartbeat and making her excited to wear her surgical mask and hat and for being well-trained and experienced and professional. As much as I disagree with their politics and as much as I fear and loathe the job they do, I have to say I like almost every medical professional I’ve ever known.
How the phrase “in stitches” is a damn dubious way to describe laughter, because stitches are in no way whatsoever humorous.
How funny the L.S. was when she got “drunk” on the medicine they gave her before taking her back. Looked a bit like her old man I’m afraid.
How pissed I was that lawyers get the most blame for runaway medical costs when that little pissant at the fine hospital just tripled the cost of the L.S.’s superficial injury. And that I couldn’t and wouldn’t be suing him for his malpractice. And that I’d rather just whip his ass for being lackadaisical with the most important ER patient he will ever see.
How perfect the L.S.’s blank stare was when the anesthesiologist was explaining to her the four quadrants of the heart and how the blood travels through them. Looked a bit like her old man I’m afraid.
The L.S. did fine, as I mentioned, and was back to her rambunctious, head-splittin’ ways by mid-afternoon, though with a bit more parental overprotection than usual. The stitches come out Monday.
To be in stitches is to be in such a paroxysm of laughter as to be in physical pain. The allusion implicit in the phrase is to that of a sharp pain – like being pricked with a needle.
The phrase was first used by Shakespeare in Twelfth Night, 1602.
MARIA:
If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourself into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He’s in yellow stockings.
Despite the usage in Shakespeare, the phrase didn’t become established in the language and there are no other records of it until the 20th century. This entry in The Lowell Sun, in July 1914, is the earliest non-Shakesperian record that I can find:
“There’s a new face among the members in Ben Loring, a natural-born comedian, who seems to have no difficulty whatever in keeping his audience in stitches of laughter and glee.”
“ Live as one of them, Kal-El, to discover where your strength and your power are needed. Always hold in your heart the pride of your special heritage. They can be a great people, Kal-El, if they wish to be. They only lack the light to show the way. For this reason above all, their capacity for good, I have sent them you… my only son.” Jor-El, father of Superman
This past weekend, TB had occasion to travel to Southern Illinois, as the title above seems to suggest. The Rambler, along with 6 others, was entered in the River to River Relay Race that takes place each year. Eight man teams, with each runner taking three legs of just over 3 miles per leg, cover 81 miles in the rolling hills between the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers, finishing in the charming village of Golconda. The Rambler et al were on a team aptly named “Two good legs and you’re hired.” If you do solve the math problem hidden above, you will see that hiring in the relay race biz was weak. TB for the record, did not meet the qualifications for the job, nor do I have the two good lungs that were equally important for team members.
So while the runners were, I guess, running all day, I went explorin’ the land between the rivers, following the Ohio River Scenic Byway. What I found first was the incredibly sad town of Cairo, Illinois. Once a bustling center of river commerce, the town is now quite possibly the most pathetic place I have ever been, and believe me, I’ve been. I didn’t count, but if there were 100 commercial buildings in town, 70 were derelict, 20 were operating, but in disrepair, and ten were government related. It was so bad I felt guilty about stopping and taking a photo, so I didn’t. I just hoped it would get better as I cruised the river road. And it did, somewhat.
The main thing that struck me on this drive is how rural and remote this section of Illinois is. As a Mississippian, I often assume the places I know in the Delta or North Mississippi are about as far backwoods as one can go. But the truth is, as my travels constantly remind me, this nation is still mostly rural, measured by area. What is sad is that so few places in the backcountry can support a livelihood any more. One town I passed through was still functional, but it looked to me like they were in the “hail Mary” stage of the game. First, they’ve turned to Harrah’s. They have one of those sorry little riverboat style casinos that uses all the leftover gear from more modern gambling halls and they target the locals and their gub-ment checks. But the real evidence of what this little town is up against was illustrated by its adopted hometown hero. They put a sign up touting him as one of their own and then they put up a badass statue for explorers like me to photograph by itself and for midwestern divorcees and their teenage daughters to stand beneath and fondle for the camera. On the courthouse lawn. And they renamed the square for him. Seriously.
Welcome to Metropolis
Good thing they didn't have him back in 1862
I saw a lot on Saturday and I won’t bore you with a long description of all of it though there were plenty of blank stares to share. But the short version is: Giant City State Park, a deer, three turkeys, a dead skunk, which Huck Finn would’ve really appreciated, a country general store with an almost legendary name, a classic midwestern water tower, a coon trespassing over a set of Indian burial mounds which would’ve blown Huck’s mind, and a soundtrack courtesy of Hillbilly Jim including John Prine’s “Standing By Peaceful Waters”, Jerry Jeff Walker’s version of “L.A. Freeway” and Bobby Bare’s “Tequila Sheila.” Oh, and I saw the end of the race in Golconda.
Here’s the photographic evidence. Sadly, that dead skunk was a little too fresh to approach.
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The bottom line on Southern Illinois? It’s a nice place, prettier than you might think and interesting if you’ve a mind to look around. If you ever happen to be there, you oughta do just that. If you are planning a vacation this summer and you want somewhere beautiful and fun and unique and interesting, I recommend Oregon or Maine.
It is an inviolable principle of Philosobaenism that rules are meant to be broken.
I think “Dress Barn” is probably the worst name for a retail shop of all time. Yet they are ubiquitous. Honorable Mention to “Dry Creek Water Park”.
“Trying to think of a good simile is like….hard.” This came to me one day in a moment of clarity while trying in vain to make an apt comparison.
“Hypocrisy and cliché are anathema to TB. But then again, there’s a time and a place for everything.” This came to me one night in a spasm of genius. I’ve been carrying it around as a note on my iphone and decided to use it today.
42. If you add the numbers, you get “6″, which is the number of beers in a six-pack. It is the only number retired by every Major League Baseball team, in honor of Jackie Robinson. However, it is still worn by Mariano Rivera of the Yankees. See above regarding “rules”. Furthermore, the 42d song in Itunes under Willie Nelson is “Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain.” Episode 42 of “Lost” is titled “Lockdown”. Blows your mind, doesn’t it? If you haven’t yet read “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” by Douglas Adams, I implore you to do so as soon as possible. Within 42 days for sure. The first person to make a reference to this classic that I get, in a randomly appropriate post, of course, will be rewarded. Possibly with poetry.
“The best way to go see a girl is not to go see her.” This profound truth is no longer important to me, other than in the sense that I am always affected by profound truths. Best I recall I got this from “The Moviegoer” by Walker Percy. My quotation is inexact.
“A simple and independent mind does not toil at the bidding of any prince.” This is an exact quotation from “Walden” by Henry Thoreau, the Quote of the Day in fact. (Note breaking of TB rule in placement of today’s QOTD). I wrote it down last summer while enjoying the first part of this classic of American literature before I bogged down in boredom from the middle of this classic of American literature. I think I’ll try to finish this classic of American literature this summer. There might be another deep thought I’ll want to borrow.
If you are not very impressed with today’s post, congratulations, you are normal. If however you found someplace within where a chuckle was formed, or even a wry grin, and it was not directed at TB but rather with him, my condolences. You ain’t right.
Dedicated to MD, and this song by Tom Russell has a line it that I consider a profound truth. Listen for the “fundamentalist” verse.
“It’s such a fine line between stupid and clever.” –Nigel Tufnel
A pretty remarkable, incredible, letter–for one original life story–
Where do I start? “For One Original Life Story.” That was the heading of a contest I entered three months ago. I have mentioned here that I’ve been working on a project and basically it’s been a compilation of some of my better stories/essays along with a few new things thrown in. I touched up the old stuff, mailed in the required submissions mainly just to get some feedback, and I’ll be dang if they didn’t notify me today that I won. And now the stories are getting put together as a book and I get to go to New York and help pitch the finished idea to some indie filmmakers who are involved with the project. They said I could be the literary Sidd Finch. I don’t know what to do with myself; I’m just sitting here, Blankly Staring.
“The secret of genius is to carry the child into old age, which means never losing your enthusiasm.” –Aldous Huxley
Have you heard the news yet? TB turns 40 this year. Surprisingly, I’m not the only one this is happening to this year. Even more surprisingly, hundreds I have heard, if not more, have previously experienced this damn dubious milestone. So why does it feel like this is some cruel joke the universe is only inflicting on me?
Anyway, I’ve been thinking of how to cushion the blow and for me the generic answer is easy–travel somewhere awesome. Ah, but where to go, that’s the rub. I want to wake up that fateful August morning some place beautiful and devoid of traffic. It must be a locale that is both affordable and accessible, but neither cheap nor easy–those were fine when I was but 30. There should be something to do that involves moving my rapidly aging bones before they turn to dust, be it a mountain hike or an ocean swim, or something similar. Strenuous, yet not overly dangerous. It probably needs to be a location I’ve yet to see and definitely north, south or west of Dixie. And if northwest, further north and/or west than the Great Plains, no offense Kansas. If an island my destination be, I’d like to be able to rent a boat and a golf cart for transport. If a mountain, I want waterfalls, off the road, but bear-free and within a mile. Carrying the Little Scamp uphill very far would qualify as overly dangerous for those drying bones of which I spake. I’m tantalized by the idea of a road trip down the Baja peninsula, drinking cerveza in the lonely desert, taking siesta with the old gauchos staring blankly in brotherhood from beneath my new sombrero, moving languidly, symbolically south to Cabo.
But I can’t decide. It must be perfect. Otherwise I am not certain I will survive the transformation. Suggestions? Has this ever happened to anyone else? This is a really big decision for me.
“…man had always assumed that he was more intelligent than dolphins because he had achieved so much – the wheel, New York, wars and so on – whilst all the dolphins had ever done was muck about in the water having a good time. But conversely, the dolphins had always believed that they were far more intelligent than man – for precisely the same reasons.” –from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
Before TB left home this morning, I sat down with the Little Scamp to say goodbye. She waved a perfunctory kiss in my direction. It seems the word of the day on Sesame Street was “humongous” and she was intrigued.
Humongous. A good word of the day. It perfectly describes the chicken tenders I had last night from a joint I used to like a lot. When I first started eating at Abner’s it was a small town start-up. In the sixteen years that have elapsed since then, they have grown into a regional chain and their tenders have grown into monstrosities. I can’t eat them any more. They don’t feel right, they don’t taste right, they don’t look right. Bigger is not always better. And chicken isn’t the only humongous bird being manufactured these days. Did you know that most turkeys sold in the U.S.A. are unable to copulate? Well, I guess that’s not a surprise considering they are sold dead and frozen, but it is disturbing that this was also true while they were alive.
Over the last few years the problem with humongous chicken and turkey has grown. I call foul. Why can’t I just have two small pieces of chicken that retain the flavor and consistency of the natural animal instead of one humongous slab of soylent green? Does that cost so much more to produce? Instead I get a choice between shelling out ten bucks for a pound of organic chicken, which itself is not perfect, or half that for a chicken injected with enough steroids to eclipse Barry Bonds’ home run record and enough growth hormone to whip Mark McGwire’s ass and God only knows what else. Maybe baseball is the wrong analogy. Wrestling would be better. Lord Chicken Humongous vs the Chick-fil-et Cow in an old-fashioned barnyard brawl complete a with barbed wire ring. A biotechnicalgeneticist with a specialty in accounting would referee I suppose.
