The Gospel According to St. Anthony…(Bourdain, not the religious dude … but damn sure spiritual)
Feeling down? All thumbs today? The news sucks? The pearls of Tony’s wisdom are just what you need …and a cold libation.
Big plans were in the making today for the “Teacher in Transition” that I can tell you. (O’ sweet baby Jeebus … did I just write something that sounded like …HIM ..orange?) Please overlook that as I’ve made it a point to appear apolitical on this blog due to the fact that I have too many people who think “meh” of me as it is; can’t blow this gig. I digress …big plans were in the making today for the “Teacher in Transition” that I can tell you. A warm cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin were on the agenda at my latest coffee joint that resembles a Billy Joel song some mornings depending on the colored glasses I chose to put on as I head out the door. A belt had come loose in the planning (hint: foreshadowing) as I suffered through one my all too common bouts of insomnia that have not abated since retiring from yon teaching career. My psych…doctor had assured me my sleeping patterns would improve. The M.D. after a name does not include the abilities of the Amazing Kreskin it seems.
So, I slept until 9:30 am, which I hate doing as it contradicts notions and goals I envision for myself. Ahh, I may not be able to kick the insomnia, but I can still disappoint myself. Digression? Yes, digression. The best laid plans can always be altered, so, since I didn’t get to spend the early morning hours caffeinating, it turned out that the scheduled 10:30 am pick up of my newly repaired mower, lawn tractor, the throne of the most high would be right on time. For those that know me, I’m kind of Hank Hill about my lawn. Neatly cut on a weekly basis and verdant green, “I mean to tell ya!” OCD? You bet your ass I am… and I’ve got one of the best lawns on the block. My red, powerhouse mower had been “injured” for the last four weeks and I belong to the last of the male mindset that cries, “I’ll be damned if I’ll pay for something I can fix myself by god!” Well, I couldn’t… so, like a beaten Scotsman at Falkirk, I relinquished my mower to the small engine repair establishment. That was four weeks ago, since that time I had trusted my regal task of lawn maintenance to a local guy. Each week, the manhood card was diminished in the eyes of gray haired, pot bellied men around the world. What was worse, salt in the wound if I may, was that I liked the lawn guy. He did a great job on the edging; it looked better than my job. Pass the salt; I even entertained, briefly, that I’d keep him on. No, no, that wouldn’t do for the Hank Hill’s among us. So, off I went to retrieve my trusty steed at the cost of $212.00. The mower was home and I started my quest to reassert my lawn sovereignty.
I hadn’t mowed more than fifty feet when the blade wouldn’t engage. Many four letter words flowed freely from my mouth that I can tell you. I looked underneath and the transmission/ blade belt was off … and outside of the guard that, according to yonder mower manual, was never supposed to happen. (Refer to earlier foreshadowing) I retrieved my wrenches and began wallowing my frame on the concrete to fix what $212.00 was supposed to prevent. I have a neighbor who is a lively, talkative, country fella. He’s about twenty years older than me, but we both spent time working for the Texas Department of Transportation… road crew construction and maintenance. He retired from TXDOT while I moved on to the financially lucrative field of professional education. Yes, I know digression. He wisely observed in that poetic East Texas vernacular, “Jist between ye n me n da birds, I’d git em fellas ta fix it it aint rite that ye oughta since ye dun paid em.” Like. honey, the wisdom flowed and he was right. Though I have to watch myself as I have a bad temper that, when let loose, has never left me anything but regret in its wake. I loaded my lawn tractor back up and with all the righteous indignation I could muster, I returned to the lawn care establishment.
I must say, I was proud of my self control. I laid out politely and respectfully what I expected and even insisted that the burden of returning the mower to my humble abode rested with them. It all fell apart when they said, “we usually charge $30 to deliver a mower.” I felt my ears turn red, the hair on my neck stood up and I surrendered to the darker impulses of my nature. I consider myself a well traveled, educated man with degrees in History, Art, and American Literature with additional graduate work in educational studies. That being said, a good part of my life has been spent striping highways, making road signs (not in prison), roofing, waxing floors, building cabinets and manufacturing mobile homes. There is plenty of blue collar rage in my closet and I can pull out the angry Ernest T. Bass with the best of them. The words just took a life of their own, I might as well have tried to keep the ocean tide at bay with a broom, “I’ll be damned if I pay you no mower fixin’ folks $30 to return my mower than you didn’t fix right in the first place. I’ll pay you no mind and I’ve been more than patient. Y’all do what’s right.” I left… red faced with little or no dignity left. I don’t like it when I lose my temper… even if I’m right. I allowed a person to pull my string and that’s hard to abide. With my head hanging low, I was off to pick up my wife.
I relayed the days events and realized that I never had that coffee or blueberry muffin or anything else for that matter. I grabbed a bite to eat and decided that sitting in my swing, with my dogs, with a cold malted beverage and a pretty high end cigar would be good for what was ailing me. My instincts were correct, I was feeling better almost immediately… that wouldn’t last long. My normally placid, sleep anywhere and snore English bulldog, Chunk, was making an unusual sound, a high pitched whimper. She does nothing high pitched…I looked down and her back paw was bleeding. Somehow, laying still in the gravel, somehow she had moved in such a way as to tear one of her claws loose. She was just sleeping… like a rock. How in the world… it didn’t matter, panic took over me and I threw my cigar down in the rocks and picked up my seventy pound true companion up in my arms and rushed into the house where my all intelligent wife who’s been a nurse for thirty four years would asses the situation. Proper assessment requires asking questions… and my darling wife … is the queen of questions. “How bad is it? How’d it happen? Is the claw off? How’s she bearing weight? Should we call the vet? Is she able to walk?” With cooler heads prevailing, I recognize that all of these are masterful questions to ask, showing acute insight and knowledge of patient care, but this is my Chunk, my compadre, my boon companion… calm rationale ain’t on the agenda. All I can muster is, “DOG HURT, DOG BLEED, NEED HELP, CIGAR GONE!”
My wife settled me and Chunk down and got me to apply pressure to the paw. Me, being the right brained dominant empath that I am, did what I do best when my kids, grandkids and dogs are hurt… I sing to them. I’m no Freddy Mercury, but it feels right. When Chunk realized that it was best to rest on the rug. I went outside … grabbing another cold beer. I looked down and saw the smoldering remnants of my once proud stogie and I just looked and closed my eyes. I was thinking to myself, “oh man … help me,” as if calling on a higher power. I was and I instinctively knew what to do: turn on my audio book of Anthony Bourdain’s Medium Raw. No one soothes the savage beast better than St. Anthony because his mild yet caustic manner has already painted a masterpiece of profane verbiage to perfectly deal with any frustration better than you, me or anyone else could’ve hoped to write. Chewed out by the boss? Anthony knew what to say. Overdrawn at the bank? Just tell St. Anthony. Your best dog is bleeding from his paw and your cigar is ash? Yes, Anthony knows. He paints in snarky, on your last nerve, profanity laced sarcasm like others paint in oils or sculpt in marble. Oh, the master he was … I mean that even though I wrote it like Yoda. Any person who, through the written or spoken word, can perfectly disarm any rage induced state of mind to a calming, satisfying, “YES! THATS EXACTLY THE WAY I FEEL,” is a wizard beyond Harry Potter level my friends… and his words hit the mark today.
In chapter 4 of Medium Raw, Tony is writing of the joys and calm of drinking alone in a bar in the afternoon after facing the many “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” that the working Joe endures all too often. To quote Tony,
. “this is the refuge of those beaten down by life, not broken
. mind you, not beaten down like a coal miner or an out of work steel
. worker, just dissatisfied with the way life turned out.”*
I need to make a fine point on this quote, though not too fine a point, I don’t mean complete disappointment with life… just the occasional, piss you off kind of day. When one takes into account the tragic outcome of Tony’s life; it’s hard not to read more into his words than he might’ve meant when he first put pen to paper. No, Tony’s wisdom was meant for me…today… or anytime that you are on the receiving end of a kick right up the ass. Tell uncle Tony, he’ll make it better.
The bar in question in chapter 4 he describes as “his bar”, an every man’s (or woman’s) kind of bar. Where no one is taking body shots of tequila, or judging fellow patrons by what they wear, where no one is yelling, “whoop whoop,” at a television screen of the sport du jour. One where someone will identify with a maddening repair job, or a bleeding dog, or a tossed cigar and reply with, “no kidding, dammit let me buy you a drink.” Now that my friends is serving your fellow man. For those who might say, “well, that’s not the most constructive way to deal with your frustrations,” I say, though not as eloquently as the honorable Mr. Bourdain, “bite me.” Today, I tried constructive… it didn’t work out … I’ll try that again tomorrow. For now, let the libations flow freely my friend. My Chunk will be ok, I’ll get my mower back tomorrow and the fridge is filled with cold beer.”
But, the cigar …
http://labibliotecacoffee.com/
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https://instagram.com/loveandwinemedia?utm_medium=copy_link
*Bourdain, Anthony; Medium Raw; Ecco Publishing; June 8, 2010
