Flipping the Pages

It is a gray Saturday morning and I need to move along and go to work on a project whose life or death I will learn about on Tuesday; I fear its death, but must work as though it will live. I slept late this morning, meaning past sunrise—or whatever poor excuse there is for a sunrise this morning—probably due to that snort of Woodford Reserve I had before bedtime. My vision of the future of health care includes heavy doses of self medication.

Reading Catcher in the Rye this morning, I came to the scene where Holden Caulfield checks into the Edmont Hotel. “The bellboy that showed me to the room was this very old guy around sixty-five. He was even more depressing than the room was.” It brought to mind a recent trip where I went to Dallas and stayed at the Fairmont, where the rooms were not depressing at all. I checked in, intending to put my things down and then grab a bite, but the bellboy delayed a bit. I called downstairs to check on him and they said he’d be right up, and he was. He asked if I wanted him to show me around the room, which is something the bell boys do in nice hotels these days and I always decline. I was tempted to not decline in this instance, on the outside chance that I was missing something by turning down all these offered tours. Maybe he would show me a secret passageway that was open only to those people patient enough to accept the room tour. Hungry, I declined. Two days later, when I finally found the ice bucket tucked away somewhere I’d have never thought to look for an ice bucket, I scored one for the bell boy.

That afternoon in Dallas I ate lunch outside at the Stoneleigh P, under the cover of their awning and the sunshade provided by the handful of pin oak trees standing around the restaurant. I had one of their famous hamburgers. It was a comfortable afternoon, the kind you find easier in May than you do in July and August.

In current day Middle Tennessee, I think about this Billy Collins poem frequently as I drive north on the Lewisburg Pike towards Nashville and see all the subdivisions named after farms that are no longer farms. I must admit that I live in one myself; still I wish we could just stop with the ones we have and not build more. I suffered through an attack of red bugs (aka chiggers) not long ago, and in retaliation sought to spray the yard for bugs. Then I remembered to ask if the spray would kill the lightening bugs, and they guy said yes, so I said no thanks.

One year ago yesterday we closed on our house here in Middle Tennessee. Somewhere in a journal I keep, I have a record of the lunch order the moving men made a year ago today as they packed us up for our move. They liked the fish sandwiches at McDonalds.

I’m not sure how all of this fits together, except that it’s apparent this morning that I’d rather flip the pages of the mental photograph album than go to work. At least, for now, I get to pass by horses and cows on the way to the office, and think of a soon coming day where I will stay in a hotel room, and the adventures waiting for me there when I accept the bell boy’s offer to give me a tour of the room.

Oprah Asked Cormac McCarthy What He Thought of My Writing and He Said That It Sucks

Today is Cormac McCarthy’s birthday, so I set out to see what I could find on YouTube about him. As it turns out, not much. I read on Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac that “McCarthy doesn't do book tours or give lectures, and he's never taught or written journalism to support himself. He said, ‘Teaching writing is a hustle.’”

I don’t think Cormac McCarthy would like me. In this Oprah clip he says that if you are a good writer you don’t need a lot of punctuation. He is particularly down-at-the-mouth about semicolons. I can wear out a semi-colon. I love the semi-colon. One day, if I’m ever a famous writer (que tinkling piano music signifying a dream sequence), one of the things I believe they’ll say about me is “Boy, did he bring the semi-colon back into style.” I fell in love with the semi-colon because I realized that I had a tendency to overwork commas, and because I like organization and structure. In my technical writing I give the “little i in the hole” a work out—you know… (i), (ii), (iii), etc. I don’t use those in my fiction writing; what do you think I am, some kind of moron?

Also, while I appreciate the “teaching writing is a hustle” thought, and I would share Cormac’s (I hope he doesn’t mind if I call him by his first name) general opposition to hustles, I think participating in a hustle is okay as long as both hustler and hustlee have mutual enjoyment. What I mean by that is that if I wrote a book and people wanted me to talk about it and would be entertained or even enriched by me talking about it, and if I enjoyed talking about, then its okay, even if the world isn’t moved in any meaningful way by the fact that I did it.

Oh well. I like you Cormac. I mean, Mister McCarthy. And I will continue to argue for your right to ignore generally accepted punctuation rules, just as I will argue for Mister Faulkner’s right to flip around between different points of view and to write out of sequence.

Here is arguably my favorite scene from the book “No Country for Old Men”, which was portrayed very closely in the movie.

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Music I’m Listening to Now: Fletcher Henderson, 1924-1936 on Rhapsody.com; part of my “research” for a short story I’m writing.
What I’m Reading Now: Stephen King’s, Lisey’s Story, and Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger

Triple shot grande nonfat one splenda latte

I see that today is the birthday of Howard Schultz, the guy who gave us Starbucks.

A lot of people like to hate on Starbucks, I guess in the same way a lot of people like to hate on Walmart. I try not to hate on anything or anybody, although I can’t help myself sometimes with Toby Keith and Rascal Flatts.

Coffee shops are oasis for me. In my Previous Life when my job required me to often be away from the office, or even out of town, I had a favorite coffee shop in each town or even each part of town, and sometimes each part of the day.

• Across from my building in New Orleans was a place called Rue de la Course, where one of the barista’s wore a uniform of sorts, with matching black tank top, black low-rider jeans, and a black studded dog collar around her neck. The lattes weren’t great, but I enjoyed going over to see the dog collar girl and her tattoos. Most coffee shops are soft and comfortable, maybe a little dark. This one was bright and loud, with a hard tile floor that bounced sound all around and echoed the scratch of the wooden chairs being pushed and pulled around. The joint had boxes of chess boards, which I imagined were missing all sorts of pieces, but I still envisioned the day when my son and I would go over and try to cobble together a game. I think that particular location was one of those places that didn’t reopen after the Storm.
• In Jackson, Mississippi, it was Cups, where the downtown location was next to a shoe shine stand where a elderly black man watched TV and read the paper all day when he wasn’t shining shoes, and called out to many of the passers by.. In the afternoon, he sold popcorn from an “old fashioned” popcorn machine. There was also a Cups location in a part of Jackson called Fondren; I think that’s where they put all the bohemians. It was my favorite of the two locations and there were always a group of young people outside smoking like they never heard it was bad for them.
• In Beaumont, Texas, there was Rao’s, where the barista wore a French beret and a facial expression that told you she’d just as soon throw you out as serve you; I would stand in line silently fuming about the fact that her espresso machine had spouts to make two drinks at a time, but she only used one. Jimmy Dean sausage kolaches don’t go with latte—the spice of the sausage and the espresso in the latte just don’t match up well. But I liked the Rao’s Jimmy Dean sausage kolaches and I like lattes, so I would suffer through the combination, knowing it wouldn’t be the last time I would allow my indulgences to overrule good taste. They had a little sign up that said, “Friends don’t let friends drink Starbucks.” They also had a display of pastries and desserts that called out like a Madame, saying “Take a break after lunch and come back to me for an afternoon treat you won’t forget.” As Simon and Garfunkel sang, “I do declare there were times when I was so lonesome, I took some comfort there.”
• When the Girl was little, in an effort to get her out of the house on Saturday mornings so the Wife could sleep, I would drive across the Crescent City Connection, the Girl and car seat in tow, to the PJ’s uptown on Magazine for coffee and some other stop along the way for pastries. Clearly we weren’t in a hurry to get anywhere. I have a card the Girl made for me at Fathers’ Day when she was in pre-school. In the teacher’s handwriting, the card says “I love my dad because he goes to work, then he comes home and I ride on his back. Yeah. And we go to PJ’s for coffee, but I have chocolate milk.” The card is faded, but the memory is not.

I think I owe Howard Schultz a head nod for his small part in all these memories.

My current favorite coffee shop hangout is a Starbucks on Caruthers near my office. There’s one person there in particular who remembers my name and notices when I have been in a while. She remembers my drink order, which is a triple shot grande nonfat one splenda latte. I enjoy arriving early before work and seeing some of the other regulars, who are truly regulars, including Stan, who was customer of the week once and made me wonder if I might ever be customer of the week. Then there’s the lady who almost always sits in the same spot and reads her Bible, unless I get there before she does and sit in her spot just for meanness and irreverence. I write in my journal a lot at the Starbucks on Caruthers, and a good portion of the poetry I write was written or polished sitting at one of those too small round tables.

Here’s a part of one I wrote, inspired by an especially pretty barista:

“Her cheeks are full so
when she smiles, as she does
for each name, they frame
her mouth in angles. Her nose
is small and slightly upturned.

Her lips match her cheeks
and I hope someone kissed them
today at waking.
Now I fear I left unkissed
a similar pair at home.”

And here’s another excerpt from one I wrote while sitting in the Bible lady’s spot. Its called “Confession” and I must have been in a particularly irreverent mood.

“Raised as protestant,
I’ve never confessed in a
booth. I’ve been taught I
have a direct line, which is
superior to the booth.

Upon returning
late books to the library
last night, I paid the
fines and felt reconciled. It
made me think about the booth.”

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Music I’m Listening to Now: The Band of Heathens, The Band of Heathens on Rhapsody.com
What I’m Reading Now: Stephen King’s, Lisey’s Story, and Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger

The Other Boleyn Girl

Wife and I watched The Other Boleyn Girl last night on DVD.

I remember when I first heard about this movie, I thought, wow, is it my birthday, or have the gods finally realized that the world is out of balance and this is their way of making amends—can it be true that there is a movie with both Scarlett Johansen and Natalie Portman. But, as is so often the case in a world so out of balance, events conspired against me and I didn’t to the see ScarJo and NP on the big screen. When we started watching last night, and the intro credits rolled and the names of my co-celebrity imaginary girlfriends appeared on the screen, I was awash once again with warm fuzzies.

My appreciation of Mss. Johansen and Portman aside, this was an enjoyable movie. I offer as evidence the fact that I didn’t get sleepy at all, and we stayed up until nearly 11pm watching it. I usually find these sorts of historical pics interesting, and we’ve seen all the big movies about Queen Elizabeth. You can find better critical analysis of the movie elsewhere, so I won’t try to do cover any of that here. I will say that I though Mss. Johansen and Portman delivered enjoyable performances, with Portman having probably the more difficult acting job—especially in one scene at the end where she has to remove a pearl necklace so that it doesn’t, um, get in the way. (Not to give away any spoilers here, but it is a historical piece, and I think we all know what happens to Anne Boleyn.) Also, I thought Eric Banta made a believable Henry, once I got past the memory of him as a purse pilfering card player in Lucky You; I think the beard in this movie helped him in the portrayal.

At one point, I think it was the first or second love scene, Wife said, “I think this is PG-13, so hopefully we won’t have to see Scarlett Johansen’s breasts. I’ve seen enough of that.” You know what I thought, but had the good sense to not say. Later, when some baby was being born (lot of that in this movie), I said “I think this is PG-13, so hopefully I want have to see graphic details of a baby being born.”

At the point when Mary (Scarlett Johansen) was being introduced to Queen Catherine as a member of her court, and Catherine knew what purpose she was to serve, she asked Mary to sing. I thought, well, she could always sing her a Tom Waits song. But she didn’t do that.



Music I’m Listening to Now: Folkways: A Shared Vision (A Tribute to Woodie Guthry and Lead Belly) on Rhapsody.com
What I’m Reading Now: Glimmer Train, Issue No. 67.

Duma Key

Earlier this morning, I finished Duma Key, by Stephen King. I enjoyed this book, and I believe this clip from Matt Lauer’s interview with King is spot-on for why I enjoyed it.



I go way back with Stephen King books. His were the first ones I checked out from the Ouachita Parish Library that had those red circles attached to the side of the book, which meant it was for adults because they had “bad words” and had references to s-e-x. Ah, the benefits of being able to drive ones self to the library. The car I drove to the library in was red and named Christine. Pet Cemetery is probably the only book I’ve ever read that actually affected my sleep patterns, and any time I see a grave yard with a little fence around it, I recall a particular scene from that book. Long hallways in hotels make me think about The Shining. Stephen King’s use of quotes from rock-n-roll songs and internal dialogue still influence me today as a writer, although now I realize that he took that internal dialogue thing from James Joyce.

Duma Key is not about the horror—not that there’s anything wrong with the horror, mind you; its part of why one reads Stephen King. It’s about a compelling story and making a connection with the characters. I mean, at the end, when Edgar Freemantle’s paint brush turned into a femur and clubbed him unconscious, and then he drowned in the pool of blood, well I almost cried, I was so attached to his character. Okay, I made that part up, and of course won’t give away the ending. But I would recommend the book to anyone who enjoys a good story.

Music I’m Listening to Now: Hayes Carll, Trouble In Mind on Rhapsody.com
What I’m Reading Now: Um… nothing. I just finished Stephen King’s, Duma Key. My 2008 reading list says that Catcher in the Rye is up next. I know, I was probably supposed to have read that book in high school, but I don’t think I did. As with so many things, I’m making up for lost time. Also, I just put Lisey’s Story on hold at the library.

Don't Pick Up Hitchhikers on the Way to the Picnic

It’s the fourth of July, which everyone knows is the day Willie Nelson honored for years with a picnic (maybe he still does—I don’t know—but stay with me). Everyone also knows that Robert Earl Keen attended the second Willie Nelson Fourth of July picnic with a date, and lost his car having the license plate of RHP997 in a fire that claimed his vehicle and 39 others. It is common knowledge that REK has an album called “Picnic”, but on “Picnic” he doesn’t tell the story about the picnic—he told the story about the picnic on another record called “No. 2 Live Diner”. That record contains a song called “Amarillo Highway”, which REK introduces by saying “This is a Terry Allen song.”

But what everyone doesn’t know is that my Brother-in-Law changed my life for the better when he gave me “Picnic” as a Christmas present several years ago. Of course, “Picnic” led to “No. 2 Live Diner”, which eventually led me to Terry Allen. And this song “Gimme a Ride to Heaven” always brings a smile to my face.

Years ago, back before I lived in Middle Tennessee, Brother-in-Law lived in Middle Tennessee. Wife and I, along with the Girl (this was before we had the Boy), would come up to Middle Tennessee to see Brother-in-Law and his family during the fourth of July holidays. Once, we attended some festivities held in the town square in Franklin, Tennessee. There were families and bands, and red-white-and-blue bunting, and I said to my wife “We could never live here. It’s too clean. They wouldn’t have us. In New Orleans, we are on the clean and respectable side of an often seedy town. In Franklin, we’d be the dirty seedy side of a clean and respectable town.”

But now, here we are, living in Middle Tennessee. (We don’t live in Franklin, so maybe I was right.)

Later today, the Brother-in-Law and his family will come over to our house and we’ll cook ribs, wings, beans, and potato salad. In the evening, we’ll churn up some home made ice cream, and then blow stuff up in the driveway. And I’ll serve an extra large serving of ribs and beans to my Brother-in-Law, in appreciation for that first REK CD.

Hopefully, our cars won’t wind up looking like those on the front of the “Picnic” album.




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Music I’m Listening to Now: Bob Dylan, No Direction Home: Bootleg Volume 7 on Rhapsody.com
What I’m Reading Now: Stephen King, Duma Key

Grayson Capps and The Real Green Monkey Story

I went to The Basement this past Monday night to see Grayson Capps play. There were several pleasant surprises in the evening. The first surprise was that that this was a show with the Stumpknockers. I haven’t seen a full band show before, but I watch a lot of YouTube, and recognized the lead guitar player standing out on The Basement’s porch before the show started. “Hey, Hey”, I thought, “I’m in luck tonight.” I didn’t realize how much luck.

The next bonus was that Grayson has a new album out in September, and he played most of the songs from that effort. Grayson said he wished the album could come out before then but “sometimes you forget about things like artwork.” After the show I told Grayson that Middle Tennessee had caused me to write some things I called poetry, but none of it touches the quality of what Grayson has written. I hope they get the artwork resolved soon.

But the prime lagniappe of the night was when Grayson began to tell this story about a boy named Earl Miller in Brewton, Alabama whose father brought him back a monkey from Brazil. As Grayson started telling the story, someone in the crowd who Grayson knew interrupted him and said “Grayson, I have someone here I want you to meet.” That someone was Earl Miller—the boy with the monkey.

Earl Miller got up on stage with Grayson, and after saying that he hadn’t seen Grayson since he was “this high” (imagine a hand held out much lower that Grayson rises to now) helped him tell the story. Grayson has been telling the story accurately, except that Earl Miller said the real event occurred in the late 50’s; no the early 60’s; well, maybe it was the late 50’s—so the next time you hear this story, Grayson will probably date it as “late 50’s early 60’s”.



Earl helped out a couple of other times, and then after the show, I eavesdropped as the two caught up. There were quite a few antecdotes that started off “Me and your daddy…”, and a couple of times Earl Miller said “Grayson, you and me are the only ones left” presumably in reference to the people lucky enough to have known and appreciated Bobby Long, but that may not be right.

It was one of those nights that I’m not usually fortunate enough to see in person.

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Music I’m Listening to Now: Reckless Kelly, Reckless Kelly Was Here on Rhapsody.com
What I’m Reading Now: Stephen King, Duma Key