I know I’m not, but still…it’s nice to pretend.  Heck, every now and then I even convince myself. I do try and go through the motions, you know, on a fairly regular basis: being nice, opening doors for the elderly, picking up the random piece of stray litter, speaking when spoken to, lending a dollar on occasion, offering gum…you get the picture.

I try and do these things with some consistency.

However, there is a very real part of my Daily Routine in which I flat-out, no-holds-barred hate people.

And that part is driving.

I absolutely hate all people when I’m driving.

Because it seems to me that all the aggression you were unable to get out during your Leftover Stress From the Day Before, or your morning coffee, or the approaching work day, from the shut-downs during meetings, and scolding glances from threateningly close deadlines, all the My-Boss-Is-A-Completely-Splintered-Dipstick attitude that you’ve been harboring since yesterday, etc., comes out when you get behind the wheel of your car.

It is on America’s highways that we “take back our day,” and avenge our bruised egos.

Yellow does not mean go faster.

And, I hate you for it.

Just as much as I hate myself, for it, too. Because that’s exactly what I do.

We all adhere to an unwritten, unofficial-though-abided-by-as-if-Holy-Law rule about driving in America:  All roads lead to me.

The highway is the one place where we feel the most entitled and self-important.

I think it has to do with proximity.

The closer the space around us, the more we believe we control it, solely. And if the space around is something we out-right own, then the more power we give ourselves in its control.

I own my car. I know it like the back of my hand. It belongs to me. I am its master. In my office, this is not quite the case. I don’t technically own my office. It’s college letterhead, and a loaned computer; it’s the school’s telephone and the office keys, too…they belong to Maintenance. Not me.

I’ve simply entered into a contract at work that states, basically, “in exchange for my intellectual properties and skills-based abilities, I will sit in this room and use your facilities.” So, I am not, in other words, in as complete control of situations that arise here.

In my car, though, I am. So are you.

And somehow, by extension, we stretch that authority to include all stop signs, 4-way stops, traffic lights, off ramps, exits, and turn lanes.

Driving, then, becomes something related to therapy, where we go “to work out our problems, and to think out loud.” And why not? It’s a quiet activity. Lots of alone time, all of which makes it a very dangerous form of therapy, but still…we religiously attend the sessions.  So there’s that, if nothing else.

I wasn’t always like this. A car used to be just a car, a means to an end. I didn’t think of the wheels as a form of defense; I didn’t consider gas a precious commodity not to be wasted, and I thought of a horn the same way I did curry, as a spice used sparingly, if ever.

It wasn’t until I was in New York, the first time, that I really began to understand what real driving involved. From the defensive axles of all four wheels, to the real purpose of a horn.

And, oh, how sweet the realization was. Especially where the horn is concerned.

Now, I’m sure there are cities, even in the south, where people use their horns all the time, but it wasn’t anything I was used to growing up. If you honked a horn, in my small town, it meant one of two things, usually: 1) either there were dogs in the road, and sometimes either chickens or guineas, or 2) you were my Uncle Pat and had installed a horn that played “Dixie” when you pushed it.

I hate to make this next correlation, but it’s true—I didn’t begin to consider the horn as a weapon until after I’d moved away. I suppose I was (am) naïve about these things. We just don’t require the same survival tactics down south.  There’s a wide learning curve for southerners who travel frequently.

This man, for instance, knows exactly how to correctly get into a taxi.

I mean, heck, I’m the guy who couldn’t even get into a cab, in Manhattan, the right way.

Which, by the way, means getting into the cab from the passenger’s side of the car, always, not crossing into oncoming traffic, even though you were just trying to be a gentleman and offering the closer side of the cab to the lady also on the sidewalk.

This is one of the many colorful ways you can get yourself killed while in the Big Apple. That, and staying at the Hotel Chelsea. Most of the other ways aren’t really all that colorful, unless they involve a gay bar.

I’ve learned from this mistake, though, with the exception of almost getting run over by the Link Train in Tacoma, Washington.

Had it not been for the arm of a quick-reflexed friend, I might have left a piece of me there on the street, two blocks away from the site of where the tradition of the Pledge of Our American Flag originated.

I suppose, if you take into account all my near-misses on streets and byways when traveling to Big Cities, it should stand to reason that I’m a little bitter and hard-nosed nowadays, when I’m on the road…and why I’m no longer afraid to use my horn.

Because it’s empowering.

It doesn’t even matter if you have a real reason to use the horn; when you push it, people pay attention. They go on immediate alert the second after they apologize to themselves in the car, as if you could hear them.

That’s what I do, anyway.  

I hear a horn, and I assume I’ve done something wrong, and I immediately file through the few minutes beforehand to see what it is I must have done to be scolded by a horn.

I try not to abuse the privilege of a horn.

But, I fail miserably, at it. Sometimes, it’s all I have to make the day better. I will dogs to run into the highway, I take especial delight in watching for even the slightest, tiniest swerve from a trucker, I wait to ambush the fool who thinks the Yield sign is meant for everyone else.

I’m a scavenger of honking opportunities: I’ve honked for whales, peace, cowboys, Jesus, Israel, and clowns. I’ve honked at school buses full of hollering children, old ladies taking up both lanes, speeding idiots who delight in rolling stops, and people on lawnmowers. I’ve honked for no reason other than the sun was out, I had the day off, or my favorite song came on the radio. I’ve been known to honk at cows just to make them look up at me, and when driving by the nursing home, if any of the infirm are sitting on the front porch.

"We hold this truth to be self-evident"

They love having someone to wave at.

I don’t take the horn lightly. When I get my moment: I honk the ever-loving spit out of it. No matter what the reason.

Today’s reason, though, is a no-brainer: It’s my birthday.

So, get ready for the drive home, Mississippi. I even brought my gloves, just in case my palms get chapped.

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* The full, real title is I’ve never had a mullet, and other Things I Feel I Have the Right to Brag About and also Things I Cannot Stand. Just, you know, FYI.

You should know that what follows is a) a partial list only, and b) they’re not in any particular order of Cannot Stand vs. Brag. I would say to put your Big Boy Panties on and read carefully, but it’s odd how similar the things I can’t stand and the things I want to brag about actually are.

I’m not sure what that says about me, but anyway – to be safe – how about I don’t say anything about your panties. No need to tip the scales against me…

This is the very face of irony. And its finger.

Just enjoy the read.

• I will not eat food while wearing a jacket.
• I’ve never been bitten by a rattlesnake.
• Pudding, Cool Whip, and/or meringue, formless foods that try to make you think they can stand alone.
• I cannot, cannot, cannot abide a haircut where they “wet your hair” instead of rinsing it, fully.
• I hate talking on the phone.
• I have good teeth.
• People who pass gas and are proud of it.
• I don’t like people who don’t use turn signals, myself included.
• I rarely get sick.
• Animals like me.
• I’m a very good driver.
• I can listen to a song I like on repeat way, way longer than you can.
• I do not appreciate tardy people, and I tell them that.
• I cook well.
• Interestingly, I can give myself a fever.
• I disapprove of people who smack.
• I am, for the most part, actually clever.
• I’ve been featured on the back cover of The Dramatist three times.
• Spandex.
• I frown on poor penmanship.
• People who say “kewl.”
• I’ve never broken any bones…well, not my own. (Please see the next bulleted point).
• Once, I got so mad at this boy, at some Christian Bible camp I had to go to, that I wished and wished he’d get hurt. And he did, he broke his collar bone.
• I dreamed once that a man was going to drown, and he did.
• Meetings. Meetings. Meetings. And talk of future meetings.
• I am routinely complimented on my penmanship. FYI.
• Truckers.
• I learned Hebrew when I was four.
• I’ve never had a mullet.
• But, I have eyelashes of jealous, enviable length.
• No one in my family has ever baby talked the babies.
• I wrote my first poem when I was eleven.
• People who prefer not to use deodorant.
• 4-way stops.
• Answering the phone. (Please see the fifth bulleted point, above).
• Lying.
• I only have original art in my house.
• I’m more than likely the reincarnation of either Truman Capote, Noel Coward, or Oscar Wilde. I’m just saying. Because that’s like, totally something to brag about.
• Fedoras and scarves.
• My cat, Aristophanes, is part-bobcat.
• Church cantatas that include handbells. 
• My legs.
• Hang nails.
• I have a brother who is half-Iranian, a second brother and sister who are half-Polish, and a third brother who is half-Cherokee, between my parents. On top of that, as you might have guessed, we’re all half-siblings. Now, add on top of that this: the Iranian brother is Muslim, but our mother comes from a Jewish family, which makes us Jewish, so I feel certain war will eventually break out between us. Talk about a conflict of interest.
• I was once ranked third in the state in Men’s singles tennis.
• My brother who is half-Iranian is also an up-and-coming rap artist, in Las Vegas, by the way. I thought you should know that.
• I have an autographed book by Eudora Welty, who was a friend of my mother’s.
• Screaming, and any variation of it.
• Proselytizers.
• Mississippi is no longer the fattest state in the nation.
• My grandmother once made me stop the car and get out, to help a turtle get across the road. That’s the stock I come from.
• Billy Hull, who lived down the road from me, was once the longest-serving County Supervisor in the United States. He held the record until he died.
• My cousin, Lucy, was a second-alternate for the 1996 Olympic gymnastics team, behind Amanda Borden.
• My Uncle Oscar started Morrison’s Cafeterias.
• My Nana is deaf in the same ear as Caesar.
• Feet.
• I was Little Mr. Winston County in 1983.
• Fred Phelps.
• I won the Mississippi State Horticulture award in 1994, even though I didn’t climb the tree like everyone else at the week-long camp did to retrieve a sample of blighted mistletoe.
• Boogers.
• People who end all of their sentences as if they’re asking questions.
• I’ve never gotten pregnant.
• I almost met Harper Lee.
• I can play the piano by ear, if the piano is out of tune like U.L’s.
• Oh, and get this, U.L. had a brother who was a dwarf, named Ran.
• I saved a young boy from drowning when I was fifteen.
• Coffee.
• I know the world’s greatest drummer. No lie.
• That being said, the world’s foremost banjo player is from my hometown.
• My mother dated Marty Stuart, years ago.
• Pumpkin pie.
• I once sang a note, and held it for a minute and twenty-eight seconds. But, only once.
• Even people who hate me, like me.
• Sweating in work clothes.
• Computers that are slow.
• I once got stung by twelve yellow jackets, at the same time. Three on the face, alone. And lived to tell it.
• I used to make my own books of poetry from discarded gift boxes and wood glue, which I for years thought was more durable than normal glue. They fell apart, though, after about five reads.
• One of my neighbors, growing up, had a pet monkey that did not like curtains, or his daughter.
• My Aunt Sally lived to be 100; my Uncle Pat, 102.
• I am the Cat Whisperer.
• People who pepper their conversations with French. How gauche.
• My blog is an app on someone’s iPhone.
• Rude children.
• Waking up.

Both art and a good philosophy.

I’d like to continue but, ironically, another thing I can’t stand is writing. Who’d’ve thunk it? I’m driven to write, though, I can’t ignore that, but I still find it painful and grueling.  Probably because it’s such a raw craft, makes me vulnerable…or better yet, makes me think and feel that I’m vulnerable.

Which reminds me…

•  Being vulnerable, you know, and stupid things like that.

Oh, and, one last thing…

•  I’ve held a baby gopher turtle. I bet you haven’t.

I know that makes you jealous, the baby gopher turtle part, and I’m sorry for that. I would be too, I mean, come on! It was a baby gopher turtle! You’ve probably never even heard of a gopher turtle, in the first place…raise your hands if you have.

I didn’t see a single hand go up.

Ok, I’m done. That’s all for now.

So…go on and have a good one.

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• I can't die here, not this close to the Mennonite bakery.

Friday started early, for me. I headed to Jackson to visit with my dear, sweet friend Lora. She’s staying for a week at this resort and spa known as the University Medical Center.  It’s all on account of her cancer diet (her joke, by the way).

Ah, the tasty goodness. (Sans turkey, plus seafood)

I stayed there for a good, long time, sharing stories with her about faith, the future, etc. She had quite a busy day: former students, new acquaintances (everyone knows and loves Lora), and pleasant doctors all stopping by to offer well-wishes, and to remark on not just how good she was looking, but also to notice how high her spirits were.

The only real negative of the day was the food. The hospital’s food. I couldn’t blame her: even the onion rings were soggy. I was sent to Subway for a Seafood Creations sandwich, six-inch.

Lora was my initial reason for going to Jackson. And after my visit, I decided I would swing by the mall. I think we only have three in the state of Mississippi.  But, as I’m starting my new job this week, I wanted a fresh look.

And underwear.

Amanda called me around 3:00PM and told me not to forget that it was tax-free weekend.

I said I couldn’t forget what I didn’t know. Elaborate, please.

Apparently, Mississippi’s governor heralded this past weekend as Tax-Free Weekend. But, just on clothes and shoes. God bless the woman at Wal-Mart in Starkville who misunderstood and piled several buggies (that’s what we call shopping carts down south) with a month’s worth of groceries and all the school supplies her four children would ever need from now until graduate school.

None of that counted. It was only shoes and clothes. Very New York of us.

Having not previously heard of this tax-free business, I was unprepared for the disaster that was the highway to the mall. It was ridiculous. The traffic was reminiscent of all those last-minute people at Christmas Eve, who foolishly wait until hours before the exchange of gifts to buy all their gifts and I had no choice but to buy the leftover detritus for even the babies that Christmas because I am not good with time-management.  And, so,  lesson learned.

But, this? This was insanity. I guess, in theory, it sounds wonderful, despite the fact that you’re really only saving upwards of 7% to every dollar you spend, so results only surface if you’re heading toward multiple triple digits. 

I don’t know. I’m not good at math, which is why I was elated to have a Tax-Free Weekend.

Until I got stuck in 45 minutes worth of traffic merely four lights from the mall’s entrance. It’s like driving by Disney World and pretending you were there simply because you saw the top of Thunder Mountain from I-4. You know, you saw enough to describe the ride, but it’s not quite the same, right?

I finally got to the mall, and at that point, had decided it wouldn’t be worth all the stress of getting here unless I bought a lot of things. (In retrospect, I think this type of groupthink is what motivates and maintains the economy in this state, if not the country).

So, I did my American/Mississippi duty and bought things. Lots of things. to be honest, though, I didn’t really feel like I was getting any sort of a “deal” just by not having to pay sales tax.  My wallet certainly didn’t know the difference. Besides, a gift by any other name is just a tax called an embargo.

It ain't easy living in a coin-operated economy.

(I’m hoping that that last sentence, whereas perhaps not logically correct could at least fool enough people as to seem funny).

I returned home, the next morning, laden with what I consider appropriate apparrel to, at the least, appear professorial in the classroom.

The drive home was ugly: rain and rain and rain and I think, maybe a tornado around the Goshen Springs exit. I didn’t stick around to find out.

I’m still not sure what I did Saturday night, aside from watching the musical revue, Let Freedom Sing, at the theatre, downtown. It was a USO-related revue, and the end of the thing was a real tear-jerker.

I admit it; I cried.

There was an entire montage of projected photographs featuring soldiers from the area, and also pictures of those who had already passed on. I mean come on, nothing gets a tear out of me more than true reality. It almost doesn’t even matter what song is being sung or played in the background: post pictures up of those who are risking their lives, on a daily basis (still!), to ensure my freedom to sit in a 45-minute jam a la traffic and get aggravated at the cars in front of me, and all for the sheer pleasure of shopping…well.

I cried because it humbled me. And embarrassed me. And shamed me. (At least, at first). I mean, I consistently return to it, but I almost always manage to misplace my focus, my attention on what’s important…temporarily, anyway.

After the show, I called Aggy, a friend of mine in the Navy, and I told him about the production, and about my subsequent guilt. Wood, of course, is already in Afghanistan, so I couldn’t call him. Aggy told me that it didn’t offend him that I had been shopping. That knowing that, sort of encouraged him all the more to defend my rights, our rights, etc. To him, it was a story that resembled normalcy. And that’s what he wanted more than anything else.

I went to another department store yesterday and bought him some underwear, socks, and T-shirts. Because I liked his answer. If for no other reason than because it assuaged my guilt. (FYI: The tax-free weekend ended at midnight on Saturday, so this was like a real gift).

It’s hard to know how to feel about things you can’t change.

I miss Ma Onie and her smokehouse antics.

I ended my weekend with two of my nephews, who were for the most part, well-behaved. Though, somewhere after the gallon of sweet tea (which in Mississippi has now supplanted breast milk – but don’t worry, Ma Onie for years fermented her own sugar syrup, and also another FYI: when you use the word “ferment” it automatically means healthy and good for you.  It goes down, swimmingly, you might say), the two boys, nicknamed Chunk and Bug, hit the top of their threshold of behavior and went berserk.

I was at a loss as to what to do, mostly because I was exhausted from my first half of the weekend.

Nana, then, from regions unknown in the second sitting room, emerged and declared that she had cherries. (Not the real kind, the Maraschino-style kind, coated in 100% sugar and 0% amaretto).

It was as if a miracle occurred. Both Bug and Chunk stopped their misguided revelry, and in a zombie-trance, worthy of kitsch, stalked to the nook table and sat down, like miniature adults, and ate two plates of staining cherries.

I’d never seen anything like it; never was made aware of the lure of a maraschino cherry.

I’ve filed it away for future playdates/babysitting responsibilities. And I can’t say I’m shocked, after all that sugar intake, that the first thing both of them asked for when they were finished, was a glass of ice.

Classic. Better ice, though, than what their mothers ate for a snack, back in their younger days: butter.

I just don’t know how Aunt Lola lived to be 98. Gamva turns 93 in October, and Uncle Pat died at 101. Gran just hit 92.

I don’t know much, but I know this: There’s no way it was on this diet.

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This is eight flip-flops too many.

That’s what I said to Amanda, last night, after the show.

She’d brought a group of our professor friends to see my play, and afterwards, as is the normal routine and course for our social troupes, we ambled over next door to the Old Venice Pizza Company, the neighborhood bar and grill, and I stood patiently accepting kudos and the like, something I don’t always enjoy doing because it seems so impratically rote, but I endure it all the same – I mean, I was brought up right.

All the while, though, I was staring at the Pinot Grigio selections. 

I was reminded me of the evening a few nights back, at the Opening Night Reception, when all I wanted was to get to the Swiss cheese plate on the food-laden reception table, and never could quite get to within arm’s reach because people wanted to stop me and congratulate me (which was nice of them), or attempt to hug me until they realized how sweaty I was from all the running we do on stage.

And you just can’t be rude to audience members at an Opening Night Reception…not even for Swiss cheese.

To avoid further well-wishers, I directed us toward a collection of low sofas and wingback chairs in the far back corner of Old Venice. Unless you were lost or trying to get lost, you really wouldn’t see us, I thought.  I was wrong on three occasions; however, they were kind enough to buy me drinks.  I suppose I could have just gone home and avoided the entire public scene, but I think we all know that I secretly was ok with being on display. Actors, huh…

Anyway, we planted ourselves there in the corner. I was exhausted, thoroughly.  This show, fun and rollicking as it is, is not doing much right by my lower back and, I’ll say it, my rather sinewy and muscled gams.

Honestly, I’m not sure how the conversation drifted to the topic of footwear. I never know how a conversation drifts, anyway, I just ride the tide, so to speak. If pressed, though, I’m sure it must have drifted toward feet, etc. after the compliments my legs received. They’re encased in tights the entire run of the show. It’s hard not to notice.

Follow a leg further down, and what do you get? A foot. Usually, anyway.

I know you’ve all seen that picture of my shoe closet. I also know it’s an embarrassing picture, but only for its lack of structure and cleanliness. I think it’s plainly obvious that I adore a good shoe, if I, ironically, am no fan of feet. U.L. told me one time that shoes are one of the first things people look at in an interview. That has stuck with me, but I was still curious about a couple of things: for instance, I don’t know how he knows that or why, as he’s been at his job for the past 45 years; he could go barefoot with string cheese stuck between his toes and no one would care, and secondly, why on earth would anyone at a job really, truly care about your shoes. Unless you’re conducting a business meeting with your loafers. Which I think, honestly, would just be distracting. PowerPoint is a much safer bet, in my opinion.

No, shoes only count when you go to church, a funeral, a wedding, or a bar. And in Mississippi, you’re continuously going to one or the other. Sometimes, they’re all four in the same place, at the same time. Except in a Baptist church where you will only ever get Welch’s grape juice for the blood of Christ, so stop asking.

I tend to be rather critical of poor shoe choices when in one of the four above-mentioned locales. Even of myself. I, however, forgave myself last night for my ugly slip-ons simply because I had, after all, just sweated the hell out of myself in a purely physical comedy for two solid hours. My T-shirt was nearly translucent so dense had been my sweat.

Amanda, though, god love her, should have just known better. She has admitted this, herself.

There she was in a cute summer smock-set, brushed with a fair hint of yellow and orange, just a touch, it really set off her beautiful skin tone, like a sunned caramel, and I was quite pleased at her entire ensemble until my eyes fell to her feet.

This is twelve bottles too little.

Because there, hanging by a dying strap, the thick soles veritably shouting out to the world to be shot, were her hot pink flip-flops. A disaster of the second degree; she has one other pair of shoes that I detest so much I cannot in good conscience even describe them for you here. I was in a mild state of shock, saved only by the fact of my proximity to a good white wine.

She took one look at me and knew she had made a mistake. So, she sat alone in the chair. I, on the couch beside the chair. Of course, our friends Alix and Megan, were haute as usual. I expected that we’d soon forget about the flip-flops, a term itself that is ridiculous, though fitting. I hoped no one else would care.

They didn’t.

Until we saw Alix’s shoes. Purchased in Java, she said, on some exotic vacation, made of a leather so beautiful I wanted to build a whole house out of it. It was molded to her foot, as if it’d been poured around her heel and ankle, with a heavy heel and the most luxurious color, an evening maize. I’d never seen such before.

The shoe looked smart. It looked clever. It knew you wanted to wear it. It oozed sex appeal.

But, not in an in-your-face kind of way: Marilyn not Pamela Anderson.

It’s a good shoe that knows its place and is happy to stay there. I had to bring people over from other tables just to look at Alix’s shoes. She was pleased. In the process, however, I accidentally, and I would say, subconsciously, stepped on Amanda’s foot and she was forced to withdraw her feet underneath the chair, to avoid further traffic incidents.

I apologized. I know it hurt. I have a steel step. Also, she showed me this morning the small abrasion my ugly shoes left on the end of her big toe. It was hard to sympathize, though, as she’d said almost as soon as she came into my room that perhaps she should just throw those flip-flops away.

Keep them in your emergency kit: Hurricane season is around the corner.

I told her No, believe it or not. Because once when an electrical storm blew threw town and took out the lights, I used the left flip-flop to find the bathroom cabinet where the flashlights were kept.  Hot pink, you know, tends to have a shine, a glow about it.

I mean, there’s nothing really wrong with the flip-flops, in and of themselves. 

…they’re just not meant to be worn, is all.

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