WILDCATS SURPRISE BADGERS!

It is hot here.

I grew up here, never lived anywhere much cooler, and yet I am always shocked by summer. Its sheer audacity is an affront to polite society. It is difficult to be decent–much less my usual level of genteel–in such oppressive heat. It inspires a brutality and vulgarity that are rarely seen in other seasons.

This year–possibly due to my advanced age–I was particularly caught off guard by its rudeness. A giant, flaming spotlight burst into my room around 7am, and brought with it another day of post-apocalyptic* hell. The air is scorched.

Don't be fooled by the lush greenery, it's hellish.

I longed to be outdoors. To walk, to run, to sit quietly on my porch. Even as I watched every outdoor surface struggle not to peel, melt, wither, or wilt, the pull of outdoor freedom strengthened. I ventured out in my standard uniform of jeans and a button-down shirt, only to retreat a few minutes later–drenched, defeated, dejected.

From the ashes of my pain rose a phoenix of style. I call it Safari.

I had a farm in Africa.

I couldn’t spend my entire summer lurking in the shadows, staying indoors.

The look consists, roughly of the following elements:

• pair of khaki bermuda shorts–the first pair of shorts I have owned since childhood–casually rolled up
• a white linen shirt, or a white tank top
• an oxblood belt (the shorts are too large, and thus have to be belted, which lends itself to the whole look nicely)
• a red bandanna, rolled up and tied around my neck
• shoes differ, but are usually yellow gladiator sandals
• Coming soon: a hat–I considered a pith helmet, but I am thinking something more along the Panama-style

There are also variations on the look:

• Dress Safari: shorts can be substituted for a skirt, or bandanna can be substituted for a silk scarf; earrings can be added to take the look from day to evening.
• Surf Safari {on occasion, one has to forsake the plains for the open seas}: white shirt replaced with a nautical stripe shirt; shoes are topsiders; nautical terms are used in conversation.

The sea is a cruel mistress.

Safari is more than just a look, it is a state of mind, a state of being. It combines an ease of mind with ruthless efficiency, ie “Could I kill a lion in these clothes?”**; “Can the hills of Africa sustain a coffee farm?”; “Give me that sandwich or I will shoot you with my elephant gun.”, etc.

Big game hunting aside, a change in style has done me good.

I wonder where I can buy a hat like hers?

*This post-apocalyptic world is more in the style of Mad Max, rather than The Road.

**Not that I would ever kill such a majestic creature, but if forced, would this be the appropriate outfit/state of mind.

the frozen tundra

Last night snow lightly dusted the Memphis landscape.  Perhaps you are reading this from somewhere other than Memphis, as Google Analytics assures me you are, and you do not understand the southern reaction to a wintry precipitation? Allow me to explain, in steps.

First: Our local news stations create a name. My personal favorite is WINTER COMMAND.

Second: The meteorologists and weathermen then create a mild hysteria with predictions of inches, that’s right INCHES, of snow.

Third: Schools close, preemptively. “Stay in your houses and off the roads.”

Fourth: Grocery stores teem with terrified shoppers, stocking up on toilet paper, bottled water, and mexicorn.

Fifth: A panic-stricken city goes to sleep, assuming White Armageddon will take hold come sunset.

Sixth: Sleet and snow flurry throughout the night, creating pale white glow. Streets are clear for the most part. Those who go to work face the horror of winter storm traffic (as there is never any real snow, we don’t really know how to drive in what little we get). Those who stay home are harassed by their brood. Not enough snow for sledding, too cold for anything else; children are out of school and underfoot.

Seventh: By noon the snow is melted, roads are clear, and everyone is disappointed. Another crisis averted.

Enjoy the Winter Wonderland!

I often travel for work.

travel essentials

When on these business trips I stay in hotels.

one might describe this as my hotel "work space"

Until I started my current job, hotels were a rarity in my life. There were cut-rate motels for a night here and there on road trips, a Mexican resort in college, and a few four star hotels…

Hotel Imperial, Vienna

…but only when someone else was paying. That was pretty much it.

Now I am in mid-range hotels on a regular basis, for work. Odd. The hotel becomes my home, sometimes for weeks at a time. This is the life of a businessman, or more accurately, a salesman. I am neither, but this lifestyle lends itself to pretending.

Room service: $12 burger, $3 delivery fee, 25% gratuity

1. I think about ordering an obscenely expensive burger from room service, because I am just too swamped with work to go out.

Fact: “Swamped” usually entails watching 3 hours of television whilst reading facebook and eating gummy worms.

2. I move my computer over to the desk, put some papers in a folder, and type furiously.

Fact: I have to erase most of the typing because it makes no sense, and the folder is filled with old US Weeklys.

3. I keep my receipts, and sometimes tell people that I will “write it off as a business expense”.

Fact: I have only the vaguest idea what that means.

4. Everyone else tells stories about their loved ones, how they are missed, and the work they have when they return home.

Fact: My phone has rung twice during this week-long trip.

It’s lonely on the road. Luckily, I am finishing this post, packing up, and heading home.

The eagerly awaited followup to Cloudy Sky Fix

After several misadventures in overcast self-medication, I believe I have stumbled onto the perfect remedy for the malaise brought on by a rainy day.

Step One:

Blanket yourself.

mmmmmm snuggly

One needs a proper blanket when one is on the couch for a rainy day. This particular blanket belongs to my roommate.  It is a down blanket, not to be confused with fluffy down comforter. It is a little too early in the year for the comforter.

Step Two:

Numb your mind with movies on television.

Oh Jake, you're ever-so dreamy...

Though I prefer Molly Ringwald’s character in The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles might be the best movie ever. Fact. It is perfect entertainment for a day when one chooses not to use one’s muscles. I mean, of course, other than my swoon muscle; it’s getting a full workout.

Step Three:

Feed thy soul with noodles.

yum yum yummmity yum yum

Luckily, my favorite noodle shop–Noodle Doodle Do, of recent Bon Appetit fame–is only one block away. A steaming bowl of noodles + a mildly difficult crossword puzzle = perfect rainy day lunch. Yes, I ate alone. I often do, as I am a loser without shame. Fact.

I am warm, entertained, and nourished. Ergo, my depression is suppressed.

In my liberated state, I might go to the gym, or a museum, or sit around all day watching movies on Encore Love. The world is my clambake. Clambake!

Part One of Hard-Hitting Two Part Series

The sky has been a dark shade of gray for almost three weeks.

If this was the color of a J.Crew sweater it would be "suicidal heather".

Normally, I enjoy a rainy day. I use it as an excuse to sit inside, read a book all day or watch an entire season of a TV show or a BBC miniseries on DVD. Prolonged absence of the sun is another matter all together.

This sky is gravely affecting my spirits.

Without the sun glaring through my window in the mornings,  it is hard to cheerfully scamper out of bed bright and early, eager to greet the day. The gym seems less appealing; the constant threat of rain dampens outdoor walks. There is a general malaise settling into my life.

I tried several uplift tactics, to no avail.

I cleaned my room.

The light looks bright, but it is cloudy...like my soul.

I made my bed, in hopes that it would jump start my day. Fail.

I drank English Breakfast tea this morning, instead of coffee. Sometimes pretending I am British cheers me up. Fail.

I made a festive, themed dinner.

BRAZIIIIILLL! It's like Carnival!

My heart knows that it is not like Carnival! Fail.

I looked through my photo albums, repeatedly.

Sam, Sarah, Mom, and look how thin, blond, and happy I am!

That cat is enormous! How hilarious!

Fail.

Retail therapy=panic inducing nightmare, so Fail.

Last night I fixed the spell check in Word. Being smart and productive usually helps. Fail.

I gave up carbs in order to lose copious amounts of weight before attending a friend-studded wedding in October,  junk-food fix? Fail, made worse by the fact that it has yet to start working. Double Fail.

In desperation, I looked for a quick fix. www.badgerbadgerbadger.com. Heartbreaking Fail.

I’m worried. If dancing badgers cannot restore my good spirits, what can?

Cooper Young Festival was yesterday.

I live in the Cooper Young area of Midtown. This festival is in my yard.

Storm clouds are looming over rednecks and handmade dog coats.

Outdoor fairs, festivals, carnivals, and the like are my idea of hell. The combination of crowds, loud music, children, crafts, handmade jewelry, porta-potties, high-priced beer, and discordant noise fill me with unrelenting panic. The Cooper Young Festival is a breeding ground for all of these horrors.

People who normally steer clear of Midtown due to its hipsters, hippies, gays, liberals, and trees frolic freely in the streets of Cooper Young once a year.  These suburban pilgrims come from far off regions of Memphis to paint their faces, buy angels/dragons/crosses/tie-dies, and get absurdly drunk.

Though the threat of rain kept away many, the streets teemed with people.

I awoke yesterday morning and opened my front door; in wafted the fit-inducing smell of a freshly fried corndog. While the heavenly delight of a corndog can be found at every country gas station in rural Mississippi and Tennessee, it is a treat rarely available in the urban world. The pronto*-scent lured me from my porch into the belly of the beast.

Look! Pronto Pups!

Once in the festival I beheld sights and sounds I would ne’er again see…for another year. Oh the shenanigans. Three stages blasted loud, semi-professional music. There was lots of goth-style pleather and loads of jewelry made of glass wrapped in copper wiring. Two girls were screaming about the fun of “spinners”, which turned out to be records spun on a turntable and splattered with paint; I didn’t see the fun in it. More than anything else, there was awesome art. Of course, art is subjective, but I feel strongly that dragons will be in all the major New York galleries next spring. This painting was perhaps my favorite.

Let's call her Skylar.

In this cacophony, I found my prize.

Dog it.

Sarah, pronto.

Oh fried wiener on a stick! How thou sweet taste doth woo thy slathered mustard!

Corndogs make me wax poetic, true story. My corndog was a bit disappointing, cold and chewy, but nevertheless, it served its purpose. I sauntered the few dozen yards back to my home, and quietly condemned the drunken fools tottering up and down my street.

*There is a difference between Pronto Pups and Corndogs. Wikipedia tells me it is that the pronto is made with wheat flour. Huh. For the purposes of this publication, I will be using the terms interchangeably. They are both delicious.