TB’s High Wealth Spending Consulting Service Strikes Again

Quote of the Day:     The moment is long overdue for us to become moral and worthy ancestors.”     –Peter Peterson, billionaire co-founder of Blackstone Group who cashed in his chips at the high water mark of Wall Street’s heyday of excess

TB established the high wealth spending consulting service back in November, 2008. Thanks to the service, the ultra-wealthy need no longer worry about what to do with all their loot once they have obtained it. This is a good thing, because it has become evident that there is a disconnect for the wealthy between knowing how to make money and how to spend it in a fashion that is not idiotic. Are YOU super-wealthy? Not sure? If you have to ask, then yes. You are. Still not sure? If you are considering the purchase of Pontiac, Citigroup, or the next Ole Miss quarterback, you are. Contact TB at once.

I had hoped the widespread publicity of my November press release would be sufficient when combined with word of mouth from your fellow Polo Clubbers to alert you blue blooders (and/or nouveau riche) to the problem and to give you an alternative to wasting your fortunes. Unfortunately, the waste epidemic continues unabated. Case in point:

Peter Peterson was born some 83 years ago to loving, unimaginative parents. At some point he co-founded an outfit called the Blackstone Group that was involved in the world of Wall Street. He did well. In 2007, Peterson cashed out for more than a billion big ones. Well intentioned and thankful, Peterson soon determined to give away the bulk of his fortune. Newsweek Magazine got wind of this and jumped on the story, inviting Peterson to discuss his decision. It appears in the June 8, 2009 issue and is linked here. 

(Insert pinky into side of mouth and read along with me…either side….DO IT NOW) One Bil,lll,lll,lllion Dollars. Givin it away! It’s beautiful! Think of all the good he can do. Maybe a cure for childhood cancer. Maybe a new national park. Maybe installing solar panels and wind turbines on low income housing. Maybe sending a mass email out that he’s giving away his money and all you have to do to get a cut is to forward the email to ten people and say, “Really, this is not a joke. It is true. I heard it from my favorite blogger, who is a lawyer so it has to be true. Well, not really my favorite blogger. But a blogger. On the internets.”

Sadly, no. He has established the unimaginatively named Peter Peterson Foundation. What the hell is the Peter Peterson Foundation?, you ask. According to the foundation’s website, they “are dedicated to doing our best to promote responsibility and accountability today in order to ensure more opportunity for everyone tomorrow.”

<all together now–BLANK STARE>

Where do I start? With a billion dollars, the first thing the foundation decided was its purpose–to encourage fiscal responsibility for American citizens and their government. Second–they came up with a snazzy name for their web domain, no doubt inspired by the example set by Peter Peterson’s folks long ago. www.pgpf.org They are non-partisan and support no political candidates. They plan to focus their efforts on the youth, ostensibly by developing new sports like Budgetball. Budgetball. Really, they have a lot of great goals–no freakin idea how to reach them, but in the broadest terms possible, great goals. I’m not going through them, you can look if you want. But here’s an example: they want health care reform that is meaningful and affordable. Awesome. How much of that billion is left Petey?

Peterson, Bill Gates, Warren Buffett, Oprah and a bunch of other billionaires recently met for a summit in New York on how they should dispose of their fortunes. Here’s the thing–they are all getting too cute. They are wasting the opportunity to make a difference in the world by supporting causes instead of supporting action. This Peterson thing is just the latest to make me scratch my head and stare blankly at the computer wondering how in the hell someone this damn stupid was able to make a billion freakin dollars. One can only hope the first item on the agenda at their summit was a motion to retain TB’s High Wealth Spending Consulting Service.

Posted in current events, Humor, People | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 38 Comments

A Perfect Summer

Quote of the Day:     Spring passes and one remembers one’s innocence. Summer passes and one remembers one’s exuberance. Autumn passes and one remembers one’s reverence. Winter passes and one remembers one’s perseverance.”     —Yoko Ono

Fall brings excitement. A fresh school year, a new football season, a more orderly routine. Winter means huddling together with family, honoring ritual and reflecting on the year and the years past. Spring is for renewal and possibilities and simple pleasures. But of all the seasons, summer is best. It is the time for distant travel, new experiences, long sunsets, cold watermelon, cool waters and hot days. It is the time for exuberance. And with the potential of each new summer comes the pressure to ensure the season lives up to its potential.

TB feels it every year about this time. The possibilities are endless. White-water rafting in Tennessee, a canoe float in south Mississippi, and a ride out to Horn Island or Petit Bois in the Gulf of Mexico are always on the agenda. The perfect summer would include a well timed visit to the Rocky Mountains to see the wildflowers in full bloom, the waters falling briskly but no longer rampaging and the stars close enough to touch on a crisp night. No summer is complete without a week at the beach, with an afternoon or two set aside for thunderstorms. And since perfection in summer I am seeking there must be time made for a coastal retreat through California or and Oregon, with the top down.

Closer to home I envision lazy evenings, mosquito free, with a burger on the grill and beer in the cooler. A few early rising Saturdays for long bike rides sound reasonable. It would be nice to set aside one day for baseball–playing I mean, not watching. I love a late night family drive with a companionable conversational silence while the radio is on a roll. Somewhere it would be fun to see a movie alfresco, and at least once in a perfect summer there will be ice cream for dinner.

There is simply no way to do it all. Not all in one season, anyway, and I haven’t even begun to discuss the as yet unexperienced European summers, or north country lake houses, or Alaskan cruises. Yet the perfect summer is attainable, if only in future memory. I’m old enough now that the mind recognizes greatness from the cumulative summers now gone and sees perfection within grasp so long as the best of the old is continually refreshed, be it through reenacting or retelling, and the desire for the new relentlessly pursued. The pressure is constant that summer not be wasted; but it is not a negative emotion, rather the opposite, providing the impetus to go outside, to keep moving and to make certain that in my dotage I can manage a weathered and knowing grin recalling the perfect summers of younger days and telling the tales again and again.



Posted in Life, Philosobaen, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , | 12 Comments

Funny Stuff Happens Sometimes (when you’re not lookin)

Quote of the Day:     Filmgoers are starved for new ideas, voices and visions.”     Robert Redford

It’s amazing how funny happens when you are tuned in to the possibility even if you are not consciously looking for it. Case in point–the weekend of TB:

  • I had a man date Friday night with a guy I’d met through his brother (who said I’d like him) and with whom I’d only spoken once. I was a bit nervous about it, but it went really well. In fact we’ll probably see each other again. And let me take this opportunity to endorse the recent flick “I Love You Man” starring Paul Rudd and Jon Favreau. 
  • Somebody de-friended me on Facebook. A couple of times before I’ve suspected the number on my friend list had decreased, so I took note of it Friday night for future reference–124. Sure enough, come Saturday it was 123. I’ve spent the last two days trying to figure out this latest person to make it so clear they dislike me and to determine whether they requested me as friend or I them. I’m already plotting my revenge. 
  • JLM refused to countenance my taking the hero the TB world’s collaborative storytelling effort in a direction away from the way she originally sent him in the first place. Dream sequence. Brilliant. Diabolical. I’m already plotting my revenge.
  • I went to a birthday party tonight for a black friend given by her friends and relations. A guy comes up to a girl I know and starts huggin up on her, smilin at her, just generally flirtin. As soon as he moved away for a moment a girl about his age came up to the girl I know and deadpanned “he likes white women,” then walked away without waiting for a reaction. Flirt boy and deadpan girl are six.
  • Finally, a little bathroom humor. Let me disclaim this by making it clear–TB disdains bathroom humor. I find it disgusting and inappropriate in most all situations and the coarsest form of the art of funny. What follows is a pause from the usual PG 13 restraint of the blog and I’m ashamed for you to be exposed to such filth. You probably won’t see this on the blog again. So you better be sure and read close the first time.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         First, I give you a direct cut and paste from S&M’s blog, Raising Stink, linked to your right. It’s the funniest thing I saw all weekend:         I’ll leave you with a little gem from my husband. We were out on the motorcycle last week. It was hot, and we’d been sitting at a red light forever. I started to feel a little exposed, and thought to myself how much it would suck if a bird flew over and pooped on me. I asked my husband if he’d ever been shit on while riding. Without missing a beat, he asked, “No, why? Do you need to go?”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  And while I’m at it, I might as well  share a bit of dialogue that The Daily Wit and I will be using in our upcoming screenplay. Like S&M’s story, it is really quite disgusting and I urge you to quit reading the post starting………….now.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    For you sickos still with me, some of you will recognize the person who inspired this, but any similarity to any person, living or dead, fictional or non, is purely coincidental. Plus he gave me permission last time I saw him. But he may not want his name used so if you have a guess, keep it under your hat.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    
  • Gondorff wakes up and walks through the living room to get a drink.  

    Hooker is lying on the couch with an untied robe on and boxers with  

    his hands between his legs, unmoved from where he slept with the TV  

    on, empty cheez-it box on the floor beside him and half a beer on  

    the coffee table.

    Gondorff–Hey

    Hooker–Hey

    H-You shit yet?

    G–what?

    H-you shit yet?

                 G-Are you asking me if I’ve shit yet?
                 H-yes
                 G-(incredulously) what difference does it make?
                 H-(angrily) it’s a simple question! Why can’t you just answer?!

    G–yes, I’ve shit.

    approximately 10 seconds elapse, Gondorff is pouring some orange juice. The room is otherwise silent.

    H–was it good?

    G– (loudly) Dude, why are you asking me this?!

    H–I just wanna know.

    G–You’re are a weird sonofabitch, you know that?

                 H–(accusingly) it WAS good wasn’t it. You feel all cleaned out?
                 G–yeah, it was fine

    H–Man…….I haven’t been in like three days. I’m all clogged up.  I think I need to drink some beer today. Sometimes that helps.

    G–Well I tried to get you to go out with me last night but you wouldn’t get off your ass.

    H–You get laid?

    G–No. Laid some good foundation though.

    H–Man, you got foundation laid all over this town. You need to be laying some pipe for a change.

    G–yeah, I know.

    H–come scratch my back.

    G–Are you out of your fucking mind?

    H–Dude, my back itches.

    G–You’re out of your fucking mind.

    H–Man, I’m fat, I can’t shit, my back itches. I can’t sleep. I gotta get some exercise or something.

    G–How many cheez-it’s did you eat last night.

    H–(laughing) I think the whole box.

    G–(marvelling) You are one screwed up sumbitch.

                 H–Seriously….come scratch my back


Posted in Humor, Life, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 15 Comments

Quo Vadis Travellinbaen?

Quote of the Day:     “For a long time now I have tried simply to write the best I can. Sometimes I have good luck and write better than I can.”     –Ernest Hemingway

When I say that literally half-dozens of Travellinbaen readers have asked me about the meaning of the name “Travellinbaen” over the last year, it is no exaggeration. With the one year anniversary of the website being May 29, I thought I’d answer the question and link it to my introduction page. But before I get to that, I want to reveal a few of the names TB management rejected before settling on Travellinbaen:

  • “The I Know So Much Good Stuff, And I’m Much Wiser Than Anyone Else Blog”–When you start a blog you are afraid people are going to think this is how you see yourself. So I thought, why not embrace it? Sometimes I even believe it myself. Don’t judge me–you think that way about yourself sometimes too. The truth is most of whatever store of wisdom I do have is the growing awareness with each passing year of how much about which I am ignorant.
  • “Life the Universe and Everything”–It’s a really good phrase, but already taken. This is the unwritten theme of the blog even though my attorneys wouldn’t let me use it officially.
  • “Pigeonhole Me–Go On, Try”–Sounded too close to sexual deviance and not enough like Clint Eastwood. And you can’t pigeonhole TB.
  • “My Ongoing Application to The Daily Show or SNL or pretty much anybody who would ever consider paying me to write about stuff that interests me or other strange folk or whatever makes me or sometimes them laugh”–too long by a couple of words, but I couldn’t figure out what to omit
  • “My Supreme Court Nomination Stops Right Here”–actually, the blog will probably prevent me from being hired to any future job, so this was too limiting.

Anyway, I settled on Travellinbaen, with two “L’s” and here’s why. I like to travel. My nickname Baen, was coined by Greeg while watching Luke Skywalker call for Ben Kenobi in Jedi I think back in the 80’s. Luke’s pronunciation differed significantly from the Goula-boy dialect and it was decided in committee the phonetic spelling of Luke’s version was B-A-schwa with two dots over it-N. My computer nickname for games on Sweet’s old Commodore was changed to B-A-E-N because no one knew then (still don’t) how to make a schwa on the computer. In addition to the obvious combination of my chief hobby interest and my old nickname, I liked the “travellin” part because my mind seldom sits still. I don’t mean to suggest it is often doing anything worthwhile, but it seldom rests. One might say it wanders, or travels a lot. If you have followed the blog for long you get what I’m talking about–I meander through subjects like sports, music, current events, politics, old stories and sappy poetic observations with no seeming logical segue. And, yes, when I travel I write about that too. As for the extra “L”, (a) I thought it looked better (b) I’m stickin it to the man. 

Speaking of missing “g’s”, for anyone new to the TB universe, I leave them off on purpose and only sometimes. TB also likes to switch from the third person to the first, usually in the opening paragraph. Most other grammatical errors are due to ignorance.

I abhor authoritarianism, cliche and hypocrisy, but then again, there’s a time and a place for everything. And anyone who can’t accept that will be permanently blacklisted.

Blank stares, the acronym ARB (asshole runnin buddies) and the phrase “damn dubious” (courtesy of Alexis de Toadville) are terms of art and purposely overused. Finally, I like to give nicknames to the nicknames you choose to comment under. All of this cracks me up, though I have become aware that virtually no one else is as easily amused. So be it. Similarly the Quote of the Day is almost never remarked upon. However it is always chosen from either my pre-internet quote archives or a search on the subject I’m interested in and to TB it adds much to the points/jokes/observations appearing in the essays. Hopefully, you don’t skip over them.

Finally, I have had a fun time with the blog over the course of the last year and that is entirely because of people like you who are reading this right now. Well, 25% because of you if you read but never comment. I at least get to count your visit in the stats column. For everyone who participates, I say again thank you. I’ve got a lot of hopes and ideas for growing the Travellinbaen franchise in the future and I’ll be counting on you to help.

Bonus Quote of the Day:     “You’re lucky they even read it in the first place.”     –Rock Star Rambler to TB one afternoon when I was complaining that no one got one of my jokes

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 19 Comments

Mississippi in Africa

Quote of the Day:     Do not look where you fell, but where you slipped.”     –Liberian proverb

TB finally got around to reading my friend-in-law Alan Huffman’s book Mississippi in Africa, and I’m glad I did. The title of the book refers to an area in the west African nation Liberia named Mississippi. It was so named because a large group of nineteenth century colonists happened to be former slaves from Mississippi plantations. As they established themselves in their new nation, they borrowed heavily from the place names, family names, architecture and social customs learned as slaves back in Mississippi. The book tells the story of Huffman’s attempt to track the fortunes of the descendants of the slaves from Prospect Hill plantation in Jefferson County. Many of the Prospect Hill slaves were freed and transported to Liberia before the American Civil War, while many others remained in the area, mostly as slaves until after the war.

It is a fascinating story and unsatisfying in some ways, due mostly to the author’s insistence on writing non-fiction instead of supplying a tidy, feel good, Hollywood style ending. Of course, the ambiguities the reader is left with are precisely what make the book so thought provoking and I believe important, particularly for Mississippians who often think (if they are white) of the antebellum era as one of prosperity and gentility without focusing on the forced laborers who made the columns and hoop skirts possible; and who think (if they are black) that slaveowners were all whip wielding masochists bent on working their hands to death in pursuit of another dollar.

The first half of the book is set in Jefferson County, Mississippi. After explaining how he got hooked by this story in the first place, Huffman proceeds to give the historical facts so far as they are known about life on a leading southern plantation several decades before the shots fired at Fort Sumpter. The picture he paints, drawing from legal records, contemporary personal correspondence, and oral histories of both slave and master lineage is one of a mostly genteel, gentle form of servitude. Isaac Ross, as head of the white family that owned the plantation was by all accounts a generous and caring master. Slaves on his plantation were allowed little personal liberties such as unescorted trips to town, vocational training and even basic education. Families were kept together. And central to the story, provision was made in Ross’ will that upon his death all of his slaves were to be offered freedom with the catch that they would have to migrate to Liberia, at Ross’ expense and with his continuing support. Though Huffman takes pains to emphasize the evils of slavery even under this benign version, the account likely please an antebellum southern apologist. But to take this away from his story would be to misread it entirely.

Old man Ross finally passed and arrangements began to be made to send the Prospect Hill slaves by ship to Liberia. But the old adage–you don’t know your relative until you share an inheritance–proved sadly true. Ross’ son stood to lose a fortune in free, trained labor with the departure of the slaves and he would not abide it. He contested the will, excited the emotions of his peers against the slaves’ interests and exerted his influence upon the politicians to block his father’s intentions. For over a decade he drug out his battle to invalidate the will until, amazingly, the Mississippi Supreme Court sided with the supporters of the will and allowed the migration to begin. Hard feelings developed between the slaves and Ross the younger and life on the plantation began to grow more difficult in these years. By the time the ship of slaves set sail, most of the funds Isaac Ross originally set aside to support his people upon their arrival in Africa was gone and a young child of the Ross family was dead as a result of an uprising by the increasingly frustrated laborers. Huffman tracked down numerous descendants of both slave and master still living in and around Jefferson County. What he found, besides several incomplete versions of the uprising story, was a legacy of poverty for the slaves who remained in Mississippi, and even the steady decline in fortunes for the progeny of the master. Benign relative to the stereotypical plantation Prospect Hill may have been, but the impact of slavery on continuing generations of its residents, black, white and mixed has shown the system that brought great wealth for a few decades came at the cost of economic ruin and racial distrust for many decades more.

The second half of the book began with Huffman traveling to Liberia in hopes of visiting the other Mississippi and tracking down descendants of the Prospect Hill colonists. Like the great river, the story at this point began to meander. Huffman’s plan was the direct line–land in Liberia, make his manners in the capital, then continue on to Greenville, Mississippi, Liberia to track down the heirs, view their antebellum style homes and learn about their fortunes after leaving America. Only Liberia is a first class mess, and though in a lull between its own interminable civil wars when Huffman visited in the early part of this decade, violence, corruption and paranoia still reigned supreme. The direct line did not exist. The most unsatisfying part of the book for the reader, and undoubtedly the author, was his inability to set foot in Mississippi in Africa. Fortunately for the story, less so for the people involved, the wars had driven many of the folks Huffman was searching for to Monrovia where he was forced to stay.

I’ve described Liberia as a mess, and truly that’s a charitable word. But the people with whom Huffman interacted were hospitable, kind, thoughtful and protective. Almost all of them were extremely pro-American and they in fact viewed the United States as their mother country and seemed to lack comprehension of the fact we barely know of their existence. The Prospect Hill descendants told of their ancestors’ arrival and difficult acclimation period that was succeeded by a gradual increase in control of the best land in the country. This was all made possible by their education and experience in Mississippi in America. Eventually, along with other colonists from other slaveholding areas, these “Americos” came to dominate Liberia politically, economically and socially.

So the slaves who made it back to Africa show the up side of the peculiar institution, right? We all know better. Among the customs brought with them upon settling in Liberia, the former slaves brought an ingrained sense of master and servant. As soon as they become established in Liberia they began to institute their own form of involuntary servitude on the natives. Predictably, the result was class hatred and enduring bitterness. For over a hundred years the Americos maintained control as a dominant minority, but beginning around 1980 the lower, serving classes had enough and began to revolt. What resulted was a two decade long regional bloodbath, the fall of Americo rule and the destruction of virtually everything the colonists had built, including those antebellum homes. The Prospect Hill descendants dispersed in all directions, many were killed, all became impoverished. Most wanted nothing more than to “return” to the United States. The country in ruin, its new generation of leaders turned to eastern Europeans and even Muslim extremists as allies and financial partners.

The subtitle of Huffman’s book is “The Saga of the Slaves of Prospect Hill Plantation and Their Legacy in Liberia Today”. One can only hope the story isn’t over and that a future printing of Mississippi in Africa will include an epilogue that provides the happy ending. For now, the legacy of those people is one of continued suffering. But there is also a legacy of survival, perseverance and hope that may one day allow them to leave behind the stain of their slave ancestry entirely. It’s not altogether different than what white and black Mississippians have experienced or what they still have going for them.

If the author ever reads this I feel sure he will be confounded at what I took away from his book. As ever, the myriad thoughts a good book provokes are difficult to pass along in written word and the factual summary is of necessity oversimplified. But if you have an interest in Mississippi history or race relations or if you are curious at all about the nation of Liberia and its connection to the United States, you ought to read the book.

Posted in Books, Mississippi, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Memories of Summer Nights

Quote of the Day:     “Hold on a minute. Don’t get out. I’ve got a feelin its about to come on.”     –Larry to TB, having a psychic moment circa 1986 correctly anticipating his favorite “Fort” song being played

One of the things I love about Facebook is being able to keep up with so many people I’ve known through the years through their pithy, often witty status updates. In particular it is good to hear from those who travel in completely different circles than TB. Lately there has been an avalanche of notes about the onset of summer as defined by the last day of school. Is there another phrase in the English language that connotes such joy and anticipation as “last day of school”? For fourteen years going back and another few looking ahead the phrase has not/will not apply to me, but thanks to Facebook I am reveling vicariously this year in the pleasure of many friends.

Best of all about summer is the nighttime. Among my earliest summer memories are those where I was allowed to stay up past the school year bedtime, watching Monday Night Baseball. In particular I have vivid childhood recollections of watching the Major League All-Star game. What stands out most in memory are the uniforms–the mid-1970’s color explosions that characterized them and the appearance of such mythical names heard but never seen on tv such as the Mariners or the Indians. I also recall the Aqua-velva and Old Spice commercials starring Pete Rose or Steve Garvey, the inevitable 70’s streaker or kissing bandit and National League dominance, often due to the heroics of one my Redlegs. Of course, it wasn’t all about staying inside and watching sports; the excitement of neighborhood play after dark–kick the can, spotlight, eventually rolling or pine-coning the grouchy old dude’s yard–the opportunity to be outside after dark was never wasted.

As the elementary school years wore on,summer nights more and more meant baseball under the lights, watching and playing, then post game trips to May’s Superburger or Tastee Freeze. For a few years I stalked foul balls and home run hitters in quest of the always enticing free sno-cone, then later on I did my part to return the favor for the little ones. I can smell the ballfields of my youth as I sit here typing. A mixture of damp grass, red dirt, cigarette smoke, polyester, cotton candy, illicit booze, and grease. That smell doesn’t exist any more except in memory; it’s too bad.

In high school the ballgames were still being played. By then, along with the still burning competitive fire to win was the parallel chase for girls. The spirit of conversations on the mound with teammates and at the bases with opponents stays with me. “All we need is three more outs. Throw strikes. We need to get out of here by 9 so we can get showered up and hit the point.” Or, “Nice hit. You goin’ out afterwards? I need a ride.” By ten we’d be cruising up Market Street to the Pizza Hut parking lot for turnaround, then down to Beach Boulevard and over to the Point  until it started hoppin. Van Halen blaring, or the Crue or Bon Jovi, or whichever hair band was in favor any given week. With luck, we’d find a girl and keep going past the Pizza Hut on the next run, maybe all the way down to the Old Spanish Fort for a little privacy and a radio change to a station more suitable for the moment.

Summer nights are still great. When it gets cool enough to escape the daylight heat and then run the gnats and mosquitos of dusk away, a gentle breeze, a moonlit sky, some good tunes, an ice chest full of cold beer and an ARB to tell old lies with, or the right girl, sometimes both…..that’s about as good as it gets. My crew just got news from our daytime lives, a work conflict removed today, that frees up the forthcoming summer nights unexpectedly. I think I’ll make sure the cooler is cleaned out and maybe add a few 80’s hits to the ipod. One of them is for you Sweet, one for Larry and one for BR (this week’s honorees for spotlight on the commenters).

–A forgotten 80’s Summer Nights playlist–

  • Summer Nights–Van Halen
  • Cherish–Kool and the Gang
  • Say it Isn’t So–The Outfield
  • Smooth Operator–Sade
  • The Rain–Oran Juice Jones
  • Runaway–Bon Jovi
  • Livin After Midnight–Judas Priest
Posted in Life, Mississippi, Music | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 25 Comments

The Walk of Shame

Quote of the Day:     The only shame is to have none.”     –Blaise Pascal

TB always gets good blog material on my frequent trips to Oxford. Sunday morning I was in charge of breakfast so I drove to the square to pick up pastries from Bottletree. Cruising down Lamar I spied ahead of me through the light misting rain a lumbering, large and fast moving figure. “What in the world is that broad doin?”, I wondered. Her black skirt slightly askew, hair mussed, shirt partly tucked in, purse nearly dragging, and jewelry laden, what was most wrong about her were the heels. So high, so impractical for a Sunday stroll on an uneven sidewalk, so…..wrong. I am getting old. It was several seconds after I passed by her, recoiling at her fierce countenance, that I realized it. She was making the walk of shame, and to add insult to injury, the worst known version.

The mildest form of the “walk” is the one where you have to greet the roommates. Generally, everyone has a little slightly embarrassed laugh, followed by the offer of a soda and often a period of relaxing where walker and watchers can catch up on mutual acquaintances or an upcoming exam. Some walkers prefer to head straight for the door and make a quick exit. At any rate this walk involves only a brief period of shame and is possible when the walker has a car parked outside. Even a ride will do.

The next level up on the walk of shame scale of shame builds upon the first. Only no car and no ride are available so the individual with whom one has just shacked up is forced to provide a ride either home or to the shackee’s vehicle left at a bar. The stilted conversation and awkward farewell are the worst parts of this WOS. Sample conversation:

Walker–So, uh, what was your last name again?

Driver–Ummmm, Smith. Yeah, that’s it. Smith. Hey, I had fun last night.

Walker–Great. Did I?

Driver–Ha. Funny.

Walker–You know, I NEVER do this. I can’t believe I did it last night.

Driver–Oh, me neither. 

Walker–That’s me over there–the Sentra.

Driver–Ok, well….ummm….be careful. You didn’t forget anything did you?

Walker–If I did just keep it.

Sometimes a number is exchanged, sometimes even an uncomfortable hug and almost always a brief blank stare. No one ever looks back.

The poor lass I saw this weekend however was forced to endure the worst of all walks of shame. The one where she had to walk past the roommates, had no ride, had left her car back at the bar and received no half-hearted offer of a ride. I can imagine her host woke up and decided he’d made a damn dubious decision to bring this girl home last night and stayed in bed after she finally rose. Undoubtedly his roommates provided no Diet Coke. And it was raining. And she was on the main drag in town. She did the only thing she could do. She grabbed all her crap, slipped on those pumps and started hoofing it. Her shame was only matched by her ire. Though I kept my distance and quickly left her in the rearview mirror, I could read her mind.

Never again.

But deep down she knows that’s a lie. Just like it was the last time.

Posted in Humor, Life | Tagged , , , , , , | 21 Comments

Pastoral Mississippi

Quote of the Day:     He must always be a stranger to the place he loves, and its people.”     –Willie Morris

No, its not the name of a town, but if TB decides to write a novel or better yet a television series, I think it would be a good name for a fictional backwater. 

Twice this week I’ve been for long solo drives deep into the country. Tuesday I decided a little time with nature was in order so I headed out to the family place in Phoenix, Mississippi, a hamlet tucked in the corner of Yazoo County near the border with Warren. Homesteaded by my half-Cherokee ancestors a couple of years before whites were allowed by treaty to settle there, and around the time of Mississippi’s acceptance into the Union, it is a special place. A creek runs through it, as do a host of deer and turkeys. The old home place is on our section though the cedar trees that mark the front gate, an array of wildflowers and a crumbling fence line are all that remain of what was by all accounts a fine structure before the great fire around the middle of the last century destroyed it. The land is now home to a nice stand of red oak trees, a few white oaks and way too damn many worthless beeches and gums and you can see a good bit of it cruisin or walkin through the paths maintained by the obligatory hunting club. Spring is a great time to visit because you can still see pretty far into the woods and there is no great likelihood of being shot by an overeager huntsman.

My day in Phoenix was rejuvenating. It was probably the last cool day of the spring, the sun was shining and the sky was blue beyond my capabilities of description. The only things missing from my drive were an ARB to share the ride, enough beer to get us almost drunk and a pickup. Truck. Thanks to the glories of satellite radio I had some nice tunes to keep me company though including Billy Bob Thornton’s Boxmasters singing a cover of “The Lord Knows I’m Drinkin” and the Oak Ridge Boys covering “7 Nation Army.” It’s good, I kid you not. I parked at the Old Place and walked a couple of miles down to the edge of the swollen Big Black River, listening to the birds and the wind and a few startled beings unseen. Not another human soul around for miles. Much of why I love Mississippi was embodied by the short trip.

Yesterday I drove down to Paulding, Mississippi, in Jaspar County near Laurel. Paulding is one of two courthouses devoted to Jaspar County, one of the lesser populated of the eighty-two divisions of our state. You can’t get there from here, in case you were wondering. But I needed to get there, so I did. The drive was quite pleasant. It took me through lots of pine forest and by innumerable feeding cattle, two burned out home places, and around a dozen abandoned single-wides. Eventually, I had to turn off the paved road (“you know your bi-county seat is a redneck if the directions to it include the phrase “after you turn off the paved road”) and drive two point eight miles to reach the half-paved, half gravel road that leads to the courthouse. If you are a racing fan and are familiar with the term “marbles” you now understand what I mean by that. God help me I love these Mississippi roads.

Arriving in Paulding I entered the courthouse to conduct my research. While trying to interpret orders with Exhibit A’s referenced but missing, and to review files consisting of only volumes 3, 7 and 12 in the tidy little courthouse, I had occasion to eavesdrop on bits and pieces of conversation amongst the locals. I share because I care:

Caldonia–Hey Betsy, you got time to notarize this?

Betsy Mae–Sure do. A release, huh?

Caldonia–Yep, church trip. You know how ever-body’s always tryin to sue ever-body nowadays. (fyi, Paulding is one of the places in Mississippi you do NOT want to defend a lawsuit and with its meager population, it is almost a certainty this lady and/or her whole family has helped it earn that reputation).

Betsy Mae–Sure do. Where y’all goin?

Caldonia–My youngest is goin to Atlanta. Whooo-weeee, I’m excited for her. 

Betsy Mae–Atlanta! I went there once. Prayed to God if he’d ever let me out I’d never go back and I ain’t never been.

Caldonia–Ohhhhh, I never been. I always wanted to. I been down to New Orleans though oncet. They got ever-thang there.

Betsy Mae–I don’t know why people want to go to Atlanta. They’s so many cars and people and criminals–I was skeert. 

Caldonia–Well, thanks for notarizin my paper. I gotta go to Laurel this afternoon.

Betsy Mae–Laurel! Why you goin to Laurel? I cain’t stand Laurel.

Caldonia–Doctor appointment. They got good food there tho.

Betsy Mae–Like what?

Caldonia–They’s a Taco Bell, a Chinese place….oh, McAllister’s….I love that place. You don’t like McAllister’s?

Betsy Mae–I guess its ok. Pricy though.

Caldonia–Yeah, it IS pricy. I better go. Have a nice day.

Betsy Mae–You be careful in Laurel now. And let me know if your littlest makes it home ok from Atlanta.

^   ^

___

That was my reaction to the conversation. Much of what I loathe about Mississippi encapsulated nicely, interspersed with the simplicity and goodness I love. I hurried to finish my job and get back to the car to retrace the way back through the woods and home. Mojo Nixon was doing his show on Outlaw Country and rain was gently falling. He said the Oak Ridge Boys were BACK! and had a great White Stripes cover he wanted us to hear. I grinned and turned it up and tried to spin the tires when I hit the marbles.

Posted in Life, Mississippi | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 20 Comments

Travellinbaen and the Wanderlust

Quote of the Day:     “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.     –Mark Twain

What a great word, wanderlust. Wander. Lust. It connotes not just the simple desire to go looking for something new, to escape the routine and the known; more like an irrational compulsion to ignore the outside world and submit to temptation and the demands of the soul and go wherever the winds lead, with no destination in mind and no time frame for a return. My research-i-pedia informs that the word is derived from the German predilection for wandering that may be traced back to German romanticism (who knew?); alas, the word is obsolete in German in modern times (how stereotypically cliche). Wandern in German is “to hike” and lust is “desire” and the compound word is thus literally translated “to enjoy hiking.” It’s English meaning is “a strong desire for, or impulse to travel and to explore the world.” A better definition would be “an ache for the distance” which is the translation of the German word fernweh. Fernweh. Nah, doesn’t do it for me. I’ll take wanderlust and apply my own poetry. But “aching” is an important part of the word’s meaning, not apparent from merely reading the word and looking for its literal meaning; instead hidden amongst the words “wander” and “lust” that evoke pleasurable feelings. For to have the wanderlust is to not be traveling after all.

My mind’s too caught up in the fever to expound on this cogently. So I wandered the web, looking for help. 

First I found a poem by Robert W. Service, who I’ve never heard of before, titled “The Wanderlust.” It’s a pretty good poem, though not good enough to re-post in its entirety and too damn long to boot. But I liked this passage:

Highway, by-way, many a mile I’ve done;
Rare way, fair way, many a height I’ve won;
But I’m pulling my freight in the morning, boys,
And it’s over the hills or bust;
For there’s never a cure
When you list to the lure
Of the Wan-der-lust. 

There’s a Mark Knopfler song that is pretty good, very sad. It’s called “Wanderlust” and the best lines are these:

Open window
Empty bed and chair
Who’s that callin’
Ain’t nobody there
I look behind me
And I see there’s just
Me and the wanderlust

From my own ipod library I can wallow in the wander lust with this playlist:

 

  • Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again–Bob Dylan (CM’s got me listening to Dylan lately, and his new tunes on XM are pretty cool too–maybe him and Willie and Mellencamp will come somewhere near this summer)
  • Anywhere But Here–Cross Canadian Ragweed
  • Desperados Waiting for the Train–Guy Clark (just discovered this a few months back)

 

On reading material, Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road” is the obvious wanderluster’s choice but I’ve read and written about that not so long ago. My web search led me to that and to “The Dharma Bums”, also by Kerouac. I read only yesterday Esquire Magazine’s list of books every man must read and Dharma was their choice for Kerouac. On top of that, Kerouac was recently mentioned to me by CM as another of my distant brother’s early influences. Karma is calling on an unusually clear channel. I guess I better check this one out pretty soon. On a tangentially related note, to search for new books to read is to set loose the wanderlust of the brain, and overwhelming because the objective of becoming well read is hopeless in all but relative terms. So many rabbit holes…

And finally, a clip from one of my favorite recent movies, The Darjeeling Limited. While the brothers are actually travellin and therefore not in the throes of the wanderlust, the mood of this whole movie is well matched to my current predicament. On top of that, the blank stare is executed perfectly throughout, by virtually the entire cast. A great flick.

 

Happy Trails, friends.

Posted in Life, Philosobaen, Travel | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Cloud Talk

Quote of the Day:     From The Simpsons, episode 8, year 1

KEARNY: You know, when you look up at clouds in the sky, they start looking like stuff.

OTHER BULLY: No, they don’t.

KEARNY: Yeah, they do.  Like that one over there looks just like a cherry bomb.

It’s true; perhaps a bit too true.  The cloud looks EXACTLY like a cherry bomb.

OTHER BULLY: Hey, you’re right.  And look at that one.  It looks like a guy with a switchblade stuck in his back.

Same thing as the first cloud.

JIMBO: Yeah, that one looks like a school bus going over a cliff in flames, with kids inside screaming.

BART: That one looks just like the statue of our town founder, Jebediah Springfield.

OTHER BULLY: Does not.

BART: Does too.  I mean, without the head of course.

Sure enough, the cloud shows the explorer kneeling on his stand, minus the head.

JIMBO: Oh, yeah.  I wish someone really would cut his ugly old head off.

BART: You do?

KEARNY: Yeah, that’d be cool.

OTHER BULLY: Sure would cheese everybody off.

BART: But guys, come on.  Don’t you remember history class?  Jebediah once killed a bear with his bare hands.

OTHER BULLY: Oh, sorry.

KEARNY: We forgot how much you love Jebediah Springfield.

JIMBO: Yeah, he’s your boyfriend.

KEARNY: Yeah.

BART: Come on, guys.  Knock it off.

JIMBO: Beat it, Simpson.  Man, I thought you were cool.

—————

The next day….

BART: What?  But–but yesterday didn’t you say it would be cool to cut off the head, and really cheese everybody off?

KEARNY: Yeah, that was just cloud talk, man.

Yesterday at Hiram College in Hiram, Ohio, the statue of one of America’s top 50 Presidents, James Garfield, was decapitated, a caper obviously inspired by reckless cloud talk.

Garfield was a student at Hiram from 1851-1853. The statue is located before a building from which Garfield (possibly) delivered a sermon one time. This being (possibly) his greatest accomplishment, the location of the statue chose itself. Apropos of nothing, the actual building wasn’t located there when he gave the (possible) sermon, but was at some point moved there. All of this to give you an idea of the incredible scope of the importance of the shrine and the outrage sparked in the greater Hiram community. Hiram police are, uh, stumped. One of the reasons they have no leads is the police chief, ironically named something other than Wiggam, has dismissed the possibility that students may have been behind the theft.

Ahhhh, cloud talk. Enchanting, tantalizing, fanciful cloud talk. Ideas always sounds so logical, so possible when lying upon a bed of daisies atop a field of hypo-allergenic green. But inevitably, cloud talk must remain behind once  one averts his eyes from the billowy sky and departs the field of dreams lest tragedy ensue, or at least trage-comedy. TB learned this lesson all too well in eighth grade, Miss Hoskins’ fifth period English class.

It seems some ruffian arrived at Pascagoula Junior High one lazy spring morn with a tiny sack full of BB’s. In second period math (Ms. Dejean) he surreptitiously displayed his non-sensical cache to a group of early pubescent classmates just as we’d finished copying our math homework from the one student in the class capable of learning the subject in spite of being sent to public school in Mississippi. No one was exactly sure how these miniature orbs should be employed, but after very little debate, it was unanimous that they be deployed. The identity of who looked out the window and was thus inspired with the idea to simultaneously launch a single BB apiece at Miss Hoskins’ blackboard at precisely 2 pm is lost to history, but the identity of the one young punk who followed through with the solemn cloud talk oath can now be revealed, some 25 years after the event, and with a district attorney’s affidavit of the passage of the statute of limitations firmly in hand. Yes, it was I, Travellinbaen. The loneliest person in all the world for sixty agonizing seconds while waiting for Miss Hoskins to return from the hallway where she had retreated to privately weep for the cruelty of the single sniper and to perhaps wonder whether he’d acted alone or as part of some larger conspiracy. The knowledge that one, or more, of her seemingly interested students was in actual fact contemptuous of not only direct objects but of sentence diagramming in its entirety must have come as quite a shock to her. So much so that she scarcely tried to identify the blackboard’s assailant. And while my traitorous co-conspirators quietly snickered and silently disposed of their unfired ammunition, I wondered which of these Judases would sell me out. To their credit, none did.

Somewhere in Ohio, a young man (can there be any doubt it was a guy?) who believed not so long ago the message of the clouds that convinced him this day would be one of triumph is learning the hard lesson of acting upon cloud talk. He is reviled. He is hunted. He is wondering if he should keep the head in the event some day everyone will laugh about his stunt or if he should dispose of the spoiled fruit of his labor. The only consolation for this head stealing hooligan is it could’ve been worse. He should thank his lucky stars that Martin Van Buren was from New York.

Posted in current events, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 24 Comments