Wildfire Season

So I heard it was going to be 108 degrees in Nashville sometime this week.

!!!!!!

The above sentence is a swear-word. You pick which one. 

Glad I'm no longer living there. Yes, I'm a true desert-lover. This is where I belong, where wildfires ravage through the scrub from the merest evil glare or fiery glance. That seems to be the case, anyway. All it takes is a tiny spark and whoosh! The entire place has gone up in flames. I forgot that summers were considered wildfire season out here until this summer.

Smoke from the fire across the valley hovering ominously above my house. Was it the end of the world? Almost

There was a small fire across the street from my house last weekend. I don't know how it started. The houses are brand new there, and the fire department came out and extinguished it. Thankfully.

Our neighbor was like, "Yeah, no idea how it started. Just a little blaze in the mulch. Spontaneous combustion, I guess. The fire department couldn't tell us how it started."

Yeah right. I'm sure he was out there, hiding between the houses–which are these very narrow alleyways–sneaking a smoke, when his wife came out looking for him, "Honey! Honey!"

And he threw down the cigarette and ran inside.

That's what I was thinking, anyway. They're new in the neighborhood, so I don't know them. Maybe he doesn't have to sneak a smoke when he wants one.

Though he did blame the construction workers down the street as a possible source for the fire. "Could have been one of the construction workers, or landscapers, smoking, who knows?"

That's more believable than spontaneous combustion. Right?

Then a few days later, the entire mountain across the valley from us went up in flames. I tweeted about it, because Corbet and I drove over there to get an up-close view. So we took some pictures and put them up.

We weren't really in danger from that one, although, after the Colorado Springs fire, anything is possible. Also, there was a huge fire in central Utah that burned over 39,000 acres, so, I suppose the dump fire, as it was called, COULD have crossed the valley and reached the Thanksgiving Point area.

Watching the dump-fire from a relatively safe distance.

Despite the wildfires, nearly every day, I look outside and think, "Man, I love Utah."

But I'm sure everyone else hates it and if you can't tolerate a religious majority or the dry heat, you would hate it here too. That encompasses, what, ninety-nine percent of the world's population? So don't move here, unless you get a personal OK from me, and then you can come. That's how it works here.

Lemon sunsets. Every night, almost. When I lived in Nashville, I really missed those. Sunsets in the south were these sultry, hazy affairs that blurred against the trees or rolling hills. In Utah they're always colorful and sharp, defined in dark lines against the mountainous horizon.

The sunrises are probably the same, but I'm usually sleeping.

And the temperatures. What a dream! If it got to 108 here, it would be far more tolerable than a 108 in Nashville, where the humidity would push it up to a 120 or something murderous like that.

I've gotten sunburned and stuff living here again because I forget what it's like to spend time outside, because in Nashville, I never wanted to be outside in the summer. So I stayed in.

Another thing, no cicadas. None. Just the sweet symphony of the crickets and grasshoppers. Also, no human-sized insects to torment you.

Monstrous bugs are very common in the South.

So anyway, if I had to choose the west with all the wildfires or the south with the humidity and temperatures ranging +105 degrees (F), which would I pick?

Really, not a tough choice. 

Baby screaming at me. Must go....

Ten Things I Loved About Nashville. Eleven Things. Er. Twelve. Twelve Things.

Occasionally I will think, "Holy crapola. It's so sweet to be back in Utah." And then I smile indulgently and look at the snowy peaks to the east and the deep blue sky and do the success baby meme move, without the sand.

Really, I have no regrets about leaving Nashville. Sometimes I remember it fondly as a period of my life that I'll never get back. I think of how naive I was back then. How untried and untested. I laugh to remember. "Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha!" This is known as my Lydia moment. Lydia from Pride and Prejudice? Right? The Colin Firth version. Stupid, naive, egocentric Lydia . . . oh Lydia. 

Anyway. It's great being in Utah. Nashville was great. I loved it until it was time to move on. And now I'm here and I can look back and think, "That was an awesome time." There are things I will miss. Let me number them.

1. Fireflies. Probably the most amazing insect out there, fireflies never get boring. They don't. You can have seen ten thousand fireflies and still, that first one of the warm season and bam! You're transported to the woods where the sprites and nymphs dance in a magical circle to a tune supplied by a lute playing satyr. Something like that. Or, you know, you just feel like a kid again when you see them. I love you fireflies.

2. Cardinals. A perfect burst of color. Gorgeous. Lovable. Cuddly cardinals. No, kidding. If ONLY birds were cuddly, that would be phenomenal. Like a cat with wings. Who doesn't want to hug a bird? That's MY question. So anyway, I don't know every bird of the continental United States, but the cardinal is one of those that just kind of surprises you. Their plumage is this brilliant shade of red, and so often you see it against a backdrop of green and it's surprising, fresh, and beautiful. I'm sure it feels exactly like spotting a toucan in the jungle. Exactly.

3. Billions of trees. I did love the forests and trees of the south. But I don't think you can have that sheer number without the humidity. Maybe I'm wrong? I don't know. I didn't deal with humidity well, so if that's the case—no trees without the humid climate—then I'll go for fewer trees. I appreciated the green. But you know what? It didn't last. The middle of summer and lots of stuff died and turned brown, just like Utah, but you got the drab brown AND the humidity. Unfair. Anyway. So, loved the forests.

4. La Hacienda Taqueria. So, apparently my friend Emily's FAVORITE Mexican restaurant in Salt Lake just got busted for smuggling drugs on the side. They were THAT authentic. And my favorite Mexican restaurant is in Nashville, and I'm wondering if that "tortilla factory" in the back is really, well, you know? Because it's THAT authentic. Truly amazing. It's on Nolensville Pike by Thompson Lane. So if you're visiting Nashville and you think, "Hey, I'll sample the local fare," of course the logical choice is La Hacienda, or La Hac (with an S sound) as Stoker and I called it. It's A-MAZ-ING. Really. Stoker loved the molcajete and I loved the bistec ranchero or bistec la Mexicana. But EVERYTHING on the menu is superb. If you go, say hello to Maria, Chava (his nickname), and Gloria from me. I miss them. Really. They were like family.

5. Tornado warnings/watches. Kidding. I don't miss them. They happened too often and I sincerely had lots of nightmares about tornadoes. And we had some pretty bad storms and floods while living in Nashville. I keep thinking that it would be ironic to have sort of escaped the south without a bad tornado only to have one here. We live in a very windy area of the Salt Lake Valley (I can see a huge windmill by Camp Williams from my window) and I curse the wind. All my life I looked at that windmill on the way to grandma's, but it never hit me the way it has living here, that the windmill is there because this part of the valley is a veritable wind tunnel. Yeah, and there's that huge paragliding/hang-gliding cliff right over there. Duh. Stupid wind.

6. Being "in the South." It was kind of cool. The culture there is different from that of Utah and I enjoyed the experience of the region. I could go into it more, but I won't. Maybe another time. Suffice it to say, it was cool.

7. I never really mentioned this, I think, but I worked for the Methodists while living there and that was also great. Religions and their history are super interesting to me, so that was a very cool thing to work for one of the major American religions and learn about it. I don't miss MISS it, it was just cool and good for the time I was there.

8. I sorta miss a few people. But it's good to move on too. I hope I can keep in touch with some of them, though I have no serious expectations. Well, I mean, there's always Facebook and Google+, right?

9. Vanderbilt. Corbet was born at the hospital there, through a midwife group, and they were great. If I have another kid, it would have been cool to go there again.

10. Owl Hollow. Charlie's shooting range. I don't miss it as much as Stoker, but I figured I'd include it on his behalf because he keeps mentioning how much he misses it. It was truly a fantastic place to go waste some .22 ammo. And sometimes I'd see cardinals in the trees.

That's it. I suppose I could come up with more, but ten is such a nice number. No, I don't miss the music industry even though I had a LOT of celebrity sightings there. And right as we were leaving Nashville, Colin Firth was coming to town to do a film there called Stoker's something or other. Yeah, it sucked that I missed that. I'm sure I could have gotten him to sign my copy of Pride and Prejudice or something. Right? Ha.

I just thought of another.

11. The really old plantation style houses and all the moss-covered low, stone walls. They were beautiful. There are a number of roads that take you through some extremely gorgeous, wealthy, and old areas. The road that takes you out to Loveless Cafe, to name one without actually naming it.

12. Oh yeah, and the Meetup group. There was this quirky, lovely Nashville Writer's Meetup group. I adored it. I met a load of fascinating people who I hope to never forget.

The End. For reals this time.

Families, Lies, and Cicadas...What?

I feel as though I've stumbled on a a kernel of wisdom and that it's my duty to share it. It's not much, really, only that the great lie I bought into earlier in my life is really just that: a lie.

I guess there might be caveats, and I'll get to them in a minute, but the lie is this: your job is to grow up, get your degree (or your professional training or whatever it is), and move away from home, to strike out on your own and become rich or successful....far away from mom and dad.

For some people maybe this formula works. I guess, if you have a family you can hardly stand or you really think your career is you, that YOU, are not made up of a long line of ancestors who sacrificed their all to bring you into the world (I don't know, maybe they sucked or something), and you really don't NEED familial support. Maybe it works. Maybe the thing I'm calling a lie or a fallacy is your truth.

But I tend to think that universally, humans require each other. And the each other we have been designed into, is a family unit. So we're lucky in that sense—that automatically if all goes well, we're born into a network that's interested in our survival and willing to make sacrifices on our behalf. We grow up and are bonded to them not just through blood, but through the recognition that no one else on this earth cares more about us than our family.

Of course, I do speak of the best case scenario. There are people who truly do have families that struggle, that can't get it right, that are not enlightened enough to recognize the value of these things. Hopefully that will change, for them.

Mainly I'm talking about myself, anyway, because I'm tired of living far away from my family. It was fun at first and I learned a lot about myself and it made my relationship with Stoker really strong. I wouldn't trade that for anything.

But we've been gone for a while now, and our siblings have had kids and their kids are growing up fast and reaching milestones in their lives and the rest of our family will gather for things and be together and make the next generation of our family feel loved and supported—which is so important, I believe—and I'm not there.

Yes, when I was growing up, my siblings bugged the crap out of me. We fought and got irritated with each other, but sometimes we got along. That was pretty rare, I'm sure. The only thing I wanted was to get out on my own and not feel them breathing down my neck, telling me what to do (somehow, in my family, I fell into the role of being the One Who Needed to Be Bossed Around the Most...seriously. I got no respect, and I'm not even the youngest!).

But now that we're adults, they're the people I love the most out of everyone in the world, and I admire them the most and best of all, and even with how stupid and annoying I am (from time to time, on rare occasions), they still love me and want to be around me.

Problem is, now we all live in different states and I live the furthest away.

BUT, maybe I'd never appreciate my family as much as I do without having been (essentially) living in exile out here in this jungle. Right now I can hear the 13-year cicadas (Magicicada, Brood XIX) going crazy in the trees through the closed windows and WITH the air conditioner running, and I'm dying to be back in the arid desert of Utah. Yes, yes, it was voluntary that I came here and so it's unfair of me to call it exile. However, I've been trying to get back out there for years now (one way or another).

Also, I have to say that I appreciate the climate of Utah much better now than I ever did before. I found out, living here, that I have the desert and mountains in me and I'm out of place in a humid subtropical region.

I'll feel out of place until I can be back out there permanently, where my internal geography matches up with my surroundings. Some people move away and love it better than what they left behind. Others of us move away and feel homesick.

In any case. The big lie is that family holds you back. That every kid should grow up and strike out on their own, far away from home. The only thing that does is make you feel disconnected. What connects us to the human family is the family we're given at birth. If you have a crappy family, of course, that sucks, but you can build your own. That's the beauty of it—we're all given the power to create. Individuals with unhappy, dysfunctional families can build their own. Hopefully one that's not unhappy and dysfunctional.....

Family remembers who you are. And is it really necessary to leave that behind to succeed in the world? If so, I don't like that kind of success.

And so, without further ado, here are some pictures of the cicadas outside making an electrical mating sound almost as loud as a jet engine. I kid you not. And if the pictures aren't very good, take it up with my Motorola Droid :). It's his fault.

Empty exoskeletons on the underside of leaves. These are on the crepe myrtle in my yard.

The discarded exoskeletons surrounding the same crepe myrtle. 

Close-up of one of the exoskeletons.

An adult cicada of the Magicicada genus.

My neighbor just started mowing his lawn. Guess who's louder? That's right. Cicadas: 1, Mower: 0.

In case you're wondering, I'm pretty sure there are NO cicadas in Utah. Hmmmm. Welp. Maybe there are and I simply never noticed them before.

Where Do I Go to Sign the "Burn the Fairgrounds" Petition?

South Nashville must be full of idiots. Except me, of course. And Stoker.

There's a lot to love in the area. I'm not kidding, though it may be difficult from time to time to see, because, well, there are A LOT of used tire shops in the area. Some of them in former banks, which is very architecturally incongruent when you can see the tires piled to the ceiling beyond the beautiful glass store front and the columns lining the sidewalk. But hey. You can't lose with architectural columns.

As well, there's no shortage of used car lots ("BUY HERE, PAY HERE!!!!!" "WORLD'S FIRST DRIVE THRU USED CAR LOT!!!!"). And there are plenty of title loan stores and instant cash places. And pawn shops. Plenty.

Beyond these questionable aspects are the cool things. Like the FIRST EVER Krispy Kreme donut shop. Some might want to firebomb the place for having turned donut-making into a Henry Ford assembly line, thus ruining the art of the donut. Not me. Of course...others.

But since we're on the subject, I prefer REAL donuts, like those you can get at The Donut Den in the Green Hills area of Nashville (aka, the RICH AREA). Once in a while a Krispy Kreme donut is OK. Like when they're right off the assembly line. They have that new car smell.

Anyway, there's also La Hacienda, which serves the BEST Mexican food in Nashville. I'm not lying. There's a tortilla factory out back too. I've written about this stuff before, I think, so I'll spare you.

In any case, there's a lot to love. And lots of people are saying (or were saying, anyway) that this area was gentrifying. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But I'll tell you one thing that's really not helping.

The idiots who want to "save our fairgrounds."

WHAT???

Let me get this straight. These people would choose to KEEP a pile of crap Pinto rather than trade it in for a Mercedes? Essentially that's what they're saying.

You know what MIGHT happen if we got rid of those stupid fairgrounds? That piece o' shee (to quote my sister) tire recapping shop, whose lot looks like a biohazard (I swear sometimes I think, "I'm seriously going to call OSHA." I don't even know if OSHA cares about stuff like that, but this Dumpster looks like a nuclear waste site at the end of the day, every day), might actually GET LOST because it sucks so bad, and without the lame race track at the fairgrounds, I'm pretty sure the dude who runs the shop will want to move it closer to...um...where-ever they need a tire recapping shop.

And if we got rid of the nasty fairgrounds, perhaps then some PRODUCTIVE businesses might decide to move in. And maybe property values would increase. Yeah, I know that would increase property taxes, but at least south Nashville wouldn't look like Germany after WWII, for once.

Honestly, I don't know what it is about the fairgrounds that this part of the city would resist the change. It would be an upgrade.

Is the flea-market seriously THAT important to the economy of South Nashville? Is it? Because, you know, the flea-market wouldn't have to die should the fairgrounds disappear. If the flea-market is so necessary and important and beloved, it will survive. It might have to move, but it would survive.

Same with the teeny-bopper races or derby or whatever it is that sounds like a swarm of bees during summer nights.

And, Tennessee, I hate to tell you, but the state fair is kind of crappy. One would think that a state with such a long history (in terms of U.S. history) and so much agriculture would have one of the largest, most kick-butt state fairs in the Union. It should be as wicked-awesome as a musical, like State Fair (that musical has an awesome state fair in it, doesn't it? I've never actually seen it. But with a name like State Fair.....), with people driving all the way from Knoxville just to get a look at the best pig in show. And all that. You would think!

But no. I went to the state fair last year and it was the most dismal affair ever. It was weak. If it was going to wrestle (Greco-Roman style), it would be in the lightest weight class. Like 110, if that. I know. That's like junior high weight. That's how pitiful the Tennessee State Fair is compared to other state fairs.

What fairs am I comparing it to? Well.

I'm from Utah, as you've probably noticed. When I have gone to the state fair in Utah, there was so much to see and do that I couldn't get to all of it in one night. The Tennessee State Fair? Yeah, it took me a half-hour, if that, to see what there was to offer.

Unfortunately, this map doesn't show topographical changes. If it did, you'd just stay home. It does, however, show how small the event is. The gray stuff is parking.

Plus, it's on a dang hill. Several rolling hills, really. So you walk up a huge hill to the two ticket booths (that's all they need--two ticket booths), pay, and walk up more hill, to the six rides. Then you walk past those to the tiny building where canned things are and the displays about honey and whatnot. There's also a little building for the kitschy, fun things, but there are only like five booths there. Beyond that is a children's play-house size building for the farm animal things. Next door to that there are three rides for the kiddies.

I exaggerate. But only by a fraction. It feels more like a tiny county fair. It really is the smallest state fair in the world. I bet Rhode Island has a bigger state fair.

So, you might be thinking, well heck, what about the gun shows? Yeah, what about them? I've gone to the gun show at the fairground twice and both times it was crap. The actual gun show could be hosted in a banquet hall. I'm sure there's a better venue for the gun show. And, if it's so economically fantastic for gun shop owners, it won't die. It will just move. That's how these things work.

Saving a tired, worn out, ugly site for the mere sake of saving it stunts changes that could be much better for the city and its residents economically. Especially when you consider what a large swath of land the fairground consume just by its mere existence. And for the larger part of the year, that land sits there empty, looking like an eye-sore.

I don't really understand why many of the residents around the fairgrounds are so eager to "save" it. I can only guess. And my guess is that they lack vision.

I wish I could go talk to Karl Dean and tell him, "Don't give up, man. Rip those hideous fairgrounds out and put in a park, a shopping center, ANYTHING. Anything would be better."

Maybe if they can move the state fair to a better location (read, not on a couple of mucky hills), the fair can improve. And compete with the awesome Utah State Fair*.

And finally, to demonstrate the stunted thinking of people around Nashville, I refer you to this site that features this quote:

How do I feel personally about the closing of the Tennessee State Fairgrounds? Well, if you don't already know by now, I think it stinks. This wonderful ole place, one that has given Nashvillians so many great memories, family fun, and plenty of racing history is about to be wiped away in the name of progress. To me, progress would be to improve on the existing property in a way that would also preserve its historical value as well as incorporate and blend with the local neighborhood.

I would wager that Jan Duke doesn't live in south Nashville, near the fairgrounds. Though I might be surprised, since there are plenty of backward thinking fools in the neighborhood sporting "save our fairgrounds" signs. Anyway, it's nice of Jan to give us her opinion. Maybe she can come live next to the fairgrounds, if she doesn't already, so she can reap all the blessings of the important racing history, with all its joyful sounds.




p.s. The "local neighborhood" has largely been stunted by the presence of the fairgrounds. So, in addition to the few homes in the area, there's the Coke bottling plant, several industrial type complexes, dismal and run-down looking liquor stores, a plot of land that seems to store rail-cars, and a mobile home park (that was wiped out during the flooding last year). So, yeah, let's BLEND the fairgrounds with the neighborhood. Real great idea, Jan.




*Lest you think I'm simply full of home-state pride, my friend from Kentucky said the Kentucky State Fair is also a million times better than the TN State Fair.

Eddy Arnold: "Cattle Call"

Sometimes at work I feel a little crazy and neurotic and I can't stand to hear the noises my coworkers make. The constant wheezing sound of the perpetual nose-blower (she "requires" an air filter, apparently being highly allergic to normal air, and seems to fixate on her nose, even though from all indications, there's never anything in it. The sound, you see. It's not a "productive" sound. Like a productive cough, as you're getting over a cold or what have you—yes, I hate it that I've formed opinions about my neighbor's health and her vital signs. It's weird. But that's what happens when someone's blowing their nose all day), and the clickety-clacks of the mad-typer who's always composing lengthy emails to other coworkers comprised of poignant and clever observations, and the constant hacking cough of the smoker (sometimes I'll begin a sweet doze and the smoker will hack and cough out of nowhere, with no warning whatsoever, startling me from my peaceful lucid dreams. It's frustrating, and then I think of Pride and Prejudice when Mrs. Bennet gets mad at Kitty for not timing her coughs well and how the coughs wear on Mrs. Bennet's nerves. My nerves too!).

And today is one of those days. I was suddenly feeling very claustrophobic, and HOT (I think my company believes we'll freeze to death if they don't run the heat at 90 degrees). I can't stand it. So I was melting at my desk and feeling like if I had to listen to the clickety-clack of my neighbor I would explode (or gurgle to death in a pile of ooze, because it's so hot, you see), and that's when I remembered last night.

Last night Stoker was researching the history of the Nashville music scene and he played this one song by a musician everyone but me has probably always known about: Eddy Arnold.

Holy moley. It devastates me in a good way to find out there's always been some awesome musician or singer around being great and I've never known about them. That's the benefit of arriving to the scene late. Like being born in the late 70s and only reaching full maturation (really) the day I hear the artist (because it's like I've never arrived until the day I hear that music). Basically I have everything pre-80s to look forward to discovering over the course of my life.

Last night Stoker played "Cattle Call" and I couldn't believe it. Some people might hear it and scoff. Others probably love it and have a long tradition of hearing it—beautiful traditions of going out to the farm with dad or grandpa and having them sing "Cattle Call" or being forced to listen to it on the 8-track. But I haven't got those experiences.

I have others. But not the "Cattle Call" ones.

How can a guy sing that well? That's my main question. It's absolutely insane to me to hear the recording and know that when he recorded it (he recorded three different versions over a period of about fourteen years....or something. Stoker can tell you. Don't quote me), they didn't have auto-tune. I listened to two versions last night and both were amazing. I guess you'd say it's yodeling, but yodeling has always been awful to listen to, for me. And it's always been like, "Yo-del-eh-eh-hoooooo," which is just about terrible to endure. And I don't think that's exactly what Arnold is saying in the song. He's saying, "Ooooh doooo doooo dooo oooooh oh delo, oh doooo dooo, dwip, deee ooooh, ohhh delop, dooo dee dee." That's an actual transcription. I just sat here and transcribed it, vowel for vowel.

And each . . . cattle call . . . is clear and perfect. It's like clear mountain streams. Unblemished blankets of snow. Something like that. John Denver would be able to describe it better than I can, because it's like "Rocky Mountain High," or "Annie's Song," only it's a guy with a flawless voice and it was recorded in the 50s or something. Take that all you modern singers....

Anyway, so I remembered that I didn't have to listen to my coworkers and all their standard noises because I had this Eddy Arnold album to listen to. I got it last night. After I was slain by "Cattle Call." Thank goodness.

Mel Tillis

I go to the same place for lunch every day to write and work on stuff related to my writing. Sometimes I make friends with people or they make friends with me, either way. Because the same people are there every day.

So when someone new makes an appearance, I tend to notice.

This is Nashville, so occasionally I'll see "celebrities." And throw myself at them, begging, pleading for an autograph and a picture.

No, really, I don't do that. I pretend to be cool. Because that's what normal people do. Though I often wonder if the celebrities wish more people would act impressed with them. Because...well, that's why they became rock stars, movie stars, etc. Right?

Like I saw Ben Folds there. He glared at me because I did a double-take (I think that's why) and then I got out my phone and tweeted about how he was there (but, I can't for the life of my think why he'd glare at me...Keith Urban did the same thing when I saw him at Border's and tweeted about his Bentley being parked by my truck as I was leaving—we'd stood in line together). With a really young, skanky girl sitting on his lap. Hanging all over him. It was weird. So he glared at me. Yeah.

The Lo-Cash Cowboys are always there (at first I spelled it Cowbows. That's funny. Cowbows. They should change their name), looking ridiculously done up in carefully torn jeans and lots of bandanas all over them. And often they have skanky girls with them. And I don't really know who they are, I only found out because they're there all the time, planning their next media, country-star attack and what have you. I suppose they're nice enough, but I can hardly approve of men with veritable ladies-of-the-evening on their arms.

And I guess Ryan Adams and Jack White frequent the place, but I've never seen them. There are always dudes and women there who look like they're "someone" but I can't place them, and probably some of them are just wannabes. The girl from that band, what's their name, Lady Antebellum was there talking about her awards show she was attending that night and the cashier didn't recognize her. It happens. It's a little sad. Not that Lady Antebellum are wannabes. That one song is awesome. Whatever it's called. It's good. Seriously.

But so far, the best has been Mel Tillis.

If you don't know who Mel Tillis is, well, he's sort of legendary and you should know who he is. He's like up there with Waylon, Conway, and Kenny Rogers. Those cats. You know? Apparently he stutters, but when he was talking to me, I didn't notice. And his daughter is Pam Tillis, and some people might know who she is because she had that great song "Maybe It Was Memphis."

Mel struck up this conversation with me and I didn't recognize him. I was sitting there, typing away happily, pretending my writing matters and will someday make a difference, and this person was hovering at my elbow sort of, and I looked up at him and it was this lovely old man.

"Sorry. I'm waiting for my man over there. He's getting us some drinks." He smiled and indicated this schmoozy looking guy in the line. All decked out in business casual attire like you'd buy at J Crew.

I smiled and nodded at the old man, thinking he looked familiar but I couldn't place him. So I went back to writing.

Then he asked me, "Are you writing a book?"

"Yeah," I said bashfully, because isn't everyone writing a book? It seems like it to me.

"You've been typing away for a while. Real fast."

"Yeah, haha." I said.

"I'm writing a book."

"Oh cool, nice."

"Sort of. What's yours about?"

"Um. It's science fiction sort of."

His man came over with some drinks, then some other guy entered the establishment carrying a Mac laptop, waved at them, and approached the group. So now there's like three men hovering around me. And it's crowded. I pack up, not because they're in my way; it was time to go.

"Is this your writing team?" I ask, because he's staring at me expectantly and both of his men had Macs and he had nothing to write with.

"Oh no, no, this is my publicist and this other guy is from the Tennessean. He's here to interview me." (The Tennessean = Nashville newspaper.)

The publicist says something about not being a writer and I laugh and say, "Isn't everyone writing a book, though. Get on board, you know." I grin sweetly. I can be sweet.

The newspaper reporter mutters something grouchy about how he hasn't time for books, he's too busy writing real journalism to pay the bills (I embellish).

The old gentleman asks me what my book is about and tells me he'll read it when it's done. I say how it's for young adults and he doesn't seem to know what that means, but then he tells me some confusing things about his book, it's about a sheriff in Palm Beach (or somewhere) and "just about a bunch of shit" and stuff. I laugh and say well doesn't everyone want to read a bunch of shit? He laughs and then introduces himself and shakes my hand, I guess because I haven't figured out who he is yet.

And I have, sort of. I figured he was someone I should know (he was being interviewed, he has a publicist, he's wearing cowboy boots, and a great button-down I might add), but I didn't want to ask and embarrass both of us if he wasn't who I thought it was.

I tell him I saw him perform at the Opry. I was backstage when Porter Waggoner did his last performance—the one when Dolly sang "I Will Always Love You" (which, by the way, was heart-wrenching and brought the house down . . . if you know the whole story about that song and Porter). And I remembered Mel because he looked absolutely stunning in a dark brown polyester suit with a harvest-gold button-down dress shirt.

I didn't tell him that whole paragraph. But I wanted him to know I knew who he was. I'm not some naive young person (well, not completely naive anyway) who doesn't have a grasp on the legendary country singers. And it was just a few days prior to that that I was thinking I needed to get some Mel Tillis tracks because I've been sort of starved for new, old, good country.  If only! I could have said, "Oh, man I love such and such. Great song."

Old country music is where it's at. And Mel Tillis. Classy. He was fantastic. I left feeling like a pure moron for not knowing who he was and reducing him to having to tell me. Celebrities don't like that, do they? I mean, it's humbling, right? Our job is to know who they are so they feel worthwhile. :) Right? I slacked on my duties.

I wish I had told him my name because, dang! You know? He offered to read my book. I really hope his book is a hit. He wrote a billion good songs. He's obviously got something going on there.

A One Hat Woman

Dear San Diego Hat Company,

A couple of years ago my husband gave me a hat made by you. He got it from Pangaea here in Nashville. It was gray and soft with a short bill and some very faint stripes on it. I think it might have been a wool blend. It was the best hat ever. I wore it all the time. If I find something I like, I stick with it for eternity. Take the belt I'm wearing, for example. I got it eight or nine years ago, I think, and I wear it with everything. It's black with red stars on it. It goes with everything. It does. I swear.

My gray hat went with everything. I've never seen one like it anywhere. I got innumerable compliments on it, too. It went with me. It was me.

And I seem to have lost it. I wore it the last time I went to get my hair cut a few days ago, and I must have dropped it while walking through the parking lot. My heart is broken. I don't see one in your catalog, but it was kind of a tiny bit like CTH1756. I am hoping you have one laying around a warehouse or a closet or something and that you'll contact me when someone gets a second to tell me whether or not you've got one.

I will pay infinite dollars for it because that's how much I love that hat, and if you ask for it, I'll try to scrounge it up, because I'll be honest with you, I'm just a low-paid editor at a publishing company. But that's how attached I am to that hat. I have no other hats. I'm a one-hat woman. If you don't have that particular hat, I know I'll end up searching for the rest of my life for a replacement, and I know, deep down, that I'll never find a substitute and will forever be unsatisfied in the head-gear department. There will be a hole in my heart in the shape of that soft, gray hat.

When I lose something I love, I never stop looking for it, I never cease to miss it, like my Birkenstock sandal that went down the creek when I was 17. It was the right foot. Have I replaced my Birkenstocks? Nope.

In summary, I will forever be loyal to this hat and to you, San Diego Hat Company. Thanks for making/designing good hats. I apologize for not knowing the style number for the hat I'm talking about. I have some pictures of me wearing the hat if you need to see them to know which one I'm looking for.

Thanks,

Nicole Grotepas

Titans Game

I went to a Titan's game last night. With Stoker, of course. 

The verdict? Interesting and fun, but I won't be feeling pressure in the future to attend another.

At first it was surreal to see the field all lit up and the players running around like little blue clowns and I thought, "Ahhh, this is magical! I can't believe I'm really here!!!!! What a night! What a night! Perfect night for a game!"

But after a while, I realized I kept missing important plays because I was distracted by the nighthawks flying around in the stadium catching moths. Or I was noticing how dumb the cheerleaders look in their ridiculous thigh-high white boots (and how unskillful their dancing REALLY is. Seriously, they're basically strippers except that they never actually undress entirely in public. But close enough), or I was looking at the line for the Logan's Roadhouse stand. And when you're at the game, there's no announcer narrating the action for you. Those guys are extremely necessary. 

When you watch a game on TV they say things like, "Collins to Johnson, ooohhhhhhh a ten yard gain," or "INTERCEPTION!!!!!!" and so you know when to keep your eyes glued to the TV. While I was at the game in person, turnovers were happening faster than the wink of an eye. It would be first down for the Titans, I'd look away to eat a nacho, look back at the field and the offensive guys would be running off the field as the defense took up their positions.

It was INSANE. 

And there wouldn't have been any crowd indicators that a crazy play had happened, so I had no reason to feel I'd missed something (except that another turnover had happened). Mind you. 

Because that is, apparently, the only cue that something earth-shattering has taken place at a live game. The crowd going wild. And they go wild. Believe me. It's actually surprising that they even know what's going on. As far as I could tell, most people around me were busy eating, drinking, and gabbing with their neighbors. I have no idea how they did all three while still being able to interpret what was happening on the field, but somehow they did. Every time something exciting happened, BOOM! Food everywhere.

Probably the best part of the experience was the mass migration across the Shelby street footbridge. It was a tide of blue. And really, it felt strange to be on a bridge of that size with that many people also on it, spanning a rather large river. People were everywhere! Selling tickets, selling water, selling ice cream, selling their bodies. No kidding. There were some really unsavory characters around. 

Still. I found all of it extremely entertaining.

Oh, and the South loves football. I'm telling you. During half-time, these little kids came out on the field all done up in serious football gear, helmets four times the size of their actual bodies, and did some scrimmaging. For entertainment. Each team had three chances to score, I guess. The kid sitting behind me really got into it. "Get 'em, boys!" he'd yell. And then when one of the teams scored, THE CROWD WENT WILD.

Over third graders playing football. 

That's an addiction.

I didn't even know anyone was paying attention.   

The clowns line up for a kick off. I love these clowns, I really do.

Stoker figures out that watching the game from home is WAAAAAAAY better. For us.

Me and my nose watching the game. 

Utah in Summer and Nashville Humidity

Returning to Nashville was rough. We went from nighttime temperatures of 47 degrees with low humidity to a hellish 99 with eighty percent humidity. The first thing I did when I stepped off the plane was fall to my knees and scream, "Noooooooo!" like Calculon when he ad-libs for his role in "All My Circuits."  

I have been saying for years and years that I hate humidity. Can I just add one more? I. Hate. Humidity. 

Seriously, and I don't mean to be a complete jerk, but why would anyone settle here? I mean the early settlers of French Lick, which is what Nashville was once called. French Lick. I know. What? 

It's true. A long time ago, before Fort Nashborough, the area was known as French Lick by fur trappers. Before that, a mysterious race of native Americans built some mounds and then mysteriously disappeared. 

I'd like to mysteriously disappear, from Nashville. And magically reappear in Richmond, Utah, aka Cache Valley. Also, if I'm going to have that wish come true, I would add some chickens, a couple sheep, maybe a dairy cow, some ducks (runner ducks), and a decent house when I do my reappearing. 

Greedy, greedy. That's why my wishes are never granted. Ha.  

Anyway, Nashville looks especially bad because I was just in Utah where the summers are perfect and not hot and humid. When I was growing up and complained of the heat, people who had experience with humid summers would kindly inform me that I didn't know a whit of what heat felt like. I thought they were rude and insufferable.

But now I'm one of those insufferable jerks who, while in Utah where the dry heat feels like breezes off a glacier, informs ignorant family members that they have no idea what hot feels like. 

Anji (my sister, who smugly lives in Utah): "Boy it's hot today."

Me (laughing derisively): "Ha! Anji, THIS is not HOT. You have NO IDEA what HOT feels like until you've spent the day languishing in a pool of your own sweat unable to lift a finger to fan yourself."

Stoker (who is always relatively diplomatic): "It's true. This isn't hot, Anji. This is like heaven. I feel like I could fly away on a wispy gust it's so dry and perfect and cool."

Anji: "Well I don't live in Nashville. I don't know any other hot and this is hot to me. So there. It's hot. Leave me alone."

Poor Anji. I'm still such a jerk to her*. But she beatifically puts up with me. Even when I attack her opinion on perfect Utah days being hot when they're clearly not hot. :) 

I cringe to realize I've become a stereotype that's always annoyed me. Such as the humid-climate person versus the desert-climate person, and believe me, while living in the desert, you hear it from the jerks who think they know what hot really is.

Also, I caught myself pulling another humid-climate-person stereotype while in Utah.

My friend Shannon scored recently when she landed a fantastic house on a geologic feature in Cache Valley called The Island. For hardly anything. Yes, she pays very little for the perfect house located on the Island, but not only that, it has a creek running through the backyard.

See that? The CREEK is the obnoxious part of that paragraph. When you live in a place like Nashville where a river is huge and can provide real estate for river boats and barges, you go west and call western rivers creeks, much to the chagrin of the people living there.

The house is on the Logan River and I had the audacity to call it a creek.  Shannon turned to me and said, "Nik, it's the Logan River."  Ha ha, I said. I'm sorry. I forgot. Yes, the river. River. 

I think Shannon forgave me, but do I forgive myself? I'm not sure. I never wanted to become this monster who doesn't understand the desert climate that is her home. I need to be rehabilitated. Help me. 

*As children, Anji always wanted my attention and me, the ogre older sister, ignored her, or, when not ignoring her, made her drink horrific concoctions of Worcestershire sauce, A1 sauce, mustard, and any other sauces found in the sauce section of the refrigerator. I know. I was terrible.  [Anji, if you're reading this, I love you. Forgive me for being a bull in a china shop around you! :)]

___________________________

Related posts:

I Really AM Thrilled About the House in Nashville

A Live Update From Nashville, TN

The South Is Killing Me

Pretty Crappy.

I should be working on a short story right now, but I'm feeling pretty crappy.

Lately Stoker has been teasing me about the phrase, "I feel pretty crappy." I guess I've been saying it a lot the past few days. Why not? I DO. I FEEL PRETTY CRAPPY.

For all intents and purposes, the weather here is akin to a bear the size of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man with paws as large as thirteen cows, and I might as well be the fish between the bear's paws. I'm not sure if those measurements are proportionate--the point is, the weather tosses me back and forth between its meaty paws with no apparent concern for how I FEEL about it.

I feel pretty crappy about it.

It's not just the flooding and the wind storms we just had, which were really unfortunate. In general, the environment is toxic to me. Do you realize I didn't have ANY gray hair before I moved to Tennessee? No wrinkles either.

Now, you're probably thinking something like, "Well, be serious. You were also four years younger when you moved to Nashville. Wrinkles and gray hair CAN appear in that amount of time."

And I'll give you that. Wrinkles and gray hair are quite stealthy when it comes to choosing their victims.

However, my teeth ALSO started falling out once I got to Nashville. Coincidence? Hardly!

The problem is the humid sub-tropical climate. That's right. SUB-TROPICAL. I'm from the desert. I was miserable there due to allergies. At least--I fancied that the desert made me miserable. From my current perspective, in the arms of this bastardly bear, the desert looks like heaven.

From Wikipedia, the final authority on all knowledge:

Nashville's long springs and autumns combined with a diverse array of trees and grasses can often make it uncomfortable for allergy sufferers.^[14] In 2008, Nashville was ranked as the 18th-worst spring allergy city in the U.S. by the Asthma and Allergy Foundation of America.^[15]

Translated, this quote explains that Nashville is the 10th circle of hell. Apparently it is a place reserved for those who sinned against mother nature in some way, however innocent or ignorant the sin(s) may have been.

I also enjoy the mild phrase "make it uncomfortable." Mild. Ha ha.

During late summer, autumn, and winter, I forget how the spring attacks me with its clumsy paws and batters me around like a shuttlecock. I think, "Hey, it's not so bad here. Though I pine for the great basin desert and its thin atmosphere, majestic highlands, and icy, clear streams and wildflower meadows, I could also just stay here. I've made a few friends, established a couple haunts. No big deal. Plus my job's not too bad. And most of my cats were born here--I'd hate to tear them from their birthplace."

There are even a few days in the spring when I think I'll be OK if I have to stay here forever.

Then the bear rears its ugly muzzle. It typically comes in from the Gulf, occasionally across the plains, but always it carves a swath of hell before it, a low pressure or a high pressure system that strangles me. And then the bear arrives and I become its rag doll.

So anyway, that's why I'm having a hard time writing. Simply because I feel pretty crappy.

Bzzzzzz

We had a tornado. Then a flood. Then our basement filled with water. Then we lost our air conditioner. And power. Then there was a trampoline on my truck. Then I rescued a baby starling from the flood and the rain. Then my sister had a baby. Then they said don't use the water. Then they said, "We're going to cut the water supply." Then they said, "We're not. Just use fifty percent less." Then the water receded and the electric company came in the middle of the night and reconnected our power two days later. Then someone said, "There's going to be a gas shortage, get your gas." Then someone else said, "Don't drink the water. Three people have died from drinking it." Then someone else said, "That's a lie, I contacted the water company." Then I went back to work and the toilets keep flushing for no reason. Then I said, "Hey, does someone want to STOP these toilets from flushing for no reason? We're supposed to conserve water!" And no one listened. Then some people were WASHING their cars at the car wash and they said, "Hey, I paid for it. The truck needs to be clean. Gotta be seen in a clean truck." Then I couldn't concentrate. Then I drank too much caffeine and began to emit a high frequency buzz as my nerves vibrated.

That brings us today. I'm still buzzing. Those events didn't happen in that order. They're sort of out of order, but I like the order in which I wrote them.

Looking again, the order is pretty accurate.

It's been pretty crazy. Someone said to me that they didn't want to rub it in that they haven't suffered, that their house is nice and dry, that they had electricity the whole time, that Nothing Really Happened to them. But I'm glad. See, then they can help out. We can all help out. But if we were all without homes after the flood and the wind, then we'd all just lie there in the mud like mud beetles, helpless, and drowning or burrowing. There is such a thing as a mud beetle, isn't there?

Anyway, a bunch of ants were coming into my house Monday night, and I felt kind of bad for them. Did the water get them too? But the ants come out every spring, sending out their little soldiers looking for food sources. So I killed them. Sorry ants. But if I don't kill them and they find a crumb or something that I somehow missed under the couch, then they keep coming in. The way they know to not go back to That Spot is if the soldiers don't return. Ask E. O. Wilson.

To balance out my ant genocide, I saved a baby bird. The bird will live and grow up and eat the ants. It's the circle of life. The girl at Walden's Puddle told me the featherless hatchling was a starling. I thought it was a robin, but either way, I don't discriminate against which birds I'll help.

Initially I put the bird in the dove nest in my barn. It snuggled up to the dove babies and I had such high hopes that it would be one of those amazing stories about some inter-species triumph a la ugly duckling and all that. I think it worked for one day. The next day the baby was on the ground and the mother pigeon gave me a really dirty look, as though to say, "Ha. You really think I'm that naive? I don't take care of interlopers, my dear. I've got my hands full with these two. Next time I'll peck its eyes out!"

I returned the dove's stare as though to say, "Listen, where do you think that bird seed comes from that you munch on every day? Bird seed doesn't grow on trees*?" Still, her steady, unblinking stare made me a feel a twinge of guilt.

But try as I might, I can't be as heartless and unfeeling as Mother Nature. I tried to leave the bird alone, hoping it would just die and go on to loftier things in heaven, but it was too rough on my heart and mind. Like killing a part of myself.

So I fooled my neighbor into taking care of it. Ok, that sounds terrible. I didn't really FOOL her. She's not a dummy. But she's got a terrier rescue already, so I kind of knew she had a big heart for animals.

Plus she had electricity. And time. And I had neither. So we worked it out and she fed the bird Monday night, then I took it to Walden's Puddle the next morning.



*I realize that many seeds DO come from trees. But bird seed doesn't just drop into a nice pile of food for a bunch of doves hanging out next to the bird bath. I admit I've trained the doves to think it does. And I know they'd survive without the seed I put out for them. I help them through the winter, that's all.

Not to Obssess, But Chili . . . Tomorrow . . .

I've heard it's crass and uncultured to try to duplicate an amazing sensory experience . . . . is it? Educate me. Because I'm a heathen.

I have good news . . .

There will be chili tomorrow at Flatrock.

And apparently, there will also be some kind of soup having something to do with peanut butter. Peanut butter soup. Doesn't sound awesome, but I LOVE peanut butter and I like soup ("we both like soup . . . and snow peas . . . and we could talk . . . or not talk for hours . . ."). So I'm willing to try it. What could go wrong, really?

Peanut butter soup . . . there's a chance it could be phenomenal. I'm willing to take that risk. Plus I heard they sold out in two hours the first time the chef made it (whose name is Larry*).



*Larry and I had a long talk today about the cafe and the chili and the pies** and cinnamon rolls. As you can see, it went quite well. Thus chili tomorrow. And peanut butter soup.

**He makes them. From scratch. I know you think I'm a nutcase for being impressed with this. But I am. So sue me.

The South Is Killing Me

You think this is an exaggeration, but it's not.  It's particularly bad in the spring, summer, and fall.  So three quarters of the year I'm on death's doorstep.  Or death is on my doorstep.  I'm not sure who's more aggressive here--death or me.  Probably me.  I've been told I'm intimidating.  A lot.  I don't even have any tattoos or crazy piercings and yet I'm still intimidating.  

Death doesn't know my secret--that the brusque exterior is a facade meant to protect the gooey inside.  I'm softer than a Cadbury Creme Egg beneath the fragile shell.  All it takes is one tiny crack and the rest explodes (that's the worst part about the Cadbury Creme Eggs).  But three quarters of the year I guess I find myself knocking on deaths' door.  Because I'm aggressive.

You know how you think you're one way, but everyone else tells you a different story?  I know you know what I'm talking about.  How you go your entire life thinking things like, "People scare me.  I don't think I'm EVER going to make any friends.  Starting the school year at a NEW school bites.  I'll be an outcast.  Moving is hard.  I look fat in this shirt.  Do I look fat?  Don't call on me, don't call on me I don't know the answer."

But somehow everyone thinks this about you, "She's going to punch me.  Nothing scares her.  Holy crap that was a close one, I thought she was going to punch me.  She just bit my head off, why'd she do that? All I said was 'you look nice today.'  I'm never complimenting her again. She just accused me of not knowing what I'm talking about . . . she's obviously done her research.  Whoa I thought she was going to punch me . . . again."

I'm not making that up.  I have seen into the minds of people around me.  

Joke.  I haven't.  However, over the years, a picture emerges.  Themes crop up and after enough people tell you certain things about their initial impressions of you, it dawns on you:  you portray a completely different image of yourself than you realize.

I could go into a few personal examples, but they would start to sound like accusations.  Also, it starts to sound like I'm bragging about how I amazing I am.  Because we all know that a bullying demeanor is highly desirable in today's corporate dog-eat-dog world. 

Plus the real point of this meandering post is that the south has a personal vendetta against me.  It would be no big deal if I could just get a doctor to put tubes in my ears or something like that, like a baby (because I'm such a baby, with malfunctioning eustachian tubes).  No idea if that would help, but the problem is the insane amount of allergens in Nashville. 

Medicine's answer?  "Allergy shots."  I put that ridiculous phrase in quotation marks to illustrate how dubious I am about that program.  It's a racket.  No proof it would help.

During the winter I forget and think, "Ah, Nashville's not so bad.  I kind of like it.  Why did I want to move again?"  I still have allergies during the winter, but it's manageable.  

Then spring strikes with a teasing, big-pawed swipe to my head.  The weird, unstable pressure systems that stir up tornadoes sweep through the area and my head implodes.  Then it explodes. At the same time.  That's not enough.  It gets worse.  My ears don't work properly and I die.  

Yep.  I die.     

Then I remember that I wanted to move back to the desert where there are fewer allergens.  But by then it's too late.  The market has crashed and selling my house would put me upside down on my mortgage.

I don't really know if the ear issues will ever go away, even if I move back to Utah.  I went out there for Christmas, and when I came back, I got some weird altitude sickness thing that lasted for a month.  It consisted of sudden bouts of nausea and vomiting.  It was damn weird.  

Thus far the south is winning.  Who can really fight an entire landmass, when you come right down to it? 

My Amazing Chili Experience in the Year 2010

I'm not a huge chili fan, but I just ate the best chili I've ever tasted. Also, I'm not like some sort of insane food elitist or foodie (most horrid designation ever). I just like what I like. And I admit that in a lot of ways, my tastes are probably rather pedestrian.

Where did I get this magic chili? you must be thinking. At a little place called Flatrock cafe. It opened in November on Nolensville pike, across the street, essentially, from La Hacienda and Phonoluxe. So, apologies if you are one of my unfortunate readers living in England or China. I have tons of fans in other countries. Ha. But know this, should you ever make it to Nashville, my distant friends, you will know WHERE to eat.

They also serve coffee made from locally roasted beans, if that's your thing.

Get this: the chili was made on the premises. I know. I know. Your heart just skipped a beat too, didn't it? We're so in sync, you and I.

It's a lowdown shame that these days a person feels cause to rejoice to learn that their food wasn't made in a factory in Dallas, flash-frozen, and shipped in blocks of ice to the chain store where it's reheated and served as "fresh."

And yet, it's a sweet discovery to find a place like Flatrock where the entire menu consists of things made on location.

I'm not talking about the raw ingredients, of course. Though, according to their menu, the milk comes from a nearby dairy and the beer (if that's your thing) is brewed locally. Something called Yazoo. Yeah, I don't drink. So sue me.

They should put up a flashing neon sign touting this: "Food Made Here. No, not just HERE, here; WE MAKE YOUR FOOD FRESH. Really fresh. Not flash-frozen fresh, although that's the best way to preserve the food, if you need to preserve food."

Too long. They would probably benefit from an asterisk after the first here. But that looks fishy. So I guess we're back to the word premise, which I've already used too much in this post.

Anyway. Flatrock cafe. They also have live music on Saturday night if that's your thing, and they have a really great parking lot. Is it weird that I notice that? There's an abundance of places in Nashville that have terrible parking--that's why I notice it.

One of the things that really endeared the place to me is the Flatrock history lesson on the back of the menu. I read it. I'm a sucker for stuff like that. It's like they read my mind. Because I really WAS wondering where they came up with the seemingly non-applicable name.

When I think of flatrock, southern Utah and northern Arizona come to mind. Yeah, there are OTHER places with rocks, you're thinking, some of them are even FLAT. I know, I know. But I'm subject to my past.

Well, I guess I'm ruined for chili from here on out. No point in EVER getting another bowl of chili. It will pale in comparison. That's the problem with amazing experiences, their sneaky double-edge. Sigh.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished: Stealing Homes from the Homeless

I'm going to jump to a conclusion here because it's fun and it's what I do best. After I jump to the conclusion, I'll actually do some research on the subject and clear up any fallacies in a later post.  

The conclusion:  someone--the city or a business--stole Diane's house.  

I want to Act Now and Raise Hell. I want to find the person(s) in charge and Rip Them A New One (you'll have to forgive the capital letters in inappropriate places. Someone else was doing it and it really slayed me so I'm doing it when I feel like it.) Who do they think they are? That's what I'd ask them. Ok, I'd ask that first and then I'd fill a glove with a brick and slap them till the brick became dust. I'd shake out the bits as I held the glove by its fingers while I tapped my foot and waited for an explanation or some sort of retaliation.  

Whatever their answer, it won't satisfy me--well, that is unless the reason was that Diane's house was placed over nuclear waste or something. Then I'd see their reasoning and have to concede that it was in her best interest.

As it is, Diane has no home. She had no home before, then, someone gave her one, and now it's gone.

Diane lives on a bench near a parking lot that serves a row of businesses on Demonbreun street in Nashville. Every day I drive by the bench a few times during my comings and goings and I look for her, to make sure she's still alive and kicking. Often she's got her broom out and is sweeping up the gutters in the area or she's standing sentinel over the parking lot, guarding the cars while patrons shop at the boutiques or eat at Otters. She never begs. She maintains a quiet dignity and minds her own business.  She wears black and brown leisure suits with heeled boots. Sometimes I see her reading the paper or blowing smoke into the air with her head tilted back. Typically she wears some kind of hat, and in winter she dons ear-muffs.  

In short, I love her. She's become dear to me simply through seeing her there every day and feeling like I know her. I try to stop and visit her as often as I can.  She never asks for anything.  She greets me like we're old friends, asks, "What's up," and appears to remember the sundry things I tell her about my life. If I give her anything, she always asks if I can afford it and appears hesitant to take something if she has nothing to give back. She has a beautiful smile and weathered skin that fans at her eyes into delightful laugh-lines.  

I have longed and wished to be able to take better care of her. I've imagined countless scenarios of adopting her or finding a place for her to live. These, you might say, are prayers. The day I drove by and saw that the blue tarp with which she covered herself at night was now draped over the trailer hitch of a camper, some sort of new hope for humanity bloomed in my heart. I shared the news with Stoker and he told me that one of his clients who also takes care of her had mentioned that she had a camper. The client had been inside it and told Stoker about its condition and how Diane planned to fix it up. Apparently some good Samaritan in town gave it to her--it had just been sitting in his back yard collecting dust, he said. So he GAVE her the camper.

You know what this means, of course? It means that we who live in the city are not completely unaware of those around us who suffer. It means that we can be a community. It means that we can share and help shoulder the burdens of our neighbors as long as we know who suffers. It means that we don't require the government to force us to give. It means that people are Good. It means there is Hope for us.  

It means a whole lot more. Knowing that others care for Diane really buoyed me up. I worry about her on rainy nights. I worry about her on cold nights. I worry about her on warm nights. I worry about her in the crushing heat and humidity. I can't do it all by myself. That there are others who assist her means she's not really alone.  

The camper was simply an awesome thing. I asked her if anyone was giving her trouble about it being in the parking lot. She told me the parking lot is essentially hers. She takes care of it. "After all I do for it, guarding it, keeping it running, they can't give me trouble." But apparently they do. They must have given her trouble. A few days later, it had been moved out of the little fenced area by the small nondescript building on the far side of the parking lot.  

Today it's gone and the whole area has a new fence. I can't see the camper anywhere.  

It's like they've declared war on her. To me. Do I overreact? Maybe. I don't know who They is. I don't know who could have such a cold heart that they'd erect a new fence just to keep Diane away. Does she really harm the parking lot? She doesn't steal from the pedestrians. She has class and grace. Do the businesses heedlessly worry that Diane discourages customers? She's not panhandling. After speaking with the clerks in the boutiques, I have gathered that they help take care of Diane and care about her.  

She belongs to us. I'm not the only one who loves her and who worries about her welfare. I suppose the social workers of the government tell us not to help the homeless. They claim we simply enable them. "There are social programs to help them. There are official avenues they can take to get help. There's the Rescue Mission over on LaFayette." Blah blah blah. So I should wash my hands of it. I should turn away from them. I should ignore them. I should feel exonerated to keep my money pocketed and pretend to not hear their pleas.

I don't feel exonerated when I ignore them. I feel like a liar. A cheat. Someone who worships money and wealth. I used to be stingy about it. I got so overwhelmed with the number of requests upon moving to Nashville that I DID feel exonerated when I read the newspaper article encouraging me to ignore the beggars. But as I have come to realize, we are all beggars.  

Let me use Christ as an example. He did not say to only give to the people who actually really do need it: the people who are just down on their luck for a short spell; the people who are generally useful to society but are under extenuating circumstances right now; the people who don't spend the money on beer or liquor. Give to everyone. It may not change them, it changes you. It shows that your heart is not set on riches or the things of this world that turn to dust, that have no life, that give no love.  

And who are we to judge? If you give when you can, indiscriminately, to the people who ask, then you never take the chance that the one you just turned away was really down on their luck, at wits end, about to jump off a bridge if someone somewhere didn't show them some type of kindness. If you always give, God, the Universe, Karma, whoever or whatever it is you believe in knows that you are always to be trusted. That you are one person in the sea of faces who can be the answer to someone else's need or prayer.  

The social workers will not tell us this. Their job is to take this responsibility from us, from the community. It's better for them if we are distanced from the many faces of those around us who suffer and need our help. It makes the government the answer to all our problems, instead of strengthening the community by making us feel like we are Part of Something Bigger than Ourselves. And I truly think that this unravels the fabric of our community.  

The knowledge that others were taking care of Diane made me feel like I was a Part of Something. I still feel that way. And I feel more than ever that she is someone I will fight for.  

Musical Infatuation: Conway Twitty

I spent the evening last night with a selection of Conway Twitty songs on repeat. Oh, and Loretta Lynn was there too. I know that a bunch of people think that Barry White is the king of sexy music, and I guess he's alright. But when Barry White does a song, I'm not infatuated with him. When I'm in the mood for infatuation, I go see Conway Twitty.

I used to be all about promoting good music, and I loved to be an elitist about it, and there are still traces of elitism in me. It's hard to lose. But these days I don't give a damn what other people think about the music I listen to. So when you see a post from me about the music I'm infatuated with or the author I have begun to worship as the epitome of skill, I'm posting out of total devotion and adoration. It has nothing to do with trying to sell an artist or garner respect for my amazing opinions. It has everything to do with Infatuation.

Of late I've been very into older country music. It could be that I'm in Nashville. It probably is, because when I go to the used record shops, I'm swimming in old country LPs and it's difficult to resist their charm. I buy them based on their covers, and if I've recently been to the Country Music Hall of Fame and heard some cool, old song playing at an exhibit (the CM Hall of Fame is surprisingly good. I thought it would be lame. But it's not. They have Elvis' gold piano and Webb Pierce's silver dollar car) I will look for that album.

I have bought quite a few LPs of people I have been exposed to through the CM Hall of Fame. Ray Price, Marty Robbins, Webb Pierce, and others. I'm not sure how I stumbled across Conway Twitty. I mean, I knew who he was because the name Conway Twitty is a big name. It's . . . Conway Twitty, after all, and if you've ever uttered the name Loretta Lynn around your mom or dad, they're sure to say something about Conway Twitty. But I'd never listened to his songs. Right now there are probably about 5 million kids who should have been in bed already, whose parents shouldn't have let them watch it, but who saw the episode of Family Guy with a random clip of Conway Twitty singing "You've Never Been this Far Before" in the middle of the show. And it's a funny clip.

But the joke's on them. Because now those kids will always associate Conway Twitty with silly music and an outrageous red suit. At least I think it was red. It's hard to remember that kind of detail. In any case, "You've Never Been this Far Before" is sheerly great (is sheerly a word? I swear my coworker said that word the other day. And I stopped listening to what he was saying, thinking, "Did he just say 'sheerly'? Is sheerly a word? It seems like it might be, but it also felt weird, weird enough that I've stopped listening. Where have I heard it before? Have I heard it before? Would you spell that s-h-e-e-r-l-y? I've got to remember to look it up." And then I forgot to look it up. I just looked it up and I'll be damned. It IS a word. Go coworker, go!) and those kids will probably never give the song a real chance. I mean, it's more than just great. That song, in a word, is MASTERFUL.

That seems like hyperbole, because normally you'd call something like Beethoven's 9th masterful, or the entirety of Vivaldi's Four Seasons masterful, and other classical works that I don't know about. But if you listen to "You've Never Been this Far Before," you'll see what I mean. Granted, in the Family Guy clip, Conway didn't look as amazing singing the song as you'd want him to, it's hard to look sexy or cool saying, "Bump bump buuummm." Put the song on and listen to it, the "bump bump buuummm" actually works and you're compelled to sing along with it. The reason the song works is the build up to the chorus where Conway sings, "And as I take the love you're givin', I can feel the tension building in your mind, uuhhn uuhhnn. And you're wondering if tomorrow, I'll still love you like I'm loving you tonight, uuhhnn uhhnn uhhh." At that point the kick drum speeds up and a tambourine joins in and you know exactly what tension the singer is talking about without spelling it out. It's awesome.

I have only this to say to Family Guy . . . Nothing. I hate that show. That's all.

As for Conway Twitty and his music, both his solo stuff and the great duets he did with Loretta, all I can say is that it's great to have a crush on someone's opus.

My top Conway Twitty songs:

"I'd Just Love to Lay You Down"
"Feelins"
"You've Never Been this Far Before"
"Lead Me On"
"Easy Loving"
"Don't Take it Away"
"I've Already Loved You in My Mind"
"I See the Want to In Your Eyes"
"Touch the Hand"
"I Can't Stop Loving You"
"You Lay so Easy on My Mind"
"How Much More Can She Stand"

Hemingway and Nashville Local Color

I'm about to finish "A Moveable Feast." It's a great book. I read on Wikipedia that some call it Hemingway's finest writing. I haven't read all of his writing, but I have to agree. Maybe that's because he knew the protagonist so well and he wasn't being deceptive that the protagonist was himself.

I don't know. The thing that bugs me is the critics who say that Hemingway is still being deceptive in his portrayal of himself as the hero. Critics bug me, I even bug myself when I'm being a critic. Sometimes I think, "Poor Stoker, always stuck listening to me being a critic." And then I think, "Poor me, always stuck listening to me being critical." But there's no way to escape that. I'm stuck with me.

At lunch I have to leave my workplace. I have to get away, I have to think that I'm not fixed to this place like some kind of Dickens character. What's his name? The guy who worked for Scrooge who was forever positive and helpful and hopeful? I don't recall. But I'm not him. I like to think I'm not a cog in the machinery and that I could get away from it permanently if I had to.

I could live on the streets like the lady on Demonbreun. Demonbreun is a main road in Nashville. It takes one over to Music Row and it's not pronounced "deman-brewin" like one might think. It's pronounced "de-MON-bri-un." That's not an offical phonetical spelling, so don't check Webster's to see if I did it right. I'll spare you, I didn't.

The lady is a permanent fixture on Demonbreun. She's beautiful. I've never spoken to her, but she's got my heart. She's there in the middle of cold winter days, sitting on her bench in a big coat, and she's there in the swampy hot weather of summer, sitting on her bench under a big sun umbrella. She has Swedish features that have been bronzed to a sort of leathery complexion by the wind and the cold and the sun. Sometimes I'll see her eating a lunch off of one of the brick walls that separate the little shops along Demonbreun, and I've seen her drinking something from a styrofoam cup, with her pinkie in the air like someone with real class.

There are days that I wonder where she goes at night. Does she go to the mission? I look for her when I drive by and if I don't see her, I worry. I worry and wonder if she's safe. I wonder about her choice of "office." There's an abandoned newspaper stand next to her preferred bench. The glass has been broken out and I have noticed that she puts stuff in there, like her dayplanner and maybe a notebook.

She has class. She does. She wears dark velvety jumpsuits, the kind your grandma might wear. I guess they're called leisure suits. They have embroidered designs on them.

The most I've said to her is "hi." And I wave and she waves back. I don't know anything else about her. But I feel a sense of responsibility for her. That probably makes me an ass and if I ever spoke to her and if she found out I had said this or written a word about her, she would probably resent it and think, "How dare you!" She's got class and dignity, you see. She's not a stray cat or something. And I've never given her anything, not even spare change.

It's stupid to say, but I feel like she's given me something.

The Joys of Commuting by Bicycle

I’m riding my bike home today. If you’ve never been to Nashville, then you’d hardly understand. There’s a song by the Kamikaze Hearts called “Tennessee.” A line in it says, “I never knew there was* hills in Tennessee, I always thought that it would be flat.” Yeah, me too. But no, no, it’s not flat. I guess a lot of places in the U.S. are hilly**, but are they hilly, hot, and humid all at once and are you on a bike with a bag strapped to your back?

Because if you’re not, you should be. It’s the only way to travel. Riding your bike in a place like, oh, Salt Lake City? That’s nothing until you’ve ridden Tennessee. Ha ha. Mwah ha ha ha ha ha. (Riding crazily into the misty distance, uphill, with a bag strapped to my back.)




*sic -- yeah, I know, it should be WERE.
** The world, really.

Chicago Dogs in Nashville

I've been doing a lot of eating lately. I think the winter is getting to me. Everything looks so tasty.

What's really bugging me is my kitchen. It's completely unfriendly, uninviting. You could say I was spoiled by my mom's kitchen—it was well-designed and has lots of counter space and room for food preparation. So ever since then, most kitchens have been pieces of crap.

The problem I have with my kitchen simply forces me to eat at restaurants. Because, you know, who wants to prepare food on three inches of counter space? It sounds like my fault, like maybe I could take some initiative and remodel the kitchen. Great idea, I'll tackle that as soon as I'm done with the devil room and the mud room (which we scrounged from the edge of devil room).

Yeah, we've been working on that for four months. The going is slow and frustrating because we both work full time. Stoker actually works twice as much as me and he's the brawn behind our projects. I'm not a damsel in distress, but I'm not about to hang drywall myself. Or cut it. Or mud it. Or sand it. What you can count on me to do is to fill the screw holes with mud. That's the extent of my interaction with the mud (aka joint compound).

I've already blogged about the crème de la crème of the hot dog world, the Home Depot hot dog stand (for interested parties, the Home Depot in Berry Hill, across from Hundred Oaks mall). Today Stoker and I got adventurous and tried the Chicago dog from Hot Diggity Dog, located behind the Episcopal church near the Mission in downtown Nashville. It was . . . ok. Just ok. You'd definitely expect this hot dog to knock my socks off, but it didn't.

I guess it's hard to top the BEST Chicago style hot dog. I went in with high expectations. Hot Diggity Dog had the cards stacked against them to begin with. To be fair, it wasn't a horrible hot dog, and at least I could request that the dog be grilled, or in their terms, charred. That was good. And the bun was toasted. But the relish was bright green. How can that be? It was almost glowing, like overly fertilized grass. Or more like that fake grass that comes in Easter baskets. It was weird. And I'll be honest, I prefer jalepenos to the sport pepper.

Next, we need to try I Dream of Weenie, which I hear is located on the East side. It's really about what you prefer, I guess. If you like the sport pepper, you'll like Hot Diggity Dog. If you like unnaturally green relish, you'll enjoy Hot Diggity Dog. So what I'm really telling you is that I prefer hamburger dill chips and jalapenos and strong onions and heartburn. Because that's what the Home Depot hot dog offers. It's great. It's downright American.

Another place we dined at recently is Flyte. World dining and wine. Dun dun duhhhhhhh. It sounds brilliant, doesn't it? It sounds very modern and chic and expensive. It was all of those things. I'll write my own personal review soon, and because I'm so keen on honesty (I seriously can't lie. Not even to shave $3 off the admission to lap swim at a county rec. center -- $3 adds up quickly when you really think about it, doesn't it?), I'll be forced to compare Flyte to my other fine dining experiences. That's just how it goes.

Hot Dog Stands: Yet Another Way Home Depot Makes Dreams Come True

I'm not big into pork. I'm just not. Can't explain it. But the best hot dog* in town comes from a hot dog stand at the Home Depot by Hundred Oaks mall in Berry Hill. Stoker and I were there on Saturday, buying some more drywall (when you're new at hanging drywall, it's easy to make rookie mistakes, like not laying a piece flat to store it). We splurged and got the Chicago style hot dog. It was amazing. And the heartburn was amazing too.

There's another place in town called The Dog. You'd think it would offer the best hot dogs ever. It's got such a cool name. The sign out front is so inviting with its modern appeal. For a long time I could't tell when it was open. The windows out front are so tinted and the open sign was too faint through the window. I went by one Saturday for a chili dog (oh yeah, I go all out when I finally imbibe on pork -- can I say that? Can I say "imbibe on pork?"). I was the only customer there. Inside they had flat panel T.V.'s hanging everywhere, and cool stools standing next to cool chrome-edged tables.

I ordered a chili dog and the guy went through a door and brought it out immediately. There was this illusion that perhaps they were a made-to-order sort of restaurant because the kitchen was in the back. But the hot dog took him three seconds to prepare. The chili was just ok. The cheese was the sort that comes pre-grated: it had a fine powder on it. I don't know how most people eat a chili dog, but I like to use a fork for mine. This was rather difficult, given the dog was lying in wax paper in a plastic basket. The kind with big holes.

Anyway, I mentioned to the two employees working there that maybe it would help business to have a neon open sign out front, you know, the side of the restaurant FACING the busiest street. Tinted windows are cool and all that, but they don't do much for a business**. Most people judge a store by how well-lit it is. If it looks closed, we avoid it. We're like moths. We're drawn to lights. This isn't rocket science. And neon open signs cost, what, five dollars at the Dollar General?

There are other hot dog joints in Nashville. They're springing up everywhere. There are two downtown, one called Hot Diggity Dog and another called I Dream of Weenie. Clever names for simple fare. I haven't tried them yet, but I may. I mean, I won't be looking for the brass ring because I already found it at the no-name hot dog stand outside Home Depot. Can you believe it? The guy doesn't even have to dress it up in a clever name and a modern sign. He just stands there and lets the smell waft through the exit doors and we follow our noses outside like salivating zombies. It's the Field of Dreams story all over again.



*The one indulgence. Sometimes bacon, but that's happening less as the quality of bacon decreases.
**Unless your business happens to be one of the million strip clubs in town.