“You may ask yourself, “how did I get here?” –Talking Heads
TB comes to you after the longest hiatus in TBU history from a small cabin somewhere in the hinterlands of Stone County, Mississippi. As I sit here admiring the stars out my window and listening to the sound of the window unit humming contentedly above the din of crickets outside my door, I can’t help but wonder what I’m doing in this place. In the cosmic sense, anyway. I am still in touch with reality, that being that I am in the cabin of my client, and in route very early tomorrow to their place of business in South Louisiana where I will get the grand tour in order to help me understand the work they need me to do. But it’s a strange job, in an unfamiliar place, and while I can’t quite put my finger on all the reasons why, I feel like I’ve gone outside the lines of my preordained path. Hmm, that’s not exactly it either, I don’t go for that brand of Calvinism. More like my preconceived notions of the preordained path, the one that I don’t even know I’m on until I look behind me. Man, I think I just blew my mind.
It’s not the first time. Once in law school I chanced to sit at the outside bar at The Gin and have a beautiful model sit down beside me. She even struck up a conversation. Turned out we knew each other, sort of. She knew me, anyway. After a few minutes of her explaining who she was and who she was friends with I recalled her, vaguely at first. You know those models who say they were gawky or awkward in high school and not always seen as beautiful? Yeah, she was like that in high school. Well, we had a good time talking at the bar and she invited me, many hours and even more beers later, to go up to Tunica to the casinos with her and some friends who were making the late night road trip. Well, when a beautiful model asks you to take a road trip like that, you take it. I didn’t get anywhere with her, and I think she took satisfaction in having the upper hand on me after my difficulty in placing her earlier, but that’s not really the main thing I remember from the whole ordeal. It was the sudden urgent compulsion to ponder, at three o’clock in the morning, with a crowded car full of strangers, including a knockout I now knew I would not kiss, on a deserted two-lane highway, zooming through endless cotton fields toward a pair of Hollywood style searchlights beaming in the distance like a scene from some kind of psychodelic Twilight Zone, just what seemingly insignificant previous turn in my life had led me to that singular, unforgettable speck of time and space?
The question presented itself a few years ago when I awoke upon a mildewy couch in a single wide trailer in Vaughn, Mississippi, with a cat on my chest, a faded Rebel flag on the ceiling over my head and a bottle of wine cradled in my arm. Also in the instant after I decided to go to law school during a moment of abject despair while staring helplessly out the window from a freshman science class at Mississippi State. And another time when I sat listening to ancient black men who left Mississippi in their youth testify about their lifetime careers as Cleveland, Ohio, steel mill laborers in a dialect which required the lawyers born and raised in the deponents’ adopted hometowns to look to me for deciphering.
The cold buzzing air and the crescendo-approaching cricket symphony of the cabin make good background for such mind travellin’ I think, the kind without a specific destination in mind. Reverie is not always a malady after all; sometimes it’s quite pleasant in fact, when questions arise in which no answer need be found. I just hope I remember where I am when I wake up in the morning.
“There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the malady of reverie.” Oscar Wilde
One of the great advancements of our time is the ability to carry around whole libraries of music and books on a device that will fit in a pocket. It is this technological marvel that has led me to resume a long-delayed goal of becoming more well read on the classics. Thanks to my iPhone I finally got around to reading The Picture of Dorian Gray by one of the most quotable writers of all time, Oscar Wilde. Among many gems in the first half of Dorian Gray, I came across the most “bon” of “mots.” The “malady of reverie.”
How he must have leapt out of his seat when the phrase came to mind! I imagine he wrote it down, dropped his pen and took a brisk trot around his neighborhood to celebrate the moment and to burn off the endorphins, then probably sat down to a decadent meal and a bottle of wine or two, leaving the drudgery of writing behind for a day while he reveled in his own genius. My God, I’ve searched for that phrase my whole life.
If you write at all, if you read books, newspapers, or even blogs to keep your mind from wandering you know what I, meaning Wilde, mean by “malady of reverie.” It is a sweet sickness that few of us would see cured if the result was to permanently shut down our brains. Oh, sure, we’d like a vacation from the strange and sometimes frightful thoughts travellin’ through our minds all day, but none of us who think would trade the malady for blissful ignorance very long. Yet to be afflicted makes us argumentative, contrarian, suspicious and cynical in turns. It is wearisome and frustrating because for every epiphany achieved, a dozen new questions, problems and for me personally, inconsistencies present themselves and these new issues serve only to increase the disease along with the great pleasure we derive from it.
The “malady of reverie.” Damn, that’s poetry. And I know I haven’t captured the totality of what those good words connote, but enough I suppose. I think I’ll go to lunch and think of something else now.
“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
“Certain is it that there is no kind of affection so purely angelic as of a father to a daughter. In love to our wives there is desire; to our sons, ambition; but to our daughters there is something which there are no words to express.” –Joseph Addison, English essayist
TB’s Little Scamp. The apple of my eye, light of my life. Sweeter than Tupelo honey. Pure innocence. She thinks I can do no wrong, can cure any ill, fix any problem, drive a really long ways. Last of the truly politically independent thinkers. Book lover. Pre-materialistic. Green. A sensible eater. Reveler in the smallest of blessings. Hope for the future. Train and ladybug aficionado. Loves her friends unconditionally, as well her Grandparents, cousins, mother and her doting father. Constantly learning new things, words like booger for instance, and that’s hardly all. Wants to be tickled, within reason. I love to catch her as she walks by, unsuspecting as always, and snatch her up in a flourish, finishing with the big wet kiss that always draws a hug and a laugh. And then suddenly, yesterday,
“Why don’t you say something righteous, and hopeful, for a change?” –Oddball
It’s a strange thing. TB hasn’t been in school for almost fifteen years. The Little Scamp won’t start for a few months more. It shouldn’t matter. But it’s in my DNA I guess. School’s out in these parts in about three weeks. Just knowing that somehow makes me happy.
Maybe its because there’s a whole lot of unhappiness shaking up our collective karma these days. In no particular order, we’ve got the oil spill, deadly tornadoes, a world economy still on the (Dear Lord, Please forgive this terrible news junkie pun of which I am about to commit. Amen.) hedge of the cliff, and Rentboy, among others, and when you mix it all together its a foul soup. It can be difficult these days to maintain a positive mental attitude. Something good needs to happen to get those positive waves flowing again.
And so I look to the children. I believe they are our future, by the way. If they are anything like young TB was, the approach of summer vacation will unleash a powerful force of optimism upon a world that needs it. I’m not sure what kids are into for fun these days. But I bet being out of school allows them a lot more time to do it. There are some things, I am confident, that never change.
And if any of you old-timers can recall how sweet it was back in the good ol’ waning school year days when history class meant watching “The Blue and the Gray” all week; when visions of nine o’clock neighborhood spotlight filled your forecast; when the glory of donning your town’s colors under a blistering summer sun dominated your daydreams; when the great summer holiday and midway point of July 4 was too far away to even contemplate; when days filled with crawdad catchin’, golfball huntin’ and whiffle ball tournaments were near enough to plan; when the numbers to your locker combination could be once and for all forgotten (though unbeknownst to you at the time you’d wish one day in your recurrent nightmares they weren’t); when your base burn was in place and your tan was settling in; when boredom and rainy days seemed impossible; when your shoes could be set aside for the duration; when you could envision precisely where to cut out those new paths in your woods; well, if you can recall these things and a hundred other feelings just like them, maybe it’ll help the kids build that wave of positive energy, and maybe that wave will help us get past these hard times that are upon us. Hell, it can’t hurt.
——————————–
Me and Oddball hate them negative waves….
And I gotta add the song….this’ll make you smile, at least do a little chair dancin’….go on admit it.
“Do not cease to drink beer, to eat, to intoxicate thyself, to make love, to celebrate the good days.” Egyptian Proverb
For some reason today TB got to thinkin’ back to my law school days, specifically the days passed in company with TDW at the old Holiday Inn Bar in Oxford, Mississippi. It doesn’t sound like a very happenin’ joint does it? Well, it wasn’t. But the place was run by an old black dude, well, old by my standards back then anyway, named Clyde. Clyde managed, tended bar, set out the complimentary hors d’oeurves, dispensed fresh darts, and wiped down the tables. At the Holiday Inn Bar in Oxford, it only took one dude to do all that you see. But the best thing ol’ Clyde did was disappear for long stretches.
I have no damn idea–check that–I have a couple of ideas but no actual evidence of what he did during those absences. Other than turning the place over to TB and TDW that is. Don’t get me wrong. If the place was hoppin’ on a given day, say the recently fired assistant football coaches had a table or an illicit romance was being conducted in the dark corner, you know, if three or more people were around, Clyde would do his thing on the scene. But so often, it was just TB and TDW and maybe a special guest drinker sometimes and when that was the case, Clyde would leave us in charge and go do whatever in the hell it was Clyde went to do.
Free darts, free snacks, the cheapest and cheesiest jukebox you ever saw–TDW still pats himself on the back for establishing the playlist/soundtrack of our law school years as “Me and Bobby McGee”, “Ain’t No Sunshine” and “I Touch Myself”–and unlimited access to the kegs–for TB and TDW, it was like a home away from home. But better than home what with the free food and unlimited beer. And we never even really talked much to Clyde other than to say hello and so long. He was just a shrewd judge of character, and he decided after it became obvious TB and TDW were gonna keep showing up that he liked us. How do I know? On about about the fourth or fifth trip Clyde disappeared on us for the first time. Becoming thirsty, we naturally helped ourselves to pitcher after pitcher of cold, refreshing, less filling beer. When it was time for us to stumble on our way Clyde was back in place behind the bar. “Ten Bucks!” he said as we gave him the “let’s settle up” sign. Well TB and TDW were then, as now, more or less honorable types. “Nah, while you were gone we had several pitchers. Several. Like, we quit counting after three.” We were not, after all, so honorable as to say “eleven, plus we each took a turn drinking straight from the tap.”
“Ten Bucks!”
“You sure?” This was too good to be true. We gave him twenty and he passed back ten.
“Ten Bucks!”
“Thanks Clyde, you are the man. We are coming back here forever.”
And so we did. And it was always ten bucks. I don’t know why he liked us. The only thing I can come up with is he really liked TDW’s taste in music.
“Some tortures are physical, and some are mental, But the one that is both, is dental.” –Ogden Nash
I hate those kitten posters tacked by the window or even worse on the ceiling that say things like “Smile”.
I hate the big window. I hate the birds outside it who can fly anywhere they like and will never have to sit in the chair.
I hate the magazines, even the ones I normally like, and especially “Highlights” Magazine, which I never even liked as a kid.
I hate being asked the same inane questions twice a year and being reminded “we haven’t done x-rays in a year” as if I didn’t already know and in a tone that falsely suggests I have some choice in the matter of whether “we” do them today.
I hate the sharp hook and the sound it makes on my teeth and the agony it inflicts on my gums.
I hate the sound of the water swirling around in the miniature sink to my left, the one they quit letting me spit in back in about ’89. I hate the banal, one-sided conversation coming from the cleaning chair next door. I hate the smells, the certificates, the gritty paste.
I love the miniature cold water hose that washes away the gritty paste and that took the place of Dixie Cups and spitting back in about ’89. But I hate the miniature vacuüm they use to suck all that refreshing cool water out before I can get a drink.
I hate being judged on the quality of my gums and the efficiency of my flossing. I am not a monster. You can’t pigeonhole me.
What I hate most of all is that I can never win. Every six months, there I am, sitting in that chair waiting on the verdict. Do I get another six-month reprieve or will I be sent to the drillin’ room? I really hate that if I get the drill I have to fret about it two weeks before getting it over with. I hate that drill. I really, really hate that “it looks like part of a filling has broken off.” I’m glad he “doesn’t see any decay.” I’m glad he thinks we can “push back replacing it for awhile.” I hate the inevitability and the uncertainty that diagnosis conveys. I hate that in 6 months I have to endure all this mental and physical torture again and its as if today’s success was but a mirage.
And the hell of it is I like every dentist I’ve ever known, even Waldo who once laughingly boasted that “pulling a tooth is the most barbaric act in all of medicine.” And one day I guess they’ll want to try that on me. But for the next six months I’m clear. So I’ve got that going for me. Which is nice.
I guess I have to admit one thing. I like that my Mother insisted I live this way. I like that I still have good teeth, for the most part. Because I’m pretty certain I would hate a root canal.
“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.
“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.
“Sometimes I lie awake at night and I ask, “why me?” Then a voice answers, “nothing personal, your name just happened to come up.” Charlie Brown
Last week TB had a bad day. First I dunked my Iphone in a cup of water sending it into a protracted death spiral. Then I got stuck in a traffic jam on the eleventh of a twelve hour drive. Then my preferred credit card got rejected for a hotel reservation. I had another bad day yesterday. Not only did I find out I would have to pay full price to replace my phone, I also suffered near debilitating flu-like symptoms. Then today I heard about a friend who returned to work from serving his spouse with divorce papers to learn the DUI charge he was confident would be dismissed was instead going to trial next week and he was suddenly being advised to just plead guilty and get it behind him. At first I thought to myself, “now that’s a crummy day. I should be thankful my bad days were so benign relative to his.” Then I thought, “Screw that! Just because my days weren’t as bad as all that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be able to wallow in a bit of self pity.” Then I thought, “I should write about this.”
Society tells us we should minimize our misfortunes. Ever get in a fender bender? You were just thankful no one was hurt, right? If you have the flu you have to be mindful that many are suffering much more serious health problems. If you make waffles and only then realize you are out of syrup you have to think of the starving children in Africa who would love to have such a problem.
But I’ve decided to no longer conform on this point of order. A bad day sucks and that’s all there is to it. After all, when you have a good day society doesn’t encourage you to say “yeah, this hundred dollar bonus was great, but there are people on Wall Street who got 2.8 gazillion.” Or “I sure enjoyed my trip to Charleston but let’s not forget there are people out there who went to the Swiss Alps.” Or “pizza for dinner was awesome but you have to think of the children in Italy who are having it with gelato for dessert.” You just walk around all day with a big cheesy grin, reveling in the moment. I think a bad day should be no different, well, other than the complete opposite. A bad day stinks no matter how many people are having a worse one and we ought to be able to gripe and glower through it in peace.
