Bob Dylan Wallpaper

My basement is covered in Bob Dylan sheet music.

I didn't do it.  I've always been more of a Paul Simon guy.  When it comes to songs about New York City streets, give me the one about 59th over the one about 4th any day.

(I have a theory that you're either a Simon or a Dylan person.  Prose or poetry.  Stories or sonnets.  Yes, you can be both, but you inevitably have a preference and what the preference is says a lot about you.  For example, if you are a Simon person you tend to wear glasses, eat way too much Breyer's Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream, and wear the same pair of blue jeans every day for a week.)

The old owners of the new blue house were obsessed with all things Robert Zimmerman.  There were posters and pictures everywhere.  Young Dylan.  Old Dylan.  Folk Dylan.  Rock Dylan.  Every album on vinyl, 8-track, cassette, and CD.  Concert tickets from the last three decades in shadow boxes.  Framed Rolling Stone covers.  And when they refinished the basement they made wallpaper out of Bob Dylan sheet music.  Famous songs and obscure songs.  Early songs and old.  A history of one of the great American writers in various key signatures and tempos — on my wall.  

Right above my desk is "Tangled Up In Blue" and "Going, Going, Gone."  

Next to the couch is "Open the Door Homer" and "Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again."  

Above my daughters' toy chest is "I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine" and "Hurricane."    

Despite not being the world's biggest Dylan fan, I love being surrounded by his songs.  Some I know and some I don't.  Some are important to me and some are downright lousy, but I love them all.  I find them oddly comforting.  And inspirational.  So much so that the other day I got out my guitar for the first time in three months and decided to learn some songs.

That's when I discovered, to my horror, that they're not in order.  The pages are random; put up without any regard for song, album, era, year, decade, key signature, time signature, tempo, or theme.  Yes, "Tangled Up In Blue" is above my desk, but only the first page.  Next to it is the second page of "Yea! Heavy and a Bottle of Bread" and odd pages of two other songs without titles that I don't recognize.  

"Knockin' On Heaven's Door" is followed by the third page of "Wiggle Wiggle."  (Which is an absolute travesty.)

"Like a Rolling Stone" is followed by the second page of "Quinn the Eskimo."

It's driving me mad.  I want all of "I Shall Be Released," not just the second page.  I want all of "Masters of War," not just the first page.  Or better yet, I want to be ignorant again.  I want to go back to that moment before I had that spark of inspiration and got my guitar out of it's dusty case only to realize that the songs on my wall serve no purpose but as wallpaper.  The lyrical equivalent of flowers and neutral colors.  

It could be worse though.  They could be Paul Simon songs.  That would be a real travesty.

R

Zing!

Thursday.  6:14 pm

Rilla:  Dad, what's our balance?

Me:  What balance?

Rilla:  Our balance.

Me:  I don't know what you mean.

Rilla:  Yes you do.

Me:  No I don't.

Rilla:  I know what it is.

Me:  OK Rilla, what's our balance?

(pause followed by a big smile)

RIlla:  Your face.

The student has become the master.  You never forget your daughter's first "your face."  I'm so proud.

R

Augustino

My best friend is a 70 year old Greek man named Augustino.

Unfortunately, Augustino doesn't know that yet.  He thinks his casual waves to me as he walks up the steps to his house are just that — casual waves between two neighbors.  But it's slim pickings in South Bend and a best friend is hard to come by.  The runner-up was the crazy-eyed bagger guy at Krogers, but I can't tell if he wants to be friends or if he wants to eat me.  Plus, I'm pretty sure there's a bird living in his beard and I've always said that personal hygiene is very important when it comes to picking friends.  You know what else is?  Not being a cannibal.  Big no-no.

Rilla came home from her first day of pre-school and announced that she had a new best friend.  She still had her best friend in Kentucky, but now she also had a best friend in the state that keeps Kentucky from falling into Tennessee.  "My best friend is named Olivia and she has an elephant," Rilla emphatically declared and I immediately was jealous.  Yes of the elephant (which disappointingly turned out to be just a stuffed animal, ruining quite a few hopes and dreams) but also at how easily Rilla was able to make a new friend.  And not just a friend, but a best friend.  The next day when I walked Rilla into her classroom she looked around the room, scanning the faces for familiarity, when a little head popped up from behind a shelf.  "Rilla!"  "Olivia!"  The two girls ran towards eachother, hugged, and then — like little girls do — jumped up and down giggling.  Other than the last part, it was a pretty spot-on impression of the ending of every Kate Hudson movie ever made.  

I want that.  Well...not that.  Not the hugging and the jumping up and down and the giggling.  I want the thirty year old male equivalent.  I want someone to share a beer with.  To watch a game with.  To talk politics with.  To throw a baseball with.  To make fun of and to cringe at when they make fun of me.  

I don't know what I expected when we moved.  Maybe some part of me actually thought there would be neighbors lined up outside our front door with fresh baked goods just itchin' to introduce themselves.  While we were unpacking our moving van a 30 year old man would knock on the front door and ask me:  "Do you want to play catch?"  I'd look at the pretty, brown-haired girl with dimples with puppy dog eyes until she finally caved — "Oh, alright.  But be back by dusk you hear?" — and then I'd run and grab my mitt and Reds hat and tear through the front yard.  "I'm Rob."  "I'm Gary."  Hours later I'd return and emphatically declare that I had a new best friend.  Maybe he'd even have an elephant.

I'm from a small town.  The kind of place where the kids you go to pre-school with are the same you graduate with 15 years later.  You don't have to make new friends when you grow up in a town like that, friends are just kind of made for you and you never have to introduce yourself because everyone already knows you.  I never moved.  I never had new neighbors.  It wasn't until I left for college that I first had to make new friends and, well, it was a lonely freshman year.  I spent the vast majority of my time in my dorm room on the seventh floor of Poland Hall counting down the days until I could go home.  (And also trying to ignore the ungodly loud Madonna songs being pumped out of the stereo of the room next to mine.)  I swore that this time would be different.  This time I would make new friends — but don't worry, I'd keep the old.  One could be silver and the other could be gold!  But here I am.  Two months in and I've got bupkiss.

That's where Augustino comes in.  Sure, he's not perfect.  He's twice my age and his English isn't that great. But we both like feta cheese and I have an impressive knowledge of the inhabitants of Mt. Olympus.  

Now to tell Augustino the good news.  Sigh.

R

robcarpenter11@gmail.com

Grace

I passed a sign today that said "Grace - 1 Mile" with a big arrow pointing to the right.  

It was a legitimate sign — not a piece of cardboard with the words written in Sharpie.  City approved.  Made of metal and bolted to a pole.  I'm sure there was another part to the sign that had been taken away or fallen off and "Grace" was simply the name of the school or church or township to my right, but the sign left behind — simply advertising grace as only being a mile down the road — posed an existential opportunity.

"Yes," I thought.  "I would like some of that," and when I reached the light I flipped on my turn signal.

"But Rob," you say.  "You can have grace anytime you want it.  All you have to do..."

No, no, no.  I don't want Jesus-Christ-died-on-the-cross-for-my-sins-and-rose-again-so-we-could-all-eat-chocolate-bunnies grace.  That's fine.  Great.  And you can have it.  I want tangible grace.  I want to feel it.  Taste it.  Smell it.  I want a grace soup line where I patiently queue up with my bowl and when I finally reach the front some guy with a week-old beard dumps a big spoonful of grace in it and I can barely make it to the old wooden bench before gobbling it up.  I want to get back up, calmly walk back to the big pot o' grace and charmingly ask for more.  I'd be incredibly polite:  "Please sir, I want some more?"  Then some guy with mutton chops wearing a funny looking hat would make a big deal about me wanting more — about how no one had ever done it before — and then there would be a song and dance number and, well, it's mostly visual after that.

The sharp honk of the Pontiac Vibe snapped me out of my Walter Mitty daydream.  I checked the rear-view-mirror, flipped off the turn signal, and went straight.  No time for grace Dr. Jones.  No time for musicals about orphans either.  I have to go buy some roses.  Some sweet, red roses.  2 blooms for a penny.  You can't beat that.

R

Corn

I learned how to eat corn from cartoons.

It was one of the ducks.  Daffy Duck.  Donald Duck.  Count Duckula.  Or maybe it was a chicken.  Or a goose.  I'm not quite sure, but it was definitely fowl.  There was a bill — an orange bill — and I can remember the corncob gliding across it like a platen methodically moving left to right on a typewriter.  Then — "DING!" — rotate the cylinder half an inch and start again.  Repeat until the cob is kernel free.

Made sense to me.  I attacked the cob like I was writing the great American novel.  Furiously eating row after row of sweet, delicious corn.  No one ever told me otherwise.  No one stopped and said, "Hey, Four-eyes, you're not a celluloid chordata!"  Maybe I should have figured it out when I stopped getting invited to barbecues and clambakes (there were lots of clambakes in West Kentucky), but I didn't.  I was too busy picking pieces of corn out of my teeth.

The other day during dinner I paused halfway through my bowl of homemade turkey chili, eyed the corn-on-the-cob peacefully resting on my side plate — unaware of what fate had in store, stretched my mouth muscles, and then attacked like a Great White Shark.  After the first two rows were devoured in in a blur of saliva and kernels, I looked up to see my sister staring at me, aghast, with her mouth open in disbelief.

"What is wrong with you?" she asked.

"Whmmpphhtt?"  I said as pieces of corn flew across the table.

Now I know that there is a right way and a wrong way to eat corn.  My way is the latter, but it's a lot more fun.

R

What Would You Do-ooo-ooo For A Chicken Sandwich?

One of my favorite ad campaigns is for the Klondike Bar.  I'm sure you know it, but in the rare case that you've been living under a rock in Borneo for the last few decades (and if so, welcome back) the basic premise of the commercial is that the Klondike Bar is so unbelievably good that a perfectly rational person would do anything to have one.  All together now:  "What would you do-ooo-ooo for a Klondike Bar?"  One poor schmo, instead of leaving the dirty dishes on the countertop, would put them directly into the dishwasher.  Another would massage the crusty corns of his mother-in-law.  Why, there's even a man who would act like a (gasp!) dog in exchange for the frozen treat.  A dog!  Can you believe it?  A dog! 

Three thoughts:

1.  It's a brilliant campaign because the Klondike Bar is a pretty lousy product.  I can think of ten other frozen bar treats off the top of my head that I'd rather have than a Klondike Bar.  It's mediocre ice cream enclosed in a so-so chocolate shell.  That's it.  That's the whole shebang.  There's not even a stick so eating the darn thing without getting it all over yourself humanly impossible.  Don't believe me?  Well just ask Dr. Heinrich Wolfhauser and Dr. Raymond Stantz and their crack team at Princeton University who proved the theory!  All of that being said, when I see a commercial or the jingle inexplicably pops into my head, I want a Klondike Bar.  Nay, I need a Klondike Bar!  And I would do-ooo-ooo anything for it.

2.  As fun and kitschy as the commercials are, I'd like to see them taken up a notch or two.  Everyone would bark like a dog for a free ice cream.  I mean, who wouldn't do that?  But, what about something really extreme?  Would you climb the Himalayan Mountains and bring back the head of the Yeti?  Would you eat a used diaper filled with Indian food?  Would you watch "Untamed Heart?"  No, of course you wouldn't. 

3.  The Bar is not from the Klondike.  It's from Youngstown, Ohio.  Just south of Cleveland.  I just thought you should know.  I'll give you a few seconds to regain your composure.

OK?

The Klondike Bar jingle bounced around my head last night as I walked into the local Chick-Fil-A for a free chicken sandwich.  "What would you do-ooo-ooo for a chicken sandwich?"  Well, I would do just about anything for a free chicken sandwich — especially a free chicken sandwich from Chick-Fil-A.  Afterall, they invented the darn thing!  (Or so they say.  Now, does anyone actually think that S. Truett Cathy was the first person in the history of the world to put a piece of chicken in between two pieces of bread?  No, absolutely not.  Don't believe me, well just ask Dr. Heinrich Wolfhauser...)  And what do the find purveyors of the nation's second largest chicken-based fast food restaurant ask in return for the free sandwich?  That you simply wear a shirt with your favorite college football team's logo on it.  Wear the shirt.  Get the sandwich.  It was that simple.

Well, like most things in my world, it wasn't that simple.  My favorite college football team is the University of Michigan.  For the record, I didn't have a choice in the matter.  I was raised to be a Go Blue fan and a Go Blue fan I am, for better or for worse.  So the only college t-shirt I have is a faded blue shirt with "Michigan" in big, block, yellow letters.  Oh, forgive me, they're not yellow — they're maize.  How silly of me.  Anyway, here's the problem, my local Chick-Fil-A just happens to be down the road from the University of Notre Dame.  The same Notre Dame that is one of Michigan's hated rivals.  The same Notre Dame that Michigan plays this weekend in Ann Arbor.  I didn't have a choice though.  I would have gladly worn a different shirt but I don't have another college shirt.  Not a shirt from my alma mater.  (Which is a real shame.)  Not a Kentucky or a Louisville shirt.  And I sure as hell wasn't going to put on a Notre Dame shirt.  (When I was a kid, I was raised to believe that Lou Holtz was the antichrist.)  If I wanted the chicken sandwich I had to wear the Michigan shirt.  Period.  There was no other way.  And not just to the restaurant.  First I had to stop by campus.  There were errands to run.  I would have to walk around Notre Friggin' Dame with a Michigan shirt on five days before the big game.  People have been killed for less than that!  I would have to endure the taunts and the harassment.  The threats and the leers.  I would have to risk my life for a stupid chicken sandwich.  It would be like Daniel walking into the lion's den while sporting a snappy vest made out of veal shanks.

But you know what?  It was worth it.  In fact, it might very well have been the best chicken sandwich I've ever had.

 

R

 

 

Pancakes

I ate pancakes today.

I know what you're thinking.  "Wow.  Stop the presses.  If this is the direction the blog is going I'll have to find my daily dose of banal musings elsewhere.  Sure, he's handsome, has great teeth, a firm handshake, and his smile can light up a room, but pancakes?  Really Rob?  Tomorrow he'll write about tying his shoes.  Now, why do I have the sudden urge to listen to "Batdance?""

But wait a second.  Pancake noshing might be a common occurrence in your household but in mine it's Haley's Comet.  I haven't eaten a pancake in nine and a half years.  And not just pancakes -- any combination of flour, egg, and milk that is poured onto a hot stove hasn't crossed my lips in nearly a decade.  I haven't gorged on griddlecakes, binged on blintzes, chomped on crumpets, pounded any palatschinke, consumed crepes, pigged out on pannekoeken, killed a few kaiserschmarrns, nibbled on a naleśniki, or even feasted on flapjacks.

Whooo.

As I've mentioned before, I hate throwing up.  Loathe it.  Abhor it.  Anathematize it.  (Wait…let me check the thesaurus for more synonyms.)  I'd rather have my leg caught in a beaver trap than toss my cookies.  I'd rather spend an entire day strapped to a chair and forced to watch Sandra Bullock movies.  While You Were Sleeping.  Miss Congeniality 2:  Armed and Fabulous.  Hope Floats.  All in a continuous loop.  I'd rather have Rush Limbaugh read the Twilight books out loud to me.  I'd rather…well, you get the idea.  At the slightest stomach discomfort you will find me on my knees praying to a variety of deities, hoping one of them will answer my prayers and spare me from the barf demons.  Vishnu?  Buddha?  Jesus?  Anyone?  Please?  It doesn't matter to me.  Any one of them will do.  But, if those prayers are not answered, I will curse those same gods and swear off religion all together.  What kind of higher power would create life that regurgitates?  How is that divine?  People say that the beauty and magic of life is the proof that there is a god, well I say that regurgitation proves that there isn't.  Or that whoever created the universe has a sick sense of humor.

After I'm done cursing deities (which, depending on the violence of the episode, can take quite a long time) I try to move on with my life and step one in moving on is swearing off the offending food forever.  I take that back, step one is crying.  Step two is pulling myself together, looking in the mirror, and then crying some more.  Step three is swearing off the offending food.  It wasn't a stomach bug that slayed me.  No, of course not!  It was the Apple Cinnamon Cheerios.  It was the chicken curry.  It was the bacon cheeseburger at Applebee's.  It was the Au Jus that I dipped my roast beef sandwich in.  It was the margherita pizza at…well…I happen to be friends with the owner of the place that made the pizza so I'm not going to say.  All I have to do to ensure that I never throw up again is never eat the food that caused me to throw up in the first place.  It's a foolproof plan.

OK, I'll be the first to admit that it's a silly system.  Why do I ban the Apple Cinnamon Cheerios but not the milk in that disastrous bowl of cereal?  Why did I refuse to eat at Applebee's but continued to eat burgers until the day I gave up red meat?  Instead of blaming the au jus, maybe I should blame myself for riding my bike from sunrise to sunset on a hot summer day, pausing only to wolf down a roast beef sandwich and a milkshake.  It's purely selective and I'm the only selector.  The judge and the jury.  The little g god.  Something or someone has to pay for the insolence impacted on my innards.

And then sometimes the "incident" is so violent, so memorable, that I don't have a choice.  The mere sight or smell of the offending food makes me want to run for the hills.  (Or even worse, start watching "The Lake House.")  Such was The Great Pancake Disaster of 2000.  One month into a life of newlywed bliss, the poor pretty, brown-haired girl with dimples had to see me at my absolute worst.  Crying.  No, sobbing.  Flipping back and forth between incanting prayers and shouting curses to every god from Ah Puch to Zeus.  Curled up in the fetal position on the linoleum bathroom floor of our tiny one-bedroom apartment.  Purging every last teensy bit of pancakes from my swollen stomach.  Good times. 

(I thought I'd test that whole "for better or for worse, in sickness or in health" bit right out of the gate.)

For nine and a half years the "incident" haunted me.  Every other brush with barfing was compared to it and nothing came close.  And the thing was, I loved pancakes.  No, love isn't a strong enough word.  Where's that thesaurus?  I cherished pancakes.  I treasured pancakes.  I, wait for it, fancied them.  My ideal day started out with a stack of flapjacks that reached to the moon and now, now that was gone.  Like a kid finding out there wasn't a Santa Claus.  Like a woman figuring out that Sandra Bullock makes bad movies.  My life would never be the same.  It took months for me to summon up the courage to walk into a Cracker Barrel -- and you can forget about IHOP.  There was Rob before January 2000 and Rob after.

I started getting the hankerin' for some hoecakes about a month ago.  Out of the blue.  Numerous times I started to make the batter only to get cold feet after cracking the eggs.  I'd break into a cold sweat, start crying, and three hours later I'd wake up in closet -- with no clue how I got there.  But I couldn't shake the desire.  The craving.  Pancakes were calling me.  It was time to move on.  To turn the proverbial page.  I couldn't live my life in fear, right?  Carpe Diem!  I wanted to live damnit!  Live!!!

So I made pancakes.  I fought off the gag reflux when I stirred in the baking powder.  I wiped away the tears when I poured the batter onto the griddle.  I ignored the cold chills crawling up and down my spine when I flipped the first flapjack.  And I ate the pancakes.  Not one.  Not two.  But three, three pancakes!

And now I have a stomachache.  Let's see…oh Baal, wise Baal, if you can hear me…

R