More salad, please

"These were the happy days, the salad days as they say..."
~ Raising Arizona

My typical January blahs lacked their usual bite this winter.  And I have a couple of theories as to why.

One is that the blahs are holding off until February when I turn that age which shall not be spoken, thus in all probability entering a mid-life crisis the likes of which the world has scarcely seen, at which point my usual winter depression will last indefinitely, or longer.

The other has to do with the fact that this particular January has included a beautiful 2-inch snow (school was out for two days) and yet another Bama national championship.  To slightly reword the song, those are but two of my favorite things.  So I spent a decent portion of the month on cloud ten.

The man most responsible for this -- the football, not the snow, well not as far as I know anyway -- is Nicholas Lou Saban.

I nearly titled this post, "Have you ever really, really really ever loved a man?"  Because I have.  I do.  I love this man.  And I'm not ashamed to admit it.

If I would've had a Nick Saban in my formative years... who knows where I'd be right now?  I'd probably own a small country.  Or at least an E-Trade account.

These are the new glory days.  Three national championships in four seasons.  Are you kidding me??  My life has never been better.  As a sports fan, I mean.  (Important caveat there.)  These are my salad days.

For better or for worse, folks around these parts place a fair amount of importance on our college football, and, more specifically, our Crimson Tide.  I would even go so far as to say that for a majority of people in this state, their top three priorities are God, family, and Alabama football.  And not always in that order.

I just assumed it was that way everywhere.  It's kinda like the first time you leave the South and discover they don't have sweet tea in other places.  But in my golden years, I've come to realize that for many, many people, football is nothing more than a dalliance. (You have no idea how long I've been trying to work "dalliance" into a post.)

Just as I never thought to write about the delights of sweet tea, I've not written about Bama football from this angle.  So allow me to tell you a few things about our organization.

"Roll, Tide" is our cheer.  Maybe you've heard of it.  If not, you can hear it from 100,000 fans inside Bryant-Denny Stadium on most Saturdays in the fall, or in a million living rooms across the state on those same Saturdays, where families gather around televisions, and sometimes radios, hoping for another Bama victory, high-fiving and yes, roll-tiding after every big play.

But it's not just a cheer.  It can be a greeting, a better way to say "goodbye," even a question.  Say you've had a minor misunderstanding with someone.  After talking things out, you might say, "Roll Tide?" instead of "We good?"  And they might respond with, "Roll Tide" instead of "Yeah, we're good."

You might hear it from someone you pass in a convenience store, or your postal carrier.  You hear it at school and at work, where people wear their Bama gear on Fridays during the season.  Every Friday.  Not saying we're superstitious or anything, but if you didn't wear your Bama shirt and they were to lose that weekend, well good luck reconciling with your family.

I've heard it from a hotel front-desk clerk in Cincinnati, Ohio, and a McDonald's drive-thru attendant in Nowhere, Tennessee.  I've even heard it from a pulpit on Sunday, several times. (Is it any wonder those faith and football priorities get muddled occasionally?)

Hear it from a stranger, and you've instantly made a lifelong friend.

It's an aura that hangs in the air of this state like the heavy blanket of humidity on a summer night.  A commonality.  And a source of pride.

You didn't have to attend the university to get it.  We get it from our mothers and our fathers, our uncles and aunts, or maybe our granddaddy, our older brother or sister.  One of my favorite all-time family photos is of my aunt as a teenager in the '60s, wearing a Bama t-shirt.  Some pick it up on their own, attend their first game, and fall in love.

However you get it, once it's in you, it's lifelong.  For better or for worse.  In sickness and in health.  Good seasons and bad.  'Til death do you part.

Is it too important?  That probably all depends on who you ask.  But is it important?  No question.

My Mom once loved a man who wasn't my father.  His name was Bear Bryant.  He became coach of the Crimson Tide when she was 8, and he retired and passed away when I was 9.  An entire generation.  He won a few championships, too. Six, to be exact.

So the morning after this year's Bama team had showed them northern boys from Notre Dame what real football was, I was talking to Mom and decided to ask her if this was how it was then.  If these glory days were as good as the old glory days.

Now this is a woman who, before and during many a football game, has been known to utter the statement, "Please look down on us today, Bear," as if soliciting some divine intervention.  The same mother who apparently trained me so that when a Sunday school teacher showed me a picture that was supposed to be Jesus walking on water and asked who it was, I replied, "That's Bear Bryant.  My Momma says he is the only person who can walk on water."

So when I asked her, "Is this how it was in the old days?" the answer I got was not the answer I expected.

After first scolding me for intimating she was old, she kind of laughed as she said, "No.  We never won like this."

Roll Tide?

Roll. Tide.

"I'm feelin' pretty good and that's the truth / It's neither drink nor drug induced, no / I'm just doin' alright / And it's a great day to be alive..."

A show for the aged

Most of us probably have a few select tours we'd like see before we set sail for that great mosh pit in the sky. 

A Wham! reunion tour.  Miami Sound Machine.  DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince "Grandparents Just Don't Understand Tour."  (What?  I have mine.  You have your own.)

We sit around whiling away the hours in our workaday lives, just hoping for the day when we hear the news that our favorite band has gotten back together.

But then sometimes a tour comes along that is so amazing, so completely out of left field, that you didn't even know to wish for it.  It is truly beyond your wildest concert dreams.

That tour has arrived.

That's right, boys and girls... mostly girls.  Motownphilly, back again!  Turns out it's not so hard to say hello to yesterday.  You just thought it was the end of the road.  The nineties called, they want their boomsauce back!  

I've a mind to pull out my Batman t-shirt (a la Jordan Knight in the "I'll Be Loving You Forever" video).  And if I had enough hair, I'd totally rock a 1992 Boys II Men fade!  (As opposed to the slightly-modified Brandon Walsh "James Dean" 'do I unfortunately attempted to rock from 1991 until 1999.)

Boys II Men.  A band that needs no introduction.  And that's a good thing because I don't think I ever knew any of their names anyway.

But I did have their first tape.  Cooleyhighharmony.  The name says it all, really.  

When asked what the band had been up to, lo, these many years, one nameless band member said matter-of-factly, "Well... growing into men, as the name would suggest."

He continued, saying the guys were glad to be back to being Boys II Men after a couple of failed name changes.  "Men Reliving Their Past just didn't work for us.  The only people who showed up at our concerts were forty-year-old guys in football and softball uniforms.  And they didn't know the words to any of our songs."

When asked about their touring partners, this nameless member was only complimentary.  "We are honored to be touring with five middle-aged white guys from Boston.  It's not every day we get a chance to tour with someone whose last #1 hit was longer ago than ours."

Speaking of those "kids" from Beantown, I don't think I have to tell you my feelings about NKOTB.  I mean, my Where Are They Now post may very well have been the impetus for their first reunion tour in 2008.  (Dear World, You're welcome.  Signed, Bone.)

Unable or willing to reach any of the New Kids for comment, we imagine Donnie Wahlberg might have said, "Well, you know, no one really has any idea what movies I've been in.  To be honest, I can't even remember them myself.  But when I tell people I'm Donnie D, well, first they look kinda confused.  But after a couple of minutes of gentle coercion, eventually they're like, 'Oh!  You're one of the New Kids who hardly ever sang lead!'  I mean, you can't put a price on that.  When I'm dead and gone, that's something I can put on my tombstone.  By the way, speaking of tombstones, I now have a tombstone engraving business on the side -- I call it, Donnie D's Famous Last Words -- and I CAN put a price on all your grave marker needs."

And then there's 98 Degrees.  

Look, I gotta be honest.  I always get them mixed up with N'Sync and Backstreet Boys.  

On SongPop, I mean.

When some girl I'm playing against picks the Boy Bands category, I mean...

I always questioned why they didn't just use the degree symbol in their name?  Did they not have character map back then?  98°.  How cool would that have been!  Heck, they'd probably still be popular if I'd been in charge of their logo.

So if you're like me and have no clue what 98 Degrees sang, well there's only one way to find out -- besides the internet.  And asking someone.  And that way is, going to see them in concert.

Actually, I was kinda hoping they'd be the opening act and I could skip their part of the show.  But now I'm thinking what if Nick Lachey is doing a meet-and-greet, I'll probably want to get there early to get a place in line.

This is just the kind of tour that keeps that tiny, glimmering shard of hope alive that somehow, someday, Wham! might slip on the ol' "Choose Life" t-shirts one more time.  (Andrew?  George?  Come on, guys, none of us are getting any younger.)

And without hope, life would be... well, I shudder to think.

(Disclaimer: All interviews in the preceding post are fake.  The interviewees are real, in that they are real people.  But they are not real, in that they were not really interviewed by the real interviewer, who is me.  Those who were fake interviewed for this post did not necessarily say the quotes attributed to them, although that's not to say they couldn't have, had they actually been posed these very questions for real, which they were not.)

"Back in school we used to dream about this every day / Could it really happen / Or do dreams just fade away..."

Why men don't like to take out the trash

In those days, the old folks would tell of a splendor which had once illuminated the heavens.  Though they had not seen it in ages, they spoke fondly of it.  And they called its name "the sun"...

I cannot recall the last time I didst see the yellow sun.

It has rained all year.  And more rain is forecast. It's like living in Seattle.  Except without the Space Needle, formerly cool music scene, or proximity to the Tacoma Narrows Bridge.

I'm beginning to think the Mayans may not have been completely wrong, just off by a month or two.

There is talk of this so-called "sun" appearing on Friday, but I'll believe it when I see it.  In the mean time, I think I may begin pricing gopher wood on Craigslist.  And livestock.

Today, the garbage was at the peak of its stench.  Unable to put it off any longer, I decided to brave the rain and take out the trash.

Big mistake.

To reach the communal waste receptacle, I have to go out the back gate, down a sidewalk, and across a small parking area.  It's roughly 72 steps, though I take longer strides to round it down to a nice OCD-friendly 70.  Actually, 80 would be more friendly.  Or 100.  Or 50.  I tried taking 50 once but then I just looked like a big lurching, creepy orangutan.

Often when it's raining, I'll jog instead of walking.  I don't want to run too fast, so as to appear scared of getting wet.  It's more of a manly trot, really.  Like a firefighter, in a bit of a hurry because, hey, you never know when there might be a life to save.

Well, the sidewalk part of the trip is fine, but once I get into the parking lot area, there is standing water.  At first, it's not too bad, just a few puddles.  But then I feel it soaking through my Chucks.  (Yes, I wear Chucks.  I dress like Ted Mosby.  I dress exactly like Ted Mosby.)  I cringe, but it is too late.  They are saturated.

With each step, the water seems to deepen exponentially.  Like the parking area must have been built on a slant for some reason.  By now, it has to be at least a foot deep.  So about halfway through the parking lot and with water soaking me from the knees down, I decide to abort.

What?  They always tell you in a flash flooding situation if you encounter standing water, do not try to cross.  Am I right?   Besides, it is a fact more people die from floods each year than are killed by automatic car wash mishaps and being crushed by vending machines combined!

Armed with this knowledge, I veer off to the right to begin making a half circle back towards home base.  But as soon as I do, I realize I still have a garbage bag in my hand.  My mind races.  I can't turn back now.  What am I gonna do, take the garbage back inside?  But Bone, you could die!  Yes, but this garbage really stinks.  Good point, risk it.

I veer back to the left, planning to toss the bag into the dumpster from ten yards away so I can retreat as quickly as possible.  It is then that I notice the dumpster door is closed.  I also realize that my free arm has, for some reason, begun flailing out to my side, as I... continue my... manly, fireman-like trot.   

I think I'm beginning to understand why J.D. Salinger didn't leave the house for 30 years.

I glance up at some of the windows.  They look dark and suddenly strange.  Hollow, yet not empty.  I wonder if someone is watching from within.  Or worse, videoing it all.

I mean, picture if you will: a man in his late thirties, daintily high-stepping through a foot or more of water, with a trash bag in one hand, other arm flailing like he's just seen a mouse, veering across the parking lot in a bit of an S-pattern, and now thoroughly soaked nearly up to his skivvies.  (I may have also let out a high-pitched yelp at some point when the water reached my knees.)

Moments like this are the entire reason YouTube was created!  Also, the mental health profession.

Resigned to my fate, I wade over to the dumpster and deposit the bag of trash.  Soaking wet and now also freezing, because not only is it raining, but it has not gotten above 38 degrees all day, I begin the 70-step slog back.  Except for some reason, I don't walk.  But I do not trot, either.  It's more like I'm skipping now.

Involuntarily, inexplicably, skipping in the rain.

And pretty sure I no longer look anything like a fireman.

"Hey, come look through the window pane / The bus is comin' / Gonna take us to the train / Looks like we'll be blessed with a little more rain / It's four feet high and risin'..."

For Bill

My senior year of high school, I got a job working part-time at a radio station.  I came in during the week for two hours each morning to intern with the news department.  I got school credit for it and got to miss first period every morning.  So, win-win.

During college, I continued working there, eventually moving up to a full-time on-air shift.  We carried local high school basketball and football games, and "Bill" was one of the guys who did play-by-play for our sports broadcasts.

Bill was 60ish.  Gregarious.  He had a zest for life, and people, and conversation.  And I never knew why, but he seemed to take a liking to me.  Just one of those people who's always genuinely happy to see you.  That's a great quality, I think.

Anytime I'm talking to someone who doesn't know Bill, my quick, go-to description of him is "the man who always used to find me tickets to Alabama games."  And anyone who knows me at all will know that that alone would put him right at the top of my list.

It was during my time at the radio station that this occurred.

A friend and I decided we'd try and start going to some Bama games.  This was the early 90's, so way before eBay and StubHub.  There were pretty much three ways to get tickets:  Buy some outside the stadium, check the classifieds, or word of mouth.

One Friday evening at work, I guess Bill overheard me talking about wanting to go to a game.  By that night, I had tickets to the next day's game.

From that point on, he'd always ask if I needed tickets.  For about three or four years there, anytime I was wanting to go to a game, I'd call him.  And I don't think there was a single time when he didn't manage to find someone who had tickets for sale.

Sometimes I wouldn't even have to ask.  He'd call me, just to check.  I still remember those brief but oh-so-important conversations: "Bone.  Bill.  You need tickets?"

It was like he had taken it as his personal mission to always make sure I had tickets.  I mean, who does that?  It was an act of kindness for which I never got to repay him.  But I will never forget it.

Eventually I started getting season tickets.  And after I quit that job, I didn't see Bill much.  Just occasionally at a basketball game or somewhere around town.  I specifically remember one instance -- some sort of community festival.  He had clearly lost a lot of weight.  I found out later he'd gotten the cancer.  But he greeted me just like he always had.  Smiling.  Genuinely happy to see me.

Looking back, I guess by this time he must have been in his early 70's.  But not to me.  To me, he was still the same age he'd been when I first met him.  I do that sometimes, especially with people I don't see very often.  I get a picture of them in my mind, and how old I think they are, and then they're always that age.

Until they're not anymore.

A few years ago, Bill started working in the clubhouse at one of the golf courses where I play.  I was surprised to see him.  It was a good surprise.  Gregarious as ever, he looked a lot better and I silently hoped he had beaten the cancer.  We would always share a bit of banter when I played there.  He still seemed happy to see me.  And by then, I was just as happy to see him.

When he wasn't there for awhile, I asked about him, and they said he was having some health problems.  I feared the worst.  But he came back to work and I thought maybe he was gonna be alright.

Then I started missing him again.  He wasn't there two, three, four times in a row.  I asked when he was coming back.  The guy got a solemn look -- one of those looks that completely and immediately changes your mood and you don't ever want to see from anyone.  He shook his head slowly and said, "I don't think Bill's coming back."

He was right.  Bill passed away on Christmas morning.  He was 82. 

Somehow I was still surprised when I heard the news.  And stupidly, I'd never gone to visit him.

I know he would've been happy to see me.

"My old friend, this song's for you / 'Cause a few simple verses was the least that I could do / To tell the world that you were here..."

It's time to get the pole out of the crawlspace!

No, that title is not a euphemism.  Although I suppose it could be... Uh, let's not even speculate.

It is, rather, one of the traditions of that grand and most under-celebrated holiday of all: A Festivus for the rest of us!

Tonight is my annual Festivus At Bone's party/gathering/communal dinner/spontaneous relationship intervention.  What, you thought surely I wouldn't still be celebrating a fake holiday from an episode of a TV show that aired fifteen years ago?

Well, you thoroughly underestimated me.  Or is it overestimated?

This will be the ninth year for me to host a Festivus celebration.  Or eighth, I'm not entirely sure.  It really doesn't matter, for as you'll see in a moment I've taken the liberty of tabbing this the "umpteenth" one anyway.

What?  History gets rewritten as time passes.  You think George Washington was really the first President?  He was probably like the third or something and the other two guys just had bad PR.

By the time I'm done I figure this story will have morphed into me being the inventor of Festivus, who served as a consultant for the episode on Seinfeld to ensure the integrity of the holiday was not compromised, in the process becoming a comic hero of Larry David and someone he secretly considered funnier than himself... and who was romantically linked at various times in my life to Sandra Bullock, Kate Beckinsale, and possibly John Cusack.  (What? We were in Serendipity together.  I was having confusing feelings.)

But for now, I'll have to settle for being known as the guy hung up on some TV show from the '90s who held Festivus gatherings for entirely too many years in a row.  Or in other words, the guy who saved Festivus.

As a special treat to you this holiday season, I now present this year's official Festivus Evite (sent out earlier this week so as to discourage :

Bone's Umpteenth Annual Festivus
Host: Bone
When: Friday, December 21, at 6:30 PM
Where: Bone's Humble Abode (That's abode, not adobe. Although adobe would be kinda cool.) 
Address redacted so as to discourage paparazzi.

You are one of the few souls who have been generously invited to Bone's Umpteenth Annual "Festivus For The Rest Of Us."  I mean, think about it: Our of nearly 7 billion people in the world, you're one of 15 or 20 (but probably closer to 15) who have been selected.  The chosen few.  You have better odds of winning the lottery than being invited to Festivus!  And the lottery would probably be a LOT more fun. 

Nevertheless, come one, come several.  I don't know if there'll be snow, but there'll be pizza.  And probably several little kids.  (Did that sound weird?  Probably should take that part out.) 

We'll gather round the Festivus (read: coffee) table to watch the Seinfeld Festivus episode.  That'll be followed by the always contentious, yet lengthy Airing Of Grievances, then the singing of "Silver Pole."  And of course, the night will wind down with the Feats Of Strength, which this year will consist of someone trying to beat Bone at Words With Friends.  (Nearly impossible.)  Or someone trying to win an arm wrestling match with Lil' Booty.  (Less impossible.)  Or most likely, a game of Taboo.

And who knows, if the Mayans are correct, the world might actually end DURING Festivus.  Talk about a Festivus miracle!

Who wants to have some fun?

Reply options:
I wanna have some fun! (Yes)
Lalalaaaaa... I don't knoooooow. (Maybe)
I'm outta the contest!  (No)

As always, you are all invited.  Evite asks you to set a limit on the number of guests, so I put 400.  I figure that keeps anyone from feeling excluded while at the same time sufficiently violating the fire code.

And I'm still open to doing an online Airing Of Grievances this weekend if anyone is up for it.  Renee?  Ed Abbey?  Anyone???............  Uncle Leo?

As for tonight, if the world were to end mid-Festivus, I'm not sure if that would make this the best Festivus ever, or the worst.  Hmm.  I'll get back to you on that.

Or, I won't.  You know, if...  well, obviously.

"Then it's time for Feats of Strength / It's Frank Costanza's big scene / Festivus won't be o'er 'til someone's pinned / 'Neath the silver pole / Silver pole / It's Festivus in the city..."

Enough

There are no words.  And yet here I sit trying to come up with some.  The heartsickness, pain, anger, and utter disgust I have felt cannot be described, for they have never been felt before, not to this degree.  Wordsmiths surely never thought they'd have to come up with words for something such as this.

Every child I see reminds me of these twenty.  These who will never see their hopes realized, who never even got to dream their dreams, much less set out to chase them.

I find myself staring at their pictures and sobbing, apologizing that we failed them horribly.  Because that is how I feel.  I agree with the President.  We let those precious children down.  And it must not happen again.  Not without us doing everything within our power to prevent it.

Some will say you can never stop that kind of violence.  And while that is true, does that mean we simply accept it and do nothing?  And why does it keep happening so much more frequently here?

Have you seen the statistics?  America, by far, has the highest number of gun-related deaths per capita among developed nations -- 36 TIMES MORE than Australia, France, England, and Israel.

How does one reconcile that?  Surely reasonable people can agree it's not simply some bizarre coincidence.  And yet even as I type that I know that for many the answer will only be to buy more guns.  It never ends.

Somewhere along the way we have gone horribly off track.  We have cultivated such a culture of guns and violence.  And I never thought I'd be the one saying this -- heaven knows I've watched more than my share of Forensic Files, NCIS, and Law & Order -- but you can't discount the effect of the violent nature of so many movies, TV shows, and video games.

Are you gonna tell me this kid sat and came up with this plan having watched nothing but sports and I Love Lucy reruns on TV?

And now reality shows basically glorify these people who are "prepping" for some sort of doomsday by stockpiling all kinds of guns.  I hope to God the people on these shows are the very fanatical fringe of our society, but I'm not so sure anymore. 

Why on Earth does a United States civilian need a machine gun?  It's a rhetorical question.  Nothing anyone could ever say will convince me they do.  To protect against your government attacking you?  I've got news for you, if the government sets its mind to attack you, no amount of firearms you can amass is going to protect you (see Ruby Ridge, Waco, etc.).

And I know the mental health aspect of it is a part of the problem, too. The lack of funding.  My friend, Pia, has complained (rightly) about this for years.  We had a large mental health facility near here which closed its doors several years ago, and it sure wasn't for lack of patients.  What happened to those people?  I believe addressing this must be a part of the solution, as well. 

We are so obsessed with what is going on in the four corners of the world, yet we can't protect our own innocent, precious, dependent-on-us-for-everything children. 

Meanwhile, there have been 86 deadly school shootings in the United States in the past twenty years.  Did that number stagger you?  Because it sure did me.  It's gotten to the point where if only 2 or 3 people die in them, I feel like they barely register anymore on a national scale.

Do we just accept that this is the status quo now?  That this is how things are going to be and we can't do anything about it?  Is this just the price of freedom?

You can answer for yourself.  For me, the answer is no.  A million times, no.  It's not a political issue to me.  It's a moral issue.  A matter of life and death.

As long as this world lasts, there will always be evil in it.  No law or restriction or increased security or amount of mental health funding will completely put an end to it.  Maybe we won't make all the right decisions.  Maybe we'll go too far at first.  But if taking certain measures can reduce the number of these tragedies -- by half, or more, or any at all -- aren't we obligated to at least try?

All of this is coming from me --  a self-admitted poster child for apathy, not wanting to discuss politics, and not feeling like anything I could do would matter anyway.  Me, who just wrote not that long ago on this very blog about why must we bring up politics and issues so quickly after a tragedy, why can't we just mourn.

Well I was wrong.

Change must happen now, while the images of these slaughtered little ones are piercing our hearts and fresh in our minds.

"Did you turn off that violent old movie you're watching and turn on I Love Lucy reruns?"

Are you down with HSP?

Contributing to my recent two fortnight absence was Hurricane Sandy.  Though it was nowhere near here, immediately my geoblography kicked in and I began to worry and wonder about my blog friends.  There was Cooper in Maryland, Sherri in Virginia, Lucy in New York, Brooke in New Jersey, and Carnealian, Actonbell, and Susan in Pennsylvania.  (If this isn't where you live, just go with it.  It's where you live in my mind.)

Through blogs, Twitter, and my most common method of communicating -- the playing of Words With Friends moves -- within two or three days, I learned everyone was OK.

But the footage of those who hadn't been so fortunate wouldn't leave me.  I felt like "how can I post when so many are suffering, displaced, have no power, have lost property, pets, and loved ones?"  Who wants to read about the delicious remoulade I made last week or how ear hair maintenance has become a daily chore for me when something that devastating is going on.

Then I think that I let things like this affect me way too much.  Immediately that is followed by a rebuttal, "but how can I not?"

It was during this line of thinking when I remembered an article my blog friend Sherri (in Virginia, or Maryland, or some adjacent state) had linked to awhile back.  It was a Psychology Today article on Highly Sensitive Persons.

I remember thinking at the time that it fit me pretty well.  So I went back and reread it and was even more convinced: I am an HSP.

It's an excellent article and there is so much I want to share from it.  For the sake of time and space, I'll refrain.  But if there were only one line I could pull out of the article it would be this one:  ""It's like feeling something with 50 fingers as opposed to 10."

As with any diagnosis or grouping of people, not every characteristic in the article applied to me.  I don't walk around on the verge of tears at any moment.  But while reading, I definitely found myself saying "Yes!" and "That's me!" much more so than not.

I hear the slightest noises in the night, noises that would even register with most people.   For years, I slept with the TV on at a low drone so other noises wouldn't keep me awake.  Recently, I started sleeping with ear plugs.

I'm super-sensitive to smells -- perfumes and lotions and colognes -- to the point that a girl has had to stop wearing a certain kind of body lotion (Marshmallow Fluff, blech!) because it bothered me so much.

At the dentist, I've always required two or three times the amount of Novocaine as a normal patient.  I've even joked that it wasn't a low threshold for pain, but rather a superhero-like sensitivity to stimuli.  Never did I dream that might actually be the case.  Along the same lines, pain pills never seem to dull my senses in their prescribed dosage.

There is an amplified feeling of everything, good and bad.  It's life to the nth degree.

Even the briefest unpleasant conversation or hint of discord or strife can leave me feeling uneasy and bothered for two days.  Many times I'll have a gnawing in my stomach that something is wrong, yet I can't put my finger on what has caused it.  It leaves me to wonder if nothing happened at all or if it seemed so insignificant at the time that I can't remember it.

Of course, it's not all bad.  It works the same for life's positive emotions and sensations, too.  For example, the beauty of nature often affects me immensely.  And now that I think about it, I can recall several less-than-enthusiastic responses from others when I've remarked at how gorgeous or awe-inspiring something is.  Although even now, it's hard for me to accept that not everyone feels and senses these things the same.

I think maybe this is a big reason why I rarely watch the news.  Maybe it's something I've done as a defense/survival mechanism.  I can't just watch the news and move on.  The stories stay with me.  My sensory volume is on fifteen, and I can't simply mute it or turn it down.  It's not that I don't care.  But I think I'd be in a continual state of depression if I watched the news every day.

I'm not sure what my point is in sharing all this, other than I've sort of learned/realized something new about myself, and also the article estimates as much as 20% of the population may be HSP's, so maybe some of you are the same way.  And if not, then certainly someone you know could be.

And if I get a little misty-eyed while watching Andre Agassi's retirement speech, Mister Holland's Opus, or Linus explaining to Charlie Brown what Christmas is all about, well now you know why:  I'm one (highly) sensitive guy.

I imagine there may be a couple of females in existence who would disagree with that last statement.  Others would (and have) encourage(d) me to delve further into my psychological, um, uniquities.

"All mornin' I'd been thinkin' my life's so hard / And they wore everything they owned, livin' in a car / I wanted to tell them it would be OK / But I got just got in my Suburban and I drove away..."

High, and (still) dry

When anon I realized I hath not blogged in a span of nearly twain fortnights, I didst recall yon erstwhile days wherein my nimble fingers wouldest blog daily.  Erelong didst I question why I had just useth "fortnight" to describeth time.  But in nowise finding any answer, and whereby I am unable or unwilling to continue in my present manner of writing, do I ashamedly present the following scantily clad entry.

The election has come to an end.  The Electoral College has spoken.  I call for all Americans to now come together and enjoy a few weeks with no political ads, because one thing's for certain: Campaigning for 2016 will begin all too soon, if it hasn't already. 

In case you somehow managed to miss the election results, allow me to fill you in.  We here in Boneville USA voted for the status quo.  That is, to remain a "dry" municipality.  (Do people in the rest of the country even know what a dry city/county is?)

Chant with me.  Four... more... years... four... more... years... of no legal alcohol sales within the city limits.  More chanting.  No... we... can't!   I read somewhere we are the largest "dry" city in the state.  Kind of a quirky claim to fame, er, something, wouldn't you say?

But all is not lost.  For my state is one of several to have a petition started for us to secede from the Union.  That's right, ye Scallywags, tonight we're gonna party like it's 1861!

Oy.  That really is the facepalm of all facepalms.

But ere ye think we've all gone mad down here and have Sean Hannity piped into our homes 24/7 (was that redundant?), there comes this bit of news: Nick Saban received dozens of write-in votes for President in the state of Alabama.  (I said "in" not "of.")  Twenty-two votes in one county alone.  And suddenly everything is set back in order.

His wife even received a write-in vote for circuit clerk in one county.  And no, it wasn't my county.  Although I can't promise it won't be next time.  Let us raise a toast... Uh... on second thought, it's like a seven-minute drive to the nearest beer store.  So scratch that.  We'll have to settle for a virtual fistbump.  *makes explosion sound with mouth*

Speaking of football, I am sure some of you were concerned about me following Bama's first loss of the season.  Let me just say that your concern is appreciated, and very much warranted.  The past three weeks have been an emotional seesaw.

After the LSU game, I was on a three-day high.  Or what I imagine a high to be.  I've never really been high, at least not in the drug-induced-brain-altering sense.  Once I got a splitting headache from being around a guy who had obviously been smoking pot, but I don't think that counts.  Anyway, had you tested the levels of dopamine in my brain following that game, I would surely have been stripped of all my Tour de France titles on the spot, assuming I had won any, or owned a bike whose tires were not perpetually both flat.

It seems almost not possible that the football season has passed so quickly.  I guess time flies when you're in a near-constant state of anxiety interspersed with brief moments of relief.

And if ever I need to get away from the stress of it all, an afternoon walk with Nephew Bone does the trick.

As autumn wanes, we talk about things like why Uncle Bone can't crack just one pecan by itself, where does this road go, the importance of finding just the right stick, and "Ooo, look!  A helicopter!"  You know, the important stuff.

These moments are among my favorite.

I wish you all a wonderful Thanksgiving.  And on that note, I'll leave you with four-and-a-half minutes of not-entirely-politically-correct classic sitcom gold.



"Educated in a small town / Taught to fear Jesus in a small town / Used to daydream in that small town / Another boring romantic, that's me..."