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You can call me a sissy all you want, but I don’t care. I won’t wear pink. I refuse to wear flip-flops or sandals of any type. (In fact, I don’t believe the words men. And sandals. Belong in the same sentence.) I am lost in the kitchen. I will not purchase brightly colored underthings. I believe the Lifetime Channel is a menace and should be banned from the airwaves. I refuse to cry at movies that do not involve sports. But after receiving my first ever massage recently… To heck with Sears gift cards, I know what I want for my birthday from here on out.
I thought I should write a primer for all the men out there who need to be gently guided into the world of rejuvenating massage, but I’m not so sure there’s a grand need for such an essay. My masseuse, Carrie – yes, I’m man enough to say the words, My masseuse, Carrie… My masseuse, Carrie, said that she gets more male clients than female in her little town, and that this was the case when she was in school, too. Maybe all men are already getting massages and I just missed the memo. (This happened once before with perfume – um, I mean, male-marketed cologne.)
Anyway, for anyone who might care, here are some massage tips from me to you. You can thank me later.
#1: “Full body massage” is a misnomer, so don’t worry yourself. More like “Whole-lotta body massage.” If you want a true full body massage, you have to get married, and that costs extra. LOTS extra.
#2: Remember: massages are therapeutic. This is not dating. Do not get these two confused. I grew up in a repressive environment where touching always meant something sexual, so yes, after my massage I had a strange urge to smoke a cigarette, but therapy is helping with all that.
#3: That having been said, if your wife or significant other is as enlightened as mine, get a masseuse instead of a masseur. First off, masseur sounds gross, sort of like a southern plantation owner complaining about septic problems (Ma sewer is backing up…). Second, and more important, the idea of having a man touch me to help me feel better still creeps me out. Therapy hasn’t helped that much yet.
#4: This is conjecture, but I’d suggest finding a masseuse in a small town. Carrie works in a town of less than two thousand residents, so that definitely qualifies. My inlaws say that Carrie grew up on a farm doing manual labor sort of chores before becoming a masseuse. Trust me on this one: that is a winning combination.
#5: When you arrive, you will be listening to New Age music, either soft piano or gurgling streams or something close akin. In case it is gurgling streams, be sure to go to the restroom beforehand.
#6: Wear clean underwear. No one will know, but it’s simply good hygiene guys.
#7: Drink the bottle of water they give you afterwards. It is not a door prize. They say it’s to help flush out the toxins the massage projected into your bloodstream. Toxin projecting is a good thing, but only if you flush.
#8: Do not operate heavy machinery for several hours afterwards. Your brain will still be in the Fiji Islands where no one operates heavy machinery for a reason.
#9: Do not wear pink or sandals. Don’t wear pink or sandals ever again. You’re a man for Pete’s sake!
This is all I can think of right now, but Rejuvenation for Dummies is a work in progress. When you go in for your first massage, please feel free to share any important tips I may have left out.
In Sun Studio
“They’ve got catfish on the table / They’ve got gospel in the air / And Reverend Green be glad to see you / When you haven’t got a prayer / You’ve got a prayer in Memphis.” – Marc Cohn, Walking in Memphis
I quit buying my daughters birthday presents years ago and started getting them memories instead. It all began when I took Erica to the House of Blues in New Orleans for her fourteenth birthday where we stood in the middle of thousands of screaming teenage girls to see O’Town in concert. Since then, Erica and I have gone on all sorts of adventures: from stalking a soccer star in Dallas to watching championship tennis in Miami. When Hillary turned six, I began the same tradition with her. We’ve spent birthday trips in places like St. Louis, Mobile, and New Orleans. Recently, we added Memphis to our repertoire of memories.
We began with the simple plan of watching the Memphis Redbirds play baseball at AutoZone Park, but it grew a bit from there. We drove over early, dropped by the Welcome Center to get some ideas, and ended up with more ideas than we had both time and money so we had to pick our favorites. We began with lunch on Beale Street at the Blues City Cafe where Hillary had the “World’s Best Tamales” (that’s my girl!) and me and my acid reflux chose the Southern Catfish Dinner instead. None of us complained. From there we strolled over to the Rock & Soul Museum to wander through music artifacts from the Smithsonian and learn about the rich history of music in Memphis. Afterwards, we got kicked out of the FedEx Forum (kicked out very politely I might add – southern hospitality is alive and well), and drove down to tour the very cool Sun Studio where Elvis was discovered and rock & roll music was born. We ended up at the Redbirds game that evening after all, followed by a late night drive back to my inlaws singing goofy songs at the top of our lungs. As the MasterCard commercial says, priceless. As my Visa statement will read, about $130.
I grew up eighty miles from Memphis and, as familiarity works, never appreciated it. I read in the newspaper that Ahmad Rashad’s daughter didn’t know he played football until a friend told her in junior high. I didn’t know Memphis was the center of the world until, say, this trip.
Learning about the birth of rock & roll music was fascinating. Although Memphis has the unfortunate distinction of shooting Dr. King off the mountaintop, it in many ways served as the harbinger of positive race relations. Though music. On a video, I listened to a black studio producer say that people had always told him that black and white people could not work together, but that the music scene in Memphis proved otherwise.
And I finally got Elvis. I grew up with the fat and sweaty Elvis and was just a kid when he died. I remember sitting in my backyard contemplating the news of his death in 1977, probably the first death I ever contemplated. I knew something monumental had happened, but to me, Elvis was gaudy clothes and drug overdoses and music my parents liked, and I didn’t grasp any real significance in it all. Over time, I learned he had something to do with rock & roll music and a leg that didn’t know how to remain still and girls screaming their lungs out, but that didn’t do much for me either. Until this trip to Memphis.
Elvis was the bridge between both races and generations, not a bad feat to pull off for a delivery truck driver from Mississippi. In the 1950s South, when America went into labor, it was Elvis who served as the delivery room doctor. He gave birth to a style of music that bridged the gap between the blues of the blacks and the country of the whites and set a generation free from it’s dividing lines. And say what you will, but I for one pause and give thanks.
The best photo-op on the Sun Studio tour was the site marked by a duct tape X where Elvis Presley gave birth to a new nation, founded in melodies, and dedicated to the proposition that music can change the world. Our tour guide said that Bob Dylan came to Memphis a few years back, walked into Sun Studio, bent over and kissed that exact spot on the floor, then got up and walked out.
I completely understand.
The Class of ‘88
Recently, in an attempt to conserve space and stay currrent with the technological revolution, I converted our VHS tapes to DVDs, one of which was my high school graduation. I attended a tiny Christian school, so there were only nineteen of us that comprised the Class of ‘88. On the video, I watched us walk in and out in our lavender (yes, lavender) robes to Pomp and Circumstance on piano, listened to our class song get cut short because the guitar solo at the end ran a little too long and was probably a little too hard for such a sterile occasion, laughed as Scott unknowingly put his hat on sideways after the invocation, and listened to several speeches.
Specifically, I listened to Coach Watson’s speech, probably for the very first time.
I heard him say that he had been out of high school twenty years, and I nearly fell out of my chair. Now no one thought Coach Watson ancient when he was our senior class sponsor, but for some reason the fact that we are now the same age he was in 1988 was a little unsettling. I kept listening, and I realized we really should have listened to him in that hot gymnasium twenty years ago.
We had our class reunion a couple of weeks ago now. Ten members of the Class of ‘88 arrived with either spouse or children or both. Three of our classmates replied unable to attend, five did not respond at all, and Scott, my best friend that special year, has been dead for years. I felt nervous when I arrived at the hotel, and for the life of me didn’t know why. I felt much better later on when I heard others say they were nervous, too.
It turned out to be a wonderful evening, comfortable, filled with food and friends and memories of days long since past. The high school girls had all turned into beautiful women, and excepting my bald head and Joe’s distinguished gray, the guys aged okay, too. Joe was the one stuck with planning our reunion so he did it his way with none of the uncomfortable formalities. There were no reports on who had down what with his or her life, just old friends sitting around swapping stories. It made Coach Watson’s 1988 speech proud.
I didn’t hear a word of that speech on graduation night, but when I finally listened to it twenty years later I heard him say that awards are overrated. They’re fine, but not what life is all about. He said that parents are pushy and want their kids to be the best and be recognized for it, but what really matters is doing your best, not being the best. In fact, he said Christians are to be more interested in putting others first anyway.
I think I know now why we were all a little nervous headed to our class reunion. We knew what these things were supposed to be about – who still looks good (or who doesn’t anymore), who has a great job (and who doesn’t have a great job), and who is the most “successful.” Coach Watson tried to head that off twenty years ago, and thankfully, Joe designed our reunion like he was still listening to the speech. We are a group of people bound together by a shared history, followed by twenty years of ups and downs, highs and lows, successes and failures, and plenty to be both proud of and embarrassed by…
Ahem, may I have your attention please, Class of 1988? We were given good advice long ago. It is a waste of time chasing after the awards of life, and it’s just plain silly comparing ourselves to one another. Let’s just do our best and be satisfied with that.
You are now free to proceed with the next twenty years.
Watch out Bill Dance, there’s some new competition in town. My wife.
My inlaws have a beautiful home a couple of miles from Black Oak, Arkansas, surrounded by farmland and sporting its very own stocked pond. After a scrumptious family fish fry in our honor on a hot summer afternoon, Jody decided to try her hand at fishing. It didn’t take long before (pardon the pun) she was hooked.
I was inside when I first heard her familiar squeal, the kind I hear when I forget to place the toilet seat back in position for takeoff. In a moment, she stuck her head in the door, her eyes wild with a joyous kind of anger, and announced, “There’s a HUGE fish that took the hook and everything!” With a disturbing gleam in her eyes that told me never to take anything important from this woman she declared, “I’m gonna get him!” and slammed the door. All the fish in the sea collectively shuddered.
Except one. Ten minutes later history repeated itself. Same squeal. Same scene with the door, this time with the exclamation, “He did it AGAIN!” She appeared even more angry, and even more happy. I considered calling 911. Something ugly was bound to happen before the night was over. Since I was hopelessly involved, I thought What the heck I’ll take pictures, grabbed my camera, and sat on the deck at what I hoped was a safe distance from Captain Ahab.
It was such a peaceful scene. Deceiving, of course. Jody was the picture of contentment, holding her rod and reel, gazing out over a tranquil lake, her 83-year-old grandmother sitting quietly at her side.
This is when all hell broke loose. Moby Dick grabbed the bait, hook, and half the demons in the underworld in a single bite, dislodged the reel from Jody’s fishing pole, and in a second commanded the attention of Black Oak, Arkansas. But with all due respect for this monster, he had no idea who he was messing with. I knew, so after a short prayer for his demon soul, I began snapping pictures.
Jody held the reel with both hands and wedged the detached pole under her armpit. She unleashed a series of high-pitched, cackling squeals, admirably refrained from any use of profanity in the presence of her grandmother, and wrestled that monster of a fish up to within a few feet of the deck.
Then came the dilemma – now what? MaMaw Bell looked at me incredulously and exclaimed, “Well, help her!” Although I have great respect for chivalry (and MaMaw Bell), I chose to ignore this plea. On one hand, who would take the pictures? On the other hand, I have a longstanding practice of not trying to help my wife until she clearly yells at me, something she had not to this point done (imagine the rest of my life if she had to share this moment of glory with her husband!). All this leads to a hypothetical third hand: I was also scared of her. She was acting a little crazy.
Anyway, as I suspected, Jody found a way to solve her own dilemma. She ditched the rod and reel, grabbed the fishing line with both hands, lifted both hands high above her head as if she was being arrested (which, by the way, I had earlier suspected might end up being the case before the night was over), and dead lifted the sea monster out of the water and on to the deck (with a deft assist from her grandmother).
I have seen Jody at many proud moments in her life: opening her own business, watching our daughter graduate from high school, and after giving birth to a child. Catching that seven-pound catfish ranks right up there with them.
I believe my wife has discovered a new hobby. Me, too. I’m taking up gambling. And I’m putting all my money on Jody.
I am 37 years old, and according to the oddsmakers in Vegas, about halfway through the typical life of an American male. At this age, people like me tend to compose lists titled, 100 Things To Do Before I Die. I know I did. But all this got me to thinking…
I’ve watched the sun rise and set on the Gulf of Mexico and gazed with wonder across the expanse of the Great Lakes, and both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. I have hiked to the top of a mountain and gone spelunking beneath the surface of the earth. I have witnessed up close the majesty of Niagara Falls, the grace of a school of dolphins at play, and the power of a mighty hurricane. I have collected seashells on a beach, picked fruit in a citrus grove, gone fishing in the deep blue sea, ridden a horse that didn’t like me AT ALL, and slept under the stars. I have planted a tree and watched it grow.
I have fully loved just one woman, witnessed the birth of a child, and felt heart flutters taking a child to kindergarten, seeing a daughter graduate high school, and then leaving her at college. I have stood up for friends at their weddings, counseled them through messy divorces, and carried caskets of others to the cemetery. I have eulogized my own dad and officiated a wedding for a couple dressed up like Superman’s parents. True story. I have bought houses and cars and then lost everything and been homeless. I have moved far away from home.
I have been on a star’s tour bus and had backstage passes for concerts. I have listened to the blues in Memphis and jazz in New Orleans. I have dressed up for the theater and stood under a blazing sun with the Parrotheads at a Jimmy Buffett concert.
I have built Habitat for Humanity houses and organizations, worked in a soup kitchen on Thanksgiving Day, and made regular friends in a nursing home. I have been a court appointed special advocate for children and spent three years living in a children’s home. I have been a Special Olympics coach. I have donated my blood.
I have seen LeBron James dunk a basketball, Landon Donavan kick a soccer ball, Maria Sharapova serve a tennis ball, Emmitt Smith run a football, and Johnny Bench catch a baseball. I have been in the Superdome for Carmelo Anthony’s Final Four and for LSU’s BCS National Championship Game. I watched juiced-up Barry Bonds play in old-school Wrigley Field. I have worn the colors of the opposing team at an SEC football game, and I’ve seen a top-ranked team upset on their home field – both on the same day. I have attended Monday Night Football, Spring Training, and all levels of minor league baseball. I have seen Bear Bryant worshiped in Tuscaloosa on a Saturday afternoon.
I have flipped burgers, and I have interviewed for a CEO position. I have graduated from college, and I have taught high school. I have totally changed careers – more than once. I have opened a business. I have preached the gospel.
I have read War & Peace, and I have written books of my own. I have read the Bible. I have blogged. I have been interviewed on television, radio, and the stage of a mega-church. I have published letters to the editor.
I have been where both John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. were assassinated and where everyone died at the Alamo. I have stood where Jefferson Davis took the oath of office as President of the Confederate States of America and been speechless to see Dr. King’s church right next door. I have walked both Beale Street and Bourbon Street. I have dined with Shamu and been “in” Abraham Lincoln’s tomb. I have watched a rocket launch at Cape Canaveral, the Blue Angels fly over Pensacola Beach, and ridden to the top of the Gateway Arch.
I heard Bill Clinton speak as President and Jimmy Carter reflect as a Nobel Peace Prize winner. I had my picture made with Pamela Anderson in Malibu, and John Grisham once called ME on the telephone.
I have ridden roller coasters and, like an idiot, once risked my life climbing a water tower illegally. I have been a first responder to a horrible automobile accident. I have taken impromptu trips, and I once took a roundtrip flight from New Orleans to Miami in a single day.
I have utilized my right to vote. I have been an official member of a political party and campaigned for candidates, and I have been a member of a labor union and lobbied lawmakers.
I have won high school state championships. I have coached t-ball. I once ran a 15k, and on one miraculous day broke a hundred in a round of golf. I have been the hero in a game. I have met a childhood sports hero, and I have a handwritten letter from a baseball Hall of Famer written on Hall of Fame stationery.
I have been to DisneyWorld in Florida, and I have seen the Hollywood Sign in California. I have walked on a glass floor 1800 feet above the ground in Toronto, and I have snorkeled in Cozumel. I have toured CNN in Atlanta, the Art Institute in Chicago, the Space Center in Houston, and the Mall of America in Minneapolis. I once tracked down the lake where they filmed the opening scene from The Andy Griffith Show.
And that’s not all. I have had my name officially engraved on a sidewalk, paid a street artist in the French Quarter, grown a beard, shaved my head, built a deck, and been on a diet. I baptized my dad, my daughters, and a good friend in a freezing lake one cold January night.
Best I can figure, I’ve already had a good 100 things in my life. Maybe more. From here on out is just gravy. So since I haven’t died yet, and if no one minds, I think I’ll just go ahead and shoot for two.
It seems that many folks I know decide their presidential vote based on a single issue. They’ll say something like, “Now I don’t want to vote just on a single issue, but I just can’t bring myself to vote for someone who supports abortion.” Then they vote Republican.
A month ago, Doug Kmiec, Caruso Family Chair in Constitutional Law at Pepperdine University, wrote an op-ed titled “Exclusive: Doug Kmiec – ‘After Meeting with Barack,’” in which he contrasts the standpoints of the respective presidential candidates on abortion with his own. I think it is worth a read – which you can do HERE.
Facebook rules. MySpace drools.
Like my man Barack, I’m trying to raise the level of discourse in America.
My friend, Shannon, says I look like Peter Garrett from Midnight Oil, and with deepest apologies to Mr. Garrett, I agree. Garrett is now in business as an Australian politician (check him out HERE for what he’s up to as well as to marvel at the uncanny resemblance).
Looking like him is one thing. Imagine my surprise when I learned that I dance like him as well! This was harder to note because I have no rhythm and absolutely never dance, but there was this one time when I sat on a sacred mound of Mississippi fire ants, and when they convened a mass revival in my drawers, I danced the dance of Peter Garrett.
Check out Midnight Oil’s special performance of “Beds Are Burning” from the 2000 Olympics in Sydney HERE for proof positive. You’ll especially get a good dose of Peter’s dancing (as well as mine) around the 3:50 mark.
I’ve been bald for over a year now, but here in Arkansas it seems that no one really knew this little factoid. I have spent much of my trip talking about my lack of hair!
So I’m standing at the BARGAIN table in Waldenbooks perusing a coffee table book about U2, and I read this fantastic quote from Bono that goes something like this (since I didn’t actually purchase the BARGAIN book): “I always thought the point of it all was to be as great as you could be.”
My first thought was, That’s what I always thought, too. My second thought was, But wow, isn’t that like the direct opposite thought presented by Jesus?
Thankfully, I thought a little more about it later on while I drove to Arkansas with my family. And I realized that it IS still a good thought, and it isn’t (necessarily) in direct opposition to the ethic of Jesus. In fact, Jesus never did condemn the inherent desire for greatness. He just redefined the path to it.
I thought that was worth thinking about.
I first met Bruno at City Hall. We were part of a meeting of clergy with the mayor of Ocean Springs, and the mayor asked each of us to introduce ourselves. Bruno mentioned appropriately that he was a retired United Church of Christ pastor, but that the UCC was not to be confused with the “Church of Christ,” a much more conservative group more prominent in the South. When my turn came, I mentioned that I preached at the Church of Christ in town, and that we weren’t “united” in any shape or form! That moment of laughter served as our personal introduction.
Year later, after I returned to my office from another City Hall meeting, Bruno made a special trip to see me. He came just to tell me that I was very different than other Church of Christ preachers he had encountered, and that this was a compliment. I sure took it as such. I think part of his confusion was my simple participation in an ecumenical meeting, but probably more perplexing was my leadership in establishing a Habitat for Humanity affiliate to break down all sorts of walls in our county (through, ironically, putting up walls of course). Either way, he sensed we had a lot more in common than anyone would have thought. And he was right.
Later, after yet another City Hall meeting, I had an idea and was bold enough to pursue it. I had lost a couple of wonderful Thursday companions (Jim McVeay, when we finished his book, and John Dobbs, when Hurricane Katrina rearranged our life schedules), and I wondered if I could get together with Bruno every once in a while just to spend some time with him. I figured I could learn a lot from a classy, retired, liberal pastor in his seventies. This time it was my turn to be perceptive. And right.
We’ve shared lunch nearly every Thursday for a couple of years now, and today was our very last one. I will miss these days very much.
My Church of Christ friends will swallow their song books learning of my hanging out with the UCC, possibly the most liberal Christian denomination on the planet. Bruno said they are so liberal that some people say they address their prayers, To Whom It May Concern. Yet their twin commitments to breaking down every wall that separates us from one another while standing up for the cause of justice for the oppressed place them in The Jesus Way to me.
Beyond all that, I keep thinking that I want to be like Bruno someday. Like tomorrow. Tomorrow would be good for me. When I was in college, one of my roommates was finishing law school. He told me that one of his professors said that everyone should be liberal when they are young because everyone will be conservative when they get older. Made sense to me. Until Bruno, that is. My friend who doesn’t reach back toward some day long since past, but who instead reaches forward toward something yet to be attained.
My Thursdays will be different now. Worse in a real way. Yet because of my Thursdays with my friend, Bruno, I hope all my other days will be better and better. When I picture Bruno thinking radical thoughts, taking on new challenges in retirement, perusing blogs and playing with his techno-gadgets, and befriending a goofy Church of Christ preacher he only knew was “different,” I will remember exactly who it is that I’m trying to become.
