A Conversation With Our Silent Partner

* The following exchange recently took place in a nondescript music store in a nondescript strip mall on a quiet stretch of road connecting Nowhere and Not Much Else.

Whapitty whap whap!

(went my hands on the bongo drums)

Whapitty whap WHAP!

"Whoa whoa whoa! Pardon me, but we have a strict policy concerning the handling of the instruments. An employee of CKG's Music Exchange must be present. Now, may I help you?"

"Figured I'd find you here," I replied. "We put the band back together, remember? Or did you forget already?'

"The band?"

"Yes, the band. You, me and Zed. The band. The people want the show. You know what the blog is like without you being a foil to me and Zed? It's like The Muppet Show without Statler and Waldorf. We need you man. We need you to remind us that we're wrong. That we're full of crap."

"You're wrong and you're full of crap. You are both unrefined and ill-mannered Philistines whose failure to engage in original thought is rivaled only by your failure to engage in regular deodorant use."

"See? See how easy that was?"

"Still riding around in that Ford P.O.S. with all those Rush cassettes?"

"Hey man, In the Mood never goes out of style."

"Care to poll anybody with a high school diploma on that one?"

"See? This is what I'm talking about. This is what's missing from the blog. You need to swing by, if only to leave snarky comments. It's a group blog, remember? It ain't supposed to be Waiting for Godot."

"Well, I'm refurbishing a tenor for David Murray and then I need to work on that piano that Cecil Taylor beat all to hell, but after that I'll try to stop by."

"Sounds good. I'll grab the beer and let Zed pick the wine. See you soon."

"Just one thing man. The bongos? Don't ever do that again. You break it - you bought it. And besides, don't forget what Duke said."

"I got it. I'm good. I'm gone."

The Gift that Keeps Giving.

I’ve been accused of being bull-headed, of having a fiery temperament worthy of a redhead, and a stubbornness born of an Ox. Meh, I’m an Aries. So a town that celebrates the bull? Sounds like my sort of place!

She didn’t want my help; she was scared.

As the old lady tripped and fell stepping up to the bus, I dashed forward to play the shining role of Prince Savior. Now the town of Rakvere, Estonia doesn’t see a lot of foreign tourists. But somehow I still felt the need to rush in, collect up the lady’s spilled groceries, and put out my hand to help her up.

She just looked at me as though I was born-on-the-other-side-of-the-planet, hostile, and threatening. Shrinking back, getting frailer as she cowered. From inside the bus I heard gasps of “ameeriklane”. Safely assisted from inside, the doors closed and the saga drove away. Me? I was left playing the fool, holding her recycled toilet paper, wondering what cultural insult I had made this time. I was just another dumb American tourist!

There’s something about travel that emboldens the mind and weakens the hesitancy of even the most reserved. It’s implicit in the notion of travel – of stepping out of the familiar, going places and seeing the unexpected, putting yourself at some small amount of social disorientation.

But, we needn’t impose those conditions on those we visit. It is their lives that we want to experience, not our own. It is their cities that hold the charm when ours have almost completely lost any. We don’t want to turn true gems of the world into yet another Tijuana, but everywhere we go we misbehave.

More than once I have wanted to cry out: why can’t we leave ourselves at home? Because there’s many a day when I sure wouldn’t want to invite me around and be forced to offer myself gracious hospitality. Thankfully, the world is full of people who think otherwise. And, other than a mis-step or two along the way, I love the travel that is full of open-hearted, generous and brave people.

Funny, but that’s always been the reputation of the fine people of Rakvere, Estonia! Bulls welcome, too!

Hell is Not a Destination ...

OK, so you could say it was getting a little chilly around these parts. Or you could say that it was a tad draughty in the ‘nads. Either way, I saddled up the reindeer and pointed his nose south. Way south. Further south than below the Mason-Dixon line. Beyond the punchlines of Dixie. I’m talking about the enveloping warmth and succulent moisture of plantation Florida. Yes, the winds of good fortune had blown me to Mr. Walt’s Playground. A sunnier, brighter world of smiling, happy people.

But, wait. Why the fuck do we travel? Is it just to move around? Sometimes I think its only to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Than here. To get out. To escape. To feel as though you can. Ah, to travel! To hurry up and wait! To line up to be groped! To be forced into take off the crap covered boots, the 10X hat, the big belt buckle, and even the gosh-darned wranglers. And why the fuck do they want to rifle my underwear, anyways?

Please, no more surly customer ‘service’ agents. And, no more gigantic wheeled luggage monsters, that threaten grievous bodily harm to any innocent ankles, shopping bags, or loose poodles that happen to be in their way. I lie awake on the cold, hard plains frightened of these things. Really, I do.

Perhaps Disney is right. Travel is where dream come true. Where we suspend belief in the mundane, as we encounter the unfamiliar. There is always that delicious, unsettling feeling that we don’t quite know what is going on. One must, therefore, resort to a firm belief in yourself. To construct a world (of magical possibilities?) where we are solidly at the center. All in the fervent belief that then people will pay attention to us and we can feel as though we are important. Powerful. And, indeed, there is a long imperial tradition of visiting somewhere, seeing something you like, and buying up a whole farmload of it. Land, gold, well-behaved housemaids. You name it, and we’re off to ‘discover’ it and have our cake, too.

So, go west young man. We live in wealthy times, in times of little significance. Travel is not the great equalizer, but the ultimate exercise in consumption. You can buy your own importance, on your terms. Its all about you, right here, right now.

Except when your flight is delayed. And suddenly you feel impotent all over again.

* Mickey says to say Hi to y’all and wants to know when you’se is gonna come visit!

Beware the Vile Red State Temptresses of the Blue State District

Well, it may have been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon, but it's been downright comatose around this blog. I was expectin' more whoopin' and hollerin' and shootin' guns in the air, and instead we end up turning this damn thing into "Iron John" online and then forget about it altogether.

Downright pathetic, tell you. In fact, it's just about enough to make a man look into the mirror and slap the shit out of his reflection.

So instead, let me tell you little cowpokes a little story. A story about how for the second consecutive weekend, your pal Bronco Billy got hit on by a Republican. I mean I'm sitting there at the bar and before I know it, this assertive blonde-haired woman with a security clearance the size of Nebraska who looks me straight in the eye when she talks to me is noticing that I need another drink and is doing something about it. She's talking to me about her condo, her enormous LCD TV, and John McCain. I feel my head to begin to spin, and before I know it, I'm having an out-of-body experience.

Must escape this evil... Must not allow this insidious political doctrine to regain foothold in my psyche...

Now we both need drinks, and Mama didn't raise no impolite cowboys, so I order us up a couple more. Now we're talking about terrorism, and the FBI, and when it's okay to "take out the bad guys." And I'm not really arguing with her that much.

Sweet mercy, what in the name of Howard Zinn is going on here?!?!?!

It's now well past the time I planned on heading out and our drinks are empty again. Decision time. And then I hear a voice in my head as clear as day. As clear as Luke heard Ben Kenobi. (I'm not sure, but based on the accent, I think it was the voice of Ted Kennedy.) And what the voice said to me was this:

"Run, Bronco Billy! Run!"

And so after exchanging some concluding pleasantries, I did just that. I hit the door of that saloon, got on my horse and didn't look back. The next day I relayed this story to an old friend of mine, and he says to me, "Well, that's two weeks in a row. I can't figure if these Republican women are looking for a guy or just looking for a reformation project. I guess it doesn't really matter though."

"Why doesn't it matter?" I asked him, not realizing I had walked right into his punchline.

"Because in the mind of a woman," he said, "Aren't they the same thing?"

Are We Not Men?

Being a guy being a guy, is a tough gig these days. If we're not being accused of insensitivity and we're not being accused of being sexist, then we're considered boorish and rude. Its almost as though the men of the world are being driven out of the mainstream, cleansing our society of its aggressive, competitive, patriarchal core. It's all enough to make you want to own up to your innermost thoughts and cares, to get in touch with the real you, and to open up and share all with five or six of your closest confidantes.

We don't do that, do we? Or, at least real men don't. We're not going to let some tender, caring, attractive intellect get inside our shell. We're men, dammit. Strong, independent, and proud.

OK, so if our manly traits and domineering characters are so distasteful and unattractive, why are we this way? Could it be that there is a purpose to all of our worst tendencies? Even the belching, farting, and general loutish aromas?

I've been thinking a bunch about how hard it is to escape who we really are. As I age (as I mature?), I find myself becoming more and more like my parents. And I am finding more and more of my mannerisms are just like what my mother and father would do. I am limited to a greater extent by my physical abilities, or increasing lack thereof. And I am regressing back to the simpler range of pleasures than I ever used to.

The constant search and reinvention of identity inevitably leads one back. To family, heritage, and 'your people'. Partly, it's nostalgia and a naive romantic hankering for an earlier, easier time. And, partly its surrounding yourself with people who understand you, recognize your cultural tics, and expect you to behave just like one of the tribe. But, it can all end up reinforcing your worst tendencies. You're forgiven much in the name of 'that's just how we are'.

I always thought I got my bluntness from my mother. She's a strong, independent, and private person, who's not afraid to offer her opinions. It is said she sees the world in black and white, a world in which she is most always right. Cutting to the bone, she offers insightful advice and down-to-earth perspectives that eschew niceties, hype, and pretense. She simply tells it how it is, whether you are ready to hear it or not. Pretty manly stuff, really. Virtuous character that I aspire to.

Then, at my Dad's memorial service, a long train of colleagues, friends, and foes all spoke of his directness, his tenacity, and his intellectual prowess. I guess, therefore, I'm screwed. Bluntness on both sides, a heritage of un-PC, independent gruffness. Pretty hard to live with, but I'm proud to be the man I was raised to be. Traditionalist or sensitive new-age guy, I dunno.

So, my question to my compadres is, what does it mean to be a man?



p.s. I really didn't mean this to be the topic of my first post. But, I know the Order of Murtaugh. And I've been reading the slightly cloying come-uppance of Mr. Master of the Universe in How Starbucks Saved My Life (Michael Gates Gill). I'll probably get slammed for the post, but I'm man enough to take it.

The Order of Murtaugh

The Order of Murtaugh is one of the world's oldest yet least known fraternities. Throughout the centuries it has recruited quietly and serendipitously, waiting for prospective members to, of their own accord and initiative, utter the secret phrase that affirms their worthiness.

Upon hearing the "Holy Utterance" spoken in their presence, current members of the Order of Murtaugh will stealthily approach the speaker to confirm that they meet the minimum age requirement and are of suitable demeanor. If they do, they are given a cryptic business card containing only a phone number.

A couple weeks ago, after completing a strenuous 45-minute run, I leaned hard against a telephone pole gasping for oxygen and said to no one in particular, "I'm getting too old for this shit."

I didn't know it at the time, but it was statement that would change my life.

A man out walking his dog quietly approached me, handed me a business card, and very matter-of-factly said, "You need to call this number." Intrigued, I did so.

I am pleased to report that having recently passed the Rites of Initiation, I too am now a proud member of the Order of Murtaugh, the order of "guys who are getting too old for this shit."

Now some of you may be thinking, "That's absurd. Murtaugh was character from the Lethal Weapon movie franchise." What you don't realize is that "coincidence" is in fact a secret Hollywood nod to our great and noble founder, the forgotten ancient Emperor Murtaugh who, while repelling an especially large barbarian invasion, was reported in the great oral histories to have said to his closest advisors, "I'm getting too old for this shit."

And thus, a legend was born. A legend that would repeat itself several times over history. Examples include George Washington while crossing the Delaware River, General Robert E. Lee at Chancellorsville, Winston Churchill during the Blitz, John Wayne during the filming of Cahill: US Marshall, and Lance Armstrong in the Alps during his final Tour de France. All great men, and all members of the Order of Murtaugh who, at the precipice of defeat muttered, "I'm getting too old for this shit," and succeeded anyway.

Because I am still new to this organization, there are many rituals I have not yet learned, but as best as I can tell, most rituals involve five steps:

1. Griping about something.
2. Taking a swig from your beer bottle.
3. Setting the beer bottle back on the table forcefully.
4. Waiting three seconds.
5. Saying the Holy Utterance.

Generally speaking, I've never been a big fan of societies or fraternities, but something tells me I'm going to like this one...